Clouds of Deceit

The Deadly Legacy of Britain's Bomb Tests

by
JOAN SMITH

INTRODUCTION

TABLE OF BOMB TESTS

CHAPTER ONE ‘
What the bloody hell is going on?
'

CHAPTER TWO ‘
He ought to stick to science
'

CHAPTER THREE
Operation Hurricane

CHAPTER FOUR ‘
The big bang – for peace
'

CHAPTER FIVE ‘
Hairy-chested' attitudes

CHAPTER SIX
A case to answer

CHAPTER SEVEN ‘
Keep them confused
'

CHAPTER EIGHT
The cloud drifts on

BIBLIOGRAPHY

I was born into the nuclear age: the first British atom bomb had been tested at an island off Western Australia ten months before. I can just remember seeing newsreel film of H-bomb tests when my mother took me to the cinema for the first time at the age of four or five. The mushroom cloud, familiar to me from those newsreels and from the newspapers read by my parents, symbolized the cold-war atmosphere in which I grew up.

Over the years, the image faded and lost much of its power. Until the end of 1982, I had not given the bomb tests a moment's thought for a very long time. I had been a journalist on the
Sunday Times
for three years, while acting as occasional adviser to a television company which made current affairs films for Channel Four. At the end of 1982, the company told me about a film they were working on about the British atom bomb tests in the 1950s. It consisted largely of footage bought in from Australia, where men who took part in the tests were already campaigning for compensation for ill-health which, they said, was caused by the tests.

I saw a preview of the film in January 1983 and wrote an article about it in the
Sunday Times.
The BBC's
Nationwide
had just made some programmes about the health of veterans of Britain's hydrogen bomb tests at Christmas Island and in the face of this publicity the government moved into action, of a sort - it announced it would commission a survey of the health of men who participated in all the British tests.

The story seemed exactly the kind of investigative journalism the
Sunday Times
should take up. Prima facie, the men appeared to be the unwitting victims of a powerful and
monolithic entity. The letters I received from veterans, and the tough line taken by the Ministry of Defence, suggested they would have a long struggle ahead in their search for answers from the government. Their case could have been helped immeasurably by the kind of campaigning and investigative journalism on which the paper had built its reputation in the 1960s and 1970s, under Harold Evans.

Unfortunately, the
Sunday Times
had undergone radical changes since those days. The major one was, of course, the sale of the paper in 1981 by the Thomson Organisation to Rupert Murdoch. At first, I managed to secure reasonable coverage for the veterans' claims in spite of the new regime: many of the old staff remained and maintained their commitment to investigative journalism. On 16 January 1983, I wrote the main feature in that week's paper; it was headlined ‘A-BOMB TESTS: WILL JUSTICE BE DONE?'

It included further stories of lax safety precautions and cited evidence from the US which showed that an atom bomb test in Nevada in the 1950s appeared to have caused leukaemia in American servicemen. It also identified a major obstacle in the veterans' path: the Crown Proceedings Act 1947, which denies servicemen compensation for injuries sustained during their service.

In the spring of 1983, I tried to persuade the
Sunday Times
to launch an
Insight-style
investigation into the claims of the veterans. I received support for this idea from Dr Alice Stewart, of Birmingham University, who was already looking at the health of one group of veterans, those who had been at Christmas Island, and from the then editor of
Insight,
Christopher Hird. But the attitude of other executives was ambivalent. The paper was feeling the cash restraints imposed by the Murdoch management and was reluctant to commit itself to time-consuming journalism of this sort; its preference for the big, easy story became apparent only months later when it embroiled itself in the Hitler diaries fiasco.

Another problem was the temperament of Frank Giles, who had succeeded Harry Evans as editor in 1981. Unfortunately, his upper-middle-class punctiliousness, combined with his early
career in the diplomatic corps, had given him a distaste for Evans-style investigative journalism. He once described the term to me as ‘a tautology', on the grounds that journalism was
ipso facto
investigative; he was apparently unaware that this notion is daily dispelled by the content of newspapers like the
Sun.
He vetoed the project.

I did what I could within the limited resources of the newsroom budget, and in between the many other calls on my time made by the newsdesk. This situation continued through most of 1983. By keeping in touch with the veterans, and scientists who worked in the field of low-level radiation - and with the enthusiastic help of the newsroom researcher, Carol Baker - I managed to produce a number of stories about the bomb tests.

In October 1983, a new editor took over and my problems increased. The change, which happened very quickly, meant that the executives' previous argument that the paper could not really afford to do old-fashioned investigative journalism turned into outright prohibition. The political climate had altered.

In that month, for the first time in my career at the
Sunday Times,
a story I had written was kept out of the paper on political grounds: its subject was CND. Sadly, I was not the only journalist to suffer from political interference. By January 1984, many of the journalistic staff were demoralized. Some had left, others had been sacked.

At the end of the month, I was summoned to an interview with one of the paper's executives. He told me that the new editor, Andrew Neil, felt I had ‘got into a rut' on nuclear stories. It was a curious reversal of the old practice at the paper, under which reporters were encouraged to gain expertise in particular fields which interested them.

The message was clear: stories that might damage the nuclear industry were no longer welcome at the
Sunday Times.
Six weeks later, I obtained a damaging document about the bomb tests which had been released to the Public Records Office at Kew by the government. The newsdesk was clearly reluctant to run the story. In the end, it appeared on an inside page, inconspicuously sited below the fold. The ruse failed to work as the following day Australian newspapers picked up the story and
blazed it across their front pages. The chaos reigning at the
Sunday Times
was amply demonstrated later in the same week when I was asked to follow up a report that an inquiry had been set up in Australia as a result of my tucked-away revelation. On 31 March 1984, I left the paper and decided to write this book.

The story of the British nuclear tests has unfolded slowly, and is not yet finished. My purpose in writing this book has been twofold. I wanted to tell, at length, enough of the tale to demonstrate that the British government has a substantial case to answer. I also wanted to show that the bomb tests are not part of the past, as I believed only two-and-a-half years ago.

They remain with us in the shape of the victims: the British and Australian servicemen and civilians who, I believe, have become ill and even died because of the tests; and the aborigines, many of whom were damaged by radiation and whose traditional homelands have been turned into a radioactive wasteland.

The tests are still with us in another sense as well: they have continued without a break to the present day. Britain now tests nuclear weapons underground in Nevada, as does the US; radiation regularly escapes and irradiates further the unfortunate people who live near the testing site. Russia has similarly continued testing.

The tests are a hidden testimony to the continued existence of the cold war. In the forty years since the end of the Second World War, it has never gone away - it has merely submerged from our consciousness from time to time. We will know that the major powers are serious about drawing back from the threshold of world war only when they take the first step of putting an end to nuclear weapons tests.

My task in writing this book was made much easier by the decision of the Australian government to set up a Royal Commission to examine allegations about the British tests. I have drawn heavily on the evidence of witnesses who appeared before it, and documents released to it by the British government. While the analysis and views expressed in this book are mine alone, I received invaluable assistance while researching it
from the following people: Ken McGinley and Michael Doyle, of the British Nuclear Tests Veterans' Association; Peter McClellan, the barrister who assisted the Australian Royal Commission; Andrew Collett, the barrister who represented the aborigines; and Greenpeace. Margaret Gowing's three-volume history of the early days of Britain's nuclear programme was an excellent guide to the events leading up to the bomb tests. Patrick Green's thesis on the low-level radiation controversy provided a comprehensive and thoughtful view of the issue.

Vital additional research was carried out by Carol Baker in London, and by Robert Milliken in London and Sydney. Support and helpful suggestions came from Jennifer Benjamin, Anita Bennett, Barbara Crossley, Linda Lewis, Bruce Palling, John Shirley, Giles Stacey and Gill Williams. I am grateful to my agent, Sara Drake, and my editor for their help and enthusiasm. Francis Wheen suggested the project and provided a constant and reassuring presence during the writing of it; to him I owe a debt I hope to repay with love.

Joan Smith
London, April 1985

Message from the acting prime minister
of Australia, 19 June 1956, as a
radioactive cloud drifted over the mainland

Christmas Island is the largest coral atoll in the Pacific Ocean. It lies just north of the equator, three-and-a-half thousand nautical miles to the north-east of Sydney. It is also the place where, between November 1957 and September 1958, Britain exploded six nuclear weapons, including four hydrogen bombs. British servicemen who witnessed the bomb tests were told that they would remember the experience for the rest of their lives.

One of those men was Ken McGinley, a young Scottish sapper in the Royal Engineers. McGinley was just 19 years old when he left Southampton on New Year's Eve 1957 on board the troop ship
Dunera,
bound for the Pacific Ocean. ‘Our sergeant only told us what we were going to see when we were three weeks out,' McGinley recalled nearly thirty years later. ‘Even then, we were only told we were going to witness bombs going off - not nuclear bombs, not atomic bombs, just bombs. I hadn't heard anything about bomb tests, I hadn't even heard of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. What boy or girl of nineteen had? We weren't interested in bombs.'

Nevertheless, by the time McGinley left Christmas Island a full twelve months later, he had been lined up on a beach on five separate occasions to witness bomb tests. He had seen dozens of men around him suffer violent stomach upsets from shock, had been given the gruesome task of picking up the corpses of burned and blinded birds for dumping at sea, and he had suffered blisters on his face and chest. The blisters, which appeared four days after McGinley's first test, a hydrogen bomb on 28 April 1958, were only the harbinger of a catalogue of ill health which led to his being pensioned off from the service at the end
of 1959. At the age of only 21, McGinley found himself out of the army and in possession of a 30 per cent disability pension. He was suffering from blackouts and a duodenal ulcer. His GP, who examined him just before he left the army, told him: ‘You will regret for the rest of your life that you were at Christmas Island.' But McGinley's other medical problem was not to become apparent for some years.