Category Liberty Bell 7

“Those were the days of the most intensive and dedicated work of a group of people that I have ever experienced,” Gilruth once wrote in a conference paper. “None of us will ever forget it. We were making tests of escape rockets over on the beach at Wallops

Island, testing parachutes in full-scale drops from helicopters, and measuring water impact loads on capsule configurations at Langley Field.”14

Meanwhile, impact studies were also being carried out at the McDonnell plant, with test capsules dropped into water, onto sand beds, and onto solid concrete slabs. In one series of tests, live pigs were loaded into a Mercury capsule, strapped into a specially built contour couch similar to those being individually developed for the astronauts. The capsule was then dropped down a long shaft blunt end first to verify that a human passenger could survive a particularly hard landing, as described in the official NASA Project Mercury history.

“Through April and May (1959), McDonnell engineers fitted a series of four Yorkshire pigs into contour couches for impact landing tests of the crushable alumi­num honeycomb energy-absorption system. These supine swine sustained accelera­tion peaks from 38 to 58 g before minor internal injuries were noted. The ‘pig drop’ tests were quite impressive, both to McDonnell employees who left their desks and lathes to watch them and to STG engineers who studied the documentary movies. But, still more significant, seeing the pigs get up and walk away from their forced fall and stunning impact vastly increased the confidence of the newly chosen astronauts that they could do the same. The McDonnell report on these experiments concluded, ‘Since neither the acceleration rates nor shock pulse amplitudes applied to the speci­mens resulted in permanent or disabling damage, the honeycomb energy absorption system of these experiments is considered suitable for controlling the landing shock applied to the Mercury capsule pilot.’”15

Jerry Roberts was a Guidance and Control System Engineer working at the Cape with McDonnell, and he still remembers conducting those drop tests using live animals.

“When we were designing the spacecraft we knew nothing about the effects of weightlessness on the astronaut – on the human body. We also knew very little about what would actually happen during the launch and recovery process. We knew it would be pretty rugged, so one of the things we had to do was design a seat for the astronauts to give them the maximum protection possible in this confined space. And believe me it was confined; the men could just barely fit into the Mercury spacecraft.

“The small MAC group that I was with came up with a couch for the astronauts to sit in, molded around the astronauts’ bodies. It was constructed out of a honeycomb material. We did this individually for each astronaut.” The couches, backed by an energy-absorbing, crushable aluminum honeycomb, consisted of a fiberglass shell with protective rubber padding, and were located in the pressurized section of the capsule.

“Then we needed to test it to see how much protection it actually provided, and since most of the astronauts weighed about 160-180 pounds, someone came up with the idea of using pigs that were in that weight range.

“We had a test facility constructed inside one of our lab buildings and it was fixed so that we could take these hogs up to varying heights. They were sedated of course, and we dropped them down a chute into a bed of wet, packed sand. We recorded the Gs that each one was subjected to, but I know we started out at about eight feet and then went [up] in four foot intervals. I think the last pig was dropped at 20 feet, or

maybe even higher. As it turned out the seat did provide significant protection and so the test was successful.

“Immediately after each pig was subjected to the drop test the animal was butch­ered; the local butcher did all the slaughtering right there in the facility and the pig’s internal organs were examined in great detail to see what damage resulted from the fall. The meat was frozen and I think was later donated to [some charity] the equiva­lent of a soup kitchen. It was not thrown out or wasted.”16

On Tuesday, 21 February 1961, NASA finally released the names of John Glenn, Gus Grissom and Alan Shepard as having been selected as the prime candidates to enter the special training required for the final stages of preparedness for the first suborbital Mercury mission.

At the same time that the three names were announced, Gus Grissom was on duty at the NASA tracking station in southernmost Bermuda, where he was sitting at a control console during the unmanned Mercury-Atlas (MA-2) suborbital space shot, the main purpose of which was a particularly rugged reentry test of the capsule’s heat shield. The tracking station was on Cooper’s Island, a 77-acre rock-and-coral shelf in the Atlantic, some 600 miles from the United States.

The MA-2 flight was launched that day from Complex 14 at Cape Canaveral and flew a suborbital mission lasting 17 minutes and 56 seconds. Atlas rocket 67D carried Spacecraft No. 6 to an altitude of 114 statute miles at a speed of 13,227 miles an hour. All the test objectives of the flight were achieved, and the capsule was recovered 1,432 miles downrange.

James D. (‘Jim’) Lewis, Ph. D., is a former U. S. Marine Corps helicopter pilot, and during his memorable last tour of duty in that service was appointed Mercury Project Officer and became prime recovery pilot for the MR-4 mission.

Lewis continued to serve in the Marine Reserves during his lengthy tenure with NASA, eventually retiring from reserve service in 1983 with the rank of major. His work with NASA and government service would only end in 1999, at which time he was Chief of the Space Human Factors Branch of the space agency.

Meanwhile Grissom had risen at around 6:30 a. m. and eaten a large hot breakfast ahead of a peaceful, relaxing morning out of sight of the press before flying back to Patrick AFB at the Cape aboard a C-54 Skymaster transport plane, together with Deke Slayton and other passengers. Once there, he would address a formal press conference on the results and different aspects of the MR-4 mission.

That afternoon the C-54 landed at the air base where hordes of news reporters and officials were waiting to greet the astronaut. Standing in front of an official NASA limousine were the excited wives of the other six astronauts, holding up a huge banner saying “We’re Proud of You All.” Sadly for Grissom, however, he also landed in the midst of a gathering pall of public blame and suspected human failure which was about to descend upon the nation’s newest spaceman.

Everything seemed to be fine to Gus Grissom as he stepped from the plane into a typi­cally hot Florida summer’s day, waving and smiling. At the foot of the stairs he hugged and kissed Betty and their two boys before being ushered off to shake hands with a throng of officials and well-wishers. He was then led into a small annex of a huge tent that had been specially erected for the occasion. Here the family enjoyed a few private moments alone before they were driven to the Starlight Motel in Cocoa Beach where Grissom was to change his clothes and prepare himself for the formal press conference.

Once they had arrived at the motel, Betty and the boys were shown to their seats while Gus – filled with apprehension and unease – stood on a platform facing the reporters and photographers as he prepared to answer their questions. He knew one of the main topics would be the loss of Liberty Bell 7, and he simply didn’t have any satisfactory answers to offer them at that time. He could only explain what he had done and offer strenuous denials that he was somehow at fault.

To resounding applause, NASA Administrator James Webb introduced Grissom by saying, “I could present Capt. Grissom as an aeronaut, a test pilot, a graduate of that school of experimental flying through which over the 58 years since the Wright Brothers flew, a handful of brave men have taken the personal risks necessary to prove in flight the new aircraft ideas and designs which now benefit so many millions through air transport and add so much to our national security. I could present him as one of the seven astronauts. These seven men have devoted almost three years of their lives to providing the pilot element in the Mercury system, utilizing our most advanced science and technology for the purpose of producing machines capable of aiding man in exploring and extending his knowledge of the universe… for the benefit of all mankind.” Webb then presented the press-nervous Grissom with the space agency’s Distinguished Service Medal for his “outstanding contribution to space technology.”

For his part, Grissom said he was anxious to return to work on the space program and would be back on the job Monday. He repeatedly used the word “fascinating” in describing his first space flight, and said he kept peeking out of his window at the view. He described seeing a band around the Earth that went from light blue to dark blue and then to black, while the horizon appeared to be from 600 to 800 miles from him at the height of his flight.

“Looking out the window – it looked more like a keyhole to me – I could first see blue sky after I went through one little layer of cloud that was floating over the Cape,” he said of his ascent into space. “Suddenly the sky went from blue to pitch black. As I looked through my picture window I could see one brilliant star in the middle of the windshield.” This “star” would later be determined to be the planet Venus.

Grissom said Liberty Bell 7 experienced much less vibration than Shepard’s space­craft due to some design changes. As the capsule tilted into its “turnaround” position, he said he got his first view of the horizon. “It was really fascinating,” he reflected. “The Earth was very bright and very round.” He also reported that there was “stuff floating around” inside the capsule during the period of weightlessness, and that “there was in the cockpit some debris – a washer, dirt – the normal debris that you’ll find floating around any airplane.”11

As Betty Grissom and her co-author Henry Still later wrote in Starfall: “The report­ers skipped quickly over the successful aspects of the flight (they already knew that) and probed around the question of whether Grissom had contributed to the loss of the Liberty Bell by accidentally bumping the plunger which blew the hatch. Controlling his temper, Gus patiently explained how he had been ‘lying there minding my own business’ when the hatch unaccountably blew off.”

There was, the authors recalled, a good deal of innuendo going around that NASA officials might be somehow trying to cover up a case of pilot error.

“Barroom psychologists whispered the possibility that Gus Grissom was accident – prone. This was typical human perversity, looking for the clay feet of heroes, but it was ironic to those who knew Gus as an outstanding pilot and engineer, a man who devoted endless hours to methodical planning of ways to work around emergency situations.”12

To a question about whether he ever felt his life was in danger, Grissom answered in his usual honest and considered way, “Well, I was scared a good portion of the time. I guess this is a pretty good indication.”

“You were what?” called out one reporter.

“Scared. Okay?” Grissom answered. It was a mistake. His renowned frankness and honesty did not serve him well on this occasion, as the next day’s newspapers brought such unjust and sensational headlines such as “Astronaut Admits he was Scared,” and “I Was Scared: Grissom.” No mention was made of his superhuman struggles against the elements in desperately trying to assist in the retrieval of his sinking spacecraft, an act of incredible bravery which could so easily have cost him his life.

James Webb had substituted for the President of the United States in presenting Grissom with the Distinguished Service Medal at the start of the press conference. The reason given was that John Kennedy was dealing with the political aftermath of the Bay of Pigs invasion some three months earlier – although this hadn’t precluded a gala White House medal presentation for Alan Shepard the previous month. There would be no White House celebration, no meeting with First Lady Jackie Kennedy for Betty Grissom, no ticker-tape parade through the streets of New York. There was just muted praise and passing recognition, which the astronaut and his wife simply could not comprehend. The guy was a hero; surely they were not blaming him for losing his spacecraft?

Things became even more evident after the press conference when the family was bundled into a car and driven across to Patrick AFB and dropped off at a guesthouse in the base’s VIP quarters. They were told that this would ensure a little privacy and security away from the prying eyes of reporters. Meanwhile the other astronauts and their wives were given comfortable accommodation at the Holiday Motel some ten miles north in Cocoa Beach, where they would enjoy post-flight celebration parties. Incredibly, Gus Grissom would have to leave early in the morning; he had been told to report back to work the next day.

“The guesthouse setup didn’t suit Betty,” Henry Still wrote in Starfall. “She did not know how many days they would be there. It was across a busy highway from the Atlantic Ocean beach. Betty’s controlled resentment at being left alone to fend for herself and the family boiled over when she checked the refrigerator and found it stuffed with bacon and eggs and other food.”

“‘What do these people think I am going to do?’ she demanded. ‘I am not going to cook!’”

There was no television set for the kids to watch, no car, and if they wanted to go to the beach they’d have to cross over the highway with its fast-moving traffic. After she had complained to her husband about the unfairness of the situation he got on the phone and booked them into the Holiday Motel along with the rest of the astronauts and their families. They repacked their bags and called a cab.

“I really don’t know what they expected me to do with my time there at Patrick,” Betty later wrote. “I think I’d have been ready to commit suicide if I’d have stayed in that place all day waiting for him to come back home. I’d have been a complete wreck, especially with two little kids. What was I supposed to do with them? No one knew where I was. I might have gotten on the phone and said: ‘Somebody come get me.’ But it all just struck me wrong. I told Gus: ‘This is one time I am not writing a thank-you note.’ And I didn’t, although I’m sure their intentions were good.”13

Curt Newport cannot recall when the idea first occurred to him to consider the possibility of raising Liberty Bell 7 from the ocean floor. “It might have been when I read The Right Stuff, or it could be just something I thought of,” the salvage operator ventured during an interview back in 1986, a full quarter of a century after the loss of Gus Grissom’s spacecraft. All he knew back then was that it had sunk in very deep water and that any recovery effort would be an incredibly difficult task.1

A CHILDHOOD FASCINATION WITH SPACE

He was born in Oakland, California, where his father flew as an Army aviator out of Chrissy Field. Growing up with a childhood passion for space flight and undersea exploration, Curt Newport was only 10 years old and living in St. Louis, Missouri, where his father was stationed temporarily, when Liberty Bell 7 was lost on 21 July 1961, settling into the mud of the Florida Trench off the Bahamas, some three miles below the surface of the Atlantic. “I think Grissom’s capsule was probably built less than ten miles from our home,” he reflected in 2013.2

As he related in his book, Lost Spacecraft: The Search for Liberty Bell 7, the Mercury astronauts were huge heroes back then. “While Shepard and Glenn were certainly the most famous to me, I remember being taken by Grissom for no special reason. Maybe it was the way he looked or that he didn’t appear to seek out the lime­light. However, he was a central figure to me.”3

In 1974, aged 24, Newport entered into the subsea business building ship fenders in Washington, D. C. He later graduated into building deep diving systems such as div­ing bells and deck decompression chambers. After leaving a Los Angeles-based com­mercial diving school in 1977 he began working with submersible robots known as Remotely Operated Vehicles (ROV). Although his expertise grew over time, he found much of the freelance work in which he was engaged, such as inspecting rusty pipelines and routine maintenance on AT&T telephone cables, to be rather less than satisfying. He began to look at people involved in ocean exploration such as Jacques Cousteau for some way to creatively inspire and challenge him. “I was interested in doing something that I felt was worthwhile with the underwater vehicles that I had worked with for so many years. I wanted to have some fun with ROVs.”

Newport says he had very little money back then, but a lot of ideas. “I started think­ing about things that had been lost in the ocean. Targets. Sunken objects that would be interesting to find and explore and I came up with two possibilities – the Titanic and Gus Grissom’s Liberty Bell 7 Mercury spacecraft.”4 In an article which he wrote before Titanic was located, he actually predicted the likely location of the ocean liner to within a couple of miles.

In 1985 he was contracted to remotely pilot the SCARAB 2 ROV, equipped with television cameras, sonar, and mechanical arms to help salvage the wreckage of an Air India 747 airliner off the coast of Ireland. A total of 329 people, including 268 Canadians, died en route from Montreal to New Delhi when the aircraft was ripped apart 31,000 feet above the Irish Sea by a bomb which was planted on board by the Sikh militant group Babbar Khalsa. It remains the deadliest aviation disaster ever to occur over a body of water.

“AI 182 was actually found by a Navy search team using a towed pinger locator and side-scan sonar before I arrived in Ireland in July of 1985,” noted Newport. “By the time I got there onboard the CCGS John Cabot, Cable and Wireless had already recovered the FDR [flight data recorder] and CVR [cockpit voice recorder] using SCARAB I. What I did was survey the crash site, a three-by-five nautical mile area, and recover wreckage using SCARAB II in conjunction with a German ship which had all the heavy lift gear. The data recorders proved nothing. But evidence of an explosion was on the wreckage we raised. We broke lots of records on those dives, one lasting 143 hours.” Altogether, the exhausting salvage operation continued for six months, ending in November 1985.5