How was Apollo 11 seen in its time?
As Apollo nostalgia skyrockets during 40th-anniversary moon-landing mania, find out what the fresh take was in 1969, when National Geographic magazine published this article in its December issue.
Two thousand feet above the Sea of Tranquillity, the little silver, black, and gold space bug named Eagle braked itself with a tail of flame as it plunged toward the face of the moon. The two men inside standing like the motorman in a 19th-century trolley car strained to see their goal. Guided by numbers from their computer, they sighted through a grid on one triangular window.
Suddenly they spotted the onrushing target. What they saw set the adrenalin pumping and the blood racing. Instead of the level, obstacle-free plain called for in the Apollo 11 flight plan, they were aimed for a sharply etched crater, 600 feet [183 meters] across and surrounded by heavy boulders.
For Astronaut Neil Armstrong, at the controls of the frail, spidery craft, a crisis in flight was nothing new. In 1966 he had subdued the wildly gyrating Gemini 8 when one of its thrusters stuck. More recently, he had ejected safely from the "flying bedstead," a 752 jet-powered lunar-landing training vehicle, just before it crashed. Now he would need all the coolness and skill acquired during 500 earthbound hours in simulators and during years test-flying the X-15 and other experimental aircraft for the National Aeronautics and Space Administration.
The problem was not completely unexpected. Shortly after Armstrong and his companion, Edwin (Buzz) Aldrin, had begun their powered dive for the lunar surface ten minutes earlier, they had checked against landmarks such as crater Maskelyne and discovered that they were going to land some distance beyond their intended target.
And there were other complications. Communications with earth had been blacking out at intervals. These failures had heightened an already palpable tension in the control room in Houston. This unprecedented landing was the trickiest, most dangerous part of the flight. Without information and help from the ground, Eagle might have to abandon its attempt.
Moreover, the spacecraft's all-important computer had repeatedly flashed the danger signals "1201" and "1202," warning of an overload. If continued, it would interfere with the computer's job of calculating altitude and speed, and neither autopilot nor astronaut could guide Eagle to a safe landing.
Eagle's Descent Fuel Runs Low
Armstrong revealed nothing to the ground controllers about the crater ahead. Indeed, he said nothing at all; he was much too busy. The men back on earth, a quarter of a million miles away, heard only the clipped, deadpan voice of Aldrin, reading off the instruments.
"Hang tight; we're go. 2,000 feet [610 meters]." Telemetry on the ground showed the altitude dropping ... 1,600 feet [490 meters] ... 1,400 [430] ... 1,000 [305]. The beleaguered computer flashed another warning. The two men far away said nothing.
Not till Eagle reached 750 feet [229 meters] did Aldrin speak again. And now it was a terse litany: "750 [altitude], coming down at 23 [feet per second, or about 16 miles, or 26 kilometers an hour]... 600 feet [183 feet], down at 19... 540 feet [164 meters], down at 15 ... 400 feet [122 meters], down at 9 ... 8 [feet per second] forward ... 330 [100 meters], 31/2 down." Eagle was braking its fall, as it should, and nosing slowly forward.
But now the men in the control room in Houston realized that something was wrong. Eagle had almost stopped dropping, but suddenly-between 300 and 200 feet [91 and 61 meters] altitude its forward speed shot up to 80 feet a second—about 55 miles [89 kilometers] an hour! This was strictly not according to plan.
At last forward speed slackened again and downward velocity picked up slightly.
"Down at 2 1/2 [feet per second], 19 forward ... 3 1/2 down, 220 feet [altitude, or 67 meters] ... 11 forward, coming down nicely, 200 feet [61 meters], 4 1/2 down ... 160 [49 meters], 6 1/2 down ... 9 forward ... 100 feet [31 meters]."
And then, abruptly, a red light flashed on Eagle's instrument panel, and a warning came on in Mission Control. To the worried flight controllers the meaning was clear. Only 5 percent of Eagle's descent fuel remained. By mission rules, Eagle must be on the surface within 94 seconds or the crew must abort give up the attempt to land on the moon. They would have to fire the descent engine full throttle and then ignite the ascent engine to get back into lunar orbit for a rendezvous with Columbia, the mother ship.
When only 60 seconds remained, the countdown began. The quivering second hands on stopwatches began the single sweep that would spell success or failure.
"Sixty seconds," called Astronaut Charles Duke, the capsule communicator (CapCom) in Houston. Sixty seconds to go. Every man in the control center held his breath. Failure would be especially hard to take now. Some four days and six hours before, the world had watched a perfect, spectacularly beautiful launch at Kennedy Space Center, Florida. Apollo 11 had flown flawlessly, uneventfully, almost to the moon. Now it could all be lost for lack of a few seconds of fuel.
"Light's on." Aldrin confirmed that the astronauts had seen the fuel warning light.
"Down 2 1/2 [feet per second]," Aldrin continued. "Forward, forward. Good. 40 feet [altitude, or 12 meters], down 2 1/2. Picking up some dust. 30 feet [9 meters]. 2 1/2 down. Faint shadow."
He had seen the shadow of one of the 68 inch [172-centimeter] probes extending from Eagle's footpads.
"Four forward ... 4 forward, drifting to the right a little."
"Thirty seconds," announced CapCom. Thirty seconds to failure. In the control center, George Hage, Mission Director for Apollo 11, was pleading silently: "Get it down, Neil! Get it down!"
Read the full story—plus photos, audio, and more—on the National Geographic magazine Web site >>
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