Chapter 1: Introduction

This monograph presents the history of the manned space program during the time I was the general manager, from 1 September 1960 to 5 January 1968. I’ve outlined chronologically and in detail the steps taken from the early Mercury days, through the operational tests conducted with Gemini, to the qualification of Apollo, all against a backdrop of Soviet missions. A chapter on NASA management during my tenure follows. Then, in the final two chapters, the U.S. manned circumlunar and lunar landing missions are compared with Soviet attempts. I’ve also included a few thoughts on President Bush’s Vision for Space Exploration. Throughout, I have tried to describe the key technical, operational, and management milestones and how key issues in each phase of the space program were resolved.

There was a subtler area that I had to face, namely, NASA’s relationship with the executive branch, Congress, and the public at large. Appointed officials must always remember that the President won his position through a national election; his appointees must support his decisions. The only alternative is resignation. Under questioning before Congress, the President’s policies, programs, and budgets must be defined and their rationale explained. However, if an appointee is asked whether an item in the President’s program was requested at that budget level by an agency such as NASA, it is fair to answer in the negative, which might result in larger dollar amounts for the agency for that item. However, there isn’t much slack, and it only occurs during congressional hearings. The executive branch looks askance at any suspicion of an appointee’s volunteering one’s own views, and my testimony at times bordered on insubordination.

The most sensitive hearing occurred before a House committee on 14 April 1961, just after Gagarin’s flight. A transcript of the exchange appears later in the chapter. It took place with Congressman David King and was about a possible lunar landing by the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) in 1967 and our capability to compete. This matter was under consideration throughout the government at that time, and my job was to stay in the background, not get out in front. The President had to be allowed time to do his fact finding and make his policy decisions unencumbered by the testimony of junior officials. I was skirting close to the margin.

At NASA, our role was to carry out the President’s agenda for a manned lunar landing within the decade. However, this agenda was questioned in a rapid-fire discourse with the President in November 1962. When asked by the President whether NASA’s top priority was the lunar landing, Jim Webb (then NASA’s Administrator) answered no, and when questioned further, Webb said that NASA’s prime objective was preeminence in space (see chapter 3). This dichotomy of views lurked in the background throughout the decade. In the crunch, both Kennedy and Johnson were squeezing the national budgets in order to fund NASA’s principal objective, the lunar landing. At its peak, the Apollo Program accounted for 32 percent of the federal research and development (R&D) budget.¹ Despite his assertion, Jim Webb actually fully supported the lunar goal and used that goal to circumvent major budget revisions by Congress. On many occasions, he would staunchly tell congressional committees that if the budget were reduced by even a small amount, the option for a lunar landing within the decade would be lost.

Success or failure was more difficult for NASA to obfuscate than for most agencies of government. Press coverage was always present at the launch pad, particularly for manned missions. In the early days, liftoff was a matter of probability, at times followed by a major explosion and the destruction of both the vehicle and the pad. Mercury-Redstone once had an electronic liftoff. The capsule and booster went through the entire 15-minute mission firing its escape rocket and executing several pyrotechnic maneuvers. In the end, the parachute dropped around the rocket’s carcass while it was still upright on the pad. Photographs of the sequence were both hilarious and damaging to NASA’s image and morale. That was a failure clear to behold. NASA required some manner of measuring performance and progress that didn’t rely entirely on what the eye could perceive. Ultimately, the project teams agreed that success was not just the opposite of calamity, but rather the achievement of all stated objectives. The general manager became the arbiter. In the early sixties, the success level was around 55 percent for all manned and unmanned missions. By the mid-sixties, the success level rose to 80 percent.²

NASA often had to deal with failure. In some cases, most objectives were achieved and there was little flack within the administration, on Capitol Hill, or from the media. However, the Apollo fire in January 1967 caused a major eruption, and rightly so. The President had to decide whether to establish a presidential commission or to allow NASA to investigate itself. If the investigation was in-house, there would be suspicions of a cover-up; however, a commission takes longer to establish and get up to speed. Usually, a commission has sessions that are open to the public and the press. Presidential commissions often deliberate for over a year. President Johnson took the heat and allowed NASA to conduct its own accident review. Slightly over two months’ time was required, and the findings and recommendations were precise and hard-hitting.

While the investigation was in play, the accident review board was cloistered with its major effort at Cape Canaveral. There were no press releases from the board with conjecture, which is often proven incorrect. But the President, Congress, and the media required an impartial and continuing assessment of the board’s progress. My job involved periodic visits to the Cape to listen to the board’s deliberation, to probe a bit, and to review the data. On the return flight to Washington, I compared notes with my assistant, Dave Williamson, and prepared a report for Mr. Webb. If acceptable to him, the report would be relayed in sequence to the President, Congress, and the press. My first report was printed in its entirety by the New York Times, but the media weren’t happy campers.

In the detailed discussion of the accident in chapter 4, I note that Mr. Webb and I disagreed on how much information should be forthcoming at congressional hearings. He felt that there were reasons for secrecy, partly because of our understanding with the President, partly to protect the accident review board, and partly to avoid legal and potential lawsuits. I couldn’t disagree, but I thought he was zealous in the extreme. This sensitive matter was an unsettling undercurrent when testifying before Congress. Even more troublesome were background meetings with the press; they didn’t always remain off the record. On one occasion, Julian Scheer, who was in charge of NASA’s public affairs, asked me to join him for a luncheon with a few well-known reporters. I knew them and agreed. I was asked why the hatch wasn’t immediately opened and the astronauts saved. The answer was straightforward: the hatch opened inward, and with the pressure rise in the capsule, there was a 4-ton force holding it shut. Several days later, stories appeared in the press citing a “high-ranking NASA official.” According to the press, the astronauts could be seen attempting to claw their way to safety and being unable to escape because of a bad design. NASA had attempted to provide useful background; the press had not followed the rules; and I was left to hang, turning slowly in the wind. As you can imagine, this further exacerbated my relations with Jim Webb. I realized that Jim was right about keeping things confidential. It wasn’t until my experience as Administrator of the Energy Research and Development Agency that I fully appreciated Jim’s leadership at NASA.