The task for which Project Y, as the bomb development was called, was brought into being was without precedent. It would require the utmost in collaboration among civilian engineers, metallurgists, chemists and physicists, as well as military officers, some of whom would have to use the final weapons in combat. Many of the most difficult problems encountered at Los Alamos could not even be anticipated until work was well under way throughout the entire project. For this reason, scheduling at the Y site was both definite and indefinite. The bomb had to be ready as soon as sufficient quantities of atomic explosives were available, yet no one could say when this would be.
In looking for a contractor to carry out the work, I sought an organization experienced in research, which still retained an uncommitted capability to take on work. It soon became apparent that the University of California was our best prospect. The University authorities were not too eager to join us, but finally consented when I convinced Dr. Robert G. Sproul, the president, that this seemed to be the best solution to a crucial problem.
The nucleus of the Los Alamos organization came from the various groups that had been working under Oppenheimer at Berkeley. It was reinforced by others recruited with the assistance of Conant who, as chairman of the NDRC and president of Harvard, exerted a tremendous influence. The big problem in getting good people arose from the fact that the scientific resources of the country, particularly in this general area, were already fully engaged on important war work. Because they were civilians, the scientists had complete freedom in their choice of jobs. They had to be persuaded to come with us despite the disadvantages of isolation and security restrictions and their natural disinclination to move, particularly when their families were comfortably located. Many of the men we wanted were used to living in cities or near large metropolitan areas and were a bit dubious about the prospects of life in a remote, sparsely populated area. We had somewhat similar trouble with the engineering people, although they were not so concerned at being isolated.
One other major handicap was that we could not hold out any financial inducement to the people we wanted. It had been decided, after consultation with the Military Policy Committee, that, in keeping with the general policies of the OSRD, we should not offer any increase in pay to people recruited for the Manhattan Project. However, academic personnel who had formerly been paid on the basis of a nine-months work year were given increases whereby they were paid for the full twelve months of work, at the original monthly rate. Occasionally this led to inequities. For instance, Oppenheimer, who came to us from a state university, originally received much less than some of his subordinates, who had worked at large Eastern schools. This was unsound, and the difference was so marked that I eventually decided to make an exception in his case and brought his salary up to a point where it was equal to that of the others. This was done without any request or suggestion on his part, and his approval was not even asked.
Conant suggested that it would help greatly if we furnished Oppenheimer with a letter that clearly defined the responsibilities of the military and scientific organizations at Los Alamos. Although I knew that Opphenheimer himself had no doubts about the setup, I could see much merit in the proposal and accordingly prepared the letter. In order to give it added weight among the scientists, Conant signed it with me. It was written in terms that would enable Oppenheimer, without violating security, to explain to the scientists he was recruiting the background of the project and to assure them that by joining us they would not be cut off from the rest of the scientific world. The writing of this letter reflected Conant’s great experience in, and understanding of, the academic world, particularly its scientific element.
The letter also stated that by a fixed date all the civilians on the staff would be given military rank. This provision was based on the practice that had been followed successfully in World War I in the development of certain chemical warfare products. Conant had participated in one of these projects, and had found the system satisfactory. As Los Alamos expanded many times beyond our expectations, we found not only that it would be unnecessary to carry out this idea but that it would be unwise and well nigh impossible even to consider it.
Stone and Webster drew up the original plans for the laboratory in accordance with specifications developed by Oppenheimer with the assistance of E. M. McMillan and J. H. Manley and with Conant’s and my approval. They provided for a scientific staff of about one hundred, supported by a somewhat larger group of technical, shop and administrative employees. This was a great underestimate, for by July, 1945, the personnel had expanded many fold.
As the work got under way some amazing rumors began to circulate through Santa Fe, some thirty miles away. Typical of these was that old stand-by that we were building a home for pregnant WAC’s. The near-by local population followed the construction of the enclosure’s fence with great interest to see whether it was designed to keep people in or to keep them out.
During the following months and years, the speculation and stories grew even wilder, although they seldom spread beyond the local community. One woman who lived near the highway leading from Santa Fe to Los Alamos wrote regularly to the local paper complaining about the mysterious and certainly nefarious goings-on there, and urged that citizens take action toward having the matter investigated. Every day, she saw large numbers of loaded trucks headed toward Los Alamos, but the trucks that came away never carried anything. It was quite obviously some boondoggling New Deal scheme for wasting the taxpayers’ money.
After a number of Navy officers had been assigned to the project, and were seen on the streets of Santa Fe, rumors burgeoned about the new type of submarine that was being perfected on the Hill, as Los Alamos came to be known locally. Although the nearest navigable body of water was many hundreds of miles away, this rumor sounded entirely plausible to a number of people.
Regardless of how incredible the stories were, the people who worked at Los Alamos never confirmed or denied anything that they heard.
Colonel G. R. Tyler, the military commander at Los Alamos, once boarded a train at the railway stop nearest Santa Fe, and in the club car sat next to a man in civilian clothes who had gotten on at the same station. The stranger at once began a one-sided, rapid-fire conversation. It was obvious that he had failed to note the fact that Tyler had boarded the train at the same time that he had for, finally, he lowered his voice and said, “If we can find a secluded spot, I can tell you something which, I think, will interest you.”
Both men walked to the vestibule of the car, and stood while the man related his story. “You’d never believe the strange things that are happening on a certain mountain about fifty miles from Santa Fe. They’re doing some work that is very secret and the place is surrounded by belts of tall wire fencing. In order to keep intruders out, between these belts of fences they keep ferocious packs of wild African dogs. Besides, there are thousands of heavily armed soldier guards, and I can tell you that a number of people have been killed by the guards, or torn to pieces by the animals. It’s a frightful thing! However, I suppose that in wartime these things have to be.” He then told of other strange happenings on the Hill, none of which were true, and concluded with, “Of course, I happen to be one of the very few residents of Santa Fe who know what they are doing up there, but I do hope that you won’t ask me any questions. You see, I’ve given my word of honor that I will not divulge their secrets.”
By this time the train was approaching Tyler’s station, and as the stranger followed him to the platform he said, “Colonel, I forgot to ask you, but where are you stationed, and what sort of an assignment have you?” The officer replied, “I am stationed at Los Alamos, and I command the military personnel there.” The horrified and now extremely red-faced stranger said, “I hope that you’ll forget everything that I’ve told you. I don’t really know what’s going on at the Hill. I merely repeated some of the things that I’ve heard.”
Oppenheimer and a few of his staff had arrived on March 15, 1943, long before the necessary construction was completed. There was neither adequate laboratory space nor housing. For security reasons, we did not want to put this group in Santa Fe, so we bent every effort to accommodate them in guest houses near Los Alamos, transporting them to and from the site. Living conditions for these early arrivals were far from pleasant. As one veteran of those days reported:
There is no doubt that the Laboratory staff and their families faced the prospect of life at Los Alamos with enthusiasm and idealism. The importance of their work and the excitement associated with it contributed to this feeling, as did the possibility of building, under conditions of isolation and restriction, a vigorous and congenial community.
The actualities of the first months were hard for many to view in this light. Living conditions in the ranches around Santa Fe were difficult. Several families, many with young children, were often crowded together with inadequate cooking and other facilities. Transportation between the ranches and Los Alamos was haphazard despite great efforts to regularize it. The road was poor; there were too few cars and none of them was in good condition. Technical workers were frequently stranded on the road with mechanical breakdown or too many flat tires. Eating facilities at the site were not yet in operation and box lunches had to be sent from Santa Fe. It was winter, and sandwiches were not viewed with enthusiasm. The car that carried the lunches was inclined to break down. The working day was thus irregular and short, and night work impossible.
Until mid-April, telephone conversations between the site and Santa Fe were possible only over a Forest Service line. It was sometimes possible to shout brief instructions, but discussions of any length, even over minor matters, required an eighty-mile round trip.
And yet it was impossible to wait until everything was ready, for it never would have been. Days counted, and they could not be wasted.
From the beginning, there were two heads at Los Alamos—the Commanding Officer and the Director. The Commanding Officer1 reported directly to me and was primarily responsible for the maintenance of adequate living conditions, safeguarding government property and the conduct of the military personnel. The Director, Oppenheimer, also reported to me and was responsible for the technical, scientific and security portions of the program.
Originally, there were only two administrative assistants to the Director: Dr. E. U. Condon, from the Westinghouse Research Laboratories, and Dr. W. R. Dennis, from the University of California.2 Not long afterward, Dr. Hans A. Bethe, a brilliant physicist from Cornell University, joined the group as director of the theoretical physics division, and stayed on until after the end of the war. Bethe, who had left Nazi Germany in 1935, was already famous for his work on hydrogen fusion as the source of energy in the sun.
Condon was not a happy choice; yet the responsibility for his appointment was primarily mine. I felt that Oppenheimer should have help in handling the many administrative details of his job, particularly to ensure good relations with the Commanding Officer, so I had urged him to select as an associate director a physicist with industrial background. With my approval he chose Condon, who at that time was an associate director in the Westinghouse experimental laboratory at Pittsburgh.
At Los Alamos, Condon did little to smooth the frictions between the scientists and the military officers who handled the administrative housekeeping details. We employed Army officers for these simply because we did not wish to use scientists who were in short supply and whom we wanted to devote their entire efforts to the research work for which they alone were fitted. To keep relations between the two groups on an even keel was Condon’s major responsibility as Associate Director, and I had expected that his industrial experience would enable him to handle the problem well. Oppenheimer, as head of the entire laboratory, naturally had to give his first attention to the scientific and technical problems.
We sent the staff out to Los Alamos as we assembled it, without delay, both to avoid losing members to other jobs and to give them more time for planning. Unfortunately, trouble arose as soon as the first scientists arrived on the site. They naturally wanted everything ready immediately and had little appreciation of the difficulties confronting the Albuquerque District Engineer, whom we had arranged to be in charge of construction at the site, as he tried to accomplish a most complex job in a remote area. Nor were they temperamentally able to let him resolve his own difficulties, the greatest of which was getting enough skilled labor. What little labor there was in the vicinity was under the control of building trades locals which did not understand, particularly at first, our sense of urgency in getting the buildings ready for use. Consequently the District Engineer found himself in that most unhappy of all positions for any builder, which occurs whenever the user is given free access to a facility while it is still under construction. I did not envy him as he contended with constant suggested changes in design.
As the scientists grew impatient, they attempted to remedy the situation themselves. The principal result of their efforts was confusion and soon we began to receive complaints from the War Manpower Commission, the U.S. Employment Service and the American Federation of Labor. Some relief from this unpleasant situation came when the small permanent key maintenance staff, hired by the University of California, arrived on the scene, furnishing the scientists with a construction force of their own for small jobs. Nevertheless, serious construction problems continued to plague us throughout the duration of Project Y, both because many construction requirements could not be determined until experimentation had been completed, at which time the new facilities were usually needed immediately, and because of the continuing expansion.
From the beginning, the procurement of equipment and materials was difficult, not only because our needs were unusual but because some all-important equipment could be obtained only by negotiation or borrowing from universities. We obtained a cyclotron from Harvard, two Van de Graaf electrostatic generators from the University of Wisconsin, and a Crockcroft-Walton accelerator from the University of Illinois. Smaller items were purchased wherever they could be found.
As time passed and the administrative and technical groups grew accustomed to each other’s ways, minor mutual annoyances gradually faded away. Looking at this period in retrospect, it is difficult to appreciate how vital some of these matters then seemed to the people involved. Yet it is understandable that to men eager to get on with their work they were of utmost importance, and it is not surprising that on a number of occasions tempers erupted and feelings were hurt. The fact that almost all the people who arrived during this difficult time stayed on through the entire project is indicative of the spirit and sense of duty that motivated them, both individually and collectively.
Yet Condon remained only about six weeks and then resigned. When Oppenheimer told me that Condon was leaving, I warned him that for his own protection in the future he should insist on Condon’s putting into writing his reasons for resigning. The considerations he cited in his letter of resignation3 did not seem to justify his departure.
Condon was not a stranger to this area; in fact, he had been born at Alamogordo, New Mexico. He had lived in the West for many years, and had attended the University of California. Yet, for some reason, he did not want to stay at Los Alamos. I never felt that his letter disclosed the real reasons for his departure. He did mention his children’s needs for schooling and said that he did not think that the local schools were good enough. It was my impression, however, that he was being motivated primarily by a feeling that the work in which we were engaged would not be successful, that the Manhattan Project was going to fail, and that he did not want to be connected with it.
During the latter part of April a series of conferences was held at the site to acquaint the new arrivals with the existing state of knowledge on atomic physics and to arrive at a firm program of research. One of the principal theoretical questions that had to be solved involved the time available for a nuclear reaction if an explosion were to take place. In this case, two opposing considerations came into play. The violence of the explosion was dependent upon the number of neutrons released by the chain reaction. This number increased geometrically with each generation of the chain. Yet to allow the reaction to progress through a number of generations took a certain amount of time during which the energy already released by previous generations could blow the bomb apart and terminate the chain reaction before any major detonation was achieved.
During this period guesses concerning the optimum time length of an explosive reaction—and they were guesses—varied greatly. All in all, however, we were convinced that the efficiency of any bomb we might build would be low as compared to the power that would remain untapped. This is usual in all explosions.
The most straightforward proposal for the bomb’s design utilized the gun-assembly method to bring a critical mass of fissionable material together. In this method one subcritical mass of fissionable material was fired as a projectile into a second subcritical mass of fissionable material, the target, producing momentarily a supercritical mass which would explode. This principle was employed in the design of the Thin Man bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima.
Another method was proposed that utilized the effects of implosion, by directing the blast of conventional high explosives inward toward a quantity of fissionable material. The force of this blast literally squeezed the material together until it reached a critical mass and detonated. This principle was used in the Fat Man bomb which was delivered against Nagasaki. It was particularly difficult to develop because, unlike the gun-assembly method, there was no previous experience upon which to base its design. The man most responsible for the development of implosion theory in these early days was Dr. S. H. Neddermeyer, who at the beginning was almost alone in his belief in that method. He held to his conviction even though it was not at first too highly regarded by his colleagues at Los Alamos. When we discovered late in 1943 that certain previously unknown properties of plutonium made it extremely difficult to employ it safely in a gun-type bomb, under the then existing knowledge, we were very thankful for Neddermeyer’s persistent belief in the feasibility of an implosion bomb and the advance work in which this had resulted.
At this time, too, there was some discussion of a fusion bomb, such as has later been developed in the hydrogen bomb, but since it was realized that any such super-bomb would require the high heat generated by a fission bomb to set it off, it necessarily had to be assigned a lower priority. On the other hand, its potentialities were so great that research and study for its development could not be completely neglected.4 There was much discussion about the possibility of its igniting the atmosphere, but such an occurrence seemed most unlikely, not only according to the scientific theories of the time, but by common sense. There was some discussion about the explosive force such a bomb could develop, but there was no real agreement on this. Everyone recognized, however, that the fusion bomb would produce a tremendous explosion far beyond that expected from the atomic bomb.
Oppenheimer was told that he should be ready to assemble a fission bomb as soon as the necessary material was available. He was given an estimate that this would probably not be until sometime in 1945, but that in any event he would probably have at least six months’ advance notice of the probable delivery date of the final ingredients for the weapon. While the bomb itself could not be tested until enough fissionable material was available to produce a critical mass, many auxiliary tests could be made with a smaller amount, of less purity, which would aid in designing the bombs and in estimating their probable power and the likelihood of success.
In the beginning, Los Alamos was purely a research organization. The work there was so scientific and so highly theoretical that, in its early stages, almost all the responsibility was carried by the scientists rather than by the engineers. As time went on, however, the balance shifted somewhat, and engineering, still highly scientific, became of great importance as we sought to make certain that the bomb would go off when dropped.
One of our major needs was to determine the number of neutrons per fission. We had some idea of what this ought to be in the case of U-235, although we were not certain because our estimates were based upon measurements of samples containing large amounts of U-238. For plutonium, however, the number was completely unknown. We could only assume and hope that it would not differ too much from that of U-235.
At the start of the Los Alamos Project, we did not know, because of possible production difficulties, whether we would use U-235 or plutonium, or both, for the bomb. Neither did we know whether the material would be a pure metal or a compound. The use of U-233 was also under consideration for a while. Consequently, the mechanical requirements for the bomb material could not be specified.
We faced the certainty that we would have only a minimum amount of time for research after fissionable material became available in gram or kilogram amounts. Almost all chemical investigations, important as they were, would have to be performed on microscopic samples.
We also had to get started on our ordnance program at a very early date. This program involved a new field of engineering, and would have to be a joint effort not only of scientists and engineers, but particularly of explosives experts and men experienced in ordnance.
At the Military Policy Committee’s meeting in May, 1943, I asked for advice in selecting a suitable head for this work. It was a position that Oppenheimer and I had not yet been able to fill. The man we needed, I said, should have a sound understanding of both practical and theoretical ordnance—high explosives, guns and fusing—a wide acquaintance and an excellent reputation among military ordnance people and an ability to gain their support; a reasonably broad background in scientific development; and an ability to attract and hold the respect of scientists. I added that, because in the later stages of the project he would be concerned with ballistic testing and the planning for and possibly the actual use of the bomb in battle, it would be helpful if he were a regular military officer. I told the committee that I knew of no one available in the Army who could fill the bill.
After some discussion, Bush asked whether I would have any objections to a naval officer. I quickly replied, “Of course not.” He then suggested Commander William S. Parsons, and Purnell added his hearty endorsement.
Parsons, a 1922 Annapolis graduate, had spent much of his commissioned service on ordnance and gunnery duties and had just completed several years of work on the development and fleet tests of the proximity fuse. Subject to my meeting and approving of him, and the Navy’s concurrence in his assignment to the MED, which was promptly arranged by Purnell, his selection was agreed upon.
Late in the next afternoon, Parsons reported to me; within a few minutes I was sure he was the man for the job. During our conversation he reminded me that I had had dealings with him in the early 1930’s, when I was working on the development of infrared for the Army at the time he was involved in the development of radar for the Navy. I remembered that I had been impressed then with his understanding of the interplay between the military forces and advanced scientific theory.
I discussed Parsons’ proposed assignment with Oppenheimer, who met him in Washington a few days later and expressed his hearty acquiescence in his selection. The necessary orders were issued promptly and Parsons soon found himself at Los Alamos.
His reception on arrival was not notable. Because of security restrictions it was extremely difficult to enter Los Alamos unless one had business there and had been granted security clearance. Those who were qualified entered by a main gate which was about two miles from the center of activities. Security guards had special instructions to be on the alert for uniformed personnel who sought entry, and whose uniforms varied in any detail from that prescribed by regulations. The guards were all enlisted Army personnel and were but vaguely familiar with Navy uniforms.
Parsons was the first Navy officer to be assigned to the station, and appeared at the gate wearing a Navy summer uniform. His arrival was announced by a frantic guard, who telephoned his sergeant: “Sergeant, we’ve really caught a spy! A guy is down here trying to get in, and his uniform is as phony as a three dollar bill. He’s wearing the eagles of a colonel, and claims that he’s a captain.”
Another case of “uniform confusion” illustrates the danger of using slang. I had telephoned to Colonel Tyler from Washington to say that a senior staff officer of the Army, with whom we had dealings, would be arriving later that day at the Santa Fe Airport. He was traveling on a tight schedule and wanted to see Los Alamos. I told Tyler to meet him at the airport, drive him to the Hill, arrange a brief conference with Oppenheimer, and if possible a minor nonnuclear explosion in the test area. Because the General had so little time, Tyler arranged for his car not to be delayed by sentries, and the customary identification procedures were to be waived.
These unusual instructions were relayed to the commanding officer of the Guard Detachment. Tyler drove to the airport where he was to meet the plane at 2 p.m.; however, the airplane arrived two hours late. The General emerged, announced that he had a later appointment the same day at El Paso, Texas, and urged that his visit to Los Alamos be expedited in every possible way.
All went well until the car was driven at fast speed past a sentry post in a wooded section in the direction of the test area. As it sped past, the sentry yelled, “Halt!—— ——it, STOP!” This command was accompanied by the sound of the action of a rifle bolt, which could only mean that the sentry was preparing to fire. The driver applied brakes, and slowly backed the car to where the sentry stood. In a casual and deliberate manner the sentry began examining the identification papers of all occupants. At this point, the General showed evidence of impatience. Tyler then asked the sentry, “Weren’t you told to allow this vehicle to pass your post this afternoon without stopping?” “No, sir,” the sentry replied. “All they told me was to allow some visiting firemen to pass without stopping, and I’ve been expecting people wearing firemen’s helmets; you ain’t seen them anywhere, have you, sir?” The grim look which had been worn by the General up to this time now relaxed in unrestrained laughter.
Parsons more than fulfilled my expectations at all times, not only in his performance of his assigned duties, but in helping to smooth out some of the frictions that are bound to arise on a project of this type. As we had anticipated, the fact that he was a regular officer, with a background in proximity fuse development, proved of inestimable value to us in the later stages of the project when we moved into the final preparations for the bomb’s delivery.
Conant advised me that I could improve my working relationship with the Los Alamos scientists if I appointed a committee to review their work, regardless of whether or not any direct benefits would accrue to us from its reports. He pointed out that these people were accustomed to making their views known to similar committees appointed by their university administrations, and that our adoption of this system would meet with their approbation. A further advantage which we both recognized was that a review committee, with its fresh outlook, might be able to make a suggestion that would be eagerly seized upon, whereas if the same suggestion came from me, it might be regarded as interference.
Personally, I never found the idea of a committee particularly obnoxious so long as I recalled the opinion of a very wise and successful Chief of Engineers, General Jadwin. When some of his subordinates intimated to him that there was no need to appoint a board of consultants on the Mississippi River, since its members would have neither the knowledge nor the background in this field possessed by many officers of the Corps of Engineers, Jadwin replied: “I have no objection to committees as long as I appoint them.”
With this guidance, I had no qualms about setting up a review committee. Its primary purpose was to reassure Conant and me, as well as the members of the Military Policy Committee, that the program and the organization at Los Alamos were sound.5 As with every committee that I appointed, its members were very carefully selected, and at least one of them, in this case the secretary, was a man who was thoroughly familiar with the project and with my views on the subject under study.
Although such an approach to committees may appear cynical, in my experience it produced excellent results. Certainly that was the case in this instance. Out of the Review Committee’s work came one important technical contribution when Rose pointed out, in connection with the Thin Man, that the durability of the gun was quite immaterial to success, since it would be destroyed in the explosion anyway. Self-evident as this seemed once it was mentioned, it had not previously occurred to us. Now we could make drastic reductions in our estimates of the Thin Man’s size and weight. Because the gun-type bomb thus became militarily practical at an early date, work on it could go ahead on an orderly and not too hurried basis.
One recommendation made by the Review Committee, which was subsequently adopted, was that because Los Alamos would be responsible for the successful performance of the bomb, the development of the special methods necessary to purify plutonium after it had been separated should be carried out there. Although at first this involved nothing more than study and research, it gradually grew into a production operation. I considered this perfectly appropriate for the Los Alamos site because the quantities involved were extremely small and we had to build a special installation in any event at either Hanford or Los Alamos. The committee also strongly concurred in Oppenheimer’s views, which were also mine, that the ordnance development should be pushed. These changes in emphasis and missions doubled the number of people at Los Alamos, with a consequent increase in its facilities, particularly in the test areas for ballistics and explosives work.
The Explosives Division was headed by Dr. George Kistiakowski of Harvard, a distinguished chemist experienced in high explosives work. The success of the Fat Man depended upon the design and quality of manufacture of non-nuclear explosives, for both of which Kistiakowski was responsible. The work was carried out under experimental conditions and it was not possible, because of lack of time, to proceed with normal caution. Chances were taken but no one was injured.
To facilitate his control of the work at Los Alamos, Oppenheimer established a governing board consisting of himself, his division leaders, the general administrative officers and selected individuals occupying important technical positions.6 Serving under the division leaders were the group leaders. The board had cognizance of everything pertaining to the project and its operation. There was also an advisory community council. It was a thorn in the side of the station commander, who was unable to satisfy all of its demands, yet its continual prodding often got results that added to the amenities of life. On the whole, it was a valuable adjunct, for it not only improved the morale of the community, but kept the post administration on its toes.
Problems at Los Alamos included those that can always be expected to arise in any isolated community. They were aggravated by the fact that the two dominant sectors of the group were composed of people of almost directly opposite backgrounds: scientists with little experience outside the academic field; and uniformed members of the armed services, nearly all nonprofessionals, who had little experience in, or liking for, the academic life and who were interested simply in bringing the war to a quick and successful end.
There was always some undercurrent of feeling between small segments of these two groups, though Oppenheimer, Parsons, Tyler and Ashbridge made every effort to bring them together. On social occasions, for instance, they included both civilian and military personnel. On one evening at least, it was a notable success.
This was a dinner given by Tyler and his wife, soon after their arrival at Los Alamos. Shortly before, an item had appeared in a daily column syndicated in several Eastern newspapers advancing the theory that if one wished to expedite the freezing of ice cubes in a refrigerator he might do so by filling the ice trays with boiling hot water.
In a casual way, the hostess mentioned the item, and wondered whether any of the guests knew whether the freezing of water could, indeed, be hastened in this way.
Any qualms she might have felt about a topic of conversation that would absorb the interest of the leading physicists of the United States were now dispelled. One highly eminent scientist stated that the proposal was a ridiculous one. Another said that the theory was quite possibly true. Small slide rules emerged from several coat pockets; pencils and pads of paper were requested; there were heated arguments in which some of the military guests with engineering background joined, as did some of the scientists’ wives, while others looked quietly resigned, as if they had many times endured similar scenes. There is no record that any agreement was finally reached; but later it was rumored that several participants in the discussion hurried home and conducted experiments in their own refrigerators.
Despite such occasional successes it was obvious that until most of the innumerable petty annoyances could be removed, the frictions would continue. Matters were made much worse by the constant and unanticipated increase in the population. Although the water supply system had been adequate for about three times the originally estimated population, it was soon overloaded, and available housing always lagged behind the numbers of potential occupants.
Because of the difficulties the builder was having, both the quality and the quantity of the living quarters varied from time to time and at best were on the austere side. To house all the scientific and administrative staff satisfactorily, we tried to provide apartments, duplexes or separate cottages for married couples, and dormitories for unmarried people.
Aggravating the housing problem was the scarcity of household help. There were no servants other than Indian girls from near-by communities, who were brought in by bus and assigned according to need, rather than according to desire for a servant or ability to pay.
This system was designed to encourage the wives of our people to work on the project, for those who worked obtained priority on household assistance. Some of the wives were scientists in their own right, and they, of course, were in great demand, but with labor at a premium we could put to good use everyone we could get, whether as secretaries or as technical assistants or as teachers in the public school that we started for the children.
To enable the mothers of young children to work, a nursery school was organized on a partially self-supporting basis; its financial losses were carried by the government. The elementary and high schools were operated as free public schools, with all expenses borne by the project.
A hospital, run for the benefit of all residents, co-operated in the health and safety program of the laboratory. I felt it was particularly important to have this hospital staffed by people who would be able to meet every possible demand, whether reasonable or unreasonable, for we did not want anyone to feel the slightest desire to use outside facilities. Medical service at Los Alamos was entirely free, except for nominal board charges for those actually in the hospital. Apparently, we provided adequate service, for one of the doctors told me later that the number and spacing of babies born to the scientific personnel surpassed all existing medical records.
Much of the friction at Los Alamos would never have existed if the laboratory could have been placed in the heart of a major city. Most of the people were used to living in urban surroundings with the facilities and leisure activities normally found in such areas. They found life strange in New Mexico, far from every form of amusement except for the more simple pleasures that they could devise for themselves. There were no symphony orchestras or concerts, no theaters, or any lectures on matters of a cultural nature. They could, of course, go down to Santa Fe, the capital of New Mexico, but still a quite small city, which was about twenty miles away, but extended trips away from the reservation were discouraged.
In addition to the advisory council that dealt with community affairs, Oppenheimer set up a co-ordinating council whose members were drawn from the group leaders and others in higher positions. This was not normally a policy-making body; its meetings were generally informative rather than deliberate. The various divisions and groups held their own meetings and seminars at which scientific information was exchanged.
Another means of stimulating interest and progress was the weekly colloquium, which every staff member was privileged to attend, provided he had sufficient scientific education or experience to enable him to give or receive benefits in any general discussion of the technical program. In the final analysis, though, the colloquium existed not so much to provide information as to maintain morale and a feeling of common purpose and responsibility. From the standpoint of security, it presented a major hazard, and it was one of the reasons why the treachery of Fuchs was so disastrous to the free world.
As liaison between Los Alamos and the other phases of the Manhattan Project was effected, it became difficult to keep the exchange of information under control, although, generally speaking, we were fairly successful in this respect. There was, however, much dissatisfaction among the Los Alamos people concerning their lack of information about production schedules. This lack did not result so much from poor liaison as from the fact that during this period all schedules were vague, incomplete and contradictory. It was not only difficult but impossible to arrive at sensible schedules for bomb research and development, when we simply could not predict when the necessary U-235 or plutonium would be ready.
The procedure for liaison with the Metallurgical Laboratory at Chicago was fairly typical of all such arrangements. Specified representatives of the two laboratories were permitted to exchange information either by correspondence or by visits of the Los Alamos agent to Chicago. The information to be exchanged was limited to that dealing with the chemical, metallurgical and nuclear properties of fissionable and other materials. The representatives were permitted to discuss schedules of need for, and availability of, experimental amounts of U-235 and plutonium, but not of production amounts. Nor were they allowed to exchange information on the design or operation of production piles or on the design of weapons. However, three members of the Los Alamos laboratory were kept informed of the time estimates for the production of large amounts of these materials so that research could be intelligently scheduled, and I was always willing to make such additional exceptions to policy as might in Oppen-heimer’s opinion be required.
Our security precautions were not made any easier by the reluctance of a few of the scientists to recognize the need for putting some limitations on their personal freedom. For the first year and a half, travel away from the immediate vicinity of the site was forbidden, except on laboratory business or in case of emergency. Personal contact with acquaintances outside the project was discouraged. In the main these restrictions were accepted as concessions to the general policy of isolation. Some thought they were not strict enough, and no one was satisfied with the working definitions of “personal emergency.” The removal of these limitations in the fall of 1944 was a cause of general rejoicing, and resulted from my feeling that the improvement in morale would outweigh the increased security risks.
One aspect of our security policy at Los Alamos that particularly annoyed everyone was the censorship of mail. Originally there was none. Nevertheless, shortly after the first staff members arrived at Los Alamos, rumors began to circulate that some letters had been opened. As the rumors continued to spread, Oppenheimer became most concerned and, since he had no assurance that the mail was not being opened, asked me whether I had ordered any censorship. I had not, and careful investigation of every instance where someone claimed that his mail had been opened convinced me that these claims were without foundation. However, by that time a number of the more thoughtful members of the laboratory had themselves begun to urge that we institute an official censorship on outgoing mail. This was set up in December of 1943. Its primary purpose always was to guard against the inadvertent rather than the intentional disclosure of information; deliberate traitorous espionage can never be prevented by normal military censorship. The most vital information at Los Alamos was of such a nature that it could be conveyed in a few words which could be transmitted in any number of ways. To guard against this, we had to rely on the integrity of the individual. The possibility of betrayal thus became directly proportionate to the number of people employed, and to the amount of knowledge possessed by each.
1 Lieut. Col. J. M. Harmon, succeeded by Lieut. Col. W. Ashbridge, and then by Col. G. R. Tyler.
2 Condon left in May, and Dennis in July of 1943. David Hawkins of the University of California arrived in May of 1943 to serve as a special assistant to Oppenheimer to handle liaison matters with the Station Commander, and A. L. Hughes took charge of personnel matters in June. In January, 1944, David Dow was designated Assistant in Charge of Non-Technical Activities.
3 See Appendix VII, page 429.
4 Most of this was carried out by Dr. Edward Teller, the physicist from Hungary, who is now known as the father of the H-bomb.
5 The committee consisted of W. K. Lewis of MIT, Chairman; E. L. Rose, of Jones &Lamson; J. H. Van Vleck and E. B. Wilson, both of Harvard; and Richard C. Tolman, Vice Chairman of NDRC.
6 The membership of the original board included Robert F. Bacher, a topflight nuclear physicist who later became one of the first members of the Atomic Energy Commission; Hans Bethe; J. W. Kennedy; A. L. Hughes; D. P. Mitchell, who had previously been in charge of laboratory procurement for the physics department at Columbia; Parsons; and Oppenheimer. Later additions were E. M. McMillan of the University of California, and George Kistiakowsky and K. T. Bainbridge of Harvard.