Falling to Earth (44 page)

It was quite clear I needed to get the hell out of Houston. But NASA was where I felt at home. If I had to work my way through a lot of antagonism and mean-spirited comments to stay, I was prepared for that. However, I was running out of people to talk to.

I considered Dale Myers, the associate administrator for Manned Space Flight, to be a friend. But then I had thought that about George Low, too. I requested a meeting with Dale and steeled myself for another humiliating lecture.

To my immense relief, when we met on May 31, Dale was friendly and sympathetic. “You need to get out of Houston,” he agreed. “I’ll see if I can find you a job at another NASA center and hide you there. Where would you like to go? Huntsville? The Cape? Langley?”

I could have wept, I felt so grateful for this act of kindness. We talked about the different centers and settled on the Ames Research Center in California. They did a lot of flying there, and it was far enough from Houston and NASA Headquarters that I could evade the witch hunters. “Go and talk to the director out there, and I’ll arrange the rest,” Dale told me.

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. Now they were back again, forced to explain another incident. The committee was questioning if they had any control over their employees.

Why hadn’t I heard about the Apollo 14 incident before? I’d been deep in mission training, frequently out in California, and out of the office loop. Plus, I was forced to conclude, no one in Houston had talked about it. After all, what happened to Al Shepard because of the medals? Nothing. After the flight, he resumed his duties as chief of the astronaut office. Apparently, he was untouchable. And I wasn’t.

Another gentleman’s agreement was also of interest to the committee. With Deke’s blessing, Dave had placed a tiny sculpture on the surface of the moon that symbolized all deceased astronauts and cosmonauts. I thought it was a beautiful gesture—my friend C.C. Williams was now memorialized forever on the lunar surface, along with the cosmonauts who had died just before our flight. But the sculptor had decided to go public and sell copies of the sculpture. NASA wasn’t happy, and neither was Dave. This seemed to be the equivalent of my Herrick deal, a handshake oral agreement gone wrong.

The sculpture was named
The Fallen Astronaut
. That title could have described the three of us just as well. To the committee, it was just another example of a lengthening list of commercial deals that involved Apollo flights.

Clinton Anderson, the committee chair, was also informed by Jim Fletcher that Al Shepard had carried two golf balls to the moon with him, only one of which Deke had approved. Now, I
had
heard this story since I’d returned from the moon. There was a rumor in the office that Al was in covert discussions to allow the golf ball manufacturer to publicize their connection with the space program. That wasn’t going to happen now.

Fletcher also told Anderson that Dave had “carried a Bulova chronograph and a Bulova timer on the Apollo 15 flight, and these were not approved as items to be carried on the flight.” Only two people at NASA knew about them, Dave explained: he and Deke. And even Deke didn’t know until after the flight. Dave had decided to “evaluate” them in flight, he said, following a personal request from an individual within the company. The committee seemed suspicious. But Dave assured them that he had not planned any commercialization of the timepieces.

When it came to the covers, Jim Fletcher explained that all of mine had been authorized by NASA management to fly on the mission. “Everything was authorized with the exception of the four hundred on Colonel Scott?” one of the senators asked. “Correct,” Fletcher replied.

The senators asked if we had broken any laws. No, Neil Hosenball responded, possibly some administrative rules, but nothing illegal. Had we profited in any way from the covers? “They did not profit,” Hosenball confirmed.

The senators’ questions then moved away from us and firmly onto Fletcher. They seemed more interested now in NASA’s chain of command. They were critical that NASA seemed to have no clear regulations in place. If regulations were broken, managers were not informed until months later, they noted. They were puzzled that NASA’s legal team kicked the entire matter over to the Justice Department as if they couldn’t handle their own mess personally. And they were unimpressed that their committee had learned about the issues by reading reports in the newspapers, not from NASA.

I watched Fletcher, Low, and Kraft squirm at these retorts. I felt sympathy only for Deke. His informal, unregulated system had been deliberate, to allow his fellow astronauts great freedom. He’d stuck his neck out for us. “Our feeling is that they are all mature adults,” he told the committee, “and it certainly is not our prerogative to tell them whom they can associate with socially.” And now, because we’d let him down, upper management would no doubt force a new set of rules and regulations on him and never allow him the freedom to manage the office again.

Deke was honest with the committee. They asked him if he would have approved the extra four hundred covers for flight if Dave had asked. Yes, he answered, even though the admission was now likely to get him into more trouble. “There was no law that had been violated,” he explained, adding that he took full responsibility for not immediately informing Kraft and Fletcher about possible issues with the covers. “We have done similar things on similar occasions,” he admitted. He even apologized. My admiration for Deke grew. He could have dumped the whole mess on us. But he was too honest for that.