Pandora's Keepers

by Brian Van DeMark

  Teller was at least temporarily stymied when, on November ninth, the AEC endorsed the GAC recommendation against the superbomb in a split three-to-two decision, with Lilienthal, Pike, and Smyth (who urged delay more than rejection) against development; Strauss and Dean in favor. Lilienthal presented the views of the AEC commissioners, along with a full copy of the GAC report, to Truman the same day. Truman assured Lilienthal that he would not be “blitzed” into any decision on this important issue. 49 The president turned to a special three-man subcommittee of the National Security Council—Lilienthal, Secretary of State Dean Acheson, and Secretary of Defense Louis Johnson—for a final recommendation. Lilienthal strongly supported the GAC’s position, and Johnson was just as clearly determined to develop the weapon.

  That left Acheson with the deciding vote. Acheson was a realist who believed additional military power would enhance American diplomacy, and he was already under withering personal attack from conservative Republicans for weakness in “losing” China. There was even some talk inside the Joint Congressional Committee on Atomic Energy of bringing impeachment proceedings against Truman if he failed to give the go-ahead on the superbomb. It was no surprise that Acheson leaned toward the superbomb’s development. But he was a good lawyer and understood that knowing all sides of the argument was essential. So before making up his mind, he talked at length with opponents of the weapon, especially Oppenheimer, who had been a friend since their work together in 1946 on an American plan for international control of atomic energy.

  The urbane and pragmatic Acheson, whose first impression of Oppenheimer had been that of a smart but naive idealist, listened closely to Oppenheimer’s arguments against the superbomb, which echoed what Bohr had said to FDR and Churchill about the atomic bomb in 1944: it would be easier to negotiate a ban on a weapon not yet made. Acheson thought that Oppenheimer was moved less by logic and reason than by “an immense distaste” for what the scientist himself described as “the whole rotten business.” 50 “I listened as carefully as I knew how,” Acheson wrote loftily in his memoirs, “but I [did not] understand what Oppie was trying to say. How can you persuade a paranoid adversary to disarm ‘by example’?” 51 But that was not the only reason he disagreed. Acheson also did not see, as he later told Oppenheimer, “how any president could [politically] survive a policy of not making the H-bomb.” 52

  Such fear, logic, and pressure prevailed. Truman’s decision had been solidified by a memo the Chiefs had sent to him in mid-January: (1) “Possession of a thermonuclear weapon by the USSR without such possession by the United States would be intolerable” both by its “profoundly demoralizing effect upon the American people” and by the “tremendous psychological boost” it would afford Soviet leaders; and (2) “a unilateral decision on the part of the United States not to develop a thermonuclear weapon will not prevent the development of such a weapon elsewhere.” Truman zeroed in on these points when he met with his senior advisers on the day of decision. “Can the Russians do it?” the president asked them. All heads nodded. “Yes, they can.” “In that case,” said Truman, “we have no choice. We’ll go ahead.” 53

  On January 31, 1950, Truman approved development of the superbomb. Like Acheson, Truman saw no alternative to going ahead, nor did he seek one after being told that the Russians would probably be able to develop their own superbomb—a belief bolstered by the news around this time that German refugee physicist Klaus Fuchs had been arrested in London for espionage on behalf of the Soviet Union. Fuchs had been at Los Alamos from December 1944 to June 1946, working on, among other things, the primitive superbomb program. He was in a position to have complete knowledge of American efforts up to that point.

  Truman’s decision to move ahead was so popular that it was greeted with cheers on the floor of the House and the Senate. An opinion poll showed overwhelming public support as well: 73 percent for versus 18 percent against. 54 The New York Times editorialized, “Regardless of how dreadful the hydrogen weapon might be, Mr. Truman had no other course in view of the failure so far of negotiations for international control of atomic energy and of the ‘atomic explosion’ some months ago in the Soviet Union.” 55 The fear that Moscow might also be working on a superbomb—and what that would mean for American security—overwhelmed moral qualms and worries about escalating the nuclear arms race.

  The fear proved well founded, even as the qualms and worries remained. Andrei Sakharov, Russia’s top nuclear physicist at the time, later stated that Stalin “already understood the potential of the new weapon, and nothing could have dissuaded [him] from going forward with its development. Any U.S. move toward abandoning or suspending work on a thermonuclear weapon would have been perceived either as a cunning, deceitful maneuver or as evidence of stupidity or weakness. In any case, the Soviet reaction would have been the same: to avoid a possible trap, and to exploit the adversary’s folly at the earliest opportunity.” 56 *

  The evening that Truman announced his decision, AEC commissioner Lewis Strauss hosted a party at Washington’s posh Shoreham Hotel—it was Strauss’s fifty-fourth birthday. Among the politicians, journalists, bureaucrats, and officers in attendance was Robert Oppenheimer, who had accepted the invitation weeks before. One of the journalists spotted Oppenheimer standing alone, morose, on the sidelines of the celebration. The journalist asked Oppenheimer why he appeared so glum. After an unusually long pause, Oppenheimer finally replied: “This is the plague of Thebes.” 57

  Oppenheimer did not publicly criticize Truman’s decision. Perhaps he felt that as chairman of the GAC he had no right to engage in public debate with the president. Then, too, dissent had its political risks; it was beginning to be equated with disloyalty in a climate of growing fear of communist subversion, and Oppenheimer’s left-wing past made him vulnerable. * Nearly a decade later, when looking back on the GAC report, Oppenheimer remembered that his confidential secretary had been surprised by his strong stand against the superbomb in the October 1949 report and correctly predicted that this would get him in a lot of trouble. Furthermore, Truman imposed a gag order barring all public discussion, and Oppenheimer would not violate the president’s directive. He did, however, criticize the atmosphere of secrecy in which the issue of the superbomb had been debated and decided. Shortly after Truman’s decision, he told a nationwide television audience that nuclear issues “are complex technical things, but they touch on the very basis of our morality.” Debate should proceed in the open. “It is a grave danger for us that these decisions are taken on the basis of facts held secret,” said Oppenheimer, adding: “Wisdom cannot flourish and even the truth cannot be established, without the give-and-take of debate and criticism. The facts, the relevant facts, are of little use to an enemy, yet they are fundamental to an understanding of the issues of policy.” 58 Thereafter Oppenheimer periodically hinted at his frustration but, reluctant to abandon his access to power, publicly held his tongue.

  Truman’s decision left Szilard unsurprised but nonetheless disappointed. In a burst of black humor, Szilard drafted (but never published) a fictional letter from inmates in a lunatic asylum to dramatize what he considered the insanity of the superbomb. “We got to show him [God] that He cannot get away with [domination] any longer; we got to show him who the master is, and let’s not stop until we show him that we can blow up what he created. On to the global bomb!” In despair Szilard warned in a nationwide broadcast that the radioactive fallout from a thermonuclear war could destroy all human life on earth. He believed that recognition of the possibility of mass death was essential to changing policy. 59

  Compton’s criticism of Truman’s superbomb decision was more indirect. “This is not a question for experts, either militarists or scientists,” said Compton. “All they can do is to explain what the results will be if we do or do not try to develop such destructive weapons. The American people must themselves say whether they want to defend themselves with such weapons.” He urged his fellow citizens to address these fundamental questions: “
Should we take moral responsibility for introducing such greater destruction into war, at the risk of fear and suspicion by other nations? If developed, would its greater destructiveness be outweighed by its influence as a deterrent to war? Would its development provide greater safety—or provoke other nations to yet greater war preparations?” 60

  Rabi regretted the president’s decision and put the blame squarely on Teller and Lawrence, whom he felt had whipped up political pressures that forced Truman’s decision. One of the results, Rabi concluded, was to lay down a challenge to the Soviet Union:

  However it’s worded, this will be taken as a statement that we’re going ahead and building a hydrogen bomb. The Russians are certainly going to take it that way. Only we’re not building a hydrogen bomb, because we don’t know how. We’re going to try. We don’t even know that it can be done. But the Russians will never believe that an American President could be so stupid as to say we’re going to build the most powerful weapon in the world when we don’t know how. We’ve got the worst of both worlds. We haven’t got a super, but we’ve spurred the Russians on to an all-out effort to build one. 61

  A February 1950 manifesto signed by twelve prominent physicists—all Manhattan Project veterans—echoed this point. It went on to warn:

  A hydrogen bomb, if it can be made, would be capable of developing a power 1000 times greater than the present atomic bomb. New York, or any other of the greatest cities of the world, could be destroyed by a single hydrogen bomb.

  We believe that no nation has the right to use such a bomb, no matter how righteous its cause. This bomb is no longer a weapon of war but a means of extermination of whole populations. Its use would be a betrayal of all standards of morality and of Christian civilization itself….

  We shall not have a monopoly of this bomb…. the Russians will be able to make one too. In the case of the fission bomb the Russians required four years to parallel our development. In the case of the hydrogen bomb they will probably need a shorter time. * Perhaps the development of the hydrogen bomb has already been under way in Russia for some time. But if it was not, our decision to develop it must have started the Russians on the same program. If they had already a going program, they will redouble their efforts. 62

  The organizer of the manifesto, Hans Bethe, authored an essay for Scientific American later that spring in which he wrote:

  I believe the most important question is the moral one: can we, who have always insisted on morality and human decency between nations as well as inside our own country, introduce this weapon of total annihilation into the world? The usual argument, heard in the frantic week before the President’s decision and frequently since, is that we are fighting against a country which denies all the human values we cherish and that any weapon, however terrible, must be used to prevent that country and its creed from dominating the world. It is argued that it would be better for us to lose our lives than our liberty; and this I personally agree with. But I believe that this is not the question; I believe that we would lose far more than our lives in a war fought with hydrogen bombs, that we would in fact lose all our liberties and human values at the same time, and so thoroughly that we would not recover them for an unforeseeably long time.

  We believe in peace based on mutual trust. Shall we achieve it by using hydrogen bombs? Shall we convince the Russians of the value of the individual by killing millions of them? If we fight a war and win it with H-bombs, what history will remember is not the ideals we were fighting for but the method we used to accomplish them. These methods will be compared to the warfare of Genghis Khan, who ruthlessly killed every last inhabitant of Persia. 63

  Bethe believed the principal moral distinction between the United States and the Soviet Union lay in the means they used, rather than the ends they sought. Should the United States employ such an indiscriminately destructive weapon as the superbomb, it would forfeit that moral claim. He then wrote a private letter to Norris Bradbury outlining his personal views in greater detail:

  Dear Dr. Bradbury,

  You will probably have heard about my feelings concerning the hydrogen bomb from… the newspapers. The announcement of the President has not changed my feelings in the matter. I still believe that it is morally wrong and unwise for our national security to develop this weapon. In most respects I agree with the opinions of the General Advisory Committee although I have not seen their report itself So much has been said about the reasons on both sides that I do not need to go into them here. The main point is that I can not in good conscience work on this weapon.

  For this reason, if and when I come to Los Alamos in the future I will completely refrain from any discussions relating to the superbomb.

  Bethe concluded his letter with a caveat: “In case of war I would obviously reconsider my position.” 64 Four months later the Korean War broke out, and he indeed returned to Los Alamos. Bethe hoped that by doing so, he could prove to himself and others that a superbomb could not be made, and actually did some calculations attempting to prove this.

  Such an outcome offered the best—perhaps the only—solution to Bethe’s tortured conscience. For even while working on the superbomb, he “still hated the thing.” 65 But Bethe stifled his impulse to tell military officers at Los Alamos “what a horrible thing we were working on,” 66 and, paradoxically, ended up playing a major part in the development of the very weapon that he feared and had initially opposed. Deep down he would long wonder whether his anxieties about the Russians might not have been an attempt to rationalize a simple desire to take part in another clever trick of nature.

  The doubts never went away. “I am still not reconciled to the hydrogen bomb although I have myself worked on it,” Bethe told an audience of physicists at Los Alamos in 1953. “I still think that it is a more evil thing than the atomic bomb.” 67 He finally came to the conclusion that the superbomb “was probably inevitable, but one wishes it could have been avoided.” 68 He also reflected on his own role in its development. “I am afraid my inner troubles stayed with me and are still with me and I have not resolved this problem,” confessed Bethe. “I still have the feeling that I have done the wrong thing, but I have done it.” 69

  Others had also changed their minds. This was most evident at a meeting on superbomb design held at Princeton in June 1951. Those attending included not just Teller—but also Oppenheimer, Bethe, and Fermi. * An eyewitness described what took place:

  Pictures were drawn on the board. Calculations were made, Dr. Bethe, Dr. Teller, Dr. Fermi participating the most in this; Oppy very actively as well…. I remember leaving that meeting impressed with this fact, that everyone around that table without exception—and this included Dr. Oppenheimer—was enthusiastic now that you had something foreseeable. The bickering was gone. The discussions were pretty well ended, and we were able within a matter of just about one year to have that gadget ready. 70

  Why did those who had opposed the superbomb so strongly on moral grounds eventually assist in its development? Because, in their minds, the superbomb had become inevitable. With its theoretical feasibility proven, and the nearly limitless resources of the federal government behind it, they thought the superbomb was almost certain to be constructed. Refusing to work on it would not prevent it from being made. 71 Equally important, it now seemed likely that the Russians would be able to make it, too, and the scientists—like America’s political leaders—felt it would be intolerable for the superbomb to be in the hands of the Soviet Union but not the United States. Once “it was clear that it could be done, not only by us, but also by the Russians,” said Bethe, “Oppenheimer and I concluded that it had to be done.” 72

  There was another, crucially important reason. Oppenheimer himself explained it. “When you see something technically sweet you go ahead and do it and you argue about what to do about it only after you have had your technical success. That is the way it was with the atomic bomb. I do not think anybody opposed making it; there were some debates about what to do with it afte
r it was made. I cannot very well imagine if we had known in late 1949 what we got to know by early 1951 that the tone of our report would have been the same.” 73 Oppenheimer’s remark conveyed none of the moral anguish that he and Fermi had so forcibly expressed in their October 1949 GAC report, or that he had offered in reply to Teller’s question “If the president gave the [superbomb] project the go-ahead, would you come back to Los Alamos?”—“Certainly not.” 74

  Oppenheimer’s candid admission underscored the Faustian bargain that scientists struck through their work on the atomic bomb and now on the superbomb: whatever their moral and political scruples, what was “technically sweet” was, in the end, simply irresistible to them. Oppenheimer, Bethe, and Fermi were not narrow technocrats oblivious to the larger consequences of their work; they were intelligent, intensely curious men whose moral and political compunctions were exceeded only by their compulsion to understand nature’s secrets.

  Their adversary in the superbomb debate, Teller, was driven by this compulsion more than anyone. He conceded this fact with remarkable candor in later years:

  One of my main reasons for working on the hydrogen bomb was its novelty. I wanted both as a scientist and also for practical reasons to know how it would work. I believe it is not irresponsible to try to work out those technical developments that can be worked out. 75

  In this sense, the scientists’ complicity came not from any ill intentions, but from wanting to know more.

  An American superbomb was finally ready for testing on November 1, 1952. The test site was Elugelab, in the Pacific Ocean atoll of Eniwetok in the Marshall Islands. Although invited to witness the test, Teller did not go. “I very much wanted to see the explosion of the device that had consumed my energies and that had dragged me into so many arguments,” he later said, “but I knew that I really was not needed at Eniwetok.” 76 Yet the curiosity that had driven Teller’s quest for the superbomb remained intense and unquenchable. Shortly before the predawn test—it was midday on the West Coast of the United States—Teller crossed the Berkeley campus from the Rad Lab to Haviland Hall, home of the geology department, whose basement housed one of the most sensitive seismographs in the world. There Teller hoped to see signs of the shock wave generated by the detonation five thousand miles away.