That’s a really dumb headline. Why ‘IF’? Just about everybody went to see the blockbuster that won the “Best Picture Oscar. After all, “Oppenheimer” tells the story of the development of the Atomic Bomb.
Well, lots of the story, but not all of it.
For instance, remember Matt Damon’s character, General Leslie Groves? General Groves was in charge of setting up, staffing, running, and keeping secure Los Alamos, the 54,000-acre facility in New Mexico where Robert Oppenheimer and other scientists built the first A-Bomb. Los Alamos was more than enough for any one man, but General Groves actually had several other awesome responsibilities, including establishing Oak Ridge, the facility in Tennessee where much of the work was done, building the Pentagon, and working with the OSS, the RAF, British Special Operations, and others to prevent Adolf Hitler from developing an Atomic Bomb.
Lucky us, because a lot of what is not in “Oppenheimer” is in a new book, “The Greatest Scientific Gamble,” which is being published later this month by Michigan State University Press. The author is Michael Joseloff, a veteran television producer with multiple Emmy Awards to his name. (Full disclosure: Mike was my first producer at The MacNeil/Lehrer NewsHour back in 1984, and we’ve been friends ever since.)
Friendship aside, Mike is a great story teller, as those multiple Emmy Awards attest. The story you are about to read (which is not about General Groves) is one of dozens of interesting stories in The Greatest Scientific Gamble. To me, stories like this demonstrate clearly that history is not simply ‘big strokes’ but details. History is stories of human strivings–their successes and their errors; it’s brave men and women acting based on what they think they know but, at the same time, fully aware that in ‘the fog of war’ they cannot know everything. Mike brings that all to life in this tale, which I have pulled out of his book, while removing the footnotes and adding a couple of transition sentences).
In 1940 and 1941 most advanced nations were either at war, preparing for war, or desperately seeking to avoid it. At the same time, about a dozen of the world’s most brilliant physicists were racing to unlock the power of the uranium atom, seeking to build a bomb of unrivaled power capable of destroying entire cities. Nearly all of them, including Robert Oppenheimer and Enrico Fermi, were working with the Allies, many of them already in the United States.
However, one man–perhaps the most brilliant of them all–was somewhere in Nazi Germany. Was Werner Heisenberg, the Nobel Prize winner already renowned for formulating quantum mechanics and for postulating ‘The Uncertainty Principle,” trying to build an atomic bomb for Adolf Hitler? If so, how could he be stopped?
The challenge was to split the atom, the basic building block for all matter. Atoms–there are 118 different kinds–are made up of electrons, protons, and neutrons, which are in the nucleus. Splitting the nucleus of Uranium 235 by bombarding it with its own protons and electrons might release an unimaginable amount of energy. Enough energy to win a war!
The physicists working on this side of the Atlantic had some advantages. They had enough uranium ore and were making progress in separating enough U235 from the ore to make the critical mass necessary to build a bomb.. They also had sufficient quantities of a special kind of paraffin wax and graphite that isolated the uranium as they bombarded it. The Germans apparently did not know that graphite was effective, and so Heisenberg was relying instead on “Heavy Water.” It’s a misleading term, because, first of all, it is not Water. Rather, it’s a chemical byproduct of fertilizer production.
Because the British knew Heisenberg needed Heavy Water, they were determined to do whatever was necessary to keep it out of his hands. Their efforts would result in the torture and execution of dozens of military personnel and the deaths of an unknown number of innocent civilians.
They did, however, deny Werner Heisenberg large quantities of Heavy Water and may have prevented him from unlocking the destructive power of the U235 atom.
The story of how an obscure industrial plant in the Norwegian wilds came to play a critical role in atom bomb history begins in late 1939, two years before Heisenberg received his first Heavy Water shipment.
Manufacturing Heavy Water requires enormous amounts of electricity, and Norsk Hydro, built on a granite cliff below a mountain lake, had more than enough. Water from the lake spilled through large steel pipes turning electricity producing turbines twenty-four hours a day as it flowed past the plant into a gorge below. Norsk Hydro put that electricity to work making hydrogen for use in fertilizer. Heavy Water was a byproduct, which the company sold as a sideline business. Its sales rarely turned a profit, so Norsk Hydro management was surprised when the German chemical company I.G. Farben began placing orders for large quantities. Asked why the sudden interest, the Germans didn’t respond.
Then, early in 1940, six months after German troops stormed into Poland, an official at the Banque de Paris et des Pays-Bas–who was also an agent of the French intelligence service– showed up at Norsk Hydro with an offer to buy the plant’s entire Heavy Water inventory. Norsk Hydro managers did not know why Heavy Water was suddenly in demand, but their sympathies lay with the French, so they agreed to sell to them, instead of Germany. France’s secret agent planned to ship the Heavy Water out of Norway as cargo on a regularly scheduled passenger flight. He hadn’t expected any problems, but then French intelligence intercepted a message from Germany’s spy agency. The Nazis were aware of the French spy’s mission and had ordered their agents to stop him “at any price.”
On March 9, a month before the Germans invaded Norway, two trucks departed the Norsk Hydro plant loaded with 26 steel flasks full of Heavy Water. The flasks, specially designed so that they would fit into a suitcase, were delivered to a house in Oslo where the Frenchman and a fellow agent were waiting. Using fake names, he reserved seats on two flights scheduled to depart Oslo’s Fornebu airport at around the same time. One was bound for Amsterdam; the other, for Perth, Scotland.
On the morning of March 12, the French spies arrived at the airport, where they hired baggage handlers to carry their heavy suitcases to the ticket counter. The two men then passed through the boarding gate, crossed the tarmac, and watched as their bags were loaded onto the Amsterdam bound flight.
The plane took off without incident, but a short while later two Luftwaffe fighters flew alongside and forced the pilot to land. On the ground, German troops broke into the plane’s baggage compartment and seized the suspect luggage. But instead of Heavy Water, they found chunks of granite. And when they went looking for the French agents, they discovered they weren’t on the flight.
In an impressive act of counter-intelligence legerdemain, the French agents had arranged for their Amsterdam-bound plane to park on the tarmac alongside the plane bound for Perth. Just before the doors shut, a taxi raced up between the two airplanes. The French agents jumped out and loaded suitcases filled with Heavy Water onto the Perth-bound plane.
The ruse worked, but after German troops occupied Norway in April, 1940, the plant–now under Nazi control–ramped up production to 300 pounds a month, destined for Germany–and in all probability for Heisenberg.
Word of the stepped-up production convinced British intelligence that it had to prevent Heavy Water from reaching the German physicist. Rejecting an RAF air raid because it would have caused numerous civilian casualties, the British Special Operations Executive (SOE) opted instead for a daring attack by an airborne team of saboteurs. The plan, codenamed Operation Freshman, would use two aircraft, each towing a glider to fly a team of saboteurs under cover of darkness to a remote landing strip prepared by Norwegian Resistance fighters. From there, they would ski about fifteen miles, sneak into the plant, set their explosive charges, and then hike two hundred miles to the Swedish border.
Unfortunately and tragically, Operation Freshman was an utter failure.
On November 19, 1942, two four-engine Halifax bombers towing the fragile wooden gliders took off from Wick airfield in Scotland bound for Norway. Each glider carried 15 commandos, two crew members, and several hundred pounds of explosives and equipment. To familiarize themselves with the terrain, the bomber and glider crews had conducted a test run the night before, flying four hundred miles across the North Sea and searching for a 700-foot landing zone marked by the Resistance fighters. It didn’t go well. Even though the weather was clear, they couldn’t find the site.
On the day of the mission, problems began almost immediately. Just after takeoff, both bombers lost communication with their gliders. The first bomber wasted valuable fuel searching for the landing zone in the snow-covered landscape and was forced to abort the mission. After turning around, it ran into icing conditions near the Norwegian coast, causing the glider’s tow rope to snap. The bomber pilot radioed base that the glider had crashed into the sea.
The second bomber, meanwhile, came in low over the North Sea to avoid the clouds, planning to climb once it reached clear skies over Norway. But 10 miles inland, the bomber crashed into a mountain. The four-man bomber crew and 3 of the commandos in the glider were killed. Several other commandos were severely injured. When German troops located the wreckage early in the morning, they found fourteen survivors and, in the wreckage of the glider, ski equipment and tents, machine and tommy guns, radios, food and explosives.
After taking the survivors to headquarters, the Germans interrogated them just long enough to get their names, ranks, and service numbers. Then they executed all fourteen. It was obvious from the explosives on board that they were on a sabotage mission, but the exact target wasn’t known until the next day, when the Germans found the second glider. It hadn’t crashed in the sea as first thought. It had crashed on land.
The officers who interrogated the first survivors had been reprimanded for their hasty execution of the saboteurs. This time they grilled them and tortured several at length, forcing them to divulge their target. Then they killed them.
Operation Freshman had been a costly failure: thirty-eight lives were lost, and the plant was still up and running. And, if they hadn’t known it before, the Nazis were certainly aware now that the Allies had made disabling the Norsk Hydro facility a top priority.
The Allies had not given up. Four months after the failure of Operation Freshman, a team of British and Norwegian commandos began training for another secret mission to sabotage the Norwegian Heavy Water plant. In the interim, however, the Germans had beefed up security, adding more troops, machine guns, searchlights and even a perimeter minefield.
The Norwegian engineers who had designed the Norsk Hydro plant, Jomar Brun and Einar Skinnerland, were now working with the Allies in England. Armed with the plant blueprints, they had constructed a mockup of the electrolysis area where the Heavy Water was distilled, so that six Norwegian saboteurs could practice laying dummy explosive charges in the dark. This time there would be no gliders. An advance team that had been living off the land would mark the drop zone, and the sappers would parachute in.
On the first attempt, the plane carrying the sappers could not find the advance team’s beacon and had to return to Scotland. On a moonless night weeks later, their luck changed. They parachuted onto a snow-packed mountain plateau, a barren landscape inhabited only by reindeer. Fighting gale-force winds, they managed to find the supplies they had also parachuted in and meet up with the advance team. After days of skiing, the group finally sighted their target.
The imposing seven-story Norsk Hydro plant sat on a ledge at the bottom of a steep bluff. Alongside, several large pipes carried water from the lake above to the gorge below. The saboteurs’ intelligence briefs had been spot on. The guards and the machine guns were exactly where they expected.
Just after the 10 PM shift change, the eight men began their assault. In a heroic feat of mountaineering, they eluded the German guards by descending into the gorge, crossing a frozen river, and climbing the 500-foot rock face on the other side. From there, they cut through a wire fence and crawled through a cable-intake opening into the plant. There the demolition team went to work, laying explosive charges, setting the fuses, and retracing their steps. They had less than a minute to get away before the explosives detonated. Miraculously, all escaped uninjured.
British intelligence had estimated it would take 12 months for the Germans to get the plant up and running again, but their estimate was wrong. The Germans had the plant up and running again after just six months — and producing more Heavy Water than before the raid: nearly 450 pounds a month. And so the Allies planned a third attack, this time under the control of the Americans..
Like Operation Freshman, it did not go well.
Shortly before dawn on November 16, 200 B-17’s of the Eighth United States Army Air Force took off from a base in Great Britain. Almost two dozen were forced to turn back within the first hour due to mechanical problems. The attack was planned to coincide with a lunch break when workers would be in a basement cafeteria and thus be safe from the bombs. Unfortunately, the bombers arrived 22 minutes early. To kill time, the squadron commander headed back towards the North Sea executing a wide 360-degree turn.
By the time they returned, the Germans were ready. One bomber was shot down by ground fire; another was hit, and the crew forced to parachute into the sea. One hundred seventy-six planes made it to the plant, followed by a squadron of 29 B-24 bombers. Together they dropped more than 700 bombs. The raid was supposed to be a “surgical” strike with precision bombing. In fact, none of the bombs scored a direct hit. While the company’s power plant was damaged, the facility where Heavy Water was produced was untouched. It was the locals who paid the steepest price: Twenty-one Norwegian civilians were killed.
The attacks on the Norwegian Heavy Water plant had already cost more than fifty British, American, and Norwegian lives when, in February 1944, a shortwave operator with the Norwegian Resistance fired off an urgent message that would almost certainly involve more fatalities.
The plant was preparing to ship 15 tons of Heavy Water to a lab in Germany. Thirty-nine barrels of the precious liquid would be loaded into two freight cars and transported by rail to a nearby port, where the cars would be transferred to a rail-ferry for the next leg of the journey across Lake Tinnsjo and then on to Germany. With such a large shipment at risk, the Germans took extraordinary precautions. The plant already had armed guards, anti-aircraft guns, land mines and machine guns. They sealed off every possible entry except the main gate and brought in a special army detachment backed by a regiment of SS police to guard the railroad tracks and ride the freight cars transporting the Heavy Water to the port. A squadron of spotter aircraft was positioned at a nearby airfield to assist with aerial reconnaissance, and troops were sent to the port to guard the ferryboat.
The Norwegian Resistance fighters had no good options. The plant itself and the train were too well guarded. Their best hope was to sink the ferry. To minimize the number of fatalities, a plant manager working with the Resistance scheduled the crossing for a Sunday morning, when there would be fewer passengers.
The Allies and the Resistance knew there would be reprisals–possibly mass executions–if the ferryboat was sabotaged. One Resistance shortwave operator even wired London questioning whether the operation was worth the reprisals. Within hours London responded: “Case considered. Very urgent that Heavy Water be destroyed. Hope this can be done without too serious consequences.”
Norsk Hydro’s transport engineer, who was not a member of the Resistance but was aware of the plot, would almost certainly be a primary target for Gestapo retribution, so the Resistance arranged an airtight alibi. On the Saturday before the attack, he was taken to the hospital, where he underwent an emergency appendectomy.
On a frigid Sunday morning, the Hydro, a rail ferry with 53 passengers and crew, started its voyage across Lake Tinnsjå. Below deck, hidden in the bilge near the bow, were 19 pounds of plastic explosives attached to an alarm clock. The Resistance saboteurs had set the timer to go off 45 minutes after the scheduled departure when the ferry would be over the deepest part of the lake.
The alarm clock went off as planned. The explosives ripped through the hull and 26 passengers and crew members died in the freezing waters, but once again, Werner Heisenberg did not receive his shipment of Heavy Water.
In the end, as we know, the Nazis and Heisenberg did not build an Atomic Bomb. We did.
The Heavy Water saga you just read is one of dozens of interesting stories in The Greatest Scientific Gamble.
The Greatest Scientific Gamble will be published by Michigan State University Press later this month, but you can order it now (paperback, hardback and e-book) from MSU Press, Barnes & Noble, or Amazon. Because it’s not a mass market paperback, it’s pricey, so an alternative is to ask your local public library to purchase copies.

