Category Liberty Bell 7

Meanwhile, at McDonnell’s Advanced Design Department, Luge Luetjen said every­one had “hit the ground running" and the place was a beehive of frantic activity.

“The dynamics and aerodynamics people had developed the equations for the ascent trajectory, the orbital flight, and descent trajectory of a typical space vehicle. Working with the engineers in the computer lab, we managed to set up a program such that with any combination of the independent variables (thrust, weight, flight path angle, etc.) the characteristics of the flight could be determined, printed out, and plot­ted. The results obtained were critical for the structural, heat protection, and aerody­namic design of a spacecraft. Considerable research had been done by Max Faget and others at the NACA Langley Field facility on various spacecraft body shapes and their characteristics. They shared this information freely with all that were interested, and some of us spent considerable time in conference with them on the subject. The ‘wheels’ in the department, but mostly Yardley, had decided that we would bundle all our studies and calculations in a single report whose format was similar to what we thought that of a Request for Proposal (RFP) for a manned space vehicle might be. As it turned out, we didn’t have long to wait.”8

Even while Robert Gilruth’s STG team was still designated as part of NACA, it began work on the writing of detailed specifications for a Mercury capsule. By the end of October 1958 a preliminary draft had been completed.

On 7 November, two days after the official formation of the STG, a briefing of potential bidders for the contract to develop and construct a manned spacecraft was held at the Langley Research Center, where the STG was initially based.

Of the 40 companies in attendance, 20 later indicated that they were prepared to bid for the contract, and were given the preliminary specifications. A week later, on 14 November, NASA had received firm offers from all 20 companies – including McDonnell – to bid on the project. Three days after that, the final documentation, Specification No. S-6 “Specifications for Manned Spacecraft Capsule,” was mailed out to the interested parties. The deadline for the return of their proposals was set at 11 December.

“Our report was pretty much on target,” according to Luetjen, “and we had little trouble transforming our information into a proposal required to be submitted by December 11. We had our proposal quickly completed and simply spent the remainder of the time double checking and dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.”9

Of the 20 companies that expressed further interest in submitting bid proposals, only 11 actually followed through. In turn, NASA passed these bids on to the STG for assessment. The people at McDonnell were delighted subsequently to learn that when the contender numbers were narrowed by almost half, their company was still in the running. After all their hard work in putting the proposal together, several employees took accrued vacation time in order to be ready to resume work if (or more optimisti­cally, once) they learned their bid had been successful.

Over the Christmas break the STG conducted a scrupulous evaluation of all the proposals and finally narrowed their choice down to the one contractor they felt best qualified from the standpoint of technical abilities, ideas, and approach to the issue. Over in Washington, D. C., meanwhile, NASA officials were also scrutinizing the pro­posals, conducting an evaluation of the business and management aspects of the twelve bidders.

In January 1959, after Administrator Keith Glennan had reviewed the NASA evaluation, the space agency opened further negotiations with McDonnell as the potential prime contractor. On 12 January, shortly after the McDonnell workers from the Advanced Design Department (Space) had returned from their Christmas and New Year break, all of the department’s workers were called to a meeting in Mike Weeks’ office where he told them that James McDonnell had been informed by NASA’s Space Task Group that following an evaluation of all the submitted proposals, McDonnell Aircraft had been named as the winner of the contract and negotiations would begin immediately for the design, production and support of twelve Mercury spacecraft.

“No one in Advanced Design slept much on Monday night after Mike Weeks’ announcement of our winning the Mercury competition,” Luetjen recalled. “Each individual was trying to determine what the next move in their expertise should be. As I remember, early on Tuesday, Yardley got the group together and indicated that most, though not all, of those who had worked on the proposal would be joining him on the project. Some of the pure scientists would remain in Advanced Design to do spade work on projects beyond Mercury.

“The early task facing each of the prime systems engineers was two-fold: to work with their NASA counterpart to roughly define their system such that specifications could be drafted on which subcontractors/suppliers could bid; and secondly, to esti­mate the effort and material costs to consummate their part of the program such that a basic contract could be agreed upon at an early date. It greatly helped that much coor­dination and contact with potential suppliers had taken place prior to the submission of our proposal. Two main systems were unsettled when it came time to sign the contract, and the contract wording had to be sufficiently loose to allow alternatives. It was yet to be determined whether the heat protection system should consist of a beryllium heat sink or a shield made of a material that would ablate and thus dissipate the heat upon reentry, and secondly, it was unknown at that juncture whether the escape system should be a rocket boost system to separate the spacecraft from the launch vehicle or a rocket pull system in which the escape rocket would be mounted on a tower on the forward (small) end of the capsule.”10

According to Max Faget, the Atlas rocket had been chosen as the most suitable booster for the later orbital missions. “Bob Gilruth came in one day and says, ‘Max… what are you going to do if the Atlas blows up on the way up?’ And I didn’t have an answer for that. And he said, ‘Well, you’d better get an answer for it.’ I’ve always said that was an invention on command. It was very fortunate that one of our colleagues, Woody Blanchard, again in the Pilotless Air Research Division, had been experiment­ing with tow rockets. He put canted nozzles on a rocket and towed models, research models, up to Mach 1 and above, but instead of pushing, he’d pull them. So knowing that you could do [that with] the rocket up front, it was just a small step instead of putting a cable up there, to put a structure up there that would hold it rigidly during launch but be in place whenever you need it. That turned out to be a very successful thing.”11

An initial contract for the construction of 12 similarly constructed spacecraft was formally signed on 6 February. This number was subsequently increased to 18, and then to 26, before finally being set to 20 as the development effort matured. During the

negotiations, officials from McDonnell estimated it would be possible to deliver the first three capsules within ten months.

As Robert Gilruth noted in his unpublished memoirs, “During this same period of time we established an arrangement with the Ballistic Missile Division of the Air Force for the procurement of the Atlas launch rockets and for launch services. We [also] worked out a plan with [Major] General [John B.] Medaris [commanding the Army Ballistic Missiles Agency] and Dr. [Wernher] von Braun [of that agency] for the Redstone launch vehicles, and we started work in our own staff for a design and speci­fication for the Little Joe rocket to be used in tests at Wallops Island. We gave to Lewis the job of creating a full-scale Mercury model spacecraft for an unmanned flight at an early date to establish levels of heat transfer and stability in a full-scale free-flight test on an Atlas booster at Cape Canaveral…. The project was started in December 1958 and flew successfully in September 1959.”12

Following his graduation from Test Pilot School, Grissom, now bearing the rank of captain, returned to Wright-Patterson AFB in May 1957 as a test pilot assigned to the fighter branch.

One day in 1958, an adjutant handed Capt. Grissom an official teletype message marked “Top Secret,” instructing him to report to an address in Washington, D. C., and to wear civilian clothing. There were no other details, but he knew there was a challenge in there somewhere. As it turned out, he was one of 110 carefully selected candidates who had met the general qualifications for astronaut training. They would undergo initial briefings and medical screening in the quest to find America’s first astronauts for NASA.

After attending the briefing, in which the attendees were given information about Project Mercury, they were offered a crucial choice. If they decided to volunteer for the chance to become what NASA referred to as an “astronaut”, they would move onto the next phase of the selection process. If not, then they could return without prejudice to their present service. Some turned down the chance to be involved

in this new venture. There were too many unknowns and they preferred to continue with the work they were already involved in. Grissom now had to think seriously about his own future.

“It was a big decision for me to make. I figured that I had one of the best jobs in the Air Force, and I was working with fine people. I was stationed at the flight test center at Wright-Patterson, and I was flying a wide range of airplanes and giving them a lot of different tests. It was a job that I thoroughly enjoyed. A lot of people, including me, thought the [Mercury] project sounded a little too much like a stunt than a serious research program. It looked, from a distance, as if the man they were searching for was only going to be a passenger. I didn’t want to be just that. I liked flying too much. The more I learned about Project Mercury, however, the more I felt I might be able to help and I figured that I had enough flying experience to handle myself on any kind of shoot-the-chute they wanted to put me on. In fact, I knew darn well I could.”7

Afterwards, when he told Betty about Project Mercury and the chance that was being presented to him, she said that he would have her full support in whatever he decided to do. After a lot of thought, Grissom decided to volunteer, following which he was subjected to intense physical and psychological testing through early 1959. At one stage he came close to being disqualified when doctors discovered that he suffered from hay fever, and he had to convince them that it would not bother him in space. He argued that he would be sealed in a pressurized spacecraft, with no pollen present. It must have been a close call, as there was a tremendous emphasis on physical fitness. With his usual determination he won his case.

On Thursday evening, 2 April 1959, Gus Grissom received the phone call that would change his life forever. On the other end of the line was NASA’s assistant man­ager for the project, Charles Donlan, who officially informed him that he had been selected as one of the space agency’s seven Mercury astronauts.

“After I had made the grade, I would lie in bed once in a while at night and think of the capsule and the booster and ask myself, ‘Now what in hell do you want to get up on that thing for?’ I wondered about this especially when I thought about Betty and the two boys. But I knew the answer: We all like to be respected in our fields. I hap­pened to be a career officer in the military – and, I think, a deeply patriotic one. If my country decided that I was one of the better qualified people for this new mission, then I was proud and happy to help out. I guess there was also a spirit of pioneering and adventure involved in the decision. As I told a friend of mine once who asked me why I joined Mercury, I think if I had been alive 150 years ago I might have wanted to go out and help open up the West.”8

Following the announcement of the names of the seven Mercury astronauts in Washington on 9 April 1959, they became instant celebrities – something that caught them (and NASA) completely unawares. “It happened without us doing a damn thing,” Deke Slayton later mused. “We show up for a news conference… and now we’re the bravest men in the country. Talk about crazy!”9

Almost before he knew it, Grissom heard Blockhouse 5 capsule communicator Deke Slayton run the clock down to zero and then call “Ignition!” Grissom felt the launch vehicle begin to vibrate and could hear the engines start. Flames burst from the foot of the rocket.

Moments later the elapsed-time clock started and Alan Shepard, the CapCom in the Mercury Control Center, confirmed liftoff. Grissom quickly performed his next duties. “At that time, I punched the Time Zero Override, started the stopwatch function on the spacecraft clock, and reported that the elapsed-time clock had started.”6 Eight seconds into the launch he almost laughed out loud when he heard Shepard cheekily put on his best imitation of comedian Bill Dana – who had a hilarious routine as a reluctant astronaut named Jose Jimenez – warning Grissom, “Don’t cry too much!”

The Redstone left the launch pad gracefully and drove through a clear patch of blue sky before arching over and heading into the Atlantic target area. The powered ascent proceeded well, and was reported to be very smooth. A low-order vibration became noticeable at around T+50 seconds, but did not cause any interference in communica­tions or degrade Grissom’s vision. It quickly dissipated and could no longer be detected by T+70 seconds.

The only problem occurred at this time. One of the carbon jet vanes detached from the Redstone – it can be seen streaking away in footage of the ascent. These vanes, which served as the booster’s steering rudder, were mounted in the lower portion of the booster and extended into the rocket’s engine exhaust. They were used in conjunction with air rudders to control the Redstone’s attitude. During the early part of the ascent

the Redstone was controlled by the jet vanes, but when the rocket had reached a velocity sufficient for it to become aerodynamically stable, the air rudders took over the control function. The loss of the jet vane at this point did not seem to have any noticeable effect on the stability or function of the booster.

“I looked for a little buffeting as I climbed to 36,000 [feet] and moved through Mach 1, the speed of sound,” Grissom later reported. “Al [Shepard] had experienced some difficulty here; his vehicle shook quite a lot and his vision was slightly blurred by the vibrations. But we had made some good fixes. We had improved the

aerodynamic fairings between the capsule and the Redstone, and had put some extra padding around my head. I had no trouble at all, and I could see the instruments very clearly.”7

Whereas Alan Shepard had been restricted to external observations through a peri­scope device, Grissom had the benefit of the newly installed centerline window and commented that his vision out of the window was good at all times during the launch.

“As viewed from the pad, the sky was its normal light blue; but as the altitude increased, the sky became a darker and darker blue until approximately two minutes after liftoff, which corresponds to an altitude of approximately 100,000 feet, the sky rapidly changed to an absolute black. At this time, I saw what appeared to be one rather faint star in the center of the window. It was about equal in brightness to Polaris. Later, it was determined that this was the planet Venus.”8

As the Redstone continued its ascent, Grissom reported that he was receiving a force of 2.5 G. Then, 142 seconds after liftoff, the Redstone’s engine suddenly shut down. Although Grissom reported a slight tumbling sensation and several moments of disorientation, he had experienced similar sensations in centrifuge simulations so he knew what it was and it didn’t trouble him. The sensation occurred once again just ten seconds later when the escape tower clamp ring fired and the tower blasted free of the spacecraft. He later said that the explosive separation and firing of the escape tower was quite audible and he could see the escape rocket motor and tower throughout its tail-off burning phase and for some time after that, climbing off to his right.

Grissom was observing the tower when the posigrade rockets of his spacecraft fired on schedule, separating it from the spent Redstone. This was accompanied by “a very audible bang and a definite kick, producing a deceleration of approximately 1 G.”9

On separation from the booster Grissom pitched forward slightly in reaction, but it was an anticipated sensation. At this point, Liberty Bell 7 was coasting upward in free flight.

In his later debriefing Grissom said that, like Shepard, he had to make a special effort to notice that he had entered into a weightless condition. His primary cue was a visual one, which became apparent when he noticed stray washers and some trash floating around; there was no other sensation of zero-g.

“Now, I was on my own,” he later recorded, as he described the view out of his enlarged window. “Shortly after liftoff I went through a layer of cirrus clouds and broke out into the sun. The sky became blue, and then – quite suddenly and abruptly – it turned black. Al had described it as dark blue. It seemed jet black to me. There was a narrow transition band between the blue and the black – a sort of fuzzy gray area. But it was very thin, and the change from blue to black was extremely vivid. The Earth itself was bright. I had a little trouble identifying land masses because of an extensive layer of clouds that hung over them. Even so, the view back down through the window was fascinating. I could make out brilliant gradations of color – the blue of the water, the white of the beaches and the brown of the land. Later on, when I was weightless and about 100 miles up – almost at the apogee of the flight – I could look down and see Cape Canaveral, sharp and clear. I could even see the buildings. This was the best reference I had for determining my position. I could pick out the Banana River and see the peninsula which runs further south. Then I spotted the south coast of Florida. I saw what must have been West Palm Beach. I never did see Cuba. The high cirrus blotted out everything except the area from about Daytona Beach back inland to Orlando and Lakeland, to Lake Okeechobee and down to the tip of Florida. It was quite a panorama.”10

In a proclamation signed and dated 21 July 1961, Indiana Governor Matthew E. Welsh declared that throughout Indiana the day would be called “Gus Grissom Day.” The proclamation read: “The citizens of Indiana are justly proud of their native son, who showed the exceptional courage and technical skill required to venture into the unknown, and Capt. Grissom’s name and daring exploits are now a part of the his­tory of man’s pioneering efforts to probe into space. Capt. Grissom has thereby brought honor and renown to his home town of Mitchell, Indiana, and to the state of Indiana.”5

Only a few hours after the United States had sent its second man into space, President Kennedy signed a bill authorizing vastly expanded space projects, including a start toward sending a man to the Moon. He took note of Grissom’s flight as he put his signature to the bill, which authorized the space agency to spend $1,784,300.00 in the year ahead. The amount was every cent Kennedy had asked for.

In a brief statement, the president said it was significant that the bill was signed on the day that America’s second astronaut made his flight before the eyes of the watch­ing world and with all the hazard that this entailed.

“It is also significant that once again we have demonstrated the technological excel­lence of this country,” the President said, adding, “As our space program continues… it will continue to be this nation’s policy to use space for the advancement of all man­kind and to make free release of all scientific and technological results.”

The bill had been passed only the day before by the House and Senate.6

Emergency escape procedures said that the hatches could be opened and the cabin evacuated in an orderly fashion in ninety seconds, but in simulations the crew had never achieved anything close to this time. In the evacuation exercises Grissom’s role was to lower White’s headrest so that White could reach above and behind his left shoulder to actuate the ratchet device that would simultaneously loosen the six dog­leg latches. The hatch itself was monstrously heavy, and opened inward. As shown on television monitors, White could be seen inserting the ratchet tool into a slot in the hatch. He suddenly snatched his hands back and then reached out once again as Grissom’s hands also came into view, in a desperate attempt to help White with the hatch. Meanwhile the flames, which were mostly on Grissom’s side of the cabin, rap­idly grew in intensity, releasing poisonous gases that quickly suffocated the three astronauts.

Some recent research, combined with the independent findings of some NASA engineers, indicates that Grissom also tried to purge the pressure by thrusting his gloved hand through the flames in an attempt to activate the cabin dump valves on a shelf over the left-hand equipment bay. He pressed so hard and so violently that the valves were later found bent. However the valves did not fully engage. In any case, it is doubtful they would have had much effect on the rapidly mounting internal cabin pressure. Meanwhile, the temperature inside the spacecraft had grown high enough to melt stainless steel fittings. Molten balls of nylon were dripping onto everything. White’s safety harness was on fire.

According to one source, White made part of a full turn of the ratchet before he was overcome by the deadly fumes, although it seems probable that the heat would have caused the metal in the hatch to expand and jam. It is widely acknowledged that White put in a mighty but futile effort to open the inner hatch. The last transmission from the spacecraft was a sharp, unidentified cry of pain.

In the meantime, the pressure inside the cabin had escalated to 36 psi, causing a sudden, violent rupture in the spacecraft’s hull from a position adjacent to Chaffee’s helmet across to below his feet. This explosion sealed the crew’s fate. Accompanied by a howling roar, fierce flames and debris spewed out of the breach into the White Room, and fire briefly enveloped the outside of the command module. As the pure oxygen environment in the cabin rapidly depleted, the clear flames deepened in color and lost much of their intensity, replaced by a thick, dark, choking smoke.

From start to tragic finish the fire inside Spacecraft 012 only lasted about 14-17 seconds. Once the violent hull rupture had purged the cabin of oxygen, the fire was essentially extinguished.

Five minutes after the alarm had been raised the booster cover cap was opened, followed soon thereafter by the inner and outer hatches. At first, no one could see through the thick, swirling smoke, and there were no signs of activity from the crew.

Almost another five minutes would pass before the smoke had cleared sufficiently to reveal the inert bodies of the crew. Chaffee, badly injured in the explosion, was still strapped in his seat, while White had collapsed across his seat after several frantic efforts to open the hatch had failed. Even White, said to be among the fittest of the astronauts and as strong as an ox, never really had any chance of opening the hatch in time.

Grissom was found lying on his back on the floor of the spacecraft, where he had apparently crawled in an attempt to escape the fire. All three had their visors closed. The bodies of Grissom and White were so intertwined below the multilayered hatch that it was difficult to tell them apart. Doctors Fred Kelly and Alan Harter conducted a brief examination of the occupants and pronounced what everyone had known they would find – all three men were dead.

The only thing that could have saved the lives of the three astronauts would have been a fast-opening hatch.