by Alan Rimmer
The intelligence assessors calculated it would take no more than 10 H-bombs to cause complete breakdown and destruction. And then, of course, there was the added agony of fallout. According to one Cabinet Office minute fallout presented: “New problems of an unprecedented kind…The effects of radioactive contamination create vast and novel problems for the medical services and for agriculture.”
Penney was in full “smiling killer” mode when he was summoned to the Cabinet Office to “put the willies up” an assembled company of treasury ministers and officials who were kicking up a fuss at the enormous costs of thermonuclear warfare. In unvarnished terms he told the bean counters just what would be the effect of a hydrogen bomb on London:-
A bomb dropped on London and bursting on impact would produce a crater a mile across and 150-feet deep and a fireball of two and a quarter miles diameter. The blast from it would crush the Admiralty Citadel (a stone-clad World War 2 signals centre across Horse Guards Parade next to the Mall) at a distance of one mile. Suburban houses would be wrecked at a distance of three miles from the explosion, and they would lose their roofs and be badly blasted at a distance of seven miles. All habitations would catch fire over a circle of three miles radius from the burst.
Faced with this apocalyptic scenario the fiscal objections vanished, although the government agreed that spending on civil defence measures would be a waste of time and money. Only the threat of immediate retaliation would give the Russian Bear pause for thought. The only way to ensure survival was for Britain to build a nuclear deterrent of its own.
Penney’s work load was prodigious. A stockpile of A-bombs for the RAF, based on the Monte Bello device, still had to be compiled as some kind of deterrent, and he had to make them small enough to be delivered by the new V-bomber strike force. But the top priority order Penney was given was: “put a union jack on a hydrogen bomb.”
Australia was again chosen as the site to test the A-bombs that would be the triggers for the massively bigger H-bombs. Penney sent mushroom clouds billowing into the skies over the Outback, exploding 12 atomic devices, as he refined and perfected the techniques necessary for the super-bomb. But this took time, and that was a commodity in short supply in that mad decade. The Soviets, who had successfully exploded a hydrogen bomb just nine months after the Americans, had soon achieved nuclear parity. With both sides rattling their sabers Britain was again in a critically exposed position.
Britain’s military planners were under enormous pressure as they tackled the logistical problems of preparing a remote Pacific atoll called Christmas Island for testing the H-bomb. The task was immense. And all the time America and the Soviet Union were forging ahead with bigger and better designs. With almost limitless resources they were constantly finding newer and more efficient bomb making techniques. The American’s bulky liquid hydrogen device had quickly been replaced by a much smaller bomb which used ‘dry’ lithium deuteride which produced massive explosions with yields equivalent of many millions of tons of TNT. More importantly they were small enough to be delivered by aircraft.
Britain’s beleaguered scientists at Aldermaston had to build and test a hydrogen bomb almost from scratch without the huge technical resources available to the superpowers. William Penney was in despair. He did not know how he was going to do it with what he had at his disposal. Denied access to the new super computers used by the Americans, the scientists had to make their calculations “on the back of fag packets” which sometimes took them weeks, rather than the seconds it would take using the new technology. Their task was likened by the great nuclear historian Lorna Arnold to blind men in a dark room looking for a black cat they knew was there, but unable to grasp.
Nevertheless at the Aldermaston bomb laboratory William Penney built up a small team of weaponeers willing to take on the enormous (and unfashionable) task of developing the weapon. Penney had been to America several times to pick the brains of former colleagues from Los Alamos who were now building the ‘super.’ But the Americans were still wary about giving up their secrets, and Penney was making little progress. With the few crumbs he did manage to get, he called his chief scientists to a meeting at Aldermaston in September 1955.
This occasion became known as the “Tom, Dick and Harry” meeting because Penney’s H-bomb plan was a three part process that could be fired in one container. The first (Tom) would be an atomic (fission bomb) that would boost a further fission component (Dick); added together the pair would force the hydrogen fusion reaction (Harry). Penney made no secret of the enormity of the task facing them; their immediate challenge was to calculate without the help of computers how the incredibly high temperatures of an atomic explosion could be harnessed to bring about the even greater energy release through the fusion of hydrogen atoms. Privately some of his staff believed they were being asked to do the impossible, but they got on with it as best they could.
The atom scientists were now required to work under such demanding deadlines that even illness wasn’t allowed to interfere with their mission. A flu epidemic laid much of the country low, and the Aldermaston scientists were not immune. However, many still found themselves roused from their sick beds by colleagues who wanted an answer to a particular problem. One scientist on coming out of the anaesthetic after an operation found a colleague waiting at the end of his bed with a problem he was unable to solve. Somehow they muddled through.
To add to the sense of urgency, public opinion across the world was hardening against the testing of H-bombs. But Penney was used to pressure and he put all his energies into the project. His small, but dedicated team responded in kind and gradually designs for their super-bomb began to roll off the drawing board. Their most pressing task was to test the new weapon before a proposed ban on atmospheric nuclear testing came into force.
But after a year, the prospect of failure still loomed large and in desperation the Conservative Government led by PM Anthony Eden visited Aldermaston in September 1956 and agreed a top secret plan with the atomic weapon scientists to fool the world into thinking Britain had a thermonuclear capability.
Given the problems of making an H-bomb and the pressure of time, they had to make sure that if the ‘super’ failed there was an alternative fail-safe method of ensuring a big bang at the forthcomings tests. Britain could not afford to lose face. They decided to build a massively enlarged version of the existing A-bomb, which the scientists were much more confident about, and pretend it was an H-bomb. This wouldn’t fool the Americans of course; cloud sampling aircraft would soon spot the ruse. But it would fool most of the international community and buy time for the scientists to sort out any production delays or design faults in the real H-bomb.
Penney and his team had come up with three designs, two were experimental hydrogen bombs which they knew could easily fizzle out; the third was the massive atomic device, which they were confident would give the big bang necessary to convince the world. This ‘political bomb’ enabled the Government to confidently announce that tests of Britain’s hydrogen bombs would take place in the central Pacific Ocean in early 1957.
After much debate, a small uninhabited atoll called Malden Island was chosen as the site to test Britain’s H-bomb. Logistics and support troops would be based on Christmas Island, 400 miles to the north; it was infrequently inhabited by about 100 natives from nearby islands who harvested copra. A disused airfield, last used by the Americans in World War 2, had to be completely rebuilt and a site prepared for at least 3,000 troops and RAF personnel. The aircraft carrier HMS Warrior would be the command ship for the naval fleet. Hawaii, 1,200 miles away, was the nearest civilisation.
The codename ‘Grapple’ was chosen for the forthcoming trials, its four prongs a symbol of cooperation between the three armed services and the Aldermaston bomb makers.
Preparations began at once. Army sappers from 35 Field Squadron, the Royal Engineers, on their way home from a year’s posting in South Korea were suddenly diverted; the only information they were given was th
at their destination was “somewhere in the Pacific.” The troops, kitted out in cold weather clothing in preparation for Britain’s more temperate climate, found they were sweltering in 100 degrees heat as they clambered ashore at Christmas Island.
It was weeks before the supply ships arrived with tropical gear and the equipment they needed to get on with the task in hand. Meanwhile many men ‘went native’, walking about half naked and spending their days fishing and swimming in the warm waters. There were shortages of certain foodstuffs such as bread and milk, but their diet was supplemented by the plentiful supply of fish and coconut milk. One thing they were not short of was beer: a huge amount had been off-loaded from their troop ship in preparation for the setting up of a NAAFI. The men naturally made good use of this unexpected largesse, and often went swimming in the lagoons afterwards, with inevitable consequences. Although the waters looked calm enough, they were deceptive and the reefs just offshore hid a treacherous drop-off point into very deep water. Several men lost their lives as they were sucked into the abyss, or by being attacked by sharks.
Finally the supply ships arrived and order was restored; the men were soon hard at work building the base camp for the imminent arrival of thousands of troops from Britain. In a few months, a 7,000-foot runway for the Valiant aircraft that would drop the bomb was built; 25 miles of tarmac roads followed, and special buildings for the bomb assembly were erected. With little natural fresh water, a sea water distillation plant was also installed.
By May 1957, the scientists were ready for their first test, but international opposition was growing. The Japanese, who had more reason than most to oppose the bombs, threatened to stop the test by sending a ‘suicide fleet’ to the danger zone.
To avoid embarrassment, the Air Ministry entered into an elaborate subterfuge with a journalist from the Daily Express who agreed to fake a story implying that the tests had been delayed and that William Penney was flying to Australia on a special mission. The flight plans as well as the code name, ‘Mr Elmhurst’, that Penney habitually used to avoid unwanted publicity, were also leaked to convey the impression the scientist was planning more bomb tests in Australia. A body double was used to impersonate Penney at several high-profile gatherings. Whether the Japanese were fooled is not known, but there were no ‘suicide protesters.’
The task force ships, led by HMS Warrior, moved into position a few miles off Malden Island and the British Government announced that a vast area of ocean covering 750,000 square miles was a no-go zone. It was a clear signal to the world that the bomb tests were imminent. The passage of several Valiant bombers, resplendent in bright white livery to deflect heat, through Hickam U.S. air force base in Hawaii was another certain indication.
With the eyes of the world now on a tiny dot in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, the government was most anxious to avoid looking foolish. But Penney under enormous pressure was forced to admit that he still couldn’t know for sure whether their bomb would work, and to avoid any embarrassment, it was decided that no newspapers would be invited to witness the first test.
The device chosen was a two-stage (Tom and Harry) prototype H-bomb, designed to produce a thermonuclear yield as close as possible to a million tons of TNT, one megaton. The components were manufactured at Aldermaston and then taken by convoy to RAF Wittering in Lincolnshire, prior to being flown to Christmas Island for final assembly.
But things went far from smoothly; there were annoying problems from the start. The aircraft carrying the ‘ball’ of radioactive material for the bomb, enclosed in a 700 pound lead container, for some reason lost radio contact on route to Hickam airport where it was to be collected for the final leg of its journey to Christmas Island. Inexplicably there had been problems with communications all the way from Canada and the crew were unable to contact the Americans who, after giving special permission for the Hastings aircraft and its ‘special’ cargo to fly over its territory, insisted in being informed of progress every step of the way.
This led to fears the aircraft was lost, and the ensuing panic saw the entire US air force being put on ‘red alert.’ And although contact was eventually made, the USAF was taking no chances. When the Hastings finally landed at Hickam with its top secret cargo, it was met by a flotilla of fire engines and military vehicles that accompanied the plane, bells clanging madly right into the hangar.
With secrecy blown out of the window, the operation had to continue in the full glare of publicity from local radio stations and newspapers who broadcast sensational stories about the “doomsday flight.” Plans were quickly re-drawn and the operation’s scientific director, William (Bill) Cook, had to be smuggled humiliatingly into Christmas Island like a sack of potatoes on the weekly supply flight.
The problems that bedevilled the project continued. Strong upper headwinds meant the Hastings with its doom-laden cargo didn’t have the fuel for the final leg and was grounded for three days. On Christmas Island there was a food-poisoning outbreak just as the dress rehearsal for the bomb test was getting under way. And in Britain a vital component for the bomb was lost after a motorbike courier transporting it from Aldermaston was involved in a traffic accident.
But the incident that really set teeth on edge occurred after the Hastings, with the radioactive core slung in a harness in the cargo hatch, finally arrived on Christmas Island. As the technicians gingerly removed the lead-lined casing, it was found the explosive shell around the highly unstable nucleus was cracked. Engineers discovered the temperature control in the bomb bay of the courier aircraft had malfunctioned causing a sudden drop in temperature which split the delicate casing. Cook, thought about sending for a replacement, but there was no time.
He went to talk things over with the Task Force Commander for Grapple, Air Vice Marshal Wilfred Oulton. The pair, both pipe-smoking throwbacks of a more genteel age, discussed the problem over a ‘couple of large ones’ in Oulton’s quarters. Finally one of the technicians came up with a solution: Bostik glue. There was a stunned silence and the blood drained from Oulton’s ruddy features. The unflappable Cook took a long pull on his pipe before, with a resigned shrug of his shoulders, told the man to go ahead. Oulton, shocked at the thought of Britain’s first H-bomb being held together with household glue, replenished their glasses.
At 10.44am on May 15th, 1957, the weapon, codenamed Short Granite, was released from Valiant bomber XD818 piloted by Wing Commander Kenneth Hubbard. It was dropped from a height of 45,000 feet, and exploded at about 8,000 feet, one and a half miles offshore from Malden Island. It was an impressive sight and newsreels released by the government were soon trumpeting the success of Britain’s first H-bomb test. But the scientists were disappointed: the yield of just 300 kilotons, was not the megaton range they had promised. Whitehall knew the test didn’t have enough clout to persuade the Americans to share their nuclear secrets; the mandarins were stung by one influential American senator who in private conversations derisively dismissed the British efforts as like trying to trade “a rabbit for a pony…”
The operation was further overshadowed by a tragic accident involving the Canberra aircraft carrying vital cloud samples from the bomb burst back to Britain. It crashed in a blizzard coming into land to refuel at Goose Bay, Newfoundland. Two pilots were killed. The Canberra was a PR.7 of No 58 squadron whose Order of Record Book recorded that the accident occurred “during a final approach in inclement weather at Goose Bay on 16th May, 1957. Pilot Officer J.S. Loomes and Flying Officer T.R. Montgomery sustained fatal injuries.”
According to the ORB the Canberra had arrived over its destination at 48,000 feet after a 4hr 22 min flight. Its crew, under orders to get the samples back to the UK as quickly as possible, had had no proper sleep in the previous 26 hours and no meal for the previous 18 hours. The accident was kept secret to avoid an outcry, but Penney was mortified and sent a letter to the head of the RAF. He wrote:-
I am writing to let you know how very much I and my senior staff regret the loss of the Canberra
off Newfoundland, particularly as the flight concerned was in connection with the return of our samples from Grapple. We are all the more distressed by this loss because of the truly admirable effort which your Service has made in connection with these trials. I have to write this in confidence because I understand no connection between the accident and the trial is being released.
Air Vice Marshall Oulton, was worried more than most by this latest setback to the Grapple operation. An irrational fear, truly alarming in its implications, was growing in his mind, a fear that would later lead to some of his contemporaries to doubt his sanity.
Put simply, the problems that had beset the first Grapple explosion and those that bedevilled later ones, seems to have led to a bizarre conviction in Oulton’s mind that the operation was being sabotaged by supernatural forces.
THE WITCH’S CURSE
This alarming fixation started to take hold after Oulton’s second-in-command, Air Commodore Cecil ‘Ginger’ Weir walked into Oulton’s tent one morning swinging a strange looking object which he casually explained (no doubt tongue in cheek) was a ‘Witch’s Curse’. Weir explained that the device, a stick with a small, yellowish skull stuck on the end, was being confidentally blamed by airmen for a series of mishaps on Shackleton aircraft en route from Britain to Christmas Island.
The legend emanated from the airfield in Northern Ireland where the Shackletons were based, and an adjoining mountain which was rich in spine-tingling tales of highway robbers, murderers, sorcery and witchcraft. The airfield was Ballykelly near Londonderry, and the adjoining mountain was called Binevenagh, but nicknamed ‘Ben Twitch’ by nervous airmen who had to navigate around its perilous slopes often in bad weather and poor visibility. The airfield had a bad reputation: on one day alone, four aircraft were lost in various crashes after taking off from Ballykelly, adding to the superstitions already associated with the area.
