The afterburner soon blew out, and above seventy thousand feet I shut the specially modified engine down before it overheated. Now running only on batteries, the airplane slowed. Reaching the top of the arc, pushing for one hundred thousand feet, slowly coasting, almost floating, I gradually let the nose of the airplane drop. At last, I had a brief moment to look out, and observe—everything.
I felt like I could see the whole world. The sun was white, burning with a cold, unforgiving glare that highlighted every tiny scratch on my canopy. The sky was not yet black, but it was dark, and bright stars were beginning to appear. Below me, the earth was brilliantly lit. I could gaze from the orange desert of Edwards down across Los Angeles, past San Diego, and deep into Mexico, until the land and ocean finally disappeared in the blue, glowing haze of the atmosphere. Gazing into the deep, darkening horizon, I could see the slight curve of our planet’s edge. It was eerie—and beautiful.
But there was little time to look. Above much of Earth’s atmosphere, my still-rotating engine parts tried to act like a gyroscope and turn the airplane sideways into a dangerous spin. Carefully adjusting ailerons and rudder, I kept the wings dead level as I gradually nosed back down into thicker atmosphere. Restarting the engine, I’d dive down to a landing on the Edwards runway. If I could not get the engine to restart, I’d aim for the dry lake beds that dotted the area and attempt a landing there. The flight was a halfway step to space; I’d had a glimpse of a new frontier.
We also practiced landing without power, just like an X-15. We lined up with the runway at around twenty thousand feet; reduced the engine to idle; extended the speed brakes, flaps, and landing gear; and dropped like a stone to a landing. It was difficult, but after a few attempts we could usually land on a predetermined spot on the runway.
We were a mixed bunch of pilots. Many of us were in the air force, of course, but we had naval and marine corps aviators there, too. I was more of an outsider, because I came in as an instructor, but we all stood up for each other and were a very supportive group. We were being groomed to fly winged vehicles that would go into space, such as the X-15. The air force had recently canceled a proposed space plane, the X-20 Dyna-Soar. They considered it too expensive and difficult to develop. A new air force space program, the Manned Orbital Laboratory or MOL, was being developed instead. We also couldn’t help but notice that many of NASA’s astronauts came from Edwards and had backgrounds similar to ours. The space agency had been selecting astronauts since 1959 and flying them in space since 1961. Since the day I missed Al Shepard’s spaceflight on TV, NASA’s space program had progressed at an astonishing pace. By 1965 they were flying impressive two-pilot space missions in their new Gemini spacecraft. Despite the promise of the MOL program, NASA was the only organization putting astronauts 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 résumé—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.