Category Freedom 7

Mercury Spacecraft #7, which became known as Freedom 7, was delivered from the McDonnell Aircraft Corporation plant in St. Louis, Missouri to Hangar S at Cape Canaveral on 9 December 1960. Upon delivery, the instrumentation system and selected items of the communication system were removed from the capsule to be bench treated. During this bench-test period, the capsule underwent rework which included the cleaning up of dis­crepancy items deferred from St. Louis and making changes to the capsule that were required to be made prior to beginning systems tests.

Systems test were begun as soon as all instrumentation and communications compo­nents were reinstalled in the capsule. These tests required a total of 46 days. During this period the electrical, sequential, instrumentation, communication, environmental, reaction control, and stabilization and control systems were individually tested. Included in the test of the environmental system were two runs in an altitude chamber with an astronaut installed in the capsule.

At the completion of systems tests, another work period was scheduled in which the landing bag system was installed on the capsule. Following this work period, a simulated flight test was performed, followed by the installation of pyrotechnics and parachutes. The capsule was then weighed, balanced, and delivered to the launching pad to be mated with the Redstone booster. Nineteen days were spent on the launching pad, prior to launch, test­ing the booster and capsule systems, both separately, and as a unit. Also, practice inser­tions of an astronaut into the capsule were performed during this period.

Simulated flight 1 with the booster was accomplished at the completion of systems tests on the launching pad. A change was then required in the booster circuitry which necessi­tated another simulated flight test (simulated flight 2). The capsule-booster combination was then ready for flight. The flight was postponed several days due to weather; however, this allowed time for replacing instrumentation components which were malfunctioning. A final simulated flight was then run (simulated flight 3). The capsule was launched two days after this final test.

MODIFICATIONS MADE

During capsule systems tests and work periods, both in Hangar S and on the launching pad, modifications were made to the capsule as a result of either a capsule malfunction or an additional requirement placed on the capsule. The most significant modifications made to Spacecraft 7 while at Cape Canaveral were as follows:

(a) Manual sensitivity control and a power cut-off switch were added to the VOX (Voice – Operated Transmitter) relay.

(b) A check valve was installed between the vacuum relief valve and the snorkel inflow valve.

(c) The cabin pressure relief valve was replaced with one which would not open until it experienced an equivalent head of 15 inches of water.

(d) Screens were added at the heat barriers upstream of the thrust chambers (downstream of the solenoid valves).

(e) The high-thrust pitch and yaw thrusters were welded at the juncture between the thrust chambers and the heat barriers.

(f) The cables to the horizon scanners in the antenna canister were wrapped with reflective tape to minimize radio-frequency (RF) interference from capsule commu­nications components.

(g) The retro-interlock circuit was bypassed by installing a jumper plug in the amplifier-calibrator.

(h) Permission relays were installed to both the capsule-adapter ring limit switches and the capsule-tower ring limit switches.

(i) Capacitors were installed in the circuits to the orbit attitude, retro-jettison, and impact inertia arm time delay relays.

(j) Capsule wiring was changed to extend the periscope at 21,000 feet.

(k) The potting on the capsule adapter umbilical connectors was extended 0.75 inches from both connector ends and the connector was wrapped with asbestos and heat reflective tape. Also, the fairings over these connectors were cut away and a cover was added which provided more clearance between the fairings and the connectors.

(l) The lower pressure bulkhead was protected from puncture damage that might result from heat sink recontact. Aluminum honeycomb was added, bolts reversed, and brackets with sharp protrusions were potted solidly with RTV-90 and plates between the brackets and the bulkhead.

(m) Pitch indicator markings were changed from -43 to -34 degrees for retro-attitude indication

Mercury-Redstone 1 (MR-1) was to be the first qualifying flight of an unmanned Mercury capsule mated with a Redstone rocket. The launch, set to take place from Pad 5 of Cape Canaveral’s Air Force Launch Complex 56, was to be a full test of the spacecraft’s automated flight controls, as well as the launch, tracking and recovery operations on the ground. It was also intended to provide a test of the Mercury – Redstone’s automatic in-flight abort sensing system, which would be operating in an “open loop” mode. Basically, this meant that because it was an unmanned test of the system and there were no real safety issues, an abort signal would simply be ignored in order to prevent a false signal from terminating the flight needlessly.

On 22 July 1960, after the capsule systems tests in St. Louis, Missouri, Mercury Capsule No. 2 was shipped to Huntsville, where the one-ton capsule was mated with its Redstone. Both then underwent a series of checks to ensure their compatibility. Next, the total assembly, now some 83 feet long, was shipped to Cape Canaveral, arriving on 24 July. The escape tower was then prepared, and hangar activities such as the installation of parachutes and pyrotechnics were completed in time to transport the spacecraft to the launch pad on 26 September, where the rocket, enclosed by the ser­vice structure gantry, was waiting.

The first launch attempt was set for 7 November, with the intent of hurling the cap­sule about 220 miles over the Atlantic into a target area northwest of Grand Bahama Island. Things went smoothly until a problem caused the test to be canceled 22 minutes prior to the planned time of liftoff. According to ‘Luge’ Luetjen from the McDonnell Aircraft Corporation, who was then serving as the company’s Redstone Mission Capsule Controller, “It was noted that the helium pressure in the spacecraft control systems had dropped below the acceptable level. A leak in the system, unfortunately under the heat shield, was obvious, and as a result the launch was scrubbed. The spacecraft was removed from the booster and the heat shield dropped to expose the culprit, a leaky relief valve. It, and a toroidal hydrogen peroxide tank were replaced, plus a minor wiring change was made as the result of an earlier test at Wallops Island, Virginia. The spacecraft was reassembled, remated to the booster, and appropriate tests rerun in order to confirm the spacecraft’s integrity and that the problem had indeed been fixed.” [5]

A second launch attempt was scheduled for 21 November. Two days after the 7 November launch scrub, Senator John F. Kennedy narrowly beat Richard M. Nixon, the incumbent vice president, in the election to become the 35th President of the United States. It would prove a momentous victory in terms of space flight history.

On hand to observe the second attempt to launch MR-1 – as indeed for the first – were the seven Mercury astronauts. That morning there was only a minor one-hour delay to enable technicians to fix a leak in the capsule’s hydrogen peroxide system, which slipped the time of liftoff to 9.00 a. m. (EST). There were no further delays. Right on the hour the firing command was issued from the Mercury Control Center. The booster ignited, then one second later the Rocketdyne A-7 engine unexpectedly shut down. During that interval, the booster had actually lifted a little less than four inches off its pedestal. After the engine cut off, the vehicle settled back down onto its

The “clean room” at the McDonnell Aircraft plant in St. Louis, Missouri, where the Mercury capsules took shape. Extreme precautions were taken to prevent dust and metal particles infiltrating sensitive areas. In the upper photo, Spacecraft No. 2 is to the fore; it would be utilized on two Mercury-Redstone flights. (Photo: McDonnell Aircraft Corporation).

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On 21 November 1960 preparations continue for launching the MR-1 mission from Cape Canaveral. (Photo: NASA)
fins, slightly deforming their frames. Incredulous controllers in the blockhouse could only watch as the Redstone wobbled after the set-down impact, still venting liquid oxygen. Fortunately the 66,000-pound assembly managed to remain upright and did not explode.

Compounding the problem, the engine cutoff had initiated the emergency escape system, which activated the escape tower and recovery sequence. The escape tower’s engine suddenly ignited, releasing it from the Mercury capsule and sending it soaring over 4,000 feet into the air. Eventually, it crashed down on a beach 400 yards from the pad. As stated by NASA in This New Ocean: A History of Project Mercury, three seconds after the escape rocket separated, “the drogue parachute shot upward, and then the main chute spurted out of the top of the capsule, followed by the reserve, and both fluttered down alongside the Redstone.” [6] The radio antenna fairing was also ejected in the process.

Clearly, the only thing that would launch that day was the escape tower. One can only imagine the feelings of the astronauts as they witnessed the entire mishap.

Securing the slightly wrinkled booster and the still firmly attached capsule had to be carried out with the utmost caution, as the booster’s destruct system could not be disarmed until the battery that powered it had fully depleted, which was not until the next morning. Also, the spacecraft was still on internal power and its pyrotechnics – including the posigrade and retrograde rockets – were still armed. Furthermore, it was not possible to open the vent valves and undertake the defueling process. It was there­fore necessary to wait until the Redstone’s liquid oxygen had fully evaporated, which would take 24 hours. The other worrying safety issue was the main parachute, which was dangling from the top of the capsule. Any strong gust of wind could cause the canopy to billow and topple the vehicle off its pedestal. Fortunately, the weather remained calm.

The following day, Walter F. Burke of McDonnell volunteered to lead a squad of men to disarm the pyrotechnics and other immediate problems [7]. The liquid oxygen tank was vented, as were the high-pressure nitrogen spheres in the pneumatic system of the engine. The fuel and hydrogen peroxide tanks were then emptied. All circuits were deactivated, the service structure was rolled back in, and finally the booster and capsule disarming was finished. The next afternoon NASA’s Chief of Manned Space Flight, George M. Low, said that the MR-1 failure was believed to have been caused by the premature disconnection of a booster tail plug.

According to The Mercury-Redstone Project issued by the Marshall Space Flight Center in September 1961:

The investigation which followed found the cause of the engine shutdown to be due to a “sneak” circuit created when the two electrical connectors in Fin II disconnected in the reverse order. Normally the 60-pin control connector separates before the 4-pin power connector. However, during vehicle erection and alignment on the launch pedestal, a tactical Redstone control cable was substituted for the specially shortened Mercury cable. The cable clamping block was then adjusted, but apparently not enough to fully compensate for the longer Redstone cable.

Because of the improper mechanical adjustments, the power plug disconnected 29 milliseconds prior to the control plug. This permitted part of a three-amp current, which would have normally returned to ground through the power plug, to pass through the “normal cutoff’ relay and its ground diode. The cutoff terminated thrust and jettisoned the escape tower [8].

Project Mercury Director Robert R. Gilruth added that a faulty electrical circuit between the ground apparatus and the booster had simulated a normal booster cutoff signal. Ordinarily, this would be given in flight, after the booster had been taken to its designed speed and altitude of about 40 miles. The normal sequence was then for the escape-rocket tower to separate; the recovery devices such as parachutes to be armed ready for deployment; and, when the booster’s thrust tailed off, the booster/capsule securing ring to be released. The separation of the escape tower took place normally, but the sea level atmospheric pressure led to the deployment of the drogue and main parachutes, and the weight of the capsule on the booster prevented its separation [9].

The late Guenter Wendt was a German-American engineer who had emigrated to the United States in 1949. He found ready employment with the McDonnell Aircraft

Corporation, and later became well known for his work in America’s space program. As the man in charge of the spacecraft close-out crew on the pad, he soon gained the respect of the astronauts. To the company his title was Pad Leader, but the astronauts jokingly (and affectionately) enjoyed referring to him as their “Pad Fuhrer,” and he fell in with their humor. Wendt had been at the Cape for the failed MR-1 launch, and described the follow-on events as he saw them during a 2001 interview with Francis French.

“When we started off, we had one Redstone that lifted off about four inches and set back down. It had a little kink in it, and we could not depressurize the tank – the tank was building up pressure. I go back to the blockhouse, and the next thing I hear are [Kurt] Debus and John Yardley discussing it. Debus tells the pad safety officer to call the base and get some guns, [because] he is going to shoot holes in the oxygen tank to relieve the pressure! John Yardley says, ‘Like hell you do! I have a perfect, safe spacecraft out there, it’s the only one I have right now. If you shoot holes, the thing is going to blow up and I’ll have no spacecraft!’

“So, what do we do? We get our engineers together to see what we could do to disarm the rocket. The first thing is, we have to get rid of the pressure in the oxygen tank. How can we do that? One of the ways is to send a mechanic out there, into the tail end of the rocket, to hook up a quarter-inch nitrogen line, then open up a hand valve. However, we don’t know what will happen, so when we open it, we run like hell back to the blockhouse! A guy by the name of Sonny came, he went out, opened it, ran like hell, and just about hit the blockhouse when a big stream of gas, tens of feet long, came out. But nothing blew up.

“Next, Yardley called me and said, ‘We’ve determined that, due to the sequencing – the main chute came out, the tower had left – the sequencer is looking at a half-G switch. When that thing activates, it will fire the retrorockets into the oxygen tank!’ So now, we are looking for someone to go out there and deactivate the circuitry. However, since the periscope had retracted, you have to drill out a bunch of rivets and open the periscope door, because the electrical umbilical plug is under it. Then four jumper wires have to be plugged in. So we were looking for people with no dependents to volunteer. If the retrorocket had fired, that would be it.

“After a long discussion, some of us volunteered to go out and do it. Before we did, we had Pad Safety set up a movie camera next to the blockhouse. If it blew, at least we’d know where the pieces went! We went up there. On the Mercury capsule, the hatch was bolted down with screws – you could move the washer, but the screws had to be tight. They had to be just matched. They needed to expand on the outside, because of the heat. I had a guy who had meticulously matched each screw to a perfect hole, and stored them on foam. We got up there, got the screws out and pitched them behind us. I will never forget that. We thought, he will kill us when he finds out what happened to his matched screws! We got the hatch open, found the two switches: click, click, and we were safe. We saved the spacecraft, though we needed a new booster.

“The people who made the decisions were right there, and they made the decisions. That’s what we got paid for!” [10]

The man who would become the first American to venture into space was born on the upper floor of the family home in East Derry, on what he described many years later as the “bright autumn day” of 18 November 1923.

Alan Bartlett Shepard, Jr., was the first child born to Renza and Alan Shepard, Sr. While his mother had been born in Mobile, Alabama as Pauline Renza Emerson, she always preferred to be known by her middle name. Similarly, two years later, they named their new baby daughter Pauline, although everyone called her Polly.

Alan grew up on what was then a sprawling, picturesque small-town family farm. Even at an early age he knew the meaning of discipline. He and his sister had certain chores to perform, and their parents insisted that they be done at the prescribed time, ahead of any leisure time. Renza Shepard would later state that pursuing an orderly schedule of work and play helped Alan to develop a sense of duty.

“Our family did so much together that one member of the family could always depend on the cooperation of the rest,” Renza stressed. “A sense of patriotism was also important in our family, and it was instilled in our children at early ages. Our house was always full of Alan’s friends,” she added. “He was a happy-go-lucky boy, very easy to explain things to, and very cooperative. Oh, he got in the usual amount of mischief, I suppose, but never anything serious. But my, how active he was!” [5]

His father had been commissioned a first lieutenant in the Army and was based at Fort Devens, Massachusetts, later serving in France during the First World War. He was recalled to active duty in the Army during 1940, and became a colonel in the Army Reserves. Alan Shepard Sr. was a treasurer of the Derry Savings Bank, owned the Bartlett and Shepard Insurance Company, and served as an incorporator at the Amoskeag Savings Bank in nearby Manchester. For many years, he was a treasurer and trustee for the Pinkerton Academy and a member of the First Parish Church of Derry, where for many years he fulfilled the role of treasurer as well as being their long-time organist. Having begun playing the original pump organ there at the age of fourteen, he served as church organist for the next 60 years.

Young Alan obtained his early education at the nearby Adams public elementary school, formerly the Adams Female Academy, where even as a small boy he began to excel in mathematics. In an interview with the Academy of Achievement in 1991 he spoke with fondness about his first teacher, Bertha Wiggins, and the influence she had on him.

“She was about nine feet tall as I recall, and a very tough disciplinarian. Always had the ruler ready to whack the knuckles if somebody got out of hand. She ran a well – disciplined group. I think most of the youngsters responded to that. There were one or two that couldn’t handle it, and obviously they dropped by the wayside. But that still sticks in my mind. That’s the lady that taught me how to study, and really provided that kind of discipline, which is essentially still with me.” [6]

Shepard once skipped a grade because he was doing so well and Bertha Wiggins decided he needed to have more of a scholastic challenge. Although he often found it difficult, he rose to that challenge. “He was a little less bouncy in the classroom after that,” his mother reflected. After completing five years of study at Adams School, Shepard attended junior high at Derry’s Oak Street School.

At 230,000 feet, as Freedom 7 began to penetrate the fringes of the atmosphere, a relay was actuated in response to the onset of 0.05 g. As Shepard later explained, this indicated that the reentry phase had truly begun:

I had planned to be on manual control when this happened and run off a few more tests with my hand controls before we penetrated too deeply into the atmo­sphere. But the g-forces had built up before I was ready for them, and I was a

few seconds behind. I was fairly busy for a moment running around the cockpit with my hands, changing from the autopilot to manual controls, and I managed to get in only a few more corrections in attitude. Then the pressure of the air we were coming into began to overcome the force of the control jets and it was no longer possible to make the capsule respond. Fortunately, we were in good shape, and I had nothing to worry about so far as the capsule’s attitude was concerned. I knew, however, that the ride down was not one most people would want to try in an amusement park [19].

It was never widely reported, but there was a little high-drama occurring at that time away from Freedom 7. As revealed by Shepard in an interview with American Heritage Magazine in 1994, it began when Slayton cautiously asked Shepard if he could see the Redstone rocket. Some engineers had expressed concern that when he fired the retrorockets and slowed the spacecraft, the tumbling booster might actually catch up. He responded in the negative, but reasoned that the booster ought, by then, to be well below his altitude. And this was indeed the case. As the booster penetrated into the atmosphere it began to disintegrate. However, as Shepard related, there was an unex­pected near-miss. As the charred remains hurtled towards the ocean, sending violent shock waves through the air, this caused mounting terror for the crew of a freighter who saw a long object falling towards them. As they watched, the Redstone passed high over the ship and smashed heavily into the Atlantic just a few miles east of their posi­tion. The ship’s radio operator sent out an urgent distress call, the crew suspecting they might have witnessed the death plunge of an airplane. Fortunately, a radio engineer from NBC was on Grand Bahama Island that day, heard their call, and reassured the freighter’s crew that instead of a tragedy, they had witnessed the final moments of the rocket which carried America’s first astronaut into space [20].

Aboard Freedom 7, the build-up of gravity came swiftly as the spacecraft plunged through the atmosphere. Pressed ever harder into his contour couch, Shepard noted three, then six, then nine times the force of gravity. The load peaked at 11 g’s, which meant in Earth terms that he weighed close to a ton. “But I’d pulled eleven-g loads in the centrifuge, and I knew I could keep on working now.” [21]

Shepard never reached the point – as he often had during grueling hours spent on the Johnsville centrifuge – of having to exert the maximum effort simply to speak or even to breathe:

All the way down, as the altimeter spun through mile after mile of descent, I kept grunting out ‘O. K., O. K., O. K.,’ just to show them back in the Control Center how I was doing. The periscope had come back in automatically before the reen­try started. And there was nothing for me to do now but just wait for the final act to begin.

All through this period of falling, the capsule rolled around very slowly in a counterclockwise direction, spinning at a rate of about 10 degrees per second around its long axis. This was programmed to even out the heat and it did not bother me. Neither did the sudden rise in temperature as the friction of the air began to build up outside the capsule. The temperature climbed to 1,230 degrees Fahrenheit on the outer walls. But it never went above 100 degrees in the cabin or above 82 degrees in my suit [22].

Then, as the g-forces began to diminish at around 80,000 feet, Shepard switched from fly-by-wire mode back to autopilot. The altimeter was rapidly winding down, and showing 31,000 feet when Slayton’s voice assured Shepard that his impact site would be right on the money.

“Great news,” Shepard would later recall. “Flight computations were as close to perfect as could be, and so were the performances of the Redstone and the space­craft…. The Cape lay 300 miles to the northwest and with the diminishing altitude would soon be out of radio contact. I signed off with Deke, telling him I was going to the new frequency.

“‘Roger, Seven, read you switching to GBI [Grand Bahama Island].’

“He was eager to get the hell out of Mercury Control Center as fast as he could. I knew Gus would be right there with him, and the two of them would clamber into a NASA jet and burn sky to GBI so they could be on the ground waiting when I was delivered by helicopter from the recovery vessel.” [23]

Alan Shepard’s colleague Gus Grissom had monitored the liftoff of Freedom 7 from inside the Mercury Control Center at Cape Canaveral. As prearranged, once Grissom knew that the mission was underway he left the building to make a short flight across to Grand Bahama Island. Once there, and while everyone waited for Shepard to also reach the island, Grissom was asked by reporters to comment on how he felt seeing his buddy launched into space, and when he thought his own chance might come. “I’m very happy,” he said in reply. “You can underline that. I wanted to be the one chosen for this shot and I certainly want to be chosen the next time. Everything went per­fectly, just like we practiced it a thousand times.” [1]

The sequence of events on the MR-3 mission occurred according to plan, while the actual trajectory flown was very close to the nominal calculated trajectory.

In the first table below, the sequence of major events show the planned and actual times at which they occurred. The second table lists actual and planned trajectory parameters.

Note: With the exception of Redstone booster cutoff, all events on the MR-3 flight were determined from commutated data. Thus the events could vary from the above times by as much as +0 to -0.8 seconds.

Within a week, a new test flight had been scheduled and designated MR-1A. While a replacement Redstone rocket would be used, it was felt that since Spacecraft No. 2 was still in good condition, after a little renovation it could be reused on the MR-1A mission with an antenna fairing borrowed from another capsule and straddled by a replacement escape tower.

Although some damage had occurred to the Redstone booster’s tail assembly, engi­neers agreed that it could be refurbished. It was therefore crated up and shipped off to the Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, where it was held in reserve until the conclusion of the Mercury-Redstone program. However, the MR-1 rocket would never actually be used and was placed on display at Space Orientation Center there.

On 8 December 1960, Spacecraft No. 2 was hoisted upward for a second mating with a Redstone launch vehicle at Cape Canaveral. It was essentially the same 2,400- pound capsule, apart from a few replacement parts and some minor modifications in areas such as the launch escape tower and the parachute deployment system.

As before, the pre-flight testing proceeded very smoothly and, with everything in order, the launch was set for 19 December. Early that morning, strong winds gusting to 150 knots aloft obliged a 40-minute hold. Next, a leak in a high-pressure nitrogen peroxide solenoid valve in the capsule caused another delay of 3 hours 15 minutes [11].

Separation Ring Adapter

Ballast Section

Instrument Compartment l Aft geotion

+Z

View A-A

Rocket Engine Fins

Rudders Jet Vanes

A schematic drawing of the Mercury-Redstone launch vehicle. (Photo: NASA)

As on previous launches, the seven Mercury astronauts somewhat apprehensively looked on as the 83-foot stack of the escape tower, spacecraft, and booster lifted off from Pad 5 of Launch Complex 56 at 11.15 a. m. (EST). Two of the astronauts, Deke Slayton and Gus Grissom, were observing from the cockpits of their airborne F-106 jets, ready to follow the ground track of the Redstone for a short time and hopefully photograph the capsule descending on its parachute over the recovery area.

This time everything went smoothly; following the ignition command issued from the blockhouse, smoke billowed from beneath the rocket and MR-1A lifted slowly off its pedestal into a clear sky, accelerating as it climbed. A brilliant trail of flame traced the sleek Redstone’s course as it streaked up and tilted toward the southeast, out over the Atlantic Missile Range. Seconds later, Slayton and Grissom ripped over the Cape in their F-106s, flying in the same direction at nearly twice the speed of sound. Observers at the Cape could just make out the booster shutdown and capsule separa­tion 143 seconds after launch.

Throughout the capsule’s flight all of the systems functioned well, although the booster’s velocity was 260 feet per second faster than expected at around 4,200 miles an hour, causing it to ascend seven miles higher than the predicted 128 miles. This, and high tail winds of almost 100 m. p.h., caused the separated spacecraft to travel 15 miles further downrange than expected. NASA said the bell-shaped capsule floated down by parachute into the ocean about 16 minutes after liftoff. It was first spotted approximately 90 miles northeast of Grand Bahama Island and eight miles from the prime recovery vessel, the aircraft carrier USS Valley Forge (CV-45).

The helicopter recovery pilots were Lt. Wayne Koons of Lyons, Kansas and Capt. Allen Daniel, Jr., of Greenwood, Mississippi. Both were members of Marine Air Group 252, which was based at Jacksonville, North Carolina. Their H-34 left the Valley Forge and flew over to the floating capsule, hooked on to its recovery loop, and hoisted it from the sea at 11.46 a. m., 31 minutes after it was launched. They flew back to the ship with their precious cargo and carefully deposited it on the carrier’s flight deck at 12.03 p. m.

Following the successful recovery operation, the Valley Forge steamed to a point off Cape Canaveral within several hundred yards of the test center, then Koons and Daniel lifted the capsule and delivered it to the test center. It would later be taken to Langley Field, Virginia to be studied by technicians, engineers and scientists.

A preliminary examination revealed only minor damage to the spacecraft. The painted letters “United States” on the side had been slightly scorched by the 600-degree heat of reentry. One of the three thicknesses of glass on a small side porthole was broken, but a NASA official suggested to reporters that this could have occurred dur­ing the recovery operation. As if to demonstrate it was still functioning well after its flight into space, a bright flashing light designed to aid recovery still winked atop the nine-foot capsule.

The Director of NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center, Wernher von Braun, was delighted by the successful flight, and said that “everything was right on the money.” Meanwhile Robert Gilruth, in charge of the Space Task Group, called the launch an “unqualified success.” However, he cautioned that it did not indicate an immediate

– f

On 19 December 1960 U. S. Marine helicopter crew Capt. Allen K. Daniel, Jr. (left) and 1st. Lt. Wayne Koons plucked the unmanned MR-1A capsule from the Atlantic after a successful 16-minute ballistic test of its systems. (Photo: Associated Press)

readiness to send a man into space. He said more flights would be needed to qualify the reliability and operation of the system, and that the next launch, expected within a month or two, might carry a chimpanzee [12].

The performance required of the Redstone rocket for the first phase of the manned space flight program had been established. It had demonstrated both the reliability and the performance needed to place the Mercury spacecraft safely into a suborbital tra­jectory. However, as McDonnell Pad Leader Guenter Wendt pointed out, even as their proficiency and confidence grew in safely launching rockets, there remained a great many lessons to be learned.

“All the rules changed quite a bit. At the same time, there was a lot of stuff we just plain didn’t know. No one had done it before. For example, we had an escape rocket on top of the capsule. It was neatly protected with plastic that we had wrapped around it. It was great to keep the rain out. Then one day we had some Air Force people who had a satellite in a spin test facility – they spun the satellite while it was wrapped in plastic, then upwrapped it – and the satellite blew up. Static electricity. The Air Force told us the kind of plastic they’d used. It was the same kind I used on the escape rocket. Whoops! This is when you learn the hard way.” [13]

In his youth, Shepard developed a fascination with flying. One momentous day the family flew to Boston from Grenier Field, an Army Air Force base in Manchester. From then on he began haunting the airfield, about eight miles from home, watching airplanes take off and land, and later doing small helpful jobs around the hangars. He made dozens of model planes and read every book on flying that he could find, his favorite being a well-thumbed copy of Charles Lindbergh’s epic, We.

“He loved science, too,” his mother recalls. “Oh, and he had a boy-like interest in Buck Rogers and some of the science fiction. But in school he developed a serious interest in the subject and worked hard at it. He did extremely well in mathematics, and this helped him immensely.” [7]

After junior high, Shepard went on to get his secondary education at the Pinkerton Academy in Derry, where he would complete grades 9-12. Ivan Hackler, who taught Shepard, recalled that his student had a keen interest in science as a youngster. “A good student and a boy extremely well-liked,” Hackler said. “He was a good athlete, particularly in baseball and football.” [8]

Outside of school hours, Shepard would deliver newspapers on his bicycle and attend Sunday school at the East Derry church, where his father was the organist.

“I was raised, if not exactly in an atmosphere of aviation, at least in the midst of mechanical things,” he revealed in the Mercury astronauts’ book, We Seven. “I had a five-horsepower outboard motor which I used to take apart and put back together again. And I often helped my father when he had things to tinker with – as you usually do in a small farming town. When I was in high school, a friend of mine and I used to cycle out to the airport… and do odd jobs around the hangar in exchange for a chance to take rides in an airplane now and then.” [9]

From East Derry he went to school for the next year at the Admiral Farragut Academy in Toms River, New Jersey, specifically to help prepare for enrollment at the U. S. Naval Academy at Annapolis. He took with him a letter from his Pinkerton his­tory teacher which spoke of his “good abilities” and “qualities of leadership.” The Farragut records reveal that Shepard had a genius level IQ of 145, as proved by his solid marks in geometry and mathematics, but he did tend to lag a little in English. Noting this, his father wrote to the academy, suggesting he would appreciate it if a little more pressure could be placed on his son to do more studying. This obviously

worked, as Shepard passed the entrance exam the following year at Annapolis with a 3.7 in math and a 3.3 in English out of possible perfect scores of 4. The Farragut Academy year-book recorded of him, “he speaks words of truth and soberness.” [10]

He entered the Naval Academy as a 17-year-old “plebe” in 1941 and was whisked through the school at the wartime-accelerated pace, graduating with his bachelor of science degree a year earlier than the normal four-year term in 1944. The Academy’s Professor George Beneze remembers Shepard for having a keen interest in aviation, pursuing associated subjects such as internal combustion and thermodynamics with zeal. “He asked a lot of questions, and was interested in what was going on in the laboratory,” Beneze said. “You could depend on him.” Classmates of Shepard at the Academy recall him as being energetic and aggressive. Among other activities, he rowed on the varsity crew in the bow seat. The story is that the coaches wanted to move him from that position because he was too light, but Shepard refused to move, declaring, ‘I want to be first.’” [11]

On 3 March 1945 he married Louise Brewer, whom he had met while attending the Naval Academy. They would eventually have two daughters Laura and Julie, and also raise a niece, Alice, as part of their family.

“The Navy had a rule that even prospective flyers had to go to sea first,” Shepard reflected, “so I spent some time on a destroyer [USS Cogswell (DD-651)] in the Pacific during the closing days of World War II. I took flight training at the Navy schools at Corpus Christi and Pensacola, Florida. Then I served in a fighter squadron that was based at Norfolk and made two cruises aboard carriers in the Mediterranean during 1948 and 1949.

“My flying career really got going in 1950 when I was still a lieutenant, junior grade, and was lucky enough to be chosen to attend the Navy Test Pilot School at Patuxent River. This was a real plum, especially for a junior officer.” [12]

His parents were delighted with their son’s latest achievement, as his mother Renza declared in a 1962 interview. “After Alan went on to the Naval Academy and took up the career of his dreams – being a pilot – he still missed his lovely New Hampshire. Many times he’d fly home, if only for a day. Sometimes he wouldn’t be able to stop and see us, but he would buzz the house in his Navy fighter and we’d know who it was!” [13]

After graduating from Test Pilot School, Shepard stayed on at the Patuxent River Naval Air Station for a further two years, testing and aiding in the development of a number of highly powered Navy aircraft, such as the F-3H Demon, F-8U Crusader, F-4D Skyray, and F-11F Tigercat. A skilled pilot, he took over as Project Test Pilot on the F-5D Skylancer.

Among his many achievements as a Navy test pilot, Shepard says he “helped to develop the Navy’s in-flight refueling system and was involved in testing the first angled deck on a U. S. Navy carrier… I was operations officer for a while in a night – fighter squadron that operated off the West Coast, and served aboard a carrier in the Pacific from 1953 to 1956.” [14]

In 1958, following more flight-test and instruction work at Patuxent River, he was assigned to the Naval War College of Newport, Rhode Island in order to brush up on a number of academic subjects. Next, Shepard joined the staff of the Commander in Chief, Atlantic Fleet, as aircraft readiness officer.

The following year, an opportunity came his way that he found hard to resist. He had read articles on NASA’s space program in newspapers and knew that the space agency would soon be recruiting a cadre of test pilots that they had begun calling “astronauts”, meaning voyagers to the stars. Shepard knew that aviation was coming to an inevitable crossroad and space flight was the way of the future. He felt it would give him the chance not only to be regarded as a top pilot, but also as a space pilot, or astronaut. He was certainly qualified from all that he had read, and was ready to be called.

“I assumed they’d probably be looking me up and asking me if I was interested. As it turned out, they were doing just that. But the orders got misplaced somewhere – they wound up on someone else’s desk for a few days – and I was beginning to wonder if I had been overlooked or disqualified. The orders finally came asking me to report for the first briefings, and I was delighted. I had a long talk with my wife that night, dis­cussing what I should do if I were selected. Finally, Louise said, ‘Why are you asking me? You know you will do it, anyway.’ Louise had always been in complete support of what I had done, and I knew she was behind me now.” [15]

As Shepard headed to a splashdown in the Atlantic, there were still many things that had to occur, and his concentration was now on the parachute system. As he recalled in the book, We Seven:

The periscope jutted out again at about 21,000 feet, and the first thing I saw against the sky as I looked through it was the little drogue chute which had popped out to stabilize my fall. So far, so good. Then, at 15,000 feet, a ventila­tion valve opened up on schedule to let cool fresh air come into the capsule. The next thing I had to sweat out was the big 63-foot chute, which was due to break out at 10,000 feet. If it failed to show up on schedule I could switch to a reserve chute of the same size by pulling a ring near the instrument panel. I must admit that my finger was poised right on that ring as we passed through the 10,000- foot mark. But I did not have to pull it. Looking through the periscope, I could see the antenna canister blow free on top of the capsule. Then the drogue chute went floating away, pulling the canister behind it. The canister, in turn, pulled out the bag which held the main chute and pulled it free. And then, all of a sud­den, after this beautiful sequence, there it was – the main chute stretching out long and thin – it had not opened up yet – against the sky. But four seconds later the reefing broke free and the large orange and white canopy blossomed out above me.

It looked wonderful right from the beginning. I stared at it hard through the periscope for any signs of trouble. But it was drawing perfectly, and a glance at my rate-of-descent indicator on the panel showed that I had a good chute. It was letting me down at just the right speed, and I felt very much relieved. I’d have a nice, easy landing [24].

At 1,000 feet up, Shepard could see the water clearly below. The heat shield had dropped four feet as planned, to deploy the collapsible accordion-like landing bag that was stowed between it and the capsule. This perforated bag skirt of rubberized glass fiber filled with air to help to cushion the impact with the water. It provided an additional measure of shock absorption for the astronaut. Immediately after landing the parachute would be automatically disconnected, and the capsule had sufficient buoyancy to float. The landing bag and heat shield were designed to act together like a sea anchor and keep the capsule upright.

With seconds to go before Freedom 7 splashed in the relatively calm green water of the Atlantic, Alan Shepard braced himself for impact.

Deke Slayton had also flown in ahead of Shepard’s arrival, and he waited patiently alongside Grissom as the TF1 taxied in at the auxiliary air base. The two men were in high spirits after a day of high drama. Once Shepard had stepped down from the airplane they clapped him on the shoulder and knuckle-rubbed his crew-cut hair. For his part, Shepard playfully punched each man in the chest. The three grinned broadly and skipped around like small boys unable to contain their excitement. Slayton was heard to say that the flight had been “perfect – it couldn’t have been any better. You pulled it off real good.”

“Everything went fine,” Shepard replied within earshot of reporters. He waved, but no interviews were permitted.

A host of technical and medical personnel were also present to greet the astronaut, including Bill Douglas and nurse Dee O’Hara, who has told the author that her joy in knowing that Shepard splashed down safely was “overwhelming… I was so relieved to see him.” [2] Still joking and laughing, Slayton and Grissom accompanied Shepard to an Air Force station wagon belonging to Capt. Hugh May, the commander of the island missile tracking station. When they finally pulled up at the aluminum portable

C. Burgess, Freedom 7: The Historic Flight of Alan B. Shepard, Jr, Springer Praxis Books, DOI 10.1007/978-3-319-01156-1_7, © Springer International Publishing Switzerland 2014

medical facility where Shepard was to undergo an extensive medical and psychiatric evaluation he was ushered inside, despite reporters shouting questions in an effort to get him to say a few precious words. Within the hour, a brief but heavy rainstorm had beat a tattoo on the white roof of the specially erected hospital.

Shepard called his wife Louise by radio telephone after he had settled in on the island and they spoke for a while, but the connection was bad and only a few phrases came through clearly. He told her that he was pleased with the way the flight went and asked about their family. She told him that the family was just fine, they were all proud of him, and had watched the launch on television.

John Glenn had been asked to sleep in Shepard’s hospital room that night, as the psychologists had suggested that as a precautionary measure the returned astronaut should not be in a room by himself. It was obviously an over-reaction on their part, but nobody really minded. This was all new stuff to everyone. However, the whole eve­ning lay ahead of America’s newest hero. When later asked for his feelings on the events of the day, Grissom told reporters, “I have to admit I’m a little jealous. I think I’ve a fair chance of being on the next launch. I do want to be on the next one. I wanted to be on this one.” Slayton chimed in, “I wished I’d been up there, too.” [3]

Lt. Col. John (‘Shorty’) Powers, NASA’s spokesmen for the astronauts, said he had never seen Shepard more cool and calm. He said Shepard’s schedule for the first 24 hours would comprise of an extensive physical checkup lasting at least two full hours by Dr. Col. William Douglas, the astronauts’ physician, and Dr. Maj. Carmault Jackson, an internist. Then Shepard would have a free half hour before a full hour of free dictation into a tape recorder recounting his experiences because, as Powers put it, “We want to make sure we don’t lead him on his thoughts.” Next, two engineers were to go over details with Shepard of the performance of the Redstone booster and of the Mercury spacecraft. On Saturday morning, following a good night’s sleep, he would be interviewed by psychologists concerning his feelings and sensations [4].

Astronauts Carpenter, Cooper, Glenn and Schirra flew in later that day so that the entire group could hear Shepard give an account of his experiences and indicate what they might expect when making their own missions. Project Mercury engineers were also bringing data tapes recorded during his flight so that they could discuss different aspects of the mission from an engineering viewpoint.

That night the Air Force base personnel were invited to what was known tongue – in-cheek as the “Grand Bahama Yacht Club” to celebrate the successful space shot. It was only a bare-bones club with a bar, and none of the personnel actually owned a yacht, but there was a dartboard and card games to amuse everyone as they enjoyed their drinks. The members of the press gathered at the front gate of the base were not allowed in to take pictures or conduct interviews.

When Alan Shepard and his astronaut colleagues walked in through the front door of the club in the early evening, the general noise and laughter instantly turned into a standing ovation. Shepard joined Bill Douglas, Dee O’Hara, and other base officials at their table.

Dee O’Hara has a lingering memory of the occasion, “That evening, I remember, we were relaxing in an island bar with a little TV sitting on a plank in a corner. Alan, Bill Douglas and I were able to sit back and finally watch all the news of his flight. Alan was in such a good mood – it had been quite a day!

“It seemed so unreal, sitting there watching TV with Al, and the reporters were saying how the astronaut was now on Grand Bahama Island, and probably enjoying a glass of iced tea. And there we were, knocking down a quiet glass of Scotch and water! I used to smoke back then, and when I lit one up Al leaned over and said, ‘Ah, could I have a puff of your cigarette, Dee?’ He also smoked back in those days, and he hadn’t had a cigarette since before his flight, so I said ‘Sure!’ He took one puff, had a swig of my Scotch and water, and I remember thinking to myself, ‘Oh public – if you only knew!’” [5]

Dee O’Hara was correct; newspapers the following day reported that Shepard had dined that evening on a huge shrimp cocktail, a roast beef sandwich, and iced tea.

As arranged, John Glenn slept in the same room as Shepard that night. “Being backup meant you virtually lived with the person,” Glenn later reflected. “While his flight had gone perfectly, uncertainties remained. The doctors preferred not to leave the astronaut completely on his own, even after the flight. Nobody knew what the delayed action might be.

“Al’s reaction was exuberance and satisfaction. He talked about his five minutes of weightlessness as [being] painless and pleasant. He’d had no unusual sensations, was elated at being able to control the capsule’s attitude, and was only sorry that the flight hadn’t lasted longer.” [6]

On Saturday morning, relaxing in a sports shirt and slacks, Shepard sat down for breakfast just before 8:30 a. m. and enjoyed a hearty meal of scrambled eggs, toast, jelly, and orange juice. Ahead of him lay a busy day filled with more medical checks and a host of interviews. In all, some thirty-two specialists would participate in the debriefing, including physicians, program managers, operations engineers, public relations personnel and official photographers. In addition to receiving a full medical from Bill Douglas and his team, he would be asked about his in-flight activities and performance, and about the performance of the vehicle systems.

Dr. George Ruff, a psychiatrist at the University of Pennsylvania, and Dr. Robert Voas, a NASA psychologist and training officer, were present to conduct extensive interviews with Shepard. His reflexes were also checked by Dr. Carmault Jackson, and his general well-being assessed by Dr. Phillip Cox. There would be another chest X-ray and more blood samples taken. Later that day, they agreed that the astronaut was in excellent health and good spirits. “He’s just like he was before the flight, only he’s happier, of course,” reported Bill Douglas, who said the tape records of Shepard’s flight “showed he performed remarkably well the complex tasks required of him. Five minutes of weight­lessness apparently posed no problem, nor did the increased gravity pull of reentry.” [7]