The Unbroken Chain

Chapter 9 - "LIVE FROM THE MOON"

By early 1969, we had our procedures worked pretty well into a routine. We knew we were going to be working from the facility for quite some time to come, so we were able to fine tune much of the work we did. Apollo 8, however, did uncover a few issues that we had to address for subsequent launches.

During the rollout of the Apollo 8 Saturn stack from the VAB to 39A, some disturbing vibrations had been observed. No one was sure what initiated them, nor how important the phenomenon might be. We did know, however, that we would have to look into this further.

In January, we prepared for the rollout of Apollo 9. To monitor the vibrations during the three and a half mile drive, I was asked to ride along on the umbilical tower at its highest point and report my observations over the communications loop. It was really very interesting. Out of the VAB we crept, the Saturn 5 and umbilical tower standing high above the crawler-transporter. I had an excellent vantage point and the view was spectacular. Clearing the building, the transporter driver slowly began to accelerate the load. As we approached .8 miles per hour, I started to notice some vibration and swaying and immediately reported it to the ground. The vibrations continued to build until a peak was hit. I could clearly see the movement of the rocket in relation to the umbilical tower. There was concern that it might be severe enough to damage the vehicle.

Boeing engineers got out their slide rules and determined that the normal vibrations created by the movement of the crawler-transporter were being transmitted up through the rocket. At .8 miles per hour, the vibrations reached a point that matched the natural frequency of the 363 foot tall Saturn 5. At this frequency, the vibrations tended to be self-enforcing. As we accelerated through the .8 mph mark, the vibrations began to subside and by the time we hit 1 mile per hour, stability had returned.

I continued to ride the tower during the rollout on all the remaining Apollo flights. Later we discovered that if the transporter could accelerate quickly enough through the .8 mph point, the natural frequency vibrations did not have time to set up. The shaking and swaying was thus kept to a minimum.

The success of Apollo 8’s journey to the moon in December of ‘68 indicated that we had a real shot at making a manned landing in 1969. Launches were scheduled one just about every three months and the cycle was very tight. Apollo 9 was first on the list with a spring checkout of the lunar module in Earth orbit. I don’t think many people in the public appreciated what a dangerous mission this one really was.

In order to get two astronauts safely onto the moon required two spacecraft. The cone-shaped command module carried the three-man crews front the earth, to the moon, and back to Earth again. But it was not created to get any closer to the lunar surface than safe orbiting distance. To get from lunar orbit down to the surface required the second spacecraft, the lunar module.

After launch on a lunar mission, an Apollo crew’s first job was to separate from the adapter section, maneuver the command module around 180 degrees, and then come back in nose (or top, if you prefer to think of it that way) first. A docking mechanism on the apex of the command module was designed to connect with a receiving port on the LM, exposed in the opened adapter section. Once the CM and LM were docked, the command module pilot would back away from the adapter, extracting the lunar module from it. The two spacecraft, connected top to top, would then make the 240,000 mile flight to the moon and enter lunar orbit together.

Next, two of the astronauts would leave the CM and enter the LM by way of a narrow connecting tunnel. The third astronaut, the command module pilot, would remain in the CM to monitor the landing from his orbital vantage point. After undocking their odd-looking craft, the commander and lunar module pilot would began their decent to the moon. To return from the surface after a successful landing, the two astronauts would fire the LM’s ascent engine. This was a one-time chance to leave the surface. If the engine failed, the two crewmen would be lost.

A successful launch would boost the lunar module back into orbit where the astronauts would rendezvous with the circling command module. Once again, the command module would dock with the lunar module. The two lunar explorers would then transfer back into the command module for the journey home.

The Grumman-built LM had yet to be tested in space and it was Apollo 9’s job to do that. It would be the first time that astronauts had flown in space in a craft that was incapable of returning to Earth. The lunar module was built specifically to land on and launch from the moon and nothing else. It was extremely light weight and foil thin in some areas. If it reentered the earth’s atmosphere, the heat from air friction would reduce it to cinders.

With all the upcoming flights in various stages of preparation, large numbers of astronauts were stationed at the Cape. Not only did we have the three-man prime crews for two or three impending flights there at one time. We also had their backup crews and support crews. Merritt Island and Cocoa Beach seemed to be spilling over with moon men.

It became more common for me to come home in the evening and find some astronaut in our family room, busy writing letters or studying manuals. Sometimes we would go out in my boat for some fishing on the Banana River. I remember Mike Collins in particular was an avid fisherman. He was always happy to have a little break out on the water with a pole in his hand.

One evening, I took my wife out for dinner at the Black Forest Inn in Cocoa Beach. It had long been one of our favorite restaurants. I had introduced a lot of the astronauts to its excellent German food. On this particular evening, we entered the dining room and were walking toward our table when I saw four men jump to attention. With a shout, “Sieg Heil!” rang out through the crowded room. The voice was that of Pete Conrad. In horror, I saw all four of them with arms outstretched in die infamous Nazi salute. “Sieg Heil!” the other three shouted out in chorus. It was the most embarrassing thing you could imagine. There was Pete with his huge gap-toothed grin and all the customers wondering what the heck was going on. Classic Pete. Certainly one of the kings of gotchas. He was a hard one to keep up with.

Astronauts were not the only ones capable of pulling practical jokes. The pad technicians had some pretty good ones too. One of the supervisors was a real automobile nut. He read all the magazines and was always talking about cars. After doing a lot of research, he picked himself out a new pickup truck. Listening to him, you had to believe this was the finest vehicle ever made. He took particular pride in the great gas mileage he was getting with it. What he didn’t know was that a couple of guys were filling up gas cans, secretly supplementing his fuel every other day or so. Gas only cost thirty cents a gallon back then.

This went on for a couple of months. He was thrilled and surely must have thought himself a most astute buyer for picking this model. He bragged and bragged. When it was time for his first warranty service, he took the truck in and told them what a fantastic piece of machinery it was. I guess they were probably pretty happy to have such a satisfied customer. After the service, the pad technicians decided it was time to escalate. Now, instead of adding fuel in, the began siphoning it out. His mileage went from thirty-five miles per gallon down to ten and he was furious. He just knew that the mechanics had somehow messed up his super-truck. He went back to the dealership where the work had been done and got into a big argument with the service manager. When he returned, it was obvious that he was going off the deep end so someone told him of the prank. He was irate and demanded to know who had been involved, but they kept the secret and he never did find out. Lucky thing, too, I think.

While working at the pad, a couple of technicians made a terrific discovery. Next to the roadway that led up to the gate at 39A was a culvert. It had a good flow of water through it and five to eight pound trout were frequently seer lazily congregating. Now you have to understand that Kennedy Space Center was, and still is, a wildlife refuge. Hunting and fishing are strictly forbidden. But the temptation to snag a few of these beauties was just too great. The technicians devised a plan. Workers would post a guard to watch for incoming security vehicles. Then, with just some little hand lines, they would haul in ice chest loads of the trout that loitered in the clear water. If a suspicious looking car approached, they quickly wound up their fishing lines and stashed them in their pockets. Someone built a barbecue grill at the base of the pad, and once or twice a month, second shift would host a big fish fry.

Although the pad workers did have some chances for a little fun, most of the work they did was difficult and dangerous. Many of the hazardous operations involved highly toxic propellants. At these times, only the minimum number of required people were allowed to remain on the structure.

When servicing the command and service modules with hypergolic fuels, technicians were required to wear heavy SCAPE suits. Manufactured out of a flame resistant material, the bulky suits were completely sealed and had their own oxygen and cooling systems. Topping the outfits were round helmets with bubble visors. To the uninitiated, these technicians surely must have looked like astronauts. Working in these suits was quite cumbersome and the technicians generally operated in two-hour shifts.

As bad as it was for our people, Grumman workers actually had it much tougher. They worked on the lunar module inside of the adapter section. I am sure that toiling in the SCAPE suits inside that confined space must have been particularly difficult. Because of the limited access into the adapter section, explosive charges were placed at key places in case emergency egress was required.

Another operation classified as hazardous was the servicing of the fuel cells with hydrogen and oxygen. Vacuum jacketed lines pumped these supercooled fluids up from the pad level. It was not unusual for leaks to spring out in some of the ground support plumbing. Now the technicians had come up with a very unique method for handling this. On all the levels, buckets of water and boxes of feminine Kotex pads stood at the ready. When a cryogenics leak was detected, someone would grab a Kotex and quickly soak it in the water. The soggy bandage would then be wrapped around the leaking pipe, freezing it instantly in place. Quite an effective and imaginative solution to the problem. Sometimes the low-tech approach was the best one.

Apollo 9 got off in early March and performed the successful checkout of the LM in Earth orbit. This cleared the way for Apollo 10 to launch for the moon in May commanded by my good friend, Tom Stafford. The mission was called a “dress rehearsal” and would do everything that a moon landing mission would do, short of actually touching down on the surface.

Sudden thunderstorms had long been a challenge for us at the launch complexes. The heavy blowing rains were usually able to locate leaks in the work areas around the spacecraft. With all the open access hatches, and frequently the spacecraft’s main hatch as well, we were constantly on the alert for water infiltration.

During preparations for the Apollo 10 launch, we had an exceptionally strong storm blow through during a lunch break. Except for an I&E monitor, a shop supervisor, and myself, there was no one on Level 4C. Just as the rain started pelting the pad, Rocco Petrone stepped out of the elevator. Rocco was the Launch Director at the Cape. He and I were known to have our disagreements, and he was frequently critical of my interpretations of the rules. As the rain pounded the structure, I noticed water leaking through the roof. Drafts and gusts were spraying it all over the spacecraft.

Without hesitation, I sent the shop supervisor after a roll of plastic and instructed the I&E monitor to get some tape and a couple of pairs of scissors. When they returned I asked Rocco to help me unroll the plastic and we proceeded to wrap the spacecraft, cutting and taping as we went. In a few minutes, we had the hardware covered and protected. A job well done and we all complimented ourselves for being on the ball.

“You know, Rocco,” I commented. “We just violated a whole handful of rules.”

“Oh, yeah? How’s that?” Petrone answered, a skeptical look on his face.

“If we had followed all the rules, let me explain what would have happened. When I noticed the leak, my first job would be to call the test supervisor and tell him about it and warn him that the spacecraft was getting wet.”

Since the service structure was under the control of Boeing, we were prohibited from doing any of our own repair work on it.

“So, the test supervisor would contact the Boeing pad supervisor with the problem. He would send up a couple of technicians to investigate. Meanwhile, with no procedures in place for taping objects onto the spacecraft, it would be slowly filling with water. The Boeing technicians would identify the leaks, then go back down to the pad to locate some plastic and tape. Thirty minutes later, if the storm hadn’t passed by then, the technicians would return to tape over the roof leaks.”

It was probably somewhat of a stretch, but I felt that I had made my point.

To minimize the chance of picking up some illness, flight crews were kept in quarantine in the O&C Building prior to their missions. We were just a day away from Apollo 10’s launch when Deke Slayton decided to bend the rules a bit and allow Gene Cernan to slip out for a few hours to visit with his family. 1 think they were staying at the beach house that NASA owned.

With the launch count in its last twenty-four hours, I was basically on duty for all three shifts. I had probably been home for a quick shower and a nap. Driving back up State Road 3 toward Complex 39 I saw the flashing lights of a deputy sheriff’s car on the shoulder. The speed limit was strictly enforced along this stretch of road. Must be some unlucky sole, pulled over for speeding, 1 figured. As I drove by, I glanced at the cop talking to a sandy haired man in a B anion shirt. Hell - it was Gene Cernan! I wheeled my car over to the side and backed up to where the two cars were stopped.

“Geno,” I asked. “What are doing out here? You should be getting ready!”

“Man, am I glad to see you,” he answered. Not wanting to be recognized as an astronaut slipped out of quarantine, Gene was having some trouble convincing the cop that he should let him go. The last thing we needed was a Mexican standoff on the side of the road, twenty hours before a launch.

I showed the deputy my NASA ID badge and explained that Cernan was an astronaut, soon to be on his way to the moon. If management was called in to retrieve their wayward spaceman, it would probably get quite ugly for him. The cop had doubt written all over his face, but gave in and let him go.

“Get out of here, and go on to your moon!”

With great relief, I watched Gene hop into his car and drive away to the north. The next time I would see him, he would be tightly enclosed in his white space suit and bubble helmet, ready for the flight.

Apollo 10 launched on schedule and, two and a half days later, entered lunar orbit. Stafford and Cernan entered the LM and separated from the command module for the lunar descent. There were some very tense moments when the LM went totally out of control, but Stafford was able to stabilize the craft and fire the ascent engine for the climb back to orbit. I had come painfully close to loosing two of my best friends in the astronaut corps. After successfully docking with the command module, the three crewmen made the safe return to Earth.

It had taken nine years and twenty manned flights to get to this point. All the hardware and procedures were tested and ready. Finally, the goal of reaching the moon seemed within our reach.

The Apollo 11 mission was scheduled for a July launch and would be crewed by Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Mike Collins. All three were reserved and individualistic. Although they were totally competent, they just didn’t seem to gel as a team. When they drove up to the pad for tests, it was always in three separate cars. If we broke for lunch, they always drove away separately. There did not seem to be much camaraderie between the three men. I’ve always said that they were the first crew who weren’t really a crew. The entire world, however, knew their names and their faces were seen on the television news broadcasts nearly every evening.

Of the crewmen, I probably knew Mike the best. We had done a lot of fishing together over the past couple of years and I always enjoyed his company. He had been bumped from Apollo 8 due to some neck surgery. At the time, he was very distraught about losing that flight. But all that was long forgotten with his assignment to the first mission with a shot at a lunar landing. Mike would slay in orbit as the command module pilot, but he always seemed perfectly content with that role. Buzz, on the other hand, had it in mind that he should be the first one to exit the LM and place the historic footprint in the lunar soil. He alienated a lot of people, management and astronauts alike, arguing his case. Neil, the mission’s commander, just plugged along nose to the grindstone trying to stay focused on the job.

It had long been a tradition that the astronauts were allowed to carry along a few small trinkets and souvenirs with them on their flights. Each was issued a PPK - a personal preference kit - in which to carry their mementos. As a gift for my wife, I had acquired a beautiful opal. I asked Neil if he would earn it along and he was happy to oblige. To prepare the stone for the flight, I first had a mass spectrometer analysis performed on it to insure that it was compatible with the oxygen atmosphere in the spacecraft. Next I wrapped it in perforated plastic tape and ran it through the altitude chamber. Even though it was about as inert as anything you could come up with, I insured that it underwent all the proper procedures to get it flight rated.

We were used to having large crowds of tourists, politicians, and journalists at every manned launch. From all the requests for VIP and press passes, it had become obvious that the crowd for the launch of Apollo 11 was going to be absolutely huge. Much, much larger than any crowd we had yet had. This one was clearly going to be a big deal. Major traffic jams were expected and a contingency plan was created to insure that key personnel did not get blocked from their assignments. Everyone on that list, and that included me, would be given a radio. In the event that traffic prevented us from getting to our posts, we could call in an Army helicopter to pick us up.

With the high profile of Apollo 11, we were getting a lot more requests for VIP tours of the work areas. The NASA Public Affairs Office was constantly calling with some group of senators or congressmen who wanted to see the spacecraft. It was a real problem and made our work much more difficult than normal. To help manage it, Skip Chauvin, the spacecraft test conductor, and I developed a rating scheme. If I got a call telling me that some Grade 5 people wanted to come up for a tour, 1 had a lot of leeway. Grade 5 was the lowest rating. If we were too busy I would just reply that we were in the middle of a test and unable to comply. But if the call was for a Grade 1 group, I knew that we were going to have to figure out some way to accommodate the request. The worst groups were the camera crews. They lugged their equipment all around, banging into everything along the way. We had to watch them closely to make sure they did not damage any of our equipment.

The CDDT was run on the 27th of June and we followed that up with a simulated launch on July 2. Launch day was only two weeks away and the pressure was intense. Once again, I was living at the pad, only getting home for short rest periods. Luckily, all the processing went smoothly and soon the five day countdown was underway.

Cocoa Beach and the south half of Merritt Island were awash with people. Traffic moved at a crawl and the roads were sometimes impassable. The beaches looked like parking lots and every sidewalk was crammed with tourists, shoulder to shoulder. It was a madhouse, unlike anything I had ever seen. Long lines stretched outside of restaurants and every business seemed to sport a banner or sign wishing luck to the Apollo 11 crew. Moon mania had hit.

It wasn’t much better inside of Complex 39. VIPs and news people spilled over from the press site and there was an endless line of tours going through the VAB. Simply getting back and forth from the pad became a real problem. By the eve of launch day, the 15th, the clogged roadways threatened to grind to a halt. I was glad to have that radio with me and the knowledge that an Army chopper was ready if I needed it.

At the pad, SCAPE-suited ghosts seemed to appear from nowhere. A shift in the ocean breeze and they would disappear again into a vapor cloud blown from the rocket. Sometimes their black boots could be seen walking leglessly through the fog. Faceless zombies tending the needs of the massive creature we had chained to the concrete altar. I’ve always said that the Saturn 5 was a living, breathing beast. Held captive in shrouds of ice, it hissed and groaned, waiting for its chance to break free, belching hellfire and superheated steam. It was a monster that we barely held tame. In servicing it, we were tweaking the dragon’s tail. 1 marveled that humans could build a machine as powerful as this. It could easily devour us all.

I stayed at 39A into early second shift, then made the slow drive home for a quick rest. By midnight, I was back at the VAB, getting an early start on our closeout preparations. My crew included Fred Haise, NASA quality control inspector “Fucky” Chambers, suit technician Ron Woods, and mechanical technician John Griffinger. As always, Joe Schmitt was the lead suit technician. He and Woods would arrive at the pad along with the astronauts, where the other four of us would be waiting.

The next six hours went by quickly. After fueling, we raced out to the pad and got busy with our preflight checklists. Fike always, there seemed to be too many items and not enough time. But this was where training and experience paid off, and we clicked through our tasks with the efficiency of a fine watch. By 6:30, the sky was beginning to lighten and we spotted the motorcade driving onto the pad apron.

The Apollo white room was very small, especially compared to the multilevel affair we had had during Gemini. Even with Fred Haise positioned inside the spacecraft, there was not enough room for everyone. As Neil and Mike entered with the two suit technicians, Buzz waited outside on Swing Aim 9 admiring the beautiful ocean view.

I had spent a good deal of time trying to think of an appropriate little gag gift for the crew of this special mission. Thinking of the ceremonial “key to the city” that was frequently given by politicians to visiting dignitaries, I came up with the idea of a “key to the moon.” I shaped it out of Styrofoam so that a crescent moon made up the shaft. On one end was an oval ring and on the opposite end, the teeth like those from an old skeleton key. Wrapped in metal foil tape, it had a nice silvery appearance. I presented it to Neil with some words 1 have long since forgotten.

The gift exchange continued as Armstrong gave me a small card that was stuck under the wristband of his Omega watch. It was a ticket for a space taxi ride, “good between any two planets.” We shared some laughs and then Mike Collins stepped forward and produced a brown paper bag that he had been holding behind his back.

“You know, Guenter, you’re such an avid fisherman that it has always bothered me that you didn’t have a trophy trout on your wall at home,” he yelled through his bubble. I leaned close to hear him.

Mike handed me the bag and I pulled out a wooden plaque.

“This ought to take care of that,” he continued with a grin.

On the plaque was attached an eight inch trout. Below it, a brass plate was engraved with the words “Guenter Wendt Trophy Trout.” 1 laughed out loud in surprise. There were two things wrong with this trout, however. First it was much too small to be legal. And second, it had not been preserved. It was simply frozen rock hard!

Everyone was all smiles and we began the crew ingress. With Haise standing below the feet ends of the couches, we helped Armstrong in first and he wriggled over into the commander’s left seat. Collins was second. Normally, the command module pilot would have been seated in the middle, but for this flight, he took the right seat. With the two men aboard, Buzz entered the white room. He, too, had brought me a gift. We were both Presbyterians and he had gotten me a condensed version of the Bible called “Good News for Modern Man.” At least it wasn’t a Gideon Bible from the local Holiday Inn.

We got Buzz situated in the center couch and proceeded with our systems tests. After another thirty minutes of checks and double checks, Fred made the difficult exit under the couches and back out through the hatch above the crewmen’s heads. We worked through the final items on our checklists and reported in that we were ready to close the hatch. With the test conductor’s GO, 1 patted Buzz on the top of his helmet and made way for Griffinger to effect the hatch closing.

On the radio and television, millions of people around the world listened to the commentary.

“This is Apollo/Saturn Launch Control, T minus 1 hour, 30 minutes, 55 seconds and counting. All elements are go with the countdown at this time, the countdown aimed at landing two astronauts on the moon. At this time the spacecraft test conductor, Skip Chauvin, going through some checks with astronaut Mike Collins aboard the spacecraft. We’re winding up this important emergency detection system test that Neil Armstrong has been participating in. Meanwhile, at the 320 foot level, the closeout crew now placing the boost protective cover over the hatch now that we have completed the cabin purge and have the proper environment inside of the cabin. We have also performed leak checks to assure ourselves that the cabin atmosphere is valid.” One little glitch occurred with a leaking hydrogen valve. It was a problem we had already encountered during the CDDT. With that experience, we were able to get it fixed in short order. As we completed our final tasks, the Public Affairs Office broadcast the status.

“This is Apollo/Saturn Launch Control. T minus 1 hour, 11 minutes, 55 seconds and counting. The countdown for Apollo 11 still going very satisfactorily at this time. In most cases we’re five or ten minutes ahead of the countdown procedures. The crew in the white room at the [320] foot level who have been aiding the astronauts up to this time are just in the process of finishing up their work. They’ve been advised by the spacecraft test conductor that they’ll probably be able to move out in about three minutes. Once this is accomplished, once the closeout crew does depart, we’ll be ready to move that swing arm back, Swing Arm 9.”

After preparing the white room for retraction, we rode the elevator down the structure and boarded our cars. Like so many times before, we reported in at the MSS park site so that the mission commander could be cleared to arm the escape rocket. Soon we were back at the fallback area, my only jobs now - to monitor the countdown and remain at the ready should a problem occur.

At the press site, it was standing room only. Vice President Spiro Agnew. former President Lyndon Johnson, and the commanding general in the Viet Nam war, General Westmoreland, joined the 3,500 people who filled the bleachers and spilled out into the grassy area in front. The official count included four cabinet members, thirty-three senators, two hundred congressmen, fourteen governors, fifty-six ambassadors, and an additional four hundred special guests and VIPs. The Launch Control Center was filled to capacity with another 450 people. Estimates by the Civil Defense Agency of the crowds surrounding the launch area exceeded a million people.

The countdown continued smoothly, but I always worried that I would soon hear that some problem was detected. As the count wound down, I listened intently on my headset, paying little attention to the people around me. The sun was up now and the July heat was already starting to build.

“This is Apollo/Saturn launch control. We’ve passed the six minute mark in our countdown for Apollo 11. Now 5 minutes, 52 seconds and counting. We're on time at the present time for our planned liftoff of 32 minutes past the hour. Spacecraft test conductor Skip Chauvin now has completed the status check of his personnel in the control room. All report they are GO for the mission, and this has been reported to the test supervisor, Bill Schick. The test supervisor now going through some status checks. Launch operations manager Paul Donnelly reports GO for launch. Launch director Rocco Petrone gives a GO. We’re 5 minutes, 20 seconds and counting.”

The seconds started to race by as they always did. Minutes, though, seemed like hours. It was a particularly nervous time for me. I liked to be in control of a situation. Now, all I could do was listen and wait. Three and a half miles away, fuel in the booster’s fuel tanks began to pressurize. At T minus 1 minute, 25 seconds, third stage pressurization was reported complete. Thirty-five seconds later and the vehicle was on internal power. The train was getting ready to leave the station.

“T minus 15 seconds, guidance is internal, 12..., 11..., 10..., 9..., ignition sequence start.”

I strained to see the vehicle on the horizon. There it was! The bright sparkle under the tail of the booster, bright as a welder’s arc.

“ 2..., 1..., zero, all engines running... Liftoff!” White steam and smoke exploded away from the pad in two directions, momentarily hiding the rocket’s first and second stages. The vehicle had to climb half the height of the tower before we could see it completely. As the Saturn 5 rose into the sky, balanced on its fountain of brilliant fire, the familiar freight train sound raced toward us, angry and crackling. The massive first stage engines were burning fuel at the rate of fifteen tons per second. Soon we were surrounded by the concussion and violent trembling. There is just no way to explain how small you feel as a human being at that point.

We watched Apollo 11 as it arched out over the Atlantic and gradually disappeared from view. Everyone was elated and I hardly got one conversation started before another smiling friend was grabbing my shoulder or shaking my hand.

The Public Affairs Office had scheduled a bunch of interviews for me so I finished up my congratulations with everyone and hopped in a car headed for the Press Site. It was a short drive to the parking lot and we were soon making our way toward the crowd on foot. I drew a lot of stares in my white coveralls. People constantly stopped me to say hello or just to shake my hand. Although I was just one of many, it felt like I was a returning hero.

Cameras and microphones were everywhere. I did several interviews, some in English and some in German. Generally they would position the cameras so that either the VAB or Pad 39A stood out in the background. Everyone was so excited and I kept fielding the same questions over and over.

I was relieved once I got the interviews finished. I was burning up in my NOMEX clothing and fatigue was starting to take its toll. My car was parked over at the VAB parking lot and after the short walk, I was homeward bound through the packed Merritt Island roads. The high point of my afternoon was a long nap in preparation for the extensive series of parties that my wife and I would be attending in the evening.

For the next two days, Apollo 11 flew onward to the moon. Except for handling a little paperwork in my office in the O&C Building, I was happy to take a break from work and reintroduce myself to the family. On Sunday, July 20 I joined my wife and daughters in front of our television set to watch the historic landing.

Walter Cronkite and Wally Schirra, now retired from NASA, gave the commentary on CBS. I distinctly remember watching them as they explained the descent and landing. Tension was very high. There they were. Walter Cronkite, the godfather of American journalism, and astronaut Wally Schirra, now a fledgling commentator. There they were. Ready to cover the most momentous event of the century, live to billions of anxious viewers.

As the lunar module Eagle settled into its landing spot, Buzz Aldrin pronounced the first words ever spoken from the surface of the moon: “Contact light. Okay, engine off.” Walter and Wally both looked completely dumbfounded. As the lunar dialogue played out, neither seemed capable of uttering anything more than childlike “ooos” and “ahhs”. A few moments later, Armstrong made the formal announcement: “Houston, uh... Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.” Cronkite pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, clueless on what to say. Finally he let out a profound, “Oh, boy.” Wally followed up with his own observation: “Gee!” By now, Cronkite was wringing his hands with this silly looking grin on his face. “Help me out, Wally. I don’t know what to say!”

It was all very comical. Two of the world’s best known personalities, highly educated and very experienced in talking to the public during historic events. There they were. Reduced to muttering bystanders by the drama on the moon.

We stayed glued to the television through the early evening, interrupted by the occasional phone call. A planned rest period after the landing was abandoned, the two astronauts simply too keyed up to rest. They began the tasks of donning their EVA suits and started the cabin depressurization, a task in itself that required over forty-five minutes. By 10:30 they were ready to open the hatch and make the historic climb down the LM’s ladder.

Ghostly images of Armstrong appeared on the television screen as he descended the metal rungs. In spite of the shadows - the sun shone on the opposite side of the LM - we could make out the human shape of the white space suit. The resolution of the picture was low and the horizontal scan lines were very evident, but we could not have been more excited. Not only was our personal friend seconds away from setting foot on the lunar surface, but we were actually able to witness it ourselves. It seemed a miracle. When the decision was first made to go to the moon, I wonder if the planners had any idea that it would be televised live to the world?

We sat there silently, entranced by Armstrong’s words.

“I’m at the fool of the ladder. The LM footpads are only depressed in the surface about one or two inches, although the surface appears to be very, very fine grained, as you get close to it. It’s almost like a powder. Now and then it’s very fine. I’m going to step off the LM now.”

With a little hop, we watched Armstrong drop the final few inches to the moon.

“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

As white words flashed on the screen, “LIVE FROM THE MOON,” we joined billions of other humans with our shouts of joy and relief. We had done it. The race was won. We had touched the face of the moon.