The Pentagon: A History (22 page)

After
The Washington Post
on November 6 reported a claim by union officials that there had been “several deaths and many injuries, including broken legs and broken backs,” the chief of the Construction Division’s safety section launched an investigation. The union’s claim was wrong as to the specifics—there had been as yet one death and no broken backs—but the truth was hardly comforting.

“Regardless of the exaggerated statement of casualties by union officials, it is a fact that the War Department Building project has had a decidedly bad accident experience since the work began,” the safety section chief, Lloyd A. Blanchard, reported to Groves on November 7. The accident rate was four times higher than the average for Army construction projects, and accidents on this job tended to be more serious than on other projects.

“There seems to be an attitude that speed is the only essential and that accidents are an unavoidable by-product thereof,” the safety section chief wrote. Blanchard placed much of the blame on McShain. The contractor ignored War Department safety requirements and had refused to hire his own safety engineer and establish a safety program. “Recommendations are not accepted willingly nor adopted promptly,” Blanchard told Groves.

Groves ordered Renshaw to reduce the number and severity of accidents. “The accident experience on your project is far worse than” anywhere else in the country, Groves wrote. “The need is obvious for your immediate attention to this problem.”

Nobody told Renshaw or McShain to slow down, however.

When push came to shove

Somervell had picked the worst time imaginable to build such an enormous structure on such a fast schedule. With the nation on a war footing, many basic items normally used in construction were in short supply, and the situation was only getting worse. Of all the tremendous problems confronting the Army as it raced to build camps, barracks, munitions plants, training grounds, and a new headquarters, “materials presented the greatest single challenge,” in the estimation of Army historians Lenore Fine and Jesse A. Remington. The War Department in August had ordered the Army to take all steps possible to eliminate the use of critical materials in construction projects. At the top of the restricted list were metals such as steel, aluminum, tin, copper, and copper alloys such as brass and bronze, and zinc, used for galvanizing iron and steel.

Industries and citizens across the land had to restrict use of critical materials, and congressmen and reporters were on high alert for any examples of waste, particularly by the War Department. The Office of Production Management, established by Roosevelt to oversee industrial mobilization and holding broad control over critical material, cast a suspicious eye on the new War Department building. The Army and Navy Munitions Board had granted the project the second-highest priority rating—A-1-B—meaning it had greater access to scarce materials than most military construction. But with the public spotlight on the project, the pressure to conserve critical materials was great. “Although we had a high priority, we very seldom used it,” said Bob Furman, to whom the task of finding substitute materials often fell.

Steel was most critical of all. In many respects, the design of the building had been dictated by the shortage of steel, which was needed for ships, tanks, munitions, and much else. The main reason Somervell had ordered a low building—even more important than to keep the building in harmony with the low Washington skyline—was that a tall building would require a steel frame. Bergstrom’s design for a reinforced concrete frame reduced the amount of steel needed from 65,000 tons to 27,000 tons. The 38,000 tons of steel saved was more than enough to build a battleship, War Department publicists were quick to point out.

Steel was being saved in other ways. There would be virtually no elevators, which would eat up space in the building and require costly equipment and steel. Instead, floors would be connected by stairways and long concrete ramps, wide enough to accommodate trucks. General Marshall approved of the ramps, as much for reasons of physical fitness as saving steel.

To further save on steel, supply ducts for the heating and ventilation were made of prefabricated asbestos tube. Asbestos—also used in the building for pipes, ceilings, and floor coverings—would not be recognized until decades later as a threat to workers’ health. The return ducts were of black iron, which was plentiful but tended to rust, and galvanized iron was used only where condensation was expected. Even drainage pipes were concrete instead of cast iron.

It was impossible to build without some metal. Furman was often sent on scavenger hunts to factories around the country. It sometimes took a bit of subterfuge to divert the critical materials. “I went out and made arrangements to steal metal from an [airplane] contract that had high priority, and I did get some metal, but it didn’t take more than three weeks for somebody to reverse it,” Furman said. “Somebody wrote a letter and next thing you know we were looking somewhere else. We were under instructions not to interfere, although when push came to shove…we did use our high priority.”

Officials with the Office of Production Management discovered that plans called for two hundred tons of copper to be used, mostly for bronze doors and flagpole trimmings, and demanded a conference with Somervell. To put pressure on the general in advance of the meeting, OPM officials leaked information to the Washington
Star.
“It will perhaps surprise citizens…to know that War Department plans, as of today, call for well over 400,000 pounds of copper for ornamental purposes,” the
Star
reported November 6.

The OPM leak had its desired effect: Somervell erupted at the negative publicity.

At the conference with OPM officials several days later, Somervell readily agreed to eliminate the bronze doors, and said he would accept substitutes recommended by OPM provided they “did not increase the cost of the building or present a sleazy appearance or result in an unsound structure.”

The gold rush

The building’s construction had triggered a gold rush among suppliers. The sheer size of the project meant that enormous volumes of materials were at stake, enough to make or break companies and even industries. The biggest battle was over window sashes—with 7,748 windows in the building, no trifling matter. When the War Department chose steel, which was cheaper than wood, manufacturers of wood sashes bitterly complained. Somervell ignored them: “Buy the windows on the bids that you’ve got now,” he ordered Renshaw on November 10.

But OPM chief Donald Nelson, concerned about the use of steel, ordered that the bidding be reopened and reworded to give wood a better chance. The new bids were opened November 18, and steel, again with the lowest price, was selected. Protests from the wood industry again flooded into the White House, Congress, and the War Department, accusing Somervell of everything short of treason. Stimson turned aside the complaints of senators and congressmen from lumber states, telling them steel window sashes would save at least $100,000.

Other members of Congress hounded Somervell and the War Department to hawk their own states’ wares. Margaret Chase Smith of Maine sent Somervell a letter to “call your attention to Maine granite.” Robert Ramspeck of Georgia wanted specifications rewritten to give granite from Stone Mountain a better chance. Josiah Bailey of North Carolina made a pitch for Mount Airy granite. Francis E. Walter of Pennsylvania told Somervell the nation would be well-served if slate quarried in his home district were used for the baseboards and roof of the building.

Somervell did his best to appease the politicians without caving in outright. Ramspeck was told that while Georgia granite was not the right color for the steps, they would try to find a place for it elsewhere in the building. Somervell assured Walter that “every consideration will be given to slate,” and when Bergstrom decided to use slate for the roof, the news was immediately telephoned to Walter’s office.

Roosevelt himself was unable to refrain from trying to alter the plans to keep labor happy. On December 4, 1941, Somervell received a confidential note from Pa Watson, the president’s military aide:

The President, after his conversation with Mr. Harry Bates of the Building Trades Union, told me to ask you why you could not use less concrete with steel reinforcement and more brick—and that surely the inside curtain wall could be made of red brick painted white. He was told by Harry Bates that this would save considerable money, and conserve steel.

An exasperated Somervell refused to accept the presidential interference. During the debate over using architectural concrete on the exterior walls in October, Somervell told Watson, the president had so emphatically disapproved of brick “that the plans were entirely redrawn.” A substantial number of the curtain—non-load-bearing—walls had already been poured with concrete, Somervell added, and the plans for their design were complete. “The change could not be made except at the expense of considerable delay and money and in addition to this, the use of paint on the exterior would introduce a continuing maintenance cost,” he told Watson.

Somervell was, of course, too wise to politics to leave Roosevelt hanging with a powerful labor leader like Bates. He had a suggestion that would mollify everyone. The interior partition walls were supposed to be built from metal lath—sheets of perforated metal serving as a base for plaster. Somervell proposed building them instead with tile, which, happily enough, would require the services of bricklayers. “[W]e can give the bricklayers an amount of work about equivalent to what they would obtain” if the curtain walls were made of brick, Somervell reported to Watson December 5. “I feel sure that Harry Bates will be satisfied with this solution,” he added.

Roosevelt was pleased. “Will you tell Harry Bates?” the president asked Watson.

You can kind of out-slicker yourself

It was quite a balancing act for Somervell. Nor was it his only one.

On December 1, 1941, Roosevelt signed legislation that stripped the Quartermaster Corps of its historical role directing Army construction in the United States, giving that responsibility to the Corps of Engineers. The Construction Division was being transferred to the Corps of Engineers. For the Quartermaster Corps, it was a most bitter blow, one that Somervell, as chief of the Construction Division, had surreptitiously helped orchestrate.

The Corps of Engineers played a unique role as a builder of public works in America—canals, river and harbor works, railroads, public buildings, and coastal fortifications, among others. The Corps also had an unusual role in the nation’s capital, even helping govern the city. Since 1878, an Engineer had held a seat on the presidentially appointed three-man commission that administered the city. The Corps had helped build many of the monuments, public buildings, parks, and water projects in Washington, most prominently the U.S. Capitol and Library of Congress, and it had completed the Washington Monument. Now it was taking over construction of the Pentagon.

The transfer was the culmination of a decades-long battle that had raged since World War I but had its origins in the Revolutionary War, when Congress assigned the chief engineer the job of building roads, bridges, and fortifications, and the quartermaster general the work of quartering the Army. This division of labor—putting the Corps of Engineers in charge of combat construction and construction overseas and the Quartermasters in charge of building shelter for the troops and facilities for the Army at home—had been largely followed for more than 150 years.

Occasional proposals over the years to consolidate all Army construction under the Engineers had been defeated, but the Quartermaster Corps’ poor performance after the emergency was declared in May 1941 had brought the controversy to a full boil. There were calls in Congress to transfer all construction to the Corps of Engineers. Others, including George Marshall, favored making the Construction Division a separate corps, commanded by Somervell.

In mid-1941, Michael J. Madigan, special adviser to Stimson on construction affairs, was directed to resolve the matter once and for all. Madigan was a politically astute New Yorker, a onetime construction water boy who had made a million dollars engineering New York City municipal projects. From the start of his investigation into who should control domestic military construction, Madigan operated on the assumption that the Quartermaster Corps needed to be replaced. Its Construction Division was already being run as a de facto Engineer outfit by Somervell, who had installed many brother Engineer officers in key positions since taking over.

Madigan quietly approached Somervell, who was only too glad to help, regularly advising Madigan, feeding him information, and lending officers to assist in the study. No one else in the Quartermaster Corps was apprised of Madigan’s investigation or Somervell’s role in it. Even Major General Edmund Gregory, the Quartermaster General and Somervell’s ostensible boss, was officially kept in the dark, though he learned of it through the grapevine. After three months’ study, Madigan concluded, unsurprisingly, that it would be best to put all construction under the Engineers. Marshall and Stimson approved his recommendation in August, and Congress and the president soon gave their approval.

Somervell was delighted. He fully expected to be the new Chief of Engineers, replacing Major General Julian Schley upon his retirement, and pressed Madigan to use his influence with Stimson to get him the job. Somervell’s confidence aside, there were many strikes against him. At age forty-nine he was too young for a job seen as the pinnacle of an Engineer’s career. Just as important, Somervell’s enemies in the Army were growing in number. It did not help that Schley completely mistrusted him. “Officially, the whereabouts of this man is unknown to me,” Schley had written across Somervell’s last efficiency-rating form.