Winter of the World

Greg arrived six days after Groves had been reassigned. His first task for Groves was to help him pin stars to the collar of his khaki shirt: he had just been promoted to brigadier-general. ‘It’s mainly to impress all these civilian scientists we have to work with,’ Groves growled. ‘I have a meeting in the Secretary of War’s office in ten minutes. You’d better come with me, it’ll serve you for a briefing.’

Groves was heavy. An inch under six feet tall, he had to weigh two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe three hundred. He wore his uniform pants high, and his belly bulged under his webbing belt. He had chestnut-coloured hair that might have curled if it had been grown long enough. He had a narrow forehead, fat cheeks, and a jowly chin. His small moustache was all but invisible. He was an unattractive man in every way, and Greg was not looking forward to working for him.

Groves and his entourage, including Greg, left the building and walked down Virginia Avenue to the National Mall. On the way, Groves said to Greg: ‘When they gave me this job, they told me it could win the war. I don’t know if that’s true, but my plan is to act as if it is. You’d better do the same.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Greg.

The Secretary of War had not yet moved into the unfinished Pentagon, and War Department headquarters were still in the old Munitions Building, a long, low, out-of-date ‘temporary’ structure on Constitution Avenue.

Secretary of War Henry Stimson was a Republican, brought in by the President to keep that party from undermining the war effort by making trouble in Congress. At seventy-five, Stimson was an elder statesman, a dapper old man with a white moustache, but the light of intelligence still gleamed in his grey eyes.

The meeting was a full-dress performance, and the room was full of bigwigs including Army Chief of Staff George Marshall. Greg felt nervous, and he thought admiringly that Groves was remarkably calm for someone who had been a mere colonel yesterday.

Groves began by outlining how he intended to impose order on the hundreds of civilian scientists and dozens of physics laboratories involved in the Manhattan project. He made no attempt to defer to the high-ranking men who might well have thought they were in charge. He outlined his plans without troubling to use such mollifying phrases as ‘with your permission’ and ‘if you agree’. Greg wondered whether the man was trying to get himself fired.

Greg learned so much new information that he wanted to take notes, but no one else did, and he guessed it would not look right.

When Groves had done, one of the group said: ‘I believe supplies of uranium are crucial to the project. Do we have enough?’

Groves answered: ‘There are 1,250 tons of pitchblende – that’s the ore that contains uranium oxide – in a yard on Staten Island.’

‘Then we’d better acquire some of that,’ said the questioner.

‘I bought it all on Friday, sir.’

‘Friday? The day after you were appointed?’

‘Correct.’

The Secretary of War smothered a smile. Greg’s surprise at Groves’s arrogance began to turn to admiration of his nerve.

A man in admiral’s uniform said: ‘What about the priority rating of this project? You need to clear the decks with the War Production Board.’

‘I saw Donald Nelson on Saturday, sir,’ said Groves. Nelson was the civilian head of the board. ‘I asked him to raise our rating.’

‘What did he say?

‘He said no.’

‘That’s a problem.’

‘Not any longer. I told him I would have to recommend to the President that the Manhattan project be abandoned because the War Production Board was unwilling to co-operate. Then he gave us a triple-A.’

‘Good,’ said the Secretary of War.

Greg was impressed again. Groves was a real pistol.

Stimson said: ‘Now, you’ll be supervised by a committee that will report to me. Nine members have been suggested—’

‘Hell, no,’ said Groves.

The Secretary of War said: ‘What did you say?’

Surely, Greg thought, Groves has gone too far this time.

Groves said: ‘I can’t report to a committee of nine, Mr Secretary. I’ll never get ’em off my back.’

Stimson grinned. He was too old a hand to get offended by this kind of talk, it seemed. He said mildly: ‘What number would you suggest, General?’

Greg could see that Groves wanted to say ‘None,’ but what came out was: ‘Three would be perfect.’

‘All right,’ said the Secretary of War, to Greg’s amazement. ‘Anything else?’

‘We’re going to need a large site, something like sixty thousand acres, for a uranium enrichment plant and associated facilities. There’s a suitable area in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. It’s a ridge valley, so that if there should be an accident the explosion will be contained.’

‘An accident?’ said the admiral. ‘Is that likely?’

Groves did not hide his feeling that this was a dumb question. ‘We’re making an experimental bomb, for Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘A bomb so powerful that it promises to flatten a medium-size city with one detonation. We’d be pretty goddamn dumb if we ignored the possibility of accidents.’