★ ★ ★
Over at Y-12, work and progress hung firmly on the percentages of Tubealloy—or Product or alloy or greencake, depending on your role in the process—coming out of the calutrons.
Virginia continued analyzing the material that came in the lab door—from where, she did not know. Dr. Larson oversaw her lab’s activities, and Virginia quite liked him. She found him intelligent but easygoing, despite the pressures they were all under. As their supervisor, he would occasionally stop by the lab to say hello and to check on progress and the all-important percentages.
“How was the last sample?” he’d ask Virginia. She’d tell him, and offer to write the information down. But almost every time, Dr. Larson refused, offering to call later to get it again. Some time later, Virginia’s phone would ring. Dr. Larson would ask the same question and Virginia would give the same answer. Only this time, Larson’s response was much more effusive.
“Oh MY!” he would begin, his volume cranked up to 11. “Ninety-eight-point-nine percent? That is wonderful!”
This happened more than once, and Virginia began to understand: Dr. Larson was waiting until he had a group of bigwigs in his office to make that call. Saying it out loud must have had more impact than passing around a number on a scrap of paper. Smart man, she thought. Whoever he was trying to impress and whatever those percentages meant to them, one thing was becoming clear to people like Dr. Larson: The percentages were, compared to a year earlier, much better.
TUBEALLOY
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
THE PROJECT’S CRUCIAL SPRING
The longer the Project went on, the bigger it got, the more people in the surrounding areas began to wonder if this city behind the fences wasn’t anything more than a massive failure—or worse, some sort of intricate swindle at the expense of taxpaying Americans. The “everything’s going in and nothing’s coming out” joke hadn’t died down. It had only become less amusing.
For the Project, however, progress could finally be seen: Although in the very early months of 1945 they were not getting the enrichment levels they hoped for, there were clear signs of improvement. The Alpha and Beta tracks at Y-12, though still plagued by some maintenance issues, were humming along more smoothly than a year earlier. At long last, K-25 and its seemingly elusive barrier were coming under control. By March 1945, the largest building in the world—with a price tag of roughly $512 million—was beginning to send its first (barely) enriched supplies of Tubealloy to the calutrons of Y-12. Mrs. Evelyn Handcock Ferguson, the H. K. Ferguson Company, and its subsidiary, Fercleve, had all come through in spectacular fashion in the fall, completing and even starting operation of S-50 within just 69 days of the start of construction. At the beginning of the year, early operational troubles ironed themselves out. By March, all 2,142 columns were up and running, and S-50, too, was sending slightly enriched Tubealloy to K-25 and Y-12.
Y-12 was still carrying the bulk of the Tubealloy enrichment load. What had originally been budgeted as a $30 million plant came in with a price tag closer to $478 million. At least winter was past. During the dark, colder months, if snow sent a bus skidding off the road, delaying the arrival of the next shift of workers, whoever was perched on a stool stayed there until relief arrived. This could sometimes mean a 16-hour shift.
Rapid pace combined with exhaustion sometimes made for safety and health issues. The electricity alone coursing through the plants and factories could be dangerous for anyone exercising even a momentary lapse of judgment. Some of the cubicle operators of Y-12 were unfortunate enough to witness a maintenance man enter the cubicle control room and forget to hang his grounding hook on the unit before beginning work. He was electrocuted instantly.
There was now a fairly regular stream of Product heading to the scientists at Site Y in the New Mexico desert, some of it with a percentage potent enough for the Gadget. Armed, plainclothes couriers continued to travel by train, occasionally by air, transporting the precious cargo across the country. Medical personnel routinely met the couriers in Oak Ridge to see how they were feeling after their journey. They were taken to the hospital, given a massage and a bath and a big, juicy steak—quite a perk in rationed times. Then, for dessert, a sedative, giving them a solid day’s sleep and recuperation.
Billions of dollars were on their way to being spent. Tens of thousands of acres cleared and hundreds of thousands of people working around the clock. All of the financial and intellectual and physical sacrifice and commitment and collaboration and man-hours boiled down to this: one small suitcase with an even smaller, gold-lined container inside, grams of results from the most comprehensive and expensive military program ever.
The health and safety of the couriers themselves was addressed by Dr. Hymer Friedell, a doctor with the Project who worked closely with the chief of the Project’s medical section, Stafford Warren. In a November 1944 memo sent to one of the Project’s intelligence officers, Friedell had written:
The conditions under which couriers transport radioactive material have been discussed . . . and it has been definitely established that only under extreme circumstances would it be possible for an agent to receive more than the tolerance dose. The radioactive material is carefully measured and proper shielding provided. Measurements are made with the shield and container in various positions to establish the adequacy of protection. It may be feasible for couriers to carry radiation monitoring devices (film badge) which are available through the Manhattan District Medical Section, but a regular program of blood analyses should be introduced only in the case of a courier who transports such material more frequently than twice per month.
In Los Alamos, the design for the gun model of the Gadget using enriched Tubealloy coming out of CEW was set. A test of the implosion model of the Gadget, using 49 being produced at Site W, was planned for July. But this new element had other considerations as well. It was feisty, very active, and posed potential health problems, the extent of which were still being determined.
On January 5, 1944, scientist Glenn Seaborg, a codiscoverer of 49, had written to one of the Project’s health directors that “the physiological hazards of working with [49] and its compounds may be very great. Due to its alpha radiation and long life it may be that the permanent location in the body of even very small amounts, say one milligram or less, may be very harmful.”
Shortly thereafter, Stafford Warren, in turn, wrote:
“Information on the biological effects of these materials is urgently needed and these materials are now available in suitable quantity for experimental work.”
The maximum permissible body burden for 49 remained unclear. Was it as hazardous as radium? More hazardous?
In August of 1944, the Scientist had authorized programs designed to develop ways of detecting 49 in the body. But he didn’t want those experiments to be handled at Los Alamos. After meeting with members of the medical section, the group decided a research program was in order, one using both animal and human subjects.
By March 1945, doctors at Los Alamos were not happy with the urine samples of some of the workers there. Dr. Louis Hempelmann, health director at Los Alamos, recommended “a human tracer experiment to determine the percentage of [49] excreted daily in the urine and feces.”
But starting the program had been delayed. Doctors were “awaiting the development of a more satisfactory method of administration of product [49] than is now available.”
CHAPTER 11
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Innocence Lost
Quite often, at first, when we were talking to some man, we would suddenly see a blank expression come over his face—an “I really wouldn’t know” look that warned us we were on dangerous ground.
—Vi Warren, The Oak Ridge Journal
It was early, just past 6:30 in the morning, as the vehicle motored along the road carrying six people to work. Ebb Cade, his two brothers, and their friend Jesse Smith had left nearby Harriman, where the four of them shared a home, and picked
up two other workers along the way. It was a Saturday, March 24, and the rising sun had just crested the horizon, making itself barely visible over the Black Oak Ridge that ran along the western boundary of the Reservation. The car headed due east toward Blair Gate near the southwest corner of the Clinton Engineer Works. The gate sat near Poplar Creek and just north of the K-25 plant, their final destination.
Cade had been working construction for the Project, mixing cement for the J. A. Jones Construction company, and his days either started early, lasted late, or maybe both, depending on which end of the 24-hour shift he found himself. He had been born in Macon, Georgia, and then moved to North Carolina along with his brothers—the Hickory-Greensboro area—before the group came west to Oak Ridge to find work.
Roads were uneven and overused, tires were easily taxed and rarely replaced, whether for rations or lack of funds. As the vehicle approached the gate, a guard approached and stopped the group, inspecting everyone for their badges and then sending them on their way, a long day ahead of them.
It wasn’t too far from the gate to the plant itself. The group might not have been even a mile and a half from K-25 when they saw something up ahead of them. It appeared to be a large government vehicle and it was stopped on the side of the road, its rear wheels jacked up. As Cade and the others drove past, they had to maneuver around the oversized vehicle.
As Cade’s vehicle swerved around the vehicle, a dump truck appeared directly ahead. The sun was a good five minutes into its day, now. Could that have blinded the drivers, or caused enough of a squint or glare so as to dull their reflexes? A moment longer delayed by security at the guardhouse might have made a difference in the end. But now there was no more time. The two vehicles drove directly into each other’s paths. They collided head-on, metal crumpling under the force of the crash, bodies buckling beneath the impact.
All six of the passengers in Cade’s car were taken to the Oak Ridge Hospital, where they were examined and treated. Besides Cade, at least one was hospitalized. Cade looked as though he had lost some blood, but there was no mention of a life-threatening condition in the initial report.
Cade’s presence in the hospital drew additional attention.
The short report began:
This patient, a fifty-three-year-old colored male, was hospitalized on March 25, 1945, following an automobile accident in which he sustained comminuted fractures of the left femur and right patella and a transverse fracture of the right radius and ulna. Physical findings of note included a left lenticular cataract and marked hypertrophic and atrophic arthritic changes in both knees, together with osteochondromatosis of the left knee . . .
Timing probably played a role in what happened next.
The recommendation for the injections arrived March 26, just two days after the crash itself. Then just a few days after that, the samples of 49 were shipped by Dr. Wright Langham in Los Alamos to Dr. Friedell in Oak Ridge so that he could, if the opportunity presented itself, try them out on the subject. As Friedell related the circumstances, the “colored male” was “well-developed” and “well-nourished,” though he had sustained fractures in his arms and legs. But he was communicative enough to let the doctors attending to his needs know that he had always been in good health.
The patient stayed hospitalized and was treated with the exception of his legs. They were not set immediately. They would not be. Not just yet. Not until the doctors knew how they were going to proceed.
And from this moment forward, the black construction worker and accident victim admitted into the Oak Ridge Hospital as Ebb Cade became known as HP-12.
★ ★ ★
Spring turned to summer in 1945 and the Clinton Engineer Works was in its toddlerhood. Still, new people continued arriving. Another expansion had gotten under way in early 1945. Small two-family Victory cottages—very basic, temporary dwellings made of plywood and roll roofing—sprouted up from the dusty ground as if seeds just watered by the Appalachian rains. They offered residents one bedroom, with a combined living room and kitchen, and were believed to have a life span of three years. There were approximately 28,834 people living in family units and apartments. There were roughly 1,053 people still living in farmhouses that had been left over after the initial phase of construction of the Project, minimally renovated. The dorms themselves had 13,786 men and women, and a staggering 31,257 individuals were living in barracks, trailers, and hutments.
This third phase of expansion estimated a population of 66,000. But that was low. The resident population was now at its peak: 75,000. This was a remarkable increase over the initial 13,000-some estimate made in the very early stages of development of Site X itself. Employment peaked at 82,000 in May 1945, so more than 100,000 people were on-site each day, if you combined residents and commuters. The bus system was one of the 10 largest in the United States, ferrying passengers into and around Site X. In 1944, a fare was instituted and rides that were once free cost a nickel. The 800-bus fleet carried an average of 120,000 passengers per day at its peak. There were 163 miles of wooden “sidewalks” and 300 miles of roads, and the cafeterias—17 of them now—served roughly 40,000 meals per day. So populous, so secret. Oak Ridge boasted an electricity bill that made New York City look like the Dogpatch that this neck of Tennessee was mocked for resembling. Yet there was still not yet a hint of Oak Ridge’s existence on any maps.
Women continued to make up a large portion of the new arrivals. At Oak Ridge, women found both job opportunities and a lively social life, with one sometimes unexpectedly affecting the other. Virginia the chemist now found herself gravitating more and more toward conversations with men at social gatherings. It wasn’t that Virginia hadn’t had the opportunity to meet other women like herself—college-educated and single. But every now and again, when she found herself at a party, she noticed she had little in common with married women. She would wander into conversations, seeking to meet new female friends, but soon noticed that many of them spent their time talking nonstop about diapers, shopping, and home life.
Virginia had two older brothers and was always comfortable chatting with the opposite sex. One brother, denied admission into the US Air Force, joined the Canadian Air Force. Virginia remembered him coming home for a visit when she was still at home. He was six years older than she but still so young. Virginia watched as he stood in their yard, leaning against a tree, talking about what he’d seen. He looked so devastated, so sick of war. For Virginia it was one of those memories that stayed with her, one that reminded her why she wanted to make a difference. Few Oak Ridgers cared whether they were let in on the Secret, so long as the war ended, and brothers would come home again, the images of war dulled if never erased, soothed by family, by the familiar.
Virginia never felt bothered by the restrictions, was never fazed by the secrecy. Though she had heard that informants and spies walked among them, she never worried about who might be listening or think she knew enough to be particularly informative. But sometimes she was reminded that perhaps she did know more than she realized.
She once went on a hike with another scientist whom she was dating, and fell into one of the more brazen discussions she had ever had about the purpose of CEW. Virginia loved hiking. Getting away from the concrete and the cold, antiseptic feel of the lab and out into the surrounding ridges, where trees and underbrush still held on dearly to the clay and soil beneath them, was restorative and invigorating. The forest of nearby Big Ridge was popular with many of the town’s residents. Perhaps it was the seclusion, being physically removed from the factories and the mud and the activity of the Reservation that made people feel more comfortable chatting about life’s secrets. There, it seemed no one was listening, save the ever-present cardinals and occasional red-bellied woodpecker and whomever you had chosen as company. No eyes staring down from billboards, no ears leaning in to your conversation from across a table or a few seats over on the crowded bus.
As Virginia and her date walked, he rambled on, speculating a
bout CEW’s purpose. He had no incontrovertible proof, so to speak, but Virginia listened, enjoying the young man’s company and the stimulating conversation.
“You’re a scientist,” he had said to her as they climbed among the pines and sugar maples. “You must know what’s going on here . . .”
Her date proceeded to tell Virginia his theory. Hadn’t she noticed how coverage of advancements in nuclear physics and things like fission had disappeared from the press? Indeed, this is precisely what Virginia and her sister had noticed a couple of years ago. Virginia’s friend believed such a raw, previously unleashed power was being harnessed in Oak Ridge and was going to be used to end the war.
He had no specifics, had not been told anything definitive by anyone with any kind of authority. He had arrived at his own theory the way so many scientists on the Reservation had. Not being allowed to know or discuss something does not turn off a mind conditioned by a lifetime of inquiry, and does not cause one to stop thinking, devising, deducing.
His words made complete sense to Virginia, the components of his logic snapping together in her scientific brain. She knew after that illuminating walk in the woods not to discuss the conversation with others. She wasn’t unnerved, but she didn’t go looking for opportunities to talk about work outside the lab, either, even if others couldn’t help themselves.
The Girls of Atomic City: The Untold Story of the Women Who Helped Win World War II Page 23