On the morning of March 23, 1945, a cement mixer named Ebenezer Cade, Eb to the people who knew him, was badly hurt in a car accident in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. The crash shattered his right kneecap, fractured his left femur and broke his right arm in two places. He was taken to the Manhattan Engineer District Hospital, which served the most secret project in America. The doctors there didn't set his bones. Instead they gave him a new name: HP-12. HP, as in human product.
A country dusted with fallout
The atomic age sold itself as shiny and limitless, but it came with costs nobody mentioned. Before 1963, more than 500 nuclear weapons had been tested in Earth's atmosphere. Every person born after 1951 carries some exposure to the fallout, including iodine-131, which is linked to thyroid cancer, and strontium-90, which is linked to leukemia. It drifted down like invisible dust. The CDC says your dose depends partly on how much milk you drank. That's cold comfort when nobody knew anything was falling.
Exposing people on purpose was another matter. The US Department of Energy has admitted to four kinds of radiation experiments on human subjects between the 1940s and the 1970s. Some measured how the body reacted to different doses. Some tracked radioisotopes, the radioactive forms of elements, as they moved through the body. Some studied how the body held onto or got rid of them, and some tested experimental treatments for disease. Part of that work became today's radiation therapy. But the law didn't require consent until 1974, and many subjects never knew they were part of an experiment. In 1995, on Energy Secretary Hazel O'Leary's orders, the department published Human Radiation Experiments, which covered 150 experiments. A second version that July added 275 more research programs.
Patients, prisoners, orphans
The list of subjects is full of people who had no one to object on their behalf. From 1931 to 1933, patients at Elgin State Hospital in Illinois were injected with radium as a mental health treatment. Eugenics, the push to breed so-called undesirables out of the population, was popular at the time. At Hanford in Washington State, which made the plutonium for the Trinity test, workers breathed in clouds of radiation. Eight of them spent a month drinking milk from cows fed iodine-131. Seven orphan children drank contaminated milk for 14 days. Comatose, terminally ill patients had plutonium injected into their brains.
At San Quentin, starting in 1949, doctors drew inmates' blood, laced it with phosphorus-32 and injected it back into them. Dr. Carl Heller lured prisoners with a free vasectomy and then aimed radiation at their testes to see how it damaged sperm. The vasectomy wasn't a perk. It kept the men from fathering what he considered defective children. Catholic inmates weren't allowed to take part. The reason had nothing to do with ethics: the study required weekly semen samples, and the Church objected to masturbation. Heller claimed he had warned of a "tumor of the testes" and allegedly put the risk at "one in a million." Nine survivors sued, and in 1979 they split a $2,215 settlement.
A cement mixer brought in with broken bones was left untreated for more than two weeks so Manhattan Project doctors could secretly inject him with plutonium. He escaped the hospital, and the next public trace of him was his own obituary.
The optimal candidate
Dr. Hymer Friedell, an Army physician and deputy director of the Oak Ridge hospital, looked at Cade and wrote him down as "a well-developed, well-nourished colored male." Stafford Warren, who ran the Manhattan Project's medical team, had decided that controlled experiments on humans were vital to national security. Civilians at four hospitals would be injected with plutonium and other radioactive elements. J. Robert Oppenheimer approved shipments of the material but kept the experiments out of Los Alamos. His worry wasn't the subjects. He feared that plutonium exposure would harm his staff and stall their work. Friedell wrote to Dr. Louis Hempelmann at Los Alamos that he had found the optimal candidate: a 53-year-old man.
Cade's injuries went untreated while the approval and the plutonium made their way to Tennessee. Maybe the doctors were afraid of infection from his badly decayed teeth, or maybe not. On April 10, 1945, more than two weeks after the crash, they injected him with 4.7 micrograms of plutonium-239. That isotope has a half-life, the time it takes to lose half its radioactivity, of 24,100 years. Dr. Joseph Howland, an Army doctor, later testified that he had objected to the injection and was overruled in writing. Friedell said a different physician had given the shot.
Four hours after the injection, they drew Cade's blood. Four days after it, they took bone samples. His fractures were finally set on the fifth day, but he was kept for up to 60 more days so doctors could study his urine and other bodily waste. They also pulled 15 of his teeth. A September 1945 letter promised Los Alamos that "more bone specimens and extracted teeth will be shipped to you very soon for analysis." Cade was a Black man in segregated Tennessee, living in a secret town covered in signs that read "see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing." He had very little power to ask why.
An empty bed
One spring morning, a nurse opened the door to his room and found the bed empty. Human product 12 had escaped, not just from the hospital but from Oak Ridge entirely.
The experiment was already a mess. Cade's urine samples from before and after the injection had been mixed together, so there was no baseline to compare against. Dr. Wright Langham, known as "Mr. Plutonium," covered up the mistake by suggesting that Cade may have already had kidney disease.
In San Francisco, lead researcher Dr. Joseph Gilbert Hamilton oversaw injections in three people. One was four-year-old Simeon Shaw, who had bone cancer and died 255 days later. Another was Albert Stevens, who had been misdiagnosed. He had a stomach ulcer, not cancer. In 1950, Hamilton warned the Atomic Energy Commission that the program risked "considerable criticism" and had "a little of the Buchenwald touch about it." He urged them to use chimpanzees instead. He died of leukemia in 1957, at 49. His colleagues blamed his years of radiation exposure.
Eb Cade turned up again in Greensboro, North Carolina, in April 1953, in his own obituary. The cause of death was heart failure. The Greensboro Record gave him one line under the heading "Negro Deaths." He died without ever learning what had been done to him. In 1993, reporter Eileen Welsome's series The Plutonium Experiment in the Albuquerque Tribune exposed the experiments and won a Pulitzer Prize. In 1995, the government named Cade as eligible for a share of a $4.8 million settlement. It said it couldn't find any next of kin.
