Alan Rimmer - Between Heaven and Hell

Dr Anver Kuliev, head of genetics at the World health Organisation in Geneva was one of only a handful of established scientists willing to go on record in support of the veterans. He said new studies, were being carried out whose initial findings suggested there was indeed a link between radiation exposure and genetic disorders.

The Tory government, as usual, was unmoved. A written statement from Adam Butler, a junior Defence Minister was terse and to the point: “Of course we are sorry for these unfortunate children. However it must be said that as there is no evidence that servicemen had received a radiation exposure other than that of normal background radiation, it is unlikely, therefore, that their children would have been affected.”

Later that year the long-awaited study into mortality rates among the veterans was published by the National Radiological Protection Board. Fronted by distinguished scientist Sir Richard Doll, the report was maddeningly inconclusive.

On the one hand it found that mortality rates were roughly similar among the veterans and a control group of ex-servicemen who had not attended the bomb tests, and a similar pattern emerged for cancer rates. But although the report also identified a possible increased risk in test participants developing leukaemia, this was dismissed as a “chance finding.”

The MoD’s response to a rising tide of criticism of the report from various academics and organisations was to commission a second study by Doll and his team, which it was estimated would take at least another two years. The plight of hundreds of sick children of nuclear veterans was completely ignored.

With public interest beginning to wane, the veterans lobbied individual MPs for support. Most Tory MPs, the party in power, refused to endorse the veterans (with the exception of Winston Churchill, grandson of the war-time leader and a handful of others), while those in the Labour and Liberal ranks whole-heartedly gave their support. The Labour Leader Neil Kinnock gave a “categorical pledge” to hold a full judicial inquiry into the bomb tests once Labour was returned to power. The rest of the putative Labour government, including a young Tony Blair, his deputy John Prescott, Margaret Beckett, David Blunkett and Jack Straw also solemnly promised to help the veterans.

The Ministry of Defence was eventually forced to issue another statement admitting that radiation could cause genetic damage, but added the confusing rider: “As far as radiation damage is concerned, it is known that for a given dose, the risk of causing genetic damage is markedly less than the risk of causing cancer.”

The statement was ridiculed. Distinguished Birmingham epidemiologist Dr Alice Stewart, who had already produced a study showing that atomic veterans had suffered a higher than normal rates of cancers, accused the government of trying to fudge the issue, adding: “The clear link between radiation and genetic effects has been well established for many years.”

Another scientist, Dr Rosalie Bertell, head of cancer research at the Rothwell Park Institute in Buffalo, New York, also condemned the MoD’s statement. Dr Bertell, who was in England to present evidence at a public inquiry into the Sizewell B nuclear plant said: “The nuclear powers have been covering up the genetic effects of radiation since Hiroshima.”

The row rumbled on, but the government refused to budge. One Tory minister admitted privately: “We can’t accede to these demands there is no telling where it will end.” And there lay the problem with the veterans’ campaign: it was in some ways too successful. They had won the argument and secret plans were in the pipeline to compensate them through the social security budget. But the added dimension of the veteran’s children would open the door to unimaginable payouts. So the government dug its heels in and counted on the media and by default the public, growing bored with the story. But just when they thought the issue had gone away, the nuclear agenda was kept in the headlines by new revelations about the notorious Sellafield reprocessing plant which for 30 years had been the dark heart of Britain’s nuclear bomb making industry.

On the wild and windswept coast of Cumbria in the far north west of England stands the giant Sellafield nuclear plant glowering on the horizon like a modern-day manifestation of the Dark Tower in Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings.

There is something about Sellafield that inspires supernatural awe. When it was built in the 1950s it was so remote that it was a dawn to dusk journey just to travel the 350 miles from London.

Even today the last 40 or so miles can only be accessed by the A595, a winding country road that hugs the shoreline of the Irish Sea as it meanders through valleys and towering rocky outcrops. For miles there is little sign of habitation until quite suddenly after a bend in the road the giant plant leaps into view.

There is an almost palpable sense of foreboding about the place, and up close it seems to thrum with a dark energy. Legends of death and disease are woven into its fabric, and the deadly menace of its discharges extends for miles along the once pristine coastline of the Irish Sea.

People who live in this remote corner of England have learned to live and even welcome Sellafield for the wealth and prosperity it has brought. They have made a pact with the nuclear devil in return for a more equitable life.

Sellafield was built in the late 1940s on the site of an old Royal Ordnance factory, and the local population, mainly farm workers, looked upon the activities with some interest.

The huge influx of building workers, mainly Irish navvies, bussed in to dig the ditches and foundations, were looked upon with suspicion, while the vanguard of young pipe-smoking, duffle-coated scientists was regarded with the same awe as an invasion by alien beings.

Lured from Oxford and London to take part in the pioneering work, these brilliant young men were housed in a guarded, purpose-built hostel next to a derelict Georgian mansion brooding among trees in the village of Holmbrook.

Living accommodation was three concrete blocks containing single rooms, said to compare favourably with a luxury hotel. A communal block contained a bar, a billiards room, shops, an assembly hall and a dance floor. Peacocks sunned themselves on the roof while dominating the skyline, the mighty square-topped 400-foot towers of Sellafield looked like unworldly monuments awaiting their statues.

The daily ritual for workers entering the site was straight out of science fiction. They entered through guarded gates and were required to remove all their clothes and don fresh ones. On leaving they had to go through a series of showers and then enter a machine which clanged “like a demented fire engine” if it detected any radioactivity.

Outside the closely-guarded gates of the plant, green vans toured the narrow lanes as scientists tested water, soil and vegetation.

Atomic energy development was the most exciting job in Britain at the time and the young scientists revelled in the allure of being at the cutting edge of a new scientific dawn.

The serious business of producing plutonium began in 1947 when the plutonium production piles were built. The system was cooled by air flow rather than water and was considered revolutionary at the time.

The site was given a new name, Windscale, and work progressed at a brisk pace. By 1952 production of plutonium commenced and by March of that year the site operators opened up the reactor vessel and gazed upon the first plutonium produced in Britain.

It was a singular achievement, and the precious cargo was soon heading for Aldermaston to be installed in Britain’s first atomic bomb.