Flying to the Moon (11 page)
Read Flying to the Moon Online
Authors: Michael Collins
Finally the moment arrived, and a voice from below counted us down: 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1 - RETROFIRE! After nearly three days of weightlessness, I had forgotten what acceleration felt like, except for those brief bursts from the Agena. Now I counted the four rockets as they fired one after another, and they really felt powerful. I was pushed back in my couch with an acceleration of one half G, but it felt more like 3 Gs to my sensitized body. As we descended, John flew the spacecraft while I worked with the computer to figure out where we would come down. As we entered the upper atmosphere, there was a five-minute period in which we were “blacked out”; that is, we couldn't talk on the radio. This strange fact is caused by an electric charge which surrounds the spacecraft, and which in turn is caused by the great friction produced when the spacecraft hits the atmosphere at high speed. Our heat shield was forward and our heads were pointed down toward the earth. John banked this way and that, depending on the steering information coming from our computer. It was like making gliding turns to an airport, except that we were coming in upside down and backward.
As I looked out behind us, I could see that we were developing a long tail. This was caused by little pieces of our heat shield burning up and coming off, as it was supposed to do, to protect us from the searing frictional heat. At first the tail was very thin, but then it became thicker and brighter, glowing red and yellow in the dark sky. It was very pretty. As our G level built up to 4, I really felt heavy, but it didn't last long, and then we were down below the
greatest heat and deceleration, and it was time to try the parachutes. First out was the drogue, a small parachute (six feet across) designed to slow us down enough to open our main chute. When the drogue came out, we began to swing back and forth wildly and I got slightly nervous, but then things quieted down a bit, and at 10,000 feet we unfurled our main chute, nearly sixty feet in diameter. It inflated with a great whap and filled our windows with red and white nylon. Beautiful! Soon after the main chute deployed, we noticed a strange thing. In addition to coming straight down, we were turning sideways. Apparently we were spinning on the end of our parachute line, and I didn't like that a bit. I figured it would make us descend faster and we would hit the water like a ton of bricks. We didn't, though. We must have caught the edge of a descending wave, because there was a gentle splash, and then our windows were full of white foam and blue-green water.
greatest heat and deceleration, and it was time to try the parachutes. First out was the drogue, a small parachute (six feet across) designed to slow us down enough to open our main chute. When the drogue came out, we began to swing back and forth wildly and I got slightly nervous, but then things quieted down a bit, and at 10,000 feet we unfurled our main chute, nearly sixty feet in diameter. It inflated with a great whap and filled our windows with red and white nylon. Beautiful! Soon after the main chute deployed, we noticed a strange thing. In addition to coming straight down, we were turning sideways. Apparently we were spinning on the end of our parachute line, and I didn't like that a bit. I figured it would make us descend faster and we would hit the water like a ton of bricks. We didn't, though. We must have caught the edge of a descending wave, because there was a gentle splash, and then our windows were full of white foam and blue-green water.
The sea was quiet, which was really helpful. A spacecraft does not have a keel or a deep hull like a boat, and it bobs and weaves with even the slightest wind or waves. I did not want to get seasick. Outside, I could see one of our thrusters still smoking, and then a helicopter flashed by the window. Inside, it was hot, and I suddenly realized how dry and cool it had been for the past three days. Now that we were back on earth, it was moist and smelled like burned chemicals, but mostly it was
hot
. I had my pressure suit half filled with sweat by the time we got our hatch open, and were out into a rubber raft, and up into a helicopter, and back onto the deck of our aircraft carrier. The flight was over, and I was ready to get out of that pressure suit.
hot
. I had my pressure suit half filled with sweat by the time we got our hatch open, and were out into a rubber raft, and up into a helicopter, and back onto the deck of our aircraft carrier. The flight was over, and I was ready to get out of that pressure suit.
N
ow I was a real astronaut, not just a rookie who hoped to fly in space. John Young was off to Orlando, Florida, for a home-town parade, but I didn't really have a home town, so after a brief vacation at the beach I was ready to start working on Apollo. I had thought that the Gemini spacecraft was pretty complicated, but it seemed like a toy compared with the Apollo equipment. There were two Apollo spacecraftâthe command module and the lunar module. The command module was scheduled to fly first, and my first job was to learn it. It was so complicated that I really felt stupid when I got inside it. There were so many pipes, valves, levers, knobs, brackets,
dials, and handlesâand I didn't have any idea what most of them did. Not to mention switches. In the command module, there were over
three hundred
of one type of switch alone. I was assigned to a crew with Frank Borman and Tom Stafford. Frank was the commander, Tom was the command-module pilot, and I was the lunar-module pilot (although we didn't have a lunar module yet). At that time we were the only crew with no rookies on it, and I thought we had a good chance to be the first men on the moon. I liked that idea.
ow I was a real astronaut, not just a rookie who hoped to fly in space. John Young was off to Orlando, Florida, for a home-town parade, but I didn't really have a home town, so after a brief vacation at the beach I was ready to start working on Apollo. I had thought that the Gemini spacecraft was pretty complicated, but it seemed like a toy compared with the Apollo equipment. There were two Apollo spacecraftâthe command module and the lunar module. The command module was scheduled to fly first, and my first job was to learn it. It was so complicated that I really felt stupid when I got inside it. There were so many pipes, valves, levers, knobs, brackets,
dials, and handlesâand I didn't have any idea what most of them did. Not to mention switches. In the command module, there were over
three hundred
of one type of switch alone. I was assigned to a crew with Frank Borman and Tom Stafford. Frank was the commander, Tom was the command-module pilot, and I was the lunar-module pilot (although we didn't have a lunar module yet). At that time we were the only crew with no rookies on it, and I thought we had a good chance to be the first men on the moon. I liked that idea.
I also liked some of the training I was getting. For example, before anyone could fly a lunar module, he had to have several hundred hours of practice in a helicopter. We had a couple of small helicopters in Houston, and I enjoyed flying them. Learning to fly a helicopter takes some getting used to: it's sort of like rubbing your stomach with one hand while patting the top of your head with the other. Try it. In a helicopter, both hands are busy all the time. Your left hand holds a stick which contains the engine throttle, plus the control which makes the helicopter go up and down. If you want to go up, you pull up with your left hand. This causes the rotor blades to twist slightly and grab a bigger bite of air, and up you go. At the same time, the blades tend to slow down, so you have to twist your left wrist to add throttle, to keep the blades turning at the same speed. While all this is going on, your right hand is holding a different stick, and your feet are on the rudder pedals. Your right hand cannot let go, even for a second, or the helicopter will tilt out of control, up-down or left-right. The rudder pedals keep the nose pointed straight. You are busy, but after you get the hang of it, it is great funâa lot
more fun than rubbing your stomach while patting your head. Although helicopters don't fly very fast, in many ways I prefer flying them to a speedy jet, because you can do more things with them.
more fun than rubbing your stomach while patting your head. Although helicopters don't fly very fast, in many ways I prefer flying them to a speedy jet, because you can do more things with them.
The reason we had to practice in helicopters was that the lunar module's descent to the surface of the moon was very similar to a helicopter's vertical descent and landing. In Houston we even had an imitation lunar surface, a slagcovered field with make-believe craters in it. Slag looks like pieces of porous rock but actually is the cinders left over when iron ore is melted down to make steel. It was gray in color and when you flew over this field in your helicopter it looked just like the photographs of the moon. As we glided in toward a landing in the early morning or late afternoon, we could judge how high we were by the shadows on the craters, just as we would on the moon. Sometimes I also chased birds in the helicopter, but of course that was not part of our training. I did learn, however, that even the most awkward bird is a
much
better pilot than I.
much
better pilot than I.
In addition to flying the helicopter in Houston, I was spending a lot of time flying back and forth to Los Angeles, where the command module was being assembled. The one assigned to Borman and Stafford and me was coming along nicely, and I was finally getting to feel at home in it and learn what all the switches did. At about this time, however, the whole series of planned Apollo flights was rearranged. In the process, Tom Stafford was assigned a crew of his own, and I took his place. Bill Anders took mine, making the new lineup BormanâCollinsâAnders. The only problem with this rearrangement was a rule which said no rookie could stay in the command module by
himself. It had to be someone who had flown in space before. That meant me, because Anders was a rookie, and that meant that I got “promoted” from lunar-module pilot to command-module pilot. From that day on, although I later changed crews, I never changed specialties. Today a lot of people ask me: “On the Apollo 11 flight, how did you and Aldrin and Armstrong decide who was going to stay in the command module and who was going to walk on the moon?” I usually just mumble, because it is very difficult to explain all about these rules and crew changes. At the time I was very sad, because that was the end of my helicopter flying and my bird chasing, and because I suspected that once I became a command-module specialist, I would never be anything else again. But, on the other hand, I was pleased to be on
any
crew, and BormanâCollinsâAnders had a fascinating earth-orbital flight planned, one that was supposed to take us up to 4,000 miles, far higher than anyone had ever ventured. From 4,000 miles, we would be able to see the
whole
earth, from North Pole to South Pole, something no one had ever been able to do before.
himself. It had to be someone who had flown in space before. That meant me, because Anders was a rookie, and that meant that I got “promoted” from lunar-module pilot to command-module pilot. From that day on, although I later changed crews, I never changed specialties. Today a lot of people ask me: “On the Apollo 11 flight, how did you and Aldrin and Armstrong decide who was going to stay in the command module and who was going to walk on the moon?” I usually just mumble, because it is very difficult to explain all about these rules and crew changes. At the time I was very sad, because that was the end of my helicopter flying and my bird chasing, and because I suspected that once I became a command-module specialist, I would never be anything else again. But, on the other hand, I was pleased to be on
any
crew, and BormanâCollinsâAnders had a fascinating earth-orbital flight planned, one that was supposed to take us up to 4,000 miles, far higher than anyone had ever ventured. From 4,000 miles, we would be able to see the
whole
earth, from North Pole to South Pole, something no one had ever been able to do before.
In January of 1967, the first Apollo crew was about ready to fly. Gus Grissom had flown twice before, once aboard the Mercury Liberty Bell 7, and once aboard the first manned Gemini. Ed White, my old partner, had been our nation's first space walker. Roger Chaffee, who had been picked to be an astronaut in the same group as me, was a rookieâand the third man on the crew. The three of them were sealed up inside their Apollo command module on the launch pad at Cape Kennedy when a fire broke out inside the spacecraft. The atmosphere inside the spacecraft was 100 percent oxygen, instead of normal air, which is
only 20 percent oxygen. The difference is that things burn much more rapidly in 100 percent oxygen, and within seconds the inside of their spacecraft was filled with smoke and flames. The three astronauts died almost instantly, without any chance of escaping. As soon as this tragic news reached Houston, our whole community was filled with a great sense of shock. For years we all had known that space flight was dangerous, and could actually kill someone, but now it had happenedâand on the ground, at that. What had gone wrong? What were we supposed to do now? Were Grissom, White, and Chaffee the only ones who would die, or just the first in a long series? Of course, no one knew the answer to the last question, but as several months went by, answers to the first two became apparent. Something had gone wrong in the electrical system of the command module, resulting in a short circuit. This, in turn, caused a spark, which caused some flammable material to burst into flames.
only 20 percent oxygen. The difference is that things burn much more rapidly in 100 percent oxygen, and within seconds the inside of their spacecraft was filled with smoke and flames. The three astronauts died almost instantly, without any chance of escaping. As soon as this tragic news reached Houston, our whole community was filled with a great sense of shock. For years we all had known that space flight was dangerous, and could actually kill someone, but now it had happenedâand on the ground, at that. What had gone wrong? What were we supposed to do now? Were Grissom, White, and Chaffee the only ones who would die, or just the first in a long series? Of course, no one knew the answer to the last question, but as several months went by, answers to the first two became apparent. Something had gone wrong in the electrical system of the command module, resulting in a short circuit. This, in turn, caused a spark, which caused some flammable material to burst into flames.
Three things had to be done. First, the electrical systems of all future spacecraft had to be carefully checked for possible short circuits. Second, all highly flammable material inside the spacecraft had to be replaced. Third, 100 percent oxygen would not be used on the launch pad, at full atmospheric pressure, but would be used only in orbit, at onethird atmospheric pressure. These changes took a long time, and it was nearly two years after the deaths of Grissom, White, and Chaffee before the first manned Apollo finally flew. It was especially difficult to find non-burnable materials to substitute for what we already had. The pressure suits, for example, had been covered with nylon, and that was replaced with something called Beta cloth, which
did not burn as easily. Beta cloth was woven from glass fibers. The only trouble with this change was that Beta cloth is also very fragile, and if your knees or elbows got even a little bit worn, the glass fibers would come loose. In the weightlessness of space, they would float around freely, and it was quite possible that an astronaut might inhale them. Once in his lungs, there was no way to get them out again, and they might cause permanent damage. A coating had to be developed, therefore, which in itself was fireproof, to put over the Beta cloth to prevent it from flaking off. Finally, Teflon was selected. Thus one problem created a second, which created a third. A string of complications like this seemed common in the space program, at least it did in 1967 and 1968.
did not burn as easily. Beta cloth was woven from glass fibers. The only trouble with this change was that Beta cloth is also very fragile, and if your knees or elbows got even a little bit worn, the glass fibers would come loose. In the weightlessness of space, they would float around freely, and it was quite possible that an astronaut might inhale them. Once in his lungs, there was no way to get them out again, and they might cause permanent damage. A coating had to be developed, therefore, which in itself was fireproof, to put over the Beta cloth to prevent it from flaking off. Finally, Teflon was selected. Thus one problem created a second, which created a third. A string of complications like this seemed common in the space program, at least it did in 1967 and 1968.
Finally, Wally Schirra and Donn Eisele and Walt Cunningham got the first manned Apollo into the air. Called Apollo 7 (because there had been six unmanned tests before it), they stayed in earth orbit for ten days. It was an amazingly successful flight, and cheered us all up, even though I suppose we all still thought a lot about the dreadful fire. Before we could land on the moon, however, we still had a lot of work to do. Wally Schirra and his crew did not have a lunar module, because it was not yet ready to fly. Also, they were launched by the Saturn IB booster, which was the baby brother of the huge Saturn V required to reach the moon. We astronauts worried about the development of the lunar module and the Saturn V. However, I think the one thing that concerned us most in planning future flights was bringing the command module and the lunar module together in orbit around the moon.
If the lunar module took off from the surface of the moon
at exactly the right time and in exactly the right direction, it was fairly simple to catch the command module as it whizzed by overhead. But if the lunar module had to take off early or late, or got into a lopsided or crooked orbit, then all kinds of trouble could easily develop, and the rendezvous process could become very complicated, indeed. If the lunar module had to take off late, it was further behind the command module than usual, and had to fly faster to catch up with it before its limited oxygen supply was all used up. In orbit, to fly faster you have to fly lower, so the further behind the lunar module was, the lower the orbit it would aim for. That idea was fine right up to the point where the lunar module was just skimming the mountain tops (there being no atmosphere on the moon, you can orbit right down to the surface; in earth orbit, you have to stay up above the atmosphere, or approximately a hundred miles up). If the lunar module was so far behind the command module that even mountain skimming wasn't going to allow it to catch up fast enough, the command module could help a bit by going higher, and therefore slower. But if this was not of sufficient help, then a whole new game plan went into effect, and the command module and the lunar module switched roles. The lunar module, instead of trying to go low and fast and catch the command module, went as high and slow as possible, while the command module dove down and made a fast extra turn around the moon and caught the lunar module from the rear. In other words, the command-module pilot could normally expect to be the target, the hunted one, but under some circumstances his role might swiftly be reversed, and he would become the hunter! The problem with all this was that his
work inside the command module changed completely, depending on whether he was hunter or hunted, whether he had to go high or low. And I have only described one situation, that of the lunar module taking off late. There were many other emergencies in which the lunar module might find itself, and the command-module pilot's job as rescuer was a very complex one. In some cases, he simply would not have enough fuel to change his orbit enough to catch the lunar module. If that happened, he was expected to leave his two buddies in lunar orbit, and come back to earth by himself. I didn't like that idea one bit, but it made more sense than having the command-module pilot die unnecessarily.
at exactly the right time and in exactly the right direction, it was fairly simple to catch the command module as it whizzed by overhead. But if the lunar module had to take off early or late, or got into a lopsided or crooked orbit, then all kinds of trouble could easily develop, and the rendezvous process could become very complicated, indeed. If the lunar module had to take off late, it was further behind the command module than usual, and had to fly faster to catch up with it before its limited oxygen supply was all used up. In orbit, to fly faster you have to fly lower, so the further behind the lunar module was, the lower the orbit it would aim for. That idea was fine right up to the point where the lunar module was just skimming the mountain tops (there being no atmosphere on the moon, you can orbit right down to the surface; in earth orbit, you have to stay up above the atmosphere, or approximately a hundred miles up). If the lunar module was so far behind the command module that even mountain skimming wasn't going to allow it to catch up fast enough, the command module could help a bit by going higher, and therefore slower. But if this was not of sufficient help, then a whole new game plan went into effect, and the command module and the lunar module switched roles. The lunar module, instead of trying to go low and fast and catch the command module, went as high and slow as possible, while the command module dove down and made a fast extra turn around the moon and caught the lunar module from the rear. In other words, the command-module pilot could normally expect to be the target, the hunted one, but under some circumstances his role might swiftly be reversed, and he would become the hunter! The problem with all this was that his
work inside the command module changed completely, depending on whether he was hunter or hunted, whether he had to go high or low. And I have only described one situation, that of the lunar module taking off late. There were many other emergencies in which the lunar module might find itself, and the command-module pilot's job as rescuer was a very complex one. In some cases, he simply would not have enough fuel to change his orbit enough to catch the lunar module. If that happened, he was expected to leave his two buddies in lunar orbit, and come back to earth by himself. I didn't like that idea one bit, but it made more sense than having the command-module pilot die unnecessarily.
My life was not all work and worry, however. I remember one time in 1967 when my wife and I got to go to Paris for a couple of days to see an air show and to meet two Russian cosmonauts. I always like air shows. It is exciting to watch the airplanes looping and rolling over the runway at low altitude. It's the next best thing to flying yourself. And, of course, we had never met any cosmonauts, and we wondered what they would be like. I liked them, especially the one named Colonel Pavel Belyaev. It was difficult to talk to him, as our interpreter did not know much about spaceflight and its special language, but Pavel seemed friendly, and his life as a cosmonaut seemed similar to mine as an astronaut. We shared some of the same ideas and likes and dislikes. For example, neither one of us cared much for the space doctors and the complicated medical equipment they made us carry on board our spacecraft. I remember thinking that I would have enjoyed flying in space with Colonel Belyaev, despite
the fact that our two countries were not friendly in 1967. It was not until much later, in the summer of 1975, that two Russian cosmonauts and three American astronauts finally did make a joint spaceflight, with an Apollo command module visiting a Russian Soyuz in earth orbit. I think such flights are a good idea. It takes a lot of trust to put your life in someone else's hands, and that is what you do when you enter a strange spacecraft. If that sort of trust between two countries can exist for a spaceflight, why cannot it develop into friendship in other areas as well?
the fact that our two countries were not friendly in 1967. It was not until much later, in the summer of 1975, that two Russian cosmonauts and three American astronauts finally did make a joint spaceflight, with an Apollo command module visiting a Russian Soyuz in earth orbit. I think such flights are a good idea. It takes a lot of trust to put your life in someone else's hands, and that is what you do when you enter a strange spacecraft. If that sort of trust between two countries can exist for a spaceflight, why cannot it develop into friendship in other areas as well?
After our trip to Paris, I plunged into preparations for my own Apollo flight. One of the things I had to learn was the guidance and navigation system. We called it G&N for short, but there was really nothing short about it. It was the most complicated part of the spacecraft, and took the longest time to learn. It began with the stars. There are five or six thousand stars that can be seen with the naked eye. Thirty-seven of these had been picked, because of their brightness and location, for us to use in navigating. We had to learn all their names, and memorize where they were in the sky, so that no matter which way we were pointed, we could always find a couple of them. Once we found them, we focused an instrument called a sextant on them, and measured their direction precisely. Then we told the computer which star we had picked. Combining this information with what the computer already knew about our speed and so forth, we could fly to the moon and back without help from the ground.
I enjoyed studying the stars. Mostly we used a planetarium rather than the real sky, because that way we didn't have clouds blocking our view, and also we could see
all
the stars (those in the Southern as well as the Northern Hemisphere) without traveling to different parts of the earth. The Arabs were among the first seafarers, and they navigated using the stars. Consequently, many of the stars today have Arabic names, which I think are mysterious and beautiful. Altair, Deneb, Vega. Enif, Fomalhaut, Nunki. Adhara, Mirzam, Menkar. Aldebaran, Mirfak, Thuban. I love those names, and I didn't mind memorizing where each one was in the sky. They are always there; they never change position; and they are very far distant. The star closest to us is called Alpha Centauri, and it is over four light-years away. In other words, if we could travel at the speed of light (186,000 miles per second), it would take us over four years to reach the nearest star. According to Albert Einstein, the speed of light is the fastest it is possible to go, so if he is correct, we will never be able to visit any star (except our sun, which is a star) unless we are willing to spend many years traveling. It gives me a strange feeling to think about how big our universe is. For example, let's say you go out into your back yard on a clear night and find the star Betelgeuse (I pronounce it Beetle Juice). It is in the constellation Orion, which is easy to locate. Now point your lighted flashlight at it. That light will eventually reach the star, but by the time it does, you will have been dead a long, long time. Perhaps your great-great-great-great-great-grandchild may be alive when your flashlight beam reaches Betelgeuse, and remember that there are stars much, much further away than old Beetle Juice!
all
the stars (those in the Southern as well as the Northern Hemisphere) without traveling to different parts of the earth. The Arabs were among the first seafarers, and they navigated using the stars. Consequently, many of the stars today have Arabic names, which I think are mysterious and beautiful. Altair, Deneb, Vega. Enif, Fomalhaut, Nunki. Adhara, Mirzam, Menkar. Aldebaran, Mirfak, Thuban. I love those names, and I didn't mind memorizing where each one was in the sky. They are always there; they never change position; and they are very far distant. The star closest to us is called Alpha Centauri, and it is over four light-years away. In other words, if we could travel at the speed of light (186,000 miles per second), it would take us over four years to reach the nearest star. According to Albert Einstein, the speed of light is the fastest it is possible to go, so if he is correct, we will never be able to visit any star (except our sun, which is a star) unless we are willing to spend many years traveling. It gives me a strange feeling to think about how big our universe is. For example, let's say you go out into your back yard on a clear night and find the star Betelgeuse (I pronounce it Beetle Juice). It is in the constellation Orion, which is easy to locate. Now point your lighted flashlight at it. That light will eventually reach the star, but by the time it does, you will have been dead a long, long time. Perhaps your great-great-great-great-great-grandchild may be alive when your flashlight beam reaches Betelgeuse, and remember that there are stars much, much further away than old Beetle Juice!
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