This Is Only Test How Washington Prepared for Nuclear War (14 page)

Upgrading of the old shelter proceeded concurrently with the work on the East Terrace and White House basement. Improvements included installa
tion of a decontamination chamber, new blast doors, and a more powerful diesel generator. The decontamination chamber, which contained showers and chutes to dispose of clothing, required partial demolition of the shelter floor for the fitting of drains and pipes. The new blast doors also required some demolition, in this case to standing walls. Two of the doors went into the East Wing’s south exterior entrance; the third, inside the building by a northwest stairway. Most of this work was done by June 1951, but the air regulation system wasn’t fully operable. Other problems in the old shelter resulted from the incomplete status of the new shelter.
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From the start, delays, design problems, and cost overruns hindered construction of the new shelter. The multifaceted Project 9 required dozens of detailed architectural drawings, and Winslow’s office, pressed by a tight schedule, struggled to produce blueprints. Engineers, contractors, and other architects frequently had to halt work to wait for drawings. The structural engineer, for example, couldn’t draft plans for the alteration of the base
ment’s northeast corner until he received tunnel specifications from Winslow. For his part, Winslow had to vet some drawings through the Army engineers. In October, he sent three different shelter floor plans to the Chief of Engineers, who selected “Scheme 3” as the “most economical” and “satisfactory” plan. Yet the delays continued. By mid-November, work on the new shelter had stopped due to a lack of drawings. The contractor also reported “considerable delay” due to Project 9; it didn’t begin erecting wooden frames to pour the walls and slabs of the passageway from the White House basement to the East Terrace for another three months.
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In December, an AEC scientist noticed the shelter’s floor wasn’t thick enough. The roof was to be three feet thick, the floor two feet: “Since the supporting force must equal the top load plus the weight of the structure it becomes apparent that the floor is underdesigned.” Pouring a thicker floor was expensive—Thorn
estimated it would cost up to $20,000—but such a flaw could hardly be ignored. The shelter’s ceiling height was lowered six inches and the floor’s thickness increased by the same. Although this meant the floor and foundation were only equal to three-quarters of the roof load, all concerned thought this sufficient.
⁵⁵

The floor changes were one of many unexpected expenses. Initial estimates had projected $68,000 for improvements to the old shelter, $210,000 for the underground passageway, and $1.1 million for the new shelter itself.
⁵⁶
Revised estimates lowered the expected tunnel cost to $175,000 and the shelter cost to $713,000. On July 11, 1950, Truman approved the transfer of $68,000 from the President’s Emergency Fund to pay for the old shelter’s upgrading and in November, another $813,000 to pay for the tunnel and new shelter, bringing the total allotment to $881,000. Although alterations to the old shelter totaled just $48,000, the savings of $20,000 didn’t offset the cost overruns. The Army engineers changed the design of the 13 blast doors, labor costs increased ten percent. The budget had also omitted clothes chutes and special wooden doors for the decontamination chambers, modifi
cation to the movie theater, and temporary phone lines. In June 1951, Allan Thorn estimated a deficit of $55,000, prompting a request for additional funds.
⁵⁷

Project 9’s overseers did their best to shave costs. In January 1951, Dennison asked if the tunnel to the Treasury Building could be modified to provide shelter for White House staff. The Public Buildings Service estimated it would cost $49,5000 to install electric fans and benches, but the project was deferred, as was construction of an underground passageway connecting the new shelter to the West Wing. No expenditure was too small to avoid scrutiny. Winslow even instructed Thorn to stop adding red coloring to the new shelter’s concrete, which identified it as Class AAA. “[P]ractically all of the concrete for this project will be Class AAA concrete,” Winslow pointed out, and “the extra painting cost will be an excessive item for the White House to maintain.” Thorn himself offered several money-saving ideas for the new shelter: eliminate plastering, asphalt floor tiles, and wall and column moldings; install two rather than four rows of fluorescent lights in the map room; omit some electrical and phone outlets.
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The finished shelter differed from Winslow’s preliminary drawing. The shelter’s location, entry points, and passageway to the White House basement remained the same. The large map room, however, was split into three rooms. Room 1, with seating for 30, was designated the Presentation or Briefing Room. Altogether, the shelter was composed of some 20 rooms. Room 14 contained clothing disposal chutes, while Room 19, flanked by air intake fan rooms, housed racks of filters to purify the shelter’s air. There were kitchenettes, a medical dispensary, toilets. To ensure an independent water supply, a pump room held a well drilled more than 70 feet deep. Although the water was potable, it was also highly corrosive to pipes, and so, at least initially, the shelter drew water from the District’s supply and stored it in tanks, with the well serving as a back-up.
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By September 1951, the new shelter was finished—or so the Commission was led to believe. A report from Project Manager William Kelley listed work on the “underground vaults” (the euphemism for the shelters and tunnels) as “100% complete.” In fact, the shelter was still very much a work-in-progress. Workers had just poured the final sections of concrete, and Allan Thorn and the contractor were still haggling over the costs of work on the shelter’s superstructure. Substantial work on the utilities remained. Two 12-inch pipes, extending from the shelter roof to a hedge in the East Garden, were supposed to provide fresh air intake for the shelter, but the trenches, which needed to lie at least 16 inches beneath the lawn, had to be dug. The water tank’s vent, to be concealed in shrubbery beneath an East Wing window, hadn’t yet been installed, nor had fill lines for the generators’ fuel tanks. Electricians still needed to mount and wire the shelter’s attack sirens.
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In March 1952, Gillette inspected the shelters. On the East Wing’s first floor, the air intake pipes in Rooms 2 and 3 lacked filters—without them, radiation could flow right into the old shelter. Likewise, one of the old shelter’s air exit ports needed a valve to prevent backdraft. Gillette also worried that the exhaust system of the new generator wasn’t fully leak-proof. The new shelter had its share of problems, too. In room 14, two clothing disposal chutes were missing. The filter room needed another manometer, its racks lacked key parts, and there was no way to recirculate conditioned air within the room. The ceiling lighting in the three map rooms wasn’t shockproofed. Painters had removed an air regulator slide to use as a palette.
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Renovation of the White House was thus completed as the shelter work continued. Truman could hardly wait for the White House to reopen. Escorting reporters through the mansion on an advance tour in February, he proudly showed off the new kitchen and the Lincoln Bedroom. Looking dapper in a light blue suit, he amiably told one White House anecdote after another, including his idea to have Lincoln’s “ghost” appear one night while visiting schoolmates of Margaret’s were asleep. Press coverage built up pub
lic anticipation, and the President enthusiastically agreed to host a televised tour in May. The White House’s official opening came on the evening of March 27, 1952, when Truman flew back from a vacation in Key West. As he stepped from his limousine beneath the north portico, hundreds of sightseers crowded along Pennsylvania Avenue cheered and clapped. The President accepted a ceremonial gold key, raised it high, then strode into the refur
bished structure. None of the jubilant spectators could know that he would spend just nine months in the new White House: Truman had just written a speech announcing he wouldn’t stand for reelection. He delivered it two days later.
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Completion of the shelters’ protective features finally came that fall, when the Army Chemical Corps delivered and fitted 48 filters, 3 valves, and 3 air pressure regulators. These items are the last of “the list of required protective equipment for the shelters,” the Corps informed Thorn, and “we await word from your organization on the evaluation tests of the two shelters.” Furnishings and touch-up of the shelters proceeded concurrently with the
final protective work. An acoustical screen around the communications equipment in the old shelter was installed. Asphalt tile was laid on the concrete floor of the old shelter’s main room and its walls painted. (Thorn recommended a gray dado three feet high, with a coat of off-white paint up to the steel ceiling.) Map Room 1 in the new shelter needed numerous fixtures, including a sliding screen on the south wall, a raised platform, lectern and easel, and two U.S. Navy “Stand-up” chart desks. Three panel maps, complete with frames and fire resistant curtains, were also affixed to the room’s west wall. Throughout the new shelter, decoration was to be “consistent with the purpose for which the area is to be used.”
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However, the shelters weren’t yet fully furnished when Truman left office. In the spring of 1953, the Office of the Naval Aide for President Dwight D. Eisenhower decided the shelters needed 7 folding tables, 14 folding chairs with arms and padded seats, 149 folding chairs with steel seats, a filing cabinet, and 12 smoking stands with ashtrays. Total cost: $1,168.39.
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Could the money have been better spent? Six months before, in November 1952, the United States had tested its first hydrogen device; in August 1953, the Soviet Union did the same. Subsequent tests grimly exposed the inadequacies of the White House’s shelters. On February 28, 1954, the United States exploded a hydrogen bomb on the surface of Bikini Atoll in the South Pacific. Registering a yield of 15 megatons—the equivalent of 15 million tons of TNT—the blast created a crater 73 meters deep and 1,830 meters in diameter.
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Neither shelter stood a chance against such a blast, as even their designer admitted years later. “Of course, the present bomb shelter would be useless in case of a direct hit by a hydrogen bomb,” Lorenzo Winslow breezily informed a reporter in 1961.
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Protection of the President now required evacuation to a protected site far from Washington. Always careful, David Stowe and Robert Dennison had already drafted evacuation plans, but Truman made it clear what he thought of them. “I want to tell you one thing,” he said to Dennison. “If a situation ever develops where execution [of the plans] seems to be indicated, I don’t intend to leave the White House. I am going to be right here.”
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Those responsible for the safety of the new president had to hope he thought differently.

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5

YOU are Civil Defense . . . you must act
now
, before it is too late.

One of the nicest things you can say about the American people is that they don’t take Civil Defense seriously.
¹

J
ohn Fondahl had nurtured high hopes for the District’s civil defense program in 1951, but he had met precious few goals. Only a fraction of the desired volunteers had signed up and received training. The DCD had requested $870,000 for 1952, but Congress meted out just $275,000. The District’s civil defense plan was several chapters long, but it was little more than filing cabinet fodder. The Office distributed citywide copies of a wallet-sized pamphlet explaining air raid signals, yet most Washingtonians remained ignorant of the difference between Warnings Yellow (attack likely, evacuate) and Red (attack imminent, take cover). Adding insult to injury, local wags had resumed distribution of a satirical
samizdat
. “Persons with a sense of misguided humor are again circulating objectionable letters ridiculing the [wardens],” the DCD announced in December. Fondahl wasn’t amused. Calling the parody “subversive,” he turned over copies to the FBI.
²
If Fondahl lacked a sense of humor (and appreciation for the First Amendment), he had no shortage of persistence. The new year offered an opportunity to breath life into the city’s sputtering program, and he intended to make the most of it.

"The Showthat May Save Your Life"

On the morning of Monday, January 7, 1952, pedestrians on Rhode Island Avenue watched as a convoy of ten semi-trucks and trailers rolled past. Escorted by police, the colorfully painted trucks turned onto Connecticut Avenue, winding their way through downtown streets before stopping in front of the Departmental Auditorium, located on Constitution Avenue between 12th and 14th Streets NW. Just days before, the trailers had carried modules that were now assembled on the auditorium floor, creating an exhibit as big as a basketball court. The parade of empty trucks was part of a massive publicity effort hoping to draw Washingtonians by the tens of thousands into the most ambitious civil defense campaign yet attempted in
the United States: recruitment of 15 to 20 million volunteers for state and local civil defense programs.
³

The campaign was called Alert America (figure 5.1). In June 1951, the National Advisory Council for the FCDA had called for a twofold initiative to educate Americans about the dangers of atomic warfare and to convince them of the need for civil defense. “Alert America” became both slogan and theme as the FCDA, with the help of private corporations, organizations, and media, blitzed the public with films, pamphlets, and broadcasts about home front dangers and civil defense. “What to do about Germ Warfare”?
Life
had a six-page answer. What would happen “[i]f an A-Bomb Falls”? The
Washington Post
and Commercial Comics, Inc., teamed up to produce a color graphic feature. FCDA personnel sat before radio microphones on Gannett, Mutual Broadcasting System, and NBC stations nationwide; television appearances included widely watched shows such as “Meet the Press.” Edward Murrow narrated the film “Survival under Atomic Attack.” “[P]ersonal survival information seems to be getting over,” reported the FCDA, but interviews with urban residents still revealed sketchy knowledge of local civil defense activities.
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Alert America intended to close the gap between individual knowledge and volunteerism. The convoy in Washington, its first stop, was one of three fanning out across the country for the next seven months, visiting cities in all 48 states. Alert America modeled itself after the Freedom Train, which had recently toured the country to display important documents in American history and to educate citizens about their basic freedoms. Sponsored by the nonprofit American Heritage Foundation, the Freedom Train attracted a daily average of 8,500 visitors. Hoping to duplicate that success, the FCDA created a nonprofit partner, the Valley Forge Foundation, to oversee Alert America. Like the American Heritage Foundation, Valley Forge drew board members from Wall Street and Madison Avenue, as well as from unions, universities, and religious groups.
⁵
Major corporations and other government agencies also pitched in. General Motors, Motorola, and DuPont donated exhibit materials. The AEC gave technical advice, the Army provided truck drivers.
⁶

DCD ardently promoted Alert America. The Board of Commissioners declared January 7–12 “Civil Defense Week,” and Fondahl solicited the cooperation of local businesses, organizations, and media. Hecht’s Department Store sponsored a full-page advertisement in the
Washington Post
, and other stores added insets about “the show that may save your life” to their regular advertisements. Downtown window shoppers saw Alert America signs next to appliances and men’s dress shoes. Boy Scout troops distributed signs to hotels, theaters, and stores. Five television and 20 radio stations broadcast more than 1,000 spot announcements and dozens of live shows about or from the exhibit. During the opening ceremonies, Fondahl introduced Valley Forge Foundation president Kenneth D. Wells.
⁷

The free exhibit was open daily from 1 p.m. to 10 p.m. until Sunday, January 13. Visitors arriving from the Grand Plaza on the Federal Triangle saw an Army crew practicing the loading of a 90-millimeter antiaircraft gun, its barrel pointed at the sky. Inside, like an open-air bazaar, booths covered the entire auditorium floor. First came the shock treatment. According to its sponsors, Alert America had to “inform and convince” Americans “of the grim realities of today’s threat from Kremlin aggression and modern terror weapons.”
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To do this, the firm Edward H. Burdick Associates, which had designed the Freedom Train, assembled striking scenes of destruction. “City X” was shown before and after an attack. As an enormous mushroom cloud lit up panels in a darkened booth and a tape recording of an atomic explosion carried from speakers, the warning “This Could Be
Your
City” flashed in capital letters. Newsreels of World War II bombing raids ran on continuous loop. Scale models showed blast damage to apartment buildings, frame houses, offices. Other booths depicted croplands laid to waste. Displays of drugs and bandages filled the booth “Every Bombed City Will Need Help.” The effects of these scenes were reflected in the faces of first-day visitors: pursed lips, enrapt gazes, somber expressions.
⁹

Next came exhibits on self-help, education, and civil defense training. If the exhibit’s first goal was simple and stark—scare the hell out of
everyone—the second aim was to stimulate volunteerism, so these booths tried to instill confidence and can-doism. “Prepare a shelter in the safest part of your home,” advised a poster featuring a young white couple reclined on chairs, reading. If not for the cinderblock wall and ladder in the background, the two might have been relaxing in the family den. Volunteers demonstrated how a rescue truck worked, visitors could pick up Geiger counters from tables. “Bert the Turtle” roamed the floor, handing out fliers about the film “Duck and Cover,” which was shown regularly, along with “Survival Room” and “Cities Must Fight.” One booth sold, for 50 cents each, metal dog tags recording name, address, blood type, and religion. Using a special punch, the tags could be pressed against blank records sheets to expedite registration of the dead after an attack. In unison, the booths and films declared survival and recovery possible, offering hope and motivation to visitors cowed by the stylized destruction.
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Alert America’s sponsors recognized the need to present civil defense as both a military necessity and a civic duty. If civil defense appeared overly militaristic, Americans might recoil at the thought of volunteering; worse, they might infer that if homeland defense was so vital, then the armed services should be responsible for it. If civil defense was too
civil
, however, if it lacked the skills and discipline paramilitary programs could impose, then doubts might arise about its efficacy. The dog tags, perhaps more than any other civil defense artifact, struck the required balance. Immediately recog
nizable as military gear, they were also easily concealed beneath people’s everyday clothing. Alert America also softened the militarism of civil defense by displaying paintings clearly inspired by Norman Rockwell’s
Four Freedoms
series. We see a young white girl kneeling, hands folded as she prays; a grade school class reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, right hands clasped to their hearts; a friendly white police officer speaking to two children. Just like the home shelter poster, these pictures showed visitors that civil defense wasn’t just about saving lives—it was also about saving a
way
of life. As a sign by the exit read, “To Maintain the American Way of Life and Pass It Intact to Succeeding Generations Is the Responsibility of Every True American.”
¹¹

The “American Way of Life” mostly featured propertied, white, middle-class families. In normative civil defense, each family became an army of one, training for readiness, survival, and recovery within the era’s fixed gender roles: fathers would build the shelters, mothers would stock them with canned goods. But what was special about white, middle-class families who owned homes? Alert America didn’t mean to suggest civil defense was
exclusively
for them. With a goal of recruiting at least 15 million volunteers, the FCDA wasn’t about to turn away African Americans or the working class, renters or the poor. After all, atomic bombs didn’t discriminate, and if “self-help defense was going to succeed, the FCDA had to illustrate that all Americans were equally imperiled and, at the very least, equally
capable
of saving themselves” (emphasis in original). This required promises of equal opportunity survival, but entrenched racial and class divisions belied the rosy rhetoric. How could people build a basement shelter modeled after the
family den if they had neither basement nor den? When approached by the FCDA for help, the NAACP made clear its expectation that civil defense be based on racial equality, but the FCDA didn’t want to use its programs to change the racial status quo. Indeed, an unapologetic supporter of white-only primary elections headed the agency.
¹²
Civil defense was already difficult enough without also tackling social and economic problems. The issue wasn’t whether or not black or laboring Americans worried about their homes and families—of course they did. However, the FCDA wanted to reach those who most enjoyed the “American Way of Life” because presumably they had the most to lose.
¹³
The risk was that Americans who didn’t fit this profile would hear the urgent statement “YOU are Civil Defense” and ask, “am I?”

For anyone who said yes, DCD was waiting. At a desk by the exit, visitors could become volunteers by signing “Count Me In” cards and enrolling in one of the civil defense services. Or they could sign up to learn first aid and put together a family shelter. By Thursday, Washingtonians were signing up for civil defense programs at a daily rate of more than 350, which represented almost ten percent of the attendees. By the time Alert America closed, more than 32,000 Washingtonians and area residents had seen it. (Nationally, Alert America drew more than one million visitors in 82 cities.) Fondahl was so pleased he hoped to bring back the convoy as soon as possible. The President himself came on Friday morning, accompanied by several aides, and had dog tags made for himself, his wife Bess, and their daughter Margaret. Truman also signed a “Count Me In” card, promising “to train himself and his family to prepare a family shelter area and take first aid training.” (Thanks to his naval aide, the first part of that commitment was being met.)
¹⁴

Alert America rejuvenated interest in civil defense in the District. The civil defense director for the Federation of Citizens Associations, which represented white neighborhood groups, used the exhibit as a recruiting tool, and a past president of the Dupont Circle Citizens Association called upon it to form a civil defense committee. The Washington Board of Trade started a list of postattack meeting places for members and their families. In February, the auxiliary police corps began surveying a 160-block swatch of central Washington, marking buildings with shelter space. The D.C. Federation of Women’s Clubs urged its members to learn first aid and register for civil defense courses. Federal agencies in Washington encouraged their employees to learn first aid as well, although Mrs. Julie McConnaughy, who worked for the Treasury Department, probably regretted she signed up: an overzealous fellow student bruised her rib while practicing CPR.
¹⁵