Heroes: 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!"