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Officially given life by formal NASA decree in July 1960, the Apollo program would in the final three years of the decade concentrate humanity's fundamental longing to explore the heavens - probably felt even in the nascent consciousness of one of Homo sapiens' long-ago hairy ancestors as he or she gazed upward in first awareness of the moonlit sky - into the success or failure of a massive machine, hurled into space at an unthinkable speed, with three comparatively frail and tiny individuals inside. For all the grand romance and futuristic visions, it was the safe passage of those three individuals that was the foremost mission of all those associated with the journey in even the smallest, most prosaic capacity. The program began, as would each flight to the moon, with an enormous rocket, the Saturn V Consisting of three separate stages intricately engineered and developed by different manufacturers, the Saturn V came together under the guidance of Wernher von Braun at the Marshall Space Flight Center in Alabama. The first stage, dubbed the S-IC, was the responsibility of the Boeing Corporation. Its five engines powered by a mix of some 330,000 gallons of liquid oxygen and 200,000 gallons of kerosene, the 150-foot-tall S-[C provided enormous lift for the two rocket stages that sat atop it, as well as the service and command modules above them. For the second stage, the S-II, the contractor was North American Aviation, which was also building the command module that would house the astronauts in space. North American developed a new engine for the S-II in order to take advantage of highly efficient liquid hydrogen fuel; five such engines powered the finished S-II. The uppermost piece of the launch rocket was the S-IVB, designed by the Douglas Aircraft Company. Its single engine was also fueled by liquid hydrogen, but was designed for in-flight thrust, to put the spacecraft into earth orbit or to set it on its way to the moon. It was also the seat of the Saturn V's guidance and control nerve center, an immensely complex IBM-built computer responsible for tracking and controlling virtually every aspect of the huge rocket's performance during launch and separation of the stages. The men assigned the task of opening the Apollo era were veterans Gus Grissom and Ed White, and group three astronaut Roger Chaffee, who was to fly in space for the first time. Standard-bearers for the program destined to culminate in realizing the ancient dream of humanity's first contact with another world, the initial Apollo astronauts were subject to intense pressure both within the space agency and externally, from the media and the general public. The Mercury and Gemini projects had at the very least evened up the space race with the Soviets; in fact, the success of those programs had made the possibility of being first on the moon seem a near-certainty, provided Apollo could match the speed and efficiency of its predecessors. NASA was certainly optimistic as the year began, with the launch of Apollo 1-the first step in the last push toward the moon - scheduled for February 21, 1967. The astronauts themselves were the agency's best defense against criticism. However deeply held one's reservations were about the logic and goals of the space program, the smiling faces of the hardworking, dedicated astronauts were irresistible to all but those most adamantly opposed to the program or the agency, or those who'd simply grown too cynical to take more than a passing interest in romantic adventure or epic drama of any sort. Soldiers of peace bent on exploring the darkness of space in the idealistic hope that such adventure might somehow further the cause of our humble little blue world, the astronauts brought a new kind of nobility to the image of the bluff hero the nation had come to know from its films and television programs. Filled out in flesh and blood, suffering a lonely yearning for something truly new that could be adequately understood only by his fellow sufferers, the astronaut was the personification of the heroic American archetype. The particular crew of Apollo 1 definitively represented their fellows, as though cast to type. Chaffee, for instance, was the epitome of the earnest young All-American about to validate his superiors' belief in his obvious potential. By taking his place alongside the first select few who would meet the risks necessary for the opportunity to fly in space, he would contribute to the knowledge and experience that would eventually land an American on the moon, and who knew what after that? As he posed in his bulky space suit for the photographs NASA needed to help convince the world that Apollo 1 would proceed as planned, he could hardly have imagined just how awful a price those risks would demand, or how integral a contribution he and his crewmen would make to the program's ultimate outcome. Ed White was probably more relaxed in the glaring spotlight of public attention. He'd had ample experience with public hero worship when he became the first American to walk in space, during the June 1965 flight of Gemini 4. He projects a smooth, relaxed confidence in NASA's Apollo photos, a warm, broad smile adorning the face previously hidden by his reflective visor in the famous series of photos from his spacewalk. If the images can be trusted as an accurate depiction of his emotions at the time, White surely must have been looking forward to his role in Apollo. While his place in history had already been secured thanks to his Gemini exploits, his smile suggests the forward-looking confidence embodied by so many of the astronauts as they addressed new assignments. In any case, his is a comforting countenance, full of joy and anticipation. Gus Grissom, of course, had demonstrated the astronauts' courage when, after nearly drowning in his doomed Mercury capsule, he returned to space with John Young on the first manned Gemini mission. Now he would have the honor of being commander of the first Apollo. Present at the creation as one of the original Mercury Seven, Grissom was familiar to millions of Americans, who were no doubt reassured by his broad grin beaming out at them from the official NASA photos as they picked up their daily newspapers to read of the crew's preparations. As the astronauts lay on their couches in the Apollo 1 cabin, awash in an atmosphere of highly flammable pure oxygen on top of a forest of twisted wire bundles, some small fault in the electrical system produced a spark, leaping up from the floor on Gus Grissom's side of the capsule. As far as anyone investigating the incident could later determine, a small fire resulted, burning for perhaps ten seconds before igniting a massive holocaust. Fed by the oxygen, flames quickly engulfed the entire innards of the small cabin. There were precious few moments for last words. Gus Grissom shouted, "I've got a fire in the cockpit," preceded and followed by a single word first from Ed White and then from Roger Chaffee: "Fire!" Long years of training took over; the three astronauts fell immediately to their emergency tasks, Grissom frantically trying to release the lever that would vent the cabin of the oxygen atmosphere, White heaving hard against the workings of the inner hatch, Chaffee valiantly trying to maintain communications even as the fire raged violently all around him. In a single, horrible instant, the cabin was awash in a killing heat, later estimated at anywhere from 1,400 to 2,500 degrees Fahrenheit. The fire overcame the three astronauts in less than ten seconds. The dismay and sadness felt by all those who had known and worked with the three astronauts were shared by the nation at large, as the cheery images of NASA's publicity photos were replaced in people's minds by descriptions of the fire, the thwarted rescue efforts, and the astronauts' funerals. A few days after the fire, Lieutenant Colonel Grissom and Lieutenant Commander Chaffee were buried in Arlington National Cemetery; Lieutenant Colonel White was buried at his alma mater, the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, New York. The epic journey began at 9:32 a.m. EST on July 16, 1969. The all-veteran crew of commander Neil Armstrong, lunar module pilot Buzz Aldrin, and command pilot Michael Collins lifted off atop the stately Saturn V, playing out the first few notes of an ancient lyric dream. Watching on television in unprecedented numbers, ordinary citizens across the nation wondered in awe at the mighty rocket spewing flames, catapulting the tiny spacecraft into the heavens. After years of racing the Russians into space, surviving the death of the president who had inspired the trip, the loss of the Apollo 1 crew, and the long descent into Vietnam that etched the dark side of the American spirit as fully as Apollo illuminated its bright face, the nation was finally going to the moon. The launch and the trip out of the earth's atmosphere went smoothly. Once they were in space, just three hours after liftoff, Collins directed the command module Columbia into the separation maneuver, then swung the craft around in search of the lunar module (LM) Eagle. The LM loomed awkwardly in the darkness of the Saturn's third stage, the rim of the spent rocket forming a sort of halo around it as Collins reached in with Columbia's probe to pull the spindly craft loose. The docking procedure was flawless, and the trip continued without incident. Three days passed during the 238,000-mile first leg of the journey. The crew slipped into lunar orbit on July 19, only the third group of human beings ever to do so, and Armstrong and Aldrin prepared to leave Collins and ride down to the surface. Having experienced the proximate sensations thousands of times in simulators back home, the crew had obviously had some time along the way to reflect on the nature of their undertaking, and their understanding of the mission's import punctuated the official communications. Thus when the command and lunar modules separated, Armstrong exclaimed, "The Eagle has wings!" Estimates vary, but as many as one billion people are believed to have seen some portion of the Apollo 11 television coverage. The world watched and waited as Armstrong and Aldrin maneuvered the Eagle toward the surface of the moon. And then they were on the surface of the moon, landed in the area known as the Sea of Tranquility. The exact instant came at 4:17:42 p.m. Eastern daylight time, July 20, 1969. Through the emanations of two tiny, fragile sparks of life borrowed momentarily from its brighter, livelier companion, the silent world spoke for the first time. Suddenly, unforgettably, Armstrong's voice rang out across the vast ocean of space. "Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed." Neil Armstrong stepped onto the moon and into history at 10:56 p.m. with the words "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." Aldrin followed within fifteen minutes. A brief exchange between the two men revealed something of their personalities. Looking around the airless, cloudless little world, at the ancient rocks and empty craters and the way the moon's horizon curved away at either end, rather than appearing flat like the much larger earth's, Armstrong marveled, "Isn't that something? Magnificent sight out here." Equally awed by the experience, Aldrin gave an almost poetic reply: "Magnificent desolation." Apollo 13 lifted off on April 11, 1970, and experienced few problems during the first two-thirds of its three-day trek to the moon. The crew seemed relaxed and happy during their television broadcast, beamed back to mission control in the early evening of April 13. Afterward, the astronauts ran through a series of routine tasks, including one known in the technojargon as a "cryo stir," or stirring of the service module's four cryogenic tanks, two of which contained oxygen and two that were filled with hydrogen. Occasionally thrashing around the contents was a necessity to ensure that their internal measuring devices produced accurate readings. The tanks themselves were crucial components of the flight, providing oxygen for the crew to breathe and a mix of oxygen and nitrogen to feed the three fuel cells supplying the spacecraft's electricity and water. A sharp banging jolt resonated throughout the joined Apollo 13 command, service, and lunar modules shortly after the cryo stir was completed. Within a few seconds, the crew and ground controllers at mission control were awash in a sea of warning lights, indicating that something had gone seriously wrong with the spacecraft. "Hey, we've got a problem here," Swigert said as the craft shuddered from side to side. "This is Houston, say again, please," replied atronaut Jack Lousma, the current capsule communicator in mission control. "Houston, we've had a problem," Lovell confirmed. The veteran commander knew that the bang and on going vibration of the craft did not bode well. As they neared earth, the time came to jettison the service module - the location of the still-mysterious accident that had caused all the trouble. It was a simple procedure, performed on every flight, but in this case the astronauts were particularly interested in viewing the service module after letting it go. And when they did, the magnitude of their ordeal became jarringly evident. One entire side of the service module was missing, with only a scarred hole where one of the two oxygen tanks had sat. The crew frantically snapped photos of the damage, in the hope that they might be of use in determining the cause of the accident during the inevitable postflight investigation. Once the crew was back in Odyssey, the hatch was closed and the lunar module was jettisoned. "Farewell, Aquarius, and we thank you," said astronaut capcom Joe Kerwin in Houston as Lovell, Haise and Swigert watched the LM slowly drift away. Finally, on April 17, 1970, Apollo 13 returned safely to earth, splashing down just four miles away from the prime recovery ship, the USS lwo Jima. The crew was alive, suffering surely from the effects of their ordeal, dehydrated (the downside of their remarkable efficiency at conserving water), haggard, fatigued, and thinner (Lovell lost fourteen pounds during the trip) but alive. Haise was particularly ill, with a fever of 103 degrees and an infection that took weeks to clear. But all three astronauts had survived without lasting detriments to their health.
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