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For Conant, who could never find enough hours in a day to stay on top of all the people and programs vying for his attention, the spring of 1943 offered a chance to catch his breath. As he sat back and took stock that May, he noted with satisfaction that the basic experimental program had been completed, and his—and OSRD’s—responsibility for the uranium program was nearly at an end. The arrangements were all in place. The president had approved their plans. Now the fate of S-1 rested with Oppenheimer and the scientists and engineers toiling in obscurity on a distant mountaintop, perched on the cone of an extinct volcano.
In the brief interlude, Conant took a moment to reflect on the things he had seen and heard over the last eighteen months. As a way of ordering his thoughts, he began writing out in his scratchy hand a detailed account of the atom bomb project from its inception, describing it as a “fragment of a strange scientific history.” At the start, his tone is upbeat and brisk, charged with the excitement of the endeavor and the power of science itself. “This highly secret war effort has moved at a giddy pace,” he wrote. “New results, new ideas, new decisions, and new organization have kept all concerned in a state of healthy turmoil.
The time for “freezing design” and construction arrived a few weeks past; now, we must await the slower task of plant construction and large-scale experimentation. The new results when they arrive will henceforth be no laboratory affair; their import may well be world shattering. But as in the animal world, so in industry: the period of gestation is commensurate with the magnitude to be achieved.
Although Conant was fully committed to the atomic program, there was a part of him that held out hope that the bomb would never become a reality. It was not so much that he dreamed of failure—his worst nightmare was of some “unforeseen block” that might stall the project—but that he dreaded the idea of science being used for such destructiveness. He was repulsed by the idea that the thrilling discovery of a fast-neutron self-sustaining chain reaction would be dedicated to this terrible new force rather than making abundant atomic power for peaceful purposes a reality. “How many times in all the scientific conferences of the last two years has it been said, ‘I hope the thing won’t work, but we must be sure it won’t,’ ” he recalled, adding that “everyone concerned with the project would feel greatly relieved and thoroughly delighted if something would develop to prove the impossibility of such an atomic explosion.”
But this was a deeply personal plea; a private hope in a private history that he kept locked away in a special safe in his office. Conant knew, of course, that not all the project scientists felt the same way. In fact, many thought only of the moment the bomb would end the present suffering in Europe, and peace and the right to freedom were restored. But he was already filled with foreboding about the future: of the day that Germany, Japan, or some other aggressor harnessed the power of the atom, and the world was never free of the fear of such weapons again. “What the future a year hence has to say is still another story,” he wrote. One thing was certain: he was far from finished with “this scientific delirium tremens.”
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I. The Tennessee site was originally called the Clinton Engineer Works because of its proximity to the small town of Clinton, but it later became known as Oak Ridge, which was officially adopted after the war.
II. It later transpired that the apparent discrepancies in purity requirements were the result of confusion caused by the tight security barriers between England and the United States rather than incompetence.
III. In the end, the scientists prevailed, and the transition to army control was never implemented.
CHAPTER 15
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Uneasy Alliances
The price of greatness is responsibility.
—Churchill at Harvard, 1943
“President Conant of Harvard has the balanced lucid mind of a research addict, and is deliberately turning from physical science to educational and administrative work,” observed H. G. Wells. “Ever since I met him, I have been asking whether there are more like him and why he is not running for the White House.” Wells actually advanced the idea of Conant as a candidate for high office on a visit to the United States five years earlier, but Fact magazine reprinted his prophetic comment in May 1943 given the wartime leader’s relevance to the current political scene. “A good many million fellow Americans should—if not in 1944—then in 1948 answer this question at the polls with a bang,” opined the magazine. “A man of such varied gifts, such practical ability, such profound insights and such buoyant courage is a man to honor and watch.”
Until the spring of 1943, Conant had hardly dared think beyond the country’s safety. It almost seemed like “tempting fate” to talk about the state of the nation after the war was won. But the issues were too important for him to overlook. Distressed by the shortsighted election-year debate about America’s place in the postwar world, he felt compelled to wade into the public discussion, speaking his mind forcefully in an article in the May 1943 issue of the Atlantic Monthly, entitled “Wanted: American Radicals.” Conant wanted to get on with the constructive business of planning the “post-victory era” as much as the next man. However, he did not share the idealists’ faith that the United States would automatically assume leadership of the world. It was important to point out that the problems the country would face when the fighting was over would not merely be those engendered by it, but would be a manifestation of the “larger maladjustment” of which the war itself was a part. America could scarcely play a leading role in international affairs until it got its own internal affairs in order, and decided exactly what kind of country it wanted to be: the land of plenty or the land of the privileged few.
His contention was that the war had irrevocably altered the domestic political landscape. The old-fashioned conservative—who believed “when it is not necessary to change, it is necessary not to change”—was gone. For after years of living in a total war economy, where everything was dictated by military necessity, “who is to be found who does not believe that change is necessary once the war is won?” Given a choice between the reactionary, who wanted nothing more than to return to prewar status (or an even rosier time), and the radical, who wanted a completely different situation, Conant argued for the rise of a new American radical—rooted in native soil, endowed with earthy common sense, and firm in the belief that every man deserves an equal chance. This “hypothetical” American radical of the 1940s, he suggested, might not be the answer to all of the country’s problems, but his “voice was needed” if they were going to find a way to fix their stratified society:
The American radical traces his lineage through the democratic revolution of Jackson when Emerson was sounding his famous call for the American Scholar. His political ideal will, of course, be Jefferson: his prophets will be Emerson and Thoreau; his poet, Whitman . . . He will be lusty in wielding the axe against the root of inherited privilege. To prevent the growth of the caste system, which he abhors, he will be resolute in his demand to confiscate (by constitutional methods) all property once a generation. He will demand really effective inheritance and gift taxes and the breaking up of trust funds and estates. And this point cannot be lightly pushed aside, for it is the kernel of his radical philosophy.
Conant’s message, apart from its intentionally provocative tone, was simple: mass conscription had leveled the playing field. Unless the United States began taking steps to help the returning soldier—a job for everyone, universal educational opportunity, and the promise of social mobility—before the demobilization of the armed forces, “we may well sow the seeds of a civil war within a decade.” The best defense against another war and the growing threat of Communism was upholding the basic ideals that had always sustained American democracy: “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” When Jefferson wrote that famous line into the Declaration of Independence, Conant added cheekily, he did not write “life, liberty and property.” Conant swung his
axe at the root of privilege only so that a greater number might be free to carry the responsibility as well as enjoy the benefits of modern civilization. But he was careful not to press his utopian vision to its logical conclusion. His political alter ego was “respectful but not enthusiastic about Marx, Engels, and Lenin.” A capitalist at heart—if a “peculiar North American brand of doctrine”—his American radical believed in equality of opportunity, not equality of rewards, and would be “quite willing in times of peace to let net salaries and earnings sail way above the $25,000 mark.”
The editors of the Atlantic Monthly were so proud of the essay, they instructed their readers that it was a “splendid successor” to Conant’s oft-quoted article in the May 1940 issue, “Education for a Classless Society,” in which he argued for “more equitable distribution of opportunity for all the children of the land,” and drew attention to the “continuity of [his] thinking” which was “worthy of note.”
He might as well have lobbed a stink bomb into a meeting of the Harvard Corporation. The idea that the president of an institution heavily dependent on its wealthy benefactors would endorse such extreme sentiments stunned the trustees. Conant had expounded on his favorite theme of an American meritocracy before—in terms of admissions, testing, scholarships, and the selection of professors—but this was the first time he had extended it to society as a whole. His sharp challenge of the status quo, and his call for a redistribution of wealth, was more than some of the Brahmin members of the Corporation could bear. Several demanded his head on a platter. One outraged trustee observed scathingly that since the educational problems of the postwar world would doubtless be extremely demanding, perhaps the president might be well advised to leave the problem of inherited wealth alone. Another took exception to his hiding behind a hypothetical figure, sniffing that “this is not a dignified or sportsmanlike way to put yourself on the record.” The alumni resonated with indignation. Protest letters and telegrams poured into Conant’s office.
One of the most vociferous critics was Thomas W. Lamont, class of 1892, a generous financier and philanthropist who had already pledged millions for a new undergraduate library at the end of the war. By Wall Street standards, Lamont was a liberal and had even supported aspects of the New Deal. But this time he felt Conant had gone too far in chasing the moneychangers from the temple. Calling his American radical “a destructive sort of chap,” Lamont penned an eight-page critique of Conant’s ill-considered scheme, arguing that it would deliver a “death blow to individual enterprise.”
In a spirited reply, Conant wrote that he suspected their disagreement came down to their very different views about the seriousness of the disease afflicting the country: whereas for Lamont it was nothing more than a “disagreeable cold,” for him it was “pneumonia with possible prognosis of death.” The only hope was reform, and drastic reform at that. He expanded on his argument over seventeen pages, explaining that if the eleven million soldiers, most of whom were under twenty-five, came back to a country that did not live up to its promise of advancement determined by merit, talent, character, and grit, and instead found that advancement depended on “accidents of geography and birth,” many would become discontented. More pessimistic in his appraisal of their society than most, Conant admitted to being frankly fearful that “the clash between the ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’ will destroy freedom in the postwar world unless a majority of the American people believe in the reality of the American dream—equal opportunity for all.” He acknowledged his use of the word confiscate in relation to property may have caused unease but assured Lamont this was just the attitude of his radical in an “extreme mood,” and not meant to be taken literally.
Harvard may have been hostile to his argument, but Conant’s lively article scored with many critics. The Wall Street Journal applauded his desire to reinvigorate the discussion of America’s future, hailing Conant as a “potent and refreshing political voice in this country.” His appeal for change and a “more fluid society” was direct and practical. He seemed to have a clear view of the horizon at a time when to most Americans the path ahead appeared murky and sketchily charted. “President Conant speaks at a moment when this country really needs new ideas of future policy,” continued the Journal’s editorial, adding that he had done much to redeem Harvard for its “doubtful contribution to national life”—a dig at Roosevelt and all those who “followed Frankfurter” to Washington. “When we survey the field of possible choice, we find many good alternatives to a fourth term. But most of the prospective candidates have done little thinking about national problems” and had “much to learn from this schoolmaster.”
A flurry of “Conant for President” editorials ran in local papers across the country, which was amusing and of little import—except to the extent to which they helped quash the old boys’ coup attempt at Harvard. “The stew continues,” an exasperated Conant wrote Patty in late June, reporting that he had received a memo from Lamont, “or rather the returns about the stew continue to come in”:
Apparently I have “offended” some of my good friends . . In other words, they didn’t realize just where I stood in re the troubles of our times. In fact, a good deal of the difficulty arises from the fact that these people don’t admit there are any real troubles except those caused by Hitler and Roosevelt. Lick one on the battlefield and the other in the voting booth, and everything will be O.K. In short, I now have evidence that my diagnosis of American reactionaries was all too true, and the number included several of whom I should not have suspected. It is partly a matter of age. But enough of that!
Lamont respected Conant and had been measured in his response, but he reported to a friend that the president’s progressive rhetoric had “stirred up a hornet’s nest,” and “the Harvard crowd was generally buzzing with the whole thing.” Whether it really reached the level of a full-blown “crisis,” as implied in a late-in-life interview of Provost Paul Buck, seems questionable. No doubt, those in charge of Harvard’s rich endowment impressed on Conant the gravity of his error. He had violated the sacred tenet of fund-raising—never bite the hand that feeds you—and strayed far beyond his office’s well-fenced precincts. At one point, Henry Shattuck, the influential former treasurer of the Corporation, suggested that perhaps the busy scientist take a leave of absence and appoint Buck in his place. But Conant had less and less tolerance for these college flaps. He had no intention of being hustled out the door at such a critical hour, and after alluding darkly to the “important work” he was doing in Washington, Shattuck dropped the idea. There was enough opposition, however, to make Conant more guarded in expressing his ideas.
* * *
What may have finally quieted the controversy on the Charles was a well-timed visit from his famous friend across the Atlantic. “By the time you read this, you will have seen in the papers that a certain historian ‘who has written a glorious page of British history’ is now in Canada,” Conant wrote Patty, then vacationing in New Hampshire, on August 7, alerting her to the possibility that Churchill might come to Harvard to collect an honorary degree before heading home from his Canadian trip, effectively canceling their plans for Labor Day weekend. “If such an event occurs, would it be worth your while to return to Cambridge for a day?” he inquired teasingly, as he knew full well she would never miss out on all the parties and pageantry that would accompany such a celebrated guest. “I shall let you know details if and when there are any. All of which is secret, of course, and may be wrong.”
Conant had reason to worry the prime minister might decide to pass them by, however, confiding “it won’t hurt my feelings if he does.” His anxiety, occasioned by a rocky period in the atomic partnership between their two countries, was understandable. Eager as he had once been to come to Britain’s aid, almost from the moment the bomb went into production, Conant had instinctively sought to curtail the amount of classified S-1 data that was being passed to their ally. At first, it was simply out of concern about the ability of the
Brits to keep their secrets. The Australian physicist Mark Oliphant had slipped up more than once, and the clumsy scientific interchange with the innumerable and hopelessly byzantine British ministries did nothing to allay his fears. His doubts had intensified as plans for their common military effort had progressed, complicated by their divergent strategic interests, as well as the profound postwar consequences of controlling such an important military and industrial asset.
Beginning with the Tizard mission in 1940, the British had offered their most-prized technical information to the United States as an overture to what they hoped would blossom into a reciprocal relationship, and not as part of any bargain. Conant’s mission to London in February 1941 had established the machinery for Anglo-American collaboration, and their combined work on radar—which was given top priority—had paved the way for the ensuing combined effort. At a decisive meeting in October 1941, Roosevelt and Churchill had first broached the issue of a cooperative nuclear effort, and two days later the president wrote him a letter proposing that the undertaking be “coordinated or even jointly conducted.” The two nations agreed to pool their uranium research in the genial atmosphere of a June 1942 summit in Hyde Park, New York, FDR’s lifelong home, and Churchill was “very glad” when Roosevelt said America would take on the job of manufacturing the munitions. The discussion was in very general terms, however, with no formal written agreement. Afterward, FDR sent a note to Bush that he and the prime minister were “in complete accord,” though there is no evidence he ever told anyone exactly what he thought had been settled, and it seems the two may have come away with different impressions of whether their joint enterprise included equal sharing of the results.
Man of the Hour Page 37