by Alan Rimmer
But the Hiroshima/Nagasaki cohort were not the only radiation exposed groups to be studied. Early radiologists who absorbed relatively large cumulative doses such as the New Jersey radium dial painters who in the 1910s and 1920s ingested radioactive materials in the workplace all suffered illness and early death. Uranium miners and patients treated with radiation were other affected groups.
Ionising radiation, the same as produced by atomic bombs, was well known to cause biological changes in both humans and experimental organisms. Academic papers available at the time showed that animals exposed to even very low levels of radiation could produce genetically damaged offspring.
As long ago as 1943 distinguished New York scientist Herman Muller won a Nobel Prize for his research into the genetic effects of radiation and it was generally accepted in scientific circles that radiation could induce mutations in the offspring of animals exposed to radiation.
Other research contained clear and unambiguous warnings about the genetic effects of radiation. World-renowned geneticist Dr D.G. Catcheside hammered home the point in a paper entitled ‘Genetic Effects of Irradiation with reference to Man,’ which he presented to the British Medical Research Council in February 1947.
He wrote: “All organisms investigated viruses, bacteria, fungi, liverworts, flowering plants, drosophila and other insects and mice, show genetic effect as a result of ionising radiations. It is therefore most probable that induced genetic changes, mutation and chromosome changes alike will be induced in man.”
This made the long-term medical studies of the A-bomb’s victims a high priority, for unlike victims of conventional bombings, their bodies’ responses to the effects of the bombs could take decades to appear. All of this makes it even more surprising that Neel and Schull found no evidence of genetic mutation in the offspring of survivors.
In August 1956 Neel and Schull formerly presented their results at the First International Congress of Human Genetics in Copenhagen. Later that year they published them in a paper, tentatively named “The Children of Hiroshima”, but published as “The Effect of Exposure to the Atomic Bombs on Pregnancy Termination in Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”
When the final 1,241-page report was published, they found themselves under attack from the wider scientific community who accused them of not being able to substantiate the results. Two of their most vociferous critics were Stanley Macht director of the Department of Radiology at Washington County hospital in Hagerstown, Maryland, and Philip Lawrence chief of familial studies unit of the Division of Public Health Methods, in the Public Health Service in Hagerstown.
Macht and Lawrence in October 1951 launched a survey of radiologists and other physicians to detect possible genetic effects of radiation. They sent out 8,000 questionnaires, about half to radiologists and half to physicians in medical specialties unlikely to involve exposure to radiation. The questions asked the doctors how many years they had been regularly exposed to radiation through X-Ray diagnosis, radium therapy or use of radioisotopes and whether they had ever been exposed to levels greater than accepted tolerance levels.
They also asked them to describe their reproductive history, number of children, miscarriages, congenital defects and stillbirths. The doctors wanted to find out if there were any anomalies present in their immediate families or those of their partners.
The Macht and Lawrence results indicated that the offspring of exposed fathers had higher rates of abnormalities. These abnormalities were visible in the first generation of offspring, and although the mutations were statistically relatively small, they were alarming enough to warrant further investigations.
Neel and Schull were quick to dismiss the findings, claiming they had the “holy Grail” of research material in the survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Their reassurances were accepted by most scientists. But further research once again put them on the back foot.
Paul de Bellefeuille, a Canadian Paediatrician who re-analysed the Neel and Schull data found significant genetic effects in some groups. He published two papers debunking the findings, and even suggested that Neel and Schull had attempted to conceal genetic effects in some groups.
De Bellefeuille decided to analyse the offspring of parental pairs in which one parent was heavily or lightly exposed and the other not exposed at all. This analysis revealed significant effects for sex ratio, stillbirth, neonatal death and total loss. He concluded that his new analysis brought out definite indications of genetic ill-effects of atomic radiation, at a high-level of statistical significance.
Neel and Schull also came under attack in Japan. Professor Sudao Ichikawa, a specialist in radiation genetics at Saitama University, claimed the study was deliberately biased. He did his own calculations and discovered he could make Neel and Schull’s information show significant levels of genetic disorders in the children.
In a statement, he said: “It was obvious the figures had been juggled to produce the right answers.”
Little of this important research reached the wider public. This considerable body of evidence should have alerted the British scientific establishment to the fact they were wrong to put so much credence on Neel and Schull. But they chose to ignore it
Prof Rotblat thought he knew why: “The problem is that most scientific and medical institutions, especially in this country, rely heavily on government funding for their research. That would be removed at a stroke if the ‘wrong’ research was produced. Scientists learned a long time ago not to rock the boat. Money always rules the roost.”
Dr Anver Kuliev, head of genetics at the World health Organisation in Geneva was one of only a handful of established scientists willing to go on record in support of the veterans. He said new studies, were being carried out whose initial findings suggested there was indeed a link between radiation exposure and genetic disorders.
The Tory government, as usual, was unmoved. A written statement from Adam Butler, a junior Defence Minister was terse and to the point: “Of course we are sorry for these unfortunate children. However it must be said that as there is no evidence that servicemen had received a radiation exposure other than that of normal background radiation, it is unlikely, therefore, that their children would have been affected.”
Later that year the long-awaited study into mortality rates among the veterans was published by the National Radiological Protection Board. Fronted by distinguished scientist Sir Richard Doll, the report was maddeningly inconclusive.
On the one hand it found that mortality rates were roughly similar among the veterans and a control group of ex-servicemen who had not attended the bomb tests, and a similar pattern emerged for cancer rates. But although the report also identified a possible increased risk in test participants developing leukaemia, this was dismissed as a “chance finding.”
The MoD’s response to a rising tide of criticism of the report from various academics and organisations was to commission a second study by Doll and his team, which it was estimated would take at least another two years. The plight of hundreds of sick children of nuclear veterans was completely ignored.
With public interest beginning to wane, the veterans lobbied individual MPs for support. Most Tory MPs, the party in power, refused to endorse the veterans (with the exception of Winston Churchill, grandson of the war-time leader and a handful of others), while those in the Labour and Liberal ranks whole-heartedly gave their support. The Labour Leader Neil Kinnock gave a “categorical pledge” to hold a full judicial inquiry into the bomb tests once Labour was returned to power. The rest of the putative Labour government, including a young Tony Blair, his deputy John Prescott, Margaret Beckett, David Blunkett and Jack Straw also solemnly promised to help the veterans.
The Ministry of Defence was eventually forced to issue another statement admitting that radiation could cause genetic damage, but added the confusing rider: “As far as radiation damage is concerned, it is known that for a given dose, the risk of causing genetic damage is markedly less than the risk of causing cancer.”
The statement was ridiculed. Distinguished Birmingham epidemiologist Dr Alice Stewart, who had already produced a study showing that atomic veterans had suffered a higher than normal rates of cancers, accused the government of trying to fudge the issue, adding: “The clear link between radiation and genetic effects has been well established for many years.”
Another scientist, Dr Rosalie Bertell, head of cancer research at the Rothwell Park Institute in Buffalo, New York, also condemned the MoD’s statement. Dr Bertell, who was in England to present evidence at a public inquiry into the Sizewell B nuclear plant said: “The nuclear powers have been covering up the genetic effects of radiation since Hiroshima.”
The row rumbled on, but the government refused to budge. One Tory minister admitted privately: “We can’t accede to these demands there is no telling where it will end.” And there lay the problem with the veterans’ campaign: it was in some ways too successful. They had won the argument and secret plans were in the pipeline to compensate them through the social security budget. But the added dimension of the veteran’s children would open the door to unimaginable payouts. So the government dug its heels in and counted on the media and by default the public, growing bored with the story. But just when they thought the issue had gone away, the nuclear agenda was kept in the headlines by new revelations about the notorious Sellafield reprocessing plant which for 30 years had been the dark heart of Britain’s nuclear bomb making industry.
THE DARK TOWER
On the wild and windswept coast of Cumbria in the far north west of England stands the giant Sellafield nuclear plant glowering on the horizon like a modern-day manifestation of the Dark Tower in Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings.
There is something about Sellafield that inspires supernatural awe. When it was built in the 1950s it was so remote that it was a dawn to dusk journey just to travel the 350 miles from London.
Even today the last 40 or so miles can only be accessed by the A595, a winding country road that hugs the shoreline of the Irish Sea as it meanders through valleys and towering rocky outcrops. For miles there is little sign of habitation until quite suddenly after a bend in the road the giant plant leaps into view.
There is an almost palpable sense of foreboding about the place, and up close it seems to thrum with a dark energy. Legends of death and disease are woven into its fabric, and the deadly menace of its discharges extends for miles along the once pristine coastline of the Irish Sea.
People who live in this remote corner of England have learned to live and even welcome Sellafield for the wealth and prosperity it has brought. They have made a pact with the nuclear devil in return for a more equitable life.
Sellafield was built in the late 1940s on the site of an old Royal Ordnance factory, and the local population, mainly farm workers, looked upon the activities with some interest.
The huge influx of building workers, mainly Irish navvies, bussed in to dig the ditches and foundations, were looked upon with suspicion, while the vanguard of young pipe-smoking, duffle-coated scientists was regarded with the same awe as an invasion by alien beings.
Lured from Oxford and London to take part in the pioneering work, these brilliant young men were housed in a guarded, purpose-built hostel next to a derelict Georgian mansion brooding among trees in the village of Holmbrook.
Living accommodation was three concrete blocks containing single rooms, said to compare favourably with a luxury hotel. A communal block contained a bar, a billiards room, shops, an assembly hall and a dance floor. Peacocks sunned themselves on the roof while dominating the skyline, the mighty square-topped 400-foot towers of Sellafield looked like unworldly monuments awaiting their statues.
The daily ritual for workers entering the site was straight out of science fiction. They entered through guarded gates and were required to remove all their clothes and don fresh ones. On leaving they had to go through a series of showers and then enter a machine which clanged “like a demented fire engine” if it detected any radioactivity.
Outside the closely-guarded gates of the plant, green vans toured the narrow lanes as scientists tested water, soil and vegetation.
Atomic energy development was the most exciting job in Britain at the time and the young scientists revelled in the allure of being at the cutting edge of a new scientific dawn.
The serious business of producing plutonium began in 1947 when the plutonium production piles were built. The system was cooled by air flow rather than water and was considered revolutionary at the time.
The site was given a new name, Windscale, and work progressed at a brisk pace. By 1952 production of plutonium commenced and by March of that year the site operators opened up the reactor vessel and gazed upon the first plutonium produced in Britain.
It was a singular achievement, and the precious cargo was soon heading for Aldermaston to be installed in Britain’s first atomic bomb.
There was much rejoicing and the scientists became the “nuclear knights” of the realm invested with Arthurian acclaim and prestige. Their stock rose even higher when Britain’s young Queen Elizabeth II formally opened Britain’s first nuclear power plant on the nearby Calder Hall site in October 1956.
The new station was hailed as a world first and amazing things were promised. The new “super-fuel” would soon transform energy supplies.
Word got round that a single ton of uranium would release as much energy as four million tons of coal, making nuclear power “too cheap to meter.”
Holiday jets and cruise ships would soon be powered by nuclear engines; harbours could be blasted out of the coastlines by “controlled atom bombs”, and even household appliances such as kettles and washing machines could, in theory at least, be powered by “nuclear atoms.”
None of these things of course ever came to fruition, but it was necessary to whip up the patriotic fervour to mask Windscale’s primary objective: to produce the fuel for Britain’s atomic weapons.
As the arms race intensified Britain was desperate to stay in the running. More and more demands were made on Windscale, to produce enough plutonium for Britain’s bomb makers at Aldermaston.
The workload became too much and the system began to creak. The first ominous sign occurred in May 1956 when a steel component in the furnace with its deadly charge of uranium fuel shattered.
An immediate repair was essential to prevent a massive release of radioactive gases. The only way to repair the damage was by entering the “basement” of the furnace via the concrete channel that links the furnace to a deep pond used to store the spent fuel rods.
But even with protective suits, no man could spend more than 25 minutes in the chamber. Meltdown was only averted by 251 volunteers working in quick-change relays.
Details of the incident were kept secret and the crash production of plutonium for Britain’s nuclear bombs continued unabated. It finally proved too much for the system. In October 1957 Pile No. 1 blew its top and an uncontrolled fire raged for two days and nights.
According to official reports a problem was first identified at 2pm on October 10 when radiation monitoring equipment identified activity in an air sampling filter.
Other measurements were taken from various areas of the site before Pile No 1 was examined by health physics officials. The sight through a viewing window must have made their hair stand on end: the heart of the pile containing the uranium was glowing white hot and vast quantities of radioactivity were being released.
Amazingly the plant’s bosses tried to keep things “in-house” and no warnings were issued. As Pile No 1 spewed radioactivity into the air, local people went about their business as usual; mothers pushed their babies in prams along the streets, shops displayed their foodstuffs in the windows and young children played in their gardens.
While this was going on Windscale managers were in a panic. No-one seemed to know what to do and for a while the site resembled a film set for the Keystone Cops.
Guards from the on-site Atomic Energy Authority
police were issued with protective suits and respirators, and ordered to guard the perimeter. But the sight of these unfamiliar figures, reeking of rubber and grunting incoherently into facemasks sent their Alsatian guard dogs wild, the result being they immediately attacked their masters.
As the guards and dogs ran hither and thither over the site, the managers were desperately trying to find out what was happening inside the furnace. An old periscope from a submarine was used to look inside the furnace while a contingent of men were despatched to strip a nearby building under construction of its scaffolding.
Scores of men, working without protective clothes, used the scaffolding to push thousands of highly radioactive fuel elements out of the stricken reactor pile. Others wrestled with burning graphite as the furnace began to glow red hot.
They worked through the night but the pile carried on burning and the scaffolding glowed white hot and melted. They soon became exhausted and most had far exceeded the radiation limit. Other volunteers were bussed in from outside.
After two days, and with the fire burning out of control, the decision was taken to try to put the fire out with water hoses. This was a highly risky procedure which could have culminated in a huge explosion.
But the bosses decided they had no choice; only then was the local police force alerted and evacuation procedures put in place. Luckily the feared explosion never materialised and the situation was gradually brought under control.
But by this time the word was out and a ripple of panic spread throughout the surrounding communities. Local media representatives arrived at the gates of the plant and their ranks were soon swelled by hundreds more who swept up from Manchester and London to report on the “Plant of Doom.”
Windscale managers felt as though they had been transported back to the French revolution as the clamouring mob besieged the gates to the plant. The situation was not made any better by the all-pervading stench of thousands of gallons of sour milk dumped by local farmers in fields after officials warned their cattle had been grazing on contaminated land.
