I would propose to show them those things outside the secret processing areas which have been under constant observation by the construction contractors and their personnel. They would see the size and scope of the installations and have an opportunity to assure themselves of the reasonableness of the various living accommodations which have been provided. I would also like to show them some portions of the processing areas to demonstrate the scope and complexities of the project.
To qualify even for this strictly limited inspection—in reality, a reluctant bit of public relations to raise more money—Groves laid down conditions more appropriate for an inspection of the bomb itself than a mere glimpse of dormitories and kitchens.
There was no possibility of anybody’s being allowed near Los Alamos. The visits would be to some of the less-secret atomic sites whose usefulness to the project was already diminishing. And even then:
No notes should be taken by any of the visitors. Joint conversations regarding their visits should be held only while on the project and then in secure rooms. Information ascertained would not be usable for future formal or informal conversations or addresses, until the rules of security are changed by the Secretary of War. Some questions the members might ask would necessarily have to be unanswered and the refusal to answer must be unquestioned.
26
Tibbets remained impassive as Major William Uanna spoke without interruption for many minutes, reading from one file after another. His summary was brutal and to the point. “Colonel, you’ve got one convicted murderer, three men who are convicted manslaughter cases, and several felons. They are all on the lam from the pen. Now, what are you going to do?”
Tibbets restated the question. “I know what I want to do. The question is, what are you going to recommend I do?”
Uanna was prepared. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Even break the law?”
“Even that.”
Tibbets began to explore other areas. “How did these guys get into such a secret outfit as the First Ordnance?”
Uanna suggested that sheer chance had brought the criminals into the ordnance squadron that had just joined the 509th at Wendover. After escaping from various prisons, the convicts had presumably decided the safest place for them to remain undetected was the army. They would have had little difficulty enlisting under false names.
“This is wartime, Colonel. The army doesn’t ask too many questions. It’s just glad for the manpower.”
Uanna’s inquiries showed that the special technical talents of the men had been spotted by “scouts” for the Manhattan Project. The seven technicians—mainly tool- and diemakers—had been transferred to the First Ordnance Squadron.
The squadron would “baby-sit” for the atomic bomb when the group went to Tinian. Each of its members was a specialist. Together, they were capable of carrying out, under scientific supervision, any last-minute modifications to the bomb that might be required. It had taken months to find the right personnel. The majority were skilled in metallurgy and allied disciplines. Twenty-seven of them held science degrees. They had been warned that from the moment they joined the squadron they might not see their family or friends until the war was over. Each was allowed to write a daily letter; the mail was sent through a special post-office box in San Francisco.
The squadron had arrived at Wendover on a heavily guarded train. Its men were directed to a special fenced-off compound on the field, watched over by a detachment of Uanna’s agents.
Uanna explained to Tibbets how he had spotted the criminals in the squadron. “They were happy about all this security. Only years in prison makes men like that. We started digging.”
Tibbets looked thoughtful. “We have them locked up here just as securely as if they were back in the pen?”
Uanna agreed that was the case.
“I want to see them.”
Uanna raised no objection.
The escaped murderer was sent for. Tibbets studied him. “Do you know why you are here?”
“No, Colonel, I don’t.”
Tibbets picked up a file. “Listen, fella. I know your real name, your federal penitentiary number, the number of years you were serving, the day you broke out.”
Tibbets tapped the file. “It’s all here. Who you murdered, the police statements, your trial, your sentence, how you came to us. Everything.”
The convict was too stunned to speak.
Tibbets thrust the file toward him. “Here. See for yourself.”
Tibbets saw the man tremble. He withdrew the file and closed it, then looked carefully at the technician. “This is the only record which exists of your past. The major and I are the only people who know that you are an escaped murderer. Now, it seems to me that you are real good at your present job. And we need good men. So look here. We’re going to give you a chance. Go back to your job. Do your work exactly as you have been doing it. If we have no trouble with you, you will have no trouble from us. When the war is over, we will give you this dossier and a match to burn it.”
The dazed convict left the office, too overwhelmed to speak.
One by one, the other criminals were marched in, confronted with their crimes, and made similar offers.
When the last man left, Tibbets turned to Uanna. “Major, I’m not a police department. I’m not interested in bringing people to justice. I’m interested in ending this war. All I want to do is get the proper work out of these men.”
The arrival of the First Ordnance caused considerable excitement. Lewis put it succinctly. “If we think we’re something special—these guys are something else!”
Even the slaphappy 509th had never seen such an untidy-looking outfit. Some of its members were middle-aged; one or two spoke with a distinct foreign accent. Some were Jewish technicians who until a few years ago had worked in workshops in Berlin and Munich.
The squadron seemed capable of anything and was totally self-contained. They brought and erected their own workshops, connected their own electric power, installed their own special tools. The line crews of the 509th, themselves expert at most things, realized that their peers had arrived.
The squadron’s members emerged from their compound only at mealtimes. Then they were accompanied by several burly agents. They all sat in a corner of the mess hall, and when strangers approached, they fell silent. The curious were firmly rebuffed.
The evening of March 7, some of the men from the First Ordnance Squadron went down to the flight line to meet the regular shuttle service from Albuquerque which Dora Dougherty was now running. If they noticed a woman was flying the transport, they made no comment.
There was only one passenger. He led the First Ordnance men over to a B-29.
The regular flight crew had been told to answer any questions the man put to them. He seemed to be interested in the technical performance of the bomber, and spent some time examining the bomb-bay doors.
At the end of his inspection, the man turned to the ordnance men. “These ships are not good enough for the job. They will have to be replaced.”
With that, he walked past the gaping flight crew, boarded Dora’s transport, and was on his way back to Los Alamos.
By lights-out, the whisper had spread. Beser would remember a fellow officer telling the story. “Hear about this nut who flew in, said scrap our aircraft, and flew out again? Just like he was a five-star general, not a guy in a naval captain’s uniform. Doesn’t he know there’s a war on—nobody can scrap aircraft just like that!”