I don’t remember the date, or even the year. You
can get that from history. Let’s say it was 1952; I was in the
Second Grade, seven years old. But it might have been a year before
or a year later.
There was some apprehension in our house that night, exactly
why was over my head, and, as history shows, it was not fully understood
by most adults at the time. An A-bomb was going to be detonated in
Nevada later that night. It was on all the TV news programs.
George Putnam was the news anchor on KTTV, Channel Eleven,
an independent station in Los Angeles. During the early news, around
dinner time, he showed film clips of previous atomic tests: observers
in goggles, the mushroom cloud, houses blown away by a shock wave.
And he interviewed various people, some who said the earth’s crust might
shatter or catastrophic earthquakes might be triggered in California.
One important-looking man in a suit said the atmosphere might be set on fire
by the blast. none of those things happened before, but who knew for
sure what would happen this time?
Every kid in school was familiar with the Duck & Cover
drill for an imagined atomic bomb attack: get down on the floor, under
your desk or a table, one hand over your eyes and the other covering the
back of your neck, wait for the all-clear signal. Tonight, though,
it was not imagined. A real atomic bomb was going to explode.
It was not the first atomic test in Nevada, but it was
the first one at night. George Putnam said if we turned off all our
lights and went outside, there might be something visible on the horizon
toward Nevada, but no one knew for sure. I had never been to Nevada.
I knew it was far away, about 250 miles on a travel map that Dad gave me
from our car. He said we probably would not see anything because of
the distance and the many mountains between us and the blast. Still,
I wanted to stay up to see it, even if “it” turned out to be nothing.
“Please?” I begged, and Mom & Dad relented, but I had to go to bed right
afterward.
Mom grew more concerned and tense through the night, but
she could not verbalize it very well. “I don’t know,” she said, wrinkling
her brow. “I just don’t feel right about it.” Dad did not say
much one way or the other, except that it was progress and therefore probably
necessary.
As the appointed time neared, I stood my post on the back
porch because it faced due east, toward Nevada, and I scanned the horizon;
only the roofline of nearby homes was visible. I turned off the porch
light, but most lights from other homes, businesses and street lights were
still turned on. Maybe they would interfere with seeing the A-bomb,
I worried.
When the final minute came Mom and Dad turned off the
lights inside and came to the back porch. I ran back inside and turned
up the volume on the TV so we could hear it outside, and then ran back and
stood in front of Dad. He rested his hand on my shoulder and said that
Nevada was a little to the north, on an angle to the left, so I turned my
attention to that direction. Mom stood nervously in the doorway, one
hand holding onto the jamb. Even Jeanette came out, whining about the
lights being turned off and rolling her eyes. We waited as the countdown
finished:
And nothing happened. Dad patted my shoulder and
said, “It’s probably too far to...” And then the whole sky lit up with
a pale-bright, eerie light, a cosmic flashbulb set off in our faces.
But it was not just the sky on the horizon, not just the sky toward Nevada,
it threw a cold reflection over all of Southern California. It silhouetted
the outlines of mountains that we ordinarily could not see in daylight, where
Big Bear and Lake Arrowhead are in mountains behind the city of San Bernadino.
In my peripheral vision I saw the outline of the San Gabriel Mountains extending
to Los Angeles. Saddleback Mountain was silhouetted clearly in front
of us, due east. It was as though the geological skeleton of Southern
California were laid bare for a second or two... as though something
never before revealed was briefly glimpsed.
It illuminated the side of our house and garage in a ghostly
white light. It washed over us as we stood there, stunned by the immensity
and power, frozen in momentary awe of whatever could be so strong from such
a great distance. It did not flicker, but held us firmly for a few
seconds, even Bupps, our dog, and then weakened and withdrew like a stealthy
tide.
Nobody said anything for a few moments, as though expecting
thunder and lightning, but no sound came.
We had seen the flash of a nuclear explosion.
Copyright (c) 2003 by Randy Kraft
All rights reserved.
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