Riding Rockets

In May 1990, I retired from the USAF and NASA in an astronaut office ceremony attended by thirty or so of my peers. The gathering was held in the main conference room where, twelve years earlier, I had first heard John Young welcome our TFNG class. Dressed in my air force uniform, with my ribbons and the astronaut wings I had flown in space pinned to my chest, I accepted the Air Force Legion of Merit from USAF Major General Nate Lindsay. Nate had become a close friend over the course of my two DOD missions and I was honored he and his wife, Shirley, had taken the time to fly to Houston to attend the ceremony. Donna, my mom, and my son, Pat, were also in attendance. Even my Pettigrew genes couldn’t completely subdue the emotions that stirred in my soul at the sight of Pat. I could feel my throat tightening and my eyes welling. I began my air force career at my commissioning on the Plain at West Point in 1967. At that time, Donna and my mom had each pinned on one of my second lieutenant butter bars. Now, my twenty-two-year-old son, dressed in his air force uniform and wearing the same virginal rank, was shaking my hand and hugging me.

I kept my comments brief knowing everybody had to get back to work. Somewhere there was a countdown clock urgently marking the weeks to the next launch. I thanked everybody for their years of support, making a special reference to Pat, Amy, Laura (the girls had been unable to attend), and my mom. I saved my greatest praise for Donna. Tears threatened to douse her cheeks. I then concluded with the observation that I was the third generation of my family to have seen combat. My maternal grandfather had served in France in WWI and my dad in WWII. I had done a tour in Vietnam. I offered the hope my children’s generation would never see a war. At that time it seemed like a sure bet. The Soviet Union had ceased to exist. How could there ever be another threat to America as great?

That night, the astronaut office hosted a going-away party for Donna and me at a local restaurant. Beth Turner, one of the office secretaries, obtained a life-size cardboard rendition of a studly bodybuilder and placed it at stage center. She covered the face with my astronaut photo and the crotch with a sequined jockstrap stuffed with something flattering. Against this backdrop Hoot Gibson roasted me with stories of my botched T-38 landing in Brewster Shaw’s backseat, my near death experiences while performing STS-1 chase duties with “Red Flash” Walker, and my intercom comment from STS-27—“The RSO’s mother goes down like a Muslim at noon.” He also recounted how a group of female DOD security secretaries, tasked with declassifying our STS-27 audiotapes, had been confused by my multiple references to the “Anaconda.” They had assumed it might be a secret code word for our payload. I had to explain to them it was a Swine Flight euphemism forpenis. As the crowd laughed at Hoot’s stories (he was so damned good ateverything ), I thought of how all astronauts long to leave a memorable and heroic legacy. Hoot had defined mine…screwing up a T-38 backseat landing, slandering the mother of the man who was two switches away from killing us on Swine Flight, and introducing some sweet young innocents to the disgusting humor of Planet AD. Oh well, I guess it could have been worse.

Hoot finally ended the roast by embracing me in a cheek-to-cheek hug, an act of physical affection that surprised me. But I understood. Like warriors back from the battle, we were intimately bound by our own unique duels with death, by the incommunicable experience of spaceflight.

The audience applauded, the youngest astronauts being the most enthusiastic. It had been the same way back in my freshmen days.Why don’t these old farts just leave or die or something? I was now the old fart and my departure was freeing up one more seat into space. For silver-pinned astronauts, that was something to applaud.

Back home Donna and I talked long into the night. I tried to convey to her my everlasting gratitude for the life she had given me, but how do you say thanks for a dream? I tried with “I’m glad you walked out of that party in 1965 to kiss me.” I don’t think I could have said it better than with those few words. But for that kiss, my life would have been different.

As sleep was approaching, I thought there was one other thing I had to do before I walked out of NASA. I needed to hitch a ride to KSC.