Wednesday. Day three since the explosion.
The radio reports say the temperature inside the spacecraft has dropped to 38 degrees Fahrenheit. Thirty-eight. That’s just above freezing. The crew is wearing their suits for warmth, which isn’t easy in the cramped confines of the LM. There’s condensation on every surface — water droplets forming on the walls, the instruments, everything cold and metallic and covered in moisture that will have to be dealt with during reentry when they power back up the Command Module and all that condensed water runs into the electrical panels.
They’re also dehydrating. Water on the spacecraft has to be rationed — the fuel cells that normally produce water as a byproduct are dead, and the supply they have is limited. The crew is on strict water rations. Lovell is reportedly losing significant weight. The human body needs water and these men are not getting enough.
I can barely read these reports. I keep trying to translate them into the physical reality. Thirty-eight degrees. That’s cold enough to be genuinely miserable. That’s cold enough to make every task harder than it should be. And these men are trying to keep track of procedures and systems and checklists and communication protocols, while being cold and thirsty and tired, with the knowledge that a single error in the reentry procedures could kill them.
The navigation is also something I’ve been trying to understand. Without the inertial navigation platform working normally, Lovell navigated the PC+2 burn — the engine burn to speed up the return trajectory — using visual star sightings. He looked out the window and identified stars and used them to verify the spacecraft’s orientation. An ancient technique, essentially, adapted for the twentieth century. He was doing celestial navigation from a spacecraft in the middle of the return from the Moon.
My neighbor Harold came over this morning. He stood on my porch and I came out and we stood together. He didn’t say anything for a while. Then he said: “I hope they make it.” I said: me too, Harold. Me too.
One more day of this. Tomorrow they power up the Command Module for the first time in four days. They jettison the Service Module — first look at the damage. Then jettison the Lunar Module that saved their lives. Then reentry. Then either they come home or they don’t.
My family is going to watch the news coverage together tomorrow. All of us. Whatever time it is. Betty said she’ll make coffee and we’ll watch through reentry. I think the whole country will be watching.
Come home, Jim. Come home, Fred. Come home, Jack.