Authors: Dan Lewis
Now I Know (16 page)
The United States made its first attempt at what would later be termed “rocket mail” in 1936, firing a pair of rockets across a lake on the border of New York and New Jersey. But the distance—only about 1,000 feet—wasn’t very impressive. A couple decades later, the Post Office Department (now the U.S. Postal Service) decided to try and make it work, for real. On June 8, 1959, working with the U.S. Navy, they fired a nuclear missile from the USS
Barbero
, a submarine then stationed a few miles off the coast of Norfolk. The nuclear warhead had been replaced with 3,000 postal covers—basically, commemorative envelopes with precancelled stamps—containing letters from Postmaster General Arthur Summerfield. The letters were addressed to President Eisenhower and a series of governmental and postal officials throughout the United States, and all had the same return address: “The Postmaster General, Washington.”
The missile took flight at 9:30
A.M.
Its guidance system was programmed to land at Naval Station Mayport, a military airport a few miles east of Jacksonville, situated on a harbor in Florida. At approximately 9:52, it successfully landed at Mayport. The mission was a success. Postmaster General Summerfield proclaimed that “before man reaches the moon, mail will be delivered within hours from New York to California, to Britain, to India or Australia by guided missiles. We stand on the threshold of rocket mail.”
He was obviously wrong. Most experts believe that “rocket mail” is too expensive to justify the otherwise very cool idea.
BONUS FACT
The Postmaster General isn’t a general. Neither are the Surgeon General or any of the Attorneys General, for that matter. “General,” in these contexts, is not a noun but an adjective, showing the expansiveness of the postmaster’s (or surgeon’s or attorney’s) expertise. According to Michael Herz, a professor of law at the Benjamin N. Cardozo School of Law in New York, who investigated the question insofar as “attorney general” is concerned, there’s no basis for calling these governmental leaders “generals.” Says Herz, doing so is “flatly incorrect by the standards of history, grammar, lexicology and protocol.”
HOW SOME APOLLO ASTRONAUTS MADE MONEY ON THE SIDE
An old postage stamp cover might not strike you as very exciting. But in at least several cases, those covers have been somewhere you’ll probably never go: the moon. And there’s a very good chance that many of these special envelopes shouldn’t have gone to the moon in the first place. The fact that some of them did may have cost a couple astronauts their jobs.
Apollo 15
launched from Kennedy Space Center in Florida on July 26, 1971. Its lunar module landed on the moon’s surface four days later. The spacecraft carried three astronauts—Commander David Scott, Lunar Module Pilot James Irwin, and Command Module Pilot Alfred Worden—and 641 postage stamp covers. Of those 641, 243 were authorized by NASA, a common way for space missions at the time to create collectables marking the historic occasions. (Most likely, 250 were authorized, but miscounting or damage to some covers reduced the number actually brought into space to 243.) The other 398—400, minus two that were damaged and therefore discarded—were smuggled aboard.
Before the
Apollo 15
mission launch, a German stamp collector named Herman Sieger found out about the 243 NASA-authorized stamp covers and saw an opportunity. He connected with a German man (and naturalized American citizen) named Walter Eiermann, who was well known in the area around Kennedy Space Center and had many contacts within NASA. He convinced the three astronauts to bring the extra 398 stamp covers aboard the flight with them, offering them $7,000 for their troubles, and giving them an extra 100 covers for their own purposes. Scott, who was traveling with an authorized cancellation stamp (for the 243 preapproved covers), was to cancel the 398 contraband covers upon the mission’s return to Earth.
That part of the plan went without a hitch. The stamp covers made the trip and were returned to Sieger, who had originally agreed to not sell any of the stamp covers until after the final Apollo mission came to a close (which, as it turns out, would be another year and a half or so). But Sieger failed to keep that part of the bargain. As reported by the
Spokesman-Review
, he started to sell them almost immediately after, receiving $1,500 for each. In total, he earned roughly $300,000 (about $1.6 million in today’s dollars, accounting for inflation)—which, of course, caught the eye of critics far and wide.
Even though what the astronauts did was not illegal, many objected, seeing the noble heroes become nothing more than profiteering opportunists. (Irwin, by some reports, would later say that he was simply trying to earn enough money to pay for his children’s college educations.) Congress ordered NASA to take action. NASA reassigned the astronauts to nonflight roles and confiscated their 100 remaining covers, prompting their resignations.
A few years later, in 1983, NASA and the U.S. Postal Service partnered to put 260,000 commemorative stamp covers on the STS-8
Challenger
shuttle mission. Noting that what they did was not very different, the
Apollo 15
crew took legal action to regain their own stamp covers. According to Worden’s autobiography, they settled with NASA and the covers were returned. As recently as 2011, one of the covers sold at auction for $15,000.
BONUS FACT
Worden has two claims to fame due to the
Apollo 15
mission. On August 5, 1971, he made the first walk in deep space, 196,000 miles from Earth; from that vantage point, he was able to see both the moon and Earth, as he told CNN. Second, Worden holds the record for the most isolated known person in human history. While Scott and Irwin were on the moon’s surface, Worden was in orbit above the moon, alone, and at one point was 2,235 miles away from the two men on the surface below. (That’s roughly the distance from Barcelona to Moscow.)
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE FLAGS ON THE MOON?
On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin became the first people to set foot on the moon. As part of the
Apollo 11
mission, they famously took a flag pole mounted with an American flag and placed it on the moon’s surface next to a plaque that read “Here men from the planet Earth first set foot upon the moon, July 1969
A.D
. We came in peace for all mankind.” The flag’s placement was broadcast back to the rest of us on Earth. More than a half-century later—and no human has returned to the massive rock orbiting our planet in more than forty years—that remains one of the most iconic images of the twentieth century.
The flag? It’s almost certainly not there anymore. (And no, aliens did not take it.)
Each of the Apollo missions left an American flag on the moon. When the
Apollo 11
crew planted theirs, though, they made one of the few notable (but arguably insignificant) errors of the mission—they placed it too close to the lunar lander. When Armstrong and Aldrin took off from the moon to rejoin Michael Collins in the command module in the lunar orbiter, Aldrin realized the error. As he’d later recount, he saw the flag fall over as the lander’s rockets fired, and assumed that the nylon flag was vaporized in the process. We can’t be sure, but that’s the most likely scenario.
For decades, NASA experts and other researchers believed that, if anything, this minor faux pas had little to no effect on anything, because they generally believed that the flags left behind would have crumbled into space dust (or whatever space items turn into over time) within a few years of their placement. But that turns out to be wrong. The flags—except for
Apollo 11
’s—are still there.
In 2009, NASA launched the Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter (LRO), an unmanned spacecraft that still orbits the moon, taking pictures of its surface along the way. The LRO is programmed to take pictures of each of the Apollo landing sites and, in 2012, picked up shadows near each site. The flags, NASA concluded, are causing those shadows.
So they are almost certainly still there. But they aren’t very American anymore.
The colors on nylon fade over time, and a nylon American flag on Earth, set outside somewhere for forty or fifty years, would be washed out—closer to pink, white, and azure than red, white, and blue. The same item on the moon, though, would fade much more quickly, because the moon doesn’t have an atmosphere, and therefore, the sun’s UV rays hit the surface uninhibited.
It is widely agreed that the flags on the moon are, therefore, blanched white—except for
Apollo 11
’s, which was probably vaporized.
BONUS FACT
The
Apollo 11
flag appeared to be waving in the wind, which is impossible, because there is no wind on the moon. What happened? Another error (with a neat result) caused the illusion. To get the flag to the moon, NASA furled it up in a heat-resistant tube. NASA outfitted the top and the bottom of the flag with telescoping arms that, when Armstrong unfurled the flag, were supposed to extend. But the bottom one didn’t fully do so, creating a permanent ripple in the flag (until it was likely vaporized when Armstrong and Aldrin departed, of course).
WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF NEIL ARMSTRONG AND BUZZ ALDRIN WERE STRANDED ON THE MOON?
Sometimes, the grandest plans go awry. And because of that, we often plan for the worst-case scenario.
When Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin disembarked from the lunar lander in the summer of 1969, they became the first people ever to walk on the moon. The landing, according to NASA, was not the troubling part. Rather, NASA’s biggest concern was whether the lunar lander would be able to leave the moon’s surface and return to the lunar orbiter, piloted and manned by Michael Collins, awaiting them for the return to Earth. If the lunar lander’s liftoff failed, both Armstrong and Aldrin would be marooned on the moon, with the world watching on television.
Then-President Richard M. Nixon’s speechwriter, William Safire (who would later become a
New York Times
columnist), took it upon himself to draft a plan and a message from Nixon in case of this disaster. That message outlined the plan. First, Nixon would call (in Safire’s words) the “widows-to-be,” offering the nation’s condolences. Then, communications with the moon would be cut, and a member of the clergy would offer a prayer similar to one used for a burial at sea, and close with the Lord’s Prayer. Finally, Nixon would read the following statement to those watching on television:
Fate has ordained that the men who went to the moon to explore in peace will stay on the moon to rest in peace.
These brave men, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, know that there is no hope for their recovery. But they also know that there is hope for mankind in their sacrifice.
These two men are laying down their lives in mankind’s most noble goal: the search for truth and understanding. They will be mourned by their families and friends; they will be mourned by their nation; they will be mourned by the people of the world; they will be mourned by a Mother Earth that dared send two of her sons into the unknown.
In their exploration, they stirred the people of the world to feel as one; in their sacrifice, they bind more tightly the brotherhood of man.
In ancient days, men looked at stars and saw their heroes in the constellations. In modern times, we do much the same, but our heroes are epic men of flesh and blood.
Others will follow, and surely find their way home. Man’s search will not be denied. But these men were the first, and they will remain the foremost in our hearts.
For every human being who looks up at the moon in the nights to come will know that there is some corner of another world that is forever mankind.
The address was never used, and it’s unclear if Nixon himself ever knew of its existence until well afterward. The astronauts, however, did learn of it. In 1999, in celebration of the thirtieth anniversary of the successful moon landing, the late Tim Russert had Aldrin, Armstrong, and Collins on
Meet the Press
and read the statement to them.
BONUS FACT
On June 6, 1944, Allied forces successfully pulled off the now-famous D-Day landing on Normandy Beach, France, a tide-turning victory in World War II. Had it failed, then-General Dwight D. Eisenhower was prepared to issue a statement:
Our landings in the Cherbourg-Havre area have failed to gain a satisfactory foothold and I have withdrawn the troops. My decision to attack at this time and place was based on the best information available. The troops, the air, and the Navy did all that bravery and devotion to duty could do. If any blame or fault attaches to the attempt it is mine alone.
Having a lot on his mind, he dated the draft incorrectly—it reads “July 5.” He threw the paper aside when it became clear that the invasion was a success, but a historically aware assistant realized the value of the document and retained it. And it would come up again two decades later: Safire cited Eisenhower’s decision to draft a worst-case-scenario statement as his reason to do the same for the moon landing.
THE PRACTICE D-DAY INVASION THAT WENT TERRIBLY WRONG
On June 6, 1944—D-Day—the fate of World War II hung in the balance as Allied forces attempted to liberate Nazi-occupied France. More than 150,000 troops crossed the English Channel that day aboard nearly 7,000 ships supported by 12,000 planes, landing on a series of beaches in Normandy, France. By the end of August, more than 3 million Allied troops were in France. D-Day and the larger Battle of Normandy were decisive victories for the Allies and on August 25, 1944, the Germans surrendered control of Paris back to the French.
But D-Day almost never happened.
American General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the commander of the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force, led the U.S. and UK troops in northwest Europe. In this role, he assumed command of the planned D-Day invasion. He wanted to do everything possible to make sure it would work, so he ordered a practice called Exercise Tiger. A beach called Slapton in the south of Great Britain was to be the staging ground for a faux invasion, with the assault coming from across Lyme Bay directly to Slapton’s east. The roughly 3,000 people living in the area were evacuated and on the evening of April 26, 1944, Allied troops began their “assault” on the beach. It did not go so well.