_Live From Cape Canaveral_ - Jay Barbree [53]
An icy chill moved over his skin. Those calls of fire, that final garbled scream—they had come from inside Apollo 1.
Pad crews were rushing to the scene, trying to get to Gus, Ed, and Roger, while astronaut Stuart Roosa on the blockhouse console was trying frantically to talk with them. Again and again he called, desperate, his face chalk white.
No response.
Then, there was a shout from the pad over the radio loop: “Get a doctor out here, quick!”
Deke heard that! You don’t need a doctor for dead men. It was a glimmer, just a small hope. He grabbed two doctors standing nearby, and they headed for the blockhouse door.
Deke lived a lifetime in that mad run to the launch pad. He and Gus had been fishing and hunting buddies for years. They had flown everywhere together, and when it came to astronaut training, Gus had saved his ass during a water-rescue drill. Deke had fallen off his raft, and because he’d never really learned to swim, he almost drowned. But there was Gus, who could swim like a frog, and Gus saved him.
“Hang in there, buddy!” Deke shouted inside his head.
They reached the gantry, rode the elevator to level 8, and rushed into the White Room. The hatch was already open.
The doctors leaned in, studied the scene, and then pulled away slowly.
One turned to Deke. “They’re gone,” he said, shaking his head.
Deke held his position. Just for a moment. Gus was in there. He had to see for himself. He stepped over and leaned inside the hatch. It was all burnt. Everything was black ash. It was a death chamber. Ed White was on the bottom and Gus and Roger were crumpled on top of him. “They were clawing at those goddamn hatches,” Deke cursed. “They were trying to get out,” he shouted. “Damn it, they were trying to get out!” He caught himself. He was about to lose it. Then he saw it. Their suits! Their suits had protected them from the flames. None of them had burns. “It was all that goddamn crap they were breathing,” Deke cursed again. “It killed them, damn it. The fire sucked the oxygen right out of their lungs.”
Deke caught himself again. He paused, took a breath. Slowly he was putting things back together, gathering his thoughts.
Suddenly and strangely, he was thankful. He was realizing how quick death had been. He reached down and touched Gus’s gloved hand. “You didn’t suffer, buddy,” he choked back the words. “Thank God you guys didn’t suffer.” Then, Deke Slayton walked into the darkness and cried.
The tears flowed for five, perhaps ten minutes; Deke wasn’t sure. He could only stand there and hurt, and when the tears were slowing he turned once again to the blackened Apollo. “This won’t happen again, guys,” he promised the fallen astronauts. “It won’t happen again.”
Within hours after the Apollo 1 fire, Gus, Ed, and Roger were being remembered in America’s homes. In the home of Frank Sinatra, the memories were recent and special. Ten days before the astronauts died in the fire, they were flying to the Apollo plant in California hoping to get some training time in an up-to-date simulator. They ran into problems with one of their T–38 jets and had to land at Nellis Air Force Base outside Las Vegas. While the jet’s problems were being fixed, they decided to take in a show.
Frank Sinatra was on stage, and no sooner than they sat down, Frank had them brought up front. They were wearing their astronaut flight jackets, and Old Blue Eyes took a shine to Gus’s jacket. He was especially impressed with Grissom’s mission patches.
Gus grinned. He stood up, removed his jacket, and gave it to Frank. Sinatra was so moved he cried before his audience. Ten days later, he cried even more.
When Apollo 1 burned I was on my way to the Bahamas to cover a news conference by New York City congressman Adam Clayton Powell. The NBC news desk immediately rushed me back to the Cape, where I found reporting difficult. I kept wishing I had done more. Just what more, I have never fairly identified.
Gus Grissom was laid to rest at Arlington. Rifle volleys split the air, a bugler sounded mournful