Critical Assembly

Poems of the Manhattan Project

John Canaday

• Publisher: UNM Press
• Year: 2017
• Print ISBN: 9780826358837
• eBook ISBN: 9780826358844
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Poetry
• Index: Literature

With technical mastery and remarkable empathy, Canaday introduces readers to the people involved in the creation and testing of the first atomic bomb, from initial theoretical conversations to the secretive work at Los Alamos. Critical Assembly also includes brief biographies, notes, and a bibliography for further exploration about this critical event in world history.

E_K

Alexander Sachs

Friend and advisor to Franklin Roosevelt

History’s hard

to write,

harder

to revise.

When Fulton told

Napoleon,

“I can remove

both wind and storm

that guard your enemies,”

the Little Corporal

glimpsed the world’s

new face

but left his steam fleet

grounded

in committee.

How best to best

bit-a-bitarian

bickering?

Even presidents

are men;

even geniuses

can’t translate

every mutant thought

that might yield

great discoveries.

I shall be

your go-between,

dear Mr. President.

(I’ve paid

my way and

can’t deduct it

from my income tax,

so pay attention,

please.

I’ll be as brief

as history allows.)

No need to read

Professor Einstein’s

own words now:

we’re all punch drunk

on printer’s ink,

and type’s mascara

dripped in eyes.

I’ll summarize:

Experiments reveal

uranium

is split by

and emits

neutrons.

Three probabilities

arise:

Energy.

Radiation.

Bombs.

(The last

of unenvisaged

potency and scope.)

These United States

are fortunately poised

to draw time drafts

on history’s

Bank & Trust.

Eager to serve

the nation that affords us

hospitality,

these scholar-refugees

and I advise:

now’s the time:

revise Neutrality:

transduce

mere verbiage

to action:

make scientists

and soldiers

talk.

Leslie Groves

Colonel, Army Corps of Engineers

Oh, that thing.

Eleven years among

the soft-palmed momma’s boys in Washington:

I’ve earned command of combat troops. I built

munitions plants and relocation camps,

the Pentagon—now nearly done. Those hacks

can go to heck before I let them axe

my chance to join the war and find some peace.

“But wouldn’t Grace object?” Civilians. Most

a waste of God’s good air. My Buddha knows

the sacrifices we must make. Her health

excused her, but she never used it, not

a single time. An army wife knows better.

Boo knows best of all. She runs a home

the way I run my office: jobs get done

or else she’ll know the reason why. Weekends

she volunteers downtown or chaperones

the soldiers’ dances at the base canteen.

She did me proud when Mrs. Roosevelt

invited us to tea.

My work was vital—

war saw to that—and no one in the Corps

more qualified. I had to up the odds

that Somervell would let me off the hook.

I cornered him outside his office. (Catch

a busy man midstride, and to be free

he’ll grant your wish as quick as any genie.)

But darn it, someone got to Somervell

before me, and he wouldn’t touch my transfer.

He crossed his arms against his brass and said,

“You do this right, and it will win the war.”

We both knew better, but he played it straight.

“Styer will fill you in.” He’d earned his stripes.

Now I’d earn mine.

I don’t complain. It’s not

in Bugle Notes. And when the shirkers howled

for blood, Styer backed me. I repay

my debts. I do my duty. But a firm

“no” when it’s called for opens eyes

and spares us years of chasing “maybes.”

I turned the job down flat. So Styer said,

“The president himself approved our choice.”

He wanted me put out to pasture. Or

did Stimson, Somervell, and FDR

believe these scientists could boss God’s word

and I boss them? Old Pot would say, “That chance

makes even you look slim.” My budget topped

six hundred million every month. This job

in all should cost a sixth of that. Or less.

And then, We’ve chosen you to field this ball’s

one way of saying, if this thing goes south

we need a goat. Someone expendable

Congress can sock away in Leavenworth

so deep they’ll have to pipe the sunlight in.

That won’t be me. Defeat’s distasteful. Worse,

it’s inefficient. But efficiency

takes guts. Sometimes you have to mortgage souls

to do a job. They’ve chosen me. I’ll see

how terribly they want these “special” bombs.

“You’ll need someone to finish up the Pentagon.

I know the senators involved. And their

investment.” Styer saw my point at once.

I would, he felt, command the scientists’

respect more easily as brigadier.

They care more for prerogatives of rank

than soldiers. We put duty above all.

Edith Warner

Ran a tearoom by the Rio Grande

Who needed mountains? What use the desert’s blank rock silences?

For half my life the city penned my heart—the ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Medialog: William Laurence
• U / Potential
• EK / Kinetic
• ∆H / Heat
• Acknowledgments
• Notes on Poems
• Sources
• Biographical Notes