Story of a Space Man

Patrick Baudry often states that the first real challenge of the selection process is completing this extensive questionnaire, which thoroughly examines the applicant’s health, education, professional background, and psychological profile. In fact, only 193 completed files were returned to CNES, including 26 submitted by women. The tedious task took him a full two days !

The first “filter” was the review of the files by a medical commission made up of specialized Air Force doctors. They retained 176 and forwarded them to CNES, which assigned a group of engineers, scientists, and administrators to assess the candidates’ skills relevant to the work of a scientist-astronaut. Seventy-two candidates, including Patrick, were deemed capable of conducting scientific experiments, learning Russian quickly, and undergoing theoretical and physical training. They were summoned to CPEMPN, the Air Force medical center in Paris.

For pilots (45% of the candidates still in the running), this summons might have seemed like a routine medical check-up. Indeed, they regularly underwent fitness exams at CPEMPN. But that was far from the case—in fact, quite the opposite: all of a sudden, even knowing they were in perfect shape, anxiety surged at the thought that some parameter might fluctuate, or that a temporary weakness or anomaly might appear just as the doctor was about to examine them in detail. There was no second chance; any failure was disqualifying, and seeing other candidates eliminated offered no comfort. They were simply passive, at the mercy of their own bodies. It was therefore with immense relief that Patrick completed this phase of the selection, which lasted nearly a week.

The next stage took place at the Aerospace and Aviation Medicine Laboratory (LAMAS) in Brétigny, where their tolerance for the torments of the spinning chair was tested. The test proved fatal for 40 candidates, while the 32 “survivors” returned to CPEMPN for further medical examinations, which lasted another week! These were immediately followed by three days of interviews with psychologists and psychiatrists… After these medical and psychological evaluations, only 18 remained. Then came the centrifuge session in Brétigny, which further reduced the group to 11 people.

It became increasingly difficult to separate the remaining worthy candidates, while CNES was only to present two to the Russians. A new selection was therefore carried out, more intellectual than physical, to narrow the field to five finalists : Jean-Loup, Gérard Juin (Air France airline pilot and former Air Force fighter pilot), Jean-Pierre Job (Commander of the Normandie-Niemen Squadron and former leader of the Patrouille de France), Françoise Varnier (academic and glider pilot), and… Patrick Baudry.

Things finally picked up at the end of February 1980, as they had to simultaneously learn Russian (with five tireless teachers following them everywhere) and familiarize themselves with space techniques and the experiment program. For 15 days, “The Club of Five” conducted parachute jumps in Pau. Jean-Loup and Françoise broke their legs, Gérard sprained his ankle, but these accidents were not disqualifying. When the Russian medical commission came to Paris to meet them, only the four men were selected.

They then departed for Star City, in the suburbs of Moscow. Their arrival seemed anticipated, as in their memories they had felt watched, somewhat like curious wild animals. It’s important to remember that this was the era of the Soviet Union, which had just invaded Afghanistan. In the eyes of the Russians, they were, and remained, four Air Force officers (or former officers). For three days, they underwent “additional” examinations, which were simply meant to confirm the results obtained by the French specialists, with minor variations (a swing had replaced the spinning chair). The stay at the prophylactorium concluded with a very solemn and moving ceremony : the entire elite of Soviet cosmonautics came to present them with diplomas certifying their ability to fly in space. Once accepted, they would soon experience the warmth and hospitality of the Russians, who would become their friends. But two of them still had to be eliminated, and only one would ultimately fly on this first mission !

The final decision was made by CNES on June 11, 1980. Jean-Pierre and Gérard had believed in it until the very end and were congratulated for the excellence of their applications. However, they were the last to be eliminated. Jean-Pierre Job was certainly the best among them, but the joy of Jean-Loup and Patrick outweighed all other feelings. They immediately began preparing for what would be a rigorous yet wonderful training at Star City, alongside exceptional people.

On June 24, 1982, Jean-Loup launched from Baikonur. He carried with him the efforts and dreams of the entire team both French and Russian, who had given their all for two years to make this First Manned Flight a great success. And it undoubtedly was !

The launch, lying down, trapped in the spacesuit, and already eager to share the experience. A microphone attached to his lips inside the helmet, words chopped by the tremendous vibrations, yet wrested one by one from his consciousness to capture every sensation and share them in real time… Then, professionalism, of course, the military discipline honed over years. The first moments aboard the shuttle, gazing at Earth, his admired planet, fresh and new under his eyes. And without delay, preparing the shuttle for seven days between Sky and Earth for seven companions who would live together in less than seven square meters.

The experiments, the teamwork, the short meal breaks (though it must be said they lacked sausage and red wine!), the ongoing experiments, launching three satellites into space, and one or two shuttle repairs—Patrick was learning that, ultimately, flying in space in the 1980s had become a well-practiced routine. But this time, it was him flying—not his comrades whom he had seen go before him in Russia or even in the USA—and this experience, upon his return, he could truly share with them. To know, to live, to understand, and… to convey it for those who had not gone and would never have the incredible chance he was living. Not like that unfortunate individual who, for drinking a little too much and being a bit too demonstrative with one of our French leaders at the time, was barred from flying by the communists (KGB).

His enjoyment was far from diminished. He savored every little minute he could spare. In the artificial night, recreated as on Earth, Patrick would “rise,” or rather, detach a hand or foot from a restraint, and float to the window. There, photographing or simply admiring, he recognized the geography he had patiently learned at school, but this time, “for real.” These were stolen moments during the eight entirely arbitrary hours of sleep, since the sun rose and set 16 times a day, listening to Supertramp on his Walkman and absorbing everything he could bring back with him, once the adventure was over, in memories and sensations.

Seven days of pure joy, flying better than all those times he had taken his airplane—a plane that, whatever it had been, had always been pushed to its limits. This time, it was a different flight: gentle, pure, calm, serene. But all dreams come to an end. The seven days had passed far too quickly. There had been a few miraculous minor technical problems, extending this fabulous journey by some stroke of luck. The return, however, would not be to Houston, but to Edwards in California—adding a little more time to the adventure! Shuttle systems were reset, contact with Earth reestablished, the shuttle positioned on its return orbit, de-orbiting, blackout, and nine minutes upside down through the fiery reentry, back to the planet Earth—the mother planet—which he now, like Tsiolkovsky, considered his cradle.
But, as that scientist so aptly noted—without having been to space himself—who would really want to spend their life in their cradle? Patrick Baudry never had the chance to fly again. France, in this domain, is a poor country—it must pay for its flights, lacking its own means to send a man into space — and, at the time at least, a sincere country: a man who has flown rarely flies again. The seats are expensive, and others deserve them just as much.

Yet the adventure did not end there. He was the first to climb out of the shuttle, now reduced to just another airplane, among the doctors who had boarded, lively as he descended the ladder—and already full of new projects. With contagious enthusiasm, he decided that France, too, could soar on its own, into… space. And who could better than him pilot a fine European spaceplane, continuing what all his Russian and American friends had so brilliantly begun before him? Patrick Baudry was naturally a candidate. More than a candidate, he was an active participant in the project, determined to do everything within his power to turn his costly, but ambitious dreams into reality.