Colonel Wonderful

Every so often a nation produces a genuine hero, raised above the multitude by acts of valor or virtue in times of war, crisis or national frustration. He may come from any walk of life, so long as he fills the nation's need to elevate its vision and swell its pride. From Washington to Sergeant York, from Lindbergh to MacArthur, the U.S. has had its share of heroes. But few have encountered the universal approval and adulation that last week engulfed Astronaut John Glenn.

In the course of his hectic homecoming, Glenn rubbed shoulders with the President, had the Vice President for his constant companion, addressed a joint meeting of Congress, was feted by the United Nations (even habitually dour Russian Ambassador Valerian Zorin congratulated him warmly), and cheerfully endured the affection of celebrities who swarmed around him. But the surest measure of Glenn's apotheosis from man to hero could be found in the millions of Americans who endured chilly rain or crystalline cold to catch a glimpse of him as he rode by--or watched his progress on TV almost as eagerly as they had followed his flight through space. The U.S. would have showered its gratitude on any man who put the U.S. back in the space race; the surprise was that it found Glenn the man fully the equal of Glenn the astronaut.

Babies & Memorials. Glenn's modesty, his cool performances, his dignity, his witticisms, his simplicity--all caught the national imagination. Newborn babies were named for Glenn in dozens of U.S. cities (one unfortunate boy in Ogden, Utah, was christened "Orbit"). Senator Alexander Wiley proposed a memorial to Glenn and his fellow astronauts in Washington, and Florida's George Smathers suggested another on Cape Canaveral. In Utah a move was under way to add another n to the half-completed Glen Canyon Dam. Glenn's space capsule, Friendship 7, was consigned to the Smithsonian Institution, to rest in hallowed glory beside the Wright Brothers' Kitty Hawk biplane, Lindbergh's Spirit of St. Louis and Wiley Post's Winnie Mae.

From his reception at the White House through the rain-soaked ride up Pennsylvania Avenue, Glenn acted as though he had been in the limelight all his life. He flashed a grin reminiscent of Eisenhower's, turned his head in every direction for the crowds like a campaigning Kennedy. Perched on the back seat of the President's bubble-top Lincoln, he ignored the dismal drizzle, kept a protective left arm around his radiant wife Annie, and occasionally thrust out his other arm to shake the hand of daring youngsters who darted through the police lines to his side. Teenagers seemed especially fervent in their hero worship, and the girls punctuated his progress with squeals of "Go, John, go!" and "Dig that tan!"

Unabashed Patriotism. On Capitol Hill, Glenn easily wowed the assembled Congress, the Supreme Court (which was too busy to attend the President's State of the Union address in January), the Cabinet, the military brass and the diplomatic corps. He spoke to the solemn, jam-packed meeting as naturally and matter-of-factly as if he were the star quarterback explaining Saturday's big victory to school and alumni. His unabashed patriotism went right to the hearts of the dignitaries: "I'm certainly glad to see that pride in our country and its accomplishments is not a thing of the past. I still get a real hard-to-define feeling when the flag goes by." Glenn's attractive family provided him with strong photogenic support. When they appeared in the gallery, the Glenns were rousingly cheered. Annie Glenn, a standout even in the comely line-up of astronauts' wives, sat in Jackie Kennedy's aisle seat. Pointing from the rostrum, Glenn introduced her as "the real rock in our family."

Then there were the banquets and luncheons, inevitable ceremonies in the life of a hero. Glenn amiably permitted fawning legislators to drape themselves around his shoulder when the photographers were near. He scrawled endless autographs, listened patiently to such adoring testimonials as that of Mississippi's Senator John Stennis: "You personify Americanism--all that's good about America-- in contrast so remarkably with all the bad things we hear so much about." He trotted dutifully around to congressional hearing rooms and soberly answered inane questions. The Senators seemed more interested in Glenn himself than in Project Mercury, but Glenn got in his plugs for the space program--and reiterated its perils: "Not every flight can come back as successfully as the three we have had so far. We will have failures, we will have sacrifices." His homely yet vivid descriptions intrigued the Senators: his encounter with the mysterious, luminous particles in space, Glenn said, "was just as if you'd looked out across a pasture on a real dark night and saw a bunch of fireflies."

No Praying in Orbit. The impact of John Glenn's personality produced a reaction, with an all-but-audible click, in the minds of politicians and political connoisseurs: he was a campaign manager's dream, and could, if he chose, aspire to almost any public office on the horizon. In his New York Times column, Arthur Krock soberly measured Glenn's political potential, and in North Las Vegas and other communities, Glenn-for-President boomlets were started. But in Washington, Glenn announced that he had no interest in politics, and did not even belong to a party. "I have no political aspirations," he said with a grin, "none whatsoever."* The Senators were relieved.

When Alexander Wiley asked him about his "thoughts on your faith," Glenn might easily have faltered, or given an embarrassed or fatuous reply, but his forthright answer won an ovation from the audience. "I can't say that while in orbit you sit there and pray," he said. "It's a very busy time . . . My religion is not a fire-engine type of religion--not one to be called on in emergency and then put God back in the woodwork. My peace has been made with my maker for a number of years, so I had no particular worries on that line."

After Washington came New York, eager to top the capital's welcome. Glenn himself was awed by the tumultuous Broadway parade as his motorcade inched through 4,000,000 roaring, swarming New Yorkers in a blizzard of ticker tape--3,474 tons of paper that buried Douglas MacArthur's 1951 record downfall of 3,249 tons. There was the inescapable luncheon at the Waldorf with hours of zephyrous speeches, and at the U.N. Glenn and his fellow astronauts chatted with the diplomats over champagne. Between the official rounds, the Glenn family shed their shoes in their Waldorf suite (to minimize the static electricity) and assembled at the blast of a trumpet--the gift of Manhattan's musicians--playfully tooted by father John. For relaxation they spent successive evenings at the theater, at How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying and at Camelot. Glenn's sense of humor flashed when he met Sir Harry Howard, Lord Mayor of Perth, Australia, the city that had turned on all its lights as Glenn orbited overhead. Quipped Glenn: "I was a little bit worried when I saw the Lord Mayor show up. I was afraid he might have brought the light bill with him."

From space to Perth to Manhattan to New Concord, Ohio, is a long way, but finally, John Glenn came home. And all along the way--in New Jersey at Newark Airport; in Zanesville, Ohio, where 4,000 turned out along the newly renamed John Glenn Highway; and at last in his home town, New Concord--the smiling astronaut was acclaimed by roaring crowds, warm praise, blaring bands, flapping bunting, and all the affection the entire nation once in a blue moon showers on a new Public Hero No. 1.

*In heavily Republican New Concord, Ohio, Glenn's parents are solidly Democratic.

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