The Right Stuff

“One of the phrases that kept running through the conversation was ‘pushing the outside of the envelope.’ The ‘envelope’ was a flight-test term referring to the limits of a particular aircraft’s performance, how tight a turn it could make at such-and-such a speed, and so on. ‘Pushing the outside,’ probing the outer limits, of the envelope seemed to be the great challenge and satisfaction of flight test.” 

The above passage introduces the notion of “pushing the outside of the envelope.” This expression refers to a pilot’s ability to take an aircraft to the limits of its capabilities, an exceptionally dangerous operation. Those able to push things to the outside of the envelope and live to tell the tale have “the right stuff.”

“A young man might go into military flight training believing that he was entering some sort of technical school in which he was simply going to acquire a certain set of skills. Instead, he found himself all at once enclosed in a fraternity. And in this fraternity, even though it was military, men were not rated by their outward rank as ensigns, lieutenants, commanders, or whatever. No, herein the world was divided into those who had it and those who did not. This quality, this it, was never named, however, nor was it talked about in any way.” 

In this passage Wolfe introduces the idea of the military test pilot community as a “fraternity,” that is, a tightly knit, closed union of men. Unlike in other segments of the military, official rank does not matter in the fraternity of test pilots. The only measure of success is “the right stuff.”

“At every level in one’s progress up that staggeringly high pyramid, the world was once more divided into those men who had the right stuff to continue the climb and those who had to be left behind in the most obvious way.” 

Wolfe frequently employs the pyramid (or ziggurat) as an image to describe the test pilot’s dangerous and highly competitive career progression. Those who succeed advance; those who do not are left behind.

“[I]t could blow at any seam.” 

This is another phrase used by Wolfe numerous times in The Right Stuff (22, 294, 315, 344). It refers to the possibility that any part of the delicate arrangement of skill, courage, physical health, and technology involved in test flight could fail or rupture at any time. This demonstrates the immense risk and uncertainty of the job.

“A fighter pilot soon found he wanted to associate only with other fighter pilots. Who else could understand the nature of the little proposition (right stuff/death) they were all dealing with? […] To talk about it in so many words was forbidden, of course. The very words death, danger, bravery, fear were not to be uttered except in the occasional specific instance or for ironic effect. Nevertheless, the subject could be adumbrated in code or by example. Hence the endless evenings of pilots huddled together talking about flying. On these long and drunken evenings (the bane of their family life) certain theorems would be propounded and demonstrated—and all by code and by example. One theorem was: There are no accidents and no fatal flaws in the machines; there are only pilots with the wrong stuff.” 

In this passage Wolfe elaborates on some of the test pilot fraternity’s unique customs. As he insists throughout the book, the exact qualities that make up “the right stuff” are largely tacit or unspoken. Only other pilots really understand the cryptic code of conduct that gives a certain person “the right stuff.” The best evidence of the latter is simply success.

“Not only the washed-out, grounded, and dead pilots had been left behind—but also all of those millions of sleepwalking souls who never even attempted the great gamble. The entire world below […] left behind. Only at this point can one begin to understand just how big, how titanic, the ego of the military pilot could be. […] They looked upon themselves as men who lived by higher standards of behavior than civilians, as men who were the bearers and protectors of the most important values of American life.” 

Another characteristic of the test pilot frequently invoked by Wolfe is his outsized ego. By ascending the pyramid of steep challenges, top pilots see themselves as possessors of rare qualities unseen in the public at large. Test pilots are special American heroes capable of feats denied to the rest of us.

“At the end of the war the Army had discovered that the Germans not only had the world’s first fighter jet but also a rocket plane that had gone 596 miles an hour in tests. Just after the war a British jet, the Gloster Meteor, jumped the official world speed record from 496 to 606 in a single day. The next great plateau would be Mach 1, the speed of sound, and the Army Air Force considered it crucial to achieve it first.” 

In this passage Wolfe clearly spells out the historical developments that led to Yeager’s historic flight to Mach 1 in 1947. Advances in flight technology following the end of World War II precipitated the project of breaking the sound barrier, or Mach 1, a feat that some scientists and engineers thought was impossible.

“Sputnik I took on a magical dimension. […] It seemed to dredge up primordial superstitions about the influence of heavenly bodies. It gave birth to a modern, i.e., technological, astrology. Nothing less than control of the heavens was at stake. It was Armageddon, the final and decisive battle of the forces of good and evil.”

According to Wolfe, the launch of Sputnik I in October 1957 represents a decisive turning point in the American space program. Advances by the Soviets are seen as an existential threat to the United States that must be swiftly countered. Project Mercury will become the most important American initiative in the endeavor to catch up to the Soviets.

“In a […] novel of the future called We, completed in 1921, the Russian writer Evgeny Zamyatin describes a gigantic ‘fire-breathing, electric’ rocket ship that is poised to ‘soar into cosmic space’ in order to ‘subjugate the unknown beings on other planets, who may still be living in the primitive condition of freedom’—all this in the name of ‘the Benefactor,’ ruler of ‘the One State.’ This omnipotent spaceship is called the Integral, and the designer is known only as ‘D-503, Builder of the Integral.’ In 1958 and early 1959, as magical success followed magical success, that was the way Americans […] began to look on the Soviet space program. It was a thing of misty but stupendous dimensions […] the mighty Integral […] with an anonymous but omnipotent Chief Designer.”

In this passage Wolfe introduces a major motif of The Right Stuff. He uses the depiction of space colonization in a Russian science fiction novel to represent the Soviet space program. The Integral spacecraft and its Builder become stand-ins for the innovations of the anonymous Chief Designer behind the Soviets’ technological advances.

“A pilot could tell, if he listened carefully to the briefing, that an astronaut on a Project Mercury flight would do none of the things that comprised flying a ship: he would not take it aloft, control its flight, or land it. In short, he would be a passenger. The propulsion, guidance, and landing would all be determined automatically by the ground.” 

In this passage Wolfe introduces another key theme of The Right Stuff. Astronauts in the Mercury program will exercise limited control over the capsule that will propel them into space. The navigational functions will instead be largely performed by computers. This gives rise to the notion that NASA astronauts are not true pilots but instead mere passengers.

“It was as if the press in America, for all its vaunted independence, were a great colonial animal, an animal made up of countless clustered organisms responding to a single nervous system. In the late 1950s (as in the late 1970s) the animal seemed determined that in all matters of national importance the proper emotion, the seemly sentiment, the fitting moral tone should be established and should prevail; and all information that muddied the tone and weakened the feeling should simple be thrown down the memory hole.” 

The relationship between the Mercury Seven and the American media is a persistent focus of The Right Stuff. Here Wolfe describes a kind of “groupthink” among the press in which propriety takes precedence over truth when reporting on national affairs. Wolfe injects a good deal of social commentary into his narrative with his frequent depictions of the superficiality of the press in its dealings with the astronauts.

“Somehow calling yourself an ‘astronaut’ was like a combat ace going around describing his occupation as ‘combat ace.’ This thing was such an unbelievable good deal, it was as if ‘astronaut’ were honorific, like ‘champion’ or ‘superstar,’ as if the word itself were one of the infinite variety of goodies that Project Mercury was bringing your way. And not just goodies in the crass sense, either. It had all the things that made you feel good, including the things that were good for the soul.” 

In this passage Wolfe describes the immense cultural prestige that comes with the “astronaut” label . In addition to material “goodies” like the lucrative Life magazine deal, there is also the inner value that comes with such significant praise from the American public.

“[The unofficial Military Wife’s Compact] was a compact not so much between husband and wife as between the two of them and the military. […] The wife began her marriage—to her husband and to the military—by making certain heavy sacrifices. She knew the pay would be miserably low. They would have to move frequently and live in depressing, exhausted houses. […] In return for these concessions, the wife was guaranteed the following: a place in the military community’s big family, a welfare state in the best sense, which would see to it that all basic needs, from health care to babysitting, were taken care of.” 

Here Wolfe elaborates on a central theme of The Right Stuff: the relationship between the military, its prized test pilots, and their families. Each of the Mercury Seven’s wives is presented as accepting of the sacrifices required for her husband’s career. But these sacrifices are compensated with certain benefits, such as community and stability. The Seven and their wives also experience something rather novel with the money that comes from the Life magazine contract: disposable income.

“[B]ut now no one remembered, or comprehended, that all of these things had been adventures in manned rocket flight. With the Big Engine already on the way, the XLR-99—well, it was likely that if NASA would just pour the money and personnel and emphasis into the X-15 project and the X-20 project, the Unites States could have orbiting spacecraft in a reasonably short order. Ships, vehicles with a pilot who took them aloft and brought them back through the atmosphere with his own hand […] It wasn’t merely that the Mercury plan of a man in a pod splashing down in the middle of the ocean under a parachute was ‘dirty,’ primitive, and an embarrassing way for a pilot to come down, as the Edwards pilots saw it. It was also needlessly dangerous.” 

This passage provides a good encapsulation of one of the book’s central themes. The perception of the NASA astronaut program among military test pilots is that its achievements pale in comparison to those of X-series pilots like Yeager, Scott Crossfield, Bob White, and Joe Walker. Nothing about Mercury—from its automated control system to its method of landing an astronaut back on Earth—appeals to the representatives of “the right stuff” at Edwards Air Force Base.

“[Shepard] had accepted a great many rewards up front. He and his confreres had already been lionized, such as few pilots in history. The very top pilots, with the most righteous stuff, were content to receive that unmentionable glistening look from aviators and support personnel at their own base. Shepard had already had it beamed upon him by every sort of congressman, canned-food distributor, Associated Florists board chairman, and urban-renewal speculator […] He had already accepted the payment […] up front!—and millions of wide-open humid eyes were now upon him.” 

In this passage Wolfe recapitulates many of the features of “single combat,” a metaphor that he applies to the Mercury astronauts. Immense respect and celebrity is bestowed upon the astronauts before a single mission occurs. Like single combatants who receive the esteem of their communities before engaging in battle, the astronauts are elevated to the pinnacle of American public life on the mere promise to take a rocket-propelled journey into space.

“Next to Gagarin’s orbital flight, Shepard’s little mortar lob to Bermuda, with its mere five minutes of weightlessness, was no great accomplishment. But that didn’t matter. The flight had unfolded like a drama, the first drama of single combat in American history. Shepard had been the tiny underdog, sitting on top of an American rocket—and our rockets always blow up—challenging the omnipotent Soviet Integral. The fact that the entire thing had been televised […] had generated the most feverish suspense. And then he had gone through with it. He let them light the fuse. He hadn’t resigned. He hadn’t even panicked. He handled himself perfectly. […] Here was a man […] with the right stuff.” 

Here Wolfe pithily describes the importance of Alan Shepard’s flight in May 1961. Though a shorter suborbital journey of arguably lesser significance than Yuri Gagarin’s the previous month, the mission makes Shepard the first American in space and signals the United States’ entry into the space race.

“The truth was that the fellows had now become the personal symbols not only of America’s Cold War struggle with the Soviets but also of Kennedy’s own political comeback. They had become the pioneers of the New Frontier, recycled version. They were the intrepid scouts in Jack Kennedy’s race to beat the mighty Integral to the Moon. There was no way they could be regarded as ordinary test pilots much less test subjects, ever again.” 

In this passage Wolfe lays out a welcome reversal of fortune for Project Mercury. While President Kenney entered office with a good degree of skepticism toward NASA, Shepard’s flight provides concrete evidence of the astronaut’s potential to buoy American spirits in the context of the Cold War. Kennedy suddenly becomes the champion of the Seven and NASA, proposing to land an astronaut on the moon before 1970 to demonstrate US supremacy over the Soviet Union in space.

“Something quite extraordinary was building up. It was a wave and a half, and the other six and their wives were most surprised than anybody else. It was ironic. They had all assumed that Al Shepard was the big winner. Al had won out in the competition for the first flight. Al had been invited to the White House to receive a medal, whereas Gus had gotten his about eight steps from the palmetto grass, because Al was the certified number-one man in this thing and had taken the first flight. But even before John got back to the Cape from Grand Bahama Island, there was a note of worshipful swooning in the air that indicated that Al had not made the first flight, after all.” 

Though Alan Shepard is the first astronaut to make a spaceflight, John Glenn reclaims his place as the most famous of the Seven with his February 1962 flight, the first orbital journey for the United States. According to Wolfe, this remains the case after the conclusion of Project Mercury in 1963.

“And what was it that moved them all so deeply? It was not a subject that you could discuss, but the seven of them knew what it was, and so did most of their wives. Or they knew about part of it. They knew it had to do with the presence, the aura, the radiations of the right stuff, the same vital force of manhood that had made millions vibrate and resonate thirty-five years before to Lindbergh—except that in this case it was heightened by Cold War patriotism, the greatest surge of patriotism since the Second World War.” 

Here Wolfe expands upon the peculiar significance of Glenn’s flight. For Wolfe, the aftermath of Glenn’s journey represents a nearly unparalleled outpouring of patriotic emotion in the United States. How does this happen? It is nothing less than the force of “the right stuff” itself.

“This word, operational, was a holy word to Slayton. He was the King of Operational. Operational referred to action, the real thing, piloting, the right stuff. Medical referred to one of the many accessories to the business at hand. You didn’t call in doctors to make an operational decision.” 

This passage introduces the notion of “operationality” to Wolfe’s account of Project Mercury. For astronauts like Deke Slayton, the operationality of a spaceflight, its precision and efficient use of fuel, should determine its success. This represents an imposition of the model of test flight into the space program. Other concerns—for instance, medical or scientific—are secondary to the operational imperatives of flight.

“[Chris] Kraft was furious. […] As he saw it, Carpenter had ignored repeated warnings from capcoms all around the world about wasting fuel, and this had almost resulted in a disaster, one that might have done irreparable damage to the program. […] And why had this catastrophe nearly occurred? Because Carpenter had insisted on comporting himself like an Omnipotent and Omniscient Mercury Astronaut. He didn’t have to pay attention to suggestions and warnings from mere groundlings. He apparently believed that the astronaut, the passenger in the capsule, was the heart and soul of the space program.” 

In this passage Wolfe captures the aftermath of Scott Carpenter’s May 1962 flight, the fourth for Project Mercury. Carpenter’s difficult, risky landing is viewed by some in the space program as the result of his focus on distracting scientific experiments and his consequent failure to heed ground control’s advice. Following Carpenter’s mission, Mercury will focus on simple, precise journeys that mimic the standards of test flight.

“For the seven Mercury astronauts had become the True Brotherhood. They were so dazzling you couldn’t even see the erstwhile True Brethren of Edwards Air Force Base any longer.” 

This passage provides an important statement about NASA astronauts eclipsing the test pilot community at Edwards. “The right stuff” lies not with the hotshots in the Mojave Desert, but the astronauts in Houston and Cape Canaveral.

“It had become an immutable part of the drill: at the completion of the flight the astronaut’s wife had to leave the house and confront the Beast and all his cameras and microphones and submit to a press conference and answer questions and be the Perfect Astronaut’s Wife with merely the entire world watching. It was this grim prospect that truly lacerated one’s heart while Mr. Wonderful was aloft. It was this that gave the test pilot’s wife a royal case of nerves in the space age. For the astronaut the flight consisted of riding the rocket and, God willing, not fucking up. For the wife the flight consisted of […] the Press Conference.” 

Here Wolfe describes the role of the astronaut’s wife during a spaceflight. Upon its completion, she must confront the throngs of media that gather on her lawn and issue a statement. An astronaut’s wife is under just as much scrutiny from the public eye as the astronaut himself.