American Prometheus (40 page)

In retrospect, they were a perfect team to lead the effort to beat Germans in the race to build a nuclear weapon. If Robert’s style of charismatic authority tended to breed consensus, Groves exercised his authority through intimidation. “Basically his way of running projects,” observed Harvard chemist George Kistiakowsky, “was to scare his subordinates to a point of blind obedience.” Robert Serber thought that with Groves it was a “matter of policy to be as nasty as possible to his subordinates.” Oppie’s secretary, Priscilla Green Duffield, always remembered how the general would stride past her desk and, without even a hello, say something rude such as, “Your face is dirty.” This crude behavior made Groves the object of most of the complaints on the mesa, and this deflected criticism from Oppenheimer. But Groves refrained from such behavior around Oppenheimer, and it was a measure of Oppenheimer’s leverage in their relationship that he usually got his way.

Robert did what was necessary to appease Groves. He became what the general wanted, a deft and efficient administrator. At Berkeley, his office desk had typically been stacked with foot-high piles of paper. Dr. Louis Hempelmann, the Berkeley physician who came to Los Alamos and became the Oppenheimers’ close friend, observed that on the mesa, Robert “was a clean-desk man. Never any paper there.” There was also a physical transformation: Oppie cut his long, curly hair. “He had his hair [so] closely clipped,” remarked Hempelmann, “I almost didn’t recognize him.”

In point of fact, even as Condon was quitting Los Alamos, Groves’ compartmentalization policy was breaking down. Oppenheimer may have avoided a confrontation over the issue, but the policy was becoming a sham. As the work progressed, it became increasingly important to have all “white badge” scientists free to discuss their ideas and problems with each other. Even Edward Teller understood that compartmentalization was an impediment to efficiency. Early in March 1943, he explained to Oppenheimer that he had written an official letter to him discussing “my old anxiety: too much secrecy.” But then he confided, “I did not do so to annoy you but to give you a possibility to use the statement at any time in case you see any advantage in doing so.” Groves soon realized what he was up against. Try as he might, he could not even get the most responsible and senior scientists to cooperate. On one occasion when Ernest Lawrence was visiting Los Alamos and due to lecture there to a small group of scientists, Groves took the physicist aside and carefully briefed him on what he was not allowed to say to his audience. To his dismay, just a few moments later, Groves heard Lawrence up at the blackboard saying, “I know General Groves doesn’t want me to say this, but . . .” Officially nothing changed, but in practice compartmentalization among the scientists grew more and more lax.

Groves often blamed the collapse of compartmentalization on Condon’s influence over Oppenheimer. “He [Condon] did a tremendous amount of damage at Los Alamos in the initial setup,” Groves testified in 1954. “I could never make up my own mind as to whether Dr. Oppenheimer was the one who was primarily at fault in breaking up the compartmentalization, or whether it was Dr. Condon.” It was one thing, he thought, to have the top twenty to thirty scientists freely talking to each other. But when hundreds of men ignored the policy, compartmentalization became a joke.

Groves eventually came to recognize that at Los Alamos the rules of science had trumped the principles of military security. “While I may have dominated the situation in general,” he testified, “I didn’t have my own way in a lot of things. So when I say that Dr. Oppenheimer did not always keep the faith with respect to the strict interpretation of the security rules, if I could say that he was no worse than any of my other leading scientists, I think that would be a fair statement.”

In May 1943, Oppenheimer presided over a meeting in which it was decided that a General Colloquium would be held every other Tuesday evening. He persuaded Teller to organize the meetings. When Groves said he was “disturbed” by the wide-ranging scope of these discussions, Oppie replied quite firmly that he was “committed” to the colloquia. His only concession was to agree to restrict attendance to scientists. He also argued adamantly that his people had to be able to exchange information with their counterparts at other Manhattan Project sites. That June, for instance, he insisted on Enrico Fermi being permitted to visit Los Alamos from the Met Lab in Chicago. He told Groves that because Fermi’s trip was of the “highest importance,” he simply would not take responsibility for its cancellation. Groves relented and Fermi was allowed to visit.

Late in the summer of 1943, Oppenheimer explained his views on security to a Manhattan Project security officer: “My view about the whole damn thing, of course, is that the [basic] information we are working on is probably known to all the governments that care to find out. The information about what we’re doing is probably of no use because it is so damn complicated.” The danger, he said, was not that technical information about the bomb might leak to another country. The real secret was “the intensity of our effort” and the scale of the “international investment involved.” If other governments understood the resources America was throwing into the bomb effort, they might attempt to duplicate the bomb project. Oppenheimer didn’t think even this knowledge would “have any effect on Russia,” but “it might have a very big effect on Germany, and I am as convinced about that . . . as everyone else is.”

Even as Oppenheimer was distracted by the demands of Groves’ security officers, some of his younger protégés were complaining that the Army’s clumsy management of the Manhattan Project was wasting precious time. By the time Los Alamos opened in March 1943, four years had passed since the discovery of fission and most of the physicists working on the project assumed that their German counterparts had at least a two-year lead. Feeling a desperate sense of urgency, they were angered by the Army’s security precautions, the plodding bureaucracy—and anything that seemed to cause delays. That summer, Phil Morrison reported in a “Dear Opje” letter from the Met Lab that “the drive which accompanied last winter’s work seems nearly gone. Relations between our people and the contractor’s are impossibly bad . . . the result is intolerable and incompatible with speedy success.” A dozen of the Chicago lab’s younger scientists were so alarmed that they had signed a letter addressed to President Roosevelt reporting that it was their “sober judgment that this project is losing time. The Army direction is conventional and routine. . . .” Speed was essential. And yet, the Army was not consulting the “few scientific leaders who alone are competent in this new field. The life of our nation is endangered by such a policy.”

Three weeks later, on August 21, 1943, Hans Bethe and Edward Teller wrote Oppenheimer of their own frustrations with the pace of the project. “Recent reports both through the newspapers and through the secret service, have given indications that the Germans may be in possession of a powerful new weapon which is expected to be ready between November and Jan.” The new weapon, they warned, was probably “Tube-Alloys”—the British code name for an atomic bomb. “It is not necessary,” they wrote, “to describe the probable consequences which would result if this proves to be the case.” They then complained that the private companies responsible for the production of bomb-grade uranium were retarding the program. The solution, they argued, was to “make available adequate funds for the additional program, directly to those scientists who are most experienced in the various phases of the problem.”

Oppenheimer shared their concerns. He too was worried that they might be falling behind the Germans, and so he worked harder and exhorted his people to do the same.

WITH THE TITLE of scientific director, Oppenheimer’s authority inside Los Alamos was nearly absolute. Though he ostensibly shared power with a military post commander, Oppie reported directly to General Groves. The first post commander, Lt. Col. John M. Harmon, had numerous arguments with the scientists and as a result he was replaced in April 1943, after only four months on the job. His successor, Lt. Col. Whitney Ashbridge, understood that his job was to minimize friction and keep the scientists happy. Ashbridge, coincidentally a graduate of the Los Alamos Ranch School, lasted until the autumn of 1944, when, overworked and exhausted, he suffered a mild heart attack. He was replaced by Col. Gerald R. Tyler. Thus, Oppenheimer literally worked through three army colonels.

Security was always a headache. At one point, Army security stationed armed military police outside Oppenheimer’s “Bathtub Row” house. The MPs inspected everyone’s pass, including Kitty’s, before allowing them to enter the house. Kitty frequently forgot to take her pass when she left and always made a scene when they wouldn’t let her back in. Still, she was not entirely unhappy about their presence: Always ready to seize an opportunity, she occasionally used the MPs as baby-sitters for Peter. When the sergeant in charge of the detail realized what was happening, he had the MPs withdrawn.

As part of his understanding with General Groves, Oppenheimer had agreed to name a three-man committee to be responsible for internal security. He appointed his assistants David Hawkins and John Manley, and a chemist, Joe Kennedy. They were responsible for security inside the laboratory (the T-Section), which was enclosed within a second, inner barbed-wire fence that was off-limits to MPs and soldiers. The internal security committee dealt with such prosaic matters as checking to make sure that scientists locked their file cabinets when they left their offices. If someone was caught leaving a secret document on his desk overnight, then that scientist was required to patrol the lab the next night and try to catch someone else. One day, Serber saw Hawkins and Emilio Segrè having an argument. “Emilio, you left a secret paper out last night,” Hawkins said, “and you have to go around tonight.” Segrè retorted, “That paper, it was all wrong. It would only have confused the enemy.”

Oppenheimer struggled constantly to protect his people from The Hill’s security apparatus. He and Serber had numerous discussions about how to “save” various people from being dismissed. “If they had had their way,” Serber said of the security division, “there wouldn’t have been anybody left.” Indeed, in October 1943 the army’s security investigators recommended that Robert and Charlotte Serber both be removed from Los Alamos. The FBI charged, with typical hyperbole, that the Serbers were “entirely saturated with Communist beliefs and all of their associates were known radicals.”

While Robert Serber’s views were certainly leftist, he had never been as politically active as his wife. Charlotte had poured her energies in the late 1930s into such projects as raising funds for the Spanish Republicans. But, of course, Oppenheimer himself had been more politically active than Charlotte. It is unclear from the documentary record how the Army was overruled, but Oppie probably vouched personally for the Serbers’ loyalty. One day Capt. Peer de Silva, the chief resident security officer, confronted Oppenheimer with Serber’s political background, only to have Oppenheimer dismiss it all as unimportant: “Oppenheimer volunteered information that he had known Serber was formerly active in Communist activities and stated that, in fact, Serber had told him so.” Oppenheimer explained that he had told Serber, prior to bringing him to Los Alamos, that he would have to drop his political activities. “Serber promised me he would, therefore, I believe him.” Incredulous, De Silva thought this evidence of Oppenheimer’s naïveté, or worse.

Like many Hill wives, Charlotte Serber worked in the Tech Area. And though G-2’s security file on the Serbers noted her family’s left-wing background, Charlotte’s job as scientific librarian literally made her the gatekeeper for The Hill’s most important secrets. Oppenheimer placed enormous trust in her. Casually dressed in jeans or slacks, Charlotte presided over the library as a social hangout and a “center for all gossip.”

One day, Oppenheimer called Charlotte into his office. Oppie explained that rumors were beginning to circulate in Santa Fe about the secret facility on the mesa. He had suggested to Groves that it might be wise to plant their own rumors as a diversion. “Therefore,” said Oppie, “for Santa Fe purposes, we are making an electric rocket.” He then explained that he wanted the Serbers and another couple to frequent some of the bars in Santa Fe. “Talk. Talk too much,” Oppie said. “Talk as if you had too many drinks. . . . I don’t care how you manage it, say we are building an electric rocket.” Accompanied by John Manley and Priscilla Greene, Bob and Charlotte Serber soon drove down to Santa Fe and tried to spread the rumor. But no one was interested, and G-2 never picked up any talk about electric rockets.

Richard Feynman, an incorrigible practical joker, had his own way of dealing with security regulations. When the censors complained that his wife, Arline, now a patient at a tuberculosis sanatorium in Albuquerque, was sending him letters in code and asked for the code, Feynman explained that he didn’t have the key to it—it was a game he played with his wife to practice his code-breaking. Feynman also drove security personnel to distraction when he went on a nighttime safecracking spree, opening the combination locks for secret file cabinets all over the laboratory. On another occasion, he noticed a hole in the fence surrounding Los Alamos—so he walked out the main gate, waved to the guard, and then crawled back through the hole and walked out the main gate again. He repeated this several times. Feynman was almost arrested. His antics became part of Los Alamos lore.

The Army’s relations with the scientists and their families were always shaky. General Groves set the tone. In private with his own men, Groves routinely labeled Los Alamos civilians “the children.” He instructed one of his commanders: “Try to satisfy these temperamental people. Don’t allow living conditions, family problems, or anything else to take their minds off their work.” Most of the civilians made it clear that they found Groves “distasteful”—and he made it clear that he didn’t care what they thought.

Oppenheimer got along with Groves—but he found most of the Army’s counterintelligence officers obtuse and offensive. One day Captain de Silva barged into one of Oppenheimer’s regular Friday afternoon meetings of all the group leaders, and announced, “I have a complaint.” De Silva explained that a scientist had come into his office to talk and, without asking his permission, had sat on the corner of his desk. “I didn’t appreciate it,” fumed the captain. To the amusement of everyone else in the room, Oppenheimer replied, “In this laboratory, Captain, anybody can sit on anybody’s desk.”