Falling to Earth

I flew out to Ames, south of San Francisco. It’s a beautiful part of the country, not far from hills covered in redwood forests, and I mentally crossed my fingers that the job interview would go well. I hit it off with Hans Mark, the director of Ames, immediately. He took me around and showed me the hypersonic wind tunnel they used to test space shuttle designs, and the space medical studies. Of most interest to me was their airborne science division. They had a whole fleet of aircraft used to perform in-flight scientific experiments. It looked great to me, as it was similar to the research I had carried out in lunar orbit. We agreed that I would start work there in September.

In the meantime, I was still in Houston and wondering why I had fought so hard to stay. I was a pariah in the office. None of my fellow astronauts wanted to talk to me. They were mostly polite, but reserved and distant. It was clear I wasn’t welcome at the weekly astronaut meetings, so I stopped going. I was toxic, tainted. But I understood the deal. This is what had happened to others before me. It was as if I were a pilot who had brought dishonor to his squadron. My colleagues were just protecting themselves and their careers. They couldn’t be associated with me.

Even Dave, whom I expected to talk with me, no longer dropped by. That hurt me. Dave had been an incredible mission commander and was always in charge. Even after the flight, on our world tour, he had made it very clear that we were to follow his orders. With such command, I figured, came responsibility. Dave had led me into the covers deal with Eiermann and had told me it would be fine. I hoped he would now tell my superiors what had happened and sort out the mess. But he wasn’t even talking to me.

My parents, on the other hand, stayed very supportive when I discussed it with them. They felt sad for me, coming so soon after the parades and celebrations. But they were also realistic and stoic types. It happened, it’s over and done with, and now you have to move on, they told me. Don’t brood over it, pick up the pieces of your life, and move on. When I thought about the many tough times in their lives, and how they had kept plowing forward, I realized it was good advice. I needed to persevere and I would come out the other end alright. There would be— there had to be—brighter days ahead.

First, however, my world grew darker. Before I could make the move to California, I was informed that Dave, Jim, and I would be required to appear before a Senate committee in Washington, D.C., on August 3, to testify about the covers. Members of the Senate Committee on Aeronautical and Space Sciences had seen newspaper reports about the covers and began to question Jim Fletcher. The Justice Department started to investigate, too. Stories swirled in the press that listed varying numbers of covers, incorrect details, and wildly speculative amounts of money that were supposed to have changed hands. NASA statements to the press gave differing cover numbers, too. No wonder the committee wanted to ask questions of us directly.

On July 11, a few weeks before the hearing, NASA publicly issued a reprimand declaring that the three of us had “exercised poor judgment in their action.” I couldn’t argue with that. The next day, news reports stated that I would be “reassigned from the astronaut corps to another position within the space agency,” effective August 1. It seemed that my bosses were backing down; I was spared further public humiliation. Two days later, John Donnelly, a NASA spokesperson, officially told the press that “there is no evidence at all” that I profited in any way from my arrangement with Herrick. I was grateful for the partial vindication.

On July 26, the anniversary of our flight, Dave moved into a desk job. It was a prestigious position: technical assistant to the manager of the Apollo spacecraft program. Nevertheless, when reporters asked NASA spokesperson Jack Riley if Dave had no choice about remaining an astronaut, he responded “That’s right,” adding “It was decided he would be transferred from the astronaut office.” The press pounced on these often-contradictory stories from different NASA sources. It was chaos.

We began to hear more details about the forthcoming Washington hearings. As well as the Apollo 15 crew, the committee would call Jim Fletcher, George Low, Dale Myers, Chris Kraft, and Deke to testify. Legal matters would be addressed by Neil Hosenball of NASA’s legal counsel. This was going to be interesting.

Deke was pissed that he had to go before Congress about this issue. Years later, Wally Schirra gave me a copy of a letter Deke wrote to him a couple of weeks before the hearings. Deke was sending his copy of each mission’s PPK lists back to their respective commanders. In the accompanying letter, Deke told Wally that the authorities were leaning on him.

“Demanding I release all lists for Senate hearings next week, and I’m refusing. My position is the lists as well as contents are crew property and not my prerogative to release. Legal people tell me if NASA doesn’t fire me in the meantime, Senate could get me for contempt. My solution is to turn lists over to crew commanders so there’s no way they can force them out of me. You can burn, use in bathroom or whatever. Possible someone may come to you for them but it’s your property and your choice. Only way I would release is to get each crewman’s permission and haven’t got time for that before they put gun to my head.”

Reading the letter, I felt a new respect for Deke for pushing back against the pressure from the investigators, as well as a new wave of sadness that he had been placed in that position. Especially when I read the very last line. “Come see me in Leavenworth—love, Deke.” The reference to the maximum-security prison was only half joking.

I flew Jim up to Washington, D.C., in a T-38 the day before the hearings. Jim had retired from the air force just a couple of days before and was preparing to leave NASA. We agreed that we would tell the committee everything. But we also felt nervous. If these senators didn’t like us, they might do their best to have us locked up for a long time.

We joined Dave, and then the three of us met with Julian Scheer, NASA’s head of public affairs. What a nightmare we were handing him. However, he was pleasant and reminded us that we were entitled to attorneys. We decided against it. We’d take what was coming to us.

Dave was once again the commander and in charge. He was pissed that Jack Riley had said he was moved out of the astronaut office against his will. Not true, he insisted. We needed to give the committee a clear story, he told us, and stop all these rumors in the press. We would go in there as a crew and we would answer for our actions as a crew.

Jim and I didn’t argue. We felt guilty about going along with the covers deal and figured we would sink or swim together. We were good soldiers, and once again we’d follow our commander into danger. So while we told the committee everything, we chose not to specify who had arranged the Eiermann deal.

The next day, we sat before a panel of seven senators. They began by praising our work on the Apollo 15 mission. I felt embarrassed: the last time I had spoken before a group of senators, I had been addressing a joint meeting of Congress and had received a standing ovation. I doubted that was going to happen today.

We were told that the meeting was merely an opportunity for us to explain our actions—we were not on trial. However, the committee reminded us that we were entitled to legal counsel and we could refuse to answer, because our statements could be used in future legal proceedings.

Press reports from the fall of 1971 were entered into the official record. They included something that really got my attention. Apparently the same issues had arisen on Apollo 14, Al Shepard’s flight. According to the reports, the Franklin Mint, a commercial company, had offered two hundred silver medals to the public if they signed up with their collectors’ club. The advertisements said the medals contained metal flown to the moon on Apollo 14. Congresswoman Leonor Sullivan had demanded to know what was going on at NASA. The NASA heads had denied responsibility and blamed the crew. Forced to respond, Deke told Sullivan that it was “unlikely” that other items flown in space would be sold “because most of these things are treasured heirlooms.”

Deke had also made a statement to the press, saying the agreement with the mint was “an unwritten gentleman’s agreement,” which sounded all too familiar. He had then added, “I take full blame for the coins, since I was responsible for everything that went along on the Apollo 14 flight. We have an understanding between the guys in the flight crew and ourselves that they won’t commercialize medals they have on the flight. It’s my job to make sure that things in poor taste don’t get on the ship. This is the first time that anything commercial has happened, and we aren’t about to do it again.”

Now I understood a little more why Low, Kraft, and Deke were so angry with our crew. They had just finished dealing with a scandal that had reached congressional ears, and Deke had promised them it would be the last time.