As the train sped into the night, Oppie and Groves discussed the plans for the new bomb laboratory and the high-level security measures the military considered necessary to safeguard their research. Sitting almost knee to knee in the tiny compartment, Oppenheimer voiced his reservations about Groves’ plan to have scientists at various sites around the country working on separate projects, pointing out that it would be extremely difficult to coordinate the different groups.
In a bold move, or a moment of unguarded honesty, Oppenheimer had confided to Groves in an earlier meeting that he was less than happy with the progress of the scattered small groups assigned to work on the bomb project. Forced to work under the constraints of “compartmentalization,” which mandated that every group work on a need-to-know basis with only a handful of senior people being fully informed, and which he knew to be Groves’ particular innovation, “the little laboratories suffered from their isolation.” Oppie expanded on his earlier complaint, arguing that work was being duplicated, the physicists were confused about what was being done elsewhere and had no sense of direction or hope. Looking to the future, communication between the projects would be extremely difficult. They could not relay classified material over the telephone, and teletype was tricky. As the bomb work accelerated, it would necessitate constant travel for all the project leaders that would be inevitably delaying. Oppenheimer was also afraid that morale would suffer over the long haul if the scientists were walled off from one another and not permitted to know the magnitude of what they were working on.
Few people knew how to argue their case as winningly as Oppie, and he now employed those skills to his full advantage. Aware by now that Groves was not sympathetic to amorphous pleas for free and open scientific discourse, he carefully anchored his argument to more practical concerns. Appealing directly to Groves’ obsession with security, Oppie proposed that all the research be consolidated in a single laboratory, located in an isolated region, where the scientists could converse freely among themselves and secrecy could still be maintained. Oppenheimer argued that if they picked a site that was smaller than Lawrence’s operation at Oak Ridge, in Tennessee, where large numbers of workers came and went every day, and was far removed from any population center, the lab could be completely protected from outsiders and enemy spies.
Groves was quick to recognize the merits of Oppie’s plan. The idea of rounding up the troublesome scientists and keeping them in one guarded camp had a logic he understood. It was a compromise, but one Groves could live with and make work. If he could not keep the scientists from talking to one another, then at least he could make sure they did not talk to anyone else. He dispatched Lieutenant Colonel John H. Dudley to conduct a preliminary investigation of possible sites for this central facility. Now, with the question of where the lab would be located well on the way to being settled, all that was left to do was pick the right man to run it. Compton had the right background, but could not be spared from the Met Lab in Chicago and its important work on chain reactions and fast neutrons. And although Compton had appointed Oppenheimer to head the design and fabrication phase of the project, Groves did not feel committed to him, especially since “no one with whom [he] talked showed any great enthusiasm about Oppenheimer as a possible director.”
Despite Oppenheimer’s technical competence and delicate handling of the prickly egos at the Berkeley seminar, it is doubtful that he would have been chosen to head the bomb project had Ernest Lawrence been available. Not only was Lawrence a Nobel laureate who was highly regarded by both his peers and the Washington establishment, he was the country’s foremost experimental physicist, with a long record of success at building large machines. Groves had immediately hit it off with the enthusiastic, down-to-earth Lawrence, and he certainly would have been Groves’ first choice had it not been for the fact that Lawrence was desperately needed to oversee the magnetic separation process at Oak Ridge that was to produce the uranium 235 for the atomic bomb. They could not risk distracting Lawrence or upsetting the Oak Ridge operation in any way. It is also unlikely that Lawrence would have been easily persuaded to leave his own laboratory to go off and collaborate on such a questionable venture under quasi-military auspices. Instead, Lawrence recommended one of his protégés, Edwin McMillan, who was an outstanding theorist but a somewhat reticent person and not the sort of commanding figure Groves had in mind. Teller favored his close friend Hans Bethe, who, he argued, was “unquestionably a superior theoretician,” not to mention considerably more popular than Oppenheimer. But as Bethe was a foreign national, Groves, of course, considered him out of the question.
The selection process continued, with Groves meeting with small groups to talk over a short list of names. As the end of October drew near, Oppenheimer clearly emerged as his candidate to head the new laboratory. It promised to be an extraordinarily difficult job, and as Compton and Groves concurred, one that required unique qualifications. There were not only the massive scientific and technical challenges to consider, but as Compton looked ahead, extremely difficult experiments would have to be conducted under conditions of “almost unprecedented seclusion.” What’s more, the leader of this enterprise would have to be “a person of such human understanding that he could keep a group of high-strung specialists working smoothly together while largely separated from the outside world.” Not only was Oppenheimer a specialist in the problems of nuclear physics, but in Compton’s view, “he was one of the very best interpreters of the mathematical theories to those of us who were working more directly with the experiments.”
Both Compton and Groves were well aware of Oppenheimer’s left-wing sympathies, including his attendance at a number of Communist Party meetings and anti-fascist rallies, and his Teachers’ Union work. They had also reviewed the thick FBI file enumerating his many “pink” associations, including a former fiancée, Jean Tatlock, who had encouraged his nascent political activism and remained a close friend and confidante; his new wife, Kitty, who had joined the Communist Party in solidarity with her second husband, a party organizer; and his brother Frank and Franks Canadian wife, Jacquenette (Jackie) Quann, both of whom had joined the party in the late 1930s. Many of Oppenheimer’s Berkeley protégés had similar ties to leftist politics, including Robert Serber, whose wife, Charlotte, was the daughter of Morris Leof, a Russian Jew and prominent Philadelphia physician who ran a sort of liberal political-literary salon whose habitués included the playwright Clifford Odets and the journalist I. F. Stone. Compton knew firsthand of Oppie’s participation in “certain Communist activities” in the late 1930s but, after talking those over with him, was satisfied by Oppie’s explanation that they had only been attempts to educate himself. “He felt that a responsible citizen ought to have reliable knowledge of this growing new movement,” Compton recalled in his memoir, and he gave Compton reason to believe he had come to regard it as “dangerous.”
Despite people’s expressed concerns about Oppenheimer’s past radicalism, Lawrence had vouched for him in the embryonic days of the atomic program and had insisted on his being included in top-level meetings. Oppenheimer was, in a sense, his man, and in the end, Lawrence backed him, with the condition that the new laboratory be an administrative extension of the University of California, which also presided over Lawrence’s lab. By 1942, Compton had also come to the conclusion that Oppie was far too knowledgeable to allow himself to be entangled in the “Communist net.” “The important matter now,” Oppenheimer had assured him, “is the nation’s defense. I’m cutting off all my Communist connections. For if I don’t the government will find it difficult to use me. I don’t want to let anything interfere with my usefulness to the government.” Oppie did not succeed in silencing the FBI’s doubts about him, however, and the close surveillance that was kept up throughout the war years would later come back to haunt him.
From the very outset, Oppenheimer was regarded as a complex, problematic, and controversial character. Even as a scientist, he was an unlikely choice. As Manley had
earlier pointed out to Compton, one of his principal reservations about Oppenheimer was that he “had essentially zero laboratory experience” and although “he did understand laboratory techniques, almost anybody would have had more experimental experience.” He lacked the stature, the administrative skills, and, given his previous lack of interest in mundane affairs, possibly even the temperament for the job. There was nothing in his background or résumé to indicate that he was suited for a position of such awesome responsibility. He was second-best by any measure, but according to Groves, by then it had become apparent that they “were not going to find a better man.” With few alternatives left to him by the end of that October, Groves named Oppenheimer director of the bomb project.
Given the prevailing sentiment at the time about Oppies weaknesses, the general’s decision did not inspire confidence. “To most physicists it came as a great surprise,” said Isidor I. Rabi, the formidable Columbia University physicist who was, at the ripe old age of forty-four, regarded as an elder statesman by the young researchers he worked with on the radar project, adding that he considered Oppenheimer to be “a most improbable appointment.”
Years later, when asked why he was chosen as director of the Manhattan Project, Oppenheimer would say simply, “By default.” He would add that it was not a job anyone wanted. “The truth is, that the obvious people were already taken and that the project had a bad name.”
In that moment, pressed to make a decision, Groves must have glimpsed some potential in Oppie—the same innate authority he had observed time and again in men who had taken an unruly group of soldiers and molded them into a disciplined unit—that would ultimately prove invaluable in bringing the atomic task to successful completion. He may also have thought he saw in Oppie something of himself. There was, after all, the same intense ambition, the same presumption of excellence—from themselves above all, and by extension anyone associated with them—that made them both demanding and compelling leaders. Oppenheimer, like Groves, did not suffer fools gladly, and both men had made their share of enemies in the course of their careers. Perhaps as a consequence, in spite of strong records and impressive credentials, neither had advanced to the highest level of his profession. Oppenheimer had majored in chemistry in college and had specialized in mathematical theory late in his training. He had made important contributions in the 1930s in the field of cosmic rays and stellar objects—later known as neutron stars and black holes—but was too diverse in his interests to mine one narrow band of research. He was already past his prime as a theoretician and was generally regarded as a better critic than original thinker. Groves had lingered too long at the rank of lieutenant and, at forty-six, was considered long in the tooth for an army colonel. Now that his overdue promotion to brigadier general had finally come through, it was pegged to what he regarded as a minor administrative post, another desk job, and not to the overseas combat assignment, and glory, he desired.
Here was an opportunity for both men to prove themselves and, in doing so, make a significant contribution to the war. The atomic weapons project was a highly risky proposition, and failure would certainly end their careers. But in their own ways, both Groves and Oppenheimer realized that in working together to build the bomb, they might achieve the greatness that had eluded them thus far. “They recognized in each other the absolute commitment to making the thing work, and a broad commitment to winning the war,” said Morrison, who in the early days of the war served as a technical advisor to Groves and knew both men well. “So they had to give in on matters of style. You have to understand that nobody believed in the project, and besides, they couldn’t tell anybody about it. Groves was a hard guy to work for, and he was mean, but he made things happen. He had to be tough, and he was very tough. But Robert handled him very well. He called him ‘His Nibs’ because he always had a colonel carrying his briefcase.”
THREE
The Bluest Eyes I’ve Ever Seen
OPPENHEIMER WAS ALREADY knee-deep in the bomb project when Groves handed it to him. With the matter of his security clearance still pending—though the general would see that it was rammed through—Groves promptly arranged for Oppie to accompany him on a tour of possible locations for Site Y, as the classified bomb laboratory was called within the project. As secrecy was their first priority, isolation was the single most important criterion in selecting the site, but there was a long list of mitigating factors: a mild climate that would permit work year-round, access by road and rail, a large enough area for an adequate testing ground, and sparse neighboring population within a hundred-mile radius to enforce safety and security.
As Colonel Dudley recalled, Oppenheimer also advised him that in evaluating possible sites, he should bear in mind that some existing facilities were needed: “The idea was that the six scientists would move in and start a think-tank operation immediately.” Dudley surveyed parts of California, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico, but as the air force and navy had already been through these areas and picked off the best spots, and as coastal areas were ruled out because of the possibility of attack by sea, Dudley quickly narrowed the list to five sites: Gallup, Las Vegas, La Ventana, Otowi, and Jemez Springs. After being evaluated, the first three failed to meet the requirements, and Dudley concluded that based on what he had seen of the remaining two, their best bet was Jemez Springs, New Mexico.
It was decided that they should all meet there and take a look for themselves. On November 16, 1942, Dudley took Oppenheimer and Ed McMillan out to Jemez Springs, which turned out to be a narrow, deep canyon cut out of the Jemez Mountains. While it technically met all their requirements, Oppenheimer worried that being hemmed in by cliffs on three sides might have a depressing effect on laboratory personnel. There was also the politically sensitive problem of relocating the many Indian families who farmed there. They were in the midst of discussing the difficulties of inspecting the steep perimeter when Groves arrived. After a quick look around, Groves vetoed the site, declaring tersely, “This will never do.” It was then that Oppie, who had had the Otowi site in mind all along and had been maneuvering toward it in his subtle way, suggested that while they were there, they might as well inspect another location nearby. He told Groves, “If you go on up the canyon, you come out on top of the mesa, and there’s a boy’s school there which might be a usable site.”
They all piled into cars and drove up a perilously winding dirt road to the Los Alamos Ranch School. It was late afternoon when they reached the top of the mesa, and a light snow was falling. They did not enter the grounds, as McMillan recalled, but stood at the gate looking in:
It was cold and there were the boys and their masters out on the playing fields in shorts. I remarked that they really believed in hardening up the youth. As soon as Groves saw it, he said, in effect, “This is the place.”
Four days later, on November 20, after a hasty meeting in Washington, Oppenheimer and McMillan went back to carefully inspect the site, this time accompanied by Ernest Lawrence. Oppie, as it turned out, had been there before and had privately wanted Los Alamos from the beginning. He and his brother owned a ranch nearby in the Pecos Valley, just across the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, whose snowcapped peaks glowing dusky red at sunset had inspired the early Spanish settlers to name them “Blood of Christ.” It seemed typical somehow of Oppie to choose such a dramatic setting, perched on the cone of an extinct volcano. The broad tabletop of the mesa, two miles long and almost 7,300 feet above sea level, afforded majestic views of the whole mountain range. It was bordered on the north and south by steep rock canyons, which offered natural protection. A beautiful grove of cottonwood trees, for which Los Alamos was named, grew beside a shallow stream that ran along the edge of the canyon to the south. The school grounds provided a scattering of buildings and crude log cabins that could be used until additional laboratory space and housing were constructed. The surrounding area was unpopulated, with empty canyons, flat green valleys, and acres of open fields for future testing grounds.
Although only a thirty-five-mile drive from Santa Fe, the Los Alamos site was isolated in the extreme and virtually inaccessible. The last, treacherous, ten-mile track leading up to the school was unpaved and riddled with deep ruts left by the dry creek beds called “arroyos,” that flooded each spring and turned the road into an almost impassable bog. The road was precipitously steep as it approached the narrow Otowi Bridge leading up to the mesa, and parts of it were cut out of the solid wall of the canyon and featured half a dozen hair-raising switchbacks leading up the face of almost perpendicular cliffs. The nearest railroad was more than sixty miles away, which meant all the truckloads of goods, building materials, and heavy laboratory equipment would have to be hauled up over hill and vale. There were numerous objections to the site besides the road’s obvious shortcomings, including the lack of water and power. But Oppie was happy. He had gotten what he wanted, and the problems were not insurmountable. Groves immediately began formal steps to acquire the school and surrounding land.
Oppenheimer returned to Berkeley ecstatic about his trip. Greene knew he had been investigating possible sites and asked him how that had gone. He told her he had found the ideal spot. “He said he had had this marvelous weekend on a beautiful mesa in New Mexico and was going out there to do a project.” She had been intrigued by the rhapsodic descriptions of the countryside in letters she had typed and without hesitating asked, “Can’t I go too?” Oppie said he would be delighted to have her along, which annoyed Lawrence no end, as he now had to replace another secretary. Lawrence reluctantly agreed to let her go, on the condition she find her own replacement. Greene went to work for Project Y right away, using the office of a physics professor who was on leave. “I was twenty-three,” she recalled. “It was a very exciting time. There was no formality—potential staff visited and I got to go to all the parties.”
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