For Wernher von Braun, the early 1950s were also a busy time for promoting his vision of space flight to the American public. In wartime Germany, expressing interest publicly in space flight would—and did—get him into serious trouble. But now he was free from Hitler’s dictatorship with its secrecy and its controlled news media. He faced no such restraints from his new employer, the United States Army, as long as it didn’t interfere with his weapons work. To spread the gospel of space exploration, he began giving press interviews, making speeches, and writing articles. “In those early years, Wernher von Braun was a good storyteller in his own right,” space scientist Rick Chappell observed.1 And he quickly became savvy about using the mass media, understanding that their help would be needed to tell the story widely and to gain public and political support.
All through the 1950s, von Braun cultivated relationships, some close and long lasting, with journalists and other communicators, including writer Arthur C. Clarke, broadcaster Walter Cronkite, Walt and Roy Disney, writer-publisher Erik Bergaust, Associated Press missile/space correspondent Howard Benedict, author and magazine writer-editor Cornelius “Connie” Ryan, and, later, television’s Hugh Downs.
The first major breakthrough in spreading the space gospel to the American people came via the popular magazine Collier’s. Editorial appetites had been whetted in October 1951 when representatives of the magazine attended a symposium on space travel sponsored by New York City’s Hayden Planetarium. Plans for a magazine series were solidified the following month over drinks and dinner in San Antonio during the Symposium on Physics and Medicine of the Aeropause.
“Four of us sat at the table through cocktails, dinner, and long into the evening,” recalled Fred L. Whipple, chairman of Harvard University’s Department of Astronomy. With him and von Braun were University of California physicist Joseph Kaplan and former war correspondent Connie Ryan, then a writer-editor at Collier’s.
“Our conversation from the beginning . . . was aimed at convincing a highly skeptical . . . Ryan that space travel was possible and desirable,” said Whipple. “The fact that we succeeded in this tour de force is evidenced by the subsequent series of articles in Collier’s magazine and the two volumes Across the Space Frontier (1952) and Conquest of the Moon (1953).”2
The eight articles, written by von Braun, Whipple, Kaplan, Willy Ley, and others and published by the magazine between 1952 and 1954 with spectacular illustrations, created a sensation. They made a cogent case that launching Earth satellites and sending flights to the Moon would soon be realities—with few advances in existing technology required. Ryan, the erstwhile space skeptic before von Braun and friends made a convert of him, was the lead editorial staffer on the articles as well as editor of the books spun out of the magazine series.
Also present at the Texas symposium was premier space illustrator Chesley Bonestell. After hearing von Braun’s formal presentation, the painter had turned to Ryan and said, “There is the man to send our rocket to the Moon.”3 Bonestell recalled the exchange he had with von Braun when he and Ryan met with him in the crowded hotel restaurant:
“Dr. von Braun, you ever thought of going to the Moon?”
“Call me Wernher. Yes, indeed I have.” (He started to draw a rocket on the paper napkin).
“What, not streamlined?”
“Do you want it streamlined?”
“No, you design it the way it should be.” Pause. “Well, never mind at present—we’ll go into it later,” the artist added, suddenly aware of “the craning necks of the rival magazine editors at the next table from Look and Saturday Evening Post.” They met the next day, at another hotel, away from eavesdropping competitors.4 The attention-grabbing paintings created by lead artist Bonestell and fellow illustrators Fred Freeman and Rolf Klep to accompany the Collier’s articles became space-art classics.
In reminiscences years later, Connie Ryan remembered the first issue, which came out the day before von Braun turned forty. “Remember March 22, 1952, when we waited for the reaction to a special Collier’s issue called ‘Man Will Conquer Space Soon,’ urging an all-out U.S. space program? As the editor in charge of the project I shall never forget the controversy that followed. We were both praised and damned for what Collier’s called ‘one of the most important symposiums ever published by a national magazine.’”5
Ryan further observed: “It is amusing now to read the vehemence of those critics who, at the time, considered your proposals farfetched.” He cited “the well-known science writer who called you ‘the high priest of space’ . . . and who summarized Collier’s issue this way: ‘If we seriously accept von Braun’s plans, then surely he will, scientifically and economically, bankrupt the U.S.’”6
The Collier’s series was also praised highly by British rocketeer Val Cleaver, who wrote von Braun after the opening issue in March 1952. “Congratulations to all concerned on that magnificent effort, quite the best piece of popular publicity the cause has ever had. Your hand still retains its cunning—you are not only the world’s leading rocket engineer, but a superb ‘political engineer’ as well, a technical salesman without equal!”7
Von Braun understood that controversy helped the cause, as illustrated by the second annual Symposium on Space Travel, held at Hayden Planetarium in New York City in October 1952. Von Braun, Milton W. Rosen, and several other scientists had been invited to present papers. Rosen planned to take issue with von Braun’s aggressive, “great leap forward” approach as spelled out in Collier’s and the spin-off book, Across the Space Frontier. Von Braun had proposed what Rosen characterized as a “mighty three-stage rocket that could be used to assemble in orbit a large, permanent space-station.” His own paper, “A Down-to-Earth View of Space Flight,” argued for a gradual, research-based, let’s-not-go-too-fast mode.8
“The conflict in opinions was going to be obvious,” Rosen remembered, “and Willy Ley, who was arranging the program, wanted me to modify or withdraw my remarks in fear that they might do damage to the cause of space flight.” The Hayden Planetarium took the position that Rosen could say what he wanted, and a clash loomed. Rosen reminded von Braun in a letter of reminiscence:
But you were not concerned. Indeed, you pointed out that if all of us sang the praises of space flight, the press would take little note of it; however, if we presented a strong difference of opinion, it could be newsworthy. We did do that and your prediction was proven correct. “Experts Differ on Future of Space Flight” was the headline on front pages of New York newspapers. Moreover, the conflict was featured in Time magazine.9
Milt Rosen continued to have serious differences with von Braun, but eventually friction gave way to a friendlier relationship. He added in his correspondence with von Braun “what everybody knows—that you have always looked ahead with optimism, and that you have been tolerant and gracious to those who differed with you.”10
The magazine series,11 plus other coverage in the early 1950s, enhanced the public image of von Braun as a space visionary—or crackpot. Science and technology author and Time science editor Jonathan Norton Leonard, in a 1953 book, cited him as “an unusual example of the sub-species homo tecnologicus.” Ambivalently noting the rocket scientist’s “fantastically successful” and “horrendous” V-2 missile, Leonard reflected:
There is no doubt about his engineering competence. . . . But von Braun is more than a mere technician; he is also something of a prophet and something of a mystic. He is regarded by the more conventional rocket men with the mixture of suspicion and admiration that must have been felt by cozily established clerics toward Saint Francis of Assisi or Peter the Hermit. He worries and frightens them with his technological visions. When he talks to the lay public about his confident plans for voyaging into space, they accuse him of preaching to the birds. When they observe the following that has gathered around him of little boys in toy-shop space suits and teen-age enthusiasts with space dust in their eyes, they accuse him of leading a children’s crusade toward sure disappointment.12
Von Braun met such criticism, wrote Leonard, with a reply “much like that which Peter the Hermit must have given to the abbots and bishops who deplored his disquieting influence.” Commented the rocket pioneer: “Enthusiasm and faith are necessary ingredients of every great project. Prophets have always been laughed at, deplored and opposed, but some prophets have proved to be following the true course of history.”13
Not all of von Braun’s space visions were benign. He claimed he was consistently driven by a primary desire for peaceful exploration of the cosmos. Yet, in his eagerness to see the space age commence, in the early 1950s he proposed that the United States be the first to orbit a “satellite station” or series of satellites armed with atomic missiles. The idea was to give America permanent military control of the entire globe—but only for good, of course. From such a station, or stations, he postulated, the United States could observe, and if necessary, punish errant nations by bombarding them from the ultimate high ground of space. Leonard satirically summed up the envisioned potential import of von Braun’s militaristic, yet idealized, Cold War proposal: “No nation will challenge the power that looks down upon it from an artificial moon. No nation will attempt to challenge it; the earth will enjoy a pax Americana and can beat its radars into television sets.”14 Critics assailed the startling proposal to militarize space and, thus, invite a cosmic arms race. Von Braun quietly withdrew the scheme and never put it forward again.15
Von Braun’s high-profile salesmanship offended the conservative tastes of many scientific colleagues. Not even all of the original members of his rocket team approved of von Braun’s spreading the space dream to the public and to political leaders. A major dissenter was Adolf K. Thiel, veteran of the V-2 days at Peenemünde. First at Fort Bliss/White Sands Proving Ground, scientist Dolf Thiel remembered, “We analyzed, designed, calculated, and dreamed about bigger rockets to the moon. [But] not much response from our bosses!”16 Thiel, who left the team in early 1955 to join TRW Corporation in California, reminisced years later with von Braun:
You started to get your thoughts into magazines. Some of us longhairs and purists didn’t think very highly of that. And one day I opened my big mouth about it and still remember your answer: “We can dream about rockets and the moon till hell freezes over. Unless the people understand it and the man who pays the bill is behind it, no dice. You worry about your damned calculations and I’ll talk to the people.” You did, and succeeded; we listened, and learned.17
As a master salesman and promoter,18 von Braun made maximum use of his most outstanding trait, Thiel said. “He was so charming. He charmed the pants off you! And he was absolutely convinced what he was doing was right.”19 And, despite any appearances to the contrary, von Braun “was not a glory hound,” rocket team member Werner Dahm emphasized. “He didn’t seek that [for himself]. He wanted to advance space exploration.”20
Close on the heels of the major exposure in Collier’s, von Braun began learning to master the young medium of television as well. The opportunity came via a series of Walt Disney programs on space that featured von Braun and his chief scientist, Ernst Stuhlinger, among other experts. The shows, introduced by Disney himself, began airing in 1955 with Man in Space and continued with Man and the Moon and Mars and Beyond. They kept alive the Collier’s momentum to educate Americans about, and stimulate their interest in, the coming Space Age.
A Walt Disney Productions associate, William R. Bosche, worked with von Braun in California on the series. Calling himself a “charter member of the Mickey Mouse Chapter of the Wernher von Braun Fan Club,” Bosche cited one especially memorable workday.
You came in about 5 PM, rumpled but ready after a day at [a contractor’s plant in] Santa Susana. Along with Willy Ley and Ken O’Connor, we were working out the details of a “bottle” type space suit for maintenance and repair of the orbiting space station you had designed.
As Ken and I were asking questions and making sketches, you and Willy were carrying on a running argument about the number of cells in a monkey’s brain and just how much they could be programmed to do.
As midnight approached we had things fairly well nailed down, so you looked at your watch, commented that you had no appointments until 7 AM, and asked if we would like to work straight through until then on the next problem.
Unfortunately, we all found that we had pressing engagements at that moment that forced us to decline your kind offer. However, we were impressed by your eagerness and predicted then, as we do now, that if you maintain such an ambitious attitude you may make a name for yourself yet!21
In addition to wooing and working with the mass media, von Braun hit the speech-making trail across the country in the early 1950s, addressing any semirespectable group that would invite him. On early speaking engagements outside the South, he would occasionally soften up audiences by saying, “I want first to apologize for my accent. I’m from Alabama.” He combined, as one observer put it, “a German lisp, Texas twang, and honey-soft Alabama drawl that enthralls his listeners.” His composite accent prompted one wag to dub him “Sam Houston Cornpone T. von Braun.”
On occasion he was unable to deliver his speeches in person. In 1951 he was invited to present his technical paper on “satellite vehicles” to the second annual congress of the IAF (International Astronautical Federation) in London. That March he explained to a BIS (British Interplanetary Society) official why his prospects of attending the IAF gathering were rather dim. “Old Joe [Stalin] from behind that Curtain keeps us pretty busy and my personal finances aren’t too rosy, either. A couple of months ago I broke ground for a new home and now I’m broke myself. But let’s wait. It is still six months hence, so Old Joe may meanwhile become a monk and I may hit the jackpot. Who can tell?”22
Von Braun neglected to cite a third reason he probably would not be going to London any time soon: national security. The U.S. Army feared kidnapping or other harm to its ace rocket scientist—not yet an American citizen—by the Soviet Union if he ventured back to Europe. Von Braun made a further reference to the sad state of his own finances in a follow-up letter: “Ah, if my pocket would be as full as my head I would most certainly come.”23
The London gathering led to his meeting a man who would figure prominently in his life—Frederick C. Durant III, an American World War II naval aviator, test pilot, early space activist (and future aerospace industry executive, author, and sometime CIA agent). Durant, an IAF officer, learned that von Braun had prepared a paper for the conference but could not attend, so he wrote and offered to read the paper for him. The situation prompted von Braun to write to a colleague in London:
I greatly enjoyed your suggestion that it would give the meeting the right cosmopolitan flavor if an American would read a German’s paper at an Astronautical Congress held in London. By God, isn’t all this a business between one planet and another, after all? When, during the war, I made my business trips through Germany in a little Messerschmidt, I always felt like a house-fly trapped between a double-glazed window. In the “cosmic age” we are entering now, there is no room for frontiers, at least not for spiritual ones.24
With Durant’s letter in hand, von Braun arranged to meet him over coffee in a New York café so he could decide whether he wanted Durant to represent him, and so Durant could decide whether he wished to associate himself publicly with this German rocketeer’s views.
“It took us about three minutes only, and we became great friends. It was the first of many meetings through the years,” recalled Durant, now the retired deputy director of the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum and founding head of its Astronautics Department. The von Braun paper on space satellites was “very well received” by the IAF delegates from nearly a dozen countries, Durant remembered, despite “some negative comment in the British press.” The Allies’ V-E (Victory in Europe) Day was a scant six years in the past, and some damage from V-1s and V-2s could still be seen in London.25
In an implausible occurrence, two years earlier (1949) von Braun had been voted, in absentia, an honorary fellow of BIS. He responded that this action, “despite the grief the work of me and my associates brought to the British people, is the most encouraging proof that the noble enthusiasm in the future of rocketry is stronger than national sentiments which in the past so often have hampered scientific progress to the benefits of all mankind.”26
Von Braun, in postwar correspondence with another BIS officer in England, both deplored the recent past and held out the pacifistic hope of a missile-free future filled with cosmic travel and exploration: “Is it not a shame that people with the same star-inspired ideals had to stand on two opposite sides of the fence? Let’s hope this was the last holocaust, and that henceforth rockets will be used for their ultimate destiny only—space flight.”27