The Unbroken Chain

Chapter 2 - An American in space...

Even if you lived through the Cold War period of the late 50’s and early 60’s, you probably don’t remember just how tense our relations with the Russians were. Fear of Soviet domination was at its height, possibly for good reason. Their rockets were bigger than ours and we suspected they had more of them. Espionage on both sides was intense.

In 1957, the Russian satellite Sputnik shocked everyone. Even though it was simply a metallic sphere which sent back temperature data, the fact was that it was circling over the United States every 90 minutes. And there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it. Easily visible to the naked eye in the evening sky, the little Russian ball thumbed its nose at us with its “beep...beep” radio signals.

The United States’ first attempt at placing a satellite into orbit was a public failure. Newsreel footage quickly spread around the world showing Vanguard erupt in a fiery explosion on its pad at the Cape. It was humiliating. Several months later, Wernher von Braun’s team did get a tiny satellite launched but we were clearly in second place to the Reds.

In April of 1961, Yuri Gagarin was lifted into orbit aboard Russia’s Vostok 1 spacecraft. Their lead in the race for space was widening. We feared they would do almost anything to retain their superiority in the high frontier. And that included interfering with our launches.

Off the coast of Florida, just outside of the line where America’s jurisdiction ended, Russian fishing boats loitered. These trawlers seemed to find the best fishing in the Atlantic waters directly east of Cape Canaveral. Constantly observed by shadowing Coast Guard ships and reconnaissance aircraft, they never seemed to throw their nets out and their bridges sprouted with impressive arrays of antennae. Their presence was ominous and security at the Cape was tight. Very tight.

Our rockets were known to be less than perfect. During every launch, the Range Safety Officer - the RSO - carefully monitored the flight. In the case of an errant trajectory, he was prepared to radio the vehicle with a “command destruct signal”. When received, a dynamite charge would explode in the booster. The entire vehicle would be blown into tiny pieces, hopefully before it could do damage to any of the surrounding countryside. One real concern was that the Russians might transmit the command destruct signal and destroy the rocket and its payload.

In Mercury, and later in Apollo manned flights, the spacecraft could be pulled clear of a runaway or burning booster rocket by the escape system. Simply put, it was a solid rocket attached to the nose of the capsule. In an emergency, it was capable of quickly towing the spacecraft away from a troubled booster, allowing a safe return to Earth via parachute. In the Gemini program, the astronauts had ejection seats. Thus, they also had a way to exit a bad situation prior to the issuing of the necessary destruct command.

During one early ground test, a spurious command destruct signal was detected. The rocket was not rigged to explode, but fuses popped alerting us to the problem. For several days we scanned the radio frequencies looking for the source of the signal. Finally it was discovered. A nearby taxi had an overamplified transmitter and had sent the signal by pure chance. Fortunately, this time there had been no disaster.

We discovered other anomalies with our command destruct system. For some odd reason, test signals sent during the morning and evening rush hours were not received by the vehicle. This one had us really baffled. The Air Force flew a light airplane over' the pad and it was easily able to register the signal. Yet, the rocket sat deafly on its launch stand. After a series of trial and error experiments, we figured out the problem. The long line of cars snaking in and out of the Cape ran between the pad and the Range Safety Officer ’s transmitter. We never would have guessed that the signal was being reflected off the roofs of the cars, away from the rocket.

The command destruct code was changed with every attempted launch. Just hours before each launch, the Air Force would deliver to me a command destruct plug. It was an electrical plug that contained the secret code hardwired in it. I would accept the device and turn it over to the technicians who would install it in the spacecraft. If there was a scrub, a canceled launch, the first item to come back out of the spacecraft was that plug. When the launch was resumed, possibly even the next day, a new plug would be delivered and installed. It was all highly classified and secured. We had to make damn sure that no one was going to blow up our vehicle as part of a terrorist act.

To further protect our first manned mission, we kept the identity of the astronaut a secret. If his name was announced, the possibility increased that some type of “accident” might occur. An incapacitated astronaut would definitely slow up the program and that was something the Russians would find appealing. We had to take these kinds of possibilities seriously. With the astronauts staying in Cocoa Beach and buzzing around town in aviator sunglasses and Corvettes, they were easy targets. When the personally designed couch was placed aboard the spacecraft, we insured that all nametags and identifying marks were removed to protect the astronaut’s identity. Even the technicians did not know whose couch they were installing.

Security was foremost, not just at the pad, but all over the entire launch complex. An Air Force colonel was charged with constant testing of our facilities. He was always snooping around, looking for open file cabinets, documents left on desktops, and unlocked doors. When he found a security breach of some sort, he would leave behind his famous red cigar box to prove he was there, then place a nasty call to the base manager. You could plan on getting a good chewing out if he called in the middle of the night to get someone in and lock the drawers of your file cabinet.

On one night, the colonel tried to break into Hangar S under some loose sheet metal. There was a bright light in the area, so he must surely have been sneaking around very carefully. As he wedged himself in under the metal wall, he found himself suddenly confronted by a startled skunk. It was hunting bugs that were attracted to the light and probably more scared than the now-panicked officer was. The colonel dropped his cigar box and frantically wriggled backwards as the animal proceeded to spray him down. He was returned to the base in the back of a pickup truck. That story was the highlight of the next day. We figured justice had finally been served.

In gearing up to put our first human into space, there was very little that wasn’t new to us. We made up the rules as we went, and tried to graduate from dumb mistakes to more sophisticated ones. But each mistake was a learning opportunity with the potential for disaster.

One such opportunity arose when we stored a drum of hydrogen peroxide in a secure building. For some reason, it was decided that a new stainless steel plug was needed so we had one machined on the spot. A light-weight oil was used as a coolant during the process. The new plug was screwed into the 25 gallon drum and we went home for the weekend. Early Monday morning, someone discovered a large hole in the roof. The drum had apparently exploded and burst into the air in its own ballistic launch. The only thing we could figure is that some of the machine oil must have remained on the plug when it was installed. The oil dripped into the hydrogen peroxide and a “rapid decomposition” resulted.

You have to realize that at a launch complex, explosive chemicals, fuels, and devices are commonplace. There is simply no room for carelessness. But in our earliest days, we did not always know what constituted careless behavior.

Some of the more dangerous types of devices in areas like ours were called SQIBs. They were small pyrotechnic (explosive) devices that were used to initiate stage separation in the rockets and to blow open shrouds and external panels. They were detonated electrically. A young technician in Huntsville made the had decision to coil up a large electrical cable as he held several SQIBs in his hand. Either a static discharge or an induced current from the cables set the devices off and the young man was badly burned.

Sometimes, accidents simply could not be anticipated. Not far from Complex 5, a building called the Spin Test 1 facility was located. This building housed a moderate sized turntable where satellites and booster components could be tested. In order to keep temperatures relatively constant on a satellite in space, it would be spun. This “rotisserie effect” spinning insured that no side of the object would stay in prolonged direct sunlight. Spinning was also induced when a satellite was jettisoned from its booster to stabilize it. in much the way that the spin of a bullet keeps it from tumbling.

A satellite was being prepared for spin testing. In the building, technicians casually pulled off a sheet of protective plastic to expose the shiny new hardware. Instantly, a large explosion occurred and four men were killed. We would have never guessed it could happen. The plastic generated a small static discharge and several of the SQIBs in the satellite detonated with tragic results. Immediately, we realized that our Mercury capsule sitting atop a Redstone on the pad was covered with the same plastic.

The protective plastic was removed from our spacecraft without incident, but it reminded us how easily the unexpected could happen. To protect ourselves from any similar accidents, we replaced all the SQIBs in the vehicle with ones that could accept a higher current without detonating.

And then there were the incidents that really were the result of carelessness. Late one afternoon I got a telephone call from Bob Moser, the Redstone test conductor.

“Hey Gunther.” Most of the guys used the Americanized version of my name. “Do you have any idea why the Redstone is suspended two inches above the launch stand?”

I couldn’t imagine what he could possibly be talking about. Then I remembered that we were removing a 140 pound plug in the end of the escape rocket. Quickly, I got on the headset to the technician who was operating the crane.

“Lloyd, this is Guenter. Have you lifted the weight off the rocket yet?”

“No,” he replied. “We’re working on it now.”

“Have you pulled the pip pins?” These were the pins that kept the weight attached to the escape rocket.

Lloyd paused for a moment. “What pip pins?”

With the crane, he had lifted the entire rocket right off the pad.

Other times, carelessness resulted in more severe consequences.

During one Air Force launch, crossed wires literally caused the loss of the rocket. The countdown proceeded normally and the Redstone climbed out as planned. I was watching from the blockhouse. In the RSO’s building, technicians watched the trajectory on a plotting board. Instead of arcing smoothly out over the water, the line showed the rocket beginning to arc upwards.

As the Redstone appeared to climb away from its proper course, the RSO announced “Send arm!” The rocket started to veer back towards land. “Send destruct!” called out the RSO and the vehicle exploded in a brilliant ball of fire. Dr. Debus immediately fell into a fit of rage.

“What the hell is going on?” he shouted.

The launch looked good and the radar showed that the trajectory was normal. Unfortunately, an Air Force technician had crossed two wires in the plotter causing it to pretty much swap east for west. The rocket was lost and the young man’s career at the Cape was over.

By early 1961, work was moving along at a hectic pace. Hangar S was crowded with engineers and technicians. Launch towers sprung up all along the coastline, resembling old oil rigs that you might have seen in Oklahoma or Texas. Some, in fact, were converted from oil rigs. Cocoa Beach was like a boom town in the middle of a gold rush.

After work, guys would frequently meet at the Starlight Motel for drinks. Their happy hour, five to seven p.m., was a real enticement. Buy one drink, and get a token for another free one. Whenever contractor reps would come down from their home plants, we would lube them up at the Starlight, then shake them down for their remaining tokens.

Generally, the astronauts were only at the Cape for special tests or when preparing specifically for their own missions. Except for Carpenter and Glenn, the other five leased gray Corvettes in a sweetheart deal with local car dealer, Jim Rathman. When they were in town, they owned the roads in the powerful sports cars. They didn’t speed... it was more like they just flew close to the ground. If an astronaut offered to give you a lift in his ‘vette, you knew you were in for the ride of your life.

I remember one time when Shepard and Grissom were down for Mercury-Redstone tests. These things often went on for hours and continued well after dark. On this particular test, Shepard left a bit early to get some sleep at the Holiday Inn. The astronauts were not very fond of the crew quarters in Hangar S and only used them when they had to. Anyway, Grissom stayed behind, crammed in the capsule for the duration of the long test. It was well after midnight when Gus sped away in his Corvette, en route to the Holiday Inn. Legend has it that he came screaming through Cocoa Beach, managing to lose the patrolman that was in pursuit. No problem though. Everyone knew who was driving those gray racing machines and where they were headed.

Gus squealed into the motel’s parking lot and parked his Corvette directly in front of Shepard’s room, then ran a few doors down and slipped quickly into his own room with the lights out. Soon the patrolman arrived to find two Corvettes in the parking lot. Feeling the hoods, he identified the hot one and began banging on Shepard’s door. It took a few moments for the sleepy astronaut to appear with a squint on his face.

“Is this your car?” the patrolman demanded, pointing at the gray Corvette in front of the door.

Shepard looked out, not realizing it was Gus’ car.

“Sure, that’s mine.”

“Well, you’re under arrest,” the angry officer announced as he turned Shepard around to slap the handcuffs on him.

I never did hear a credible account of how that episode was actually resolved, but you can trust that Shepard was the king of revenge. He always got even.

At the pad, we were busy trying to convert the oil derrick that stood there into a more modern rocket gantry. It needed to be able to lift the capsule on top of the rocket as well as provide platforms for access to the different parts of the spacecraft and booster. A rickety elevator was installed along the side of the tower and a large hammerhead crane was affixed to its top. The open platforms that we first had constructed at the spacecraft level were not satisfactory. Tropical rains swept through the area on a regular basis and water was a huge problem with all of the electronics.

Enter Gene McCoy, a NASA engineer whose attitude centered around the words. "How can I help you?” He recognized our needs and provided ideas and materials to help us fulfill them. He was a terrific asset to have. Every morning I heard the words, “How can I help you?” and knew I was off to a good start.

Our first attempt at solving the rain problem was to construct a windbreak around the capsule. Gene immediately went to work. He had a stout piece of pipe, bent in a ten foot diameter, attached to the gantry above us. From that we hung heavy sections of plastic. It was our first attempt to create what would later be called a “white room”. This sufficed for the unmanned launches but illustrated to Dr. Debus our need for something more elaborate and weather-tight.

The next thing we heard was that a contract had been issued to enclose the capsule level of the gantry with an aluminum skeleton and green translucent panels. In short order, our first real clean room was a reality and we were thrilled with the improvement. When I spoke with the contractor to thank him for a job well done, I discovered the odd ways that rules could get in the way. The contractor had negotiated a fixed price for building the clean room. But, when the job was completed and his 15% profit accounted for, there was still $22,000 left over. We were both shocked to discover that there was no provision for returning any surplus cash to NASA even though the contractor wished to do just that.

That was probably the event that turned me sour to unnecessary paperwork and silly regulations. So many times, arbitrary rules simply got in the way of doing a professional job. A case in point: It was a common practice at the Cape back in the 60’s for contractors to help each other out. If we needed some part or material on short notice, be it a fitting, a piece of tubing, or some sheet metal, we simply asked around and someone in a neighboring hangar would usually oblige. When we broke a drill bit or a tab and had no replacement available, I just pulled ten dollars from petty cash and sent a technician to Travis Hardware where another was quickly acquired. If we had been forced to go through the “normal” channels for requisition, as is done today, we would have stayed permanently behind schedule.

The newly constructed clean room had one additional feature that helped us tremendously. In the corner of the room, away from the spacecraft, sat a table and several coolers. Everyone pitched in to stock it with food and drinks. You could find anything from a stick of salami and Cracker Barrel cheese to sardines, braunschweiger and peanut butter in there. Cokes and Nehi orange drinks were the standard drinks.

One gremlin continued to haunt us on the gantry. The Rube Goldberg elevator seemed to have a mind of its own and operated only on its own schedule. Many times we had to wait at the top or the bottom for someone to come and coax it into operation. It was noisy, jerky, and just plain unreliable. Funny that we never really got that fixed. Balky elevators seemed to be a dark cloud that followed us from the Redstone to the Atlas and Titan pads. We were more worried about getting a hundred feet off the ground than we were about getting into space.

As we moved closer to our manned launches, it came to our attention that we had no means of egress for the astronaut if an emergency occurred while the launch tower was parked several hundred feet away. I think it was Bob Munger who came up with the idea of using the cherry-picker. This was a yellow, cranelike rig mounted on a long flatbed truck. It was operated by remote control. Its long boom could stay in position close to the spacecraft until right before the launch. In an emergency such as a fire on the pad, the astronaut could open the hatch and climb into the metal cage on the boom’s end. We would then swing him out of harm’s way. It was a bit crude, but did the job. Although the cheny-picker was essentially retired as a primary escape method after Grissom's Mercury flight, emergency egress systems were implemented for all the follow-1 on programs.

With the onset of Spring, we began closing in on the date for our first manned launch. We were getting very serious about putting a man on top of the Redstone rocket. No longer were we concerned about instrument packages oi chimps. Now we were talking about a human being that we knew personally.

We started becoming even more meticulous in everything we did. Each item was checked, tested, then double-checked. A dedicated group of MAC and NASA inspectors was assigned to watch over us. At first, we considered them an annoyance. I must admit 1 thought of them as another piece of red tape. But after they found a few shortcomings, we realized that they really were valuable tons and accepted them into our family. They became an important link in our chain - another pair of eyes to help keep us out of trouble. We could not have done our jobs without them.

The working hours got long and longer. Days off became scarce. Fatigue and emotional pressure made hard jobs even harder. At one point, I worked seven weeks without a day off. Everyone was pushed to their limits, but in work as critical as this, you simply could not go home unless the job was satisfactory and complete. Mr. Mac was very generous with our petty cash account. When a test ran past dinner time, I would call in to Ramon’s Restaurant in Cocoa Beach and order a hundred ham and cheese sandwiches and two hundred and fifty cups of coffee. Our technicians would pick them up at the South Gate allowing the ongoing test to continue without a break. Shutdowns could easily cost us two to three hours of time we could not afford to lose.

To break the tension, we sometimes resorted to little pranks. Our favored targets were people from the press. They frequently referred to us as “crazy scientists” so we were anxious to live up to their expectations. One day I was giving a tour of the pad and clean room to about twenty reporters. As we rode up the elevator I told them how each piece of hardware had a life of its own.

“We need to talk to them,” I told the reporters, “so that they perform optimally.”

When we stepped out of the elevator up at the spacecraft level, 1 bowed at the waist and said “Good morning.” The TV camera mounted on the wall in front of us nodded up and down in greeting. A couple of the reporters seemed startled.

“Do you like the people 1 have brought to visit?” I asked the camera. Negatively, it wagged side to side. I imagine the guys in the blockhouse who were operating the camera by remote control got a good laugh out of it. The reporters just thought we were nuts.

The astronauts were also quite adept at playing jokes on the press. We had an “off-day” at the pad and the NASA public affairs office used it to schedule a press walk-through. Since the press would not be allowed near the vehicle during the preparation for an actual launch, we were told to simulate some of the activities so they could see how it would look. Gordon Cooper was all suited up for the event and climbed into a NASA van at Hangar S. Bill Douglas, the astronaut physician, and Joe Schmitt, the suit technician joined Cooper and me inside. The press planned on filming and photographing the astronaut’s ride up the elevator to the capsule. These are the images they would use when our first manned launch occurred. Inside the van, Gordo was grinning through his open face mask.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Cooper drawled. Douglas and Schmitt both looked at me as the astronaut described his plan.

“You are going to get us all fired,” I told Gordo. I was a little concerned.

“What’s the matter, Gunther? You chicken?”

He knew how to get at me. “Let’s go!” was my answer.

When we pulled up on the pad, press people and cameras were ringed around us. NASA Public Affairs Officer Jack King stood proudly in front of the group. They were all very excited. Joe left the van first, followed by me and then Gordo. Dr. Douglas came out last and shut the door behind him.

Joe and I had already made it to the elevator. Cooper swaggered behind us carrying his portable ventilator and looking very much like the daring spaceman. Motion picture cameras whirred and flashbulbs popped. As he approached the bottom of the launch tower he slowed and finally stopped at the door to the elevator and set the ventilator down. Gordo surveyed the Redstone rocket up and down as if he was seeing it for the first time. Then, with a shake of his head he grabbed the door frame on both sides and began yelling loudly, “No. no! I won’t go!”

I grabbed him from the front and wrestled him inside with much commotion. Dr. Douglas shoved him into the cage and someone slammed the door shut. As we ascended laughing in the elevator we could hear a frantic Jack King on the ground.

“Stop all the cameras, no more pictures!” It did no good. The following week’s issue of Aviation Week called for the firing of Joe and I and suggested that Gordo and Bill Douglas, both still in the military, should be demoted. NASA management saw no humor in any of it. To this day, Gordo and I still refer to each other as “Private Fifth Class”.

As we busied ourselves incorporating the latest changes into the spacecraft, Glenn, Grissom and Shepard stayed busy in the simulator in Hangar S. The three prime candidates for the first Mercury flight spent fifty to sixty hours a week working on procedures in the simulator. During that period, Shepard made about 120 simulated flights, some in the sim and some in the altitude chamber. In spite of the fact that Gagarin had orbited the earth, and our first Mercury flight would be only sub-orbital, the Mercury was much more sophisticated than the Russian Vostok. Of course we didn’t know it at the time, but the lead we had in spacecraft systems was one that we would never relinquish.

By mid-April, we were conducting full dress launch rehearsals out at Pad 5. For the first two, the astronaut was suited up in the capsule, but the gantry remained in position next to the vehicle and the hatch remained open. The third rehearsal was a “full up”. The hatch was sealed and the spacecraft pressurized with 100% oxygen, then the gantry was pulled back. Our most complete test yet, this required the full support of the block house, Mercury Control Center, the Air Force, and all other supporting agencies. We finally felt like the time was here.

The launch of MR-3 was initially scheduled for Tuesday, May the 2nd. Over 300 news people gathered for the event, but the weather was bad and they instead introduced a new word to the public. “Scrub.” It was also when the name of our first astronaut to fly was announced. A1 Shepard immediately became one of the most recognized names in the world.

On the 4th, weather once again caused the flight to be canceled, but the first phase of the countdown did begin, anticipating a launch at 7:00 a.m. the following morning. Propellant loading began about six hours before launch. People meandered around the pad in street clothes and hard hats watching the process while white, gaseous oxygen clouds drifted around. In the pre-dawn hours, we installed the last of the pyrotechnics and loaded the hydrogen peroxide thrusters. Glenn occupied the spacecraft during the final preparations. At 5:00 a.m., Shepard arrived at the capsule level (our new clean room) along with Dr. Douglas and Joe Schmitt. After greetings and a few attempts at jokes, we loaded Shepard into the capsule and Joe began the process of strapping him in and hooking up the oxygen hoses and instrumentation and communication cables. I guess I should have been nervous, but we had all practiced our jobs so many times before that it felt like just another test. Yet this time was obviously different.

Joe, John, and Bill all shook hands with the soon-to-be spaceman and bid him farewell and a good ride. I then confirmed that all restraints and cables were properly applied. The process seemed to happen very fast and the realization that my friend was actually going to go this time began to sink in. After a firm handshake with Shepard and a thumbs-up, I requested the OK from Paul Donnelly to close the hatch. The test conductor polled the rest of the team and gave me the “GO” to close her up. My technicians went to work bolting the hatch down. It took a number of minutes to go through the seventy bolts that held the hatch in place. After a cabin leak check, we prepped the clean room. As it completely surrounded the spacecraft, it would have to be hydraulically swung open before the gantry could be rolled back, away from the vehicle. A final glitch, a faulty inverter, held us up another hour, but finally we were ready. I watched as the gantry was moved back and the cherry-picker set into position. I took a last look at the Redstone poised below our spacecraft before climbing into a car. Our job was done and we left the pad for the fallback area.

I was met by a larger than normal crowd at the fallback area. Concern was clearly shown on most of the faces. This time it was not just an instrument package or chimp on top of the rocket. It was a human. A man we all knew very well. With nothing left to do but watch, I must admit 1 began getting a bit nervous. Had I forgotten or overlooked anything? I felt the huge burden, the necessity to get everything right. Visions of exploding rockets kept running through my head and the wait seemed to be endless.

At T-15 minutes, clouds rolled in causing another “hold” in the count. For the next two and a half hours, I stood anxiously in the morning heat straining to hear every word over my headset. Shepard reclined in the spacecraft, undergoing his own type of strain. He had been in the cramped capsule for over three hours and his morning coffee relentlessly worked its way through his system. No one had bothered to think that he might have to relieve himself. After all, it was only scheduled to be a fifteen minute flight. I imagine the sweat was probably breaking out on his forehead as he tried to suppress the urge to urinate.

“Man, I gotta pee!” Shepard said over the communications loop.

CapCom Gordo Cooper registered the problem and passed it on to von Braun, Debus’ boss. The reply was negative. A few more minutes trickled by.

Shepard pleaded. “Gordo..., my bladder’s gonna burst!” Again, von Braun gave the negative.

In frustration, Shepard threatened, “Damn it, tell them I’m going to let it go in my suit.”

“No, no! The medics say you’ll short out all their medical leads!” answered Cooper.

Recognizing the growing severity of the problem, the decision was finally made to cut the power to the medical sensors and let the pained astronaut find relief. While Shepard waited patiently on his back, in a pool of warm urine, the countdown graciously resumed.

The minutes ticked by uncomfortably slowly. At T-2 minutes and 40 seconds, another brief hold was called due to a balky computer in Maryland. But soon the countdown was running again and the cherry-picker rotated clear of the vehicle.

“T minus 30 seconds,” I heard in my headset. I could barely see the periscope withdraw flush inside the spacecraft.

“T minus 15 seconds.” All we could do was wait and pray. I think I was holding my breath.

“T minus 10..., 9..., 8..., 7...” Every eye was affixed to the white rocket with its black spacecraft. Anxiety seemed to scream out in the silent crowd.

“3..., 2..., 1..., ignition......”

The umbilical cable had dropped away and the umbilical door on the spacecraft closed. Fire belched from the tail of the Redstone and it slowly started to climb away from the pad.

“Liftoff. The clock has started.”

The slender rocket with its human payload gathered speed and arced swiftly into the bright blue sky. A few puffy white clouds framed the background. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. I glanced around at the crowd. Some people spoke quietly to themselves, their mouths moving but no sound being heard. Others wiped tears from their eyes. I cannot describe the emotional swell I felt that morning. It was like nothing that I had ever experienced.

“Please, God,” I said to myself, “let nothing happen to this vehicle.” Having witnessed more than a hundred rocket failures, this flight seemed the ultimate test of our chain. The next fifteen minutes lasted for hours. I waited nervously, monitoring the flight over my headset. My relief at hearing “we have the capsule in sight” was only second to the announcement “the capsule is safely in the water.” When we got the final word that the spacecraft was on the carrier deck and that Shepard was stepping down out of the helicopter, we breathed a collective sigh of relief and tension was suddenly transformed into jubilation. It worked! We’ve actually done it! I simply cannot put into words the excitement and euphoria that I felt. Great success is a wonderful thing, usually indescribable 1 suppose.

I don’t remember much of the cleanup. We returned to the pad to secure all of our ground support equipment, surely in a state of exhaustion. I do remember how good it felt to get home, take a shower, and climb into bed for a few hours.

Early that evening, I arrived at the Holiday Inn where Mr. Mac was throwing a big party. Everyone was drinking and joking, standing around the pool. I remember tire chlorine smell and the underwater lights. After recruiting four of our biggest and strongest technicians, we quietly surrounded John Yardley who was in the middle of a conversation with someone.

“Go,” I called out, and the four technicians quickly had Yardley trapped and lifted off his feet. Just as they gave him the ceremonial swing over the water, he reached out and grabbed my arm. I tried to jerk free, but in a flash we were both in the warm water. I came up laughing, my black framed glasses still in place. Life magazine photographer Ralph Morse snapped the picture which appeared in their next issue. My souvenir was a pair of brand new water-logged shoes.

Several weeks later, we began what would come to be a special tradition. The “After Launch Dinner Party” had stringent rules. No outsiders, no press, no photographs, and no autographs. Guards were even hired to protect the entrances from uninvited guests. In exchange for our discretion we, along with our wives, were treated to a special, unedited, uncensored account of the flight, given by Shepard. It was a real honor to be able to hear all the details that never made it into the press. I also started a new tradition. We had retrieved the umbilical head from the launch pad, and had polished it up and mounted it on a plaque. For the rest of the Mercury flights, we would continue to take some piece of the flight hardware and mount it up as a special gift for the astronaut. These are some of the most meaningful gifts I have ever given and I will always remember the moments when they were presented.