Apollo 13 was supposed to be America’s third manned moon landing. Instead, in an era in which the nation’s public was becoming bored with the whole notion of moon landings, it clearly illustrated the life-and-death nature of manned spaceflight.
Apollo 13 launched on April 11, 1970, and for two days, the mission went flawlessly.
Then, on April 13, one of the command module’s oxygen tanks exploded, sending the Odyssey — as the command module was named — and the docked lunar module, dubbed Aquarius, careening off course.
The command module’s normal supply of electricity, light and water was lost, and they were about 200,000 miles from Earth.
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For the next four days, Mission Control in Houston and hundreds of the space program’s contractors worked tirelessly to devise an entirely new mission: bringing the three-man crew of Jim Lovell, Fred Haise and Jack Swigert back home safely to Earth.
Thirteen minutes after the explosion, Lovell looked out of the left-hand window and saw the final evidence pointing toward potential catastrophe. “We are venting something out into the ... into space,” he reported to Houston. “It’s a gas of some sort.” It was oxygen gas escaping at a high rate from the second, and last, oxygen tank.
As Lovell peered out the window and saw oxygen escaping into the black void, he knew his moon landing was also slipping away. He shoved all emotions aside.
“Not landing on the moon or dying in space are two different things,” Lovell, now 92, said in an Associated Press interview, “and so we forgot about landing on the moon. This was one of survival. How do we get home?”
Ground controllers in Houston faced a formidable task. Completely new procedures had to be written and tested in simulators before being passed up to the crew.
With only 15 minutes of power left in the Odyssey, the crew made its way into Aquarius and would use the lunar module as a lifeboat.
Water was the main consumable concern. The crew cut down to 6 ounces each per day and used fruit juices; they also ate hot dogs and other wet-pack foods when they ate at all.
The men became dehydrated throughout the flight: Lovell lost 14 pounds, and the crew lost a total of 31.5 pounds.
Removal of carbon dioxide also was a concern. Mission Control devised a way to attach the Odyssey’s canisters to Aquarius’ system by using plastic bags, cardboard and to tape all materials carried on board.
The trip was marked by discomfort beyond the lack of food and water. Sleep was almost impossible because of the cold. When the electrical systems were turned off, the spacecraft lost an important source of heat. The temperature dropped to 38 degrees, and condensation formed on all the walls.
Finally, on April 17, after a free-return trajectory around the moon, the crew shed the service module. Mission Control had insisted on retaining it until then because everyone feared what the cold of space might do to the unsheltered CM heat shield.
Splashdown day finally arrived April 17, 1970 — with no guarantees.
The astronauts managed to power up their command module, avoiding short circuits but creating a rainfall inside as the spacecraft decelerated in the atmosphere. Photos of the service module showed one whole panel missing and wreckage hanging out; it was a mess as it drifted away.
The communication blackout lasted 1 1/2 minutes longer than normal. Controllers grew alarmed. Finally, three billowing parachutes appeared above the Pacific. It was only then, Lovell said, that “we knew that we had it made.”
The astronauts had no idea how much their cosmic cliffhanger impacted the world until they reached Honolulu. President Richard Nixon was there to greet them.
“We never dreamed a billion people were following us on television and radio, and reading about us in banner headlines of every newspaper published,” Lovell said.
“It was a great mission,” Haise, 86, said. It showed “what can be done if people use their minds and a little ingenuity.”
Now the coronavirus pandemic has robbed them of their anniversary celebrations. Festivities are on hold, including at Kennedy Space Center in Florida, where the mission began on a Saturday just like this year.
That won’t stop Haise, who still lives in Houston, from marking what he calls “boom day” on Monday, as he does every April 13.
The aborted mission went from being so humdrum that none of the major TV networks broadcast the astronauts’ show-and-tell minutes before the explosion, to a life-and-death drama gripping the entire world.
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