The earliest appearance of the patch as we think of it today can be traced back to 1861, the early days of the American Civil War. General Philip Kearny was an adventurer and more than a bit of a martinet. Nonetheless, his bravery was manifest, and his men apparently adored him. One day, when his brigade was on the march...
Advertisement[Kearny] saw some officers standing under a tree by the road-side. Supposing them to be stragglers from his command, he administered to them a rebuke, emphasized by a few expletives. The officers listened in silence, respectfully standing in the “position of a soldier,” until he had finished, when one of them, raising his hand to his cap, quietly suggested that the general had possibly made a mistake, as they none of them belonged to his command. With his usual courtesy Kearny exclaimed: “Pardon me; I will take steps to know how to recognize my own men hereafter.” Immediately on reaching camp, he issued orders that all officers and men of his brigade should wear conspicuously on the front of their caps a round piece of red cloth, to designate them. This became generally known as the “Kearny patch.”
—E. D. Townsend, Anecdotes of the Civil War in the United States
The Kearny Patch was soon adopted well beyond Kearny’s
command. To distinguish among the various corps, at first different
shapes were used: a clover, a diamond, a triangle. As use spread,
more elaborate shapes were invented: a six-pointed star, a Greek cross,
a Maltese cross, a crescent, a crescent encircling a star, and many
other increasingly esoteric shapes. By 1864, images were added to
the shapes, so for example the Ninth Corps badge was in the shape of
a shield, “with the figure 9 in the center, crossed with a foul
anchor and cannon”; and the Fifteenth Corps sported a diamond which
contained the image of “a miniature cartridge-box ... [with] the
motto FORTY ROUNDS.”
By the end of the war in 1865, the unit patch was well established. Indeed, it had evolved from a mere identifying device to a symbol of spirit and camaraderie; and for units that had distinguished themselves meritoriously, a symbol of pride. Within the Army, regulations were created and resolutions passed that these patches should not be worn by anyone who did not earn them by right of service, and that anyone dishonorably discharged would “forfeit the right to wear such a badge.”
Almost exactly one hundred years after General Philip Kearny berated a group of idling Army officers, Navy Commander Alan B. Shepard was launched into space atop a modified Army Redstone Missile. On his silvery Mercury spacesuit, he was wearing a descendent of the patch Kearny had invented, a 3-inch circle of navy-blue cloth that identified the unit he belonged to: NASA.
The NASA logo was entirely appropriate, and in keeping with tradition. Even though NASA was a civilian organization, all the astronauts were recruited from the military, so military traditions tended to prevail.
Another tradition — this one from the world of aviation — that translated pretty well into the Mercury program was the pilot’s practice of naming their vehicle. Spirit of St. Louis and Glamorous Glennis are the examples that spring to mind. So it is entirely understandable that, in Alan Shepard’s words, “It never occurred to me not to name the capsule.” Once Shepard started it, all the Mercury astronauts followed suit. It was a way to “personalize” their flight, making it uniquely their own. This wasn’t particularly problematic for the Mercury flights, as the names chosen by the astronauts tended to be patriotically inspirational (Freedom, Friendship, Faith), or at worst obscure and inoffensive (Sigma, Aurora).
Not so with Gemini... Gus Grissom was named commander of the two-man crew for the first Gemini flight. On Grissom’s Mercury mission, shortly after splashdown the hatch of his Mercury capsule had spontaneously blown off, and he quickly scrambled out before the spacecraft sank into the Atlantic. Pricked by the controversy over the sinking of his capsule, Grissom decided to have a bit of fun and declared that he was naming his Gemini 3 spacecraft “Molly Brown” — a clear reference to the Broadway hit show The Unsinkable Molly Brown. James Webb, head of NASA and a long-time Washington insider, was fully cognizant of how the slightest gaffe, the merest imperfection, even something as seemingly innocuous as a bit of levity could, in the hands of an adversarial reporter or an unfriendly politician, be blown out of proportion and used as a cudgel to derail the most virtuous of government endeavors. And so the word came down from NASA headquarters: forget the names.
The seven “original” astronauts chosen to pilot the Mercury flights were generally regarded as heroes, and as such they were accorded some leeway. The next Gemini crew (McDivitt and White) were not Mercury veterans, and so had neither the clout to buck NASA management, nor the temerity to attempt it. So despite a somewhat half-hearted attempt to name their capsule “American Eagle,” nothing came of it. They settled for adding an American flag to the arm of their suits — an idea which succeeded beautifully, as all those lovely photos of Ed White floating in space clearly showed the stars and stripes. That turned into a boon for promoting American exceptionalism. In later years McDivitt would claim that “the American flag was our patch” — but that is absurd on its face, not least because every American spacesuit since then has borne an American flag.
Next Gordon Cooper was named as command pilot for Gemini 5. As one
of the original seven Mercury pilots, Cooper didn’t seem
to believe that rules applied to him, so he declared he was going to
name his capsule “Lady Bird.” That was
unceremoniously vetoed. Cooper fumed, and commiserated with his
co-pilot, Pete Conrad. Conrad later proved to be a most able and
inspirational leader, and he surely had the qualities that made him
so even then. Of the pair, he was likely the one who came up with the
idea of a patch to “personalize” their flight.
Not to replace the NASA emblem, but to be worn in
addition to it. Cooper embraced the concept, and between the
two of them they conceived the image of a covered wagon — a
visual that conjured up the
rugged pioneers who settled the American west — with an updated
version of the aspiring slogan “California or Bust.”
Theirs would proclaim “8 Days or Bust,” in recognition
of the primary objective of their flight.
Not to be stymied again, the crew didn’t dare to take anyone at NASA into their confidence, and instead arranged for someone at Gemini spacecraft builder McDonnell Aircraft to have their art department draft the artwork for the patch. Then they (or possibly someone at McDonnell) had a “handful” of embroidered patches made. Having progressed this far in their scheme, they then came to a realization — they had to tell someone at NASA of their plan, otherwise how would they get the patches onto their spacesuits? Suit technicians were responsible for the suits, and the astronauts weren’t about to ask them to risk their jobs by making unauthorized modifications. Seeking approval would mean that word of their plot would inevitably filter up to headquarters and the patches would surely be vetoed. Clearly, Cooper and Conrad would simply have to take the bull by the horns.
It had become a pre-flight tradition for Administrator Webb to fly to Houston and have a dinner with each flight crew at MSC Director Robert Gilruth’s home prior to their launch. This would be the last opportunity for the crew to get approval. As commander (and as one of the favored “original seven”) Cooper broached the topic with Webb that night. With more passion than delicacy, Cooper apparently made a case that the astronauts had been wronged, stymied in their attempts to put their unique mark on the missions they risked their lives on. Webb, taken aback by the scheme that was already underway, pushed back. Conrad probably stepped in at this stage to make a more reasoned, rational and persuasive argument: the patch wouldn’t be just for the astronauts (though that indeed was very likely Cooper’s intent): rather, it would symbolize the hard work and team spirit of the hundreds and hundreds of people around the country, both at NASA and in industry, who had worked tirelessly to make the flight a success. Though still nettled by the plot they had revealed, Webb was swayed, and agreed to consider the matter — but he wanted to see the patch in question. If the crew had really thought it through beforehand, they would surely have brought one with them to show Webb; they had not, which argues that it was a last-minute maneuver.
The next day the crew arranged with Deke Slayton, head of the astronaut office, to have a sample of their patch sent to Webb in Washington. After due consideration, the Administrator conceded to the crew, and to future crews, the option to have a patch to symbolize their mission — with several provisos, the most important of which was that the “8 Days or Bust” motto be removed or covered up. He sent a somewhat testy memo to Slayton setting out the conditions for future flights, and declaring that henceforth such emblems would be known as “Cooper patches.”
Thus, the “Cooper patch” is in essence an updated form of the “Kearny patch.” Its purpose is to identify a cadre of individuals who work together on a common endeavor. For the remainder of the Gemini, Apollo and Skylab programs, plus the appended ASTP flight, it would be a staple of each mission.
At the cusp of the Shuttle era, the Cooper patch was nearly killed. In 1977 NASA headquarters, now led by Administrator James Fletcher, decided that since the Shuttle was not a program, but a system (to wit, the “Space Transportation System”), the idea of a patch for each flight was obsolete. Airlines don’t make a big deal every time a jet takes off, so why do so for every launch? There were going to be dozens of flights a year — at least. So they devised an identification system for the STS. Everything was very formalized, right down to the font (Helvetica Regular) to be used on the optional “Identification Bar” that could be added 3/32″ below the STS emblem. One patch for all flights; any other emblems or insignia were prohibited. Period.
Indeed, Associate Adminstrator for External Affairs Herbert Rowe explicitly shot down JSC Director Chris Kraft’s request for approval of separate patches for the ALT (Approach and Landing Test) and OFT (Orbital Flight Test) flights, saying “If ALT and OFT were treated as special cases, there then would be little or no justification for not allowing a separate patch for each mission after the Shuttle becomes operational.” Later in the same memo, Rowe makes the very peculiar argument that, “I believe the Webb memo of August 14, 1965, supports our position that there should only be one and not a long series of patches.” Considering that Webb’s memo did not address that issue, and that it in fact laid the crafting of future patch policy at the feet of the very Director whose request Rowe was in the process of rejecting, one wonders whether Rowe had actually read the memo.
In the long run, they hadn't counted on John Young. Young had been appointed
commander
of the very first Shuttle mission. While he wasn’t one of the revered
original seven, he was as close as you could get — having been
the very first astronaut to fly after that group. In addition, with two
Gemini and two Apollo missions under his belt, not to mention the fact that he
would be commanding the test flight of all test flights — riding a
never-before flown spacecraft launched by a never-before-flown booster —
Young pretty much did what he wanted to, and that included having a mission
patch, designed by the most respected artist in the world of spaceflight,
Robert McCall. By the time STS-1 was launched in April of 1981, both James Webb
and James Fletcher (Herbert Rowe’s boss) were long gone. In fact, NASA’s top post was
vacant at the time — its latest Administrator, Robert Frosch, having
resigned in January at the start of the Reagan administration. Young
essentially had a free hand.
And so Shuttle crews continued creating a “Cooper patch” (though no-one ever calls them that) for each and every flight; and the Shuttle program (which never really fulfilled its promise of being a mere “transportation system”) contributed a total of 135 mission patches to the world of spaceflight. There are some gems among that number, as well as a few real clunkers. That’s another story though, one too long to tell here.
The tradition of mission patches continues to the present time: ISS crews all have a patch signifying their particular “expedition,” as well as a patch (sometimes two!) for the flight that ferries them to the station and back to Earth. At this point it is almost unimaginable that flights to the Moon and Mars could take place without unique crew-designed mission patches. And yet at some point, perhaps in the not too distant future, spaceflight presumably will become routine, and individual mission patches will fade away, as foreseen by the folks at NASA who deemed Shuttle patches to be unnecessary.