Cernan’s crew was probably the most relaxed of the Apollo crews. The day before the launch, the three of them had left the rules in shambles, violating their isolation to go duck hunting on a nearby farm. A pack of reporters was on their heels, but agreed not to write anything until after the flight, a reflection of the team spirit that sometimes infected even the press. Besides, this was the last roundup. Everyone understood that the usual protocol did not apply. The mellow attitudes of the Apollo 17 crew were also due in part to the fact they had no crises in the early going that threatened the mission. Another factor may have been the temperament of Cernan, a Chicago native, Navy captain, and space walker (Gemini 9). Gene had a sense of adventure reminiscent of that of the Mercury astronauts.
The teamwork between space and ground had peaked at a perfect time. The long interval between missions had given the crew of Apollo 17 full access to the controllers and training resources. Now the crew treated the control teams to the most vivid descriptions we had ever received of any flight. Even the ultra-quiet Ron Evans joined in broadcasting the account of the night launch. “During each staging the fireball overtook us, then when the engine kicked in we once again flew out of the orange-red cloud into darkness.”
The translunar injection started in darkness, the booster propelling them through sunrise. The description was lyrical. There was no doubt the crew was enjoying the ride. During the coast phase, Jack Schmitt waxed philosophical on the origin of life in the universe and man’s efforts to extend his realm. Listening to the crew’s narrative, I again felt the magic of the Genesis readings of Apollo 8, and of Armstrong’s call the day the
If there had been a way to stretch the next few days into a lifetime I believe that Pete, Gerry, and I would have done so. We were in the final hours of our careers as flight directors, and for a few final moments we savored the wine. Pete Frank conducted the three extravehicular activities, the most productive of the lunar program, benefiting from the lessons learned in every previous hour of spaceflight. The crew, controller, and science teams breezed through the EVAs. The crew set records for the longest lunar mission, mass of lunar materials returned, longest lunar EVA time, and greatest lunar surface distance traveled.
In this final mission, the crews and controllers all had time to sense the history in our work. As the final hours approached, I found myself mentally reviewing the early years of space, trying to fathom why we succeeded when by all rights we should have failed. Chris Kraft had pioneered Mission Control and fought the battles in Mercury and Gemini, serving as the role model of the flight director. He proved the need for real-time leadership. In the seconds-critical world of Mission Control, a single individual must assume responsibility to take any actions needed for crew safety and mission success. Kraft’s legacy had defined the leadership role.
As the mission went forward, I felt increasingly frustrated and melancholy. I would often sit in the corner of the viewing room, silently watching the teams at work and realizing that I had started my transition to an entirely new role. But I also thought about the legacy of my generation: trust, values, teamwork. I wanted to be a living connection between the new generation of mission controllers, reminding them of how and where it all started with my generation and where theirs might take us in the future.
Bob McCall, in my belief, the premier artist of space, had been sitting on the step to the right of the flight director console, sketching during the final Apollo EVAs. He had designed the Apollo 17 crew patch. When Bob took a break for a cup of coffee, I joined him in the cafeteria. Like Sjoberg, McCall’s talent shone because of his sincerity and humility. As we talked, I don’t think Bob was surprised when I asked him if he would design an emblem for the Mission Control team. I spoke emotionally, from my heart and gut, about the control teams and crews, and our life in Mission Control. “We fought and won the race in space and listened to the cries of the Apollo 1 crew. With great resolve and personal anger, we picked up the pieces, pounded them together, and went on the attack again. We were the ones in the trenches of space and with only the tools of leadership, trust, and teamwork, we contained the risks and made the conquest of space possible.”
Over the next six months, McCall developed the emblem worn proudly by every subsequent generation of mission controller. He inscribed his final rendering of the emblem: “To Mission Control, with great respect and admiration, Bob McCall 1973.”
During the final EVA Cernan and Schmitt unveiled the plaque on the LM landing gear that commemorated the conclusion of the first period of exploration of the Moon, voicing the hopes of the astronauts, controllers, designers, factory workers, secretaries, and clerks. Speaking for the Apollo generation, Cernan concluded, “This is our commemoration that will remain here until someone like us, until some of you who are out there, who are the promise of the future, will come back to read it again and to further the exploration and the meaning of Apollo.”
There was not a dry eye in Mission Control.
As I accepted the helm of Mission Control from Griffin for my final time, I put on my traditional white vest. I felt somewhat as I had the last time I strapped myself into an F-86 Sabre, relishing the final moments, touching the canopy and instrument panel, hesitating briefly before putting the helmet on. I knew that one life was about to end and another one about to begin.
I finally shrugged and plugged into the console. The time for recalling old memories was over. It was time to get the crew off the lunar surface. After the meeting with McCall, I had the satisfaction that no matter what direction I would take in the future, I, too, had helped to define the legacy of Mission Control.
The White Team picked up console duties at 183:00 MET for lunar liftoff. My thoughts now were on the business at hand, getting Cernan and Schmitt off the Moon and docked to the CSM. There are two times in the mission where the options of the flight directors and crews converge to zero. They are the lunar liftoff, and the subsequent trans-Earth injection. Engine failure in either case is catastrophic. We have options for everything else. A lunar liftoff is unlike any rocket launch from Earth. There are no abort alternatives.
The LM checkout prior to liftoff is exquisite in its detail. The liftoff is a single shot and must work perfectly. Liftoff time is critical, since most of the power, oxygen, and water have been used during the surface period. Decisions and actions must be perfect and instantaneous.
The Trench for the lunar ascent was a curious mixture. My flight dynamics officer was Bill Stoval, a youngster from Casper, Wyoming. Blond, blue-eyed, and cockier than hell, he was perfect for the job. Bill was typical of the new generation scribbling their names on the Captain Refsmmat poster in the hallways. He was matched with Jim I’Anson, an older, lanky Texan, who flew the B-17 Flying Fortresses in the Pacific during World War II.
The ascent countdown was a series of escalating events. Stoval called up the large-screen displays as I laid out various contingency procedures, mentally reviewing the mission rules. The countdown hit ascent minus ten minutes, and the team tightened up as the crew blew the pyrotechnic valves to pressurize the propulsion system. If the tank used to pressurize the ascent propulsion system started to leak, my lunar module team would cry out, “Emergency liftoff!” For a few seconds the suspense held, then I heard the call: “Flight, ascent helium is Go. The system is pressurized, there are no leaks.”
The countdown continued. I started my final status of the room at liftoff minus 8:30. We passed the “White Team is Go” to the crew and I opened my launch timeline, mentally running my personal mission rules, going through the final set of options for the final lunar mission.
I conducted the final poll at minus two minutes. There were no open items, all mission rules were complied with. The trajectory and data sources were Go.
The White Team was now “negative reporting,” that is, in a listening mode as the crew called out, “400 plus… master arm… abort stage, engine arm ascent.”
By the clock at five seconds, I heard Schmitt call out, “Proceed,” then from several sources in unison in Mission Control I heard, “Liftoff.” Cernan sang out, “We’re on our way, Houston… ”
I noted in the log, “At 188:01:35, the last men left the Moon.”
The ascent in the LM
