The Eagle Has Landed: The Story of Apollo 11 by Jeffrey Smith Page B
Authors: Jeffrey Smith
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prior to lift-off, Slayton was joined at launch control by John Glenn and Gus Grissom. In an adjacent building, Gordon Cooper monitored weather conditions, and was on stand-by to coordinate rescue efforts, in the event of an emergency. Wally Schirra and Scott Carpenter waited at nearby Patrick Air Force Base; they were strapped in the cockpit seats of F-106 jets, poised to chase the spacecraft after launch.
Another man, whose name would eventually become synonymous with space exploration, was on hand at Cape Canaveral to witness Shepard’s historic launch. Television news was still in its technological infancy, and CBS News anchorman, Walter Cronkite, was forced to narrate the telecast from the back of a station wagon, which was parked within sight of the launch pad.
The 44-year-old Cronkite was an unabashed space enthusiast. NASA capitalized on media exposure to bolster its space program, and Cronkite became one of the agency’s most-valued spokespersons. Designated as a space agency insider, the newsman was privy to specific details about space missions, and established close personal relationships with many of the astronauts.
Cronkite’s growing fame during the 1960’s paralleled the trajectory of the American space program. By the end of his storied career, Cronkite would be known as “America’s anchorman,” and the “most trusted man in America.” Some media pundits, however, criticized Cronkite’s enthusiastic support for space exploration, believing that he was compromising his journalistic objectivity to become a “cheerleader” for NASA.
Cronkite’s enthusiasm was readily evident during CBS broadcasts, and he made no effort to apologize for his often giddy commentary. Cronkite readily acknowledged complicity in the glorification of the Mercury 7 astronauts: “We were quite aware that the image that NASA was trying to project was not quite honest. But, at the same time, there was recognition that the nation needed heroes.”
Prior to the lift-off of Freedom 7, Alan Shepard was confronted with the most basic of human needs. Because the initial Mercury flights were of such short duration, the space capsules were not equipped with toilet facilities. When Freedom 7’s launch was delayed several times, Shepard was forced to urinate inside his space suit; NASA medics shut down the electric sensors, to prevent an electrical short. As he awaited the final countdown, America’s first star voyager was stoically philosophical: “I just kept looking around me, remembering that everything in the capsule was supplied by the lowest bidder.”
The countdown to blast-off was repeatedly delayed by cloud cover and an overheated inverter, which had to be replaced. Strapped in his claustrophobic cockpit couch, Shepard’s impatience escalated: “Why don’t you fix this little problem, and light this candle?”
At 9:34 a.m., as 45 million Americans watched on television, the mighty Redstone rocket’s engines finally roared to life and the ground trembled. At the base of the rocket, solid steel flame deflectors deliberately channeled the exhaust away from the engines. Streams of water, delivered at the rate of 35,000 gallons per minute, cooled the deflectors, producing giant steam clouds that partially obscured the launch pad.
As the rocket sped skyward over the Atlantic Ocean, Shepard radioed launch control: “Roger. Lift off, and clock is started.”
Eighty-eight seconds after blast-off, the rocket surpassed Mach 1, eventually reaching a maximum velocity of 5,100 miles per hour. Through the capsule’s periscope, Shepard was able to identify Florida’s west coast, the Gulf of Mexico, mammoth Lake Okeechobee, and the Bahamas.
Shepard’s 15-minute flight followed a 302-mile arc, reaching an apogee of 116.5 miles, and ended with splash down in the Atlantic Ocean. He endured five minutes of alternating G-ll forces and weightlessness, before landing 260 miles downrange from Cape Canaveral.
During the course of
Another man, whose name would eventually become synonymous with space exploration, was on hand at Cape Canaveral to witness Shepard’s historic launch. Television news was still in its technological infancy, and CBS News anchorman, Walter Cronkite, was forced to narrate the telecast from the back of a station wagon, which was parked within sight of the launch pad.
The 44-year-old Cronkite was an unabashed space enthusiast. NASA capitalized on media exposure to bolster its space program, and Cronkite became one of the agency’s most-valued spokespersons. Designated as a space agency insider, the newsman was privy to specific details about space missions, and established close personal relationships with many of the astronauts.
Cronkite’s growing fame during the 1960’s paralleled the trajectory of the American space program. By the end of his storied career, Cronkite would be known as “America’s anchorman,” and the “most trusted man in America.” Some media pundits, however, criticized Cronkite’s enthusiastic support for space exploration, believing that he was compromising his journalistic objectivity to become a “cheerleader” for NASA.
Cronkite’s enthusiasm was readily evident during CBS broadcasts, and he made no effort to apologize for his often giddy commentary. Cronkite readily acknowledged complicity in the glorification of the Mercury 7 astronauts: “We were quite aware that the image that NASA was trying to project was not quite honest. But, at the same time, there was recognition that the nation needed heroes.”
Prior to the lift-off of Freedom 7, Alan Shepard was confronted with the most basic of human needs. Because the initial Mercury flights were of such short duration, the space capsules were not equipped with toilet facilities. When Freedom 7’s launch was delayed several times, Shepard was forced to urinate inside his space suit; NASA medics shut down the electric sensors, to prevent an electrical short. As he awaited the final countdown, America’s first star voyager was stoically philosophical: “I just kept looking around me, remembering that everything in the capsule was supplied by the lowest bidder.”
The countdown to blast-off was repeatedly delayed by cloud cover and an overheated inverter, which had to be replaced. Strapped in his claustrophobic cockpit couch, Shepard’s impatience escalated: “Why don’t you fix this little problem, and light this candle?”
At 9:34 a.m., as 45 million Americans watched on television, the mighty Redstone rocket’s engines finally roared to life and the ground trembled. At the base of the rocket, solid steel flame deflectors deliberately channeled the exhaust away from the engines. Streams of water, delivered at the rate of 35,000 gallons per minute, cooled the deflectors, producing giant steam clouds that partially obscured the launch pad.
As the rocket sped skyward over the Atlantic Ocean, Shepard radioed launch control: “Roger. Lift off, and clock is started.”
Eighty-eight seconds after blast-off, the rocket surpassed Mach 1, eventually reaching a maximum velocity of 5,100 miles per hour. Through the capsule’s periscope, Shepard was able to identify Florida’s west coast, the Gulf of Mexico, mammoth Lake Okeechobee, and the Bahamas.
Shepard’s 15-minute flight followed a 302-mile arc, reaching an apogee of 116.5 miles, and ended with splash down in the Atlantic Ocean. He endured five minutes of alternating G-ll forces and weightlessness, before landing 260 miles downrange from Cape Canaveral.
During the course of
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