Crossroads Veterans
Like their later counterparts, servicemen at the 1946 atomic testing were almost nonpersons—little more than
props in a grandiose show. Early onset of health problems among American troops sent onto the radioactive ships
was not publicized. Operation Crossroads veterans were to recall, sometimes bitterly, that they were provided no
special cleanup garb as they scrubbed the contaminated decks. Most emphasize they were provided no radiationdetection
badges or other monitoring gear.
Three decades later, under short-lived congressional pressure, U.S. Department of Energy acting assistant
secretary Dr. Donald Kerr admitted that the government could document radiation-exposure badges for only about
one quarter of the servicemen at Operation Crossroads. The ratio dropped to about one tenth for the next atomic test
series.81
For participants at Operation Crossroads the pair of twenty-three-kiloton nuclear detonations were only the start
of their hazardous ordeals. Sent onto the targeted vessels within days—sometimes merely a few hours—after the
atom bomb explosions, they scoured the irradiated surfaces for weeks on end, at times living on the same ships.
They routinely drank water distilled—through frequently contaminated evaporators—from the lagoon that Dr.
Bradley and his colleagues were finding to be so intensely radioactive.82 Former Navy servicemen tell of entire
crews falling violently sick soon after boarding ships hot with radioactivity. Chronic, painful illnesses inexorably
followed.
Vice Admiral W. H. P. Blandy, commander of the Operation Crossroads joint Army-Navy task force, had been
quick to proclaim the atomic experiment "highly successful." Newsweek reported at the time: "There had been no
human casualties, though Admiral Blandy cautiously warned some might yet be overexposed to radiation [a rare
public admission that received no substantive media follow-up]. For, he said, the personnel were eager to board the
ships for the military and scientific findings that would affect the future of mankind."83
Judging from dozens of interviews with Operation Crossroads veterans contacted for this book, Admiral Blandy
may have greatly overstated just how eager "the personnel" were to climb aboard the radioactive vessels.
Jack Leavitt, for instance, had enlisted in the Navy in 1941, before his eighteenth birthday. Stationed in
California, he was twenty-two years old when he learned he was headed for Operation Crossroads in early 1946.
"Someone told me it was volunteer only, but I was not asked if I wanted to participate, only to report for duty. I had
volunteered to join the Navy, and I guess that was good enough."84
After the Able atomic blast Leavitt was ordered to board the U.S.S. Pensacola, a heavy cruiser among the
hardest-hit large ships in the Bikini target zone. He was assigned to a team "to scrub down the decks to wash off any
radioactive fallout." Leavitt was aware that "at no time did I or anyone working with me—that is, naval
personnel—have a Geiger counter, nor any other testing device to measure danger of radiation."
Leavitt and the others in his crew ate K-rations and sandwiches, and drank water filtered from the lagoon.85
Leavitt’s stint aboard the Pensacola was cut short by news of the death of his mother, and he left for the United
States after nine days on the radioactive cruiser. Ever since boarding the Pensacola his health had deteriorated. "I
had diarrhea for some time after the test, but was told it was emotional and would go away. I had accompanying
pain in the lower abdomen, and in the right side. And have had since. I have had stomach trouble since 1946."86
His later ailments included colitis, bleeding of the bladder, and obstructive lung disease, all malfunctions of organs
vulnerable to internally absorbed radioactive particles. The Veterans Administration refused to provide medical
treatment.87
In 1981, at age fifty-seven, Jack Leavitt spoke to us from his home in Mesa, Arizona. "They asked me to
participate in a test I knew nothing about, and gave no guarantee as to what could result from these tests. Upon
completion of tests I felt I was forgotten and rejected for further testing of any ailments." For Leavitt, who served in
World War II and the Korean War, the continuing injustice of Operation Crossroads remained hard to accept. The
government, he noted, "still doesn’t want to admit any possible guilt for cause of alteration of the lives of those
‘volunteers’ who gave at that time—but when they ask now for help they are rebuffed and told to simply forget it
ever happened."88
Like so many other atomic veterans Jack Leavitt refused to forget. "I am bitter because I have lost my ability to
work, to take care of myself. I collect five hundred thirty-four dollars and ten cents Social Security. I am totally
disabled." With a sad anger in his voice he said that the government declined to pay for his needed prescription
drugs. His situation, Leavitt stressed, only represented a small part of a much larger problem. "There must be
thousands still suffering, and loved ones left behind prematurely by early death to veterans who have passed on with
claims pending, and some could still be alive today if proper treatment was given, and the responsibilities accepted
by those responsible in the first place."89
Kenneth H. Tripke, of Brooklyn, Wisconsin, was aboard the U.S.S. Quartz supply ship at Operation Crossroads.
"I personally was so sick," he recalled, "with diarrhea and vomiting for days. I went from 128 to 70-some pounds. I
turned a funny color, lost all my hair on my body." Taken onto a hospital ship, Tripke was fed intravenously. Ever
since, severe weight loss plagued him, along with calcium deposits in his eyes impairing his sight, and sharp hip
pains. "My back, shoulders, nerves, etc., are in poor shape."90
A day after the Baker underwater blast Frank F. Karasti and three other seamen were sent aboard the destroyer
Hughes to keep it from sinking. Karasti who later settled in Winton, Minnesota, was twenty-six years old at the time.
"Out of the four hours we spent on her, two were spent vomiting and retching as we all became violently ill." Like
many Crossroads veterans, Karasti never forgot that drinking water came from conversion of the Bikini lagoon water.
Lesions appeared on his lungs about a month after the second Crossroads explosion; serious breathing problems
evolved. Since 1948 he suffered from "uncontrollable hypertension." As with many Crossroads veterans Karasti’s
skin developed frequent severe disturbances. "My skin is deteriorating on my whole body and it is possible to wash
off parts of it while bathing. . . . I have been aging ahead of my time and should I use any physical effort, I get ill for
three days after."91 Frank Karasti’s afflictions—serious damage to breathing, nervous system, and skin, along with
overall feelings of premature aging—are frequently reported by people exposed to atomic radiation.
The day after the first Crossroads blast, Karasti was assigned to putting out fires on several of the target vessels,
including the bull’s-eye ship, the U.S.S. Nevada, which had been painted orange.92 About two weeks later a Navy
crew of about sixty men boarded the Nevada, where they worked, ate, and slept. Among the crew was seaman
Michael W. Stanco, who had in years past been wounded in the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, and again in the
Philippines. On board the U.S.S. Nevada, "We became deathly ill after eating. I remember being so ill along with
the others."93
Reflecting on the events, from his home in New Port Richey, Florida, Stanco recalled reading that the Nevada was
later among ships intentionally sunk because of long-lived intensity of residual radioactivity. "If this ship was sunk
for reasons of contamination, what effects do you think it had upon the 60 men who ate and slept aboard it?" he
asked. "And what about the divers who sank to their armpits in ooze—and the other 42,000 men that also
participated?"94
George McNish of Tampa, Florida, was on the U.S.S. Coucal as part of a radiation survey group at Bikini. "We
scuba dived, ate coconuts from the island and swam, unaware of the danger involved. We had scientists dressed like
for ‘outer space,’ with instruments like I had never seen. But when it came to diving or bringing up samples, all we
had were ‘skin and tanks.’" Seven years later he began treatment for tuberculosis; he later suffered from severe
spine deterioration.95
A few days after the Baker test Navy seaman Richard Stempel "anchored among the ships in the target area,
swimming nearly every day and using the water freely. We were never told not to do either. At one point in
operations during rough seas, three other crewmen and I tied our landing craft to a mooring buoy anchored in the
blast area and climbed aboard. About two hours later, a high ranking officer came by and checked the radiation level
of the moss on the buoy. The Geiger counter pegged and he ordered us off. He didn’t advise us of any
decontamination procedure."96
Within a few weeks Stempel "was being treated by ship’s doctor for a skin disorder the doctor was unable to
diagnose." The following year Stempel filed for service-connected VA benefits because of the severe skin affliction
physicians had dubbed "atopic eczema"; the VA rejected his claim.97
Initially the VA’s rejection had contended that "the evidence shows that you had had this affliction since early
childhood and there was no evidence to show that it was aggravated by your military service."98 Refiling the claim
in 1980, Stempel, living in Grants Pass, Oregon, submitted "three notarized letters from my father and two brothers
stating I had no skin problems before enlisting in the U.S. Navy. Again it was refused." Uncompensated, Stempel’s
skin "has now deteriorated to where the total skin surface is either red raw, white scales, or open bleeding sores that
itch constantly."99
By the early 1980s numerous other Crossroads veterans had begun to speak out. As Navy veteran Jack
Sommerfeld recalled: "We remained berthed in the lagoon and had to use sea water from the lagoon to make water
with which to wash, bathe and brush teeth and for other purposes. . . . We were not issued radiation badges."100 An
in-service photo of Sommerfeld shows a cherubic, smiling youngster in sailor garb. But in 1980 he was blind,
confined to a wheelchair, suffering from deteriorating skin, and diagnosed with mouth and throat cancer. His
continued efforts to obtain VA compensatory aid went unrewarded.101
Warren E. Zink, an eighteen-year-old fireman first class at Operation Crossroads, was assigned to go aboard the
heavy cruiser U.S.S. Salt Lake City two days after the Able explosion.102 He was "accompanied by a scientist who
was equipped with a Geiger counter," Zink explained. "We had no way of telling the severity of the level of
radiation other than noticing the indicator went as far as it could on the counter."103 After the Baker test Zink and his
crew returned to the Salt Lake City for cleanup and repair work. The ship was eventually torpedoed because of its
extreme contamination.104
"Within two years of my discharge from the U.S. Navy in 1948, I began having severe headaches, nausea and
vomiting," recounted Zink, a resident of Woodridge, Illinois. After months of hospital tests the diagnosis was
"migraine." In 1973 doctors found that Zink’s lungs had deteriorated severely. "At that time, and I quote my doctor,
‘my lungs are 15 years older than the rest of my body.’ Today I am classified as an emphysema patient, I am also
bothered by constant muscle spasms in my legs which never seem to let up."105
Pervasive among former military participants in Operation Crossroads—as well as for others exposed to
radiation—are deep concerns about genetic damage to their children and future generations.
For William A. Drechin, of Old Forge, Pennsylvania, worries began on deck of the U.S.S. Ottawa, as he faced
toward Bikini. He was nineteen years old. Dizziness and painful headaches soon became part of his life, and a
softball-size lipoma tumor was surgically removed from his back three years later. But the most painful was yet to
come. In 1954 he and his wife had a son, born nonambulatory. A year afterward another son was born with the same
condition, later diagnosed as cerebral palsy. The first child died at age twenty-one; the second at age nine. "There is
absolutely no history of defective births on either side of families," according to Drechin, who blames his
participation in Operation Crossroads for the birth defects of his two sons. "The seeds of their physical woes were
implanted when the destructive forces of the A-bomb were released on Bikini."106
Charlie Andrews, of Riverview, Florida, also was left to agonize over the genetic legacies of Operation
Crossroads. For the last six months of 1946 he worked on radioactive ships that had been at Bikini. "We lived on
board, drank the water filtered by contaminated evaporators, and some of the food had been aboard the vessels at the
time of the blast, making it also contaminated." In 1980 the aftermath of Crossroads was still very much with
Andrews: "I find it very difficult to explain to my 15-year-old son who was born with deformed legs and no heels,
which have been corrected over the years no thanks to Uncle Sam, the possibility of his children . . . being deformed
also."107
Living in Lower Lake, California, Howard C. Taylor harkened back to his early pride in the Navy. At Bikini in
1946 he was a ship’s officer on the target-zoned U.S.S. Dawson, sent onto the vessel after both test explosions. In
the late 1950s, health problems appeared: lesions on his lungs, calcium deposits in his shoulder, and black, brittle
teeth. They were only the start of his ills. Suddenly he lost nearly all his vision. He was forced into retirement in
1963. "I had five children and we were soon quite destitute. My children all have eye problems. I have a son in a
mental institution and another son who is abnormal and in a foster home. My wife had several miscarriages."108
As occurred for so many atomic veterans, Taylor’s strong patriotism and pride in the U.S. armed forces soured. "I
am now disenchanted and disgusted with the Navy and our government. I and many more veterans have been
deprived of the ability to enjoy and provide for our families and are now being treated like a bunch of ‘social
bums.’"109
There were civilians involved in Crossroads test operations as well; they and their families gained no more
consideration than their military counterparts.
Thomas W. Scott received top-secret clearance as a civilian aerial-ground photographer to film the Able test for
the government. After the explosion his plane followed the dissipating radioactive cloud for several hours. Scott’s
wife, Helena, of Camarillo, California, saw that "for 26 years following ‘Able Day’ his ailments slowly, but steadily,
kept increasing: the choking cough, nausea, vomiting, nose bleeds, severe back pains, depression and so on, became
a daily routine." Scott died of bone cancer in 1972.110
Nor did Americans’ radiation exposure from Operation Crossroads end when the U.S. ships involved left the
Bikini area. Scores of the vessels remained highly radioactive, and some were taken to Hawaii for disposal.
Gregory Bond Troyer, eighteen, was in the Navy at the time, working in the Base Craft, Pearl Harbor shipyard.
His duties included securing vessels, still hot from Bikini, to a tug, towing them out to sea about ten to fifteen miles
from Pearl Harbor, and sinking the ships. He worked without protective clothing; often his chest and feet were bare.
His crew had no exposure badges or radiation monitoring gear.111
A few years later, after honorable discharge from the Navy, Troyer got married. Attempts to start a family were
unsuccessful, intensive physical exams by doctors determined that Troyer was sterile. In the mid-1970s physicians
discovered Troyer was suffering from hyperthyroidism. A lesion appeared on his scrotum, attributed to eczema.
Arthritis of neck and shoulders, cysts around his eyes and forehead, prostate problems, and hearing loss set in also.
In 1980, living in St. Paul, Minnesota, Troyer at age fifty-three remained under medication for his long-standing
thyroid damage.112
81. Uhl and Ensign, GI Guinea Pigs, p. 43.
82. Bradley, No Place to Hide, pp. 103-104, 152.
83. Newsweek, July 8, 1946, p. 20.
84. Jack Leavitt, taped statement to authors, December 1980.
85. Ibid.
86. Ibid.
87. Ibid.
88. Ibid.
89. Ibid.
90. Atomic Veterans’ Newsletter, winter 1980, p. 4.
91. Frank Karasti to authors, December 8, 1980.
92. Ibid.
93. Atomic Veterans’ Newsletter, fall 1980, p. 11.
94. Ibid.
95. Atomic Veterans’ Newsletter, summer 1980, p. 13.
96. Atomic Veterans’ Newsletter, winter 1980, p. 9.
97. Ibid.
98. Ibid.
99. Ibid.
100. Atomic Veterans’ Newsletter, spring 1980, p 11.
101. Ibid.
102. Warren Zink to authors, December 15, 1980.
103. Atomic Veterans’ Newsletter, fall 1980, p. 5.
104. Ibid.
105. Ibid.
106. William Drechin to authors, December 10, 1980; Atomic Veterans’ Newsletter, summer 1980, p. 9.
107. Atomic Veterans’ Newsletter, fall 1980, p. 8.
108. Atomic Veterans’ Newsletter, winter 1980, p. 8.
109. Ibid.
110. Helena Scott, "Written Statement," Citizens’ Hearings April 12, 1980.
111. Gregory Troyer to authors, December 1980; Troyer’s complete VA file, C-13470812.
112. Ibid.