Atomic Rockets and Radioactive Dogs

Technicians prepare a Kiwi B-1 nozzle for testing

I attended eighth and ninth grade at Jackson Junior High School, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The biggest employer in town was Sandia Base, the headquarters of DASA, the Defense Atomic Support Agency. The base was run by the U.S. Army, but Navy and Air Force personal were stationed there as well.

My father, a Navy Chaplain, had been assigned to the base chapel, and our family lived in a pink adobe house on a mesa nearby. Prior to this duty, Lieutenant-Commander Schnick had been the Protestant chaplain on the USS Lexington, a nuclear-armed attack carrier with a home port of Coronado, California. When the ship was in port, my mother, sister, and I would attend services on board, usually on the forward hanger deck , since the jet fighters were on shore when the ship was in port.

USS Lexington, CVA 16

Racks of ten-foot long Sidewinder missiles were kept on the hanger deck as well. The rockets formed a maze we had to pass to get to the rows of folding chairs set up for Divine Services. Another feature was the terrific Boom that the steam catapults overhead emitted to relieve pressure. This happened every few minutes, around the clock.

Although this was distracting, it was nothing compared the earth-shaking roar that that occasionally drowned out all sounds at my junior-high school in Albuquerque. The din would go on for a minute or so. Any teaching or conversation stopped. I found out later that the roaring came from the static testing of atomic-powered rocket motors by the top-secret KIWI project on the base. As a thirteen-year old navy brat, at the time I thought this was pretty cool.

Besides preaching the gospel at the base chapel, my father sometimes went away for TDY, or temporary duty at the National Test Range near Tonopah, Nevada. Once, after a two-week absence, he told me what he had seen.

Here’s an excerpt from Lightbulb Coffee to be published November 10th, 2020:

The test involved staking packs of dogs and herds of goats at varying distances from a tower. On the top, several pounds of pure Plutonium were contained in a dummy warhead. A charge of TNT was set off, blasting the radioactive materiel into the tethered beasts.

The object of the experiment was to predict the toxic effects of a “broken arrow” accident: if a nuclear device was lost or destroyed but not detonated. Army veterinarians slaughtered the exposed animals at intervals of hours, days, and weeks, and some were allowed to die or recover from radiation poisoning on their own.

This shocked me, and for the first time, I thought a career in the military might not be the best for me, as my father seemed to intend. If you would like to hear how I dealt with dealt with all this, please read Cold ‘Coon & Collards, the first volume of my memoirs, and watch for Lightbulb Coffee coming out very soon.

A few advance copies are available now on this website. Just go to the shop and click on Lightbulb Coffee.