109 East Palace

by Jennet Conant

  Still sitting there on the ground, Conant, who was next to Groves, reached over to acknowledge their achievement with a silent handshake. Bush, who was on the general’s other side, did the same. As he rose, Conant heard Groves mutter, “Well, there must be something in nucleonics after all.” They could hear the continuous reverberation of the initial report, like a loud rifle shot, echoing back as the sound waves bounced off the surrounding hills. After about sixty seconds, as the dust cloud billowed up, Conant remembered that “the whole assembled group, including many MPs, gave out a spontaneous cheer.” They had suddenly come to the thrilling realization that the force of the blast exceeded even their most optimistic expectations. Fat Man had been powerful far beyond their wildest hopes, and all the pent-up emotions of the past twenty-eight months were released as they broke into a gleeful celebration at base camp, carrying on, Eric Jette recalled, “like a bunch of college freshmen after a football victory.”

  A few minutes later, Oppenheimer arrived by jeep, followed by Farrell, who bounded over to Groves and declared, “The war is over.” Groves’ response was more tempered: “Yes, after we drop two bombs on Japan.” Groves quietly congratulated his director and said, “I am proud of all of you.” Oppenheimer replied with “a simple ‘Thank you,’” and Groves, noting his restraint, observed, “We were both, I am sure, already thinking of the future and whether we could repeat our success soon and bring the war to an end.”

  By that time, the reports were flooding in. “The most exciting news was that the steel tower over ‘Jumbo’ 800 yards away had disappeared,” Conant recalled. “This was unexpected and showed a very much more powerful effect than expected.” Tolman, comparing the huge ball of fire, which had mushroomed to a height of over 10,000 feet before dissipating, to the 100-ton TNT shot, agreed that this was “entirely different.” There was, he agreed, “no question they got a nuclear reaction.” The best estimates of the blast measurement seemed to be between 10,000 and 15,000 tons, though Rabi maintained 18,000 would yet prove right. There was some fallout, but it was nothing dangerous, though Conant noted that those at the North 10,000 shelter had to evacuate in a hurry when their meter went off the scale. They later swore the cloud of smoke “seemed to chase them!” but that turned out to be a false alarm. Several men told stories of being knocked down by the detonation wave. The only serious injury was one man at base camp who made the mistake of looking directly at the explosion without protective glasses, which immediately resulted in a bad burn to his corneas. He had to be given morphine, though the prognosis was that he would not lose his sight.

  The crowd of celebrating scientists at base camp swelled as people returned from the shelters, and Oppenheimer and Groves were mobbed by men pounding them on the back and showering them with congratulations. But not everyone was overcome with joy. When Conant bumped into Sam Allison, whose strong authoritative voice calling out “Zero” had been the last thing he had heard before the landscape lit up, Allison seemed almost distraught. “Oh, Mr. Conant,” he said, his voice breaking as though it had only just occurred to him what they were doing in the desert. “They’re going to take this thing and fry hundreds of Japanese!”

  On the morning of Sunday, July 15, Dorothy got a call from a friend on the Hill saying that a few couples were going on a picnic and would she like to join them. She was happy to tag along, but when he told her what time to meet them, she expressed surprise. “But, goodness, it’s the evening isn’t it?” she asked puzzled. “Yes,” he continued in the same light but insistent tone, but they were going “way out into the country,” and she should be sure to tell her son that if it got too late, they might stay with some acquaintances that lived out that way.

  It had taken her a minute, but Dorothy understood the meaning of his call. This was it. She dutifully repeated the story about the overnight trip to Kevin, but he did not swallow it as easily as she might have hoped. He was used to going on hiking trips with her and the Hill people—it was one of the things they always did together—and was hurt at being excluded. He demanded to know what was so special about this particular outing that he could not join them. But she could not tell him, and he was still sulking when she left. “This was a great secret, my going,” she explained. “We all would have been shot at sunrise for anything like that, particularly the young scientists who asked me to join them.”

  She jumped in her friends’ car, and they sped toward Albuquerque. They climbed to the top of Sandia Peak and got out, and looked south toward Trinity. There was nothing but black sky. The test was scheduled to take place around 4:00 A.M., but it was a bad night, and it showered sporadically while they waited. In the distance, Dorothy could see a plane dragging instruments and balloons designed to measure the humidity, temperature, and wind speed and direction. If the storm picked up, the observation planes would not be able to fly. She knew that meant the test might not proceed as planned. They did not have to tell her what a delay would mean. Everyone’s emotions were already keyed up to a fever pitch. It started to pour again. She pictured Oppenheimer, already spent from too many twenty-four-hour days, now forced to do battle with the elements. Her heart went out to him, and she remembered thinking, “Poor Oppie, he’s down there and it’s raining.”

  It was a long wait till the first pale hint of dawn. Then, without warning, the whole sky lit up. The flash was so bright, it illuminated the northern sky from its apex to the horizon. She could not remember hearing any noise, but the shock was so great it left her feeling weak. “The feeling of awe that I had when that light hit us was remarkable,” she said. “I don’t think anyone has ever seen such an explosion… . The leaves of the green native trees were kind of shining with the gold. It was different. Everything was different. The world was changed.”

  EIGHTEEN

  A Rain of Ruin

  MOST OF THE SENIOR scientists not required at base camp took off late Sunday night to watch the first atomic shot from Compañia Hill, the officially designated observation point twenty miles northwest of ground zero. Many others staked out unofficial viewing sites of their own, or held all-night vigils with colleagues. Those wives who were aware of the test were told to stay tuned to the radio, and to look out their windows to the south for something that might look like the glow of the midday sun on the dark horizon. Unable to sleep, Elsie McMillan had fixed her husband a hearty breakfast at 2:30 A.M. Monday morning, and was sitting up and watching the clock when a light tap came on her door. It was her neighbor Lois Bradbury, whose husband, Norris, was “out there, too.” They sat together throughout that long night, consuming gallons of coffee and talking. “We talked of many things, our men whom we loved so much, of the children, their futures, of the war with all its horrors. We kept the radio on softly,” she recalled. “We dared not turn it off.”

  They were in the baby’s room, staring out the window, when they saw it—a blinding light in the sky. The news on the radio broke the stunned silence in the room: “FLASH! The explosives dump at the Alamogordo Air Base has blown up. No lives are lost. The explosion is what caused the tremendous sound and the light in the sky. I repeat for the benefit of the many phone calls coming in: the explosive dump at the Alamogordo Air Base has blown up. No lives are lost.” They recognized the prepared press release. They knew from past experience that army intelligence would have prepared other fictitious stories blaming the explosion on a plane crash, an earthquake, or even a meteor, anything but the truth. “We looked at each other,” recalled Elsie McMillan. “It was a success. Could we believe the announcement, ‘No lives are lost’? They had not said no injuries. We had hours to wait to be absolutely sure. At least it was over!”

  That Monday morning dawned clear and dazzlingly bright, and the overjoyed inhabitants of Los Alamos gathered in groups all over town to celebrate. “There were tears and laughter,” Eleanor Jette recalled. “We beat each other on the back, our elation knew no bounds; the long months of loneliness and worry were almost over, the work was a success—the gadget
worked!” There was such a great demand for newspapers that the PX ran out by noon and the remaining copies had to be passed around. Dorothy ran around town scooping up all the editions she could find and had them sent up.

  The Santa Fe New Mexican reported only that “an ammunition magazine” had blown up and buried the story on the back page. The story in The Albuquerque Tribune was next to the weather, and they were all certain they saw security’s handiwork in the brief report, which included the hilarious understatement: “That big flash to the southwest this morning wasn’t sheet lightning.” But the El Paso papers appeared to have escaped the long arm of G-2 and carried headlines about the explosion. The El Paso Herald-Post even included an eyewitness account of a railroad engineer in Belen who said he had a “front row to the greatest fireworks show he had ever seen.” He described seeing “a tremendous white flash. This was followed by a great red glare and high in the sky were three tremendous smoke rings. The highest was many hundreds of feet high. They swirled and twisted as though being agitated by a great force. The glare lasted about three minutes and then everything was dark again, with the dawn breaking in the east.”

  Whether Groves liked it or not—he reportedly cautioned security that he wanted the test results kept under wraps—the bomb was big news at Los Alamos. It was all anyone could talk about, especially the wives. After so many months of grim silence, they now wanted to know everything. At last, they could ask questions and expect answers. Even the most timid suddenly became vocal and were talking to everyone, and pestering the scientists and officers who had remained behind, to fill 7 them in. But they had to be careful. Censorship was still very much in force, as Dorothy learned the hard way when G-2 showed up on her doorstep first thing that Monday morning and inquired about a suspicious call tipping her off about the time of the Trinity test. “We’ve been monitoring your telephone,” the agent informed her, “and something was said about ‘seeing something.’” Well acquainted with the ways of army intelligence, Dorothy quickly babbled something about her poodle “usually having the manners to sleep while she was sleeping,” but explained that on this particular morning he had wanted out so badly that she was forced to rise at 5:30 and so just happened to see “the lights.” The agents were clearly not satisfied with her explanation, but had too much to do to bother with her that day. Despite their best efforts, it was impossible for security to clamp down on the eruption of curiosity and chatter. It was as if a dam had broken. All Monday afternoon, friends converged on balconies to trade information and whisper snatches of what they had managed to pry out of the men returning from the viewing sites.

  Everyone waited on tenterhooks for the buses to return from Trinity. By early evening, the first scientists from base camp began staggering back to the Hill looking filthy and tired but exuberant. Many of them were too exhausted to talk and shook off the barrage of questions and headed straight for a shower and bed. But some found sleep impossible and came streaming into the dining room in Fuller Lodge, flashing wide grins and greeting everyone by raising their fingers in the “V for Victory” sign. It was clear from their faces that they had experienced something unprecedented and profound and they were tense with excitement. Others were still badly shaken by the terrifying spectacle they had witnessed and needed to talk.

  One by one their stories came tumbling out. They told of seeing the searing bright light and the churning mushroom cloud that had risen to 10,000 feet before fading and, for what seemed like a long time afterward, hearing the endless rolling thunder from the blast echoing in the distant hills. They talked of how, afterward, Fermi and a small crew of scientists had ventured into ground zero in two lead-lined Sherman tanks and discovered the sand had been turned to glass, as green and glossy as jade, by the heat of the bomb. They found a 1,200-foot crater the bomb had dug in the desert floor and another hollow, where the tower had stood, that measured 130 feet in diameter and 6 feet deep in the center. The tower itself had vanished, the steel vaporized and remnants of its charred skeleton—the twisted reinforced girders from the stump of the tower—were scattered on the ground.

  They were still in awe of the energy yield of the weapon. Immediately after the detonation, Fermi had scrambled to his feet and performed a simple test to determine the explosions force, dropping small pieces of torn paper, which instead of falling straight down were carried by the force of the shock wave. By measuring the distance they were displaced, he was able to make a crude estimate of the strength of the blast wave, and therefore the amount of energy released. Fermi had arrived at the figure of 10,000 tons. But by the end of the day, after all the data registered by their many instruments had been collected, it was evident that the explosion was far more massive: the energy released was equivalent to 20,000 tons of TNT Rabi, who had guessed 18,000 tons, came the closest and was immensely proud of the fact that he had won the betting pool’s $102 pot.

  The post-test hysteria was catching, and the whole town went wild. “The place was a madhouse,” said Anne Wilson. “All the scientists, their SEDs and assistants, and even the GIs who were there—they were so pleased with themselves. They had worked so hard, and they had done it. There was lots of rejoicing. Feynman got his bongo drums out and led a snake dance through the whole Tech Area.” People sat on the hoods of jeeps and led noisy parades down the main streets.

  “Everybody had parties, and we all ran around,” recalled Feynman. “But one man I remember, Bob Wilson, was just sitting there moping.” When he asked him what was wrong, Wilson replied, “It’s a terrible thing that we made.” Feynman, who was still walking on air, protested, “But you started it. You got us into it.” At the time, Wilson’s behavior struck him as very odd, but what he failed to realize in his boyish enthusiasm, Feynman wrote later, was that they had all been so caught up in their calculations and experiments that they had lost sight of what the project was really about: “You see what happened to me—what happened to the rest of us—is we started for a good reason, then you’re working very hard to accomplish something and it’s a pleasure, it’s excitement. And you stop thinking, you know; you just stop.”

  Emotions on the mesa were running very high. “They were all just ecstatic,” said Emily Morrison. “It was strange, but thrilling in a way. They were all so relieved and happy. But it didn’t last.” Reports came in that the moving cloud had deposited dust and radioactive materials as far as 120 miles away and that some parts of the desert were still too “hot” for humans to enter. The gadget, it seemed, had lethal coattails. Some stray cattle had been seen in the vicinity of the test area with large gray radiation burns on their brown coats, signaling their death sentence.

  At the end of the week, Bill Penney, the British expert on blast effects, gave a seminar translating the weapon’s yield into the brutal statistics of mass destruction, detailing exactly what it would mean in terms of the number of buildings destroyed and bodies incinerated. The meeting had a sobering effect on the physicists, many of whom had put the bomb’s murderous power out of their minds while they had concentrated on the task at hand. Now there was no avoiding the awful reality. “The next day they had to go back to work to get the bomb ready to drop on Japan,” said Emily Morrison, whose husband, Phil, was one of the small crew of men packing their footlockers and preparing to leave for the Pacific war zone. “There was one British physicist who realized how terrible it was going to be and went home. Bob Wilson was pretty upset, though he didn’t leave. But I’m pretty sure he thought about it.”

  By Friday night, when the Oppenheimers threw a party for the senior Tech Area staff, as well as some of the army officials who had presided over the test, more than a few of the physicists had begun to have second thoughts. Overwhelming success has its own hangover, and after the posttest exaltation on the mesa had died down, remorse had begun to set in. There was plenty of drinking and dancing that night, but as Eleanor Jette recalled, a certain grimness showed through the surface gaiety. “Cyril [Smith] and Joe Kennedy stood talking together mo
st of the evening,” she recalled. “Neither man looked as though he’d ever smile again.”

  Oppie’s mood had also turned somber. While some physicists thought they recognized a new swagger in their director’s stride after his triumph at Trinity, Anne Wilson never detected any cockiness in his demeanor. “I saw him for so long every day—every day—afterwards and I never saw any of that arrogance or conceit,” she said. “If anything, he was slightly depressed thinking about what was going to happen. It was, Oh God, what have we done! All this work, and people are going to die in the thousands.”

  Three days after the detonation, on July 19, Oppenheimer sent a telegram to Groves in Washington that read in part: “Should like to be quite sure that the cost of going through with our present program is understood by you.” The bulk of the cable covered technical issues, which could have conceivably provided grounds to delay the assault on Japan until an improved bomb design could be implemented, allowing additional bombs to be built. But by that time Groves had become convinced that two bombs would probably get the job done. He would brook no delay. The Trinity test had not allayed all doubts about the bomb, he wrote in his memoir, “It proved merely that one implosion-type, plutonium bomb had worked; it did not prove that another would or that a uranium bomb of the gun type would.” They were confident enough of the original gun-type bomb that no one had argued against using it in combat without first completing a test. “In any case,” wrote Groves, “we simply had to take the chance.” His reply ruled out any revision of the planned bombing schedule, which could now be fixed around the first of August: