"Friendship 7" arriving at the airport in Ceylon (Sri Lanka), July 1, 1962 (NASM Archives)

Five years earlier, popular reaction to the successful launch of Sputnik in 1957 had prompted government officials in the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. to see spaceflight as a leading means for demonstrating power, technological capability, and national values to the world public. As a result, the U.S. space program, and its exhibition abroad, became important instruments in American foreign relations during the Cold War.

Over the course of its three-month-long world tour, Friendship 7 was seen by roughly four million people. Another 20 million people watched television programs about the capsule, which were broadcast from the exhibition sites. In early May 1962, on the first day the capsule was displayed at the Science Museum in London, thousands of people had to be turned away because the huge crowds overtaxed the facilities. In Madrid, the line to see the capsule was often up to a mile long and Spanish authorities had to be called to control a crowd of 40,000 people around the exhibit. Even though tropical thunderstorms drenched Nigeria and an earthquake shook Mexico during the capsule’s visit, the exhibit caused a much larger stir in every city it visited than officials at NASA and the State Department had imagined.

The capsule was flown around the world in a U.S. Air Force cargo plane that was emblazoned with the words “around the world with Friendship 7” and depicted the “fourth orbit” on a map of the four continents that the capsule visited over the summer. A member of NASA’s Cape Canaveral staff accompanied the craft to answer questions from curious audiences around the world.

At its stop in Egypt, the Friendship 7 capsule exhibit convinced skeptics that the flight had really happened. The Washington Post quoted one onlooker who remarked, “I thought this space flight business was a rumor but now [that] I can see the ship I believe it.” It was important for this exhibit visitor, as it was for many spectators around the world, to see the capsule with their own eyes. In the mid-twentieth century, space exploration had just left the realm of science fiction; the extraordinary idea that a man had orbited the earth was made more comprehensible when the craft that had carried Glenn could be seen and touched in person.

Although the Friendship 7 capsule drew record crowds from Paris and Accra, the capsule received its most overwhelming response in Asia. In the middle of July, when the capsule arrived in India, 50,000 Bombay residents waited for up to four hours to see the display at the Brabourne stadium. In the Philippines, priests, students, grandmothers, and boy scouts waded through six inches of rainwater leftover from a typhoon to see the spacecraft during its first day on display.

In Japan, the capsule was taken to Takashimaya, the leading department store in downtown Tokyo, where exhibits were usually mounted. Several hundred police and guides were called in to direct the crowd into a line that climbed nine flights of stairs, zigzagged across the roof of the building, and then descended back down nine flights of stairs to the first floor where the capsule was on display. In the first hour alone more than 12,000 people saw it, while over the course of its four-day visit more than 500,000 people came to the store to see Friendship 7 in person.

When Friendship 7 took its fourth orbit, it was for all practical purposes a defunct piece of machinery. After it landed in the Atlantic Ocean in 1962, the capsule had done what it was designed to do: to orbit the earth. Having outlived its technical utility, its display conveyed not only the fact that the first orbital flight had happened, but also that the American space program was open.

A year after his flight John Glenn wrote to McGeorge Bundy, President Kennedy’s National Security Advisor, that the Friendship 7’s ”fourth orbit” tour, “stressed the fact that [the American space program] was not just a propaganda effort before the world, but a well-thought-out scientific program that could eventually benefit all peoples of the world as the scientific exploration it is.” He went on to note that Russian exhibits highlighted personal appearances of cosmonauts while the United States emphasized scientific information via the capsule’s display. According to Glenn, America’s greatest advantage over the Soviet Union’s space program was “the almost complete freedom to share experiences and new information.” He suggested that the openness of the American program—as represented by the display of the spacecraft—stood in for the nation and its political ideology: when the Friendship 7 capsule was laid bare before the eyes of people from around the world it gave the impression that the U.S. space program was real, benign, apolitical, and designed for the collective benefit of all mankind.

"Friendship 7's" final location, Milestones of Flight gallery, National Air and Space Museum

Teasel Muir-Harmony is a visiting researcher at the National Air and Space Museum and a PhD candidate at MIT.

Sadly, when I started at the National Air and Space Museum almost eight years ago, I did not.  The first family program I produced, African American Pioneers in Aviation, had for many years featured the Tuskegee Airmen.  Since I had limited time to develop a new program, I continued the tradition—and fell in love.

The Tuskegee Airmen at the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC in 2011 — Standing Room Only

I have invited them to every African American family day since then and have been inspired by their stories. I also have stories about them.  There are too many to tell all, but here are few.  One year, we had NASA astronaut Col. Alvin Drew as a featured speaker.  The Tuskegee Airmen decided that they wanted to hear him speak.  I ran ahead to ask visitors if they minded giving up their seats for the Airmen.  Not only did they give up their seats without question, but one gentleman took off his hat, held it to his heart and said “it gives me chills to see them here listening to the astronaut.”  Another year, a featured speaker was former astronaut Dr. Mae Jemison, the first African American woman in space.  One of the Tuskegee Airman asked if I thought they could meet Dr. Jemison.  Of course I immediately escorted them to her, and I cannot tell you who was more excited about the meeting.

Former NASA astronaut, Dr. Mae Jemison, meeting members of the East Coast Chapter of the Tuskegee Airmen.

This last story speaks to what is so good and true about these men.  They did their jobs with bravery and a special type of courage—the will to succeed when so many people assume you will fail just because of the color of your skin.  Yet, they are often modest about their accomplishments; although generous in sharing their time and memories with those who want to hear of them.

I invite you to learn more about the Tuskegee Airmen.  Come visit the Pioneers of Flight exhibition at the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC, or visit the online version.  Here you will learn about the early African American aviators who paved the way for the Tuskegee Airmen, and about the importance of their legacy.  Or, you can try out an online interactive and fly a mission with the Airmen. Want to meet some actual Tuskegee Airmen?  Come to the National Mall Building on Saturday, February 11, 2012 or to the Udvar-Hazy Center, on Saturday, February 24, 2012 for African American Pioneers in Aviation Family Day.

The National Air and Space Museum’s African American Family Days are part of the Heritage Family Day Series, sponsored by Northrop Grumman Corporation.

Mychalene Giampaoli is the family programs coordinator for the National Air and Space Museum’s Washington, DC building.

The Goodyear blimp Columbia N4A, utilizing the C-49 car launches from the Marine Corps Air Station , Tustin, Ca. circa 1978.

Acquired by the US Navy in 1942, the craft was shipped to Moffett Field, California. Re-designated L-5 it spent most of the war as a training craft but saw some patrol duty. Re-acquired by Goodyear on January 24, 1946, the control car was rebuilt to operate with the new GZ-20 class commercial blimps in 1969 and registered as N4A on May 12, 1970. It was back in the air once again as the airship Columbia IV in July 1975, and remained in service for over a decade, logging thousands of hours of passenger flights, night sign messaging, and corporate service.

Black Sunday

The control car saw duty over the 1977, 1980, 1983, and 1985 Super Bowls; the 1981 and 1984 World Series; Rose Bowl games and parades; and the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. It starred in the Hollywood thriller Black Sunday (1977) and made appearances in several other films. C-49 spans much of the history of the pressure airship in America and represents the wide range of military and commercial roles played by blimps. The car was permanently retired in 1986 and made its final journey to the Smithsonian in November 2011.

The arrival of this historic control car provides an excuse to offer some thoughts on the etymology of the word “blimp.” First, some basic definitions. All Zeppelins are dirigibles, but not all dirigibles are Zeppelins. A dirigible is any powered lighter-than-air craft capable of maneuvering. For the linguistically fastidious, a Zeppelin is a rigid airship manufactured by the Zeppelin Company, or by Goodyear-Zeppelin, the American firm that produced the two great U.S. naval airships,  ZRS-4, USS Akron (1931-1933), and ZRS-5, USS  Macon (1933-1935).

Rigid airships have internal frameworks of metal or wood that gives the craft its shape. The lifting gas, hydrogen or helium, is contained in large gas cells inside the framework. Non-rigid airships, or pressure airships, maintain their shape only because the pressure inside the envelope, or gas bag, is slightly higher than the external air pressure. Let the lifting gas out and the envelope is an empty bag lying on the ground.

Pressure airships are commonly known as blimps. The origin of that term has caused a good many arguments. One story relates to an English officer, Lt. A.D. Cunningham, RN,  who entered a hangar containing a pressure airship in 1915. He was unable to resist plunking his finger on the gas bag, which produced the sound “blimp.” By noon that day his mess mates were applying the word to their gas bags. Another accounts claims that Horace Short, the famous British aircraft builder, took one look at an early Sea Scout airship, with a B.E.2C airplane fuselage hanging beneath a gas bag, and immediately dubbed the thing a blimp, commenting, “What else would you call it?”

Whatever the origin of the name, blimps have been delighting us since the late 19^th century. C-49, one of the longest-lived of all Goodyear airships, will proudly represent her kind for generations to come at the Museum’s Udvar-Hazy Center.

Goodyear C-49 airship control car

Tom D. Crouch is a senior curator of the Aeronautics Division of the National Air and Space Museum.

It is a fascinating, misleading, and in places highly contentious trailer for what is being billed as a “docudrama.” It claims that in 1960 the CIA discovered a secret Yugoslav space program, one that the United States exploited to win the space race with the Soviet Union, “buying” the whole shebang from Yugoslav strongman Tito in March 1961, not long before President Kennedy’s announcement of an American lunar landing program. The Yugoslavian space effort was based, according to this trailer, on the work of Hermann Noordung, a Slovenian-born artillery officer in the Austrian Army who wrote a book, The Problem of Space Travel, that was published in 1929 not long before his death. When I served as the NASA Chief Historian between 1990 and 2002 the history program had this work translated into English and published in the NASA History Series. It has recently been reprinted with additional prefatory material in an excellent new edition by the Centre of European Space Technologies (KSEVT) in Ljubljana, Slovenia.

President John F. Kennedy in his historic message to a joint session of the Congress, on May 25, 1961 declared, "...I believe this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the Moon and returning him safely to the Earth." This goal was achieved when astronaut Neil A. Armstrong became the first human to set foot upon the Moon at 10:56 p.m. EDT, July 20, 1969. Shown in the background are, (left) Vice President Lyndon Johnson, and (right) Speaker of the House Sam T. Rayburn.

Those commenting on the assertions made in this film have been highly critical. Viewers of the trailer have referred to it as a “mockumentary,” a “documentary,” and a “fantasy.” Of those three characterizations “documentary” is probably the term least closely related to what is being proposed for this film. William Barry, the current NASA Chief Historian, was kinder than most when he said that “I would be very curious to see if there is any real historical evidence that holds up…” Full disclosure, I was also quoted in the same news story as Bill Barry questioning the assertions made in the film trailer.

Astronaut Buzz Aldrin, Lunar Module LM pilot, stands beside the Passive Seismic Experiments Package PSEP. The Laser Ranging Retroreflector LRRR, U.S. Flag, television camera and the Apollo Lunar Surface Closeup Camera ALSCC and LM are visible also. Image taken at Tranquility Base during the Apollo 11 Mission.

Since that time there have been many comments back and forth. The film’s principals, Bostjan Virc and Ziga Virc, contacted me by e-mail insisting that “most media misinterpreted our project without asking us anything. Some of them stated it as a real documentary and some of them claimed it’s a spoof or mockumentary. From the first beginning we present it as a docudrama…That means a movie, where the basis is a reality with added dramatisation and some fiction elements.”

As a “documdrama” I’m curious as to whether this proposed film will be something like “The King’s Speech” just recently released that is presumably a true story, but also has some notable fictional elements and at least one gross distortion of the historical record in the position of Winston Churchill on the abdication of Edward VIII from the British throne? Or will it look and feel like a documentary with an announcer narrating events but have fictional elements in it? The meaning of “docudrama” appears to serve as a license to make up whatever might be desired and to include it in the film. Where is the line between fact and fiction in this proposed work? I’ll look forward to seeing what the Vircs come up with.

Geologist-Astronaut Harrison Schmitt, Apollo 17 Lunar Module pilot, is photographed next to the American Flag during extravehicular activity (EVA) of NASA's final lunar landing mission in the Apollo series. The photo was taken at the Taurus-Littrow landing site. The highest part of the flag appears to point toward our planet earth in the distant background.

I will be fascinated to see how this unfolds. I have many questions about the trailer’s arguments. Many of the connections made seem ridiculous at best; disingenuous at worst. As Carl Sagan said, “extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.” The “post hoc ergo propter hoc” approach to arguments in the trailer are solipsistic and I await the proof to support them. I’m also interested in the filmmaker’s documentation about Hermann Noordung, additional papers he may have, etc. I truly question this story, but I want to hear what others have to say about it. Any thoughts?

Roger Launius is a curator in the Space History Division of the National Air and Space Museum.

We are thrilled to host a return engagement of  “The Wright Brothers: A Musical Play,” a show using shadow puppets, hand puppets, wide mouth puppets, human arm puppets, and  live actors to bring to life the story of Orville and Wilbur Wright and the world’s first successful, manned, heavier-than-air, self-propelled flying machine.  The show’s creator and founder of Rainbow Puppet Productions, David Messick, has been a professional puppeteer for 35 years. He was inspired by his childhood love for Captain Kangaroo, the Muppets, and musicals.

Using a variety of puppets in combination with live actors, Rainbow Puppet Productions brings to life the story of Orville and Wilbur Wright.

Originally created in 2003 for the 100^th anniversary of the Orville and Wilbur Wright’s first flight, the show has undergone revision to add more interaction with the audience. David hopes that the show leaves the audience curious and inspired to learn more. “I always try to work into the script something that is in the Wright Brothers gallery that is not in the show,” says David, “the puppet show gets children thinking, laughing, having a good time — we give them just enough to get them excited to go upstairs and see the real Wright Flyer and the objects that are integral to the Wright brothers’ story.”

Young children today live in a world where aircraft and spacecraft are everywhere. How was David able to take the story of the Wright brothers, who invented the airplane more than 100 years ago, and make it meaningful, and relatable, to young audiences? He recalls “having a dream as a kid, flying, like Peter Pan flying… what a cool feeling that would be. I remembered that feeling of curiosity and wonder. This is the heart of the story. So I created a scene in which Wilbur tells Orville, ‘can you imagine what it would really be like if we could fly like an eagle?’ We even have the puppet leave the stage and soar over the audience.” That curiosity is something that all young children can relate to, and it makes events in history become more real.

Wilbur asks Orville, "Can you imagine what it would really be like if we could fly like an eagle?"

There are many themes in the story of the Wright Brothers that are important life-lessons for young children and adults alike. While the puppet show teaches children the simplified physics of flight through a whimsical song, “Power, Lift, Control,” more than that, the show illustrates the importance of scientific discovery, curiosity, and trying, and retrying, again and again.

The Wright Brothers puppet show teaches three properties of flight through props and whimsical song, "Power, Lift, Control."

Success in anything, from engineering to teaching, comes from testing and retesting whatever it is that you create. David knows this lesson very well, saying that when developing the Wright Brothers puppet show he had to try again and again until he got it right. “At some point” he says, “you have to trust yourself, just like the Wright brothers”.

Come see the show on Saturday, January 28 at two free performances at 11:30 and 1:00.

Lizzie Cammarata is an early childhood program specialist at the Mall Building.

The Observatory at night. Photo credit: National Air and Space Museum, Eric Long

The problem is light pollution. The International Dark-Sky Association (IDA) defines light pollution as “any adverse effect of manmade light.” This includes but isn’t limited to our disappearing view of the Milky Way and the difficulties astronomers experience in making observations of celestial objects. Living things experience many effects as well: nocturnal animal populations are shrinking as they have difficulty finding food and hiding from predators, sea turtle hatchlings can have trouble finding their way to the ocean and die, and migrating birds can be disoriented by lights. Emerging research on the effects on humans indicates several problems associated with disruption of circadian rhythms and melatonin production, not to mention the safety-related dangers that come with poor visibility at night caused by glaring lights. But there are easy solutions: shielding lights to reduce glare, dimming lights to provide the right amount of light, and turning off lights when they’re not needed.

Potential intruder hides in the glare from a “security light.” Photo credit: George Fleenor

When we decided to build the Observatory as a place for the public to gather and do astronomy together, we knew that light pollution would be an issue for us. But in order for it to be a convenient gathering place that people could get to easily, we knew we needed to build it in the city, where the people are. It was an easy decision when we considered what we were trying to do, and so far more than 2,000 visitors have enjoyed our nighttime observing sessions.

And yet we and our visitors long for darker skies and the ability to view fainter stars, galaxies, nebulas. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to look at the majestic arms of the Milky Way from Washington, DC? It won’t happen for us until we have more intelligent and efficient street lighting here in our nation’s capitol and in the surrounding area. One way to work toward this is to collect scientific data that can be shared with decision makers to demonstrate what our current situation is regarding light pollution, how it’s been changing, and its effects.

Since 2006, citizen scientists from around the world have been participating in a program called GLOBE at Night. It’s a worldwide attempt to measure light pollution and see how it varies from place to place and year to year. This year, there are four opportunities to participate: January 14-23 (right now!), February 12-21, March 13-22, and April 11-20. The dates are selected so that the Moon won’t be up in the sky when participants are making observations, because the Moon also brightens the sky and can outshine the stars, especially when it’s near a full moon.

The constellation Orion, as it appears under magnitude 2 (left) and magnitude 4 (right) skies. Photo credit: GLOBE at Night/NOAO

Want to join in? Here’s how it works: Go outside an hour or more after sunset and give your eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. Find the constellation Orion by looking in the southern sky. GLOBE at Night provides magnitude charts that show what Orion looks like with different amounts of light pollution. Magnitude refers to how bright the stars are, and when you’re talking about light pollution, it describes the faintest stars that can be seen. Determine which magnitude chart looks most like what you see that night and report it online. The reports show up instantly on GLOBE at Night’s interactive map viewer, so you can compare what you see to what people in different places around the world see. On Saturday night, January 14, I reported magnitude 3 skies from the Public Observatory in Washington, DC, and I’d love to know what your skies are like!

The waxing gibbous Moon as we viewed it on December 3, 2011. Photo credit: National Air and Space Museum, Genevieve de Messieres

For now, we mostly stick to visually observing the planets from the Observatory’s perch at the National Air and Space Museum. These objects are bright enough and big enough to observe easily even under light polluted skies, and they aren’t especially sensitive to the unstable air in our area which blurs high-powered views. The Moon fascinates me every time I see it, even when I see it every day. I enjoy observing the planets and looking for subtle changes and details I never noticed before, and I think that many of our visitors wouldn’t disagree. And this past Saturday night, I delighted in a great view of the Orion Nebula, a star-forming region, through our telescopes. But I am hopeful for a future in which we can use our fantastic telescopes to see more of the farther, fainter wonders of our universe from the National Mall in Washington, DC.

Katie Nagy is an astronomy educator at the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC.

Peter Jakab about to make his dream flight in a WWI Sopwith 1 ½ Strutter.

The rotary aircraft engine was an imaginative design that emerged just after the birth of flight, was the power plant for many of the most famous aircraft in the pioneer era through World War I, and was obsolete by 1920.   Most engines, be they in-line, V-arrangement, or radial (cylinders in star orientation around the crankcase) have a rotating crankshaft to which the pistons are connected that transform the combustion of fuel and air into mechanical output, which in turn spins the propeller.  With a rotary engine, the design concept was reversed.  The crankshaft was stationary, attached to the airframe, and the rest of the entire engine, propeller attached, spun.  The design had two principal advantages.  First, the spinning cylinders provided excellent cooling to the engine.  Second, the rotary configuration offered a good power output to weight ratio.  These early power plants produced relatively low horsepower, so weight was a critical factor in the overall performance of the engine.  The rotaries had major drawbacks, such as the shedding of cylinders from the spinning engine and a tendency to catch fire.  But in the early days of aviation these hazards were outweighed by the relatively good power output for the engine’s weight.  By the 1920s, equal and better performance was achieved with stationary cylinder engines and the rotary quickly disappeared from the scene.

Gnome 9N Rotary, 160 horsepower

The rotary engine was an interesting technological design, but it has acquired an interesting cultural status among those drawn to the early years of flight as well.  It had a unique sound because the engine typically ran at full power or was off, producing a seemingly alarming rhythm to the uninitiated.  Its castor oil lubricant, spewing effusively from the spinning cylinders, produced a distinctive odor.  There was the pronounced torque of the whirling engine and propeller combination affecting the stability of the airplane.  All these characteristics, unique to the short-lived rotary engine, made it famous, and are coveted to experience by any modern enthusiast of World War I aviation.  Today, there are few places where these near-century old engines come to life.  There are a handful of flying aircraft museums that occasionally fly airplanes with rotaries for the public, and there is a small number of private vintage aircraft owners who take to the air behind these amazing engines.  I was fortunate to grow up not far from one these special settings where rotary powered airplanes regularly flew—the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome Museum near Poughkeepsie, New York.  Beginning as a teenager in the 1970s, I would frequent the Aerodrome often to watch the air shows and talk with the pilots.  It was where my love of early aviation took hold.  Over the years, no matter how many times I saw, heard, and yes, smelled, the rotary engines flying up at Old Rhinebeck, I was always captivated.  Since that time, one of the experiences at the very top of my curatorial bucket list has been to fly in a rotary engine powered World War I airplane.  This past December, after nearly three decades of curating the early history of the airplane at the National Air and Space Museum, I was fortunate and privileged to have crossed this off my list.

The WWI pilots just back from a successful mission.

A supporter and great friend to the Museum, who has a personal collection of more than two dozen flying World War I airplanes, invited me to his home and private airfield to treat me to a flying experience of a lifetime.  He knew of my longtime desire to fly in one of these airplanes that I have so passionately studied, and we talked about doing it for a couple of years.  In December, the circumstances were right, the weather was good, and the opportunity finally arrived.  Most of the aircraft in his collection are reproduction airframes, but nearly all have original World War I engines.  Lucky for me, one of these airplanes is a two-seater—a Sopwith 1 ½ Strutter.  On a crisp and clear Sunday morning, we pulled up to the airfield.  There, sitting out on the grass strip, with no evidence of the 21^st century in sight, just like it was 1916, was the airplane ready to be propped.  After donning the traditional leather flying helmet and goggles we climbed into the Sopwith, and then the moment came.  The Gnome rotary roared to life.  After a brief taxi to get into take-off position, the engine was brought to full power and in just a short distance we were airborne.  My host circled around the field a few times and then he signaled it was my turn at the controls.  I couldn’t believe it.  Here I was actually flying a World War I rotary engine powered biplane.  The sound, the feel of the controls, the open cockpit—all the things I had read about and studied were now part of my personal experience.  After a few more minutes of pure flying joy, we landed.  Out of the airplane we discussed our “mission” as pilots always do, with smiles on our faces.  It was a truly remarkable experience for me.  The next time I lecture at the Museum about World War I flying, more so than ever before, I will feel confident that I know what I am talking about.  I’ve done it.

Peter Jakab is associate director and curator of early flight at the National Air and Space Museum.

During the recently completed centennial of naval aviation (2011), there were many and varied tributes to the factual history of naval aviation. Nevertheless, we cannot forget that public perception of the armed forces is also a strong historical consideration. In Sailing on the Silver Screen: Hollywood and the U.S. Navy, Lawrence Suid has observed that “for most of the past ninety years the American film industry and the U.S. Navy have worked together to their mutual benefit. Hollywood used the Navy to obtain—at little or no cost—personnel, equipment, and locations for movies filled with adventure, romance, and drama. In turn, the Navy obtained—at little or no cost—a positive public image that boosted both its recruiting efforts and its relations with Congress.” This is especially true if we consider how the careers of two pioneers of Hollywood and the U.S. Navy—director John Ford and screenwriter Frank W. “Spig” Wead became intertwined during the Golden Era of filmmaking and how Ford paid tribute to his friend and colleague in The Wings of Eagles (1957).

Frank W. “Spig”’ Wead was a pioneer naval aviator who became a notable Hollywood screenwriter. His many credits include films about the U.S Navy or naval aviation.

Wead’s Early Naval Career

Wead was born on October 24, 1885, in Peoria, Illinois. He entered the U.S. Naval Academy in 1912 at the age of sixteen and graduated in 1916. He spent time during WWI doing mine work in the North Sea, after which he qualified as a naval aviator. In 1923 he led the Navy team that competed in the Schneider Trophy Race at Cowes, Isle of Wight. Two of his teammates—Lt. David Rittenhouse and Lt. Rutledge Irvine—placed first and second in the race. Wead continued as a naval aviator, setting naval aircraft records for speed, endurance, and distance and eventually working for the Navy’s Bureau of Aeronautics.

Wead’s Hollywood Career

In 1927, an unexpected turn of events changed Wead’s life forever. After he took a fall in his house in Coronado, California, he was seriously injured, having fractured the fifth cervical vertebra in his neck and doing irreparable damage to his spinal cord. After surgery and more than two painful years of recuperation, he progressed to being able to sit up, and, with the aid of steel braces, to walk. Wead decided that he needed another activity to recuperate fully, so he tried his hand at writing. In time he collaborated on a script for The Flying Fleet (1929), the first Hollywood film about contemporary military flying, with Byron Morgan, a former naval aviator who had become a screenwriter for MGM (Metro Goldwyn Mayer). The Flying Fleet was also the first in a long list of films credited to Wead that were about the U.S. Navy or naval aviation. Wead also wrote screenplays about civil aviation, including one for Air Mail (1932), a film directed by John Ford, and Ceiling Zero (1936), a film directed by Howard Hawks that was based on a play Wead had written that appeared off-Broadway in 1935. He again worked with Ford on They Were Expendable (1945), based on the true story of Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3, commanded by Medal of Honor winner John D. Bulkeley during the evacuation of the Philippines early in WWII. This film is considered one of the best war films ever made..

Wead’s World War II Service

After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Wead had gotten permission to reenter the Navy through the good graces of an old friend, Admiral John Towers. His first assignment was as an assistant to Captain Ralph Davison, chief of the Plans Division of the Bureau of Aeronautics. Later, Wead trained air combat intelligence officers at Quonset Point, Rhode Island. From October 1943 to June 1944, he was a planning officer on the staff of the Commander Air Pacific in Hawaii. In this capacity, he helped develop plans for Makin, Tarawa, Eniwetok, and Kwajelein. All these operations led up to the battle for the Marianas Islands.

Wead was also credited with developing the idea of escort carriers (the so-called “Jeep Carriers”), which were employed to provide logistical support for the main carrier forces. During the Marianas air assaults, he was invited onboard the U.S.S. Yorktown by Admiral J. J. Clark as an observer. He was involved in actual combat during the Marianas battle when Japanese aircraft attacked the ship. Despite his disabilities, Wead showed courage and was an inspiration to the crew. After the Marianas, Wead decided to retire from the Navy and return to screenwriting. For his service during WWII, Wead was awarded the Legion of Merit. He died on November 15, 1947 at the age of 52

The Wings of Eagles (1957)

The idea for The Wings of Eagles came about as a way of honoring Wead, but John Ford, the film’s intended director was somewhat reluctant to undertake the project. He and Wead had been close friends. According to Ford’s biographer, Joseph McBride, Ford is reported to have said “I didn’t want to do the picture, because Spig was a great pal of mine. But I didn’t want anyone else to do it.”

That Ford would become involved in a film honoring Wead and the U.S. Navy should come as no surprise. Ford himself became a naval officer quite late in his life. In 1934 he had enlisted in the U.S. Navy Reserve and was commissioned as a Lt. Commander. In 1939 Ford began to organize the Naval Volunteer Photographic Unit, which eventually became known as the Naval Photographic Organization, to document naval combat activities. In September 1941 Ford was appointed chief of the Field Photographic Branch, which was part of the Office of Strategic Services, headed by William J. Donovan. In that capacity Ford was at the Battle of Midway, which he filmed and whose footage he turned into an Academy Award-winning documentary of the same name in 1942.

Two unsuccessful attempts were made to produce a film about Wead. Finally, Kenneth MacKenna, a story director at MGM, and John Dale Price, Wead’s old friend, now a retired admiral, who eventually became technical advisor for the film, collaborated on a script. After nearly eight months of work, MacKenna submitted the script to the Pentagon for approval, and the Navy’s Office of Information agreed to cooperate, despite some opposition on the grounds that the script contained historical errors.

While the film, which starred John Wayne as Wead, and Maureen O’Hara as his wife “Min,” portrays naval aviation history in a favorable light, it cannot be considered entirely historically accurate, confirming the Navy’s reservations. In addition to historical inaccuracies, some of the Navy’s objections were based on the portrayal of alcohol abuse in the film. Evidently, the drinking scenes that had to do with Maureen O’Hara’s character had to be cut because Wead’s children protested. Nevertheless, the film provides more than subtle hints that alcohol played a significant part in Wead’s life and in the life of his wife, and that it may have been responsible for their inability to reconcile the demands of military life with the demands of family.

The co-stars of "The Wings of Eagles," John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara are pictured. The film, a tribute to the naval aviation and Hollywood screenwriting career of Frank “Spig” Wead, was directed by John Ford in 1957.

Evidently it was not practical for Ford to portray Wead’s contributions as a screenwriter to positive depictions of naval aviation in prewar films like Dive Bomber (released in August 1941 before the attack on Pearl Harbor). Instead, he relied heavily on a part-fiction, part-fact portrayal of Wead’s military contributions during the interwar years and in WWII. In fact, Wead’s achievements in WWII are much more factually presented in the film than those that take place during the interwar years. Ford’s message is strong: Wead was not only a staunch defender of naval aviation, but a doer, in spite of his debilitating handicap. Moreover, it is important to realize that The Wings of Eagles is significant also for what it says about American values as seen through the lives and ordeals of military men. The Wings of Eagles, like some of Ford’s other films, displays familiar Fordian themes: the sense of community among American naval men: in this case, naval aviators; naval service as a reflection of national identity; an intermingling of historical fact with historical fancy.

Errol Flynn (center), the star of "Dive Bomber," a 1941 film written by Frank W. “Spig Wead, poses in a pressure suit with members of the cast and film crew.

Nevertheless, the film may be interpreted on other levels. Dan Ford, Ford’s grandson, contends that the film is a veiled autobiography of his grandfather. Both Wead and Ford were restless and disposed to lives of action. Because they were both disabled, they were attracted to vicarious adventures. Both were involved in moviemaking as a substitute for military careers. Both served in WWII but as observers rather than as combatants. Both neglected their families to focus exclusively on their careers. Both preferred masculine companionship to that of women.

As a result, The Wings of Eagles may be seen as two films. One contains the mythologizing biography of “Spig” Wead and extols naval aviation and American values of patriotism, courage and perseverance. The other, a more personal one, critiques the institution—the U.S. Navy— that would create an atmosphere which is potentially dangerous to family life.

Dom Pisano is a curator in the Aeronautics Division of the National Air and Space Museum.

The Apollo 17 ascent stage lifts off from the Moon, marking the last time humans left the Moon on December 14, 1972.

After pressing some buttons to start up the ascent engine of their lunar module Challenger, astronauts Gene Cernan and Harrison Schmitt left the Moon on December 14, 1972. That’s 39 years ago – before many of us were even born. While these men looked out the tiny triangular windows of the lunar module to see the lunar surface getting farther away, viewers around the world watched that same spacecraft leave the Moon, live and in color on their television sets. Departing the Moon for the last time was (not surprisingly, perhaps) far less interesting to most people than Apollo 11’s first landing over three years prior. Some evidence even suggests that NASA had to pay television networks to cover Apollo 17’s mission at all. Despite all their hard work and technological developments, the final liftoff of humans from the Moon came and went with just a brief notice on the nightly news.

That story, however, overlooks the difficulties engineers had in developing the ability to show the lunar module rocketing back into space. Television cameras of the late 1960s and early 1970s were notoriously bulky, usually requiring huge rolling bases or portable stands. For space use, any piece of equipment needed to be light-weight and easily portable. NASA awarded contracts to build television cameras for Apollo alternately to RCA and Westinghouse, and both companies managed to build units for different missions that met NASA standards for weight, materials, and functionality. For the final three Apollo missions, RCA provided small, portable, color television cameras that could show the astronauts stepping off the lunar module and onto the Moon, and then be moved to a stand or the lunar rover for mobile exploration.

The cameras were very successful, capturing images of numerous EVAs that included sample collection, a driver’s eye-view from the mobile rover, and the pitfalls of trying to just stay standing in a space suit in 1/6 gravity. For the lunar liftoff though, engineers had numerous calculations to make prior to the mission to allow for filming. Attached to a pan and tilt unit, the television camera could be controlled directly from Earth via a large high-gain antenna on the rover. Since signals to and from Earth are delayed by a few seconds due to the 240,000 mile distance, mission engineers suggested pre-programming the lunar module liftoffs for Apollo missions 15, 16, and 17. Based on mathematical calculations, the rover would be driven and left some distance from lunar module, and the camera would automatically tilt up to show the ascent when commanded by the operator on Earth.

That was the plan at least.

On Apollo 15, the tilt mechanism malfunctioned and the camera never moved upwards, allowing the lunar module to slip out of sight. And while the attempt on Apollo 16 gave a longer view of the lunar module rising up, the astronauts actually parked the rover too close to it, which threw off the calculations and timing of the tilt upwards so it left view just a few moments into the flight.

Thankfully, for NASA, those watching at home, and anyone reviewing film footage today, the third attempt was the charm. Cernan and Schmitt parked the rover at just the right distance, all of the mechanisms worked flawlessly, and viewers can still see today how that awkwardly-shaped ascent stage keeps going up until it becomes just a bright speck the sky on its way back to the command module.

How we saw and continue to see the Apollo program is due not only to the engineers at RCA for creating this unique ability, but also the NASA camera operator in Houston, Ed Fendell, for getting the timing just right, and NASA itself for recording and preserving these moments for our collective memory of our last departure from the Moon.

How big of a part do you think NASA’s television coverage of Apollo 17 plays in how we think about that time period? Do you think the same is true of the end of the Space Shuttle program in 2011?

A view of the Apollo 17 landing site as seen from the lunar module ascent stage as it left the surface. On the left, you can see the descent stage, the small gold-colored circle, and numerous tracks leading away from it, marking the paths astronauts took on their extra-vehicular activities.

Jennifer Levasseur is a museum specialist in the Space History Division of the National Air and Space Museum, and is responsible curator for the Museum’s collection of space cameras and early human spaceflight astronaut equipment.

NASM 7A45388; Courtesy of the Goodyear Tire & Rubber Company Records, the University of Akron, University Libraries, Archival Services.

In 1925, Mr. S. Claus was looking for a modern alternative to his old-fashioned reindeer-powered sleigh. Having once shown an interest in lighter-than-air flight in the form of hot-air balloons, Santa was favorably inclined when Goodyear came up with a solution — toy delivery via airship, in this case, Pilgrim I, renamed the Santa Claus Express for the occasion. In the photograph shown here, Pilgrim’s pilot Carl Wollam holds the gondola door for Santa (as portrayed by Goodyear employee Jack Yolton). Curiously, they seem to be unconcerned about the effect of drag from the presents festooning the gondola, but as Pilgrim’s top speed was only about 40 MPH, it probably didn’t make much of a difference. Here are some more photographs of Goodyear’s Santa Claus Express, 1925-1927, from the University of Akron’s library. By the way, the Pilgrim gondola is on display at the Museum’s Udvar-Hazy Center in Chantilly, Virginia — we might consider loaning it out to qualified Jolly Old Elves around this time of year…

Photograph by Edward E. Ogden. Courtesy of the Goodyear Tire & Rubber Company

The Santa Claus Express was re-instituted by Goodyear last year to support the Marine Corps Reserve’s Toys for Tots program. Santa, portrayed in the photo shown above by Spirit of Goodyear mechanic Ron Heaps, and Spirit pilot Gerald Hissem re-enact the original Santa Claus Express photograph.

The staff and volunteers of the National Air and Space Museum hope that all of our readers, visitors and friends have a fine holiday season; and that whatever method of aerial transport Santa chooses, that you’ll get a visit from him on Christmas Eve.

Allan Janus is a museum specialist in the National Air and Space Museum’s Archives Division