by Jay Barbree
The altimeter kept unwinding, aiming for ten thousand feet where the main chute was to open. If it failed, well, he already had a finger on the “pull-like-hell ring” which would haul a reserve.
“Standing by for main.”
Freedom Seven continued performing like a champ. Through the periscope he saw the most beautiful sight of the mission. “That big orange-and-white monster blossomed above me so beautifully,” Shepard later said. “It told me I was safe, all was well, I had done it, all of us had done it, I was home free.”
“Main on green,” he reported. “Main chute is reefed, and it looks good.”
Freedom Seven swayed back and forth as it dropped lower. The main chute unreefed and blossomed into a magnificent orange-and-white paneled flower. In contrast to moments in his immediate past, Alan Shepard tiptoed gently toward the ocean.
He opened his helmet faceplate. Quickly he disconnected life-support hoses to his suit and then released the straps that had kept him properly snared within the cabin. He wanted nothing to impede a hasty exit, just in case the last few minutes of the mission held surprises for him.
From a thousand feet up he saw the water clearly below him. The heat shield had dropped four feet as intended, to deploy the perforated-skirt landing bag, which would act as an air cushion when the Mercury and the ocean met.
He braced himself for—
Splashdown!
“Into the water we went with a good pop! Abrupt, but not bad,” Shepard would later say, “No worse than the kick in the ass when catapulted off a carrier deck.”
The spacecraft tipped on its side, bringing water over the right porthole. He smacked the switch to release the reserve parachute that kept the capsule top-heavy. While he waited for the shifted balance to right his small space capsule (and lousy boat), he kept in mind the chimp’s near disappearance beneath the ocean and checked the cabin for leaks, ready to punch out.
He stayed dry. Shifting the center of gravity worked, and the capsule came back upright.
Planes roared overhead. “Cardfile Two Three,” he called. “This is Freedom Seven. Would you please relay all is okay?”
“This is Two Three. Roger that.”
“This is Seven. Dye marker is out. Everything is okay. Ready for recovery.”
Green dye spread brilliantly across the ocean surface from the capsule.
“Seven, this is Two Three. Rescue One will be at your location momentarily.”
It went like another practice run. Within minutes Rescue One, a powerful helicopter, was overhead. Alan opened the hatch, clutched a harness dropped from the chopper and was hoisted aboard.
Rescue One zeroed in on a waiting aircraft carrier, the USS Lake Champlain. Sailors lined the deck, cheering and waving wildly. “This is one of the best carrier landings I’ve ever made,” he told a chopper crewman.
Until this moment, when he stepped out on the deck of the aircraft carrier festooned everywhere with red, white, and blue decorations, “I had not realized the intensity of the emotions and feelings that so many people had for me, the other astronauts, the whole damned manned space program. This was the first sense of adulation, a sense of public response, a sense of public expression of thanks for what we were doing. I got all choked up.”
With moisture in his eyes, he thought it’s no longer just our fight to get “out there.” The struggle belongs to everyone in America. That was the best of it. From now on there was no one turning back.
CHAPTER TEN
NASA Is Made
LOUISE SHEPARD’S HAND FLEW TO her mouth. She felt her heart stop as ahead of the helicopter a flock of pigeons filled her view. Their closing speed made the birds appear to explode around them. Just as quickly they were gone, beneath the big Marine helicopter lifted instinctively by the pilot.
Alan Shepard grinned broadly at his wife. “Gets interesting sometimes, doesn’t it?”
She squeezed his hand. “Wow! I can do without the heart-stoppers, thank you.”
He laughed. “The birds wouldn’t dare. Not while we’re on the way to see the president.”
Washington, D.C, rolled beneath them. Alan glanced behind his chopper at the other two helicopters carrying the rest of the Mercury astronauts and their wives. It felt strange to be in a military machine and wearing civilian clothes. At least the women looked marvelous, all of them wearing white orchids.
Alan watched in silence as they flew past the Lincoln, Jefferson, and Washington monuments. To his right the Capitol dome reflected bright sunlight. He turned to the White House directly before them as the helicopter began a gentle descent. He had always been impressed with the great sandstone building that was home to the leaders of this nation.
They touched down in a flawless landing. Leaving the machine, Alan turned to the pilot. “Beautiful,” he said. Nothing could have pleased that Marine more than that one word.
The Shepards stood on the White House grounds facing the president of the United States.
John F. Kennedy extended his right hand. “Welcome, Commander, and congratulations,” he said warmly. Alan and Louise exchanged greetings with Jackie Kennedy. By now the remainder of the astronaut entourage was at hand, and they all moved toward the Rose Garden.
“I almost came to a dead stop when I saw the huge delegation waiting for my appearance,” Shepard recalled. “Cabinet members, congressional leaders, and government officials were gathered on the porch outside the White House. The White House staff crowded along a covered walkway.”
Not bad for a farm boy from New Hampshire, he thought as he followed Kennedy to a small wooden platform. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the president began briskly, “I want to express on behalf of us all the great pleasure we have in welcoming Commander Shepard and Mrs. Shepard here today. I think they know as citizens of this great country how proud we are of him, what satisfaction we have in his accomplishment, what a service he has rendered our country.
“And we are also very proud of Mrs. Shepard,” continued Kennedy. Alan winked at his wife; she managed a fleeting smile back for him. Then Kennedy offered a verbal bow to the other six astronauts.
“Our pride in them is equal,” he said. A glint seemed to appear in Kennedy’s eye, and he eased humor to the fore. “They,” he emphasized, “are the tanned and healthy ones.” He gestured to the astronauts with officialdom standing behind them. “The others are Washington employees.”
Kennedy completed his remarks and turned to present Shepard with the NASA Distinguished Service Medal. The commendation slipped from his hand and fell to the platform floor, treating those watching to the unexpected sight of the president and the astronaut nearly bumping heads as they both bent over to recover the medal.
Kennedy got there first, and he was just as quick with his wit. “This decoration,” he said, “has gone from the ground up.” The recovery was great and brought applause and laughter from the crowd. He just handed the medal to Shepard, but the first lady leaned forward. “Jack, pin it on him.”
“Let me pin it on,” Kennedy told Shepard. “I’ll do my duty.”
Shepard didn’t miss the unspoken message that came with the medal and felt a special bond with the president, who had also worn the three bars of a Navy commander. Shepard was moved. “Today even eclipses last Friday,” he said of his Mercury flight in accepting the medal. “As a matter of fact, I got far less sleep last night than I did the night before the flight. Seriously,” he added, “I appreciate this honor. But the accolades of today should really go to the NASA teams who made it possible.”
The official ceremonies wound down, and Jackie Kennedy left with the astronaut wives for a private tour of the White House. The president’s mood was changing even as he led the astronauts, Lyndon Johnson, several staff members, and picked NASA officials into the Oval Office. Kennedy eased into his rocking chair, asked a few questions about Shepard’s flight, and then cut right to the heart of the matter. He wanted to know what NASA was doing. Not planning. Doing. “I want a briefing,” he said without
further preamble.
The astronauts exchanged quick, meaningful glances as they listened to the course the conversation was taking. James Webb and Bob Gilruth of NASA were thinking far beyond Mercury. “My God,” Shepard thought, “these guys are thinking about sending a man to the moon!”
It also was obvious to Alan and Deke that NASA officials had gone over this subject before with the president.
Webb told Kennedy that he felt the country could send a man to the moon within just a few years. Other opinions were expressed. Kennedy listened carefully and turned to the astronauts.
“We’re not about to put you guys on a rocket and send you to the moon,” he said disarmingly. “We’re just thinking about it.”
Shepard stepped in immediately. “I’m ready,” he said. Six astronauts echoed his sentiments.
Kennedy didn’t respond. He was reflecting on the heavy pressure on his administration. The Bay of Pigs debacle had tarnished his “new frontier” policy, and powerful communist excursions throughout the world seemed excessive. The Russians were prodding and probing and waving their big rockets as evidence of the superiority of their political system.
No one doubted that Kennedy, with his extensive combat experience and thorough knowledge of technical matters, was fully aware of the limited significance of Shepard’s suborbital mission, especially compared with the extent of Yuri Gagarin’s orbit around the world. Yet Kennedy had been willing to stand strong behind Shepard, for the Navy pilot had borne up with true grit as the underdog in his flight even before he left the ground. And he’d done it before the world, cameras staring almost down his throat, everything out in the open rather than concealed behind the security cloak the Soviets had maintained.
Had Gagarin’s flight failed, the world likely would never have known a man was involved. Had Shepard’s mission failed, there was no way the world could have missed watching a man go to his death.
John Fitzgerald Kennedy was determined to exploit to the hilt what these seven young men offered. What the “new frontier” demanded—courage and honor.
On this day a future was being shaped in the mind of the man who led his nation. Kennedy judged that his leadership would be graded in terms of what he did. These seven test pilots with him carried no banners for special favors or political handouts. They flew for their country, and they would do anything their country asked.
Kennedy reasoned that he had been put into the office of president to lead. With every passing moment, seven young men gazing steadily at him, John F. Kennedy was discounting the advice he had been receiving from the advisers and handwringers who felt America should step back from the challenge offered by the Russians.
He remembered Jerry Wiesner’s insistence, then demands, to kill Shepard’s flight. Give space to the Russians, his science adviser had said. Let them put up the manned ships. Let them have the moon. Give up!
Kennedy had other ideas and had already seen what his astronauts were capable of. He’d listened to his people, heard their shouts and roars of approval of the man who had flown atop the candlestick and performed superbly.
Kennedy was now convinced that the entire world judged America in terms of how well it performed, now and in the future, in the new arena of leadership. If he declined to challenge Russia, history would pass him by.
He knew also, having thought long and hard of the paths that had brought him to this moment, that he might set a goal far enough away, far enough in the future, so that America could come from behind to win. He was painfully aware the Russian boosters were massive compared to the best rockets America yet could fly. It was still a case of the United States orbiting cupcakes while Russia orbited tractors. Those were the facts.
Whatever happened, America wouldn’t win the race in the future if it was restricted to earth orbit. The Russians were far out front in that realm. So the key was to bide time while the U.S. jump-started a new program.
Right then and there, it is judged, President Kennedy made his decision to go for something the Russians were no more prepared to do than the United States.
The moon.
Kennedy rose to his feet and motioned to Shepard. “What’s on tap for you, Commander?”
“They’ve got a parade scheduled, Mr. President, and then we’re to meet some members of Congress. After that there’s a luncheon—”
“They’ll wait,” Kennedy broke in. “Right now you come with me. You and Newt and your wife and Lyndon are coming with me to the National Association of Broadcasters convention for a quick appearance. Then you can make that parade.” Shepard nodded. He knew that Newt was Newton Minow, the White House communications chief.
Shepard did not like what was happening. His patience was evaporating swiftly. He disliked, intensely, being used. Walking in on the broadcasters’ convention with the president would be showing off a war trophy named Shepard, and it smelled. He mollified himself somewhat by remembering that no matter who else he was, Kennedy was also his commander in chief, and you can excuse almost anything if you’re obeying orders. The fact that he and Louise received a standing ovation did diminish his objections to some degree.
While Kennedy attended to the broadcasters, Lyndon Johnson enveloped Alan and Louise Shepard and installed Alan as the star attraction in the parade up Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House to the Capitol. It was embarrassing for Alan that the other six Mercury astronauts, and their wives, ended up trailing his motorcade.
Lyndon Johnson made certain the Shepards sat with him on the open back of the parade limousine, and Alan feared the vice president was going to wrench his arm from its socket with his nonstop waving to the crowd. But it was to Shepard that the tens of thousands of onlookers were waving, and that meant, Alan knew, that enormous public support was building with every passing moment for financing a major manned space flight program. If this wave of enthusiasm and hero worship was played to the maximum, the astronauts could regard it as the beginning of the real countdown to the moon.
Shepard’s mood alternated between enthusiasm for the possibilities of going to the moon and growing anger and distaste for the manner in which his fellow astronauts were being treated.
“I hated their having to ride along in my wake, staring at the back of my head,” he said. “I was shocked at one point to look behind, and there were Deke Slayton and John Glenn trying to hitch a ride in a news media pool car.
“Deke and John had stepped down from their car at the Capitol building and in the uproar they somehow lost sight of their vehicle. They were trying to get a ride any way they could so they could stay with the motorcade.
“The media guys didn’t recognize them, and they were shoved physically away. “I heard Deke try to explain that he and John were astronauts with no success.
“I was livid,” Shepard said. “I turned to Lyndon to tell him to stop the car. I was going to run back there and help Deke and John. But about that time a couple NASA guys ran over to them, explained to the press who they were, and they got their ride.
“At that moment I swore myself to an oath,” Alan said. “No more ‘I’ did this or ‘I’ did that. From then on, whenever I spoke, it was ‘we astronauts,’ and ‘we did that’ and ‘we’re going to do this.’”
The day finally ended. Much of it had been great, much of it left a bad taste in their mouths, and most of them would have been happy never to see Washington, D.C., again. Yet their visit haunted them. Not the crowds or the parade or the shrieking ovations. None of that.
A quiet conversation. A man speaking from a rocking chair. Was Kennedy really serious about going to the moon?
Twenty days after Shepard flew the Freedom Seven into space, Kennedy settled the questions in his mind. He had judged the comparative merits and capabilities of rocket boosters of both the United States and the Soviet Union. He accepted the present overwhelming superiority of the Russians. He was determined to take the long-range gamble that American science, technology, and industry would persevere, pull it together, an
d with clearly defined goals be able to surpass the Soviets.
Kennedy had confidence in the American people, in America’s scientific-industrial machine.
In ringing tones he told Congress it was time for the nation to take longer strides, to become the leading player in space, and to lead both America and the world into a better future for the entire planet.
With stirring candor Kennedy pointed out that the Russians had immensely powerful rockets. He stressed that while America had waffled on the future, the Russians had thrown themselves into building powerful missiles that also had proved brilliantly adaptable to missions in space.
Kennedy laid it on the line. The Russians were leading the way. He could not promise the Congress or the American people that America would catch up and overtake the Soviets. There were no guarantees.
But he would guarantee that if the nation failed to make the effort, then assuredly America would not only be last, but also would remain last for uncounted years to come. Alan Shepard had demonstrated to all Americans, however, that if the United States committed to new future goals, then our stature must be advanced in full view of all the world.
There were several moments of silence as Kennedy paused to catch his breath, and a feeling of expectancy, a touch of magic, fell across the great hall of Congress.
“I believe this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before the decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to Earth. No single space project in this period will be more impressive to mankind, or more important for the long-range exploration of space, and,” he paused, “none will be so difficult or expensive to accomplish.”
No sooner had he spoken these words than the Congress leapt to its feet with a roar of approval and thundering waves of applause. Kennedy knew his timing had been perfect, his message what the nation wanted to hear. Now he had thrown the gauntlet down at the feet of the Russians. If this reaction was any sign of the future, then his “new frontier” had absorbed new life and vitality. It was on the way back. He had absolute confidence that this was a gamble his administration could not lose. Even if reelected, he would be out of the White House before the decade was over.