Light This Candle: The Life & Times of Alan Shepard--America's First Spaceman Read Free Page A

silver-tongued, freckle-faced all-American, spoke eloquently to the press about God and family and serving his country. The others just shook their heads at him, disgusted at his pandering but secretly impressed by his locution.
    Shepard, on the other hand, epitomized the cynical, smart-ass fighter jock. You could see it in the strutting, superior way he carried himself. He didn’t grin like Glenn; he smirked. Instead of cloying the press, he snapped at them; when asked why he wanted to be the first astronaut, he quipped, “I want to be first because I want to be first.”
    The opposing personalities of Shepard and Glenn reflected the duality of veteran military men who emerged from cloistered military fraternities to become overnight celebrities. They were, as John Kennedy called them, men of a “new generation” who would compete in “a race for the mastery of the sky.” They were also adventurous, combative, indulgent thrill-seekers who performed ludicrous, death-taunting feats in supersonic jets, then rewarded themselves with whiskey, women, and fast cars.
    Tensions between Shepard and Glenn came to a notorious head in late 1960. Glenn was sound asleep early one morning in his San Diego hotel room when the phone rang. Shepard, calling from nearby Tijuana, Mexico, explained that he’d been out drinking, spending time with a female friend, and had let his guard down, allowing a reporter and photographer to tail him. “I need your help,” he told Glenn.
    Glenn handled the situation with a frenetic round of phone calls that kept the story from ever reaching newsprint. The next day he told the other six astronauts they had dodged a bullet and should start thinking about keeping their pants zipped. A few weeks later the astronauts were asked to cast a vote for the man— besides themself—they’d like to see become the first American in space.
    Glenn knew who the others would pick—the bad-ass, not the kiss-ass. He was right, and when NASA made it official—on January 19, at a secret meeting the night before John F. Kennedy’s inauguration—Shepard just stared at the floor, trying not to smirk and offend the other six as their boss announced that he would get the first flight. In the toughest competition of his contest-filled life, Shepard had won—the bad boy had prevailed. And Glenn had no choice but to take an enormous gulp of pride and serve as Shepard’s sidekick.
    Shepard, meanwhile, just loved calling Glenn “my backup.”

    On the morning of May 5, 1961, one of the greatest crowds Florida had ever seen descended upon its beaches. Men and women skipped work, pulled their children from school, and to the north and south of Cape Canaveral arrived early, carrying lawn chairs and binoculars, hoping for a glimpse of history.
    Across the nation, millions sat glued to their televisions. President Kennedy stood in his secretary’s office with his wife and brother by his side. Shepard’s parents sat side by side in their New Hampshire living room; even though Shepard’s father had opposed his son’s decision to become an astronaut, he now sat inan easy chair, watching calmly and proudly. Louise Shepard kneeled before her television, reaching to touch the frail image of the thin rocket that would soon carry her husband.
    At that moment John Glenn’s hands were reaching into Shepard’s cramped capsule. Glenn retrieved the handball sign and the centerfold, then helped strap Shepard tightly into his couch and attached the many hoses, wires, and sensors from his suit to the capsule’s dashboard. In the months leading up to that morning, a certain dignity had befallen the relationship between Shepard and Glenn. They were inseparable during the final weeks of training. To escape the tension-filled cacophony of Cape Canaveral, they’d jog on a nearby isolated beach, chase sand crabs, and dive into the cool waves ofthe Atlantic; at night, they’d sit for hours after dinner, discussing each detail of the upcoming