To predict how high the Bumper WAC could go, Barbara calculated the amount of thrust produced by each rocket engine and used the weight and height of the rockets to determine their launch velocity. She also had to account for the effects of gravity and drag. Her calculus now came in handy as she tracked each variable as a function of time. The work was hard on her hands. Her right index finger was lined with thick red and white calluses, the result of clutching a pencil for hours a day. Her grip on the pencil often made her hand perspire, leaving pucker marks across the graph paper.
Barbara used a slide rule and a Friden calculator to check all her work. She was still shaky with both devices, since she’d never used either before coming to JPL. She loved the Friden, but even such advanced technology couldn’t do everything she needed. For one thing, it couldn’t calculate logarithms, which tell us how many of one number we multiply to get another number; if 2 x 2 x 2 = 8, that means we need three 2s to get 8, or, in mathematical notation, Log2 8 = 3.
So Barbara had to turn to a set of frayed brown-covered books in the computer room. This was the Mathematical Tables Project series, whose volumes were oversized, awkward to hold or carry, but filled with data precious to Barbara and her colleagues. To calculate the Bumper WAC’s trajectory, she turned to the tables of atmospheric density as a function of altitude. The air thins as elevation increases, and the computers needed the WPA books, as they were known around the lab, to get the exact value.
Barbara deftly drew two peaks. She predicted the modest rise and fall of the V-2 rocket as it ignited and then plummeted back to Earth, making way for the little sister to soar higher. She computed that the two-stage rocket had the capability of making history, of flying farther into space than any man-made object ever had. Barbara and the team of engineers and computers didn’t just calculate how high the rocket could fly, but also how far from the launch point. The group expected to find the burnt remnants 64 miles away. Under the engineers’ direction, the computers calculated that reentering the atmosphere would likely destroy the rocket. It was a pioneering analysis of how the barrier of Earth’s atmosphere might impact a fast-moving projectile. This way of thinking was more aligned with planning a space mission than weapon design. Years later, the engineers’ foresight at calculating the heat caused by reentry would come in handy.
While they worked out the kinks of the little sister, the Corporal took to the air on May 22, 1947. It was the first test of the large missile, considered all-American, since it had the only large-thrust motor to be exclusively developed and built in the States. It was foolhardy to expect success right off the bat. JPL was used to hard-won success born from repeated failure. Everyone was surprised when the mammoth soared to a height of 129,000 feet before reaching its target 60 miles away. Martin Summerfield, one of JPL’s engineers, stood dumbfounded as the numbers came across the radio. When he related the news of the missile’s success to Macie Roberts, she shook her head in disbelief. It seemed almost too easy.
The hard work was over. All they had to do now was make more Corporals and test them to bring the missile to the pinnacle of its ability, and then pass it on to a private contractor for production. When Barbara signed her name on one of these Corporals, bound for testing on the missile range, she was giddy with the notion of the product of her work flying high above the earth. She could picture her name rising into the sky above White Sands.
Trajectory of the Bumper WAC drawn by computers at JPL in 1948 (Courtesy NASA/JPL-Caltech)
For Barbara, although it was only a day’s drive away, White Sands seemed like the Wild West. The missile range there was only a few years old, but it was already the site of exquisite success and painful failure. The sand dunes were made of gypsum, which colored the stark, desert landscape a bright white and made the sand as soft and pliable as chalk. At the bottom of the Tularosa Basin, in an area walled off from the world by the surrounding mountains, the army had discovered a perfect hiding spot for secret military experiments. Since the early 1940s, engineers from JPL had been traveling to the Mojave, where they tested missiles too big for their own California canyon. In those early days in the desert, the engineers huddled in tents whose canvas walls were barely able to keep out the fine sand.
However, after Pearl Harbor, the need for the secluded testing site became pressing, so much so that the army expanded its presence in the basin, taking 1.25 million acres of the isolated land for its own and building more facilities. A large concrete pad was constructed as the firing area, with an adjacent blockhouse, the control center, protected by ten-foot-thick concrete walls and topped by a steel-reinforced roof that rose like a pyramid. The remote facility attracted plenty of army research, and treks to the desert soon paid off. In just one year, 1945, it had been the site of the Trinity explosion—the first nuclear detonation—and the launch of the highest-flying rocket known to man. Now, with the war over, the amenities at the missile range improved. The engineers would take the train out to White Sands, where, instead of tents or even hastily constructed barracks, spacious houses and a swimming pool greeted them.
The engineers at JPL were wild to go there. Far from the eyes and ears of their families and friends, the missile range gave them free rein in both their experiments and their appetites. It was where men roamed unfettered, working all hours, then playing poker and drinking late into the night. They often crossed the border, partying and finding female companionship in nearby Juarez, Mexico. Computers rarely went to White Sands. Barbara couldn’t say she had much desire to go. While seeing a launch made possible by her calculations would be an undeniable thrill, she witnessed enough male rowdiness in Pasadena. White Sands wasn’t the place for a nineteen-year-old girl who was looking to be taken seriously.
The raucousness wasn’t confined to White Sands. The work environment at JPL was casual, exceptionally so for an army institute. It was a by-product of the earliest days, when the empty canyon played host to wild experiments and general scientific mischief. This history, together with the lab’s native California attitude, imbued JPL with a happy, spontaneous spirit that no military affiliation could counter.
The dress code reflected their laid-back approach. At first, Barbara was surprised to see professional men spurn neckties and sport short sleeves. They might be relaxed and comfortable this way, but Barbara wouldn’t consider coming to work looking so informal. Every morning she carefully selected dresses and skirts, wore high heels, and always, no matter how hot the day was, put on stockings. Barbara was playful with her clothing, but not at work. She wasn’t interested in attracting anyone at JPL. Not that there wasn’t ample opportunity. The other girls were eager to fix Barbara up. “Oh, give him a chance,” they would implore her when a handsome young engineer looked her way. But Barbara would shake her head and say, “No, thank you.” She clung to her schoolgirl wariness of men; she couldn’t be comfortable around them, no matter how attractive they might be.
Some men at JPL were downright repulsive. One engineer in particular seemed to embody all that was treacherous for young women not on their guard. Macie Roberts was careful when he said he needed to work with a computer. “You will not go to his office,” she would say. “He only comes to our room to work. Don’t meet him anywhere else.” Barbara was curious; why couldn’t they go to his office? She asked another girl, who laughed and then quietly said, “I’ll show you later.” At the end of the day, the pair sneaked over to his office. They waited until they were sure he was gone and then peeked into the small room. Barbara was stunned. Every inch of the man’s walls was covered in pictures of beautiful women, all in different states of undress. She had never seen girlie pictures before and immediately broke out in laughter. Giggling, the two hurried off, not wanting to be caught. The experience didn’t do much to calm Barbara’s anxiety over men, but it certainly convinced her to heed Macie’s warnings.
In general, though, the women got along famously with the engineers. This was important, since they worked long hours together. As a t
eam, they bounced ideas off one another and spent hours discussing how their designs influenced the velocity of their rockets, from the shape and size of the Corporal’s tail fins to the inner workings of its engine.
In Barbara’s mind, an engineer was a man. There wasn’t a single female engineer at JPL, yet she never thought of her job as women’s work. It was a respected position, one that men eagerly applied for. It just so happened that their applications were all turned down. A man’s name was all Macie needed to see to reject a promising computer applicant. Macie saw men as a potential disruption to her group. She couldn’t imagine that a man would listen to her. Men, she believed, were likely to see themselves as bosses and women as employees—not the other way around.
There was another reason Macie spurned male applicants. She labored to find a group of women who all got along, who were friends as well as colleagues. The room sparkled with happy conversation, and the work shone as a result of their fruitful collaboration. Barbara was happy with how things were; she loved the girls she worked with too well to wish it any other way.
Macie was an enigma to her computer girls. She was fifty years old, ancient in the eyes of the roomful of twenty-somethings. She’d begun work at JPL late in life, and the girls couldn’t understand why she’d entered the field at all. Her husband had a good job as an accountant with the IRS; she certainly didn’t need to work. Furthermore, the girls often puzzled over her strained relationship with one of the computers: Virginia Prettyman. Virginia had briefly been married to Macie’s son, a man the computers didn’t much care for. Their relationship had barely lasted a year. Tensions occasionally flared between the two women, especially when Virginia started dating an engineer at the lab. Despite these provocations, Macie acted with strict propriety and never betrayed her feelings. Barbara would watch her from the corner of her eye, wondering what emotions were swirling below the surface.
Macie came to work early in the morning. Any girl running late would give her a wary glance as she dropped her purse on her desk, breathlessly mumbling a hasty excuse or apology. With a wave of her hand, Macie would dismiss the need for explanation, yet there was something about her strict demeanor that put the computers on their guard. Her silence was often her most effective method of discipline.
Macie was strong with her girls, but inside she sometimes felt weak. As she weaved in and out between their desks, looking over their shoulders, she found she couldn’t always keep up with their equations. The math was undeniably demanding and often above her skill level. When Barbara needed help, she wouldn’t turn to her boss but instead asked the other girls. Together they would go over the equations methodically, searching the compact rows of numbers and symbols. They would laugh over foolish mistakes, tease each other over arithmetic slipups, and bond when they experienced the deep satisfaction of solving a particularly challenging problem. It didn’t feel like a job; it was more like being part of a secret society.
Riding the trolley on her way to the lab, Melba Nead looked just like any other woman starting her workday. No one would suspect what she really did all day. As the computers chatted comfortably during a lunch break one day, one of them said they were “just like a sorority,” that being a part of the close-knit group of women made her feel like she’d never really left college. When Macie overheard her, she wasn’t amused. “You’re professional women,” she reminded them.
It never snows in Southern California. It rarely even rains. That’s what Barbara was thinking as she looked out the window of her home in Pasadena one cold day in January 1949. She had seen plenty of snow in Ohio, but like everyone else, she wasn’t prepared to see the dry California landscape covered in a blanket of white. She had given away her winter coat years ago and had no idea how she would keep warm in the chilly weather. She bundled up as best she could and drove carefully to the lab. JPL, nestled in the foothills, had gotten the worst of the storm; it was under a foot of snow. Barbara was cautious walking over the small footbridge employees used to cross from the parking lot to the lab. The arched bridge had become hazardous, with people slipping every which way. Chilled to the bone and with wet feet, Barbara made her way to the computer room, in Building 11.
She had spent so much time there during the past year that the building had become her second home. It wasn’t a very comfortable home. There was no heat, for one thing, a fact that made all the girls unhappy on this particular Tuesday morning. It was simply a small wood-frame building with concrete floors that was sweltering in the summer and cold in the winter. The location was convenient, though. Across the street, practically built into the hillside, were the outbuildings that housed the experiments. Barbara and the other girls would simply walk across the street to get the data, copying the raw numbers into large twelve-by-eighteen-inch tablets, and then walk back to their desks to analyze the experiments.
On a winter day like today no one wanted to go outside for work. Outside, the lab was quiet, muffled by the snow. There were no blasts or truck horns blaring to make Barbara jump out of her seat. But the computer room was abuzz with talk; no one had ever seen weather like this in Pasadena. Macie told her team to quiet down. Her voice was soft, but her strict manner brought instant respect from the girls. Yet even Macie knew today would be different. The women were acting like giddy schoolchildren, excited to see their first snowfall. No one wanted to sit still at the desks. Instead they stood at the large windows, rubbing their hands to keep warm, mesmerized by the rare sight of snow in California.
It had been a hard winter for the lab. The Corporal project was supposed to be an easy success. Instead, the first test had been a lucky fluke, and the lab watched their lovingly crafted creations crash into the desert, flames lapping up their sides. They held their breath as the missiles were loaded onto the trucks, unsure what to expect. With hope fading, the Corporal missile earned the nickname the rabbit killer. It seemed unlikely it would ever fly high enough to kill anything else.
The Bumper WAC was also struggling at White Sands. The last round of testing was especially disappointing. The pipes that pumped the alcohol into the combustion chamber had split, causing the entire tail of the rocket to tear off and the rocket to collapse in on itself. The long string of failed launches made for gloomy holidays at the lab. The staff grumbled their way through the Christmas party without the typical enthusiasm of the season.
In the meantime, the army was looking for a new place to test rockets. White Sands, beloved by the engineers for its wild nights and camaraderie, had become untenable. A stray V-2 rocket had flown over El Paso, Texas, before crashing in Juarez, leaving behind an enormous crater, fifty feet wide and thirty feet deep. Luckily no one was hurt, but the danger was clear. White Sands was too close to too many people. Rockets needed to fly over the ocean, not over the desert.
The War Department was researching several sites. The team at JPL were pulling for the front-runner, which happened to be in their backyard outside San Diego, a convenient three-hour drive down the coast. When the War Department selected the California location, everyone was excited—everyone except Mexico’s president. With the wounds of the Juarez incident still fresh, the Mexican government wouldn’t consent to having missiles buzzing over Baja beaches before heading out to the Pacific Ocean. The War Department had to settle for its second choice: Cocoa Beach, Florida.
The sleepy Florida town was isolated, yet the weather was sunny and clear. One drawback was that rockets would have to fly over the Bahamas on their way to the open ocean. Luckily, the British government had no objections. The site had an advantage that would become important years later when the range became part of the Space Coast. Because the town was close to the equator, rockets got a boost from the rotational speed of Earth, which is more powerful at the equator than anywhere else. This meant that launches required less engine thrust than was necessary elsewhere.
Rural Brevard County, Florida, was a maze of low-lying, one-lane bridges connecting an extensive network of citrus orchards, famous f
or producing Indian River oranges and grapefruit. Dark clouds of mosquitoes swarmed the wet, marshy land, making the area all but uninhabitable until the advent of DDT in the mid-1940s. Armed with a new weapon against the pests, fishermen and farmers were moving in. The reaction to the new missile range was mixed. On the one hand, it would bring jobs and a new economy, but it would also bring outsiders and dangerous missiles. Some dreamed of selling off their land and homes to the government for a pretty penny while others feared their homes would be forcibly taken away, bulldozed to make room for a launchpad.
Back in California, the mood at JPL was dark, with botched rocket launches piling up and now the news that future launches would take place clear across the country. Barbara felt the disappointment keenly; it was difficult to have her work mired in failure. The frustration seeped into her home life, making her more serious and withdrawn. Her mother always good-naturedly asked how her day was, but Barbara felt unable to convey the challenges she and the others were facing. Their work was classified, but even if it hadn’t been, its technical details were formidable, serving to further insulate her from life outside the lab’s gates. On the other hand, the shared experience bonded her more deeply to the women she worked with at JPL.
Rise of the Rocket Girls Page 6