[I forgot to add "RETRO" to the title. All events are from 1950-52.]

Wernher von Braun

Memphis, Tennessee

April 18, 1950

“So, Wernher, this marks the second time I’ve crossed the mighty Mississippi with you.”

Wernher said nothing as he watched the trusses of the great Memphis and Arkansas Bridge fly by. The mid-afternoon sun flickered behind the wide steel beams, casting dazzling rays across the Packard Clipper’s dash. Some peppy new song played on the radio, singing about cakes and bands. Wernher couldn’t decide if it was catchy or just annoying. Maj. James Hamill, the car’s driver and Wernher’s supervisor, kept talking in his cheery southern drawl.

“At least they finished the bridge this time. I was worried we’d have to take that old rusty one again. Never felt safe driving on that old thing.”

“Mhmm,” responded Wernher. During the past few years at Fort Bliss, Maj. Hamill had been an annoying presence in Wernher’s work. Where he had commanded the respect of hundreds of German scientists and soldiers at Peenemünde, the Americans shoved on him a pimply-faced Major who’d spent the war years playing with the scraps of Wernher’s great work. Hamill seemed more passionate about his country than his scientific work, which probably explained why he’d never gone past his undergraduate engineering degree. Nonetheless, Wernher had developed a fondness for the man, finding his enthusiasm and talkativeness less annoying and more endearing as the years passed by.

“You know,” continued Maj. Hamill, “I think you’ll like this new site a lot more than El Paso. I hear Huntsville has the prettiest Southern Belles, and even a few cabarets.”

Finally Wernher spoke up. “I’m a happily-vedded man, Jim,” he said in his thick German accent. Maj. Hamill laughed.

“Don’t play dumb, Wernher, I heard what you got up to at Peenemünde. From what the POWs said, you knew the local ladies very well.” After a few moments of silence, Hamill returned to the subject of their destination, “Anyways, all I’m saying is that Huntsville’s a nice place. This ‘Redstone’ Base is supposed to be state of the art, with all the bells and whistles to produce the highest-quality research for Hermes.”

“I fail to see how vistles or bells vill send rockets into space more efficiently.” Wernher replied, intentionally making his German accent more pronounced and monotonous. An awkward silence followed, as Jim struggled to answer.

“Well, I- uh…” Jim muttered as he stared ahead at the road, searching for some way to answer his passenger. After a few more seconds of anxious tension, Wernher finally decided he’d left the man out to dry long enough.

“I am just kidding, Jim,” Wernher answered with a good-hearted chuckle. ‘Lighten up,’ is that not vhat you say? I think I understand your American humor better than you do some days.”

Maj. Hamill’s face brightened as he realized Wernher was just pulling his leg. He wagged a lecturing finger at the scientist, a smile spreading across his face.

“Y’know, Wernher, I think you’re becoming more American every day.”

Wernher von Braun

Redstone Arsenal, Huntsville, Alabama

January 25, 1951

A brisk winter wind scoured the tarmac at Redstone Army Airfield, where Wernher von Bruan, Col. Carroll Hudson, Maj. James Hamill, and various officers, aides, and engineers were gathered to greet the passengers of a chrome-liveried Lockheed P-121 Constellation. As the plane taxied to the gate where the Redstone officials stood waiting, Wernher shielded his eyes from the glare of the winter sun reflecting off of the plane’s shiny metallic body. Through squinted eyes, he could see “UNITED STATES ARMY” printed in large, block letters on the fuselage. The plane came to a stop, and gradually shut off its engines. As the motors winded down, mechanics swarmed the vehicle and Col. Hudson led the gathering to the extending stairs. Down the walkway came a procession of civilian and military personnel of the Department of the Army, led by a tall, somewhat gaunt man wearing a blue suit. Col. Hudson and the other officers dutifully saluted the senior officers and government personnel.

“At ease, men,” said the tall man in a pronounced Southern accent. The officers dropped their salutes. “Colonel Hudson, you look well.”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary. Feeling well, if I might add.”

The Secretary nodded, then looked to Wernher. “This must be Mr. Von Braun, eh?”

Wernher coughed, “Ahem, yes, Mr. Secretary. It is a pleasure to meet you.” Wernher extended his hand, and the Secretary of the Army shook it.

“Frank Pace, and the pleasure’s mine. I hear you’re quite the missile man.”

Wernher forced a blush off his face. “The Army told me to make rockets. It’s vhat I do.”

Sec. Pace chuckled, the patted him on the shoulder. “Lets get inside,” he said, gesturing to the waiting Chryslers, “we can talk about your rockets once we’re out of the cold. Never knew Alabama got this chilly.”

“So, gentlemen,” said Wernher, in a voice high-pitched with nervousness, “as I submitted in my October report to the Chief of Ordnance, it is my firm belief that any missile of this capability must be outfitted vith multiple stages, and multiple engines per stage. Anything less vould limit range, payload, and strike speed.”

At the other end of the long conference-room table sat Sec. Pace, surrounded by his attachés. He steepled his fingers while he listened to Wernher. When Wernher finished his presentation, Pace leaned forward, appearing to think over something. After a few silent moments, the Secretary leaned back.

“Mr. Von Braun, thank you for your report. I read over the comments given by the Chief of Ordnance, and I agree with him. Your rocket design is sound, and your expertise is second to none, but the Army cannot authorize such a complex missile without interim models.” Wernher’s heart sank, but Pace continued. “However, I think that it is in this Department’s best interest to approve a new study for such models, and authorize the development of flight-ready prototypes. If you can give us something better than what the Air Force is building, without complicating designs past a single-stage, single-engine platform, then we can talk about more.”

“But, Mr. Secretary, I don’t think you-” Wernher began, before Sec. Pace held up a silencing hand.

“Wernher,” said Pace in a tone both appeasing and stern. “I understand why you want such a large, complex rocket. I’m no engineer, but I can see how such a design could be your magnum opus. We just don’t have the budget to approve anything on the scale you desire. Take this as a compromise. The Army wants a ballistic missile based on your Hermes-C1 design, but one with a single engine, and a single stage. General Electric couldn’t give us the performance we wanted, and the Army stands by its decision to transfer Hermes to the Ordnance Guided Missile Center. Deliver a rocket within spec, and we can talk about next steps.”

Wernher stood speechless for a few moments, then nodded his head dutifully.

“Of course, sir. You vill have your rocket.”

After the meeting concluded, Wernher ducked out to get some fresh air. The bright winter sun felt warm against his face as he walked outside. He heard shuffling footsteps, then turned to see Maj. Hamill at his side.

“Jim, did you need something?” asked Wernher.

Jim cleared his throat, “Ahem, Wernher, I hope you didn’t take that the wrong way.”

“Wrong vay?” Wernher asked, innocently.

Jim looked nervous, “I just mean… are you all right?”

Wernher smiled, “Jim, I am more than alright. I haven’t had this much trust put into my designs in years.”

“So, you’re not upset?” Jim asked, a confused look on his face. “Even after they canned your proposal?”

“Major Hamill,” said Wernher, “There is something a teacher once told me in Zürich. ‘One problem at a time.’ My problem, right now, is getting a rocket to do what the Army vants. Getting a rocket to do what I vant, well, that’s a problem for a later time.”

“And what do you want, Wernher?” asked Jim. Wernher chuckled, and looked up into the January sky.

“That,” said the engineer, pointing at the faint white speck in the otherwise clear sky.

Wernher von Braun

Redstone Arsenal, Huntsville, Alabama

July 10, 1951

♫

Somewhere there's music

How faint the tune

Somewhere there's heaven

How high the moon

Wernher von Braun leaned against a fuel container, eating an apple, while Mary Ford crooned over Les Paul’s guitar on a nearby radio. He watched as truck after truck of materials rolled into the Redstone Arsenal. Each carried design documents, test records, and prototype parts from General Electric’s Hermes-C1 program. Now that Ordnance had taken over development, all their previous work was at Wernher’s disposal. He finished his apple, tossed it in a nearby trash can, then walked over to where Maj. Hamill was talking with one of the drivers. Jim turned to see him approaching, and waved.

“Wernher, it’s just like Christmas, ain’t it?” Hamill turned back to the driver and dismissed him. When the soldier walked away, Jim continued, “So, what do you think? This is just the first of three shipments, then next week North American’s sending their first prototype of the 75-110.”

“Good, good,” answered Wernher, eyeing the stacked crates and barrels baking under the Alabama sun. He walked over to one stack of crates that aides had begun disassembling. In the nearest one he spotted a document box stenciled “HERMES II.” Maj. Hamill walked up to see what the German was looking at.

“Ah, Hermes II,” said Jim, spotting the object of Wernher’s interest. “I was meaning to tell you, the Army’s looking at transferring it to Ordnance as well, alongside its sister project.”

“I thought ve vere rid of the damn ramjet,” Wernher said, a tinge of annoyance in his voice.

“We’re not to focus on it, research only,” said Jim placatingly. “There’s a few folks in Washington still lobbying for the study to continue, but Col. Hudson and I have told them that Ordnance won’t be putting many resources into it. Still, the ramjet’s a valuable technology for missile research.”

Wernher shook his head. “I fail to see the point of any sizable missile that has an operational ceiling.”

“Well, I suppose a ramjet won’t take us to the moon,” said Maj. Hamill, cracking a sly smile. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed those articles you keep putting in the local paper. ‘Von Braun Says Rocket Flights Possible to Moon,’ right?” He gave Wernher a knowing look.

“So you see vhy pursuing a ramjet is a vaste of time.” Wernher picked up a folder featuring GE’s technical data from their tests of the ramjet. None of it looked particularly interesting to him. “Let the ‘flyboys’ in the Air Force play vith jets. Our job is rockets.”

“Our job is to listen to our bosses,” sighed Jim.

Wernher chuckled, lifting the Hermes II box and handing it to the Major. “No, that’s yours, Jim. Mine is, and always has been, rockets.”

Wernher von Braun

The Von Braun Residence, Huntsville, Alabama

March 2, 1952

Wernher sat hunched over his home office desk, pecking away at his personal typewriter as the evening sun sank towards the horizon. Carl Smith crooned over the radio while Wernher worked away at his project. His focus was only interrupted when his daughter, Iris, ran into the office.

“Papa! Papa!” called the 3-year-old, bouncing with excitement.

“Yes, meine Maus?” asked Wernher, hiding his annoyance at being interrupted.

“Mama said-” Iris began, before Maria Luise walked into the doorway. She managed to look graceful despite her 6-month-pregnant belly.

“Mama said to not bother your vater, kleine Maus,” said Wernher’s young wife, in an even heavier German accent than the engineer. She shook her head at Iris, who looked sheepish despite her excitement.

Wernher smiled. “Ah, it’s alright. I was just wrapping up. What did you wish to say, little one?” Wernher had been working on his accent in the past year, and had managed to get his English Ws down fairly well.

Iris looked at Maria, who nodded approvingly. “Mama said I can name my sister!”

Wernher looked at Maria, who shrugged. “If it is a girl, I told her ve vould let her.”

“Well, isn’t that nice,” said Wernher, picking up Iris and setting her on his knee. “What name did you pick?”

“Margrit! I think it’s pretty,” said Iris.

Wernher chuckled, “That’s a good one.”

Maria picked up Iris from Wernher’s lap and sat her on the ground. “Iris, vhy don’t you go play in your room? Mama and Papa need to talk.”

“Okay, Mama!” said the girl, running from the office as quick as she’d come in. After her stomping footsteps faded away, Wernher looked up at Maria.

“So, what’d you want to talk about?”

“You promised me vhen ve moved to Alabama that you’d leave vork at vork,” Maria Luise said, crossing her arms.

Wernher sighed. “And I do. This isn’t work, this is my passion,” he said, waving his hands over the stacked manuscript. “Collier’s wants this handed in by Wednesday.”

“You’ve been in here for veeks,” said Maria, shaking her head.

“And this week is the last I’ll be in here, I promise,” insisted Wernher, standing from his chair.

“You better stay honest, Wernher,” said Maria, poking his chest with an accusatory finger. “Your daughters cannot grow up with an absent vater, it vould not be right.” Wernher wrapped his arms around her gently, making room for their future child. He kissed her forehead, but she pushed away. “I von’t be cowed vith a kiss, Herr von Braun.” Wernher flashed a mischievous smile in return. Maria blushed and shook her head. She turned to leave, and Wernher let her walk out before returning to his typewriter.

The stack of papers sat nearly complete, just a few more pages left before it would ready to hand to Collier’s Weekly. When his letters to the periodical came back with excited approval, Wernher had set to work immediately to supply the articles he’d offered. He'd tried to work on it while in the office at the Arsenal, but Col. Holger Toftoy, now acting director of the site, had told him to leave it to his free time. Toftoy preferred that he spend every available moment designing and building Redstone, the new name for Hermes. The Army valued Wernher’s technical work far more than the theoretical side, and he’d had to accept that time and time again. In spite of this he stuck to his passion: manned spaceflight. Armed missiles were one thing, but a man in space? That was the dream. He pulled a sketch from the pile and contemplated it for a few moments. This is what I should be building, not weapons, he thought. He eventually put it back, under the cover that read “Man Will Conquer Space Soon!” Someday, God-willing, I’ll put a man in space.

Walter Elias Disney

December 15, 1952

The Hamilton Hotel, Washington, D.C.

President-Elect Walt Disney reclined comfortably on the loveseat of his DC suite at the Hamilton Hotel, reading the the second October edition of Collier’s Weekly featuring their “Man in Space” articles. He excitedly flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning over his spectacles to savor every word on the page, while the Fantasia soundtrack played on a nearby phonograph. For as long as he could remember, Walt had dreamed of a future filled with space travel and luxurious wonders. Here on the pages before him were transcribed the theoretical means to make that dream a reality, authored by a man who shared the same vision: Wernher von Braun. Walt had eagerly followed the German engineer’s work in the periodical, until the November election took up too much of his time to allow casual reading. Now, as a lull in his transition team’s activities in Washington left him some free time in the evenings, Walt made up for lost time. Once he finished the article, he tossed the magazine on a pile with others from the past year. Without thinking, he found himself reaching for the room’s telephone, dialing a now familiar number.

"General Macarthur speaking," came the voice on the other end of the line.

"Mac, Walt Disney here."

"Walt, what in God's name are you doing? Do you have any idea what time it is?" Walt's Chief Military Advisor replied hastily, making no attempt to hide his exasperation.

"Listen, Mac, do you know anyone down in Huntsville? Army Ordnance-"

MacArthur groaned at the mention of Army Ordnance, "Aw hell. Don't tell me you're calling about that damn rifle."

"No, Mac, I'm calling about rockets." Walt made the shape of a rocket with his hands, as if patronizingly explaining the concept to a child.

MacArthur sat quiet on the line for a moment, before speaking up, "Did you say Huntsville?" MacArthur sighed, "Sure, I've got Colonel Toftoy down at Redstone. But I don't see why-"

"Mac," Walt interrupted eagerly, "there's a rocketman down there by the name of... van Brown? von Brawn? I dunno, some German something. Anyway, I need a meeting with him. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Walt do you mean later today, or...." The line fell silent for a moment before MacArthur continued, "Alright, Walt, I'll see that it's done."

Walt pumped his fist in excitement. "Excellent! Thank you Mac. Walt Disney out."

MacArthur sighed. "Goodnight, Mr. President," he said before hanging up the line.

TLDR: Wernher von Braun has begun work in Huntsville, Alabama at the Redstone Arsenal, where the US Army will now design its guided missiles. The American V-2 derivative, Hermes, has been re-christened as "Redstone," named for the Arsenal. Von Braun's team are working tirelessly to design a functioning, guided IRBM, or inter-regional ballistic missile, that will give the Army the upper hand in tactical engagements. However, Von Braun hasn't let go of his true passion: to put a man into space. Persident-Elect Walt Disney has taken a keen interest in Wernher's dream, as it is one he shares. Time will tell where this promising partnership will lead....