Atomic Thunder

by Elizabeth Tynan

  Nothing says ‘Maralinga’ more than the startling image of a billowing atomic cloud rising from the desert plain. Buffalo 1 sent up the first mushroom cloud over Maralinga. While mushroom clouds are particularly associated with atomic weaponry, any large explosion will produce the same effect, though most non-nuclear explosions don’t come close to the power of an atomic bomb. Natural events like volcanic eruptions can also cause these distinctive clouds, although, of course, non-nuclear explosions tend not to be radioactive. In contrast, the detonation of an atomic device instantly creates a burst of intense gamma and neutron radiation. The cloud of an atomic explosion is filled with radioactive particles, the products of the fission process when the atoms are wrenched apart. These particles roil and swirl with the ground debris, all sucked upwards as the cloud interacts with the atmosphere. The blast also sends out a pressure or shock wave, which can cause damage to anyone or anything in the vicinity.

  The height of a mushroom cloud is governed by the energy of the explosion and the atmospheric conditions at the time of the detonation. The mushroom shape forms about 10 minutes after detonation and may last for up to an hour. However, even when it has disappeared, radioactive particles remain in the atmosphere, blown by the wind and depositing fallout along the way. Fallout literally falls out of the sky. The fallout from the Maralinga mushroom clouds spread far and wide, depending upon the winds, the explosive yield and the method of detonation. The airburst test at Maralinga, Buffalo 3, produced less fallout because it drew up less material from the ground into the cloud. The yield from the Maralinga tests was far less than that from Mosaic G2, but it was still substantial, and it travelled the airways north and east.

  Penney arrived at the site on 24 August 1956 and set the date for the first major test around 12 September, with the whole site to go on stand-by the day before. Rehearsals and other necessary activities got underway in earnest. Little did anyone know how protracted the wait would be. Day after day, the meteorological conditions were unsuitable. Day after day, scientists, journalists and politicians, invested in their different ways in the first Maralinga test, had to be patient. It was not easy. Questions in federal parliament and mocking stories in newspapers created uncertainty about the suitability of the site and the safety of nuclear weapons tests.

  On 22 September the weather appeared to have stabilised, but an airman had ‘gone missing’ near the forward area. A search was organised. At 11 pm he wandered, footsore and dehydrated, into Eleven Mile camp, well to the south of the forward area, having walked 32 kilometres through the desert. By the time he was found to be safe and well, it was too late to go ahead and the test was again postponed.

  After that drama, and endless frustrating delays, the all clear was given on 27 September. Operation Buffalo got underway. The first in the series, detonated from a 30-metre tower at One Tree, had a yield of 15 kilotonnes and was the most witnessed. When the long-delayed plane load of journalists arrived they were allowed to watch the awesome spectacle that is a nuclear bomb. The parliamentarians missed out. They had arrived the day before but were sent back because there was nowhere to stay overnight.

  Buffalo 1 was the plutonium warhead for the future Red Beard tactical nuclear weapon, a smaller weapon than Blue Danube. The winds were still not right on the day it was fired, suggesting Penney felt that he couldn’t wait any longer. Certainly the Royal Commission found that the decision was probably made out of a desire to get the thing done, rather than to adhere strictly to the agreed firing conditions. As with the earlier major trials, the mushroom cloud rose higher than predicted – well over 11 000 metres instead of 8500 metres – in a huge, classic mushroom shape. The unexpected height of the cloud played havoc with fallout predictions and appeared to contravene the conditions for safe firing that had been agreed with the Australian Government, a serious problem. An RAF Canberra aircraft flew through the cloud to gather samples. Radiation experts quickly began surveying the contamination. The radioactive cloud headed due east.

  Despite some qualms about the extent of fallout from the first blast, Operation Buffalo proceeded. Buffalo 2, detonated at 4.30 pm on 4 October at Marcoo, was the only British bomb test detonated at ground level and therefore the only weapons test to create a true bomb crater. The crater was 44 metres wide and 21 metres deep. John Moroney described Buffalo 2 as a ‘nuclear landmine’. It tested the Blue Danube device that Penney had designed so many years before. It was a much smaller device than Buffalo 1 – only 1.5 kilotonnes – and had a far less spectacular cloud that rose to less than half the height of Buffalo 1. Like Buffalo 1, though, its cloud headed due east towards the northern New South Wales coast. The device was detonated despite the fact that rain had been forecast within 800 kilometres and actually fell about 160 kilometres from ground zero. Rain in the aftermath of a test brings fallout with it; any rain in the contaminated area will likewise be contaminated. Again, the agreed firing conditions were transgressed. These now looked to be optional rather than firm requirements.

  Buffalo 3 was an airdrop with an expected yield of 3 kilotonnes. The winds were still difficult, and the time for detonation was brought forwards slightly. The device, also of Blue Danube design, was dropped from a Valiant bomber at 3.27 pm on 11 October and exploded 150 metres above the Maralinga plain near the Kite test site, dropping its radioactive material around the restricted area, including near to Maralinga village. As planned, the fireball did not actually reach the ground, and the cloud rose to 4500 metres. Unexpectedly, demonstrating how primitive the forecasting methods were at that time, the radioactive cloud headed to the south, drifting over Adelaide.

  Buffalo 4, another Red Beard test, exploded from a tower at Breakaway, was a bigger bomb, expected to yield 16 kilotonnes, though its actual yield was 10 kilotonnes. It was fired in the dead of night, at 12.05 am on 22 October. It would have been fired earlier, except 21 October was a Sunday, and the Australian Government banned Sunday tests for religious reasons. Five minutes after midnight made everything okay, apparently. The sight of a midnight atomic fireball must have been eerie. Buffalo 4 had a high cloud, in excess of 9000 metres, but those on the ground could not see it well because of low stratus cloud. The radioactive cloud swung north and headed towards Darwin. In the tradition of previous Buffalo shots, Buffalo 4 violated the firing conditions. Even as it was being fired, the test authorities knew that it would cause fallout in inhabited areas more than 160 kilometres from the Maralinga range, a clear violation of the agreement. In fact, it sprinkled radioactive fallout on an arc between Newcastle on the New South Wales coast and Darwin in the Northern Territory.

  Buffalo had many controversial elements. In particular, this test series is notorious for the Indoctrinee Force, often referred to later as the Maralinga guinea pigs. This group, largely commissioned officers, was deliberately positioned in the forward area during the Buffalo major trials so they could witness and experience the effects of nuclear weapons close-up – less than 9 kilometres from ground zero. There were 283 men in the Indoctrinee Force. Most were from the UK – 172 officers and six civilians – while Australia contributed 100 (mostly army officers but 25 from lower ranks and one civilian) and New Zealand contributed five officers. They were under the direct command of Australian captain JH Skipper but under the general direction of the British scientist Drake Seager, who reported to Penney.

  The members of the Indoctrinee Force were special. They were housed separately from the other Maralinga denizens. They stayed at Eleven Mile camp, which was 18 kilometres from Watson and about 64 kilometres south of the forward area. They received endless briefings, lectures and range tours. Because the first Buffalo shot was delayed for 15 days, the Indoctrinees also assisted the scientists in preparing and laying out the various objects that were to be subjected to the nuclear blasts, such as guns, cars and dummies. The Indoctrinees witnessed the first two Buffalo tests, One Tree and Marcoo, up close. The world was facing the real prospect of nuclear war, and the Indoctrinees were ordered to
report back to their military colleagues what the future had in store. Their eyewitness accounts were expected to provide preparation for the reality of atomic warfare.

  Major Peter Lowe finally arrives at Maralinga, after a long British Overseas Airways Corporation flight to Sydney via the Far East. He has ‘been volunteered’ for a special three-week mission in the Australian desert. His commanding officer called him, when he was working at his post in Münster, West Germany, to tell him the glad tidings. It is all very hush-hush, he was told, but there is a big show on in Australia that needs non-technical observers, and most of them are coming from the British Army. He was to join an elite group known to the AWRE as the Indoctrinee Force, or I-Force, a sinister-sounding designation, though not one the men themselves use or even know about. Major Dan Buckley, also in the British Army, soon joins Lowe. He was stationed at Woomera for the rocket tests not long ago and had no idea he would be back in Australia so soon, for an even more dramatic assignment. Buckley is young, sporty and fit, a boxer and rugby player in his spare time. Lowe and Buckley are in different Indoctrinee teams doing different things, but both form part of a major exercise at the first Maralinga major test series.

  Their camp at Eleven Mile is tented and primitive, rather different from those in Münster or the UK – or even Woomera. They are away from the main Maralinga contingent in the tree-lined village, too. It soon becomes clear that their mission will take longer than three weeks, as the winds are never right and interfere with the test schedule. Time hangs heavily on the officers. While they wait, they are treated to lectures and other preparations. Penney’s lectures are interesting and well prepared. The same cannot be said for some of the other talks, which are boringly technical and hard to follow. But everyone enjoys hearing Sir William speak, even though his subject matter is grave. He has an amiable and egalitarian manner, and knows his stuff. Penney warns the men of the dangers of gamma rays and describes the measures that will be taken to protect them. They are to wear full protective suits and film badges. Designated members of the party will carry Geiger counters.

  The Indoctrinees are frustrated by the delays to the first blast at One Tree. After the lectures, they take the time to prepare equipment that will be subjected to the atomic blast. They are officers, and this hard physical labour is not normally the sort of thing they do, but they are bored enough to welcome the activity. Lowe helps dig in 25-pounder guns, erect radio antennae and set out field telephones. Buckley has a particular responsibility for guns and is asked to ensure a range of damage from none at all to complete annihilation. He spaces his guns out from ground zero to achieve an even coverage. He has been told that this work will have implications for British Army equipment purchasing policies – guns that seem to survive an atomic blast will require fewer spares than those that are quickly destroyed.

  When the day finally arrives, after a number of false starts, the Indoctrinees are stationed at Forward Control on a hillside only 8 kilometres away from the first explosion – far closer than the main party. They are all dressed in summer uniform of shorts, shirt and long socks. A minute before the blast, as one they turn around so they are facing away from the explosion. Buckley listens to the countdown – ‘4, 3, 2, 1, flash turn now!’ At ‘flash’ the sky explodes, and it feels like an oven door has been opened right next to their bare necks and knees. They can turn now, as the initial flash is over and the possibility of eye damage has lessened. Buckley spins around to see a coiling black mass, shot through with flames, rapidly reaching higher for the colder air and then gradually flattening into a mushroom shape. He and his colleagues see the blast wave rushing towards them, knocking over the vegetation in its path. Then the wave hits and the men rock on their feet.

  After the blast, the Indoctrinees venture towards ground zero to see what the explosion has wrought. Lowe dons his gas mask, boots and the protective clothing they call goon suits and climbs onboard a 3-tonne truck to travel to the edge of the contaminated area. He heads a small group of eight men and holds the Geiger counter. The device gets more and more frantic as the men near the blast site. The conditions are clearly too radioactive, so the group heads back to the decontamination camp run by the Australians under the direction of Harry Turner near Roadside, a waypoint at the junction of the network of Maralinga roads. Lowe’s film badge is ripped unceremoniously from his lapel by a big, tall, brusque Australian sergeant and thrown into a bucket, without its number or reading being recorded. The bucket is full of film badges, none of which will ever be seen again by those who wore them.

  Meanwhile, Buckley nears his forward gun location and is puzzled to see that the arid reddish-brownness of the desert earth has been replaced with a strange whiteness, the earth transformed by extreme heat into white glass. He reaches his leading gun position and calls out his Geiger counter reading to the health physics representative. The reading is off the dial, and he gets the urgent message from his base ‘Return immediately, return immediately. Report to Health Control’. He doesn’t need to be told again – he hurries away from the unnatural white glass that overlies the red dust.

  When the Geiger counters tell the team that it is safe to go back out, Buckley gathers together the sacrificial weapons that he placed in the forward area. He needs to test fire the guns that are still in one piece to determine what damage they have incurred. This is a laborious process that requires a strict safety protocol. One of the senior brass tries to hurry him up, suggesting that if Buckley is afraid to fire the guns himself then he will do it for him. Buckley is insulted and fires the next gun without taking his usual precautions. It blows up, nearly bursting his eardrums and leading to endless ear tests later on back home. So much for losing his temper and neglecting his safety training. Not long after his service at Maralinga, Buckley will retire from the British Army, and a few years later his health will fall to pieces. He will develop cataracts in his eyes, the blood disease haemochromatosis and severe arthritis, which will curtail his burgeoning post-service business career in the exports sector, a career that will earn him an OBE for services to UK exports.

  Unlike Buckley and most of the other Indoctrinees, Lowe does a second stint in the forward area. He takes over from a sick colleague at the last minute and witnesses the second Buffalo blast, the ground shot at Marcoo, from a Centurion tank with two other Indoctrinees. This is incredibly scary, partly because he mistakenly believes it is an airdropped bomb and he fears for the accuracy of the bombardier. He does not know how far the tank is from ground zero, but at the moment of detonation he knows the tank moves about 3 metres sideways, a claim that will later be contradicted by a more senior officer. But he is there, and he knows. The massive tank moves like someone has picked it up. He watches through the periscope, which goes opaque at the moment of detonation because it is sandblasted. When he gets out of the tank, 30 minutes after the explosion, he sees the paint on the tank has blistered. Lowe is wearing ordinary light military clothing and no film badge. Later the British Army will deny that Lowe was inside the tank at Marcoo. His army record will never show that he witnessed Buffalo 2, and he will have trouble obtaining a war pension.

  Lowe will later be promoted to colonel and will start to experience health problems when he is a military attaché in Washington in 1969. His severe gastric problems will be something of a mystery. In 1972, working as a military adviser to the British High Commission in Canberra, he will have an internal haemorrhage. After some diagnostic confusion, he will finally discover that he has stomach cancer and will have his entire stomach removed.

  After Buffalo, the AWRE turned its attention to Antler, the next series of Maralinga tests. The second half of the 1950s was a pivotal time for atomic weapons development. Both the US and the USSR had performed airdrop tests of hydrogen bombs, weapons of huge yield, which led to growing concerns about what the tests were doing to the earth’s atmosphere. The UK herself was about to test a hydrogen device in the Pacific. Coupled with this, international tensions – particularly the S
uez crisis in July 1956 and the Soviet suppression of Hungary in November – added to a sense of general foreboding. With bigger, more deadly atomic weapons, and world events seemingly on a conflict trajectory, public disquiet about atomic tests increased. Intellectual movements such as the 1957 Pugwash Conference of scientists and other scholars opposed to nuclear weaponry emerged. The UK’s Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament was launched in 1958 and quickly grew in size and influence. The mood was shifting.

  Howard Beale was the minister who had to balance growing public fears in Australia with British test requirements, at least until his abrupt departure from Cabinet in early 1958 to become Australia’s ambassador to Washington. His role was, in part, to use the techniques of public relations to maintain effective information management around the tests. In his 1977 autobiography the chapter on the atomic tests began by revealing his success at keeping the details secret. The French had called the Australians hypocrites for objecting to French tests at Mururoa Atoll in the Pacific after allowing the British tests in Australia. Beale noted that when this happened, ‘many people were taken aback, not at being called hypocrites … but to learn that we had ever conducted tests at all’. Beale then told his own (rather inaccurate in places) version of the tale, saying, ‘It is not one of which any Australian need be ashamed’.

  Beale was often directly involved in media activities around the atomic tests, as was William Penney; on some occasions they were a double act. Strictly controlled interactions between journalists and senior test scientists or government officials were held from time to time to diffuse unauthorised journalistic inquiry. The Supply secretary Frank O’Connor rather wistfully wrote to the chief information officer for the UK Ministry of Supply, Iyer Jehu, on 9 November 1956 in relation to a Chapman Pincher story about nuclear testing activities. O’Connor described Pincher, who covered the tests in Australia for the British Daily Express, as a ‘scoop journalist employed by a scoop newspaper and the moment he stops scooping he will be replaced by someone else’. He observed that ‘philosophically, we have to recognize this is just part and parcel of the democratic set up … My own view of the press is that it is imperative to have good relations with them, but as to whether our relationships are good or bad is a matter that is mainly in our own hands’.