939–45

On 1st September 1939, Allan’s ship, sailing under the Spanish flag, arrived in New York. Allan had contemplated taking a quick look at the big country to the west of Europe, and then sailing back again, but on the same day one of the generalissimo’s dear friends marched into Poland and once again war was raging in Europe. On arrival, the Spanish-registered ship was impounded, confiscated, and then did service in the US Navy until war ended in 1945.

Everyone on board was sent over to the immigration office on Ellis Island. There, every passenger was asked the same four questions: 1) Name? 2) Nationality? 3) Profession? 4) Purpose of visit to the United States of America?

All of Allan’s comrades from the ship said, through a Spanish interpreter, that they were simple Spanish seamen who now had nowhere to go because their ship had been impounded. After which they were quickly admitted to the United States, where they had to manage as best they could.

But Allan was different. He had a name that the Spanish interpreter couldn’t pronounce; he said he came from Suecia; and most importantly he revealed that he was an explosives expert, with all sorts of experience ranging from running his own explosives business, to the manufacture of cannons, and most recently to participating in the war between Spaniards and Spaniards.

After which Allan pulled out his letter from General Franco. Terrified, the Spanish interpreter translated it for the immigration officer who immediately summoned his superior who immediately summoned his superior.

At first the inferior and the two superiors agreed that the fascist Swede should immediately be sent back where he had come from.

‘As long as you can find a ship for me, I’ll be happy to go,’ said Allan.

This was not a practicable suggestion, and so the interrogations continued. And the more the immigration officer got out of Allan, the less fascistic the Swede seemed to be. He wasn’t a communist either. Or a national socialist. He was nothing at all, it would seem, other than an expert on explosives. As for the story of how he came to be on first-name terms with General Franco, it was so ridiculous that it had to be true – he could hardly have made it up.

The most senior immigration officer had a brother in Los Alamos, New Mexico, and as far as he knew, his brother was working on some kind of explosive device for the military. Since he had no better ideas, the senior immigration officer arranged for Allan to be locked up for a couple of months. Unfortunately, the months turned into years, and the immigration boss mostly forgot about Allan, until one day he found himself discussing the case with his brother when they met at the family farm in Connecticut for Thanksgiving. His brother was working on some kind of explosive device for the military. The brother was not thrilled at the idea of having a potential Franco supporter on his hands, but they were desperately in need of all the expertise they could muster down at Los Alamos and they could probably find some suitably unqualified and not too secret work for this odd Swede, if it would help out his brother.

The immigration director answered that it most definitely would be a favour, and then the brothers tucked into the turkey.

Some time later in the winter of 1943 Allan flew, for the first time ever, to the US National Laboratory in Los Alamos, where it was soon discovered that he didn’t speak a word of English. A Spanish-speaking lieutenant was given the task of finding out the extent of the Swede’s professional skills, and Allan was required to write down his most explosive chemical formulae for the lieutenant. The latter looked through these, finding evidence of a considerable innovative ability, but pointing out that the force of Allan’s explosive charges would barely blow up a car.

‘Oh, but it would,’ answered Allan. ‘A car with a man in it. I’ve tried it.’

Allan was allowed to stay on, at first in the most remote corner of the compound, but as the months and years went by and he started to speak English, he was allowed to move about more and more freely. As an extremely meticulous observer, during the days Allan learned how to make explosive charges of a substantially different nature from those he’d been in the habit of setting off on Sundays back home in the gravel pit. And in the evening, when most of the young men at the Los Alamos lab went out to town to chase women, Allan sat in the restricted-access library and learned about new realms in the world of explosives.

The war in Europe was escalating, but these events largely passed Allan by, as he acquired knowledge which as a lowly assistant he couldn’t really use. It was no longer about familiar chemicals like nitroglycerine and sodium nitrate – that was for amateurs – but about exotic relationships between atoms like hydrogen and uranium which turned out to be far more complicated elements than he could ever have imagined.

From 1942 on, extremely strict security restrictions came into force at Los Alamos. The scientists had been given a secret mission by President Roosevelt to create a big bomb, a bomb that, Allan guessed, could destroy ten or even twenty Spanish bridges with a single explosion. Lowly assistants are needed on even the most secret projects, and the hugely popular Allan was given the highest security clearance.

He had to admit that they knew their stuff these Americans. Instead of working with the conventional materials Allan had been brought up on, these scientists had found ways of unlocking the power that held the nuclei of atoms together, trying to create more enormous explosions than anything the world had seen before.

By April 1945, they were almost there. The researchers – and for that matter Allan – knew how to achieve a nuclear reaction, but they didn’t know how to control it. The problem fascinated Allan, and when he sat in the library in the evenings he worried away at the problem that nobody had asked him to worry about – and he solved it.

Every week that spring, the most important military people met for hours with the leading physicists, led by chief scientist J. Robert Oppenheimer, while Allan filled their coffee cups – and listened.

The scientists pulled at their hair and asked Allan for more coffee. The military people scratched their heads and asked Allan for more coffee. The military people and the scientists all despaired of finding a solution and asked Allan for more coffee. And so it went on, week after week. Allan had been sitting on the solution to the group’s problem for some time but he didn’t think it was the waiter’s task to tell the chef how to prepare dinner, so he kept what he knew to himself.

Until on one occasion, to his own surprise, he heard himself say:

‘Excuse me, but why don’t you divide the uranium into two equal parts?’

It just sort of slipped out, while he was pouring coffee into Robert Oppenheimer’s cup.

‘What did you say?’ said Oppenheimer, who was so shocked that the waiter had opened his mouth that he hadn’t even listened to what Allan said.

Allan had no choice but to go on.

‘Well, if you divide the uranium into two equal parts and slap them together only when it is time, then they’ll explode when you want them to.’

‘Equal parts?’ said Oppenheimer. There was a lot more going on in his head at that moment, but ‘equal parts’ was what he managed to say.

‘Well, perhaps you have a point there, professor. The parts don’t have to be equal in size, the important thing is that they are big enough when they come together.’

Lieutenant Lewis, who had vouched for Allan’s suitability as an assistant, looked as if he wanted to murder the Swede, but one of the scientists around the table reacted with considerable interest:

‘But how do we slap them together? And when? In the air?’

‘Exactly, professor. You see, it’s not hard to make it all explode. The problem is that you can’t control the moment of explosion. But a critical mass divided into two gives you two uncritical masses, doesn’t it? And the opposite applies too, because from two uncritical masses you can get one critical mass.’

‘And how do you propose we slap them together, Mr… excuse me, but who are you?’ said Oppenheimer.

‘I’m Allan,’ said Allan.

‘And, Mr Allan, how do we slap them together?’

‘With a good old, everyday explosive charge,’ said Allan. ‘That’s the sort of thing I’m good at, but I am sure you can manage it yourselves.’

Professors of Physics in general and top military scientists in particular are not stupid. In a few seconds, Oppenheimer had worked his way through thickets of equations and come to the conclusion that it was extremely likely that the waiter was right. Just imagine that something so complicated could have such a simple solution! A good old everyday explosive charge at the back of the bomb could be activated from a distance and would send an uncritical mass of uranium-235 forwards to a meeting with another uncritical mass. It would immediately become critical. The neutrons would start to move, the uranium atoms would start to split. The chain reaction would be in process and…

‘Bang!’ said Oppenheimer to himself.

‘Exactly,’ said Allan. ‘I see that you have already worked it out, professor. Would anyone like some more coffee?’

At that very moment the door to the secret room was opened and in walked Vice President Truman on one of his rare and always unannounced visits.

‘Sit down,’ said the vice president to the men, who were all standing to attention.

To be on the safe side, even Allan sat down. If a vice president told you to sit down then it was probably best to sit down, that was how it worked in America, he thought.

The vice president asked for a status report from Oppenheimer, who quickly stood up again. Somewhat flustered, the only thing he could think to say was that Mr Allan over there in the corner had just solved the remaining problem of how the detonation could be controlled. Mr Allan’s solution was not yet tested, but Oppenheimer was speaking for all those present when he said that the problem had just become history and that within three months they could have a trial explosion.

The vice president looked round the table and got nods of agreement. Lieutenant Lewis had gradually started to breathe again. In the end, the vice president’s eyes fell on Allan.

‘I do believe, Mr Allan, that you are the hero of the day. As for me, I need to have a bite before I return to Washington. Would you like to join me?’

Following on less than a decade after the Generalissimo’s dinner invitation, Allan surmised that it must be a common characteristic of world leaders to invite you to eat as soon as you did something they liked, but he didn’t say so. Instead he thanked the vice president for the invitation and the two men walked out of the room together. Oppenheimer was left at the conference table looking both relieved and unhappy.

Vice President Truman had ordered his favourite Mexican restaurant in the centre of Los Alamos to be sealed off, so Allan and Truman had the place to themselves, except for a dozen or so bodyguards spread out in various corners.

The head of the security unit had pointed out that Mr Allan was not an American and not even cleared to be alone with the vice president, but Truman dismissed the security official’s objections with the comment that today Mr Allan had done the most patriotic thing anyone could imagine.

The vice president was in excellent spirits. Straight after dinner, instead of going to Washington, he had decided to fly to Georgia where President Roosevelt was staying at a polio clinic. The president would want to hear this news directly, Harry Truman was sure of that.

‘I’ll order the food, so you can choose the drinks,’ said Harry Truman jovially and handed the wine list to Allan.

Truman turned to the head waiter, who bowed as he received a large order for tacos, enchilada, corn tortillas and salsa.

‘And to drink, sir?’

‘Two bottles of tequila,’ Allan answered.

Harry Truman laughed and asked if Allan wanted to drink him under the table. Allan answered that the last year had taught him that the Mexicans could make spirits with as much oomph in them as akvavit, but that the vice president could of course drink milk if he considered that more suitable.

‘No, I’ve given my word,’ said Vice President Truman, and he made sure the order included lime and salt.

Three hours later the two men were calling each other Harry and Allan, which goes to show what a couple of bottles of tequila can do for international relations. Allan told Truman how the local bigwig had been blown to bits and how he saved the life of General Franco. The vice president, for his part, amused Allan by imitating President Roosevelt’s attempts to get up out of his wheelchair.

When the two men were on the most jovial of terms, the head of the security staff discreetly approached the vice president.

‘Could I have a word please, sir?’

‘Go ahead,’ said the vice president in a slurred voice.

‘Preferably in private, sir.’

‘I’ll be damned if you don’t look just like Humphrey Bogart! Have you seen him, Allan?’

‘Sir…,’ said the increasingly troubled security man.

‘Yes, what the hell do you want?’ the vice president hissed.

‘Sir, it is about President Roosevelt.

‘What about that old goat?’ The vice president guffawed.

‘He’s dead, sir.’