Category The First Men on the Moon

Having unstowed the long-handled scoop from the MESA, Armstrong set out to collect the bulk sample from the general vicinity of the SWC, on ground that had been documented as part of that experiment. The television cable was white, but when it became coated with dust it was difficult to see, and because it retained a memory of having been coiled in its dispenser it refused to sit flat on the ground. On seeing that Armstrong’s feet were becoming entangled with the cable, Aldrin called ‘‘Watch it, Neil! Neil, you’re on the cable.’’ Armstrong tried to manoeuvre clear of the cable, but the visor of his helmet limited his downward view and the thickness of the suit prevented him feeling its presence. Aldrin went to help him. ‘‘You’re clear

now.” As Armstrong would have to make many trips to the MESA to collect the bulk sample one scoop at a time, he used his scoop to lift the cable off the ground, Aldrin took it, dragged it aside, gathered the surplus and tossed it beneath the vehicle.

Leaving Armstrong to collect the sample, Aldrin began his first photographic task, which was to document the imprint that his boot made in the surface. After retrieving the Hasselblad from the MESA he went to a patch of ground that they had not yet disturbed and, using the camera hand-held, took a photograph of this. Then he made an impression with his right boot, stepped back and photographed the result. Moving further forward he put his boot on the surface again, and this time took the picture just as he lifted his foot; in so doing he noted that there was so much black material coating his overshoe that its light-blue colour was no longer visible. Moving on to his next task, he took a panorama from a location south of the tip of Eagle’s shadow, covering 360 degrees in 11 frames, one of which captured Armstrong at the MESA. He then went to the southern side of Eagle and took a number of pictures to enable the Grumman engineers to assess the state of the vehicle, in the process capturing a view through the struts of the front gear of Armstrong once again at the MESA. As the next item on his checklist was to take ‘after’ shots of where the bulk sample was collected, he called, ‘‘How’s the bulk sample coming, Neil?’’

‘‘It’s just being sealed,’’ replied Armstrong. Collecting the sample had proved to be more difficult than in training because, in the weak lunar gravity, the material readily spilled from the scoop as he carried it to the MESA, with the result that he lost part of each load. Whatever remained each time, he poured into the bag that Aldrin had prepared. The object of the exercise was to return sufficient material to satisfy the requirements of the many teams of scientists. Over about 15 minutes he drew 23 scoops. Since he did not wish to rely upon having time later to take fully documented samples, he had made an effort to collect a variety of small rocks for this sample. When he was finished, he placed the bag into the first rock box. The lid of the box was a precise fit, and included a razor edge in order to preserve the contents in vacuum once the box was taken into an atmosphere. As there was no lubricant on the hinge, sealing it took longer than expected, in part owing to the fact that in lunar gravity he did not have the same leverage as in training.

On reflection, Aldrin asked if Armstrong would rather take the ‘after’ pictures himself, because he knew precisely where he had sampled. ‘‘Do you want to get some particular photographs of the bulk sample area, Neil?’’

‘‘Okay,’’ Armstrong replied. When Armstrong joined Aldrin, by now back in Eagle’s shadow, Aldrin passed Armstrong the camera, who put it on his bracket even though he was to take just a few pictures. On impulse, he photographed the plaque on the forward strut, and since it was in deep shadow he shot it using a range of exposures. He then went to document the area from which he had collected the bulk sample. Aldrin followed him. Having finished his documentation, Armstrong took an impromptu picture of Aldrin, then returned the camera to the MESA.[40]

“Buzz,” McCandless called. “Have you removed the Close-up Camera from the MESA yet?”

“Negative,” replied Aldrin.

The Apollo Lunar Surface Close-up Camera (ALSCC) was to provide extreme close-up stereoscopic pictures of lunar ‘soil’. It was often referred to as the ‘Gold camera’ because it had been designed by Thomas Gold, an astronomer at Cornell University. As it was a late addition to the mission, the astronauts had very little time to train with it. The plan called for Aldrin to unstow it from the MESA, but Armstrong said he would do it. Aldrin therefore resumed his photographic task. Retrieving the Hasselblad, he took a panorama from a position northeast of Eagle, again covering 360 degrees in 11 frames, and then concluded his documentation of the vehicle.

‘‘Houston, how does our time line appear to be going?’’ Aldrin enquired.

‘‘It looks like you’re about a half hour slow,’’ McCandless replied.

Armstrong set off with the ALSCC. To take a picture (in fact, a stereo pair) he had to rest it on the ground with the Sun illuminating a window at its base, then pull a trigger to expose and advance the film.11 It proved awkward to operate and, although designed to be self-standing, tended to fall over whenever he released it, which was frustrating because he then had to fetch one of the long-handled tools in order to raise its handle off the ground.

‘‘Neil and Buzz, this is Houston,’’ McCandless called, ‘‘Your consumables are in good shape at this time.’’

Deploying the instruments

On finishing his inspection of Eagle, Aldrin was ready to unstow the Early Apollo Surface Experiments Package (EASEP) from the scientific equipment (SEQ) bay, an activity which Armstrong was to document. ‘‘Neil, if you’ll take the camera, I’ll get to work on the SEQ bay.’’

‘‘Okay,’’ agreed Armstrong, taking the Hasselblad from Aldrin.

The compartment on the left-rear quadrant of the descent stage, opposite to the MESA, had two doors – a small door on the left that Aldrin simply hinged open, and a larger one that was hinged horizontally along its upper edge and was to be opened using a lanyard and pulley mechanism. Although the raised door failed to engage its lock, it remained in place. The base of the bay was at chest height. The Passive Seismic Experiment (PSE) was stowed in the left-hand compartment and the Lunar Ranging Retro Reflector (LRRR) on the right. For each, Aldrin had the option of drawing out a boom and using a pulley to lower the instrument onto the ground, but he chose instead to disconnect the hooks and extract them manually, finding this task to be rather easier than in training. Having extracted the PSE he moved off about 10 feet and put it on the ground, then returned to get the LRRR. Meanwhile, having taken the requisite pictures of Aldrin at work, Armstrong put down the

In all, 17 stereo pairs were taken using the ALSCC.

ALSCC and moved to a point about 60 feet southeast of Eagle to shoot a 360-degree panorama in 11 frames. Aldrin closed and locked the doors of the SEQ bay to prevent the sunlight overheating the descent stage. He then asked Armstrong, “Have you got us a good area picked out?”

Although the terrain was pocked by craters, there was a reasonably level spot southwest of Eagle. “I think right on that rise out there is probably as good as any.”

Holding the PSE in his left hand and the LRRR in his right, Aldrin hoisted the load – which in all weighed just 27 pounds in lunar gravity – and headed for the indicated area. After snapping several pictures of Aldrin carrying the instruments, Armstrong retrieved the ALSCC and followed.

“It’s going to be a little difficult to find a good level spot here,” Aldrin warned. “The top of that next little ridge there,’’ Armstrong prompted. “Wouldn’t that be a pretty good place?’’

Aldrin halted about 40 feet from Eagle, “Should I put the LRRR right about here?’’

“All right.’’

Aldrin deposited the LRRR, and moved out 15 feet further out and put down the PSE.

Meanwhile, Armstrong had paused to study some of the larger rocks, “These boulders look like basalt,’’ he ventured, “and they have probably 2 per cent white minerals in them – white crystals. But those things I reported as vesicles before, I now think they’re small craters; they look like tiny impact craters where shot has hit the surface.’’ He was correct. These light patches were where micrometeoroids had exposed clean crystals; they would later be named ‘zap pits’. Armstrong then aligned the LRRR on an east-west axis, levelled it with respect to local vertical by means of an air bubble in fluid that had to be centred (observing that in the weak lunar gravity the bubble took a surprisingly long time to settle) and then tilted the mirror platform to face Earth. It is a common misconception that Earth, seen from the lunar surface, is always at the zenith. In fact, for an equatorial site 23 degrees east of the lunar meridian, Earth is correspondingly situated west of the zenith and revolves upon its axis. In its deployed state, the LRRR came to knee height. Its face incorporated an array of 100 fused silica ‘corner-cube’ mirrors that were to reflect a pulse of laser light straight back to its source. Although a laser directed by a large terrestrial telescope would start out as a narrow collimated beam, by the time the beam reached the Moon it would have dispersed to illuminate an area 2 miles in diameter, and as the instrument would be able to return only a tiny fraction of this the received ‘signal’ would be exceedingly weak. The first laser probe was made by the Lick Observatory near San Jose in California several hours later, but since the precise location of the landing site was not yet identified the first detection was not made
until several days later.[41] As the reflected signal was difficult to discern when the site was in sunlight, the LRRR research was best undertaken during the lunar night.

The deployment of the PSE was rather more complicated. After orienting the instrument with respect to the Sun by ensuring that the shadow cast by a gnomon on the top of the package fell on a predetermined line, Aldrin set out to level it. The design had originally used a ‘bubble’ indicator (like the LRRR) but this had been replaced by a small ball in a cup. Aldrin shuffled the instrument on the uneven surface, pushing the loose material aside, but to his surprise the ball persisted in running around the periphery of the receptacle; on Earth it would have settled immediately. ‘‘That BB likes the outside. ft won’t go on the inside,’’ mused Aldrin. Joining him, Armstrong speculated that the cup might be convex rather than concave. ‘‘Houston,’’ Aldrin called, conscious that time was passing, ‘‘f don’t think there’s any hope for using this levelling device to come up with an accurate level.’’

‘‘Press on,’’ McCandless replied. ‘‘ff you think it looks level by eye-ball, go ahead.’’

The instrument had a pair of З-segment rectangular solar panels mounted on its sides to face east and west. One of the panels deployed automatically, and Aldrin deployed the other manually. As the mechanism unfolded the panels, their bottom corners came into contact with the ground and acquired a coating of dust. With its radio antenna deployed, pointing at Earth, the instrument rose to waist height. The initial transmission from the instrument was received by a ЗО-foot-diameter dish at Carnarvon in Australia. The seismometer was sufficiently sensitive to detect the astronauts walking about.[42]

At this point McCandless had some good news, ‘‘Neil, we’ve been looking at your consumables and you’re in good shape. With your concurrence, we’d like to extend the duration of the EVA 15 minutes beyond nominal. We’ll still give Buzz a hack at 10 minutes for heading in. Your current elapsed time is 2 plus 12.’’

‘‘Okay,’’ Armstrong replied. ‘‘That sounds fine.’’

‘‘Buzz,’’ McCandless prompted. ‘‘ff you’re still in the vicinity of the PSE, could you get a photograph of the ball?’’

‘‘f’ll do that, Buzz,’’ said Armstrong, who had the Hasselblad and had stepped beyond the EASEP to document the instruments with Eagle in the background for context. ‘‘Oh, shoot!’’ he exclaimed upon inspecting the PSE. ‘‘Would you believe

the ball is right in the middle now?” Lunar gravity had finally drawn the ball into the centre of the cup, which clearly was concave.

“Wonderful,” Aldrin replied. “Take a picture before it moves!”

AN EARLY START

Although Armstrong and Aldrin ran some LM simulations on Tuesday, 15 July, they spent the remainder of the day relaxing in the Manned Spacecraft Operations Building. In the evening, Lew Hartzell served a dinner of broiled sirloin steak and buttered asparagus for the crew, their backups, the members of their support crew, and Deke Slayton. The three astronauts then chatted with their wives by telephone, and retired at 10 pm. After clearing away the dinner, Hartzell went to the camper he kept in the nearby parking lot, but as it was too hot to sleep there he slept in a spare bedroom in the crew quarters, awakening at 2.30 am to prepare breakfast.

Guenter F. Wendt’s job title was Pad Leader, but John Glenn had dubbed him der pad fuehrer on account of his Teutonic accent being as thick as the lenses of his spectacles. Although from Germany, he was not one of Wernher von Braun’s rocket team; he had flown night-fighters for the Luftwaffe, as an engineer. After the war he emigrated to the USA, got citizenship, and joined McDonnell Aircraft. When the company won the contract to build the Mercury spacecraft, Wendt was given the task of ensuring that the spacecraft was ready for launch – supervising it from the moment that it arrived at the Cape, to the sealing of its hatch. When the company produced the Gemini spacecraft he continued at the Cape. However, the contract for the Apollo spacecraft was given to North American Aviation, which appointed its own pad crew.[2] After the loss of the Apollo 1 crew in a fire on the pad, Wally Schirra insisted that Wendt be rehired. Before Glenn’s flight Wendt had told his wife Annie that while he could not guarantee her husband’s safe return, he could promise that every effort would be made to ensure that the spacecraft was up to the job. This had remained his objective. Having spent most of 15 July methodically checking and rechecking, he went home at 6 pm, dozed until midnight, then rounded up three of the members of his team: NASA quality inspector ‘Lucky’ Chambers, North

American Rockwell mechanical technician John Grissinger, and backup crew member Fred Haise.

Meanwhile, at 11 pm the chill-down process had begun, preparatory to loading cryogenic propellants into the launch vehicle. During the night, a communications issue on the ground delayed pumping liquid hydrogen into the S-II by 25 minutes, but this time was recovered during the scheduled hold at T-3 hours 30 minutes. A high-pressure cell over the ocean off North Carolina combined with a weak trough over the northeastern Gulf of Mexico to draw light southerly surface winds across the Cape, increasing humidity. The sky was heavily overcast and there was light rain, with occasional flashes of lightning off to the north. Nevertheless, the forecast was optimistic.

A full week before launch, people began to gather at the Cape communities of Titusville, Cocoa Beach, Satellite Beach and Melbourne. With four days to go, the Florida authorities were expecting 35,000 cars, 2,000 private aircraft and a flotilla of boats to converge on the Cape. People were drawn from all around the world to witness the launch and be able to tell their grandchildren that they had been present when men set off to make the first lunar landing. Jay Marks, a Houston car dealer and casual acquaintance of the Armstrong family, had arrived a week early, lived in his camper van, and spent the week fishing. He was not alone. As Marks put it, “Apollo 11 gave a lot of nice people a chance to get acquainted.” By 15 July there was not a vacant room to hire. Hotels and motels allowed late-comers to set up their camp beds in lounges and lobbies, but most people spent the night on the beaches and roadsides, where vehicles were parked nose to tail for a 30-mile radius. Since it was to be a dawn launch, the countdown parties ran through the night. At one of the parties Wernher von Braun and his wife Maria met Hermann Oberth who, at 75 years of age, was the only one of the three pioneers of rocketry still alive to witness the great dream become reality. Konstantin Tsiolkovski had died in 1935 and Robert Goddard in 1945.

“It’s a beautiful morning,” said Slayton as he awakened Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins at 4.15 am local time on Wednesday, 16 July. The weather was clearing, as predicted. Once the astronauts had showered and shaved, they went to the exercise room where Dee O’Hara, wearing a crisp white uniform, short dark hair and vivid lipstick, gave them their final check-up. At 5 am they sat down for breakfast with Slayton and Bill Anders, a member of the backup crew, eating the traditional low – residue fayre of orange juice, toast, scrambled eggs and steak. In fact, Armstrong had earlier confided to his wife, “I’m sick of steak!’’ NASA artist Paul Calle sat in the corner of the room, unobtrusively sketching. After packing their possessions to be sent home, they made their way to the suit room.

Hamilton Standard of Windsor Locks, Connecticut, was prime contractor for the space suit, or pressure garment assembly. Earth’s atmosphere has a sea-level pressure of about 15 psi and a gas mix of roughly 80 per cent nitrogen and 20 per cent oxygen. The International Latex Corporation of Dover, Delaware, was subcontracted to make an airtight bladder to hold pure oxygen at a differential pressure of 3.7 psi. Although contoured to the human shape, the extremely flexible material of the bladder would tend to ‘balloon’ when pressurised. It was therefore restrained by a

complex system of bellows, stiff fabric, inflexible tubes and sliding cables which, while maintaining the shape of the suit, impaired the mobility of the occupant. The design of the knee and elbow joints was simple, since these work in the manner of a hinge, but because the shoulder joint can rotate in several axes this was a greater challenge, so much so that at one point NASA briefly considered reassigning the contract. The bladder incorporated a network of ventilation tubes to cool the occupant and preclude the build-up of moisture. Two versions of the suit were required: one for use inside the spacecraft as protection against loss of cabin pressure, and the other to provide thermal and micrometeoroid protection plus other systems required when operating on the lunar surface.

The space suits varied in certain respects:

• Both suits shared a nomex inner layer, a neoprene-coated nylon pressure bladder, and a nylon restraint layer.

• The outer layers of the intravehicular suit comprised nomex and a double layer of teflon-coated beta cloth.

• The integral thermal and micrometeoroid protection for the extravehicular suit had a double-layer liner of neoprene-coated nylon, a number of layers of beta – kapton laminate and a teflon-coated beta cloth surface.

• The intravehicular suit had one pair of umbilical connectors installed on the chest to circulate oxygen from the cabin system.

• The extravehicular suit had two pairs of such connectors, one pair as on the intravehicular suit, and the other pair for use with the portable life-support system.

• The extravehicular suit also had a coolant water loop.

• Both suits had a connector for electrical power and communications.

The boots were part of the bladder, but the helmet and gloves used aluminium locking rings to maintain the integrity of the bladder. The helmet was a transparent polycarbonate ‘bubble’, with adequate air flow to prevent a build-up of carbon dioxide. The gloves were required to support a natural range of bending and rotating motions of the wrist, with a finger-covering material that was sufficiently thin and flexible to allow the manipulation of switches. Each astronaut had three individually tailored suits – a training suit for use in simulators and the low-gravity KC-135 aircraft, during which it was likely to suffer wear and tear, and two flight suits (one prime, the other backup) which, after integrity tests, were reserved for countdown demonstrations and the actual mission. Each suit had a US flag on the left shoulder, a NASA ‘meatball’ on the right breast and the mission patch on the left breast.[3] As his astronaut specialism, Collins had liaised between the crew systems division and the industrial teams to ensure that the suits were both fit for function and safe to use.

Joseph W. Schmitt led a four-man team. He had supervised the suiting up of every American astronaut since Al Shepard in 1961. After the countdown demonstration test on 3 July, the three primary suits had been stripped, inspected for wear and tear, cleaned and reassembled – a four-day task. On arriving at 3.30 am, Schmitt had supervised the unbagging and inspection of the suits, and the astronauts arrived for simultaneous suiting at 5.30 am. This laborious process started with each man rubbing his posterior with salve prior to donning a diaper that would contain both fecal matter and associated odours. This was a precaution against a loss of pressure in the cabin when retrieving the LM from the final stage of the launch vehicle after translunar injection, in which event the astronauts might require to spend several days in their suits. Next was a prophylactic-style urine collector, with a collection bag worn around the waist. A connector on the thigh of the suit enabled the bag to be emptied while the astronaut was suited. Biosensors were attached to the chest, and linked to a signal-conditioning electronics pack that supplied telemetry through the electrical umbilical. After donning cotton long-johns, which NASA referred to as a constant-wear garment, each man was assisted into his one-piece pressure suit. Armstrong and Aldrin were to wear the 55-pound extravehicular suit, and Collins the lightweight 35-pound model for internal use. In the suiting-up procedure, the astronaut sat on a reclining couch, inserted his legs into the suit’s open rear, inserted his arms, bent forward and eased his head through the rigid metal neck ring. He then had to stand and shuffle until the suit felt comfortable, whereupon a technician would seal the bladder and zipper. The next item was the brown-and-white soft communications carrier, dubbed a ‘Snoopy hat’, with its integrated earphones and microphones. Once the gloves were fastened to the wrist rings and the helmet was in place, the oxygen umbilicals were attached to the sockets on one or other side of the chest and the suit was pumped to above-ambient pressure in order to verify the integrity of the bladder, helmet and gloves. There was a pressure gauge on the right arm of the suit. The Omega watches on the suit wrists were set to Houston time, one hour behind the Cape. They would breathe pure oxygen at sea-level pressure to purge nitrogen from their blood stream, and thereby preclude ‘the bends’ when the pressure was reduced during the ascent to orbit. With the suit sealed, communication was by umbilical intercom.

At 6.20 am, after the astronauts had donned yellow rubber galoshes for the trip to the pad, suit technician Ron C. Woods led the procession from the suit room, with Schmitt bringing up the rear. At Guenter Wendt’s request, Schmitt had put a sign on the corridor wall saying ‘The Key To The Moon Is Located’, the meaning of which was, as yet, obscure. As the astronauts made their way down to ground level, with each man carrying his ventilator like a suitcase, the corridors were lined with old friends and coworkers, but their good wishes were almost inaudible over the hiss of the oxygen circulation. Collins, by arrangement, was handed a brown paper shopping bag containing a surprise for Wendt. On emerging from the Manned Spacecraft Operations Building they waved at the television crews supervised by Charles Buckley, the head of security. Parked by the door were the two white transfer vans – one prime and the other a backup. Slayton checked the astronauts into the van, which had a large mission patch adorning its rear access door, wished

them good luck, and then set off for Firing Room 1 of the Launch Control Center beside the Vehicle Assembly Building, where the 463 members of Rocco A. Petrone’s launch team monitored consoles showing the status of the space vehicle, comprising the launch vehicle and the spacecraft. Schmitt and Woods joined the crew, and the two vans departed in a convoy, driving north to the Vehicle Assembly Building then swinging east over the Banana River causeway to Pad A of Launch Complex 39, a total distance of just over 8 miles. On the way, Armstrong had Schmitt extract a small card from his pocket and push it beneath his watchband. Just before he unplugged from the communications circuit, Schmitt wished the three astronauts “a real good flight’’, to which Aldrin replied, “You take yourself on a good vacation when you get us all off.’’ As they arrived at the pad at 6.37, sunrise was imminent. The elevator of Mobile Launch Platform 1 was waiting. Once on the upper deck, as they crossed to the high-speed elevator of the Launch Umbilical Tower, Collins observed that on previous visits the site had been a hive of activity, but now it was utterly deserted.

On exiting the elevator at the 320-foot level, the astronauts were met by Wendt, wearing a white smock and cap. As they were not yet on intercom, he greeted each man with a pat on the shoulder. Because the White Room that provided access to the command module was so cramped, Aldrin remained on the tower while Wendt led Armstrong, Collins, Schmitt and Woods across Swing Arm 9. Wendt then handed to Armstrong the promised ‘Key To The Moon’. Its shaft was a crescent Moon about 4 feet long made of styrofoam and covered by aluminium foil, with an oval loop on one end and a set of teeth on the other. Armstrong withdrew the card from his watchband and presented it to Wendt.[4] The card read: ‘Space Taxi. Good Between Any Two Planets.’ At 6.53 am Armstrong shed the galoshes that had protected the boots of his suit, stood in front of the hatch, which was set at floor level, grasped with both hands a bar that was located inside the cabin, inserted both of his feet, and slipped onto the centre couch. Haise, who had spent 90 minutes running through a 400-item checklist, setting switches and making checks, was already in the lower equipment bay to assist him to shuffle onto the left couch. For launch, the couch was adjusted to elevate the lower legs, and once in space it would be set flat. Schmitt entered to switch Armstrong’s oxygen from the portable ventilator to the cabin’s system and to plug in the communications umbilical. Armstrong checked in with Clarence ‘Skip’ Chauvin, the Spacecraft Test Conductor in the Firing Room. Jim Lovell, Armstrong’s backup, came on the line. The previous evening Lovell had promised that if Armstrong did not feel up to the flight, he was ready to take his place; Lovell repeated his offer, but Armstrong assured Lovell that he was feeling just fine.

Meanwhile, because Wendt claimed to have caught an implausibly large trout, Collins had purchased the smallest trout available – just 7 inches in length – frozen it, and nailed it onto a wooden plaque with the inscriptions ‘Guenter Wendt’ and ‘Trophy Trout’. It was in the brown paper bag. During the walk out to the van, Collins had dreaded dropping the bag in view of the television cameras, causing the world to wonder why a man bound for the Moon was carrying a dead fish. He presented it to Wendt, then entered the spacecraft.[5] As Aldrin had been CMP when backing up Apollo 8, and was familiar with the centre crewman’s tasks during launch, it had been decided that he should retain this position, which placed Collins on the right.

Alongside the elevator, Aldrin enjoyed 15 minutes of solitude. He admired the view of sunrise and surf to the east, the cars and boats in the distance on the roads and rivers, and the monolith of the Vehicle Assembly Building to the west. Far to the south was ‘Missile Row’, with Pad 5 from which Al Shepard rode a Redstone on a suborbital flight in 1961; Pad 14 from which John Glenn rode an Atlas into orbit in 1962; Pad 19 from which Aldrin and his colleagues rode Titan II missiles on their Gemini missions in 1966; and Pad 34, where the Apollo 1 crew had been consumed by fire in 1967. After Schmitt escorted Aldrin across the access arm, Aldrin presented his fellow Presbyterian with a condensed version of the Bible entitled Good News For Modern Man, inscribed inside: ‘On permanent loan to G. Wendt’.

At 7.22 am, having confirmed that there were no extraneous items in the cabin, Haise departed. As the couches were so closely spaced that the astronauts’ elbows touched, he wriggled under the centre couch to reach the hatch. He could hear the crew on the intercom but could not speak to them to wish them luck, so once he was outside he leaned in and shook each man’s hand. When Chauvin gave the go-ahead to close the hatch, Wendt tapped Aldrin’s helmet and stepped aside; Grissinger then swung the big hatch closed and locked it. Once the hermetic integrity of the seal had been verified, Grissinger added that section of the boost-protective cover. At 7.52 am Wendt’s team descended to ground level and drove to a nearby site in case their services should be required. Meanwhile, Swing Arm 9 with the White Room was rotated 5 feet from the spacecraft, ready to be either restored in an emergency, or swung completely clear just prior to launch.

In the spacecraft, the astronauts verified the switch settings to ensure that none had been disturbed, either by themselves ingressing or by Schmitt or Haise moving around in the capsule. Meanwhile, the cabin was purged. Following the loss of the Apollo 1 crew in a capsule fire, the practice of pressurising the cabin with oxygen for launch had been discontinued. The suited crew remained on pure oxygen, but the atmosphere in the cabin was replaced by 40 per cent nitrogen and 60 per cent oxygen. On being informed that elements of the count were 15 minutes ahead of time, Armstrong pointed out that he wanted them to wait for the launch window to open before starting the engines.

On Tuesday, 15 July, Reverend Ralph Abernathy, successor to the late Martin

Luther King as head of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, had led a mule-drawn wagon and a small group of protestors to the Kennedy Space Center to decry “this foolish waste of money that could be used to feed the poor”. NASA Administrator Thomas O. Paine had met them. After observing that to cancel the mission would yield no benefit to the poor, Paine had invited a delegation to watch the launch from the official guest area.

Overnight, seeing no one heading away from the Cape, drivers had switched lanes to get closer, generating the worst congestion in Florida’s history. Even the residents of Cocoa Beach, to whom launches were routine, were caught up in the excitement. With the notable exception of alarm clocks, which had been sold out by Tuesday afternoon, local shopkeepers were able to supply the needs of the visitors. As dawn approached on 16 July, it was estimated that 1,000,000 people were on the roads, rivers and beaches, where ‘Good Luck Apollo 11’ had been etched in large letters in the sand. Worldwide, 1,000 times that number were watching the ‘live’ television coverage.

By the time that the countdown entered its final hour, the rain had stopped, the cloud cover was light cumulus topped by patches of cirrostratus, there was a 6-knot southerly breeze, the temperature was already 85°F, and the humidity was 73 per cent: it was going to be a scorcher of a day.

After seeing the astronauts off, Dee O’Hara went to watch the launch with her friend Lola Morrow, who had been hired by NASA in 1962 as a travel clerk and two years later had taken on the daunting challenge of organising the astronauts’ office at the Cape.

Among the thousands of invitees in the VIP stand were Vice President Spiro T. Agnew, four cabinet ministers, 33 senators, 200 congressmen, 19 state governors, 40 city mayors, hundreds of ambassadors,[6] foreign ministers, ministers of science, military attaches, senior NASA employees, and representatives of the companies that built the launch vehicle and spacecraft. Also present were Lyndon B. Johnson and his wife Ladybird, and James E. Webb, NASA’s former administrator. The nearby press enclosure contained 3,500 journalists, 812 of whom were drawn from 54 foreign countries, including 12 from Eastern Europe – but none from either the Soviet Union or the People’s Republic of China. Each of the American television networks had its own team of commentators and consultants. Walter Cronkite, the CBS anchorman popularly regarded as ‘the most-trusted man on television’, was acutely aware that Apollo 11 was different from any previous mission. As he later recalled, ‘‘We knew darned good and well that this was real history in the making.’’ If it succeeded, ‘‘this was the date that was going to be in all the history books’’ and ‘‘everything else that has happened in our time is going to be an asterisk’’. It became evident that there were three milestones in the space program in terms of press

presence at a launch, with the numbers increasing each time: John Glenn’s orbital flight, Apollo 8’s impromptu flight to orbit the Moon, and now, with luck, the accomplishment of John F. Kennedy’s great challenge.

Meanwhile, in Wapakoneta, almost all of the 7,000 population were watching television. Armstrong had advised his parents not to attend the launch, in order to spare them press attention. Although NASA had dispatched Public Affairs Officer Thomas Andrews to fend them off, reporters were camped outside the house and there was an 80-foot-tall transmission tower in the driveway! On the other hand, on hearing that the house had only a black-and-white television, the networks had delivered a large colour set to enable the family to fully appreciate the coverage of the event.

Jan Armstrong had not attended the Gemini 8 launch because her husband had asked her not to, but for Apollo 11 she had insisted. To enable her to escape press attention, North American Rockwell arranged a corporate jet and moored a motor cruiser on the Banana River, several miles south of the pad. On Tuesday evening, Jan, sons Ricky and Mark, friends Pat Spann and Jeanette Chase, Dave Scott, his wife Lurton, and Dora Jane Hamblin representing Life magazine, flew to Patrick Air Force Base and were then driven to a friend’s house on South Atlantic Avenue. At midnight, Jan drove to the Kennedy Space Center to look at the floodlit space vehicle from the astronauts’ viewing area, 3 miles from the pad, then drove back to her hideaway. At 4 am the group boarded the boat. Listening to the commentary on a transistor radio, Jan hoped the launch would be on time because she was exhausted and needed some sleep.

Joan Aldrin set her alarm for 6 am Houston time, but when it sounded she cancelled it and slept for another 50 minutes. “f wish Buzz was a carpenter, a truck driver, a scientist – anything but what he is,’’ she had confided on discovering that he was to make the first lunar landing. Her plan was to keep busy with housework to take her mind off the mission. Her first intended task had been to raise the US flag in the garden, but on seeing the reporters she left this to someone else. Among her guests was Jeannie Bassett, who once occupied the house beyond the backyard fence. After Charles Bassett’s death in 1966, Jeannie had sold the property and taken the children to California, but had returned in order to keep Joan company during what promised to be a nerve-wracking mission. Pat Collins awoke about the same time. ft had been a rough night in Nassau Bay, with a thunderstorm felling a tree on her lawn, and she arranged for its removal. When the television reported that the count was going exceptionally smoothly, she felt sure the launch would be on time.

Clifford Charlesworth’s flight controller team was to handle the launch phase. When Chris Kraft, the Director of Flight Operations seated on Management Row behind the flight director’s console, put a series of needless queries, Charlesworth turned around, smiled, and warned, “Chris, you’re making me nervous!’’

As the scheduled end of the sleep period approached, Cliff Charlesworth, now in charge, decided that since the crew were sleeping soundly and there was nothing on the flight plan requiring urgent attention they should be left in peace. An hour later, telemetry indicated that the astronauts were stirring. Armstrong and Aldrin had slept for 8 hours, and Collins for 9 hours – consistent with the early retirement and late awakening.

‘‘Apollo 11, this is Houston,’’ McCandless called.

‘‘Good morning, Houston,’’ Aldrin replied promptly. ‘‘How do all our systems look?’’

“They’re looking great, and as far as we can tell everything is good from down here.’’

‘‘It looks like the attitude held up really well during PTC last night,’’ observed Aldrin. The spin axis had remained within 10 degrees of the ideal perpendicular to the ecliptic, providing excellent thermal control.

‘‘How’s the Green Team this morning?’’ Collins enquired.

‘‘It was a very quiet night. The Black Team is complaining that they didn’t get a chance to make any transmissions. Ron Evans is getting to be known as the silent CapCom.’’

‘‘That’s the best kind, Bruce,’’ Collins teased.

‘‘Okay,’’ chuckled McCandless. The banter over, he launched straight into the flight plan updates, the most important of which was the cancellation of midcourse correction 3 at 54 hours. ‘‘At 53 hours we have a P52. We’re requesting that you do this while in PTC, and we plan to continue PTC throughout the day.’’ However, one of the first chores of the day – dumping the unwanted water produced by the fuel cells – imparted an impulse that perturbed the roll. ‘‘We’re showing you about 20 degrees out in pitch right now and about 6 degrees in yaw,’’ McCandless called 30 minutes later. ‘‘That’s a little more than twice as much as the deviation you had prior to the waste-water dump. We’ll watch it down here, and let you know if we believe any corrective action is required.’’

“Maybe next time we ought to split that in half,’’ Aldrin suggested. “Put half of it on one side and half on the other, or something like that.’’

“We could do that,’’ McCandless agreed. “We’re actually interested in seeing what the effect on PTC is of this waste-water dump. We don’t recall ever having performed a waste-water dump during PTC on previous missions.’’ In other words, a chore had transformed into an engineering experiment, with the data being filed for future reference. “We’ve been working under the assumption that it would take an hour for a water dump to dissipate to the point where you could reasonably take star sightings for platform alignment, navigation, or something of this sort. If you have a spare minute or two, could you comment on observation conditions, now?’’

“My guess,’’ Collins replied after looking, “would be the telescope’s probably pretty useless, but you can differentiate in the sextant between water droplets and stars by the difference in their motions.’’ But he had not been using the telescope very often. “With the LM attached, the telescope is just about useless because the Sun bounces off its structure. Those star charts that the mission planning and analysis division people provided us, I think, would be most useful if for some reason we had to mark through the telescope – we could use those as a guide for what we’re looking at and say, ‘Well, that bright blob over there must be such and such a star because that’s the position we’re in’. But so far we haven’t been able to pick out any decent star patterns [using the telescope].’’

After two hours of sparse interaction between Apollo 11 and Mission Control, McCandless announced, ‘‘I’ve got the morning news here if you’re interested.’’

‘‘Yes, we sure are,’’ Collins replied.

‘‘Interest in Apollo 11 continues at a high level,’’ McCandless assured, ‘‘but a competing interest in the Houston area is the easing of watering rules. Mayor Louie Welch has promised to lift lawn-watering restrictions if the rains continue. Today is partially cloudy, with a 30-per-cent chance of thunderstorms in the afternoon. In Washington, the Senate Finance Committee has approved extension of the income tax surtax, but a Senate vote on the bill currently seems remote. In Austin, State Representative Ray Lemmon of Houston has been nominated as the National Director of the American Society for Oceanography. Lemmon has proposed a study of the possibility of establishing an institute of oceanography in Texas. This would be the first such institute on the western Gulf of Mexico. In Minneapolis, Minnesota, the weather bureau, after recapping today’s weather showing a high of 88 and a low of 72, has noted ‘snowfall: none’. From St Petersburg, Florida, comes a radio report from the Norwegian explorer, Thor Heyerdahl, which points out that the crew of his papyrus boat, the Ra, will sail into Bridgetown, Barbados, despite damage from heavy seas. The crew, however, are sleeping on their escort vessel. Norman Baker, navigator of the expedition, said the crew was aboard the Ra today repairing damage from storms this week that split the footing of the mast. Part of the broken mast was jettisoned overboard. The vessel is now 725 miles east of the Barbados. ‘It is possible but uncomfortable to sleep aboard the Ra,’ Baker said. ‘But the purpose of our voyage is not a test of strength or human endurance.’ That’s the reason the crew was spending nights on the escort vessel Shenandoah, which rendezvoused with the Ra on Tuesday.’’ In his sports roundup, McCandless related the story of an Irishman, John Coyle, who won the world’s porridge-eating championship by consuming 23 bowls of instant oatmeal in a 10-minute time period from a field of 35 other competitors.

“I’d like to enter Aldrin in the oatmeal eating contest next time,’’ Collins said.

“Is he pretty good at that?’’ McCandless asked.

“He’s doing his share up here,’’ Collins confirmed.

“Let’s see. You all just finished a meal not long ago, too, didn’t you?’’

“I’m still eating,’’ Aldrin pointed out.

“He’s on his 19th bowl!’’ Collins joked.

“Are you having any difficulties with gas in the food bags, like the Apollo 10 crew reported?’’

“That’s intermittently affirmative, Bruce,’’ Collins replied. “We have these two hydrogen gas filters that work fine as long as you don’t actually hook them up to a food bag. But the entry way into the food bag gives enough back pressure to cause the filters to lose efficiency. A couple of times, I have been tempted to go through that drying out procedure, but we found that simply by leaving the filters alone for several hours their efficiency seems to be restored – it ranges anywhere from darn near perfect to terrible, just depending on the individual characteristics of the food bags. Some bags are so crimped near the entry that there is no way to work them loose to prevent back pressure.’’ The gas separator comprised two stainless steel cylinders about 5 inches long and a little over 1 inch in diameter, attached to the water dispenser. These contained two filters, one to attract water and the other to repel it, in the process removing the gas. The design had been modified after the Apollo 10 crew had reported problems, but it evidently required additional work. The ingested hydrogen gave rise to what Collins would later describe as “gross flatulence in the lower bowel, resulting in a not-so-subtle and pervasive aroma’’ reminiscent of “a mixture of wet dog and marsh gas’’. Aldrin would later jest that by the time they were on their way home they were suffering so badly that if the RCS thrusters were to have failed they would have been able to provide manual attitude control!

The first version of the flight plan had envisaged the tunnel remaining sealed until in lunar orbit. Aldrin, however, had successfully argued for an inspection of the LM during the translunar coast, since if the rigours of launch had so damaged that vehicle as to render it unusable it would be best to discover this sooner rather than later. However, as a result of the mass limit imposed on the design of the LM, it could accommodate only six chemical storage batteries, which in turn limited the total electrical power supply, with the result that at this point in the flight it would not be feasible to power it up to transmit telemetry to enable Houston to check its systems. Nevertheless, an early entry would enable Aldrin to make a start on chores such as removing and stowing protective covers.

Six hours into the day, McCandless asked whether they were still intending to take the camera into the LM to televise this inspection.

“If the cord lengths work out all right,’’ Armstrong confirmed.

In view of the growing instability of the roll axis, and the fact that PTC would have to be halted for the telecast, Charlesworth decided that they should go ahead and adopt an attitude in which the high-gain antenna could readily be maintained facing Earth.

“When you work up an attitude for the high-gain, is there any way we could get partial Sun in one of the two LM front windows?” Aldrin asked.

“We’ll have a look at it,” McCandless promised. Several minutes later he relayed, “We recommend stopping PTC at 054:45:00; this should put you at just about the right roll angle to give you Earth in window 1 of the command module, aim the high – gain antenna for television, and put the Sun on the forward hatch of the LM. If you take down the window shades, you should get some sunlight in.’’

While Collins made the manoeuvre, the Green Team handed over to the White Team, and Charlie Duke took over as CapCom.

The telecast was not expected to start until 056:20, or 4.52 pm in Houston, but at 055:10 Apollo 11 began to transmit. “They’re getting television at Goldstone,’’ Duke announced. “We’re not quite configured for it here, but we should be up in a couple of minutes.’’

“This is just for free,’’ Collins explained. “This isn’t what we had in mind.’’

They had decided to enable Houston to watch the tunnel being opened. Aldrin was operating the camera. Collins had just removed the apex hatch and was in the process of stowing it in a bag beneath the left-hand couch. After Armstrong made a preliminary inspection of the probe assembly using a torch, Collins entered the tunnel to release the mechanism by repeatedly cycling its ratchet handle. If it had failed to release, there was a toolkit with which to dismantle it. As the astronauts were not providing running commentary, Duke made occasional observations, but because his remarks ran 12 seconds ‘late’ owing to the time it took to convert the picture this sometimes gave rise to confusion. ‘‘It’s a pretty good show here,’’ he began. ‘‘It looks like you’ve almost got the probe out.’’

‘‘Can you see that?’’ Armstrong asked. ‘‘There isn’t much light up in there, just the tunnel lights.’’

‘‘Roger, Neil. It’s really good.’’

‘‘It’s coming down,’’ Armstrong said, as Collins pulled the bulky mechanism of interconnected rods from the tunnel.

‘‘It looks like it’s a little bit easier than doing that in the chamber,’’ noted Duke. The mechanism was heavy on Earth, and as part of their training they had removed the probe in an altitude chamber.

‘‘You have to take it easy,’’ Collins observed. The probe was weightless, but it still had inertia.

‘‘Mike must have done a smooth job in that docking,’’ Armstrong announced, ‘‘because there isn’t a dent or a mark on the probe.’’ They used elasticated cords to stow the mechanism by the wall at the foot of the couch. The conical drogue was stowed alongside the probe. With the picture lagging so far behind the audio, Duke experienced a sense of deja vu in which he listened to the astronauts describing an action in real-time, and then waited to watch them do it.

Collins re-entered the tunnel and checked an indicator that showed the angular offset between the two docking collars; the fact that this was only two degrees was a tribute to his skill in performing the docking.

“It looks like we’ll be ready to go into the LM early, if that’s okay with y’all down there,” Armstrong said. They were about 40 minutes ahead of the time line.

“Go ahead any time you wish,’’ Duke replied.

Aldrin passed the camera to Armstrong, entered the tunnel, turned the handle on the hatch and hinged it inwards into the LM, activating the cabin lights. For this inspection, the LM would draw power from the CSM. Armstrong returned the camera to Aldrin, who pointed it into the other craft to display items of equipment in stowage on the floor of the cabin ‘above’ him.

“Buzz, are you already in?’’ Duke asked.

‘‘I’m halfway in.’’ Having never seen the LM from this perspective in training, Aldrin was momentarily disoriented. ‘‘I’d better turn around, I guess.’’ By making a half somersault to restore his frame of reference, he immediately felt at home in the cramped cabin. He would later report this to have been the strangest sensation of the mission. Although in the LM, he was on a communications umbilical running back through the tunnel into the command module. Because the mass limit on the LM precluded the use of panelling, the wire bundles and plumbing were largely exposed. The hull interior had been sprayed with a dull-grey fire-resistant coating. The front and sides carried a mass of switches, circuit breakers and instruments. The walls were very thin in places, but were not required to carry structural loads – they were only a pressure shell against the vacuum of space. Although the shades were over the main windows, sunlight diffused through, providing a low level of illumination. Aldrin pointed the camera back down the tunnel to show Armstrong at the far end, with Collins behind him, watching.

‘‘Hey, that’s a great shot,’’ Duke said. ‘‘I guess that’s Neil and Mike – it better be, anyway!’’

Armstrong entered the tunnel to hold the camera, to enable Aldrin to make a start on his inspection. ‘‘I’ll open up the windows to see what the lighting’s going to be like,’’ Aldrin announced. He pulled the shades, first from the right and then the left window, then donned his sunglasses.

‘‘The lighting is superb!’’ Duke exclaimed.

Armstrong made his first contribution. ‘‘Yes, the lighting in the LM is very nice now, just like completely daylight; and everything is visible.’’

‘‘The vehicle is surprisingly free of any debris floating around,’’ said Aldrin. ‘‘It’s very clean.’’ In fact, during his inspection he would discover only one ‘lost’ washer floating adrift. After inspecting the miscellaneous stowed equipment, he tested the LM’s telescope, mounted near the roof in the centre of the front panel, noting that when he looked ‘up’ he could see the shiny surface of the command module. Meanwhile, Armstrong rotated the camera to point down the tunnel to show Collins poking through an oxygen umbilical with which to ventilate the LM’s cabin. Then Aldrin took the camera and pointed it through the narrow overhead window to show one of the forward-looking windows of the command module. ‘‘Charlie, can you see Mike staring out the window?’’ The view was indistinct because there were so many

layers of glass, but when Collins put his head up close to the window his face became apparent.

“We see him staring back at us,” Duke confirmed.

At the scheduled start time for the telecast, the networks picked up the feed. “Your show is going out to the US now,” Duke announced. “We’re about to get the satellite up and then it will go ‘live’ to Japan, western Europe, and much of South America.’’ Aldrin was installing the bracket to the top-right corner of his window on which he was to mount a Maurer camera to document Armstrong’s descent of the ladder at the start of the moonwalk. Next, he installed another bracket midway along a horizontal bar across the window for later photography.

While Aldrin worked, Armstrong zoomed in to show the instrument panel to the estimated audience of 200 million people. ‘‘That’s real good camera work,’’ Duke complimented.

‘‘It’s got to be the most unusual position a cameraman’s ever had, hanging by his toes from a tunnel and taking the picture upside-down,’’ said Aldrin, referring to Armstrong. Aldrin unstowed an assembly designed to fit over a ‘bubble’ helmet for extravehicular activity on the lunar surface, and demonstrated how its twin visors operated.

Armstrong then aimed the camera back down the tunnel. ‘‘Ah, that’s a good view of Mister Collins down there,’’ Duke said. ‘‘We finally see him again!’’

‘‘Hello there, Earthlings,’’ said Collins.

‘‘It’s like old home week, Charlie, to get back in the LM again,’’ Aldrin said to Duke.

‘‘I can imagine,’’ Duke agreed. ‘‘Is Collins going to go in and look around?’’

‘‘We’re willing to let him,’’ Armstrong replied, ‘‘but he hasn’t come up with the price of the ticket yet.’’

‘‘I’d advise him to keep his hands off the switches,’’ Duke warned Armstrong.

‘‘If I can get him to keep his hands off my DSKY,’’ Collins retorted, ‘‘it would be a fair swap.’’

On returning to the command module, Armstrong aimed the camera at Earth, now 177,000 nautical miles away. ‘‘We’re going to turn our television off now for a short bit while we do some other work. Apollo 11 signing off.’’

‘‘That was one of the greatest shows we’ve ever seen,’’ Duke complimented. It had lasted about 1 hour 36 minutes, during which time the spacecraft had travelled over 2,000 nautical miles.

Meanwhile, at home

Joan Aldrin had hosted an afternoon pool party. Pat Collins attended with her sister Ellie Golden. Jan Armstrong brought her sister Carolyn Trude. After the wives had appeared together for the press on the front lawn, they retreated to the swimming pool, joining Jeannie Bassett. The Collins children had been sent to a day camp, but the Armstrong and Aldrin children were present and played in the pool with Kurt Henize, son of Karl and Caroline Henize. Valerie Anders made a brief visit. Audrey Moon prepared snacks and Bob Moon served as a drinks waiter. At 4.30 pm Jan Armstrong and her sister set off for home. When Jan switched on the car radio she was surprised to hear that the telecast was already in progress. On reaching home, they found the house to be even busier, because their mother, Mrs C. G. Shearon of Pasadena, California, and their sister Nan Theissen and her husband Scotty had arrived. Jan watched what remained of the telecast. When Joan switched on her television she was delighted to see Buzz hogging the show. She noted, wryly, that he had gained more air time in this one transmission than she, a trained actress, had managed in her entire career! Pat Collins, who left the Aldrins’ at the same time as Jan Armstrong but did not promptly switch on her television, missed most of the telecast. All three wives were frustrated that their NASA minders had not alerted them to the change in schedule – if they had been told that the crew had started transmitting over an hour earlier than planned, they could have watched from the viewing gallery of the Mission Operations Control Room. Pat Collins successfully eluded the reporters to eat in a favourite restaurant named Rendezvous, but with so many guests Jan Armstrong phoned for a bulk pizza delivery.

On the plan, 30 minutes had been allocated to documented sampling, which was to be a two-man activity. The first task envisaged Aldrin hammering a core tube into the surface. Armstrong was to take pictures prior to sampling, with the tube in the ground, and following its extraction. They were then to collect a number of rocks, each of which was to be photographed in situ, carefully lifted, and inserted into an individual sample bag. Although the lunar material was to be put inside a vacuum – sealed rock box, some material was to be put into a can which, when sealed, would retain any readily volatised constituents that would otherwise be difficult to preserve when the rock box was opened in the laboratory. Finally, if time permitted, they were to collect a second core sample. But when McCandless announced that only 10 minutes was available for this sampling it was decided to forgo the documentation.

While Aldrin prepared a core tube at the MESA, Armstrong disappeared out of sight of the television. Although he had been surprised to discover that, on looking east, he could not see the boulders that surrounded the large crater where Eagle’s computer would have tried to land, Armstrong was able to see the smaller crater over which he had passed just prior to landing. As this was only 200 feet away he decided to inspect it. Saying nothing of his intention, he set off, carrying the ALSCC.14 On reaching the southwestern rim of the crater he shot a sequence of 8 frames across the pit ranging from up-Sun, around the northern horizon and on down-Sun to Eagle. The crater had a raised rim and an interior strewn with rocks. He yearned to enter it to collect a rock as a treat for the scientists, but the pit was 70-80 feet in diameter and 15-20 feet deep and, in any case, he had to rush back. In all, his excursion had lasted just over 3 minutes. He had no difficulty sustaining a ‘loping’ gait, which the timing indicated to have been at 2 miles per hour.

‘‘Buzz,’’ McCandless called while Aldrin was still at the MESA attaching the extension handle to the core tube, ‘‘You’ve got about 10 minutes left now prior to commencing your EVA termination activities.”

“f understand,’’ replied Aldrin. A minute later he took the core tube and went to sample some already documented ground near the SWC. This ‘soil mechanics’ study was to determine soil density, strength and compressibility as functions of depth. ft would also reveal layering, either in terms of the chemical composition of the loose material or its physical characteristics, such as grain size. The plan called for the hollow tube to be driven to a depth of 18 inches. The staffs of the flag and the SWC had indicated that the surface material was consolidated at a depth of several inches, but Aldrin hoped that by hammering on the core tube he would be able to drive it in.

Armstrong would later express surprise that he had lugged Gold’s camera around with him for so long.

The extension handle came up to waist height. At first Aldrin raised the hammer only to chest level, but then he increased this to head level in order to generate the additional force. A complication was that the tube gained little support from the material it penetrated, and he had to maintain a grip on the tool with one hand throughout. As he became more determined, he observed that the hammer was denting the top of the handle. “I hope you’re watching how hard I have to hit this into the ground to the tune of about 5 inches, Houston,’’ he said pointedly. In fact, his hammering drove the tube in only 2 inches beyond the depth to which he had inserted it by hand. Giving up, he withdrew the tube from the ground. The finely grained material coated the section that had penetrated the ground. “It almost looks wet,’’ he noted. To his relief, the material did not dribble out of the open end. On his return, Armstrong snapped pictures of Aldrin at work, then accompanied him to the MESA to help him to cap the tube. A post-mission investigation concluded that the design of the aperture of the tube had inhibited penetration. In the expectation that the surface material would be loose to considerable depth, the core tube had been designed with an internal bevel to compact the material entering the tube as it was hammered into the ground, but because the lunar material at a few inches depth was close to its maximum density, it jammed in the aperture. This discovery made even more ludicrous the idea that the lunar surface was a dust trap that would swallow a spacecraft!

“Neil and Buzz,’’ McCandless called. “We’d like y’all to get two core tubes and the Solar Wind.’’ At Aldrin’s suggestion, Armstrong completed capping the first core tube, and Aldrin took the second sample 15 feet beyond where he had taken the first. “Buzz,’’ McCandless called as Aldrin hammered the second tube, “in approximately 3 minutes you’ll have to commence your EVA termination activities.’’ On realising that he was gaining no greater penetration than before, Aldrin withdrew the tube and returned to the MESA to cap it.

“Neil, after you have got the core tubes and the Solar Wind, anything else that you can throw into the box would be acceptable,’’ McCandless called.

“If you want to pick up some stuff,’’ Aldrin said to Armstrong, “I’ll get the Solar Wind.’’ Aldrin detached the collector sheet from its staff, rolled it up, and stuffed it into a bag. He discarded the staff. He deposited the SWC on the MESA next to the core tubes, ready for Armstrong to stow in the second rock box.

Meanwhile, Armstrong had used a pair of long-handled tongs to collect rocks for the ‘suite’ – a field geologist’s term for a collection of rocks representative of a site, including both the typical and the exotic. This was essentially as planned, but without documentation and with the rocks going into a single large bag rather than into individual bags.

‘‘Buzz,’’ McCandless called. ‘‘It’s time for you to start your EVA close-out.’’

‘‘That’s in progress,’’ Aldrin replied.

As the moonwalkers began to wrap up in silence, Columbia once again flew ‘over the hill’ and out of communication.

‘‘We’d like to remind you of the Close-up Camera magazine before you start up the ladder, Buzz,’’ McCandless called.

‘‘Have you got that over with you, Neil?’’ Aldrin asked.

Armstrong had dispensed with the ALSCC in order to collect samples. “No, the Close-up Camera’s underneath the MESA.” Having made an early report of what appeared to be vesicular rock and then retracted this claim, Armstrong had located some genuine examples, “I’m picking up several pieces of really vesicular rock out here, now.’’

“You didn’t get any environmental samples, did you?’’ Aldrin asked, referring to the material they were to have sealed into cans.

“Not yet,’’ replied Armstrong.

“Well, I don’t think we’ll have time.’’

“Neil and Buzz,’’ McCandless called. “Let’s press on with getting the Close-up Camera magazine and closing out the sample return containers.’’

Aldrin went to the MESA and, supporting himself with one hand, bent down to retrieve the ALSCC. After removing the film, he asked Armstrong to assist in inserting the magazine into his thigh pocket. “Anything more before I head on up, Bruce?’’

“Negative. Head on up the ladder, Buzz.’’

“Remember the film off of that,’’ Aldrin reminded Armstrong, referring to the Hasselblad.

“I will,’’ Armstrong promised.

“I’ll head on in, and get the LEC ready for the first rock box,’’ Aldrin said. As he ascended the ladder he noticed that the dust coating his boots made the rungs seem slippery. Armstrong was to have tried to dust him off, but there was no time.

Armstrong carried the bulk sample box from the MESA out in front of Eagle and hooked it to the LEC, then added the Hasselblad magazine to the same hook. “How are you doing, Buzz?’’

“I’m okay,’’ replied Aldrin, who was now inside the cabin. “Are you ready to send up the LEC?’’

The method for hoisting the box to the hatch required Armstrong to pull on the loop as if drawing washing along a clothes line. Watching, Joan Aldrin laughed, “God bless the rock box. I feel as if I’ve lived with that rock box for the last six months.’’ As the scene played out, she was amazed, “This is like a Walt Disney cartoon, or even a television show – it’s all too much to believe or understand.’’ As the lanyard thrashed in the weak lunar gravity, the film pack detached and fell to the ground by the forward leg. With the leading edge of the box nudging the upper rim of the hatch, Aldrin asked Armstrong to slacken off the tension in the tether in order to lower the box sufficiently to enable it to enter. While Aldrin was stowing the box, Armstrong retrieved the Hasselblad magazine. Because this had fallen beside the foot pad, he decided not to fetch his tongs from the MESA, and instead gripped the ladder with one hand and, bending at the waist, leaned to lift the magazine which, as with everything else that came into contact with the lunar surface, was coated with fine black dust.

“This one’s in. No problem,’’ reported Aldrin, having stowed the first box in its receptacle in the cabin.

At this point McCandless asked Armstrong for an “EMU check’’. Although this was nominally a request that he read out the status of his PLSS systems, the flight surgeon was concerned that in manhandling the rock box and working the LEC, his heart rate had shot up to 160 beats per minute, and the EMU check was a hint that he should take a rest.

“How’s it coming, Neil?” Aldrin asked a minute later.

Having placed the bag of rocks, core tubes and SWC into the second box and sealed it, Armstrong tethered the box and added the recovered magazine. “Boy,” he observed, “that filth from on the LEC is kind of falling all over me while I’m doing this.’’

“All that soot, huh?’’

To give Armstrong a rest, Aldrin suggested they revise the procedure for hauling up the box, “If you can just kind of hold it, I think I can do the pulling.’’

“Stand by a minute. Let me move back,’’ said Armstrong. He backed away to tension the LEC. Once the box was up, Aldrin detached the LEC from the pulley and tossed the cable out through the hatch. The uploading of the boxes had taken rather longer than in training, and repeatedly working against the restraint system built into the shoulder joints of the suit was the greatest exertion of the moonwalk.

“How about that package out of your sleeve, did you get that?’’ Armstrong enquired.

This was a reference to a small canvas bag of mementoes Aldrin had carried in his shoulder pocket with the intention of leaving it on the surface prior to his ingress; he had forgotten. Armstrong proposed that Aldrin pass him the bag once he was on the porch, but Aldrin tossed the bag out through the hatch and it landed at Armstrong’s feet. It contained a gold medallion bearing a representation of the ‘olive branch’ motif – one of four that Aldrin had in his personal preference kit, the others being destined for the astronauts’ wives. There was also an Apollo 1 mission patch in memory of Gus Grissom, Ed White and Roger Chaffee, who died when their capsule caught fire on the pad on 27 January 1967. On returning from his visit to the Soviet Union, Frank Borman handed over two medals that his hosts had requested be left on the Moon. These honoured Yuri Gagarin, the first man to orbit Earth, who died in an aircraft accident on 27 March 1968, and Vladimir Komorov, who died on 24 April 1967 when the parachute of Soyuz 1 failed to open. A more formal memento was a text bearing statements issued by Presidents Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon, a message from the Pope, and messages of goodwill from the leaders of 73 countries of the United Nations. Some messages were handwritten, others typed, in a variety of languages. It also included a listing of the leadership of the Congress in 1969, a list of members of the committees of the House and Senate responsible for NASA legislation, and the names of NASA management. It was photographed and reduced by a factor of 200, transferred to glass for use as a mask for etching by ultraviolet light onto a 1.5-inch-diameter silicon disk – the same technology as was used to etch integrated circuitry. The disk bore the inscription ‘Goodwill messages from around the world brought to the Moon by the astronauts of Apollo 11’. Around the rim was ‘From Planet Earth’, and ‘July 1969’. Although silicon was chosen for its ability to withstand the temperature extremes of the lunar surface, it was enclosed in an aluminium container to protect the delicate crystal from shock. If it had been intended to mark the placement of these items, the moment had been lost.

Meanwhile, Houston, oblivious to what was going on, was eager to confirm that everything that was to have been loaded was indeed on board. “Neil, did you get the Hasselblad magazine?”

Armstrong had just stepped onto the foot pad. “Yes, I did. And we got about, I’d say, 20 pounds of carefully selected, if not documented, samples.’’

“Well done.’’

Grasping the ladder with both hands for stability, Armstrong adopted a deep knee-bend, then jumped, and his feet landed on the third rung from the bottom of the ladder! It was a shame, he would reflect, that they had not been able to remain out for longer. He had hoped to inspect the boulders off to the north, which, while distance was difficult to judge, appeared to be several feet across.