into orbit.
We had a bizarre spaceflight simulator at Edwards, shaped like a doughnut ring that could move in three different axes. When strapped into it, pilots could train for some of the spacewalk experiences of a spaceflight. One week, a couple of astronauts from NASA showed up to practice on it, and I was asked to help instruct them. Gene Cernan and Charlie Bassett were assigned to the forthcoming Gemini 9 mission: Bassett planned to make a spacewalk, and Cernan was training as his backup. Charlie had been through the test pilot school at Edwards himself only a few years earlier, and he impressed me right away. I flew with him that week and learned that he was an incredibly good pilot and a friendly guy whom I chatted with a lot. Meeting him made me think how good it might be to join the astronaut group at NASA. If I were really lucky, I might even fly a mission with Charlie. A number of fellow Edwards pilots probably had the same thought that year: Ed Mitchell, Stu Roosa, Charlie Duke, Bob Crippen, Dick Truly, Hank Hartsfield, and Bob Overmyer were all at Edwards around the same time. Although it took some of us many years, eventually we all made spaceflights for NASA.
It surprised me when, less than a year after arriving at Edwards, I heard an intriguing announcement: there would be another opportunity to apply to become an astronaut. NASA was looking for pilots for its fifth intake, and in September of 1965 a number of us applied. There were actually two astronaut groups we could apply for: NASA’s group and the air force’s own MOL program. The air force had chosen the same moment because they didn’t want NASA to take all of the top pilots. You could apply to one, the other, or both programs at once. I applied to NASA only; I figured the air force would steal all of the best pilots from the dual selection but would never get their own space program off the ground. I didn’t know much about NASA yet, but I knew the air force didn’t have a good track record for that kind of program.
I applied to become an astronaut because, professionally, I figured it couldn’t get any better than that. Even being a test pilot couldn’t compare with becoming an astronaut and making a spaceflight. That also seemed to be the general feeling amongst Edwards pilots. I knew that I was only able to apply because Yeager had pulled me back to the States; otherwise I would still have been in England for this selection period. I was thirty-three years old, not far under the maximum age limit, and if I didn’t make the cut I’d probably be too old for NASA’s next intake. This was my last chance, and I knew it. I sent in the required stack of paperwork, including military efficiency reports, flying time, and a complete resume—then waited.
While I hoped for an acceptance letter, Pam was distressed by my decision to apply. Our relationship had already been weakening. Test pilot school had created a big problem between us because my work became increasingly dangerous. My astronaut application was a breaking point. Pam just could not handle it.
I had to weigh everything in the balance, however, and decide what was best for us. Could I turn down the chance to fly in space? No, I couldn’t. That was the short, difficult answer. They say that hope is not a plan. I guess that is true. Still, I hoped that Pam would come around in time and support me.
Ironically, I had just spent a decade flying during one of the safest possible times for air force pilots. I began my piloting career after the Korean War had ended, and until 1965 America’s involvement in Vietnam was relatively low-key. When I applied to NASA, however, the Vietnam War was escalating dramatically. If NASA did not select me, I would soon be flying in combat in Vietnam, which is exactly what happened to most of my classmates and friends. I seriously doubt that I would have had a less risky life if I had never applied to NASA.
In January of 1966, when I was invited down to the Aerospace Medical Health Center at Brooks Air Force Base in San Antonio, I knew I was in the running. NASA received applications from hundreds of qualified pilots, but only around seventy-five of us—less than a tenth of the applicant pool—were chosen for medical checks. My roommate for the tests was another Edwards pilot named Bob Lawrence, who had recently graduated from the Aerospace Research Pilot School. We spent ten days together, and I got to know him well. He was one of the nicest, down-to-earth guys I ever met. However, I guess he applied for MOL, too, because the air force pulled him into their program. Less than six months after he was selected, Bob died in an F-104 aircraft accident. Pam had a point: it was a dangerous business.
The physical testing at Brooks was brutal. The doctors stuck a pin in my shoulder and a pin in my wrist to measure the speed of electrical current between the two points, then thrust my hand in a bucket of ice water to see what happened. I wondered what this procedure had to do with flying in space or testing my health. They ran us through test after test of crazy stuff, whatever torture they could conjure up, it seemed.
The doctors also gave us about three days of psychiatric testing, which in my opinion didn’t tell them anything either. They asked us some of the most inane questions, which you would only answer differently if you were clinically insane. We’d stare at inkblots and describe what we saw. We were shown all kinds of goofy pictures, even a blank piece of paper, and asked to describe them. At the outgoing briefing I asked the psychiatrist what possible use it all was, and if it actually helped weed anyone out. He told me they could only drop someone if he were insane. If he were just a little odd, they couldn’t stop him, only make a recommendation. It was craziness, and worthless information.
I didn’t prepare for the psychological testing at all or try to figure out what they might ask me. I decided that if I were sane, then great, and if not they would find out. I never worried about it. I was more concerned about them finding any disqualifying condition related to my blood-pressure problem or mysterious “rheumatic heart” diagnosis from my childhood. The doctors found nothing wrong with me at all, which was a dual relief, as a bad result could also have affected my air force career.
I was never told exactly how many of us were in the running, but I believe the medical testing cut the candidates down to about fifty. In February, we were asked to go to the Rice Hotel in Houston, Texas, for a series of written and oral exams. There we wrote essays about trajectories and flights, pretty basic questions compared to the work we did at Edwards. The second day, we met the interview panel for some head-on discussions. One of the pilots on the board was Mike Collins, who had been at Edwards before he was selected as a NASA astronaut in 1963. Seeing Mike there, someone who I really admired, made me want the astronaut job even more.
During the testing, we heard some terrible news: Charlie Bassett, the astronaut I had helped to train not long before, had died in an airplane crash, along with fellow astronaut Elliot See. I was stunned and could only repeat to myself, “Oh shit, what happened?” I was left with a sense of both amazement and shock that Charlie was gone. He was one of the best, had become an astronaut just like I hoped to do, and now he was dead. He’d been in the back seat of a T-38 jet while Elliot See, an astronaut I didn’t know, flew the airplane. I had heard that Elliot was more of a stick-and-rudder kind of pilot: instruments were not so much his thing. In atrocious weather conditions, needing to land, he’d tried to circle under some clouds to visually line up with the runway and hit a building. NASA had now lost three astronauts to air crashes, including Ted Freeman, another guy I barely knew, also from Edwards, who had died in a T-38 jet accident in 1964.
It didn’t change my mind about NASA, nor did it slow anything down that day. No one came in the room to make an announcement. Most of the guys there were test pilots and through experience had come to accept this kind of thing as just something that happened. The feeling was “Yeah, another good guy’s gone.” It was very much a test pilot way of doing business. They didn’t stop the interviews, and the day went on.
When I came out of the interviews, I had no idea how I had done, or whether I had impressed anyone. Throughout the process, I had no sense of who was in, who was out, and how I was doing. I don’t recall talking to any other pilots about how they gauged their chances of selection. I was so focused on getting in myself that I didn’t feel like comparing notes. It was time to head back to Edwards, and wait for a phone call telling me if I was an astronaut or not. Even back in California, although I was friends with guys who had just been through the tests, we didn’t discuss it much. Perhaps because I had come to know them as an instructor rather than a member of the class, they saw me in a slightly different light. Our friendships weren’t deep enough for us to share those thoughts and hopes.
Having endured the exhaustive tests and interviews, I would have been really disappointed if I hadn’t been selected. But then again, I had to consider that NASA had started out looking at hundreds of pilots, and we had already been pared down to around fifty. I also had no idea how many astronauts they wanted to pick. I said to myself that if I didn’t get selected, then hey, that’s the breaks, man. I may have been just as good as the rest, but someone else might be ahead of me on one little category or another. At that point in the selection process, most of us were far ahead of the basic selection requirements, with much more than the minimum flying time or academic credentials, so it was going to be a tough choice for NASA.
