Now, more than three centuries years later, three men had become the first to see with their own eyes the detail that Galileo had observed through his telescope, and they knew the sketches he made had been perfect.
* * *
—
Kraft finally allowed himself to exhale. He could see Deke Slayton, the man at NASA in charge of astronaut training and crew selection, step forward to speak to the men aboard Apollo 8. Ordinarily, it was just the CapCom who did the talking, but this moment was extraordinary.
“Good morning, Apollo 8, Deke here. I just would like to wish you all a very merry Christmas on behalf of everyone in the Control Center, and I’m sure everyone around the world. None of us ever expect to have a better Christmas present than this one. Hope you get a good night’s sleep from here on and enjoy your Christmas dinner tomorrow; and look forward to seeing you in Hawaii on the twenty-eighth.”
“Okay, leader,” Borman replied. “We’ll see you there. That was a very, very nice ride, that last one. This engine is the smoothest one.”
Several minutes later, the large display in Mission Control shifted from a map of the Moon to one showing Earth—lit up in red and green. A six-foot Christmas tree, twinkling with lights and tinsel, was moved to the front of the room, where everyone could take in its splendor and see its bright blue Earth-shaped ornament at the top.
But neither Borman, nor Slayton, nor anyone else took it for granted that Apollo 8 was home free, or anywhere close to it. The crew still had to travel 240,000 miles, make sure the guidance system worked, separate from the service module that had kept them alive, then survive reentry at record speeds. Even if all that worked, parachutes had to open, a landing site had to be hit, and the command module had to survive intact.
One hour after lighting the SPS engine for TEI, Apollo 8 was 3,225 miles away from the Moon and traveling at 4,125 miles per hour. That speed would decrease until lunar gravity gave way to Earth’s gravity, and then Apollo 8 would begin falling faster and faster to its final destination.
At this moment, it began to dawn on Anders just how far from home he was. Valerie and his children were a quarter of a million miles away, a distance he could hardly process. He recalled a memory from when he was five years old. At the Shriners Circus, he saw a performer climb up the main circus tent pole and announce to the crowd that he intended to dive into a small bucket of water on the ground. The man flew from his perch, hit his mark, and survived. With Earth just a tiny marble in the vast ocean of space, Anders thought to himself: “My bucket is even smaller than that guy’s from the circus.”
Apollo 8 would require midcourse trajectory corrections on its way back to Earth, but those wouldn’t come until later. In the meantime, there was room in the flight plan for the crew to sleep. None of them had managed more than about two hours over the last day.
“I hope it won’t disappoint anybody too much,” Borman told Mission Control about two hours after leaving the Moon, “but Jim is just in a daze, and so am I.”
“Roger. No sweat,” CapCom Mattingly answered.
Anders took the controls. A few minutes later, he put the ship into barbecue mode. He and his crewmates took a look back at the Moon. From this point forward, given the spacecraft’s planned orientation, it was possible they would never see it again through their cabin windows.
Anders flew for three and a half hours before Borman and Lovell relieved him. CapCom Carr reminded Anders to hang up his Christmas stocking before falling asleep. The mood—on the spacecraft and in Houston—seemed relaxed, just right for the long coast home.
A few minutes later, Carr delivered the latest Interstellar Times report to Apollo 8. Los Angeles Dodgers pitcher Sandy Koufax had become engaged to his girlfriend, Anne Widmark, daughter of actor Richard Widmark. A Japanese exploratory party had shared a traditional Christmas dinner with Americans at the Navy’s South Pole base. In California, liberated crewmen from the captured USS Pueblo donated their first paychecks to staff at the Naval hospital who’d cared for them on their return.
In Nevada, a little boy had written to Santa asking him to come in through the front door since his family had no chimney. “You will have to kick the bottom a little bit because it sticks,” he warned. Near Palm Springs, California, a rabbi volunteered to serve as police chief for the day so the regular chief, a Methodist, could spend Christmas with his family.
In Moscow, a Soviet scientist predicted Apollo 8 would open the door to more cooperation between his country and the United States. In Cuba, Radio Havana rebroadcast the Voice of America program, allowing everyone there to learn of Apollo 8 and of the historic words spoken by the crew. Christmas shoppers in London crowded department stores and pubs to watch coverage of the lunar journey. The famed British astronomer Sir Bernard Lovell, who’d been critical of the mission and its myriad risks, expressed deep admiration for the flight. Pope Paul VI said the mission brought honor to these pioneers of mind and adventure.
Only a few naysayers popped up, most notably Samuel Shenton, founder of the England-based Flat Earth Society, who said the public was being hoodwinked by NASA.
“How does that grab you, Frank?” Carr asked during his report of the headlines.
“It doesn’t look too flat from here, but I don’t know, maybe something is wrong with our vision,” Borman replied.
Carr finished by describing the scene at the astronauts’ homes—the Christmas trees, wreaths, red bows, even the fake snow on the lawns. It was nearly 7:30 A.M. in Houston on Christmas morning, and all through the Borman, Lovell, and Anders homes, the children were awakening to celebrate.
An hour later, Susan Borman, her sons, and Frank’s parents were in church. Susan was dressed in a powder blue boatneck dress with a white coat, and she held a thin, square cardboard box containing a reel-to-reel tape. She had the recording played for the congregation. It was a prayer for peace that Frank had read from space, and the verses from Genesis that had been read by the crew. Reporters had followed the Bormans to church, and Susan paused to speak with them on the way out. She told them she hadn’t opened any of the presents under her tree, and she didn’t intend to until Frank came home. “We’ll be each other’s big present,” she said.
At the Lovell home, the children scrambled over each other to unwrap their gifts, many of which were delivered by a family friend wearing a Santa suit. When young Jeffrey ran outside to show the gathered reporters the toys he’d received, Marilyn noticed a photographer from the Associated Press, one of the nicer members of the press corps who’d been covering the family, standing in the cold. She walked outside to talk to him.
“Why don’t you go home to your family?” she asked. “It’s Christmas.”
“I can’t until I get a picture,” he replied.
“Okay, wait a minute,” Marilyn said, then went back into her house.
A few minutes later, the Lovell children came outside, each holding a new toy—a pogo stick, race cars, a yellow helicopter. The photographer snapped away. When he finally had his fill, Marilyn wished him a merry Christmas—and gently urged him on his way.
Although she was sure the man had gone, the doorbell rang again. This time the man standing before her was finely dressed and wearing a chauffeur’s cap. Parked behind him was a Rolls-Royce. In his arms he held a box from the Neiman Marcus department store, beautifully wrapped in blue foil and decorated by two sequined spheres, one colored like the Earth, the other like the Moon. When Marilyn looked closer, she could see a little toy spaceship hovering over the lunar surface.
Opening the box, she moved aside tissue paper decorated with silver stars and found a mink jacket. The best part was the card. It read TO MARILYN, FROM THE MAN IN THE MOON. Marilyn put the jacket on over her pajamas and set about tidying the house, her feet hardly touching the ground as she twirled to dust shelves, glided to straighten pillows. Perhaps inspired by the emotions of the da
y, her thirteen-year-old son, Jay, kissed his mother for the first time since he’d been in grade school.
A few hours later the Lovells were in church. Although temperatures in Houston were heading into the midsixties, Marilyn wore her new mink jacket. Two-year-old Jeffrey, dressed smartly in a tan coat and a hat with a chinstrap, brought along his toy helicopter, which broke while he squirmed during the service. His sister helped calm him by walking him outside.
Valerie Anders also took her children to church. All her boys were dressed in suits, and her ten-year-old son, Glen, served as altarboy. During services, Valerie gave thanks for Bill’s successful departure from the Moon and prayed for a safe return to Earth.
By this time, the astronauts’ families had composed Christmas wishes for their husbands, which Carr delivered by radio to the crew 209,000 miles away. He spoke first to Lovell.
“Christmas morning around your house was kinda quiet, says Marilyn. She said that they’re all thankful the mission has gone so great. They missed having you around the tree this morning, but they wanted to reassure you that your presents are waiting, and the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding will be on the table when you get home.”
“Hey, that sounds good, Jerry. Good old roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,” Lovell said.
“Hi, Frank,” Carr said, now speaking to Borman. “Christmas morning has come at the Borman house. And the boys and Susan and your mom and dad all send their love. They say for you to stay in there and pitch.”
These words meant a great deal to Borman. That had been his father’s motto during the Depression, after he’d lost his gas station lease and things looked bleakest for the family, when he’d taken two jobs, changing tires and driving a laundry truck. In a more private time, Borman might even have cried thinking about all his dad meant to him. But here, on a mission, he remained a commander.
“Okay, thank you,” he radioed back to Houston. “Please reciprocate for me.”
Carr had a message for Anders, too, but Anders was sleeping and would get his later.
Apollo 8 coasted for another two and a half hours, its velocity dropping as lunar gravity continued to act on the ship. At a distance of about 39,000 miles from the Moon was the equigravisphere, the point at which Earth’s gravity became dominant. Home was still 200,000 miles away, but now the spacecraft began to fall faster, a gradual acceleration that would take it to a speed in excess of 24,500 miles per hour at reentry into Earth’s atmosphere. But that was a long way off, and for now, when the crew looked out their windows, with no landmarks in sight, they seemed to be standing still.
A little more than an hour after crossing the Earth-Moon gravitational divide, the astronauts began to prepare for the first of two television broadcasts scheduled for the return journey. Before showtime, CapCom Mike Collins settled some business. He started by delivering a Christmas message to Anders, who’d finally awoken.
“Valerie said to tell you that she and the kids are leaving for church about eleven thirty and eagerly awaiting your return. She said presents are magically starting to appear under the Christmas tree again, so it looks like a double-barreled Christmas.”
“You can’t beat a deal like that,” Anders replied. “How was Christmas at your house today?”
“Early and busy as usual,” Collins said. “I told Michael you guys are up there, and he said, ‘Who’s driving?’ ” Michael was Collins’s five-year-old son.
“That’s a good question,” Anders replied. “I think Isaac Newton is doing most of the driving right now.”
Collins informed the crew that Borman’s family was at Mission Control. Susan did not want to distract her husband; instead, she and her boys, and Frank’s parents, just beamed their grins to Collins.
“You’ve got a whole row of smiling faces in the back room, Frank,” he said.
A few minutes later, the Borman family left to return home. Only then did the public affairs officer announce to the media that a message had been forwarded by NASA that morning to Mrs. Lloyd Bucher, wife of the captain of the USS Pueblo, whose crew had been held captive by North Korea. The message read, “You have been in our thoughts and prayers. Your reunion has brought great joy to our hearts this Christmas. Our best to you personally, and to all the families under your command. Signed, the families of the crew of Apollo 8.” The note, the public affairs officer said, had been Susan Borman’s idea, and she’d written it herself.
* * *
—
Shortly before going live on TV, Borman got ready to institute the planned midcourse correction. At an altitude of about 193,000 miles above Earth, he positioned the ship and fired its thrusters for fourteen seconds. In a short time, planners in Houston would know how much the burn had helped, but already they could see that the Trans Earth Injection maneuver used by the crew to leave lunar orbit had been nearly perfect.
Twenty-four minutes after the midcourse burn, Apollo 8 went live on the air. It was 3:15 P.M. Houston time, Christmas Day. The first pictures were of the spacecraft’s complex instrument panel, then of Borman in his commander’s seat. In front of him, a pair of legs floated upside down.
“Well, good afternoon,” Borman said. “This is the Apollo 8 crew.”
“It looks like you’re okay, but somebody else is upside down,” Collins said.
“Okay, that’s right. That’s Jim Lovell,” Borman said, as if there was nothing unusual about that. “What we thought we’d do today was just show you a little bit about life inside Apollo 8. We’ve shown you the scenes of the Moon, scenes of the Earth, and we thought we’d invite you into our home.”
Anders, working the camera, followed Lovell into the Lower Equipment Bay, where Lovell gave a demonstration of how the crew exercised (and bumped his head on navigation equipment, a detail Borman didn’t fail to point out). Borman showed the command module’s computer and its input keypad, then changed cameras to show Anders, who demonstrated how the crew ate in space, his meal floating before him.
“The food that we use is all dehydrated; it comes prepackaged in vacuum-sealed bags,” Borman explained. “You notice that all Bill has to do to keep it in one place is let go of it. Except for the air currents in the spacecraft, it would stay perfectly still. He gets out his handy, dandy scissors and cuts the bag. The food is varied, generally pretty good. If that doesn’t sound like a rousing endorsement, it isn’t, but nevertheless, it’s pretty good food.”
Anders’s dinner sounded appealing enough: corn chowder, chicken and gravy, sugar cookies, orange drink, and hot cocoa. He showed how to use scissors to open the freeze-dried orange beverage, inject water, and make it drinkable.
The men smiled and made jokes. Lovell showed off his navigation gear. Borman wished everyone back home a merry Christmas. Anders zoomed in for a close-up of Lovell’s mission patch—the one showing a figure eight around the Earth and the Moon. Then the screen went blank. Even a few days ago, that design had seemed the fancy of a science fiction writer. Today, it had almost all come true.
* * *
—
After the broadcast, the crew broke out their own Christmas dinner. Each man expected more of what Anders had shown the world—dehydrated kibble—but that is not what they found. Wrapped in colorful holiday ribbons (fireproof, of course) and labeled with Merry Christmas messages, they uncovered a bounty: roast turkey with gravy so thick it didn’t even levitate from the tray, stuffing, cranberry sauce. The topper was a gift smuggled in by Slayton himself—a two-ounce bottle of Coronet VSQ California brandy (100 proof) for each man.
“Put it back,” Borman ordered when he saw the liquor.
If anything went wrong during the remainder of the flight, no matter how minor, the media would blame it on drinking, and there was no way Borman would risk that. Lovell just smiled. He and Anders had no intention of consuming the brandy; still, he thought Slayton’s gesture was just about the greatest
thing in the world. The men had just been to the Moon—the Moon—and a little romance was called for. No matter; it was enough just to look at the bottle’s red and brown label, admire its fancy script (“Connoisseurs will delight,” it promised), and dream of California, where the brandy had been awarded first prize at the state fair.
Each man’s wife had sent along a Christmas package for her husband (NASA requirements: small, fireproof, under eight ounces), and now it was time for those to be opened. Lovell received cuff links and a tie tack with a moonstone; Anders a tie tack emblazoned with a gold numeral 8; and Borman a set of cuff links fashioned from a Saint Christopher medal worn by a family friend during battle in World War I. The men often dressed formally for official engagements, so the gifts would come in handy.
There was another set of cuff links on board. Twenty years earlier, as a plebe at the Naval Academy, Lovell had attended the Army-Navy football game in Philadelphia. There he met another plebe, just for a moment in passing, this one an Army man from West Point. The two strangers exchanged one of their two cuff links. It was only years later that Lovell learned that the man with whom he’d traded was Ed White, who’d also become an astronaut and who’d died in the Apollo 1 fire. To honor their friendship, Lovell had brought his own mismatched set of cuff links to the Moon.
The crew had a long stretch ahead of them, and the flight plan allowed for more downtime than it had for the outbound journey or the orbits at the Moon. That gave the men time to rest, and to reflect on the journey they had taken. To each of them, Earth still appeared tiny, just a far-off speck in an endless galaxy. To each of them, it seemed a miracle that all the events and conditions necessary for life had come together in just the right way at just the right time to create their home planet, and that they had gotten lucky enough to be part of it for just the briefest moment in the universe’s still-unfolding story.
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