Prior to actually leaving the ground, the pre-flight sequence for the launch of the second mission to the moon had been a routine one. The crew; Commander Pete Conrad (third space flight), Command Module Pilot Dick Gordon (second space flight) and Lunar Module Pilot Alan Bean (first space flight) were strapped into their couches, and the clock was ticking down. It was November 14th, 1969, and just a few short months since Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin had made the first manned landing.

The crew of Apollo 12: Conrad, Gordon and Bean

Apollo 12 was the fifth launch of the Saturn V launch vehicle, the behemoth of a rocket that provided enough upward thrust to launch a spacecraft toward the moon. So far, so good – the launches had been fairly standard, with no major problems or issues. There was no reason, technically, to assume Apollo 12 would be any different.

Apart from one, small problem: the weather. It had been poor all day, and it was getting worse. To the modern space enthusiast, the idea of attempting to launch in a thunderstorm is a bizarre idea – but (and in no small part due to what happened on that November afternoon) in the days of Apollo, bad weather wasn’t considered to be too much of an issue. Unfortunately, Mother Nature had a lesson in mind for NASA.

Apollo 12 enjoyed a blissful launch… for 36 seconds. As the Saturn V did its work, Mother Nature made her point; lightning struck the spacecraft, and followed the exhaust plume right down to the ground to the tower.

Issues sprang up instantly. Commander Conrad would later reflect that so many alarms and warnings popped before his eyes that he didn’t even have time to properly read them all. The first sign of trouble from the astronauts came from Conrad himself, who snapped: “what the hell was that?”

That was a serious problem. The electrical charge from the lightning had knocked all three of the fuel cells offline, taking with them much of the command module platform. The fuel cells, so essential to powering the ship, were considered the lifeblood of a mission. You couldn’t land on the moon if all three cells weren’t functioning correctly; here Apollo 12 were, only 30 odd seconds into their flight, and they’d lost all three. Conrad, sounding rattled, radioed Houston as he tried to make sense of the alarms: “We”ve just lost the platform, gang.”

At that point, the only thing Apollo 12 had going for it was that the Saturn V electrical system had been unaffected – the rocket continued to power them upwards. Mother Nature, obviously convinced that NASA had not given her due respect, decided to have another pop. A second bolt of lightning struck the spacecraft 52 seconds after lift off. This knocked out the attitude indicator, one of the main guidance systems. Apollo 12 was showing a power failure, and it didn’t know where it was in the sky.

The batteries, designed for just such a scenario (though perhaps not for lightning being the cause), kicked in – but they were nowhere near powerful enough. The power supply problems continued, with more lights dancing before the three astronauts’ eyes. All the while, the unaffected Saturn V continued to power Apollo 12 through the sky. Conrad, as Commander, had his hand on the abort handle – wondering if he would need it. If the Saturn V powered them to a certain height, an abort wouldn’t be possible – something needed to be done, soon.

Unfortunately, the astronauts’ were flummoxed – and so was almost everyone in Mission Control. Such a scenario, such a huge loss of failure and resultant malfunctions, had never been dealt with before – it hadn’t even been trained before. Something so extreme would have been dismissed as “negative training”; astronauts’ should only be taught the things they could fix. A failure like this… there would be no fix. It was an abort, or worse.

However, almost everyone in Mission Control didn’t know what to do. But someone did. EECOM John Aaron was at the launch in Mission Control, and as he stared at the jumbled data on his screen he realised he’d seen it before. In an earlier test, the exact same data had appeared during a test of the command module Signal Conditioning Equipment – or SCE, as it was better known. Aaron remembered how it had been fixed, and he duly radioed the command to the Flight Director, Jerry Griffin: “Flight, have them try SCE to aux”. In the test situation, this command had rectified the problem and brought back the data.

Yet it was a bizarre command. Jerry Griffin, nor numerous other members of Mission Control, had never heard of it. Neither had Pete Conrad, astronaut extraordinare; when the command came through, he repeated back: “F-C-E to Aux?”. Next to him, in the centre couch, Command Module Pilot Dick Gordon was equally non-plussed. They had the fix, but what to do? What the hell was FCE anyway?

Conrad and Gordon were stars of the astronaut programme. They’d flown together on Gemini 11, and for years before as Naval aviators. They were best of friends, and Conrad was responsible for Gordon ever applying to be an astronaut. Both were highly skilled and highly capable, and they held the two most senior positions on an astronaut crew.

Making up the crew was Al Bean. Bean was a rookie; he’d been back up Commander of Gemini 10, but as yet had not flown in space. If it wasn’t for C.C. Williams’ death when a T38 he was flying spiralled out of control, Bean wouldn’t have been on the Apollo 12 crew. It was Conrad, who had taught Bean during his days as a Naval instructor, who requested Bean be the one to replace Williams. When one reads a description of Al Bean, two things are usually mentioned: his deep-South drawl, and his meticulous attention to detail.

While the vastly more experienced astronauts’ next to him confused F with S, Bean was remembering something: he too had been part of an earlier test, and he’d been required to do the exact command that would now save the day. He knew what SCE to AUX was, and he knew how to do it. With a flick of a switch, the rookie saved the day: the data cleared, the platform stabalised, and Pete Conrad could loosen his grip on the abort handle.

Alan Bean nowadays.

The crew would have navigational and guidance work to do when in orbit, but the point was they could now reach orbit – and the moon. While John Aaron sat back and contemplated his new place in engineering folklore (which would be confirmed all the more on Apollo 13, where he was also key), Al Bean and crewmates suddenly realised how serious the situation had been – and started laughing. Conrad, slightly giddy with relief, declared to Mission Control: “that was a hell of a sim [simulation] you just gave us!”

Apollo 12 lifts off... straight into trouble.