"Live From Cape Canaveral": Covering the Space Race, From Sputnik to Today by Jay Barbree Page A
Authors: Jay Barbree
Tags: United States, General, History, Military, 20th Century, State & Local, Technology & Engineering, 21st Century, Aeronautics & Astronautics
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out of Aurora Seven andclimb into his raft. He was just sitting there, eating a Baby Ruth, cataloging what he’d seen and learned.
B ehind the scenes, a devastated Deke Slayton was waging a fierce struggle to return to flight status, and his fellow astronauts were worried. To the man, they were concerned about the effect the grounding was having on him.
As you would expect, John Glenn stepped forward. “We’re a team,” he said. “We’ve got to pull for our friend.”
“We’re going to give Deke back his pride,” Alan Shepard said.
“Yew man,” Gus Grissom agreed. Two words from Gus was a full speech.
So they decided to make Deke their boss.
“Give him the power,” Wally Schirra said. “His own title, office, whatever he needs.”
“Hell, he’ll be chief astronaut,” Gordo Cooper said, “but we’ll have to work fast.”
“Why?”
“Washington’s at it again,” Cooper told them. “Our friends at Edwards tell me they’re bringing in an air force general to take charge of the astronauts.”
“Like hell they are,” snapped Shepard. “Maybe an admiral, but no general,” the future admiral laughed.
“Well,” pondered Glenn, “we’ll just stand firm.”
“Damn right,” Cooper agreed. “It’s gotta be one of us.”
“Damn right,” Scott Carpenter said, slamming a fist on the table. “It’s gotta be Deke.”
They stood solid. Stonewall Jackson would have been proud.
N ASA knew the Mercury Seven could not fly all the orbital flights in the upcoming Gemini program. New pilots had to be recruited for the astronaut corps. The agency went back and hired Neil Armstrong, Frank Borman, Charles “Pete” Conrad, James Lovell, James McDivitt, Elliott See, Tom Stafford, Ed White, and John Young. They had just missed the Mercury Seven cut, and with the exception of civilian Armstrong, they were all military. They were immediately dubbed the Gemini Nine.
NASA had also come to realize it needed someone to manage the astronauts’ office, to select flight crews, make assignments, plan and schedule training time, and be a link between the pilots and management. In short, be a mother hen to this elite corps.
The Mercury astronauts made three recommendations to NASA management: Deke Slayton, Deke Slayton, and Deke Slayton. NASA administrator Jim Webb smiled and turned a thumbs-up, and Deke became chief astronaut.
Those who were there said it was like turning on a switch. Deke’s pride was back. The first rule he made was there would be no copilots in space. No test pilot could stomach being called a copilot, and Deke laughed and proclaimed, “Our Gemini crew members will be made up of a command pilot and a pilot.”
Astronaut Wally Schirra is slipped into his Mercury spacecraft Sigma Seven for his textbook flight. (NASA).
Some outsiders judged the appointment as a pacifier for a crestfallen astronaut, but that attitude had a short life. Deke took absolute charge. In short order his office was the power to be reckoned with. The new levels of respect carried over to the entire astronaut team. Everybody stepped back when it came to astronaut selection for flights. Deke carried the ball, and on October 3, 1962, while the World Series was being played, an Atlas rocket boosted Wally Schirra and his Sigma Seven into orbit. Wally proved his skills, as Deke knew he would. He stayed up for six orbits—nine hours. He had been launched with the same fuel quantity as Glenn and Carpenter, but he conserved fuel in a way that amazed Mercury Control. In the process he went through his scientific and engineering checklist with an efficiency that would have turned a robot green with envy.
It was what NASA watchers had been waiting for, a perfect flight. Sigma Seven splashed down less than four miles from the main recovery carrier near Midway Island in the Pacific. One broadcaster dubbed it “the flight of the Mongoose.”
W hen the dust had settled in the wake of Schirra’s mission, the new
B ehind the scenes, a devastated Deke Slayton was waging a fierce struggle to return to flight status, and his fellow astronauts were worried. To the man, they were concerned about the effect the grounding was having on him.
As you would expect, John Glenn stepped forward. “We’re a team,” he said. “We’ve got to pull for our friend.”
“We’re going to give Deke back his pride,” Alan Shepard said.
“Yew man,” Gus Grissom agreed. Two words from Gus was a full speech.
So they decided to make Deke their boss.
“Give him the power,” Wally Schirra said. “His own title, office, whatever he needs.”
“Hell, he’ll be chief astronaut,” Gordo Cooper said, “but we’ll have to work fast.”
“Why?”
“Washington’s at it again,” Cooper told them. “Our friends at Edwards tell me they’re bringing in an air force general to take charge of the astronauts.”
“Like hell they are,” snapped Shepard. “Maybe an admiral, but no general,” the future admiral laughed.
“Well,” pondered Glenn, “we’ll just stand firm.”
“Damn right,” Cooper agreed. “It’s gotta be one of us.”
“Damn right,” Scott Carpenter said, slamming a fist on the table. “It’s gotta be Deke.”
They stood solid. Stonewall Jackson would have been proud.
N ASA knew the Mercury Seven could not fly all the orbital flights in the upcoming Gemini program. New pilots had to be recruited for the astronaut corps. The agency went back and hired Neil Armstrong, Frank Borman, Charles “Pete” Conrad, James Lovell, James McDivitt, Elliott See, Tom Stafford, Ed White, and John Young. They had just missed the Mercury Seven cut, and with the exception of civilian Armstrong, they were all military. They were immediately dubbed the Gemini Nine.
NASA had also come to realize it needed someone to manage the astronauts’ office, to select flight crews, make assignments, plan and schedule training time, and be a link between the pilots and management. In short, be a mother hen to this elite corps.
The Mercury astronauts made three recommendations to NASA management: Deke Slayton, Deke Slayton, and Deke Slayton. NASA administrator Jim Webb smiled and turned a thumbs-up, and Deke became chief astronaut.
Those who were there said it was like turning on a switch. Deke’s pride was back. The first rule he made was there would be no copilots in space. No test pilot could stomach being called a copilot, and Deke laughed and proclaimed, “Our Gemini crew members will be made up of a command pilot and a pilot.”
Astronaut Wally Schirra is slipped into his Mercury spacecraft Sigma Seven for his textbook flight. (NASA).
Some outsiders judged the appointment as a pacifier for a crestfallen astronaut, but that attitude had a short life. Deke took absolute charge. In short order his office was the power to be reckoned with. The new levels of respect carried over to the entire astronaut team. Everybody stepped back when it came to astronaut selection for flights. Deke carried the ball, and on October 3, 1962, while the World Series was being played, an Atlas rocket boosted Wally Schirra and his Sigma Seven into orbit. Wally proved his skills, as Deke knew he would. He stayed up for six orbits—nine hours. He had been launched with the same fuel quantity as Glenn and Carpenter, but he conserved fuel in a way that amazed Mercury Control. In the process he went through his scientific and engineering checklist with an efficiency that would have turned a robot green with envy.
It was what NASA watchers had been waiting for, a perfect flight. Sigma Seven splashed down less than four miles from the main recovery carrier near Midway Island in the Pacific. One broadcaster dubbed it “the flight of the Mongoose.”
W hen the dust had settled in the wake of Schirra’s mission, the new
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