Hark to the Cannon’s Roar

When you think about Apollo 7, it's really impossible to not think about The Fire, and I've been thinking about this a lot:

As test pilots must be, we are accustomed to death. The loss of a colleague, often a good friend, is not an uncommon occurrence. It doesn't mean we don't feel deeply about our friends and don't mourn their passing. 

When I go sailing and see the hills surrounding San Diego, I think about Shannon McCrary, the squadron skipper who is buried in a cemetery at Point Loma. He was killed while making an instrument approach, and we went to his funeral and wore a black arm band. But we don't wear a black arm band forever. We mourn the man for a little while, then we live with his loss. 
...

When I say we don't wear a black arm band forever, I do not mean we are not affected by the loss of a friend. I do mean that we expect losses, and we learn to live with them. In January 1967 the NASA people didn't know how to live with losses. The fire really got to them. 

It was weeks later that I took Bob Gilruth for a sail on my Cal 25. Bob was at the tiller and he just fell asleep. Maybe it was the first chance he'd had to relax, to realize he had to push ahead and forget the tragedy. Gilruth was carrying a tremendous load. He had been like a father to us, though he was not that much older. 

Certainly, an individual has a right to his own approach to death. Gus and I were different in this. He thought about death, talked about "busting his ass," and had mementos he wanted to pass around in case he died. Perhaps he anticipated disaster and needed to express it.

The picture above was given to Joe Shea, Apollo Spacecraft Program Office manager, by Gus, Ed, and Roger.  A prescient gag, the gift included this inscription: It isn’t that we don’t trust you, Joe, but this time we’ve decided to go over your head.

That's all I've got.