Posted 10:26 am Friday, February 01, 2013
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COLUMBIA: The crew of the space shuttle remains in East Texans' memories
TylerPaper.com video
By DAVE BERRY
dvberry@tylerpaper.com
When the Space Shuttle Columbia disintegrated 35 miles overhead that Saturday morning, rattling our house, my wife rushed in to say something had exploded. Eerie howls of a family of coyotes, usually quiet that early, were replaced by barking neighborhood dogs as an unsettling crackling noise faded away. No smoke appeared on the horizon, just a dirty streak across the southern sky.
dvberry@tylerpaper.com
When the Space Shuttle Columbia disintegrated 35 miles overhead that Saturday morning, rattling our house, my wife rushed in to say something had exploded. Eerie howls of a family of coyotes, usually quiet that early, were replaced by barking neighborhood dogs as an unsettling crackling noise faded away. No smoke appeared on the horizon, just a dirty streak across the southern sky.
CNN was reporting NASA had lost contact with the shuttle. In minutes, they announced that Columbia was overdue and “could not possibly be flying.” We knew the worst had happened.
Editors don't have the luxury of watching and grieving. Within minutes, a dozen calls were made or fielded. Assignments Editor Danny Mogle was rounding up journalists and heading them to the office. Most were already on the way.
Photographer Herb Nygren Jr. and reporter Jacque Hilburn monitored the scanner. Chief Photographer David Branch turned his car around and headed back to East Texas. Senior Editor Richard Loomis, manning his usual Saturday spot in the newsroom, fielded reports of debris falling in Nacogdoches and dispatched people that way. The Web team posted information online as it came in. Executive Editor Jim Giametta was assured everyone was coming together and working the story. And Advertising Director Art McClelland worked to open up space in the Sunday paper.
By 9:30 a.m., the newsroom was full of people, and others already were headed south. All of us would be there another 14 hours through two press runs.
After an impromptu news meeting, huddled in a circle in the sports department, an initial list of eight assignments was expanded to 13. That would grow. Five reporters and two photographers were dispatched to Nacogdoches, Jacksonville and Rusk. Others manned phones and chased leads in Tyler.
One of many calls that came in was from a Tyler doctor, Dr. Scott Lieberman, who said he had captured the explosion on his camera from his back yard in far south Tyler. Richard urged him to bring his images to us, and he headed downtown.
We huddled over our options to expand an already hefty Sunday paper and decided to add six pages, giving readers as much information as possible in a six-page special news supplement that would be printed early, and using normal deadlines to deliver late-breaking developments on Page One.
Dr. Scott Lieberman arrived with the images in his camera. Almost immediately our chief photographer returned from the photo lab, saying, “You're not going to believe this. This guy's captured the moment of the explosion. ... And his stuff is good.” David's excitement spoke even louder than his words.
The doctor, a cardiologist who studied stars when not gazing into chest cavities, remained calm, but grew more excited as he monitored our reactions. I told him he had captured some great, historic photos, then asked him directly, “Are you offering these to us?” Yes, he said, the paper had been good to him, and he wanted us to have them. Then, with a Cheshire cat grin, he said, “Of course, I would love to be on the cover of Time, and I was hoping you could help me with that.”
After an impromptu news meeting, huddled in a circle in the sports department, an initial list of eight assignments was expanded to 13. That would grow. Five reporters and two photographers were dispatched to Nacogdoches, Jacksonville and Rusk. Others manned phones and chased leads in Tyler.
One of many calls that came in was from a Tyler doctor, Dr. Scott Lieberman, who said he had captured the explosion on his camera from his back yard in far south Tyler. Richard urged him to bring his images to us, and he headed downtown.
We huddled over our options to expand an already hefty Sunday paper and decided to add six pages, giving readers as much information as possible in a six-page special news supplement that would be printed early, and using normal deadlines to deliver late-breaking developments on Page One.
Dr. Scott Lieberman arrived with the images in his camera. Almost immediately our chief photographer returned from the photo lab, saying, “You're not going to believe this. This guy's captured the moment of the explosion. ... And his stuff is good.” David's excitement spoke even louder than his words.
The doctor, a cardiologist who studied stars when not gazing into chest cavities, remained calm, but grew more excited as he monitored our reactions. I told him he had captured some great, historic photos, then asked him directly, “Are you offering these to us?” Yes, he said, the paper had been good to him, and he wanted us to have them. Then, with a Cheshire cat grin, he said, “Of course, I would love to be on the cover of Time, and I was hoping you could help me with that.”
I suggested we call the Associated Press, with its ability to put his photo onto hundreds of front pages ... and maybe even on the cover of Time. Then, after I assured him we wanted his shots, the executive editor took over the negotiations and called AP in Dallas, which sent a photographer racing to Tyler. As the good doctor would say — the rest is history.
By then, it was noon. The BBC in London called to interview me about how our paper was covering the story. They liked it, but I don't recall much of what I said.
When the Lieberman photos hit the wire, the phones started ringing with people wanting to short-circuit the deal he had cut with the wire service. AP member newspapers could use it as part of their agreement, and hundreds did ... all around the world. But I fielded calls from Newsweek, People, Time, photo marketing agencies and a wayward news director from an Oklahoma City TV station. I forwarded them to Jim and Dr. Lieberman during their negotiations, then on to the AP after the deal was struck.
Soon, by 3:30 p.m., our own photos and local stories started pouring in. During our news budget meeting, we determined the play and placement of every story, looked over photo possibilities and talked about headlines. Everyone put their heads down and worked toward that first deadline, and the 8:30 p.m. early run started on time. “Disaster in the Sky: A Nation Mourns” was the headline over a huge photo of debris raining from the sky and photos of the seven astronauts who lost their lives.
We continued editing copy, building and proofing pages until all our deadlines were met, then waited for the pressroom crew to do their work and crank up that big press. It rolled around midnight.
After plotting the next day's staffing and coverage, most of us drifted toward home. Few could sleep, caught up in the story, watching TV news reports until hours later.
Sunday was another long day. Monday and Tuesday were more normal but extremely busy. On Monday, our photographer stumbled across debris in the woods near Hemphill that turned out to be the shuttle's nose cone. Tuesday, he discovered a New York FBI dive team on the shore of an East Texas lake while journalists from around the world took tours of the nose cone debris he had shot the day before.
By then, it was noon. The BBC in London called to interview me about how our paper was covering the story. They liked it, but I don't recall much of what I said.
When the Lieberman photos hit the wire, the phones started ringing with people wanting to short-circuit the deal he had cut with the wire service. AP member newspapers could use it as part of their agreement, and hundreds did ... all around the world. But I fielded calls from Newsweek, People, Time, photo marketing agencies and a wayward news director from an Oklahoma City TV station. I forwarded them to Jim and Dr. Lieberman during their negotiations, then on to the AP after the deal was struck.
Soon, by 3:30 p.m., our own photos and local stories started pouring in. During our news budget meeting, we determined the play and placement of every story, looked over photo possibilities and talked about headlines. Everyone put their heads down and worked toward that first deadline, and the 8:30 p.m. early run started on time. “Disaster in the Sky: A Nation Mourns” was the headline over a huge photo of debris raining from the sky and photos of the seven astronauts who lost their lives.
We continued editing copy, building and proofing pages until all our deadlines were met, then waited for the pressroom crew to do their work and crank up that big press. It rolled around midnight.
After plotting the next day's staffing and coverage, most of us drifted toward home. Few could sleep, caught up in the story, watching TV news reports until hours later.
Sunday was another long day. Monday and Tuesday were more normal but extremely busy. On Monday, our photographer stumbled across debris in the woods near Hemphill that turned out to be the shuttle's nose cone. Tuesday, he discovered a New York FBI dive team on the shore of an East Texas lake while journalists from around the world took tours of the nose cone debris he had shot the day before.
At the end of that first long day, reporter Jacque Hilburn, who wrote the main front page story, stood in the pressroom, too excited to go home, waiting to snag one of the first good copies. “This is the part I love,” she said. And I smiled, knowing what she meant. But I knew the adrenaline would wear off and the story she had chased so avidly all day would soon become all too real and reduce us both to tears. For me, reality hit on the third day.
Some who don't understand journalists might call us callous or uncaring. Actually, we care deeply.
Many tears were shed in and around that newsroom. But when news is breaking, journalists just have to move and keep moving. You might allow yourself a few seconds or minutes of numbed silence while you absorb the enormity of the tragedy. I saw it when Delta Flight 191 crashed at DFW in 1985, when the space shuttle Challenger exploded on takeoff in 1986, when the Branch Davidian compound burned in 1993, and when the Towers fell in 2001. But you put that aside until later; your immediate job is to tell the story.
The story of space shuttle Columbia's fiery plunge into the forests and fields of East Texas is now part of history. What we wrote and photographed in 2003 is part of that larger sad saga. And filling those chapters are personal stories of heroes and heroines, honor and courage, grief and generosity, pathos and perseverance. I will forever be proud of how East Texans, including our news staff, responded.
Coming home that first night, as I followed a lonely rural road to my house in the country, three tiny pieces of white foam brushed past my windshield. I don't know if it was from the shuttle or just flakes from a crushed Dixie cup blown by the wind, but when I pulled into my drive, I stood for a long while looking up at the dark sky. It seemed much emptier than usual.
Some who don't understand journalists might call us callous or uncaring. Actually, we care deeply.
Many tears were shed in and around that newsroom. But when news is breaking, journalists just have to move and keep moving. You might allow yourself a few seconds or minutes of numbed silence while you absorb the enormity of the tragedy. I saw it when Delta Flight 191 crashed at DFW in 1985, when the space shuttle Challenger exploded on takeoff in 1986, when the Branch Davidian compound burned in 1993, and when the Towers fell in 2001. But you put that aside until later; your immediate job is to tell the story.
The story of space shuttle Columbia's fiery plunge into the forests and fields of East Texas is now part of history. What we wrote and photographed in 2003 is part of that larger sad saga. And filling those chapters are personal stories of heroes and heroines, honor and courage, grief and generosity, pathos and perseverance. I will forever be proud of how East Texans, including our news staff, responded.
Coming home that first night, as I followed a lonely rural road to my house in the country, three tiny pieces of white foam brushed past my windshield. I don't know if it was from the shuttle or just flakes from a crushed Dixie cup blown by the wind, but when I pulled into my drive, I stood for a long while looking up at the dark sky. It seemed much emptier than usual.
