O'Fallon's Curse

As a NASA engineer, Patrick O’ Fallon, III received one of the models the agency had made for the members of the 1985 Challenger team. He sat on the floor by the Christmas tree assembling the miniature shuttle for his son. It had been a stressful year for Patrick and the team. They were behind schedule with the updates for the spacecraft that had already completed nine successful missions, including a spacewalk, and carried the first American female and African American astronauts.

NASA was anxious because during his re-election campaign, in 1984, the president had committed to cutting funding to the agency. A year had gone by and the team felt pressured to get the shuttle launched before the end January 1986 while Congress was still battling over the budget.

“It’s almost midnight,” Pat’s wife, Molly, said.

“Assembling this model seems more difficult than retrofitting the real thing.”

“Well, I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too long.”

“I’ll be up soon,” he said.

As he secured the spacecraft to the booster, a wave of exhaustion swept over him. He leaned his back against the rust-colored Lane Recliner. Still holding the replica, his chin dropped to his chest, and he began to snore.

A hand reached over and took the model from PatHe sat on the floor next to him and examined the curious toy. Having had no notion of what the contraption was, he figured it was some sort of vehicle. Maybe a boat, since the tiny seals reminded him of rivets, but he couldn’t imagine how it could possibly float.

*****

Before the Great Depression forced their merger, The Cunard Steamship Company in England and The White Star Line in Ireland were fierce competitors. After Cunard launched two passenger steamships considered to be the most luxurious on the ocean, The White Star Line was intent upon besting their British competitor.

In March 1909, The White Star Line began work on Titanic in the Belfast, Ireland shipyard of Harland and Wolff. If they worked at a furious pace, they could launch the Olympic class luxury liner in two years. The massive hull was towed to a fitting-out dock where thousands of workers spent most of 1910 installing twenty-nine boilers to power the steam engines. They built the ships decks and constructed lavish interiors. White Star claimed they were building a ship that was “practically unsinkable.”

The work was back-breaking and the North Sea winds bone-chilling. Despite the conditions, Patrick O’Fallon and the other shipyard workers were sweating. Pushed to finish the great ship, the men hardly had time to take a puff from the cigarettes hanging off their bottom lips.

Heat came from the blowtorches which at the time, were a fairly new device for joining metal. The men were paid per weld and speed took precedence over exactness. A single inspector came down the lines to approve their welds. If three of a man’s welds were rejected, they were fired on the spot. It was rumored that the inspector accepted pints at the pub to ensure their employment.

Patrick knew some of the work was shoddy. He needed the job so, he kept his head down and focused on his own work.

“Paddy, ya slowing down the line,” Thomas O’Shay would yell. “I’ve got five kids ta’ feed.”

“Five,” called Fineas Dolan, “I’ve got eight, an’ me mother-in-law.”

Paddy was used to the ribbing but took pride in his work and ignored the insults. He knew his welds were good even if he did not make as much as the others on the line.

As The date for the maiden voyage approached, pressure was put on the men to finish. They worked grueling 12-hour shifts.

One cold, dark evening as he was leaving the shipyard, the foreman approached Patrick. “Hold up there, Paddy. We need to talk.”

Patrick turned and tucked his black lunch pail under his arm. “About what?”

“The men have been complainin’ ya workin’ too slow. It’s hittin’ their pockets. You’ve got to step it up, man.”

Patrick took his metal lunch pail and shook it at the foreman. “We’re not makin’ lunch pails. This ship will be floating in the middle of the ocean with a couple thousand people on board. We cut corners now, there could be a catastrophe.

“Ah Paddy, don’t be so dramatic. William Pirrie, the big boss, is comin’ to the yard tomorrow. He don’t see our progress, it’s our arses. White Star pushes him and he pushes us. We got to get this done. Work faster, Paddy, or we’ll have to let you go.

Patrick tossed and turned all night. It wasn’t his colicky baby that was keeping him awake, it was his conscience.

His wife, Marie tiptoed into the room after finally getting the baby down.

“No need to stay quiet. I’m wide awake,” Patrick said.

“I’m sorry, Pat, did the baby wake you.”

“No darlin’. It’s work.”

“They can’t possibly ask you to work more hours,” she said, climbing into bed next to him.

“No, not more, faster. They don’t care how shoddy the work is as long as we meet White Star’s schedule.”

“White Star?”

“The company buyin’ the Titanic from Harland and Wolff. Their sending a Mr. Pirrie’ ta the yard tomorrow to check on our progress.”

“Maybe you should speak with him.”

“Pirrie? Not a chance of that.”

Arriving at 4:00 a.m., Patrick O’Fallon was the first one at the shipyard, the next morning. He wanted to see all the welds with his own eyes. He was passing his hand along the ship’s hull when he heard a man’s voice through the fog. “What’s that ya doin? You don’t have any ill will against that ship do ya.”

Patrick didn’t recognize the voice, but responded anyway. “Just the opposite, I want her to remains whole.”

“And why wouldn’t she?” The man asked as he stepped out of the mist.

“I don’t know you, sir.” Patrick said.

“Nor I you.”

The man extended his hand, “William J. Pirrie, Chairman of Harland and Wolff.”

“Patrick O’Fallon, welder.”

“What are your concerns, Mr. O’Fallon?”

“I didn’t say I had concerns.”

“You’re here at four in the mornin’ and you’re not an inspector, you’re a welder.”

“Well sir, it’s just that—”

“Paddy!” the foreman yelled. “What are ya’ doin’ man? Your shift doesn’t start until five.”

“I wanted to make sure I was on time, sir. Not lettin’ the grass grow under me feet.”

William Pierre stepped forward. “You were about to tell me something, Mr. O’Fallon.”

The foreman stepped between Patrick and William. “I’ve got a complete report prepared for you Mr. Pierre. Please join me, in my office, the tea is hot and the biscuits are fresh.”

Pierre turned and walked towards the foreman’s office. Before they went inside the wooden shed, the foreman looked over his shoulder at Patrick, “Don’t go near that ship until your shift starts,” he warned.

*****

Patrick O’Fallon III woke up with a stiff neck. The shuttle was now wrapped and under the tree. He didn’t remember finishing the model. “Is there anything Molly can’t do?” he muttered.

He vaguely remembered someone sitting down next to him on the floor. It must have been Molly, he thought. He stood up and thought about the Challenger, destined to be launched soon. As he made his way to the kitchen, a thought passed through his mind. It must have been part of a dream. He remembered, a male voice saying, “You must tell them, lad. Tell them about the O-rings and the welds. He shook the thought away and started making coffee.

*****

Patrick O’Fallon was placed at the end of the line to keep him from holding up the other welders. He was angry, but he focused all his attention on his torch and moved as quickly as possible. Keeping his own family fed was all that mattered. Around 6:30 am, the foreman approached the line with William Pierre.

“Take a break, lads,” the foreman announced.

“What’s that?” one of the startled men asked. They had never been told to take a break.

“I said, take your break,” the foreman repeated.

“He doesn’t have to tell me twice,” another man said.

They turned off their torches and left the line. Patrick completed two more welds, then turned to leave.

“Just a minute there, Mr. O’Fallon,” William Pierre said.

“Yes, sir,” Patrick said cautiously.

“This morning, you were about to tell me something before the foreman stepped in,” Pierre said. “What was it?”

The foreman coughed, an obvious warning to Patrick.

“No sir, I just wanted to welcome you to the shipyard; let ya know how proud all of us are to be working on the Titanic, sir.”

“Good man,” the foreman said. “Better join the others on your break.”

Patrick O’Fallon nodded, and complied.

The next day, Patrick was sent to work on the larger Olympic liner, the Britannic. Whether it was a reward or a punishment, Patrick O’Fallon wasn’t sure. Luckily, he got along well with his new foreman and the other men on the welding line. The pace was still brisk, the Britannic ship was expected to launch soon after the Titanic. Each night he went home to Marie and his children with a sense of pride in his work. He barely gave the Titanic another thought.

Winters in the shipyard were severe, even for the hardiest of men. Much of the work was done outside in the cold, relentless, bitter wind. The shipyard had no toilets. Still paid by the weld, the men were reluctant to leave the line, even if it meant pissing themselves. A few Some tried to dry their wet pants using their torches and seared their balls.

Injuries on the line weren’t only due to the men’s own carelessness, but the shipyard’s total lack of concern for their workers’ safety. Men routinely lost fingers, were severely burned, or got clocked in the head by swinging steel beams.

If you didn’t work, you didn’t get paid. Every day, men gathered outside the gates, looking for work. An injured man was replaced before a severed finger could hit the ground. Work continued non-stop through the brutal months and long dark, rainy days of late winter through March. In April of 1911, two years after they began, Harland and Wolf told the White Star Line that the RMS Titanic was ready for launch.

Tens of thousands poured into Belfast to witness the maiden voyage of the gigantic ocean liner. All the shipyard’s workers were allowed to attend the festivities. Patrick O’Fallon did not join the cheers when the vessel moved into the Lagan River on its way to the North Sea. When a dark cloud passed in front of the sun, Patrick feared it was an ominous warning.

A year later, Patrick O’Fallon was still working on the Britannic when news of the Titanic hitting an iceberg and sinking reached the shipyard. The news shook him to his core. He knew the bulkheads were watertight. But they were only a few feet above the waterline. It came as no surprise that water poured through from one compartment to another because of the shoddy welds. He should have spoken up, but now it was too late.

The only good that came from it, was inspectors were now held accountable. They were taking their jobs seriously and cutting corners to increase speed wasn’t tolerated rebuked. So when the Britannic sank on November 21, 1916, Patrick O’Fallon was heartbroken. He quit the shipyard and poured himself into the local pub. He remained there, day in and day out until the day he died.

*****

Patrick O’Fallon IV, loved the Shuttle model that Santa had left for him. It was always with him, he even slept with it; he would have taken it into bathtub, but his mother wouldn’t allow it. He was so proud that his father worked on space ships and he wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up.

The day after Christmas, Patrick O’Fallon III returned to work at NASA. “We’ll be working day and night until the launch,” he told Molly. “You and Paddy won’t be seeing much of me for the next month.”

The following weeks were taking their toll on the engineer. He became thin and his eyes looked sunken in their sockets. His wife worried as he tossed and turned in bed, unaware of the voice from his dream, repeating, “You must tell them, lad. Tell them about the O-rings and the welds.”

On January 26, 1986, Patrick O’Fallon III stood in front of his boss’ office, ready to share what he knew, but couldn’t prove. He was startled when his boss came up behind him. “Pat, I was just looking for you.”

“Me, why?”

“Now that Challenger is ready to launch in a couple of days, we’re going to move you to the Columbia as a project manager. It’s a well-deserved promotion.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

“Did you come by for any particular reason?”

“Well, I wanted to tell you…”

Before he could finish his sentence, the boss’ secretary approached them. She excitedly told her boss that President Reagan wanted to talk to the senior NASA team. “Gotta run Pat. See you and your family at the launch.”

The good news of his promotion was overshadowed by his son’s dismay at what had happened at recess that afternoon. He was simulating the upcoming launch of the real Challenger, and his model got smashed into hundreds of pieces.

To comfort his despondent son, Patrick O’Fallon III said, “Not to worry. You’ll be between your mother and me on the front row when the Challengers lifts off the day after tomorrow. Patrick O’Fallon IV would never forget the trauma of January 28.

On January 31, 2003, Patrick O’Fallon III retired from NASA. On February 1, 2003, after 28 missions, the Columbia Space Shuttle broke up as it returned to earth, killing the seven astronauts on board.

Patrick O’Fallon III was heartbroken. He poured himself into a local bar. He remained there, day in and day out until the day he died.

The End