Falling to Earth Read online

  I guessed that this was my cue. After a few minutes of his grumbling, I announced that I was an American, that he was insulting my country and needed to stop. He immediately argued back. We kept this act up for a while, and gradually the other newspapers in the compartment were lowered and the passengers began to stare at us. As we neared London, the argument became more and more heated, and other people on the train joined in. Luckily, some took the American side, or I could have been in big trouble. As we pulled into our final stop, the other passengers were all arguing like crazy. With a final exchange of insults, Robbie and I jumped off the train and hid at one side of the track. We watched as the passengers came out, still quarreling furiously with each other. As soon as we were sure they were not looking, we laughed like hell. From then on, every time we rode a train together, we tried to pull the same trick.

  After about six weeks, the British and Americans had worked out all of their paperwork. In the spring of 1965 it was time for me to head back to the States. My children, who by that time sounded completely English, went back into American schools. Surprisingly fast, they lost all traces of their British accents. We left the beautiful English countryside behind for the hot, dry desert of Edwards Air Force Base, northeast of Los Angeles. I felt a little strange: teaching at Edwards was an unusual arrangement. However, the test pilot school in England had taught me essentially the same skills I would have received in the basic flight test courses. I was given credit for the basic courses along with the students, while I wrote and taught the advanced courses. It was odd, graduating with the students I taught, but it suited everyone.

  I always felt slightly nervous around my boss, Chuck Yeager, as I still sensed that he didn’t like educated people much. It seemed to me that he let those immediately under him, such as his deputy Bob Buchanan, run the show while he went out having fun with his air force pals. From what I saw, he was a completely different kind of pilot than me, very good at flying by the seat of his pants, learning by experience and feel, but without much of the sophistication needed for flying the newer, more technically challenging aircraft. He was also extremely self-confident and unwilling to take good advice from others. Not much more than a year before I arrived at Edwards, Yeager lost an NF-104 airplane when he took it to the edge of the atmosphere and it went into an uncontrollable spin, forcing him to eject. No one dared say it around him, but everyone at Edwards thought that Chuck had pushed his abilities too far that day.

  Chuck had been passed over for astronaut selection, too, because he did not have the mandatory college education, and he seemed to take this a little personally. Worse, the primary purpose of his Aerospace Research Pilot School was to breed future astronauts, a club he could never join despite being the world’s most famous test pilot. Still, no matter how I felt about him personally, I was grateful that Yeager had pulled me right into studying and teaching techniques designed to train future spacefarers. We learned all about orbital mechanics and rocket flight in the classroom, then practiced zoom maneuvers in the air in F-104 aircraft, appropriately named Starfighters. Wearing full pressure suits, we flew trajectories similar to the flight path of the X-15 rocket plane, which could reach the fringes of space.

  I’d start out at thirty thousand feet, dipping down slightly to pick up extra speed, and then once I was racing over Mach 2, I would pull up and coast to the edge of the atmosphere. There was little time to look out; I closely monitored my gauges, ensuring my wings were absolutely level and my engine stayed at a safe temperature. If the jet turned sideways, even slightly, my large canopy could have acted like a sail and spun me around.

  The afterburner soon blew out, and above seventy thousand feet I shut the specially modified engine down before it overheated. Now running only on batteries, the airplane slowed. Reaching the top of the arc, pushing for one hundred thousand feet, slowly coasting, almost floating, I gradually let the nose of the airplane drop. At last, I had a brief moment to look out, and observe—everything.

  I felt like I could see the whole world. The sun was white, burning with a cold, unforgiving glare that highlighted every tiny scratch on my canopy. The sky was not yet black, but it was dark, and bright stars were beginning to appear. Below me, the earth was brilliantly lit. I could gaze from the orange desert of Edwards down across Los Angeles, past San Diego, and deep into Mexico, until the land and ocean finally disappeared in the blue, glowing haze of the atmosphere. Gazing into the deep, darkening horizon, I could see the slight curve of our planet’s edge. It was eerie—and beautiful.

  But there was little time to look. Above much of Earth’s atmosphere, my still-rotating engine parts tried to act like a gyroscope and turn the airplane sideways into a dangerous spin. Carefully adjusting ailerons and rudder, I kept the wings dead level as I gradually nosed back down into thicker atmosphere. Restarting the engine, I’d dive down to a landing on the Edwards runway. If I could not get the engine to restart, I’d aim for the dry lake beds that dotted the area and attempt a landing there. The flight was a halfway step to space; I’d had a glimpse of a new frontier.

  We also practiced landing without power, just like an X-15. We lined up with the runway at around twenty thousand feet; reduced the engine to idle; extended the speed brakes, flaps, and landing gear; and dropped like a stone to a landing. It was difficult, but after a few attempts we could usually land on a predetermined spot on the runway.

  Flying jets at Edwards Air Force Base, around 1965

  We were a mixed bunch of pilots. Many of us were in the air force, of course, but we had naval and marine corps aviators there, too. I was more of an outsider, because I came in as an instructor, but we all stood up for each other and were a very supportive group. We were being groomed to fly winged vehicles that would go into space, such as the X-15. The air force had recently canceled a proposed space plane, the X-20 Dyna-Soar. They considered it too expensive and difficult to develop. A new air force space program, the Manned Orbital Laboratory or MOL, was being developed instead. We also couldn’t help but notice that many of NASA’s astronauts came from Edwards and had backgrounds similar to ours. The space agency had been selecting astronauts since 1959 and flying them in space since 1961. Since the day I missed Al Shepard’s spaceflight on TV, NASA’s space program had progressed at an astonishing pace. By 1965 they were flying impressive two-pilot space missions in their new Gemini spacecraft. Despite the promise of the MOL program, NASA was the only organization putting astronauts into orbit.

  We had a bizarre spaceflight simulator at Edwards, shaped like a doughnut ring that could move in three different axes. When strapped into it, pilots could train for some of the spacewalk experiences of a spaceflight. One week, a couple of astronauts from NASA showed up to practice on it, and I was asked to help instruct them. Gene Cernan and Charlie Bassett were assigned to the forthcoming Gemini 9 mission: Bassett planned to make a spacewalk, and Cernan was training as his backup. Charlie had been through the test pilot school at Edwards himself only a few years earlier, and he impressed me right away. I flew with him that week and learned that he was an incredibly good pilot and a friendly guy whom I chatted with a lot. Meeting him made me think how good it might be to join the astronaut group at NASA. If I were really lucky, I might even fly a mission with Charlie. A number of fellow Edwards pilots probably had the same thought that year: Ed Mitchell, Stu Roosa, Charlie Duke, Bob Crippen, Dick Truly, Hank Hartsfield, and Bob Overmyer were all at Edwards around the same time. Although it took some of us many years, eventually we all made spaceflights for NASA.

  It surprised me when, less than a year after arriving at Edwards, I heard an intriguing announcement: there would be another opportunity to apply to become an astronaut. NASA was looking for pilots for its fifth intake, and in September of 1965 a number of us applied. There were actually two astronaut groups we could apply for: NASA’s group and the air force’s own MOL program. The air force had chosen the same moment because they didn’t want NASA to take all of the top pilots. You could
apply to one, the other, or both programs at once. I applied to NASA only; I figured the air force would steal all of the best pilots from the dual selection but would never get their own space program off the ground. I didn’t know much about NASA yet, but I knew the air force didn’t have a good track record for that kind of program.

  I applied to become an astronaut because, professionally, I figured it couldn’t get any better than that. Even being a test pilot couldn’t compare with becoming an astronaut and making a spaceflight. That also seemed to be the general feeling amongst Edwards pilots. I knew that I was only able to apply because Yeager had pulled me back to the States; otherwise I would still have been in England for this selection period. I was thirty-three years old, not far under the maximum age limit, and if I didn’t make the cut I’d probably be too old for NASA’s next intake. This was my last chance, and I knew it. I sent in the required stack of paperwork, including military efficiency reports, flying time, and a complete résumé—then waited.

  While I hoped for an acceptance letter, Pam was distressed by my decision to apply. Our relationship had already been weakening. Test pilot school had created a big problem between us because my work became increasingly dangerous. My astronaut application was a breaking point. Pam just could not handle it.

  I had to weigh everything in the balance, however, and decide what was best for us. Could I turn down the chance to fly in space? No, I couldn’t. That was the short, difficult answer. They say that hope is not a plan. I guess that is true. Still, I hoped that Pam would come around in time and support me.

  Ironically, I had just spent a decade flying during one of the safest possible times for air force pilots. I began my piloting career after the Korean War had ended, and until 1965 America’s involvement in Vietnam was relatively low-key. When I applied to NASA, however, the Vietnam War was escalating dramatically. If NASA did not select me, I would soon be flying in combat in Vietnam, which is exactly what happened to most of my classmates and friends. I seriously doubt that I would have had a less risky life if I had never applied to NASA.

  In January of 1966, when I was invited down to the Aerospace Medical Health Center at Brooks Air Force Base in San Antonio, I knew I was in the running. NASA received applications from hundreds of qualified pilots, but only around seventy-five of us—less than a tenth of the applicant pool—were chosen for medical checks. My roommate for the tests was another Edwards pilot named Bob Lawrence, who had recently graduated from the Aerospace Research Pilot School. We spent ten days together, and I got to know him well. He was one of the nicest, down-to-earth guys I ever met. However, I guess he applied for MOL, too, because the air force pulled him into their program. Less than six months after he was selected, Bob died in an F-104 aircraft accident. Pam had a point: it was a dangerous business.

  The physical testing at Brooks was brutal. The doctors stuck a pin in my shoulder and a pin in my wrist to measure the speed of electrical current between the two points, then thrust my hand in a bucket of ice water to see what happened. I wondered what this procedure had to do with flying in space or testing my health. They ran us through test after test of crazy stuff, whatever torture they could conjure up, it seemed.

  The doctors also gave us about three days of psychiatric testing, which in my opinion didn’t tell them anything either. They asked us some of the most inane questions, which you would only answer differently if you were clinically insane. We’d stare at inkblots and describe what we saw. We were shown all kinds of goofy pictures, even a blank piece of paper, and asked to describe them. At the outgoing briefing I asked the psychiatrist what possible use it all was, and if it actually helped weed anyone out. He told me they could only drop someone if he were insane. If he were just a little odd, they couldn’t stop him, only make a recommendation. It was craziness, and worthless information.

  I didn’t prepare for the psychological testing at all or try to figure out what they might ask me. I decided that if I were sane, then great, and if not they would find out. I never worried about it. I was more concerned about them finding any disqualifying condition related to my blood-pressure problem or mysterious “rheumatic heart” diagnosis from my childhood. The doctors found nothing wrong with me at all, which was a dual relief, as a bad result could also have affected my air force career.

  I was never told exactly how many of us were in the running, but I believe the medical testing cut the candidates down to about fifty. In February, we were asked to go to the Rice Hotel in Houston, Texas, for a series of written and oral exams. There we wrote essays about trajectories and flights, pretty basic questions compared to the work we did at Edwards. The second day, we met the interview panel for some head-on discussions. One of the pilots on the board was Mike Collins, who had been at Edwards before he was selected as a NASA astronaut in 1963. Seeing Mike there, someone who I really admired, made me want the astronaut job even more.

  During the testing, we heard some terrible news: Charlie Bassett, the astronaut I had helped to train not long before, had died in an airplane crash, along with fellow astronaut Elliot See. I was stunned and could only repeat to myself, “Oh shit, what happened?” I was left with a sense of both amazement and shock that Charlie was gone. He was one of the best, had become an astronaut just like I hoped to do, and now he was dead. He’d been in the back seat of a T-38 jet while Elliot See, an astronaut I didn’t know, flew the airplane. I had heard that Elliot was more of a stick-and-rudder kind of pilot: instruments were not so much his thing. In atrocious weather conditions, needing to land, he’d tried to circle under some clouds to visually line up with the runway and hit a building. NASA had now lost three astronauts to air crashes, including Ted Freeman, another guy I barely knew, also from Edwards, who had died in a T-38 jet accident in 1964.

  It didn’t change my mind about NASA, nor did it slow anything down that day. No one came in the room to make an announcement. Most of the guys there were test pilots and through experience had come to accept this kind of thing as just something that happened. The feeling was “Yeah, another good guy’s gone.” It was very much a test pilot way of doing business. They didn’t stop the interviews, and the day went on.

  When I came out of the interviews, I had no idea how I had done, or whether I had impressed anyone. Throughout the process, I had no sense of who was in, who was out, and how I was doing. I don’t recall talking to any other pilots about how they gauged their chances of selection. I was so focused on getting in myself that I didn’t feel like comparing notes. It was time to head back to Edwards, and wait for a phone call telling me if I was an astronaut or not. Even back in California, although I was friends with guys who had just been through the tests, we didn’t discuss it much. Perhaps because I had come to know them as an instructor rather than a member of the class, they saw me in a slightly different light. Our friendships weren’t deep enough for us to share those thoughts and hopes.

  Having endured the exhaustive tests and interviews, I would have been really disappointed if I hadn’t been selected. But then again, I had to consider that NASA had started out looking at hundreds of pilots, and we had already been pared down to around fifty. I also had no idea how many astronauts they wanted to pick. I said to myself that if I didn’t get selected, then hey, that’s the breaks, man. I may have been just as good as the rest, but someone else might be ahead of me on one little category or another. At that point in the selection process, most of us were far ahead of the basic selection requirements, with much more than the minimum flying time or academic credentials, so it was going to be a tough choice for NASA.

  The phone call from Deke Slayton, NASA’s director of Flight Crew Operations, came in early April of 1966. Deke didn’t waste time on pleasantries. He told me straight out, if I were still interested, that he’d like me to come and work for him in Houston, starting the next month. I knew, at that moment, that my wife would never forgive me if I accepted. Nevertheless, I said yes. I was now at the top of the heap when it came to pilots
. The most exclusive club of all: I was an astronaut.

  CHAPTER 4

  ASTRONAUT

  Houston. When you think of NASA or astronauts, you probably think of Houston. But in reality the space center is well outside of town. To get there from downtown Houston, I would take the freeway southeast toward Galveston, then turn off and drive east. On that thirty-mile drive from Houston to NASA, I saw nothing but countryside, with fields full of oil wells. One of the roads that crossed my path went north to Clear Lake City, where it dead-ended. Along the way were a few businesses and restaurants, but no homes. Straight ahead were the space center, three hotels, a grocery store, and a couple of fast food places. That was all. If you make that journey today, it’s wall-to-wall congestion all the way, with strip malls and cheap restaurants. But in 1966, NASA was in the middle of nowhere. I became an astronaut only a few short years after the center opened, so the area had not had time to develop. It was the center of the universe for NASA, but pretty much nowhere for everyone else except us and some isolated ranchers and shrimpers. While we’d often go into downtown Houston, we spent much more time in the little towns close to the bayous and lakes around the space center, such as Dickinson, Kemah, and El Lago.

  Those of us coming from Edwards rented rooms in a motel out by the freeway, until we got our feet on the ground. Although we were all friends and all making the same giant career leap, I can’t recall any conversations about our selection before we made the move from the desert. There were no big slaps on the back or late-night discussions. We just headed out individually to Texas. One of the guys found the motel and, after a few phone calls, the rest of us followed.

  I guess I have always been this way: always a loner. Looking back now, I realize that running the farm from such an early age made me self-reliant and confident in my own abilities. This independence affected my dealings with my contemporaries, and I never grew socially close to them. I made friends with many of my fellow pilots, but we never became a band of brothers. This go-it-alone approach was a habit that had worked for me so far because it allowed me to go off in my own direction whenever I needed.