5

Toledo, Ohio, 1940s

I always wanted to fly. As a boy in Toledo, Ohio, I had my head in the clouds and my heart followed. The cottonwood tree in our backyard was my telescope to the world. On a windy day, I was on the tall mast of a ship plowing through stormy seas, calling out commands to my crew below. On calm days, I was an eagle, lifting and soaring silently, searching for my prey.

The tree was so tall I could see the Willys Overland plant where Jeeps were made. If I stretched out, I could see an occasional airplane to the far north, over Franklin Field.

My grandfather was a German immigrant, Peter Joseph Kranz, a remarkable man who came to America in his early twenties. He founded a savings and loan office in Toledo, was elected city treasurer, and became famous as a trout fisherman. He was wiped out in the Depression. His five sons assumed the responsibility of repaying his creditors.

The oldest son, my father, Leo Peter Kranz, died in 1940 of a bleeding ulcer, misdiagnosed as a heart problem. He was forty-nine; I was seven. One of my greatest losses is that I never got to know him. Of the few recollections I have, the most vivid is of my dad listening to the radio when the Germans invaded Poland. He commented, sadly, that this was the start of a “world war.” I didn’t know what he meant, but in later years I learned he had been a medic in World War I—the so-called war to end all wars.

I’m fond of his picture in uniform, erect, proud, crew-cut, and blond. I closely resemble him and for most of my life I have worn my hair in a crew cut. Like many others of his time, my father had no life insurance, so things got tight for the Kranz family after he died. My mother moved us—me and my two older sisters, Louise and Helen—to West Toledo so that she could raise her kids in a better environment. A staunch Catholic and Republican, her German side was evident when she was faced by a challenge; she never backed down, was stubbornly self-reliant, and expected others, particularly her children, to live up to their beliefs and stick to their guns. She was loving, nurturing—and tough. She turned our home into a boarding house to pay the bills and she ran it like a drill sergeant. Among the boarders who stayed there, a few days at a time, were the servicemen who became my heroes, soon to be fighting the land, sea, and air battles in faraway places—some of whom would give their lives in combat.

I retain vivid memories of World War II because of those young men who lived in our house, flirted with my sisters, and wrote them letters from the various fronts on which they fought. As a paperboy delivering both the morning and evening editions, I would walk past the houses of my customers, hurling the paper and shouting, “Extra! Extra! Read all about it” as the first reports on the Doolittle Raid or Midway came in, right through D-Day, the Battle of the Bulge, and, finally, the capitulation of the Germans and the Japanese. I plotted the major battles on maps I had pinned up on my wall at home.

I also was obsessed with aircraft—just by looking at pictures of fighters and bombers, I could construct models of them the old-fashioned way, gluing them together out of balsa wood and tissue paper. This led me to experiment with powered model aircraft and, later, rockets. I dreamed of the day when I would climb aboard the real thing. I hitch-hiked to Cleveland and Detroit for the air races. Aviation magazines flourished after the war and I hoarded nickels and dimes to buy them. The writings of Willy Ley, Wernher von Braun, and David Anderton inspired me.

My high school thesis was entitled, “The Design and Possibilities of the Interplanetary Rocket.” I proposed a gigantic two-stage rocket shaped like the German V-2. I rendezvoused it in Earth orbit with another stage for propellant resupply. Once the ship reached the Moon, I had to establish a base to manufacture the propellants needed to return home. Writing in 1950, I made this forecast:

An examination of the current technical and industrial development demonstrates the high probability that the Moon will shortly be conquered by man. The base will probably be established in five years and completed in ten.

I scored a 98 on the paper, never imagining that someday I would be a member of the team that would place an American flag on the lunar surface. But, then, my thesis was not your typical high school junior’s idea of light reading.

Work was a way of life in our home. I spent eight years absorbing the lessons and discipline of the Ursuline nuns. I can’t remember not working two jobs, even while cramming and crashing to keep up my grades. I earned a Naval ROTC scholarship to Notre Dame and a congressional appointment to the Naval Academy, then received the crushing news that I had failed the physical. I had shown signs of diabetes. I had high blood sugar because of my diet—heavy on sweets—while working at the A&P grocery store. The condition was temporary, a small consolation. I believed that my world had ended.

My mother, and Sister Mark, my history teacher, would not allow me to surrender. They found a $500 scholarship for the children of deceased veterans of World War I. We sold my father’s stamp albums and with every resource on the table I enrolled at Parks Air College in East St. Louis. The Korean air war had focused my goal to become a fighter pilot. Parks offered training in aeronautical engineering and a no-frills flight program. The dormitories were Army barracks at the edge of crossed cinder runways. Classes were punctuated by the roars of the PT-17 Stearman biplanes, the primary trainer for pilots in World War II, passing overhead. This was the first aircraft I ever flew, feet on the rudder pedals and my hand on the stick. The emotions of that first flight literally brought tears to my eyes. I was no longer swaying in the top of my tree; I was now truly an eagle, climbing, diving, and practicing turns with the wind singing in my ear. At Parks my dream came to life.

I intended to stay for one year, then apply for pilot training. But with the Korean War winding down, I decided to finish college. Parks turned out to be my field of dreams. The college had opened in August of 1927 in a rented hangar at Lambert Field in St. Louis. Oliver Parks was the owner and only flight instructor, and he started with two aircraft. During World War II, 10 percent of America’s pilots had received their primary flight training at one of his schools.

I graduated on a hot, steamy day in July of 1954 with a commission in the Air Force Reserve. Present were my mother and one of my sisters, Louise, as well as my Uncle Albert, who had helped us through some difficult years and was always there when I needed him. The entire family had pooled resources and bought me a green 1954 Plymouth coupé as a graduation present. It was a wonderful surprise—I had planned on saving my money to buy a car before I entered Air Force flight training. There was one problem: I could fly airplanes but had not yet driven a car!

The fifty-two members of my class consisted of Korean War veterans getting their schooling on the GI Bill, six Israelis, and thirty-eight rookies like myself. I was one month short of my twenty-first birthday and the gold bars on my shoulders were more meaningful to me than my college diploma.

While waiting for a training slot, I applied to McDonnell Aircraft Company in St. Louis and was grateful for the chance to continue my transition from student to pilot. Graduates entering the aircraft industry in the 1950s were generally given options to work in drafting or reading and plotting the data records from flight tests. I chose the latter because it was attached to the flight test department, which was where I wanted to be. The roar of jet engines, the smell of jet fuel, and the constant rumble of the factory permeated the buildings. It was an exciting, busy place filled with high-energy people.

As I walked through the office maze on my first day, I heard a gruff voice ask, “Are you Kranz?” I stopped and the voice continued, “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you.” I turned to face a balding cherub, with a red nose and forehead, as if he had just emerged from a sauna. He looked like one of Santa’s helpers. He was my height, but he leaned forward, neck bent in a questioning attitude. He had clear, piercing eyes under shaggy brows. I noted his bow tie and suspenders as he said, “Hi, I’m Harry Carroll. Follow me. I’m your new boss.”

He moved out quickly and I followed him to a desk covered with rolls of paper. He shoved them against the wall, pushed me into the chair, and said, “When you reduce these rolls of oscillograph readouts and learn to read the data, you will know more about what happened during a flight test than the pilot, the engineer, and the designer. These rolls of paper are like novels. It is up to you to get the meaning, then sense the plot and determine whether flight objectives were satisfied. You must watch to see if we are getting too close to the flight limits.” Then he stepped back, chuckled, and said, “This is the best job in flight test! Get started.”

His enthusiasm was my enthusiasm; his passion for work was my passion. I had to learn from others that he had flown eighty-six combat missions over Italy and Germany in the B-17 Flying Fortress and over Japan in the B-29 Superfortress. He had many inventions related to data reduction and aviation safety. He was also a poet, actor, and scoutmaster and he led the rugged and difficult grand portage canoe trips across northern Minnesota to Lake Superior. After retirement, he served as a deckhand for barefoot cruises in the Caribbean, and became the oldest individual to complete the Outward Bound mountain survival program.

Each day there was a new discovery under his guidance. No work was insignificant, no job unimportant. The standards had to be the highest if you were to meet with his approval. Harry Carroll was the first in a string of mentors who changed my life.

By the end of my third month on the job, I was sitting with the test pilots and flight test engineers during debriefings, reviewing flight cards (a pilot’s checklist for the test sequences), transcribing pilot’s notes, and validating flight test objectives. Heady stuff for a recent college graduate and the next best thing to being in the cockpit. This experience would serve me well later when I sat with the backroom guys and reviewed data on our space missions. At a glance I learned to identify the essentials and put the story together.

The months passed rapidly, and then it was time to pack up and report to Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas, for preflight training. As of March 1955, I was now on active duty and assigned to pilot class 56M.

Other than St. Louis, I had never been west of the Mississippi River, and I soaked in the scenery as I drove through western Missouri and down into Oklahoma. My vision of Texas was crushed when I crossed the Red River. I had been expecting the sandy desert, cactus, and rattlesnakes of the movies, but I saw rolling hills starting to green up. I was sure that would change as I neared San Antonio.

I was wrong. This wasn’t the lonesome prairie, the Texas of parched land and skeletal oil rigs. A scenic river wound its way through San Antonio, and the blend of Mexican and western culture gave the city a gentle and festive character. I was a willing believer in Texas charm and hospitality as I drove through the gates of Lackland Air Force Base. There I would have twelve weeks of preflight training, a good part of which taught you confidence by putting you through some pretty physically demanding exercises out in the boonies. I also learned the essence of leadership through being given responsibility for raw recruits who were wearing a uniform for the first time and were badly in need of understanding why the military demands order in everything from the state of your locker to the crispness of a salute, instant compliance with commands, and other basic military cultural imperatives. As the song puts it, “by your pupils you’ll be taught.” It would take some twelve weeks for them to transform me from college student to officer, one hell of a speedy transition. It was the NCOs (noncommissioned officers) who taught me the basics—and my respect for the sergeants on the line grew with every passing year.

My travels in the Air Force next took me to Spence Air Base in Moultrie, Georgia, where Jack Coleman, my primary flight instructor, opened the world of flight for me and taught me much more. In the hot steamy air over southern Georgia he tested my skills, but in the briefing rooms and on the ramp he taught teamwork and the belief that “There is no such thing as good enough. You, your team, and your equipment must be the best. That is how you will win victories.” The day he turned me loose to solo, he taught me that the teacher’s role is to instill the confidence to fly at the edge of peak performance. Your primary flight instructor is the man you never forget. Coleman’s lessons helped me in my years at Mission Control. I could empathize with what the controllers felt during the brutally demanding debriefings after a mission and tactfully handle the one-on-one critiques after a simulation. He taught me, by example, how to train my controllers, build their confidence, and turn them loose when they were ready. Coleman also gave me an appreciation of the fundamental importance of teamwork and mutual trust among team members.

Of course, some lessons can only be experienced, not taught. One of these is dealing with fear, which comes to every pilot, like a bolt from the blue. Fliers and fighters alike have referred to this as looking into the eye of the tiger. I looked into mine one night on my first solo cross-country flight, over the blackness of Georgia’s Okefenokee swampland.

I had turned to a new course over the town of Alma and looked down to change my radio frequency. Moments later, when I raised my eyes, the lights of the town seemed to fill the cockpit like tiny diamonds. For a few seconds I was mesmerized, then confused, as the sound of my engine and my rapidly accelerating aircraft snapped me out of my reverie.

In whatever part of my brain was still working, I put it together: I had rolled upside down over the city and was diving, inverted, toward the heart of Alma. I rolled visually away from the lights, into total darkness, all sounds diminishing as I approached a stall. Fighting vertigo, I recovered and flew on instruments, not trusting my senses, all the way back to base.

The next night, when it was time for my second solo cross-country, fear was in my bones like a winter chill. I realized it was either conquer the fear and fly, or wash out of training. I delayed going to my aircraft, chain-smoking cigarettes. Then someone started testing the flight line loudspeakers for the Saturday parade. The music of John Philip Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever” soaked into the Ready Room and something almost mystical happened.

My desire to fly overcame my fear. I picked up my parachute and walked to my plane and aced my second night solo flight. From that day forward, whenever I found myself looking into the eye of a tiger, the cadence of “Stars and Stripes Forever”—if only in my head—got me through it. I have a record and tape collection of over twenty versions of the march. It became a key element of my way of life.

My training next took me into jets and an assignment farther west in Texas at Laughlin Air Force Base. Flight training is partly about the fear of failing, and partly about firsts. The top graduates got the best assignments. I wanted to fly the hottest fighter in the Air Force—the F-86 Sabre. In order to get the chance to fly fighters I had to be the best. To be the best I had to go all-out, reach into myself for every resource I had to meet the challenge. In the process I determined what my real capacity was and discovered that for much of my life I had just been coasting along.

My competition for the Sabre assignment was First Lieutenant Anthony (Zeke) Zielinski, who had made his way through the ranks. He had won the wings of a navigator as a sergeant flying over Korea in B-29s and was described as a natural-born pilot.

The competition between us extended to the social, as he tried to cut in on the girl I was dating. We got our pilot wings, graduated with identical scores, and both qualified for the Sabre. Later I aced him, however, for I would marry a wonderful Texas girl, Marta Cadena, whom Zeke also wanted to date. Marta pinned the wings on my chest. Zeke, a true wingman, would be my best man.

Zeke and I headed to Nellis AFB, near Las Vegas, to fly the world’s best and fastest fighter aircraft. Six weeks after I arrived at Nellis I climbed into the cockpit of an F-86H Sabre. After a takeoff and climb-out that felt like it would never stop, I started getting ahead of the power curve, just a bit, with this beautifully maneuverable airplane. An instructor flying alongside me put me through the flight. We landed, debriefed and refueled, then took off again and climbed to 35,000 feet, did some steep turns and a bit of trail formation. At this point my instructor told me to perform a split-S, roll out into a 45-degree dive, and call out the readings on the Mach meter. (The Mach meters in those days didn’t go a hell of a lot higher than Mach 1—the speed of sound.) I rolled inverted, picked up the dive angle, and was quickly at .95 Mach, where the nose wanted to pitch up. The instructor then told me to trim out the pitch-up stick force and comment on the aileron forces. Wing heaviness increased and the Mach meter rose to 1.0 and hung there. I had the feeling that I was skiing down a steep mountain bowl, pushing a lot of powder, and that it was impossible to go any faster. I throttled back, recovered, and followed the instructor’s lead in a high-speed spiral descent. It took me a moment to realize that I had just broken the sound barrier, a big deal with the airplanes we had in the 1950s.

But that was the bright and shiny side of military life. While I was at Nellis I broke my left wrist in a stupid accident (with the help of a goodly amount of beer) and managed to get myself grounded on September 6, 1956. This gave me ample time for reflection, during which I realized I was in love with the girl from Texas who had pinned on my wings. Since leaving Texas, where Marta and I had first met and started to date, I dated a few other girls but none of them measured up to Marta. I still had her phone number and the good sense to call her. She was still interested so I started to commute between Nellis and Marta’s home in Texas. The weeks passed too quickly and soon my duty at Nellis was over.

Upon completion of advanced training at Nellis, Zeke and I were stationed at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Myrtle Beach was a base in name only, parts of it still under construction. The only good part of the deal was that eventually we would have shiny new (they were still on the production line when I reported in) F-100 Super Sabres to fly. During long-distance phone conversations, Marta could always raise my morale thanks to her good humor and indomitable spirit. I wanted her to meet my family, so she came to Toledo during my Christmas leave. On Christmas Eve I asked Marta to marry me. We set the date for April 27 of the following year at Eagle Pass, Texas, where we had first met—fifty miles from Laughlin AFB but a commute I never minded making! It was one year to the date she had pinned on my wings. It started to snow as we left the chapel where I had proposed and we started to sing Christmas carols, wishing the magic of the moment would go on forever. We were on top of the world, and there was no question that whatever we faced in the future, we would face it together, and we would emerge victorious.

In courting Marta, I had been at a serious disadvantage, unable to communicate with her mother, Pura, who spoke only Spanish. Marta’s parents were born in Mexico and came to the United States after the revolution of 1910-1920. Her father became a citizen and opened a drugstore in 1950. While I was dating Marta, her mother was studying English preparing for her citizenship test. After the wedding, the señora was able to welcome me into the family with two words in English: “No givebacks!”

To the true regret of both of us, I soon was forced to do exactly that.

We had been married only three months when my orders arrived in June of 1957 assigning me to the last squadron of F-86Fs on active duty, the Fighting 69th, at Osan, Korea. My squadron commander at Myrtle Beach bent the rules and let me finish F-100 training before I shipped out to Korea. Marta told me that she was pregnant. This was when I started to learn that if you have a good marriage in the military, you will probably wind up with a great marriage, if it lasts. Our eighteen-month courtship consisted of seven dates.

Even though the war had ended in July of 1953, Osan Air Base, thirty miles south of the Korean capital at Seoul, was on a wartime footing. The squadron’s purpose was to provide fighters capable of striking northward, supporting the Korean and American units emplaced along the demilitarized zone and achieving air superiority. We had about fifteen minutes to launch defending aircraft in case we were attacked.

Sabre pilots were a rare breed, flying the hottest machine of its time, the greatest sports car ever invented for the air. When flying overseas, you had no regulations. We buzzed everything in sight, flying as fast and as low as our nerves would allow. This was balls-out flying. We did things we would never be permitted to do stateside. Every flight ended in a mock dogfight with one or more pilots diving, rolling, and scissoring for advantage. The fights continued until you ran out of altitude or you had the other guy on your gun camera film. This confidence was essential to aggressive flight performance.

The Soviets’ launch of Sputnik on October 4, 1957, while I was on a thirty-day deployment at Tainan Air Base on Formosa gave the Cold War a new dimension. I had seen the Russian fighters pulling contrails over the Korean demilitarized zone and the Straits of Formosa. Now their new prowess in space raised doubts about America’s commitment to lead the free world. I could suddenly see shadows of doubt about America’s technological superiority in the eyes of the Nationalist Chinese pilots.

I finally got my own airplane, an F-86F, serial 24872. I promptly named it My Darling Marta and had that painted on the left side just below the gun ports. My crew chief and I gave that plane every ounce of our attention and like a human it responded to love and care. It never let us down.

I drew a forward air control assignment with the Army 7th Infantry division in January 1957. My job for a month was to lead a small ground team that directed air strikes by Air Force and allied fighter aircraft supporting the Army front-line troops. This FAC experience prepared me to work effectively with the forward air controller as a pilot attacking targets. I do not think any work in my life has ever been as demanding as close air support missions. Every element of mind, body, and soul was working intuitively and perfectly, putting the pieces together, planning ahead, communicating and pressing the attack. With mountains on all sides, poor visibility, and the high aircraft speeds, it was incredible we did not lose more pilots—and we were just training.

The 69th Squadron was counting down the days to decommissioning and returning stateside. I was looking forward to my next assignment. Marta was doing well in the latter part of her pregnancy, counting the days until the arrival of our first child and my return. On my last flight in a Sabre, I ferried the airplane to Taiwan and turned it over to the Nationalist Chinese.

Returning from the ferry flight, I was furious when I found out that my next orders took me to Altus, Oklahoma, to train in KC-135 jet tankers. I could not believe that with all the pilots coming out of flight school, the Air Force would take operational fighter pilots and send them to tankers. I had flown a Sabre at 400 knots, forty feet above the ground, missiles and guns blowing away everything in my wake. This was the environment I craved. And now I was going to fly tankers?

The assignment dimmed the joy of our returning home, and the K-55 Officers Club rang with the sad songs of the 69th fighter pilots. We had all received the same orders. I wrote Marta a long letter that evening telling her I would be returning to civilian life. The next morning I requested my discharge from active duty.

I wrote to four aircraft companies, hoping to get a job that offered a cockpit position. Marta was waiting in San Francisco and, after a joyful reunion, we left for Texas so I could meet my new baby daughter, Carmen. After spending so much time overseas I looked at my country with an even greater love and appreciation.

The only job offer came from McDonnell, and my feelings on returning to St. Louis were mixed. I missed the flying and the camaraderie of the pilots, and the daily adventures we lived in Korea. But Harry Carroll’s exuberance helped me through the first few weeks and gradually I adapted to being a civilian.

I was assigned to the F-101 Voodoo flight test. I could touch the aircraft, brief the pilots, check the preflight instruments, and climb into the seat, but I could not fly the planes. That hurt. Fresh from Korea, I was used to doing things for myself and I got crosswise with McDonnell’s union mechanics and inspectors on a variety of issues. Union stewards became familiar faces to my bosses and I was directed to follow the rules. I had been on the job only a few weeks and I was already thrashing around, trying to get a job done and unhappy with my new role.

In October of 1958, McDonnell posted a notice for flight test assignments at Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico. I applied. Holloman is located sixty-five miles north of El Paso, Texas, and is near White Sands. The Sacramento Mountains lie to the east and lava beds to the north. The valley is a giant corridor stretching 150 miles, almost to Albuquerque. The first atomic bomb was detonated at the Trinity site at the midpoint of the corridor. The vast, uninhabited areas provided the remote location needed to test the early developments in rocketry and aircraft missile systems.

When I arrived, every conceivable type of test was being conducted. High-speed sleds shrieked across the desert, balloon flights took man to the edge of the atmosphere, and parachute jumps were made from altitudes of over 100,000 feet. Aircraft were being tested with new missile systems and the Army was using rockets to shoot B-17s from the sky. The Zero Launch projects strapped pilots into airplanes that were powered by rockets and screaming engines. In a burst of fire and smoke the pilots were sent airborne. The Matador and the Mace, pilotless bombs with wings and jet engine, were zero-launched as well. Occasionally, one would get loose over the town, flying erratically until it crashed into the mountains or drifted back over the test range and was downed by the shotgun aircraft.

I admired the steely raw guts of the pilots, engineers, and doctors who volunteered for these tests, pushing their bodies and minds to find the boundaries of human performance. Holloman ran on the pure energy of the test projects. The air crackled with high-altitude missile firings and the flight line never slept. I felt alive again.

The Quail, powered by a small jet engine, was McDonnell Aircraft’s entry into a competition to develop a decoy missile that could be launched from the bomb bays of the B-47 and the eight-jet B-52, the most advanced bombers in the U.S. arsenal. The decoy’s purpose was to confuse the Russian air defense systems by replicating the radar signature of a large bomber.

The head of the Quail flight test was Ralph Saylor, known as “The Great White Hunter.” Saylor was six feet tall, lanky but imposing. He had a sun-bleached crew cut, a great bushy mustache, and crystal blue eyes that peered out from beneath a brown Aussie hat. He was formidable; there was never any doubt about who was in charge of the 200 yards of the McDonnell flight line at Holloman. In short order, he assigned me as the lead flight test engineer for the B-52, with authority over the aircraft. No one got a seat without my okay. My job was to plan the mission, install the launch gear and missiles, test the missile and launch system, and hand the flight test data to the engineers. It was my baby, politics and all.

In the meantime our family continued to grow. On July 27, 1959, we were blessed with our second daughter, Lucy. I was nervous and clumsy in my first experience with a new baby, but savored the chance to share Marta’s delight. Carmen was walking, not a rare thing, but I would watch for hours mesmerized as she learned to balance, standing uncertainly, then stutter-stepping around the room. We enjoyed our weekends driving through the mountains from Cloudcroft, New Mexico, to the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation. We formed friendships with the families of the flight test team and, in many ways, it was like being back in the Air Force.

Jack Ernst was the ground test conductor and on hot missions (with live missiles to be air-launched) he operated from King 1, the range control center, plotting the armada of chase, photo, and shotgun aircraft that accompanied a Quail launch. He made sure that we observed the range safety boundaries and that we stood by for any test replanning or flight contingencies. Jack was always trying to get volunteers to join him in the Officers Club annual rattlesnake roundup. Prowling through the lava beds, Jack had collected several over six feet long. He was not easily disturbed by the critters of the desert.

In December, shortly after noon one day, I received a call from Jack. “We have a problem,” he said. “Meet me in the operations room at Boeing as soon as possible and bring your schematics!” I took one of the flight line trams and entered the operations room just as the missile launch operator, Milt Norsworthy, was on the radio from the air-borne B-52, explaining his problem. “I was extending the lower missile-to-launch position. Everything was normal, and then I had indications that the launch carriage was gone. We’ve lost all power to the missile, but the chase aircraft says that the missile is still in launch position.”

The implications were immediately evident and they were ominous. Normally, in this condition we could jettison the entire launch assembly. In the current situation, the missile was hanging two feet below the B-52’s landing gear and we had no control over it. We had only two options: land on top of the missile and hope that nothing went BOOM, or have the crew eject and lose an instrumented B-52—and maybe the Quail program. If we landed, the possible loss of both the aircraft and crew was very real. We had to figure out how to get the crew and the airplane back safely.

Landing on top of the missile posed obvious problems. The B-52’s main fuel tank vents were aft of the bomb bay, as was the rear landing gear. The engine start tank was on the underside of the Quail and was fueled with explosively flammable ethylene oxide. When we landed, there would be one hell of a ball of flame and, if the missile came off the launch shackles, it would hit the rear landing gear, blowing the tires, tearing out the hydraulics, and possibly igniting vapors from the fuel vent system.

The B-52 had plenty of fuel and continued to circle overhead while we discussed the quandary.

As the errant B-52 continued to circle the base, there were some wild suggestions, including one for Norsworthy to climb down to the launch gear in the bomb bay and attempt to reconnect the electrical umbilical. I described the rigging of the umbilical and clearly and unequivocally stated, “We are wasting time. There is no way to reconnect the umbilical in flight. We should start working on things we can do.”

Without a pause, I turned the discussion to other options, brain storming the problem with my Pacific Airmotive team of mechanics. Bob Brown, McDonnell’s best electrical engineer, suggested that if we landed on the missile “softly” the pins in the carriage drive motor would shear, allowing the missile to be pushed back up into the bomb bay. We decided that was the best option. Ralph Saylor, the Quail flight test boss, concurred with the recommendation and voiced the plan to Al Perssons, the B-52 pilot. We then started to look at landing techniques. We were tuned in to the discussions between the pilots, who thought there would be little difference between a lakebed or concrete runway landing. All agreed that we should land on foam to smother the flame when the ethylene oxide torched off. Perssons made the decision to land at Holloman and after a practice approach came in for a perfect landing. If ever there was a need for a “grease job,” it was that day and he pulled it off.

After a brief flash of fire, the missile pushed up along the launch track, the B-52’s landing gear touched down, and the aircraft continued rolling down the runway to a safe stop, chased by a fleet of fire and rescue vehicles. My team had its first flight test save.

By the new year, 1960, we could see the end of the Quail competition in sight. We had the winner, and it was time for me to think about moving on. I wanted to return to active duty, citing my B-52 experience and gaining endorsements from both Boeing and McDonnell flight test pilots and management. I was willing to fly anything.

I received a standard form letter from the Air Force, turning down my application. The Air Force did not need any more active-duty pilots. I was devastated. I had been declared surplus by the Air Force at the age of twenty-seven.

During lunch at Holloman I often read Aviation Week magazine, searching out news of our competitors and looking for pictures of my B-52. In the spring and summer of 1960, as I worked on the Quail program, the magazine was devoting more and more attention to the man in space project. McDonnell Aircraft had experimented with the concepts for a blunt-body ballistic spaceship as early as 1955, when I was there briefly after my graduation from college. In January of 1959, the company was awarded a contract to develop the one-man Mercury spacecraft, and they were expanding their engineering team rapidly.

With the flight test program concluding at Holloman, it was time to figure out where to go next. Remembering my chagrin when the Soviets grabbed the high ground with the launch of Sputnik, I decided to move to space. After the Air Force turned down my request to return to active duty, I accelerated my plans when I noticed a small ad in Aviation Week that said: “The NASA Space Task Group is looking for qualified engineers seeking to work in the space program. Project Mercury positions are available at Langley Field, Virginia, and at Cape Canaveral, Florida.”