Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man's First Journey to the Moon(19)

Borman graduated eighth in a class of six hundred seventy at West Point. It was a beautiful ceremony, but all he could see were the swarms of girlfriends and fiancées who’d come to shower love on his classmates. His only comfort came from knowing he’d been among those selected for a coveted spot in Air Force flight training, and from driving his parents back to Arizona in the new car he’d purchased, a blue Oldsmobile Rocket 88 stretch coupe with a V-8 engine and a bench seat in back.

Borman had sixty days’ leave before reporting for flight training at Perrin Air Force Base in Sherman, Texas. On the first of those days back in Tucson, he called Susan and asked her to dinner. They hadn’t had a date in ages, and she still had hurt feelings from their breakup of three years ago, but she agreed. He took her to a small Italian restaurant on the outskirts of town. They laughed and talked and connected as if they were still in high school; even the owner could see their chemistry because he kept feeding the jukebox and pressing the love song buttons. Borman didn’t waver this time, he did what he’d been wanting to do for years—he asked Susan to be his wife. There was no talk of the challenges of a military life or the risks he’d be taking as a fighter pilot. There was just the question—“Will you marry me?”—and her answer—“I will.”



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A month later, Frank and Susan were married in a Tucson Episcopal church. After honeymooning at the Grand Canyon and in Las Vegas, the Bormans reported to Perrin Air Force Base, then to Williams Air Force Base in Chandler, Arizona. These were fun and adventurous times for the new couple, even if training was risky. Men died from losing control while pushing the limits in these high-performance jets, but it never occurred to Borman that he’d be hurt. Others had survived the training, and he knew he was better than any of them.

Susan never complained about the dangers of Frank’s job, the hours it required, or even their tiny home, a trailer with no air-conditioning. Once, after Frank’s model airplane flew away from him, Susan spent the next day searching the area for miles, knowing how disappointed he was to have lost it. She didn’t find it, but Borman was touched that she didn’t want him to worry, even about little things.

Soon Susan was pregnant. A month before the baby was due, in September 1951, Borman was transferred for the second time in eight weeks, this time to Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas. He protested, arguing that the move was too much for his eight-months-pregnant wife. A captain reminded him, in various shades of blue, that there was a war going on in Korea. Borman gathered blankets and a pillow and turned the bench seat in the back of the Oldsmobile into a bed, tucked in his pregnant wife, and drove to Las Vegas.

On October 4, 1951, Susan gave birth to a baby boy, Frederick. On the same day, Borman flew two missions—no time off for a brand-new father, such was the urgency of wartime training. The work of a fighter pilot was exceedingly dangerous; six men died over one weekend, all at Borman’s base. At home, Susan never allowed her husband to see how these accidents made her shake.

New orders sent Borman to the Philippines, closer to the war in Korea, which was just what a fighting man wanted. Still just twenty-one years old, Susan sold the Oldsmobile for the price of a one-way plane ticket and, with baby on lap, made her way to Manila. Another son, Edwin, was born in a Quonset hut at Clark Field in July 1953. A few months later, Borman’s tour in the Philippines ended, and so had the Korean War. The battle he’d signed up to fight had faded away.

Borman spent the next several years logging hours in fighter jets, learning to drop atomic bombs, waiting for his chance to defend America. Always he posted the highest marks, blending rare piloting skills with a fighting instinct and a mission-first tunnel vision. Wherever he went, he considered Susan his secret weapon, a partner, mother, and best friend who arranged their lives so that his only worries were in cockpits.

Not all of it came naturally to Susan. Every boom in the sky, every siren on the base, had to be answered by reminding herself, It’s not going to happen to Frank. He’s different. Frank’s a better pilot than they are. Frank will always be okay. After leaving the commissary one day at Moody Air Force Base in Georgia, Susan witnessed a midair collision between two jets. She knew Frank was flying at that time. Both airplanes were two-seaters, but only three parachutes opened in the sky. Frantic, she ran toward the billowing black smoke and tried to climb a fence to reach the field, but she was intercepted by a GI, who ordered her to go home. Susan raced back to her neighborhood and banged on the door of Frank’s boss. The man’s wife let her in.

“What do I do?” Susan asked.

“What you do is wait,” the woman said.

And Susan did, for two and a half hours, until Frank landed and called her. He reacted to news of the fatality as he always did, by thinking That dumb sonofabitch killed himself; it’ll never happen to me because I’m better. It was a defense mechanism shared by many fighter pilots, and Susan bought into it, too. At least for now.

In 1956, Borman was ordered to earn a graduate degree in aeronautical engineering in order to become an instructor at West Point. He enrolled at Caltech in Pasadena, where he kept up with some of the best students in the world. By 1957, he had his master’s degree and was teaching thermodynamics and fluid mechanics at West Point.

He loved being back at the place that had shaped him. If anything, Susan loved it more. Her boys were playing little league baseball and learning to swim, she’d decorated the family’s apartment, and Frank was home most nights. For the first time since they’d married, it seemed a stable existence, and one that might last.