by Alan Rimmer
No sooner were Cook and Wilson under way than the Christmas Island ‘curse’ struck again. The Canberra got lost in heavy cloud over Hawaii and because of radio trouble couldn’t raise Hickam air force base. They flew blind for over an hour and as the plane circled frantically looking for a gap in the cloud cover, it was forced to shut down one of its engines to conserve fuel. With 13,000-feet high volcanic peaks looming either side, the hopelessly lost Canberra was finally forced to make a crash landing on a disused air field at Kahului on the island of Maui. As the plane bumped to a halt, so did the one remaining engine. They were out of fuel. Cook, the most important British scientist after Penney, and Wilson one of the most senior officers in the RAF, suffered the indignity of having to be rescued by a local unit of the National Guard and having to ‘thumb a lift’ from a passing US Navy aircraft which eventually took them to Honolulu International.
There were red faces all round when the hapless pair finally arrived back in London. Oulton blamed the ‘curse’ and was in a dark mood when he also made a visit to Britain to confer with defence minister Sandys. The task force commander was furious about a decision taken by Sandys to give as little warning as possible to shipping about the forthcoming test. The government was anxious, he said, to avoid the possibility of ‘suicide ships’ from nuclear protesters sailing into the danger area.
Oulton protested that innocent ships, those on the high seas with legitimate commerce, might well accidentally sail into the area and disrupt the whole operation if adequate warnings were not issued. He wanted a broadcast to go out at least two months in advance and was apoplectic with rage when Sandys, whom he disparagingly called “this unsmiling character”, said that was too long and decreed that three weeks was enough warning. Oulton pointed out that in the vastness of the Pacific, most ships took many weeks to get from one port to another and therefore might be unable to receive the warning.
But it was to no avail and Oulton grumbling furiously returned to Christmas Island. His mood wasn’t helped when he was met by reports of growing dissent on the island by troops protesting about conditions. He toured the island giving pep talks to the men, but he was worried about the ugly mood that was developing.
The new influx of scientists from Aldermaston was also unhappy. They were used to home comforts, but some of their complaints were farcical. On one occasion during vital rehearsals for the drop, Oulton was called to an urgent meeting with a group of scientists who had ‘downed tools’ bizarrely because of some badly made sandwiches. One senior technician, driven to distraction by the conditions in one of the forward areas where he had to live, apparently complained about the sandwiches were only good for feeding the land crabs that constantly invaded his tent. He didn’t like what was on the sandwich, the packaging it came in, even the way it was cut. Oulton, doubtless biting his tongue, had no choice but to call a helicopter to bring some fresh sandwiches from the cookhouse 15 miles away before the scientists would agree to continue. They were frustrating days for Oulton who now found he spent most of his days quelling an increasing number of complaints.
Somehow they got through the difficulties and in early November the components of the newly designed weapon were delivered to Christmas Island. The final assembly took place in a shielded off hangar in a corner of the airfield. This time the two-stage thermonuclear bomb had a much more powerful atomic trigger, equivalent to 45,000 tons of TNT. It was ‘layer-cake’ design with a beryllium tamper which was hoped would generate sufficient energy to bring about the massive fusion reaction.
D-day was November 8. The last minute preparations were completed and it was hoped the fully primed bomb would produce an explosion of sufficient power to impress. But it was still by no means certain it would work satisfactorily. After a frustrating delay while an errant Liberian ship was shepherded out of the danger zone, the heavily-laden Valiant rose in the air and climbed to 45,000 feet. With Christmas Island so close to the target, the precise aiming of the bomb was crucial.
All the buildings had been evacuated. Aircraft not needed in the air were tethered to the runway, and tents were vented to allow the shock wave to pass through. Ground crew and other servicemen were mustered at the northern end of the island as far as possible from ground zero. The special reinforced camp for the scientists at the forward area, 20 miles from the projected ground zero, was dismantled, with only a few personnel remaining in specially built steel and earth bunkers.
Oulton was one of several officers who chose to be in the bunker for the big bang. He hunkered down behind the heavy steel doors as the countdown commenced. The lights were dimmed with the only illumination coming from a screen behind them which glowed white from a tiny hole in the steel wall. It was a classic pin-hole camera, through which Oulton and rest could watch the explosion projected on the screen. When it came it took everyone by surprise: it was huge. Many buildings were damaged, tents collapsed wholesale, and helicopters had their windows blown out.
A large number of native huts at Port Camp were damaged. The islanders were safe: they had been evacuated to ships moored miles off shore. Their homes suffered, however, which they later complained about. A small tribunal to assess the damage was convened, and minutes duly recorded. According to official records the Christmas Islanders were compensated by the British Government to the tune of £4 sterling for the damage caused.
Oulton and the scientific staff decided to leave their bunkers about 15 seconds after the explosion so they could experience the blast wave. Given the scientists were not sure just how big the explosion was going to be, this was a brave decision. Typically Oulton brushed aside these concerns and one can imagine him standing facing the blast, jutting chin, a heroic glint in his eye as the nuclear whirlwind approached. His only comment on the experience: “It was no worse than being at the bottom of a Welsh rugby scrum.”
The scientists worked out the Grapple X test had achieved the largest yield yet at 1.8 megatons and this had been brought about partly by a thermonuclear reaction. It was a tremendous relief. At last Britain could claim with some justification to be a nation with the H-bomb, albeit a prototype. The Prime Minister sent a letter of congratulation to the scientific team.
Flushed with success the Government spin went further than was strictly true. While the explosion had certainly been impressive, the new bomb still used huge quantities of Uranium 235 which made the combat use of the weapon impractical. And it still wasn’t the ‘pure’ thermonuclear bomb the politicians craved. Penney was summoned to another high-level meeting and another test was ordered. This time there were to be no half measures, nothing left to chance. The mixture had to be right; there were to be no mistakes. This could be the last chance Britain might have to join the top table. They wanted the world to sit up.
ISLAND OF THE DAMNED
The euphoria back home was not reflected on Christmas Island. The troops complained, as they always do. But after Grapple X, there was a different edge to the grumbles. The men complained about everything: they received no extra hardship money; the tents they lived in were cramped; when it rained conditions inside them were atrocious. The latrines were disgusting and they preferred to dig holes in the coral dust rather than use the official lavatories. These were fairly normal complaints, but things were somehow different.
A lot of nuclear veterans have told of an indefinable sadness that came over them in the aftermath of the explosion. Some were affected more than others, but the deep melancholy was almost tangible. And for others it developed into something darker. Mutiny was in the air. There were more fights, drunkenness was rife, orders were disobeyed, discipline was laughed at, officers were ridiculed; Christmas Island was teetering on the edge of madness and anarchy.
Low morale and disorganisation eventually led to a complete breakdown of law and order. One night the NAAFI was destroyed in a mini-riot. A drunken naval rating ran amok in a bulldozer, destroying a huge tented area. Homosexual acts (a criminal offence at the time) were common. Men were drunk all th
e time; one grainy newsreel which surfaced years later, shows drunken servicemen staggering around the tents, wearing floral bonnets, Hawaiian shirts and painted faces. The men were out of control.
One of the most serious incidents erupted after a blizzard of “Dear John…” letters arrived from home where sensational newspaper articles had warned the men’s reproductive organs would be damaged by radiation. (A very prescient warning, as it turned out.) As the sacks of mail were delivered to the camps, sounds of grief and outrage filled the air.
In a letter home one of the men wrote: “It was awful to hear. Grown men crying! It was the last straw for them and they didn’t know what to do. They were trapped on the island and now their sweethearts were abandoning them. There was a big fight later. They took it out on each other.”
Many serious assaults were carried out at this time. Servicemen fought vicious battles with knives improvised from sharpened can-openers. There were reports of several gang rapes. The worst offenders were sent home via Changi prison in Singapore. The island did not have its own prison. A large steel cage, like a rubbish skip, cannibalised from a water distillation tank, was used as a temporary ‘brig’ for miscreants who were simply tipped in until they sobered up.
News of these events was hushed up, but a few managed to get through. Questions were asked in Parliament after a report of fighting on Christmas Island appeared in the Daily Mirror. But mostly the lid was kept tightly on.
Being just soldiers, no real account was taken of their concerns, but the scientists from AWRE were a different matter. These were civilians, not soldiers and therefore subject to different rules. The politicians, terrified that they might refuse to go to the island, ensured they were pandered to. The Aldermaston men were given better tented accommodation, ablutions, showers and latrines. A second-hand ice-cream making machine from a British base in Benghazi (cost $800) was sent out. A selection of gramophone records was also dispatched as well as ‘12 teapots and fifty knives to remedy the shortage of crockery and cutlery.’ The library was to have 250 extra books and the supply of newspapers was to be increased. A new projector and the latest films were supplied.
The scientists and other AWRE staff, though better looked after than the troops, were still not immune to depression. Some found the antidote to this was to ‘go native.’ They grew luxuriant beards and only ever wore shorts and boots which gave them a distinctive Ben Gun castaway image. But as long as they were doing the work, they were tolerated. Nothing was allowed to hinder them because they were irreplaceable, and their work wasn’t done yet.
The troops, however, could be replaced, and arrangements were rapidly being made to send the majority back home before there was any more trouble. Many men were convinced they were being sent home because of fears they may have been contaminated after Grapple X. Ken Taylor, an army cook said: “We had a fish and chip business going four days a week. At the Port Camp there were 800 people, about 200 portions per night. Fish were taken from various parts of the Pacific. We were told there was no danger of radiation, but there was at least one story of Geiger counters going berserk when placed near crayfish caught to the south of the island.”
The Ministry of Defence has always denied any radioactive contamination on Christmas Island. Nevertheless there was a sudden decision taken after Grapple X to replace thousands of troops. All over Britain servicemen were being assembled to replace them. But there was a problem. Despite the best efforts of the authorities, word about the appalling conditions on the island had reached the public, and there were increasingly lurid stories appearing about the possible effects the bomb tests were having on the men. To boost morale hundreds of RAF men were flown out, some on the new Comet jets, on what became known as the “champagne flights.” Stories were placed in newspapers about ordinary RAF men enjoying lavish hospitality as they were flown “first class to paradise”.
Soldiers, mainly royal engineers, and hundreds of conscripts were told to report to Southampton docks where they would board a ‘cruise ship’ that would take them to the South Pacific. They were advised to take ‘suntan lotion, swimming trunks and light footwear’, as they would be spending ‘many hours of leisure activity’ during their ‘sunshine posting.’
Even some of their wives were corralled into taking a ‘trip of a lifetime.’ Sadie Midford, aged 28 a mother-of-two from Canterbury was startled to receive a knock on her door from a senior officer in her husband Tony’s regiment. He asked her if she would like to go out and meet Tony on Christmas Island.
She recalled: “Of course I thought he was joking. But he wasn’t. He said it was all above board, but I would have to make my mind up quickly because the boat was leaving shortly. He said all it would cost was £25 for me and £12 for my eldest daughter; the baby went free. Well I dashed round to my mothers and she said, ‘go, we’ll get the money together.’”
Mrs Midford was told to report to Southampton on New Year’s Eve where she was to board the ship for her ‘sunshine cruise’ to the Pacific. Before that she was told to attend a medical with her two children at the nearby hospital. The family was given a clean bill of health and a blood sample was taken from each of them.
The ship waiting for them at Southampton was the TT Dunera, a WW2 troopship that had seen better days, but it was comfortable enough for Mrs Midford who was soon joined by thirty more wives together with their 31 children. They were shown to spacious quarters on the top deck of the ship, while more than 1,000 relief soldiers for Christmas Island were crammed below decks, four to a cabin or slung across the galleys in hammocks.
Alcohol had been banned for the trip, but it was New Year’s Eve and there was a large contingent of Scots; a party was soon in full swing, thanks to someone managing to smuggle a crate of whisky aboard. There were inevitable consequences the following day as the Dunera nosed into the Atlantic and headed into the storm-tossed seas around the Azores: the decks rails were lined much of the way with seasick soldiers. Luckily the weather turned benign and most of those on board soon recovered. Three weeks later the Dunera reached Curacao in the Caribbean and passed through the Panama Canal for the last leg of its journey across the Pacific to Christmas Island.
It was a propaganda coup for the War Office as photographs of the Dunera, with smiling wives and children waving from the decks were flashed home. The Daily Mirror enthused: “Happy, happy family day….that’s the sort of day it was among the palm trees and coconuts of Christmas Island when the troopship Dunera sailed into the palm-fringed lagoon…”
Mrs Midford said: “There were a couple of ladies from the WVS waiting for us and we all had a big party. Tony, my husband, didn’t recognise me at first because I’d had a new hairdo. And I hadn’t seen him in over a year. The children loved it. We were only on the island two or three days and they played in the sand or swam in the lagoon the whole time. Our three-yr-old played in the water for hours.”
Mrs Midford’s trip of a lifetime was marred on the way back, however, when her daughter suddenly began to lose her hair. She said: “I noticed she had developed a bald spot as we sailed home on the boat. At first it was only small, about the size of a sixpence, and I didn’t think much about it. But over the months it gradually got bigger and bigger until it was about the size of the palm of my hand. I took her to a doctor who said he had no idea what was causing it. He asked me if I had changed her diet, things like that, but I said I hadn’t. Then I told him about my trip to Christmas Island, and he didn’t believe me; he said: ‘Are you seriously asking me to believe that the government sent children to an H-bomb testing zone?’ I said they most certainly had, but he still wouldn’t believe me, and just sent me away.”
This was an illuminating exchange: clearly the doctor believed it was a bad idea to send children out to a nuclear test site. So why was it done? This was a question that Mrs Midford and her husband asked themselves many times in the years to come. And it was even more urgent when their daughter contracted cancer at age 28. Mrs Midford said: “At the ti
me I thought the trip was an example of a kindly government but now I’m not so sure. I have got so many questions: why did they take blood samples? Why did they choose only mothers with children? Were they trying to find out something they didn’t tell us about? We have never been given answers to any of these questions.”
Searching questions about possible ill-effects have always been asked by nuclear veterans. At the time, however, these questions didn’t unduly worry Penney or his Aldermaston scientists. All they were concerned about was producing the ‘big one’, the weapon that would finally prove that Britain was now truly worthy to be a member of the exclusive megaton club. The new bomb, codenamed Grapple Y, would contain many new elements designed to boost yield. And this included a confection of chemicals never used before.
The exact nature of this hellish cocktail is still secret, but according to historian Lorna Arnold it was made up of ‘intimate mixtures of materials, consisting of micron-sized particles of uranium-235, uranium-238 and lithium deuteride.’ The chemicals thorium, beryllium, cobalt and other deadly isotopes were also thrown into the mix. It conjures up a cartoon image of a mad scientist cackling gleefully over a smoking test-tube as the final mixture for Grapple Y was being prepared.
