The Sky Above: An Astronaut’s Memoir of Adventure, Persistence, and Faith

By John Howard Casper

Looking up at the stars at the age of ten, John Casper dreamed of being a space explorer. The Sky Above tells how persistence and determination led to flying in space, after serving the nation as a combat fighter pilot and test pilot. Despite life-threatening experiences and failures, his spiritual faith was pivotal in overcoming life’s challenges.

Through vivid storytelling, the reader rides alongside the author in the cockpit, feeling the fear of enemy antiaircraft fire and the pressure of high g-forces during combat maneuvering. His insider accounts of four Space Shuttle missions vividly describe exhilarating launches, the magical experience of weightlessness, and the magnificent beauty of Earth from hundreds of miles above.

A central theme running throughout Casper’s life is his faith, as he struggles with the loss of fellow pilots and confronts life’s inconsistencies and disappointments. This is a story about his growth and trust in his Creator, whose tenacious spirit never left him, even during the devastating Challenger and Columbia disasters.

Readers interested in stories of true adventure or overcoming adversity will discover unique drama and insight. Those trying to reach their dreams, whatever they are, will find inspiration; those unsure or challenged in their faith will find encouragement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Purdue University Press
• Release date: Apr 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781612497280

John Howard Casper

Colonel John H. Casper, USAF (Ret.), is a former combat fighter pilot, test pilot, NASA astronaut, and Space Shuttle commander. After graduating from the US Air Force Academy and earning a master’s degree in astronautics at Purdue University, he flew 229 combat missions in Vietnam and was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. He served as a Cold War fighter pilot in Europe and later graduated from the USAF Test Pilot School. While a test pilot, he commanded a test squadron and flew classified aircraft. Casper is a veteran of four NASA Space Shuttle missions—three as commander and one as pilot. Following his spaceflight career, he provided senior leadership as director of safety, reliability, and quality assurance at NASA’s Johnson Space Center. He also served as a senior manager in the Space Shuttle and Orion programs. He currently lives in Montreat, North Carolina.

Book preview

Part I

1

A Lesson in Courage

Phan Rang Air Base, Republic of Vietnam, 1969

THE NIGHT IS CLEAR AND MOONLESS, STARLIGHT FAINTLY ILLUMINATING THE flight line and our weapons-loaded aircraft. Great weather for night flying, I think, as Norm and I walk out to our two jet fighters. I wonder what the stars look like from space? Will I ever see for myself? I feel a rush of excitement as I near my jet. The F-100 Super Sabre is a fighter pilot’s dream — a single-seat, single-engine jet fighter, capable of carrying both air-to-ground and air-to-air weapons. Loaded with 3,000 pounds of bombs and four 20-millimeter cannons (machine guns), the aircraft is used against ground targets and in direct support of US and allied soldiers fighting Viet Cong guerrillas and the North Vietnamese Army.

The date is July 28, and I’m flying a night mission from our 24/7 standby alert facility located near the end of the runway. We can take off within 5 minutes of a call to respond to friendly troops in contact (with the enemy) and time-critical targets such as truck convoys or enemy troop locations. However, tonight we receive advance notice to take off at 4:20 a.m. to bomb a high-priority enemy location. For support, we normally fly a minimum of two aircraft on all combat missions. My flight leader tonight is Major Norm Rushton, and the flight call sign is Blade 3. I’m flying the #2 aircraft, or wingman position, and my call sign is Blade 4. Norm is one of the most experienced fighter pilots at Phan Rang, a US-operated air base located five miles inland from the South China Sea. He’s the go-to guy for any questions about flying the F-100, or Hun (short for one hundred). Norm is a strong leader, cool under pressure, and I’m lucky to be assigned to his flight. Although I’m twenty-five and an Air Force Captain and I’ve flown over a hundred combat missions, I’m still considered a new guy, because I’ve only been flying the Hun for a year.

I strap into the seat and parachute and perform preflight checks. On Norm’s radio call, I push the start button to ignite the starter cartridge. The rocket-like exhaust from the cartridge spews acrid white gas through the J-57 jet engine, spinning up the turbine with an ever-increasing whine until it’s turning fast enough to start. As the engine stabilizes at idle rpm, the tower controller clears us for takeoff: Blade 3 flight, you’re cleared to taxi into position and take off on Runway 04.

Norm radios, Roger, Blade 3 copies, and we taxi the short distance to the runway. Once in takeoff position, we hold the brakes and Norm calls, Run ’em up.

We push the throttles forward to 100% rpm. Even through the thick Plexiglas canopy, with my helmet tight against the ears, I hear the chaotic roar of both jet engines at full power. My heartbeat jumps with anticipation as I check for normal indications on all the engine, hydraulic, and electrical gauges. My legs strain to hold the toe brakes against the 10,000 pounds of jet engine thrust behind me. The aircraft feels like a racehorse pulling at the bit, ready to bolt out of the starting gate. All gauges and instruments in the cockpit are in the green, or normal, and I radio Norm, Two’s ready.

He replies, Releasing brakes … now, lights his afterburner, and accelerates away from me, down the runway. I look away from his bright yellow-orange afterburner flame to preserve my night vision. Because both aircraft are fully loaded with bombs and fuel, I wait 30 seconds before releasing my brakes and lighting the burner. I hear the engine roar increase and feel the reassuring kick in the back as engine thrust almost doubles. I glance at the engine instruments to confirm a good burner light as the Hun blasts down the runway. The acceleration check at 100 knots airspeed looks good; next is nosewheel liftoff at 155 knots. A movement inside the cockpit catches my eye. The oil pressure gauge near the top of the instrument panel is normally rock solid at the 45 psi mark, but tonight it fluctuates down to 40 or 35, then jumps back up to 45. No Low Oil Pressure warning light, but this is definitely not normal, I think. I’m accelerating rapidly toward nosewheel liftoff, and I need to make a split-second decision to either continue the takeoff or abort.

Aborting this heavy, bomb-laden aircraft near flying speed is extremely dangerous because there’s insufficient runway to stop. An abort means that I must pull the throttle to idle, apply maximum antiskid braking, deploy the drag chute, lower the tailhook, and pray the hook engages the arresting cable across the far end of the runway. This may only be an oil pressure gauge malfunction, I think. I press on and focus on making the takeoff. Once airborne, I raise the landing gear and flaps and pull up in a steep climb to quickly fly out of enemy small arms fire often present near the end of the runway. The oil pressure gauge is still fluctuating. At about 1,500 feet above ground level the needle falls below 45 psi but doesn’t return to normal. Damn! The oil pressure is slowly decreasing. Twenty seconds later the oil pressure needle drops to zero and the Low Oil Pressure warning light illuminates. This is the real thing, not a gauge malfunction! Oil is needed to lubricate the jet engine bearings, or the engine will seize and fail. The emergency procedure for loss of oil pressure is to land immediately, with no guarantee how long the engine will continue to run.

I call Norm on the radio, my voice an octave higher than normal. Norm, I’ve got zero oil pressure and need to RTB [return to base] for an emergency landing.

Norm’s voice is calm and reassuring. OK, join up with me, and I’ll talk to approach control about bomb jettison.

One big problem: I can’t land immediately with a full bomb and fuel load because the additional weight and much higher landing speed will risk ripping off the drag chute, blowing tires, and losing control of the aircraft on the runway with thousands of pounds of live explosives. Approach control turns us toward open water to jettison our bombs. My heart is really pounding now, because the turn away from the base to jettison bombs will eat up a few precious minutes while my engine is running without oil. Will it keep running long enough for me to make it back to the base?

After bomb jettison, Norm gives me the lead of the flight and drops back to fly off my left wing. I pull the throttle back to reduce rpm and minimize stress on the engine. We’re about 6 to 8 miles away from the airfield and over water when suddenly I feel the engine begin to vibrate. The vibrations increase rapidly over the next ten seconds. Just after my excited call to Norm, I’m getting engine vibrations, the engine begins to compressor stall, which sounds and feels like loud explosions under me. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Bright yellow flames shoot out of the front air intake and rear tailpipe. With each explosive compressor stall my feet are violently bucked off the cockpit floor. All the warning lights illuminate, including the red Fire Warning light. The engine, vibrating like crazy, makes horrific grinding noises as it loses thrust.

Norm calls, Johnny, you’re on fire … get out NOW! In my rearview mirrors I see the orange glow of flames. The airplane is on fire, the engine is losing thrust, and I have to eject; there’s no other option. The thought flashes through my mind, I could die tonight. I pull back on the control stick to climb and trade my airspeed for additional altitude. Time to punch out. I reach down, pull up and lock the ejection seat handles, put my head against the headrest, and squeeze the ejection seat triggers. The last time I look at the cockpit instruments the airspeed is decreasing through 220 knots at an altitude of 2,500 feet. BAM! Explosive charges fire to jettison the canopy and thrust my seat up the ejection rails. At the top of the rails a rocket motor ignites to propel the seat with me in it clear of the aircraft. I feel the wind blast hit my body and smell the pungent, gunpowder-like rocket exhaust. As I’m thrust up and away from the aircraft, the seat tilts forward, and I see my aircraft silhouetted against the sea below. The F-100 is on fire from the cockpit to the tail and trails yellow churning flames over 200 feet behind it, fed by burning jet fuel streaming out of ruptured lines. My automatic seat separator fires and pushes me out of the seat before I can manually unlock the lap belt. I reach for my D-ring to manually deploy the parachute, but the automatic system beats me to it. The chute inflates with a firm jolt, and I check its panels above me. My parachute is undamaged and I’m alive. Thank you, Lord!

Hanging under the chute, I watch my burning aircraft plunge into the water and explode. Now I’m on muscle memory as my previous parachute and survival training kick in. I deploy my life preserver, inflating it under my arms and around my neck. With my right hand I reach down to locate the seat pack lanyard to pull it, which will release and inflate my life raft. I search but can’t find the lanyard, probably because the seat pack is hanging by my parachute straps below and behind me. Damn, I’m going to need that raft, but I’ll have to get it after landing. I unclip my oxygen mask and let it fall.

Starlight dimly illuminates the black sea below me. How far below I can’t tell. As I hang suspended in the dark sky the night is quiet, except for the gentle rushing sound of air spilling around the chute and the distant sound of Norm’s jet circling somewhere above me. Get ready to land in the water, I tell myself. This ain’t over yet. I put my thumbs in the quick-release loops, ready to pull them the instant my feet hit the water. What the heck … ? Below me I see dim lights and the dark outlines of two or three small boats in the water. The boats have tarps, and I can’t tell if they’re friendly fishing boats or something else. Our intelligence briefers had warned us of enemy resupply boats operating near the coast at night. Even if these are fishermen, they may turn me over to the Viet Cong for a reward. Pilots captured in North Vietnam are taken to the Hanoi Hilton as prisoners, but here in the South, pilots are tortured for information and then shot. My life may depend on keeping away from the boats to avoid being captured. Damn, I’m descending fast. I’m going to come down right in the middle of the boats.

I pass about 20 or 30 feet over the top of one boat and hit the water with a loud splash not far away. I pull the quick releases, and the chute collapses and begins sinking. I hear people on the boats yelling excitedly, their boat motors making a slow putt-putt-putt sound. They must have seen or heard me land, because they begin scanning the water with large searchlights. I’m alone in the water at night, I have no control over events around me, I might be captured, and I’m near panic. Lord, help me please, I pray. My training kicks in, pushing back the fear enough to spur me to action. I manually deflate my life preserver so my head and shoulders are as low in the water as possible while allowing me to breathe. When the searchlights come near me, I duck under the water briefly. When the searchlights aren’t on me, I try to swim away from the boats.

I pull out my survival radio to call Norm. However, when I turn it on, I hear the loud whoop, whoop, whoop of my emergency locator beacon activated by the ejection. With some effort, I find and turn off the locator beacon on my parachute vest. I make radio contact with my flight leader: Norm, I’m okay, but boats are here trying to pick me up. Might be bad guys! Can you make a pass over me to scare them away?

Rog, Norm says. Give me vectors and tell me when I’m overhead.

During survival training both of us had practiced vectoring, or talking a rescue aircraft to an overhead position, so he knows exactly what I want. He turns his wingtip navigation lights on Bright setting so I can see him.

The men on the boats apparently haven’t spotted me and are still scanning with their searchlights as they move slowly through the water. I look up and see Norm’s aircraft lights and steer him toward my position with commands like, Turn left, Stop turn, Turn right, Stop turn, you’re overhead NOW! As he passes close to me, he lights his afterburner, which ignites with a BOOM and lights up the night sky with flames roaring out of the tailpipe. Despite the lack of depth perception over the dark sea at night, Norm makes three very gutsy passes near me at less than 100 feet above the water, lighting the afterburner and creating noise and flames — a spectacular show of firepower.

Norm’s loud and fiery passes apparently intimidate the boat crews, because they are moving away from me. I can barely hear their motors or see their lights, so I manually reinflate my life preserver. Norm says, A rescue helicopter, call sign Pedro 92, is on the way from Phan Rang and will be overhead in a few minutes.

I soon make radio contact with the chopper and hold down my transmit button so their locating equipment will indicate my position. As the whop-whop-whop of the chopper comes closer, I take my pen-gun out of my anti-g suit and shoot a small red flare into the air to mark my location. Got your flare, Pedro 92 says. The chopper flies overhead, and the crew pinpoints me with their searchlight, instructing, Blade 4, release your life raft and get ready for the pickup.

Because of the boat encounter, I’m still floating in my life preserver and have not inflated my life raft, which remains inside the seat kit attached to my parachute harness. I think, Well, I don’t need the life raft now. I’m about to get pulled out of the sea. I disconnect the seat kit and reluctantly watch it float away with my raft and survival gear. Pedro, Blade 4 is ready for pickup, I call.

The chopper flies in a descending circle around me, its searchlight making a moving bright spot on the water below. Then whop-whop, splash-splash, CRASH! I hear the rotor blades hit the water several times, and the chopper crashes about 100 feet from me. There’s no fire or explosion — the chopper flies right into the water, rolls over, and sinks. I call out to see if anyone is alive. A voice yells back, We’re okay! All of us got out okay.

I’m relieved to hear the chopper crew is alive, but I’m thinking, That was my ride back to base. Now there are four of us floating around in the dark waters of the South China Sea. I call Norm on the radio. Hey, Norm, you’re not going to believe this, but the rescue chopper just crashed. They’re all okay. Can you call for another chopper?

Norm tells me to stand by while he talks to the Phan Rang tower. While waiting, I look around on the wave tops trying to find my seat kit with the life raft, but it has floated out of sight. After a few minutes, Norm says the base won’t send another helicopter until daybreak, but two Shadow gunships are en route to protect us. The AC-119G Shadow is a cargo aircraft modified for close air support with four 6-barrel machine guns that can fire 3,000 rounds per minute, flare launchers, a searchlight, and up-to-date night vision and radar equipment. Norm is running low on fuel and has to return to the base. He says, Hang in there, Johnny, the Shadows are on the way.

Sure enough, after about 15 minutes I hear their propeller engines droning, and they contact me on the radio. They establish an orbit several thousand feet above the four of us, which is a huge comfort. They fly above us until daybreak, dropping flares to light up the area, illuminating the sea around us with their high-intensity xenon searchlights and occasionally firing their machine guns for effect. The mini-guns make a loud buzz saw sound as they spit red tracers out of the barrels at 50 rounds a second and light up the night sky. I’m very thankful for the way the Air Force has mobilized forces to protect and rescue us.

For a short time, the chopper crew and I call out to each other, and I try to swim to them. Even though the waves are only 1 or 2 feet high, swimming is difficult, and the chopper crew and I slowly drift apart and out of earshot. Although the water is relatively warm, I feel chilled floating in the life preserver, wearing only my flight suit and parachute harness. I mentally replay my seat kit drifting away with my raft and survival gear. Damn, I’d be much warmer if I could get out of the water and into the raft. I’m feeling lonely and vulnerable floating miles from land. I call the Shadow crew every few minutes just to talk. A thought comes to mind: I should deploy my shark repellent. These waters are reportedly full of sharks. But I’m cold and numb, and it seems like too much effort. I just want to be still. Lord, I need your help. I pray for your Holy Spirit to protect us from sharks and enemy boats. Thank you for the Shadows overhead. Please show your mercy and rescue us in the morning.

After what seems like hours of bobbing up and down on the waves and feeling cold and tired, I see first light breaking on the horizon. I hear the whop-whop-whop of rotor blades from the second rescue chopper. This time it’s daybreak so they find me quickly. The chopper hovers overhead, and I see the PJ (parachute rescue jumper) harnessed into the open door and lowering the horse collar, which looks like a large leather loop on a cable. A crazy thought passes through my mind: The first chopper crashed into the water. Should I really get into this one? I grab the horse collar. I’ve practiced this many times in training, and I put my head and arms through it and turn around and grab its sides so I won’t fall out. I give the PJ a thumbs up and he hoists me up until I’m level with the open door. He grabs my chute harness and yanks me into the chopper. I thank the crew profusely, yelling to be heard over the rotor blade and engine noise. The PJ throws a blanket over me, and I notice for the first time I’m shivering from hypothermia after several hours in the water.

We also pick up one of the helicopter crewmen, while a Navy PT (patrol torpedo) boat rescues the rest of the chopper crew, another example of great teamwork by the rescue forces. As we fly back to base, the PJ reaches into a cooler and hands us ice-cold beers. I’m pretty sure it’s not the best fluid for our dehydrated and hypothermic condition, but, hey, these guys just rescued us. We drink the beer, laugh, and slap each other on the back, thankful to be alive.

After landing at Phan Rang, we change into dry flight suits and are taken to the medical clinic for examination and blood-alcohol tests, standard practice for any crew involved in an aircraft mishap. When I tell the flight surgeon that we just had a beer on the rescue chopper, he says disgustedly, Dammit, I’ve told those guys not to do that. Now the blood tests are useless.

Following the medical exam, I sit down with the wing safety officer and record a debriefing of what happened. After answering many questions, I return to my squadron quarters. I walk in the door just as pilots for the morning missions are walking to the communal bathroom to shower and shave. One of my friends, not quite awake, is standing at a sink shaving. He mumbles, Hey, John, are you flying today?

I reply, No, in fact I just punched out earlier this morning on an alert mission. The engine lost oil pressure and blew up.

He finishes shaving, wipes his face, and says sleepily, Hmmm. Well, you’re here, so it must have worked out okay.

He shuffles out of the bathroom. End of conversation. Yes, it worked out more than okay, I think. I could have died a number of different ways, but I’m alive to talk about it.

That evening our squadron mates celebrate with Norm and me, and we retell our story. I’m reminded how fortunate I was to have Norm overhead to protect me. Months before he had performed a similar act of bravery, strafing Viet Cong troops to allow rescue choppers to pick up a downed squadron pilot. He set the bar for us with his wisdom, humble demeanor, and warrior spirit, particularly in defense of his fellow airmen. (Norm Rushton was later awarded a medal for his selfless acts of bravery during this and other missions.)

My squadron commander pulls me aside and asks me to stop by his office the next morning. He’s probably going to have me take a few days off or maybe fly with another pilot in a two-seat F-100 to make sure I’m okay, I assume.

The next morning when I talk with the squadron commander, he asks how I’m feeling. I tell him I feel fine and slept all right. I’m being truthful, because I only have minor soreness from ejecting. All in all, I say, I feel pretty normal, considering I bailed out yesterday morning.

Good, he says in his Texas drawl. Because I’m puttin’ you on a two-ship mission tonight.

My throat tightens with fear, and my heart races at the thought of flying a mission tonight. I’m completely speechless, feeling caught off guard. My astonished face and hesitation must reveal my surprise, because he continues, Son, when a horse throws you off, the best thing to do is get right back on it and ride.

I try to put on a brave face, but I’m terrified. I understand the point he’s making, but I don’t feel ready to fly so soon after my ejection experience. It briefly crosses my mind to say, I’m not ready to fly tonight, and ask for time off, but my military training overrides the thought. I’m a fighter pilot, we’re in combat, and this is what is expected of me. Plus, I’m thinking, If I ever hope to become a test pilot or an astronaut, I have to learn to overcome fear.

I return to crew quarters and go for a long run, which has always been my way to decompress and think. I pray fervently, Lord, please give me the strength and courage to fly tonight’s mission and overcome my anxiety about getting back in the cockpit.

Night comes. Two bomb-laden F-100s are in formation on the end of the runway. I am once again in the #2 position, looking down the wing line of my leader’s aircraft as we receive the tower’s cleared for takeoff. The leader calls, Run ’em up, and I push the throttle forward to the stop with my left hand. The rpm slowly winds up to 100% full power. The jet engine roars, its vibrations permeating my entire body. My heart is pounding and I’m breathing hard. Is this engine going to fail me like the previous one? I check the oil pressure a dozen times, but the needle never moves from 45 psi. Engine rpm and exhaust gas temperature look normal. Hydraulic pressure in both systems is good. Generators are online. AC and DC voltages are good. I’m looking for some abnormal indication to call off this flight, but dammit, there aren’t any. I push the mike button and lower my voice to normal, calling, Two’s ready.

The leader calls, Releasing brakes … now. I punch the cockpit clock to start the second hand as the lead pilot lights his afterburner and begins his takeoff roll. Thirty seconds later I release my brakes and push the throttle outboard to afterburner position. An acceleration kick in the back, an increase in engine roar, and a bright orange glow behind me leave no doubt the burner has lit, confirmed almost unnecessarily by the cockpit gauges. The reality suddenly hits me in the face. I’m hurtling down the same runway I flew from just yesterday morning! I glance nervously at the oil pressure gauge every few seconds. The oil pressure is good, I tell myself. Fly the airplane. As the airspeed reaches 155 knots I pull back on the stick and rotate the nose up to takeoff attitude. The heavyweight F-100 sits on the main wheels for a second before lifting off the runway at 180 knots. I’m airborne and accelerating. My heart is pounding and fingers of fear are trying to pull me to the edge of panic. (At the time, I knew my fear was irrational, but the sights and sounds of takeoff must have triggered an emotional response linked to my bailout experience.) I push back the fear by focusing on the moment and talking myself through the climb. Just do what you know how to do. Gear up, flaps up … pull the nose up to maintain a 220-knot climb … climb to 1,500 feet … now push the nose over to accelerate … look for the lead aircraft just off to the right. There are his lights … I’ve got him in sight.

With all my will, I concentrate on flying the aircraft and joining up with my flight leader. I try to stay in the moment to avoid thinking about anything but flying the jet. I can’t really see the leader’s aircraft, but I see his bright navigation lights and red rotating beacon flashing in the darkness. I turn the aircraft to put his lights in my windshield’s left forward panel. This puts me on the inside of his turn so I’ll join up with him quickly. As I fly closer, I begin to make out the dark silhouette of his aircraft against the starry sky. I adjust my airspeed to match his and slide into position near his right wing as we continue the climb. I’m calming down now and on my own internal autopilot, flying instinctively using his aircraft as my visual reference, not looking inside the cockpit at my own instruments. Formation flying is a skill learned in pilot training and honed in hundreds of hours of flying on the leader’s wing in day, night, and weather. I glance into the cockpit periodically to make sure all systems are okay. So far, so good, I think, but I’m still nervous as a cat, with all my senses on high alert.

We level off at our en route altitude about 4 miles high. The target is only 20 to 30 minutes away, so there’s no need to waste fuel by climbing higher with our load of four 500-pound bombs. Tonight, there’s not much radio chatter. All I hear is the reassuring engine hum and my own breathing through the oxygen mask. Suddenly a bump somewhere in the aircraft vibrates through the rudder pedals and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. What the heck was that? I scan the instruments; everything looks normal. Then there’s a whoosh noise I never noticed before. Must be a hydraulic pump, I think. Man, I am super-sensitive to noises and vibrations tonight. I scan the cockpit again. Settle down, John; everything is all right, I say to myself, unconvincingly. Logic tells me the airplane is flying well, but emotionally I’m overreacting to every little sound and vibration. It takes my full concentration to focus on flying my position and take my mind off the gremlin noises I hear. I think ahead to what I’m going to do when we reach the target.

Thankfully, tonight’s Combat Skyspot mission is an easy one — a radar-controlled bomb release from level flight on a suspected enemy location. We soon check in with our radar controller. He assigns us a lower altitude, the airspeed to hold, and the compass heading to fly. I tell myself, Focus on flying smoothly and making a stable bomb release. The flight leader descends to the lower altitude and follows the radar controller’s compass headings, or vectors, as I maintain position next to him. We start the final run-in to the target. We arm our bombs and select Pairs to release the two outboard bombs simultaneously. The weapons release push-button, or pickle button, on my control stick is now hot. I move in closer to lead, maintaining about 3 feet of wingtip separation. We hear a short countdown from the controller, and, on his Mark, both of us push our pickle buttons. I feel and hear a thump as two bombs release. Each aircraft is instantly 1,000 pounds lighter, and we bounce around as we adjust pitch and roll. We make a second radar circuit and drop our remaining two bombs. The controller says both bomb runs were on target, so the mission was successful from our viewpoint.

Returning to home base, I make one of my smoothest night landings ever. Only after I’ve taxied to parking and shut down the engine do the pent-up muscle and emotional tensions release in a flood from head to toe. Thank you, Lord, I say out loud. I made it. Although I was extremely jumpy at first, I settled down and flew the mission well. I’m also feeling more confident about flying future missions.

The squadron commander had the right idea after all. My fear was best overcome by doing exactly what I was afraid of — flying the F-100 again at night. Even thinking about getting into the cockpit terrified me, but I needed to fly again to regain my self-confidence. Fear can be paralyzing, but the Lord gave me strength and courage to overcome my anxieties. Nelson Mandela said it best: Courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who doesn’t feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

2

My Crazy Dream

I WAS ABOUT TEN YEARS OLD WHEN I FIRST BEGAN THINKING ABOUT FLYING in space. Although there were no actual space flyers in the 1950s, many sci-fi authors wrote about space travel and exploring alien worlds. (The term astronaut wasn’t commonly used until the early 1960s.) Throughout my youth I devoured books by Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Robert Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke, and others. My favorite was Heinlein, because his scientific explanations seemed plausible and his strong characters showed individualism and leadership. In the world of science fiction, space travel was common, and it was adventurous, exciting, and challenging. What’s out there in the solar system? I wondered. Is there any life on other planets? If I became a space explorer, I could find out for myself.

About this same time my mother asked me, What do you want to do when you grow up?

I replied with ten-year-old logic, I want to have adventures and explore new worlds. I want to fly in space!

Mom, perhaps sizing up her chances at being a grandmother, pressed me, How do you feel about getting married and having children?

Nah, I replied. That’s not for me. I want to be an explorer.

She smiled at me and said, Okay, Johnny, we’ll see (her favorite expression when she didn’t agree with me). But I think you should talk to your father about flying in space.

My dad was an Air Force pilot, and I was reluctant to talk to him about my crazy dream because he might think I was being silly. One Sunday afternoon while we were throwing the football together, I got my courage up and blurted out, Hey, Dad, I think I want to fly in space when I grow up. You know, explore other planets and stuff like that.

I was surprised to see his face light up. You do? That sounds exciting. Do you know anything about spaceflight? No one has done that yet.

"Well, I’ve read lots of science fiction books and that’s what they do all the time. Popular Mechanics magazine says that people will fly in space in a few years."

He laughed, I don’t know about a few years, but I believe it will happen.

A few moments of silence followed. Dad observed, Y’know, I was about your age when I thought about being a pilot. If you want to go into space, you should study hard in school and make the best grades you can. You’re plenty smart, capable of making all A’s.

I was amazed at Dad’s accepting reaction. Looking back, perhaps he heard in my voice the echo of the same passion that he had had as a kid wanting to fly airplanes. Or maybe Mom told him about our earlier conversation. I felt pretty good that day about Dad’s encouragement and saying how smart I was. Dad really understands how I feel. Maybe