This Is Only Test How Washington Prepared for Nuclear War (10 page)

Attempting Dispersal

Harry Truman didn’t pay much attention to the DCD’s financial troubles; he had plenty of other worries. In late July, he finished a painful round in the dentist’s chair—12 visits in all—for bridge and crown repair. Meanwhile North Korea’s army had pinned American and South Korean forces behind a fragile defensive perimeter around the port town of Pusan. In late August, the imperious General Douglas MacArthur, commander of U.S. forces in Asia, called for the defense of Formosa (Taiwan) against a takeover by com
munist China. This public statement undercut the President, who in January had approved a State Department decision to
not
defend the island strong
hold of the defeated Chinese nationalists. Secretary of Defense Louis Johnson went behind the President’s back to congratulate Senator Robert Taft (R-Ohio) for his strident criticism of Dean Acheson, prompting Truman to grumble that Johnson had “an inordinate egotistical desire to run the whole government.”
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Aware of these distractions, David Stowe and Budget Director Frederick J. Lawton wasted no time during their meetings with the President that sum
mer. Both men felt at ease around Truman. Lawton considered the often blunt Missourian “easy to talk to,” while Stowe acted as the President’s liaison to the NSRB. In July, Truman asked the two men to prepare a dispersal
plan for government offices.
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The request revealed a change of heart for the President. In November 1949, a reporter had asked if the forthcoming budget plan would contain anything on moving government functions out of Washington—“No,” said Truman, to laughter. Asked a similar question in March 1950, he replied, “I am very well satisfied right where I am now, and I feel perfectly safe,” again drawing laughter. With the United States now at war, the capital’s security was no longer a joke.
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Stowe and Lawton presented several dispersal options inspired by Tracy Augur’s plans. Truman favored development of a single dispersed campus, but Stowe pressed for six dispersal sites. His persistence won over the President, who decided on a four-site plan. On August 30, Lawton confi
dently predicted, “we could make a strong case to the Congress” if the dem
olition of the tempos was included in the plan. The White House made its request that same day: $139.8 million to build offices for as many as 40,000 federal workers in order to “initiate a long-range plan to insure the continuity of essential functions of Government in event of emergency.” The proposal promised to locate the four building sites within commuting distance of the District, and, because distances of up to 50 miles were considered commutable, it asked for funds for highway construction and additional telephone lines. Each site would be located at least five miles from the others. The Mall tempos would be razed, and their 25,000 employees would relocate to the new buildings, joined by the 15,000 or more employees expected to be hired as a result of the war in Korea. Agencies to be dispersed weren’t identified, but the
Washington Star
surmised the military, the State Department, and the CIA would be among the top choices. Of course, no blueprints could be drafted or agencies picked until Congress granted the needed funds.
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Early signs weren’t encouraging. Rep. Arthur L. Miller (R-Nebr.) won
dered aloud “how the boys in Korea” would feel when they learned Truman had asked for funds “to provide shelter for 40,000 civilian employees of the Government so they would be out of range of any atomic bomb attack on Washington.” His colleague Edward T. Miller (R-Md.) suggested the best way to save “the hides of 40,000 Government workers” was to eliminate their jobs. Rep. John Taber (R-N.Y.) asked, “are [we] expected to give greater protection to the bureaucrats in Washington than we do to the ordi
nary folks back home?” Rep. Clarence Cannon (D-Mo.), chairman of the Appropriations Committee, expressed his preference for decentralization, and Rep. George Dondero (R-Mich.) wondered why other urban targets weren’t being dispersed. Furious at the biting criticism, Speaker of the House Sam Rayburn (D-Tex.) broke the traditional silence expected of the presiding officer, but his words weren’t meant to soothe the hurt feelings of civil servants. Giving new meaning to the phrase “paper-pushing,” Rayburn, whose bald head accentuated his well-known expressions of ire and impatience, con
tended that the purpose of dispersal was “not to protect the workers of the District of Columbia”—it was “to protect the records that are irreplaceable— military secrets of the most vital importance.” Other Democrats jumped to
his aid. Charles M. Price (D-Ill.) remarked, “It is a strange thing to me that men in this body would sink so low as to attempt to make political capital out of such a necessary program for the preservation of our democracy.” Wayne L. Hays (D-Ohio) accused Republicans of “some of the most addled thinking that I have ever heard expressed on the floor of this Congress,” sarcastically adding, “[i]t looks as though this late August heat had [
sic
] almost been too much for some people here.”
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The irascible Truman also struck back by suggesting members of Congress wanted to forego dispersal and move government agencies to their own districts—in other words, they wanted to feed at the pork barrel while national security went hungry.
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The President seemed surprised by the backlash, especially since the plan also called for demolition of the much-loathed tempos. Who could possibly oppose razing these “hot, unsightly and flimsy” structures? Not only would dispersal serve national security, it would allow restoration of the Mall as park space and fulfill the Park Commission’s goal of reducing traffic congestion. However, Truman overlooked one problem: supporting beautification of the District of Columbia won few votes back home, but a congressman appearing to “coddle” federal workers courted political disaster. The midterm elections were two months away, federal spending was increasing rapidly to pay for the Korean War, draft calls and casualties were rising—what legislator wanted to hit the campaign trail with his opponent asking why he was making life safer for “waffle-bottoms,” as some members of Congress derisively called federal workers? Legislators especially wanted to avoid giving the impression they too wanted special protection. Declaimed Sen. Guy Cordon (R-Ore.), “[w]e are as expendable as the boys in Korea. History has demonstrated that none of us is indispensable. More people can always be found to take our places.”
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Legislators also questioned the urgency of the dispersal request. Because the administration wanted supplemental funds, the bill went to the Appropriations Committees, bypassing the Committees on Public Works and the Committees on the District of Columbia. “No legislative committee has considered this program,” observed Rep. Albert Thomas (D-Tex.). His colleague on Appropriations, the owl-faced, bespectacled Francis Case (R-S.Dak.), pointed out significant legal ramifications, describing the request as “a proposition to modify existing law with respect to the exercise of the offices of government at the seat of the Government.” Case recommended the House defer action until hearings could be held. The four-site dispersal plan didn’t fare well in the Senate, either, despite having the support of Appropriations Committee chairman Kenneth McKellar (D-Tenn.). The 81-year-old McKellar was well known for his political savvy and fierce will, but even he couldn’t push through the request. On September 14, Cordon used a point of order to exclude it from the supplemental appropriations bill.
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The tempos would stand, dispersal would wait, but the White House hadn’t conceded. Was dispersal “pigeonholed”? asked a reporter in late October. “It is not,” replied Truman. “I will continue to press it.”
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And press he did.

Despite losing seats in both the House and Senate in the election, the Democrats remained the majority party.

The DCD Gets to Work

For John Fondahl, Congress’s rejection of dispersal was background noise. Though his initial budget didn’t even cover the costs of office equipment, the DCD’s director set out to recruit civil defense volunteers, especially as wardens, from his office at the D.C. National Guard Armory on East Capitol Street.
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The warden was the heart and soul of civil defense. When the attack sirens blared, police would maintain order, firefighters would brace themselves for blazes, but who would direct panicked citizens to the nearest shelter? The warden. Who knew the quickest route out of the city from his neigh
borhood? Who would administer first aid when a doctor or nurse couldn’t be found? Who would pull survivors from rubble and deliver messages to the local police precinct? The warden. Civic-minded, selfless, and dedicated, volunteer wardens would be the District’s main line of defense against an atomic attack; and Fondahl didn’t expect the recruitment of civic-minded, selfless, dedicated persons would be difficult. He was wrong.

In October, Fondahl announced a goal of attracting 70,000 volunteers to the warden corps. DCD could only afford to hire a few “professional” wardens to organize this effort. Fondahl named District resident Max C. Schwartz as chief warden and authorized a staff of six, all men: an assistant chief warden, training director, records administrator, and three public relations officers. By December, Schwartz and Fondahl had divided the District into six civil defense divisions and signed up “commanders” for each division. Meanwhile they placed the wardens headquarters in the old Force School, a three-story red brick structure on Massachusetts Avenue, near Dupont Circle.
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Within the warden divisions there were 65 areas, subdivided into approxi
mately 500 zones, then 4,000 sectors. A sector was one square block, and eight sectors comprised a zone. The lofty recruitment goal resulted from Fondahl and Schwartz’s hope of finding not only a warden for each sector, zone, area, and division, but also as many as 20 building and block wardens within each sector. The two men anticipated an equally ambitious training program. They imag
ined eager residents streaming into the newly established volunteer registration office, located at 1400 Pennsylvania Avenue NW. Civic and neighborhood groups, spurred by patriotism and concern for the welfare of the District, would call ahead to make appointments to sign up members
en masse
. Thousands of new recruits would fill out questionnaires, indicating their preferred duties: warden corps, medical and health teams, engineering service, auxiliary police and fire corps, civilian air defense. For those opting to train as wardens, a battery of instruction would await. Trained volunteers would provide instructions in first aid, then give lessons on crowd control, record and log-keeping, firefighting, damage assessment, even the making of litters from household items. All told, dedicated volunteers would submit to 42 hours of training.

DCD would issue identification cards and armbands to wardens so they could collect raw data about the residents under their charge: names, ages, addresses, even physical conditions. They would chart their designated area’s thoroughfares, alternate routes, water mains, and public telephones. They would set aside space in their logbooks to record the differences between the day and night populations and the number of available beds. Drawing on their knowledge of their neighborhoods, they would identify and mark shel
ter facilities. Thanks to their training, wardens would know a usable structure has a steel frame or is made of reinforced concrete; that a minimum of three “layers” or stories must stand above the shelter space; and that all shelters must provide protection not just from an atomic blast, but radiation and falling debris as well. An ideal shelter would be 80 percent or more below ground, surrounded by other buildings, or located within the structure’s core at least 20 feet from the outside walls.
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Robert L. Totten was a real-life—and rare—exemplar of the warden DCD wanted. Totten, an elderly white man, presided over Area E-40, just west of Rock Creek Park in Northwest Washington. The area encompassed the Washington National Cathedral, McLean Gardens, and pleasant, tree-lined streets with upscale homes. In less than five months, the energetic Totten organized a team of 223 wardens, who surveyed usable shelter space. With more than 500 detached homes and 4,200 apartments, they had much ground to cover. Nevertheless, Totten and his intrepid volunteers fanned out, giving shelter signs to the owners of approved buildings. When man
agers of luxurious apartment buildings complained the signs blighted their lobbies, the accommodating wardens returned with a more subdued design. Meanwhile 40 wardens began a census of the estimated 13,000 residents in Area E-40. Said Totten, “[w]e actually are trying to take people by the hand, decide with them where their best shelter would be in case of an attack, and impress upon them the necessity for such shelter.”
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To find more wardens like Totten, the DCD asked local civic, service, and veterans groups to encourage members to volunteer. The request brought results; by January 1952, 75 percent of the wardens were also active in civic and neighborhood associations.
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Fondahl also began a citywide publicity campaign to draw recruits. As the obliging
Washington Star
reported, he now hoped to find a total of 100,000 volunteers so that the police, fire, and medical corps could be built up.
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Fondahl persuaded Venetian blind maker Levolor to print a color flier with a map of the District and the phone numbers of division and area wardens. (The flier also advised, “[i]n case of bombing . . . Tilt Venetian Blinds UP.”) Although men dominated the wardens corps, the DCD actively recruited women as civil defense volunteers. Consistent with the era’s normative gender roles, women were sought as nurses’ aides and social workers; however, the DCD also invited them to volunteer as wardens, truck drivers, and radio operators.
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Thomas Hayes told members of the