Category Freedom 7

It is always pleasing once a book is in manuscript form to acknowledge in print the assistance and support of all those people whose enthusiasm and kindness helped to shape the end product. This is the case now, in presenting this record of America’s first human-tended flight into space. Brief though that mission was, it emphatically signaled the beginning of a grand enterprise embracing both science and exploration for the United States.

Firstly, I would like to acknowledge the bountiful help of some people who were either there as this historic mission evolved and was carried through to completion, or them­selves witnessed the amazing events of 5 May 1961. Many thanks, therefore, for their information, photographs and memories to Dean Conger, Philip Kempland, Ed Killian, Wayne Koons, Larry Kreitzberg, H. H. (‘Luge’) Luejten, Paul Molinski, Earl Robb, Joe Schmitt, Charles Tynan, Jr., and Frank Yaquiant.

Other assistance was freely given by Susan Alexander, David and Debi Barka, Reuben Barton, Kerry Black (of the Scotsman Publications Library), Lou Chinal, Dr. Bruce Clark, Rory Cook (Science Museums Group, London), Rick DeNatale, Ken Havekotte, Ed Hengeveld, Richard Kaszeta, Tacye Phillipson (National Museums Scotland), J. L. Pickering, Eddie Pugh, Stephane Sebile, Hart Sastrowardoyo, Norma Spencer, Julie Stanton, David Lee Tiller, and Charles Walker.

Special mention must also be made of the wonderfully supportive and ongoing help I received from Robert Pearlman and the space sleuths, experts, and enthusiasts who fre­quent his website, www. collectspace. com, on which no question ever passes unanswered and offers of assistance flow freely from people with a similar passion for all things to do with the history, present, and future of space exploration. For this Australian space enthu­siast, a day never passes without checking at least once – and often more – the latest posts on this truly amazing forum.

As always, I have to thank an old friend and writing collaborator, Francis French, who readily lends an expert eye by reading through my chapter drafts on his daily train com­mute home from San Diego, seeking overlooked typos, grammatical errors, or missed (or misinterpreted) facts. His suggestions for adding extra information or stories are also greatly appreciated.

Thanks yet again to Clive Horwood of the Praxis team in the United Kingdom for his continuing support of my ideas for books. Similar thanks go to Maury Solomon, Editor of Physics and Astronomy, and Assistant Editor Nora Rawn, both at Springer in New York. Thanks to Jim Wilkie for his brilliant cover artwork. And of course to the man who pro­vides that final polish to my work, the incomparable copyeditor and fellow space aficio­nado David M. Harland.

Thank you one and all for helping me to tell this truly amazing and inspiring story from the very beginning of the human space flight era.

Meanwhile the landing ship dock USS Donner (LSD-20), which had previously been involved in Mercury-Redstone recovery trials, was proceeding at flank speed to the reported landing area, together with Task Force destroyers USS Ellison, Borie, and Manley. Twenty-seven minutes after splashdown, airman technician Jerry Bilderback aboard a Navy P2V Neptune patrol plane became the first person to spot the capsule pitching around in white-capped seas. Unfortunately, the overshoot meant that the Donner was still some 60 miles away and it was almost an hour before the helicopter dispatched by the ship with pilots John Hellriegel and George Cox was able to reach the scene.

Once they were hovering overhead, the pilots alarmingly reported that the capsule was tilted on its side in a seven-foot swell, and it appeared to be sitting much deeper than expected in the water. By now, the destroyer USS Ellison had reached the site. With no time to spare, two trained frogmen quickly jumped out of the helicopter and attached cables to fixed points on the wallowing spacecraft to help keep it upright in the water. As the helicopter hovered, Cox reached down from the lower cabin with a shepherd’s hook and attached a towline from the aircraft to a loop on the capsule.

At 2:52 p. m. Hellriegel applied full power and slowly hoisted the MR-2 capsule, streaming seawater, into the air. The precious cargo was flown all the way back to the USS Donner and gently deposited onto the deck at 3:38 p. m., where willing hands soon secured it. This good news was relayed to Cape Canaveral nearly three hours after liftoff.

When it was safe to do so, the spacecraft’s steel hatch was removed, exposing the canister with Ham inside. The sailors involved also noticed a foot and a half of salt water sloshing around inside the capsule. It was later estimated the spacecraft had taken on about 800 pounds of sea water, but was otherwise in good shape. Happily, the water had not infiltrated Ham’s container. He was unaware of how close he had come to sinking ignominiously to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Meanwhile, doctors back at the Cape were deeply concerned that Ham might have been injured during the crushing forces of the flight, or through the hard splashdown. About 35 minutes after reaching the ship, Ham’s container was resting on the deck. One very confused chimpanzee could be heard squealing his discontent from within. The window was fogged over, but it cleared when oxygen was fed in through a small hatch, and Ham came into view.

“He’s alive,” reported a relieved Maj. Richard Benson, an Air Force veterinary doc­tor. “He’s talking to us.” The sailors then opened a small porthole to enable the veteri­narian to insert his hand. Ham cried steadily. “That could mean some anxiety,” Benson told the surrounding sailors. “He’s just vocalizing.”

Ham’s spacecraft (circled at top) with the recovery helicopter overhead. At bottom (also circled) are two men in a raft near the bow of the USS Ellison. Their task was to right the capsule and help to attach a tow line so that it could be hoisted out of the water. (Photo: U. S. Navy)

One sailor who got a glimpse of the animal was asked, “How does he look?” “Fine,” replied the sailor. “He’s smiling at me.”

Ham was turning his head from side to side, watching the onlookers curiously and licking his pink chops. He reached a couple of the fingers of his right hand through the port to grasp the hand of Benson. Then he rubbed his face and eyes and yawned. When the Plexiglas lid had been fully removed from the container, he once again shook hands with Benson, burped, and folded his arms across his chest while the veterinarian checked his heart rate with a stethoscope. Benson then reached down to test the ani­mal’s diapers. “They’re damp,” he said with a smile.

Following the brief checkup, Benson happily announced, “On the basis of this preliminary examination I’d say he looks very good. It is very encouraging.” [10] Ham was carried to the ship’s battle dressing station and placed on a white table, where he was carefully unstrapped from his couch. Once again Benson checked the chimpanzee’s heart rate, as well as his temperature, respiration, and lung conditions, and looked for any evidence of broken bones. Unsurprisingly, Ham did display some signs of fatigue, a little wobbling and trembling of his legs when standing, and he had somehow sustained a slight abrasion to the bridge of his nose.

Apart from the facial abrasion everything was fine, and Ham’s reflexes were also found to be normal. Benson then produced a shiny red apple, at which Ham became excited, jumping and reaching out in anticipation. Benson cut the apple and fed it to him in slices as a post-flight treat, which he eagerly devoured. The flight had clearly

not affected Ham’s appetite. While he ate, Ham stood with his arm around the major, and later consumed half an orange along with a small wedge of lettuce.

Later, with Benson sleeping in an adjoining stateroom, Ham spent the night in the commodore’s quarters as the ship steamed across a moonlit ocean for Grand Bahama Island. It was not exactly a trip of luxury, because he was in a cage on the floor of the bathroom, lashed to the toilet and the safety rail that was designed to prevent one from slipping after a shower aboard a rolling, pitching ship. But these were merely safety precautions aimed at protecting precious government research property [11].

It was a frustrating time for the reporters and photographers, and for the public now deserting the Cape’s sodden beaches. They had all spent a wet and miserable night waiting for the eagerly anticipated launch shortly after sunrise.

But in the midst of the bad news, there was an unexpected revelation: NASA had decided to reveal the name of the first astronaut. The announcement stated that Cdr. Alan Shepard had been selected to pilot the flight that day, and this would probably remain so for the next attempt. “I was relieved when they made the announcement,” Shepard later revealed. “It was getting to be a strain keeping the secret.” [5] Ironically, just thirty minutes after the delay announcement, the Sun broke through the dense cloud layer.

Apart from some maintenance work on the vehicle, everything remained in a ‘go’ situation. However, the cold front that had stationed itself over the Florida peninsula continued to keep launch conditions below the required minimum. Over the next two days, technicians painstakingly purged the Redstone of its corrosive fuel, rechecked its circuitry, and carried out a repair to one of the liquid oxygen lines.

Meanwhile, apart from some simulator work, Shepard was able to relax; taking a nap, answering mail, running at a local beach, and going over the flight plan with his backup and roommate, John Glenn. The weather slowly began to improve, leading Col. Powers to inform a bevy of anxious reporters, “The weather man tells us that it looks like the weather will be clear enough for us to go… the chances are better than 50-50 in our book that we can get off the launching before the weather worsens.” [6] Shepard was a relieved man. “At the scheduled meeting Thursday morning we got pretty fair weather reports. The launch crews were picking up the count again at T minus 390 minutes, and I felt glad that I was going to be able to give it a whirl.” [7]

The three-day delay actually proved beneficial to the waiting astronaut. “To my surprise, I felt the launch delay actually eased the tension that had been building up inside me. Before the May 2 [attempt] I’d been plagued with visions of rockets tum­bling out of control or blowing up in the air – after all, I’d seen this happen – but during those three days I was able to back off, regroup, and hit it again. I recognized I was experiencing normal apprehension and not fear. The entire reasoning process was old hat to a test pilot. I knew how to turn off this kind of stuff, and I felt calm as the new launch date of May 5 neared.” [8]

A pre-flight briefing was conducted at11:00 a. m. on 4 May in order to examine all the operational elements of the flight. “This briefing was helpful since it gave us a chance to look at weather, radar, camera, and recovery force status. We also had the opportunity to review the control procedures to be used during flight emergencies as well as any late inputs of an operational nature. This briefing was extremely valuable to me in correlating all of the details at the last minute.” [9]

That afternoon Shepard and Glenn took a leisurely walk along a nearby beach to catch crabs. They were ready to go.

“The night of May 4, however, the other astronauts and support teams brought their own tension onto the scene,” Shepard reflected. “Everyone but me was walking on eggshells. Despite the strong feelings about weather, rocket reliability, the escape sys­tem, anything and everything, no one dared broach those subjects. It all got so thick that I went into my bedroom and phoned my family in Virginia Beach.” [10]

Louise was delighted to hear from her husband. They discussed the weather and the prospects for a launch the next morning. He spoke briefly with Louise’s parents and his daughters before promising his wife he would take care of himself and that he loved her. Then he went to get some sleep.

George Cox remained on the Sikorsky’s lower deck with Shepard for the short flight back to the carrier. Within seven minutes of retrieving the spacecraft from the water, the helicopter was zeroing in on the USS Lake Champlain.

As Shepard later pointed out, “When we approached the ship, I could see sailors crowding the deck, applauding and cheering and waving their caps. I felt a real lump in my throat.” [32] He waved to the men as the pilots prepared to land.

On board “The Champ,” there was outstanding reason to celebrate, as related by Scott Thompson from Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania. First, there had been the sight of Freedom 7’s splashdown. “We knew about where to watch. We saw this little speck coming down from the sky. Then we saw the parachute open and float down. When the capsule hit the water, there was a lot of steam because it was so hot.” Soon after, an announcement blared out over the ship’s loudspeakers reporting that Shepard was okay, giving rise to loud cheers. “Everybody went crazy because they were so happy. They knew it was an historic event – the first U. S. man in space. They could have heard us a long way off. We made a lot of noise.” [33]

As in rehearsals, Koons carefully lowered Freedom 7 onto the specially prepared platform that had been cushioned with mattresses. On Cox’s command, he released the carrying hook. “The cargo hook could only be released by the pilot,” Koons says. “The basic hook design, installed on all Marine HUS helicopters, had two methods of release. The first method was electrical, actuated by a button on the pilot’s cyclic stick. The second method of release was mechanical, actuated by a foot pedal on the floor near the pilot’s right heel. For Mercury retrievals, the electrical circuitry was discon­nected. A special latch was installed on the cargo hooks for Mercury retrieval work. This latch prevented opening the hook until it was released by a lever on the cyclic. After releasing the latch, the hook could be opened by the foot pedal.” [34]

Once the spacecraft had been safely situated on the platform and released, Koons set the helicopter down on the deck in front of 1,200 raucous sailors.

Freedom 7 had landed four nautical miles from where the USS Lake Champlain was stationed. The recorded departure time for the Marine helicopters that flew out to retrieve Shepard was 0927 (according to the OPNAV Part C record). Splashdown was at 0949, and the helicopter’s arrival back at the carrier was at 1000, a total of 33 minutes.

Koons has a particularly fond memory. “I was busy shutting the helicopter down and here Shepard in his silver suit minus the hard hat comes slithering up… through the space where George would have been if he were going to get up in his seat. He reached over and whacked me on the leg and [said], ‘Good boy.’ Then back down he went.” [35]

Another person on board that day, NASA representative Charles Tynan, also has a serendipitous recollection. Film cameras were able to document the flight of the helicopter which carried Shepard and Freedom 7 to a safe touchdown on the carrier, but “the Movietone News photographer later sent his movie film off the ship in a COD [cargo] aircraft and talked about possibly winning a Pulitzer Prize. I heard that shipboard personnel put a suicide watch on him when he found out his camera had malfunctioned and his film canister contained blank film.” [36] It was later rumored that the hapless fellow had filmed the entire operation but had failed to remove his lens cover.

NASA, meanwhile, had issued an updated press bulletin declaring, “Test No. 108 is terminated. This was the pioneer U. S. man-in-space flight. The Mercury spacecraft is on the deck of the aircraft carrier Lake Champlain and the helicopter is about to land. Shepard is about to come out of helicopter.” [37]

As the chopper was powered down, Navy physician Robert C. Laning and Army physician M. Jerome Strong approached and stood by the closed door. There was a moment or two of suspense before the door was suddenly flung open. George Cox climbed out, ready to assist the astronaut out of the helicopter, but he needn’t have bothered; Shepard jauntily leapt down to the deck. Only eleven minutes had elapsed since splashing into the ocean. Standing on the deck, Shepard shook hands with Cox and gave him a heartfelt, “Thank-you, very much.”

The magnitude of the welcome finally hit Shepard. “Until the moment I stepped out onto the flight deck of the carrier, I hadn’t realized the intensity of the emotions and feelings that so many people had for me, for the other astronauts, and the whole manned

space program. This was the first sense I had of public response, of a public expression of thanks for what we were doing. I was very close to tears.” [38]

According to the tight schedule, it was time for a medical checkup and to record a free-dictation report whilst the flight was still fresh in his mind. The two physi­cians approached, eager to escort Shepard to the admiral’s cabin, but there was one last distraction for America’s first astronaut. “I started for the quarters where the doctors would give me a quick once-over before I flew on to Grand Bahama Island for a full debriefing. But first I went back to the capsule, which had been gently lowered onto a pile of mattresses on the carrier’s deck. I wanted to retrieve the hel­met that I’d left in the cockpit. And I wanted to take one more look at Freedom 7. I was pretty proud of the job that it had done too.” [39]

As the Navy helicopter hovers nearby, and much to the surprise of everyone present, Shepard returned briefly to Freedom 7 to fetch his helmet from the capsule. (Photos courtesy of Ed Killian)

Shepard, helmet in hand, is escorted below deck by Dr. Jerome Strong (partially obscured). (Photo courtesy of Dean Conger/NASA)

Dean Conger (right, with camera) records Shepard departing the flight deck. (Photo courtesy of Howard Skidmore)

Ed Buckbee, who would go on to become the first director of the U. S. Space and Rocket Center and the founder of Space Camp, both located in Huntsville, Alabama, was a public affairs officer for the space agency at the time of Shepard’s space shot. Some years later he asked the astronaut about climbing up and peering around the interior of his spacecraft. “Well, for one thing,” Shepard responded, “a fighter pilot never leaves his helmet in the cockpit, so I reached in to get my helmet. I also looked around the instrument panel to see if I turned everything off.” [40]

Shepard was then taken to the admiral’s in-port cabin, located just forward of the port side deck-edge elevator and accessed by a catwalk running along the edge of the flight deck. It was here that he would disrobe and have his biomedical leads removed prior to medical checks. “I don’t think you’re going to have much to do,” he told Dr. Laning with a wide grin as he consumed a refreshing glass of orange juice.

The priority task was to determine Shepard’s condition immediately after having undergone high acceleration forces at launch, weightlessness, and deceleration loads. It had been feared that even a few minutes of weightlessness might possibly cause a lingering disorientation and perhaps even affect an astronaut’s mind. But Shepard reported that he hardly realized when he had begun experiencing weightlessness, and his five minutes of zero-g proved to have left no trace of physiological or mental impairment. “It was painless,” he pointed out. “Just a pleasant ride.” He said the first real indication of being in a weightless state – he was tightly strapped in – was when a

stray washer floated by his left ear. In his opinion, having taken direct control of his spacecraft, an astronaut was fully capable of functioning freely in a weightless condition.

After this brief examination, the two doctors had to concur with Shepard’s earlier remark that they wouldn’t have much to do. Although he had arrived in the admiral’s cabin perspiring and with a high pulse rate, that had soon settled once he was finally able to relax. He was in his usual superb physical condition. A more detailed medical examination was to be made when he arrived later that day at Grand Bahama Island. With the tests done, Shepard dictated his remaining impressions of the flight into a tape recorder.

Meanwhile, there were mixed feelings of pride, joy and relief for his wife at their ranch-style home in Virginia Beach. Once she had composed herself, Louise went out onto the front porch and the waiting crowd of news reporters and photographers swarmed in to capture her mood in their notebooks and cameras. “I don’t have to tell you how I feel,” she said, with a wide, happy smile on her face. “It’s just wonderful. It’s beautiful… just wonderful.” [41]

In Shepard’s hometown of East Derry, New Hampshire, the whole town exploded into a full-scale holiday. The streets were filled with rapturous people whooping and cheering and shaking hands with everyone they met, whilst church bells pealed out their glad tidings, fire engines wailed, and car horns added to the cacophony. There were calls for the town to be renamed “Spacetown, U. S.A.”

Although his surgery was successful, Shepard had lost his chance to fly on Gemini, and there were serious doubts that he would ever fly into space again. To remain part of the astronaut cadre, he had earlier accepted an interim appointment as Chief of the Astronaut Office, giving him a major influence in the training and assignment of his fellows. Eventually, his never-say-die attitude would see him regain active astronaut status, and he promptly launched a determined campaign for a slot aboard a manned Apollo lunar mission.

Almost a decade after his historic flight aboard Freedom 7, Shepard was launched into space for a second and final time on 31 January 1971 as the commander of the Apollo 14 mission. Aged 47, he became the oldest of the twelve men to place their boot prints in the lunar dust. Along with Edgar Mitchell, he spent 33 hours exploring the Fra Mauro terrain. He freely admits that when he stepped off the Lunar Module Antares for the first time and stood on the lunar surface he shed tears of wonderment and joy.

At the end of their final excursion, Shepard impishly pulled out a club head which he had secretly brought along, and clipped it onto the long handle of a tool. He then dropped a golf ball onto the surface and attempted a modified one-armed back – swing. “Unfortunately, the suit is so stiff I can’t do this with two hands,” he reported back to Earth, “but I’m going to try a little sand trap shot here.” Using only his right hand he whacked the first of two balls for a distance he later said with a broad avia­tor’s grin was “miles and miles.”