Formally dedicated by Gov. Edgar D. Whitcomb in 1971, the memorial pays tribute to the Mitchell-born Grissom, one of the nation's seven original astronauts, the second American to go into space, the first person to travel into space twice, and one of the first in the space program--along with Apollo 1 crewmates Edward White and Roger Chaffee--to die, when a fire swept through the spacecraft during countdown tests at Cape Kennedy early on the evening of 27 January 1967. To a space nut like me, the Grissom memorial was heaven. My two brothers and I eagerly explored the interior of Grissom's Gemini 3 two-man capsule, which the astronaut had named after the title character in the Broadway musical The Unsinkable Molly Brown, about a woman who helped save a number of her shipmates on the ill-fated Titanic. Naming the capsule after that character, Grissom reasoned, might help avert a calamity like the one that befell him when his Liberty Bell 7 Mercury spacecraft, loaded with valuable scientific data, sank at the conclusion of his previous flight into space in 1961. Also impressive to my young eyes was the memorial's Universe Room, which included a six-foot-in-diameter illuminated globe that rotated as a tape of Grissom and his ground-control cohorts during his Gemini flight played in the background. To this Hoosier, Gus Grissom has always been a full-blooded American hero.

To others, however, Grissom is not now remembered as such. Both Tom Wolfe's best-sellingThe Right Stuff (1979) and the movie based on that book have implied that Grissom panicked--"screwed the pooch"--at the end of his 1961 spaceflight. Whether Grissom accidentally brushed against the button or purposefully pushed it, the book and movie blamed him for triggering the explosive hatch on the Mercury capsule, which caused the craft to take on water and eventually sink to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Grissom's explanation of "I was lying there, flat on my back--and it just blew," was met, according to Wolfe, by a healthy amount of skepticism from space-agency officials and Grissom's test-pilot brethren. "The damned things had been wrung inside out, but never, so far as anyone could recall, had a single hatch ever 'just blown,'" Wolfe noted. The author found his hero in Chuck Yeager, World War II fighter ace and the first man to break the sound barrier; Grissom became the book's goat.

Wolfe's assertions about Grissom's panicky behavior after the Mercury flight and the depiction of Grissom in the movie as a bit of an oaf were met with anger by Mitchell residents, who had turned out by the thousands to cheer their local hero at a special Memorial Day parade following his Gemini flight in 1965. "The Gus Grissom that Mitchell knows is not the Gus Grissom that's depicted in the movie," said Bill Jenkins, who owned the theater where the movie played in Mitchell. "They just wanted to make a movie and they needed a little excitement, so they picked on Gus, probably because he's dead and the others are still alive." Don Caudell, who worked for years to build the rocket-shaped memorial honoring Grissom that now stands on the site of the astronaut's former elementary school in Mitchell, spoke for many residents of the town when he said he worked so hard on behalf of the project not because of the astronaut's tragic death, but rather because of his achievements. "He came from the ground up and, by his own efforts, he got to a place where people hadn't been before," Caudell said of Grissom. "That's what made him special."

Located just off State Road 37 in southern Indiana, Mitchell was recognizable to motorists for many years because of the bright-yellow school buses being built at the Carpenter Body Works. Virgil Ivan Grissom, born on 3 April 1926, the oldest of four children raised by Dennis and Cecile Grissom, was brought up in this Hoosier town in a white frame house at 715 Baker Street (a road later renamed in his honor). Grissom's father was a signalman for the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, where he worked six days a week at fifty cents an hour. The young Grissom was no stranger to work himself, rising early in the morning to pick up copies of the Indianapolis Star at the downtown bus station for delivery to local residents. In the evening he delivered issues of the Bedford Times. Grissom also kept busy as a member of Boy Scout Troop 46, an association that almost cost him his life. One day he and his friends were practicing tying knots, an essential skill for any self-respecting Boy Scout. Jokingly rigging a hangman’s noose, the youngsters slipped it over Grissom's head, threw the other end over a rafter, and pulled to see whether the knot would hold. It did; Grissom's face had already turned blue by the time his friends could get him safely down.

Reportedly equipped with an IQ of 145, Grissom was nevertheless, he later admitted, not much of a "whiz" in school. "I guess it was a case of drifting and not knowing what I wanted to make of myself," he said. "I suppose I built my share of model airplanes, but I can't remember that I was a flying fanatic." Although sons in railroading families often follow in their father's footsteps, Grissom recalled that his father encouraged him instead to explore other career possibilities "in which he felt there were better chances for getting ahead." Standing only five feet, four inches tall when he entered high school in 1940, Grissom was too short to make the school’s basketball team, the dream of many a Hoosier youth. "Maybe if I had even made the squad as a substitute," said Grissom, "I would have been encouraged to give athletics a try even though I was awfully small." Instead of taking the court as a member of the team, he led his Boy Scout honor guard in carrying the American flag at the opening of games, impressing fellow student and future wife Betty Moore, who played the drum in the school band.

During his high school years, Grissom completed one year of precadet training in the United States Army Air Corps. Following his graduation in 1944, he was inducted into the Army Air Corps and sent to Wichita Falls, Texas, for five weeks of basic training. Stationed eventually at Brooks Field in San Antonio, Grissom spent much of his time before his discharge in November 1945 serving as a deskbound clerk. He made it back to Mitchell for his marriage on 6 July 1945 to Betty Moore, who received some hard words of advice from her mother before the wedding. Perhaps sensing the often difficult and lonely life of an Air Force wife that awaited her daughter, her mother, Betty recalled, tried to prepare her by issuing the following warning: "I just want you to know that I'm not going to be a baby sitter. I'm not going to raise your kids for you, and if you have fights, don't come home."

After his discharge from the armed forces, Grissom found a job installing doors on school buses at Carpenter Body Works. With the help of the GI Bill, Grissom left Mitchell to enroll at Purdue University as a mechanical-engineering student. Life for the young couple was rough; during his first semester Grissom shared a basement apartment with another male student while his wife remained behind in Mitchell with her parents. Joining her husband during the second semester of his studies at the West Lafayette campus, Betty Grissom helped pay for the future astronaut's education by working as a long-distance operator for the Indiana Bell Telephone Company. Grissom, who worked after class as a short-order cook, finished his degree early by skipping summer vacations and graduated in 1950. Donald S. Clark, one of Grissom's professors in mechanical engineering, recalled that the future astronaut was a "better than average student and was a very determined young man who wanted more than anything else in the world to become a test pilot."

After graduating from Purdue, Grissom needed a job, and fast, he said, "because I didn't want Betty spending any more of her life at a switchboard. She had made my degree possible." He decided to rejoin the armed services and became an air cadet at Randolph Air Force Base in Texas. After completing his basic training, he moved on to Williams Air Force Base in Arizona, where his wife and six-month-old son, Scott, joined him and his $105 monthly salary. "By that time I'm sure she must have felt that flying equaled poverty," Grissom said of his wife. In March 1951 Grissom received his commission as a second lieutenant in the Air Force and saw his pay skyrocket to $400 a month; they were "practically millionaires!" he joked. Just nine months later Grissom received orders for Korea where he joined the 334th Fighter-Interceptor Squadron at Kimpo Air Force Base, just twelve miles from the front lines. Here the Hoosier flier experienced firsthand the fighter-jock ethos explored so well by Wolfe in The Right Stuff. While riding a bus to his awaiting F-86 fighter jet, which he had named Scotty after his firstborn son, Grissom discovered that those pilots who had not been shot at by an opposition North Korean MIG had to stand for the trip to the airfield. The next morning Grissom sat on the bus. He had learned, as Wolfe noted, that the "main thing was not to be left behind."

In the approximately six months that he was in Korea, Grissom flew more than one hundred combat missions and received the Distinguished Flying Cross for his actions on 23 March 1952 as he flew cover in his F-86 for a photoreconnaissance mission. Even after flying his one hundredth mission, which meant a ticket back to the States, Grissom wanted more, requesting to fly twenty-five more missions. "If you were a shoe salesman," he explained, "you'd want to be where you could sell shoes." With his request denied by the Air Force, he returned home as an instructor, an assignment that Grissom considered the most dangerous in his career. "I know what I'm going to do when I'm up there, all the time," he noted, "but I don't know what that student is going to do."

In August 1955 Grissom took a vital step toward becoming a test pilot, and consequently an astronaut, when he enrolled at the Institute of Technology at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio, where he met and became friends with Gordon Cooper, another future space explorer. Both also attended test-pilot school at Edwards Air Force Base in California. Completing his test-pilot training, Grissom was assigned by the Air Force to return to Wright-Patterson. He was still at the Dayton facility testing aircraft like the F-104 Starfighter on 4 October 1957, when the Soviet Union shocked the world by announcing it had successfully launched the first satellite, Sputnik, into space. The 184-pound satellite, the size of a basketball, could be heard by American tracking stations as it circled the globe making its "beep-beep" sound. The space race had begun.

After a few false starts (early rockets had the disconcerting habit of blowing up), scientists managed to put the first American satellite, Explorer 1, into orbit nearly four months after the Russians' space success. As the public and politicians clamored for action, the United States initiated in 1958 its first man-in-space program, Project Mercury. President Dwight Eisenhower decided that the astronauts for the space program should come from the ranks of military-service test pilots, and the National Aeronautics and Space Administration asked the services to list their members who met specific qualifications. A candidate for the space program had to be under forty years old, be less than five feet, eleven inches tall, hold a bachelor's degree or equivalent in engineering, be a qualified jet pilot, be a graduate of test-pilot school, and have at least fifteen hundred hours of flying time. Approximately five hundred candidates qualified; one hundred and ten survived the initial screening process.

One of the pilots called to Washington, D.C., at the beginning of February 1959 to be evaluated as a possible astronaut was Grissom, who received the top secret news from the adjutant at Wright-Patterson, who asked him, "Gus, what kind of hell have you been raising lately?" A confused Grissom expressed puzzlement over the question and learned that he had received orders to report to Washington wearing civilian, not military, attire. Before he left home, Grissom's wife, thinking of the wildest possibility, prophetically asked him: "What are they going to do? Shoot you up in the nose cone of an Atlas [rocket]?" Reporting to the nation's capital--he felt like he had "wandered right into the middle of a James Bond novel"--Grissom was ushered into a large reception room filled with men who were, he discovered after a brief time talking with them, fellow test pilots. From this group, a total of thirty-nine men, Grissom included, were sent to Lovelace Clinic in Albuquerque, New Mexico, to be probed and prodded by scientists. They later underwent pressure-suit tests, heat tests, acceleration tests, and vibration tests at the Aeromedical Laboratory of the Wright Air Development Center in Ohio.

From this torturous process NASA picked seven to serve as Project Mercury astronauts and presented them to the public in April 1959. The American astronauts were, from the Marines, John Glenn; from the Navy, Walter Schirra, Alan Shepard, and Malcolm Scott Carpenter; and from the Air Force, Donald "Deke" Slayton, Gordon Cooper, and Grissom. The Hoosier flier had almost missed out on the historic designation when doctors during their wide-ranging tests discovered that Grissom suffered from hay fever. His pointed reply--"there won't be any ragweed pollen in space"--saved him from being dropped from consideration.