For Lovell and Anders, the job of photographing the Moon’s surface was proving tricky, owing to a fog of condensation that had built up on the main windows. This only left them with two small rendezvous windows, which had never been intended for photography.
Setting up the cameras and performing further spacecraft manoeuvres (including a second brief LOI burn to set them at an orbit with a low altitude of 70 miles) consumed much of their first three lunar orbits. They were on the fourth lap when they noticed Earthrise for the first time. It was breathtaking. Frantically, they snapped images of a lonely and fragile blue planet against a screen of dark infinity.
Borman was exhausted and knew he was going to have to rest. He decided to nap for two orbits. The others were too excited. They kept on working. Anders began taking a series of stereo photographs of the surface. Borman woke occasionally to speak to the others about how they were progressing. He began to realise his crew were making mistakes. They’d been awake 18 straight hours and were so tired they were no longer hearing each other properly. In a few more hours they’d have to perform a TEI — the trans-Earth injection rocket burn to escape the Moon’s orbit and begin their journey home. There was no way Borman could risk having a punch-drunk crew for that. He scrubbed all further scheduled experiments and ordered them to get some rest.
For the next two orbits, as they moved in and out of sleep, Borman found moments on the far side when he felt utterly alone in the universe. He snatched some time to gaze out the window, hopeful now for a glimpse of something they’d been warned they might see — something they’d agreed not to mention aloud because their every word was being recorded on the ship’s data storage equipment.
Shortly after LOS on orbit seven, the main window began to defog. The cameras were still rolling through the rendezvous windows, which meant they wouldn’t record what he now saw. They were still in lunar night. Yet beyond all reason and explanation he saw it, no mistake — a blinding light beaming up at him from the surface.
When Lovell and Anders awoke, he flicked them a pre-arranged hand gesture to indicate he’d had contact. It was all he had time for. They were on their eighth orbit, and the world was waiting. Shortly after regaining contact with Mission Control, Borman conducted a Christmas TV broadcast — ending it some 22 minutes later with a Bible reading by all three astronauts.
The reading was Borman’s idea. As a committed man of faith, he’d wanted to say something that would stay with people for a very long time. Bill Anders started the ball rolling. “We are now approaching lunar sunrise, and for all the people back on Earth, the crew of Apollo 8 has a message that we would like to send to you…
“In the beginning, God created the Heaven and the Earth. And the Earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters, and God said, ‘Let there be light.’ And there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good, and God divided the light from the darkness.”
Lovell took over. “And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day. And God said, ‘Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters. And let it divide the waters from the waters.’ And God made the firmament and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament. And it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.”
Borman closed it out. “And God said, ‘Let the waters under the Heavens be gathered together into one place. And let the dry land appear.’ And it was so. And God called the dry land Earth. And the gathering together of the waters called the seas. And God saw that it was good. And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas and God bless all of you — all of you on the good Earth.”
It was a fine way to sign off, an offer of praise and wonder from three spacemen. He hoped everyone hearing them back home would take the message to heart.
For the astronauts themselves, however, the best was yet to come. Shortly after LOS on their final transit across the far side they crowded around the window.
There it was again, piercing the darkness. Except this time it began to grow brighter.
Quickly, Borman fumbled with a pocket on his spacesuit and pulled out a small leather case. He snapped it open and extracted a palm-sized Minox camera. Feeling more like Maxwell Smart than James Bond, he began snapping away at what they were seeing.
The Minox wasn’t the best camera for the job, but it was the only option for working outside the flight plan. This was a part of their mission NASA knew nothing about. Air Force intelligence had seen fit to explain it only to the Apollo program astronauts, and even then only in individual briefings. They had been sworn to secrecy as the information was highly classified, and because they were military men they did as they were told. They were ordered never to talk about it to anyone, not even to each other. This had resulted in some very stilted conversations in their final moments alone together back on Earth — just enough to confirm they were all in on the conspiracy.
The light rapidly began to grow larger and larger, which indicated it was moving at incredible speed away from the Moon and straight toward them. It stopped just a few metres away from their spacecraft, at which point the command module experienced a short, sharp jolt. The astronauts exchanged alarmed glances, but remained silent.
A saucer-shaped light the size of a house was stationary alongside Apollo 8, matching their speed and trajectory perfectly. It was way too close for comfort, but Borman didn’t have time to worry. A few seconds later the object shot off into space. He stared down for a moment at the tiny camera in his hands, knowing he would never see the photographs he had just taken. He shoved the Minox back in its case and zipped it into his pocket. No time to reflect. They had to prepare for the TEI.
About half an hour later, as Houston reacquired telemetry, the spacecraft’s signal confirmed the trans-Earth injection burn had been a success. At 89 hours and 34 minutes into the mission, astronaut Ken Mattingly was capcom in Houston, trying to re-establish radio contact.
“Apollo 8, Houston.”
“Houston, Apollo 8, over,” Lovell responded.
“Hello Apollo 8, loud and clear,” chirped Mattingly.
“Roger. Please be informed there is a Santa Claus,” Lovell informed his fellow astronaut.
“That’s affirmative,” Mattingly answered. “You’re the best ones to know.”
At 4.51am local time on December 27, Apollo 8 careened into the warm waters of the Pacific like a ton of bricks, splashing down in utter darkness.
Borman had been standing by to cut the parachutes free at the moment of impact, but the force and surprise of their splashdown left him momentarily stunned. He was immediately doused with water, although from where it came he had no clue. He shook off his stupor and moved to jettison the chutes. But he wasn’t quick enough and the capsule flipped, leaving the astronauts hanging precariously upside down. Trash that had been stashed under their seats now rained down over them like a tickertape parade of crap.