Another scientist, Dr Rosalie Bertell, head of cancer research at the Rothwell Park Institute in Buffalo, New York, also condemned the MoD’s statement. Dr Bertell, who was in England to present evidence at a public inquiry into the Sizewell B nuclear plant said: “The nuclear powers have been covering up the genetic effects of radiation since Hiroshima.”
The row rumbled on, but the government refused to budge. One Tory minister admitted privately: “We can’t accede to these demands there is no telling where it will end.” And there lay the problem with the veterans’ campaign: it was in some ways too successful. They had won the argument and secret plans were in the pipeline to compensate them through the social security budget. But the added dimension of the veteran’s children would open the door to unimaginable payouts. So the government dug its heels in and counted on the media and by default the public, growing bored with the story. But just when they thought the issue had gone away, the nuclear agenda was kept in the headlines by new revelations about the notorious Sellafield reprocessing plant which for 30 years had been the dark heart of Britain’s nuclear bomb making industry.
THE DARK TOWER
On the wild and windswept coast of Cumbria in the far north west of England stands the giant Sellafield nuclear plant glowering on the horizon like a modern-day manifestation of the Dark Tower in Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings.
There is something about Sellafield that inspires supernatural awe. When it was built in the 1950s it was so remote that it was a dawn to dusk journey just to travel the 350 miles from London.
Even today the last 40 or so miles can only be accessed by the A595, a winding country road that hugs the shoreline of the Irish Sea as it meanders through valleys and towering rocky outcrops. For miles there is little sign of habitation until quite suddenly after a bend in the road the giant plant leaps into view.
There is an almost palpable sense of foreboding about the place, and up close it seems to thrum with a dark energy. Legends of death and disease are woven into its fabric, and the deadly menace of its discharges extends for miles along the once pristine coastline of the Irish Sea.
People who live in this remote corner of England have learned to live and even welcome Sellafield for the wealth and prosperity it has brought. They have made a pact with the nuclear devil in return for a more equitable life.
Sellafield was built in the late 1940s on the site of an old Royal Ordnance factory, and the local population, mainly farm workers, looked upon the activities with some interest.
The huge influx of building workers, mainly Irish navvies, bussed in to dig the ditches and foundations, were looked upon with suspicion, while the vanguard of young pipe-smoking, duffle-coated scientists was regarded with the same awe as an invasion by alien beings.
Lured from Oxford and London to take part in the pioneering work, these brilliant young men were housed in a guarded, purpose-built hostel next to a derelict Georgian mansion brooding among trees in the village of Holmbrook.
Living accommodation was three concrete blocks containing single rooms, said to compare favourably with a luxury hotel. A communal block contained a bar, a billiards room, shops, an assembly hall and a dance floor. Peacocks sunned themselves on the roof while dominating the skyline, the mighty square-topped 400-foot towers of Sellafield looked like unworldly monuments awaiting their statues.
The daily ritual for workers entering the site was straight out of science fiction. They entered through guarded gates and were required to remove all their clothes and don fresh ones. On leaving they had to go through a series of showers and then enter a machine which clanged “like a demented fire engine” if it detected any radioactivity.
Outside the closely-guarded gates of the plant, green vans toured the narrow lanes as scientists tested water, soil and vegetation.
Atomic energy development was the most exciting job in Britain at the time and the young scientists revelled in the allure of being at the cutting edge of a new scientific dawn.
The serious business of producing plutonium began in 1947 when the plutonium production piles were built. The system was cooled by air flow rather than water and was considered revolutionary at the time.
The site was given a new name, Windscale, and work progressed at a brisk pace. By 1952 production of plutonium commenced and by March of that year the site operators opened up the reactor vessel and gazed upon the first plutonium produced in Britain.
It was a singular achievement, and the precious cargo was soon heading for Aldermaston to be installed in Britain’s first atomic bomb.
There was much rejoicing and the scientists became the “nuclear knights” of the realm invested with Arthurian acclaim and prestige. Their stock rose even higher when Britain’s young Queen Elizabeth II formally opened Britain’s first nuclear power plant on the nearby Calder Hall site in October 1956.
The new station was hailed as a world first and amazing things were promised. The new “super-fuel” would soon transform energy supplies.
Word got round that a single ton of uranium would release as much energy as four million tons of coal, making nuclear power “too cheap to meter.”
Holiday jets and cruise ships would soon be powered by nuclear engines; harbours could be blasted out of the coastlines by “controlled atom bombs”, and even household appliances such as kettles and washing machines could, in theory at least, be powered by “nuclear atoms.”
None of these things of course ever came to fruition, but it was necessary to whip up the patriotic fervour to mask Windscale’s primary objective: to produce the fuel for Britain’s atomic weapons.
As the arms race intensified Britain was desperate to stay in the running. More and more demands were made on Windscale, to produce enough plutonium for Britain’s bomb makers at Aldermaston.
The workload became too much and the system began to creak. The first ominous sign occurred in May 1956 when a steel component in the furnace with its deadly charge of uranium fuel shattered.
An immediate repair was essential to prevent a massive release of radioactive gases. The only way to repair the damage was by entering the “basement” of the furnace via the concrete channel that links the furnace to a deep pond used to store the spent fuel rods.
But even with protective suits, no man could spend more than 25 minutes in the chamber. Meltdown was only averted by 251 volunteers working in quick-change relays.
Details of the incident were kept secret and the crash production of plutonium for Britain’s nuclear bombs continued unabated. It finally proved too much for the system. In October 1957 Pile No. 1 blew its top and an uncontrolled fire raged for two days and nights.
According to official reports a problem was first identified at 2pm on October 10 when radiation monitoring equipment identified activity in an air sampling filter.
Other measurements were taken from various areas of the site before Pile No 1 was examined by health physics officials. The sight through a viewing window must have made their hair stand on end: the heart of the pile containing the uranium was glowing white hot and vast quantities of radioactivity were being released.
Amazingly the plant’s bosses tried to keep things “in-house” and no warnings were issued. As Pile No 1 spewed radioactivity into the air, local people went about their business as usual; mothers pushed their babies in prams along the streets, shops displayed their foodstuffs in the windows and young children played in their gardens.