Vanguard's Triumph

In the early-morning darkness at Cape Canaveral, the morning star and the thin edge of a waning moon graced the eastern sky. Their light faded, and at 6:45 the sun burst bright and yellow above a cloud bank to bathe the slender dark-green-and-white Vanguard rocket standing on Launch Pad 18A. In Vanguard's nose was a 3 1/4-lb. antenna-horned space satellite that symbolized at once the hope and despair of all the men at the Cape. Temperamental Vanguard, twice a spectacular failure, was once again ready for the shoot: the countdown was onT minus 16 minutes.

"The Navy's anchor," some of the wits had dubbed the bird, and someone suggested that all Vanguard needed was a rubber band to spring it skyward. Said Scientist J. (for James) Paul Walsh, 40, pugnacious Vanguard deputy director who bossed the Cape project: "It made me goddam mad. If they call you a lummox long enough, you've got to be careful or you'll start believing it."

Vanguard's rocketmen, too devoted to believe in anything but ultimate success, gilded their worries with sentiment. As the moment for last week's shoot approached, one man fastened a St. Christopher's medal inside the bird, after producing a formal equipment-change memo on which was printed, as the reason for the change,

ADDITION OF DIVINE GUIDANCE. Stenciled at the top of the Vanguard, near the satellite itself, was HAVE BALL, WILL ORBIT. And at the base someone had printed three words that summed up the hopes of all missiledom: LOVE LIFTED ME. Vanguard was ready to go.

"T Minus Ten." Gathered in the blockhouse, many of them wearing green shirts in honor of St. Patrick's Day, the countdown crewmen ticked off the checklist. At the intersection of Navaho Road and Vanguard Road, 1.800 ft. away, Walsh took his position in a faded blue Air Force communications van. With him was President Eisenhower's Naval Aide E. P. (Pete) Aurand and a handful of Vanguard men. Paul Walsh had a phone line hooked to the Washington office of his immediate superior, Dr. John P. Hagen, director of Project Vanguard. The same line was connected to telephones manned in the White House by Press Secretary James Hagerty and Presidential Aide Andy Goodpaster, ready to pass the word to Ike. "T minus ten," said Walsh. "Clear sky on launching complex . . . Minitrack clear." Pete Aurand took a horseshoe from a paper sack, spit on it, tossed it over his shoulder.

The seconds tightened as hundreds of eyes were fixed on the clock. Seven-fifteen (a.m.) . . . T minus 60 seconds ... 55 ... 50 ... 45 ... Said Walsh: "Helium disconnect has dropped; lox vent has closed." Then T minus one. Snapped Walsh: "Mark!" From the blockhouse came the word: "Ignition!"

"This Is the Best." The graceful rocket strained on its launcher as its engines built thrust. It lifted in grandeur in the morning sun, trailing a white-hot fire that looked like an inverted candle flame. Seconds after lifting-first slowly, then ever faster-Vanguard's farewell roar reverberated over the Cape in a blanket of sound. Half a mile from the pad, Canaveral men cheered: "Go, baby, go! Keep going, baby! Don't quit, baby!"

The first real proof that the satellite was in orbit had to come, more than two hours later, from the tracking station in San Diego. In the communications room of Washington's Naval Research Laboratory, Hagen stood at a teletype. Shortly after 9:30, the machine began to clatter:

San Diego: NO SIGNAL YET . . . STAND BY. WE MAY HAVE IT.

Washington: GIVE us THE WORD ASAP (as soon as possible).

San Diego : THIS is IT . . . GOOD SIGNAL.

NO DOUBT. CONGRATULATIONS . . .

Washington: THANKS MUCH. THIS IS THE BEST.

And so it was. Vanguard's shoot had sent its ball farther and faster than any of the earlier three: it orbited at up to 18,400 m.p.h., with a splendid apogee of 2,466 miles (see SCIENCE). Jubilant Navymen in Washington instantly began talking about the target date next month, when they hope to launch a second, bigger Vanguard satellite. At Canaveral, celebrating Vanguardsmen sang Anchors Aweigh, threw Straw Boss Walsh fully clothed into a pool-and, after their long, bitter ordeal, laughed back at the world.

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