Chapter 1: A Dream Shattered

The last place my father, Michael Dennis, envisioned himself at the age of 31 was in Los Alamos, New Mexico. He had been thriving, running his own neighborhood grocery store. After dedicating over two decades to mastering butchery, he opened his shop in 1940. However, the Army dramatically altered his life during World War II. He had thought he would be exempt from military service, being over 30 and the sole provider for his widowed mother and sisters.

The arrival of his draft letter stunned everyone. My father could not have predicted that he would become part of the highly confidential Manhattan Project.

No Time for Farewells

My father was born in St. Louis, Missouri, in 1911 to impoverished Irish immigrants. At eight, he began working in the grocery sector under a family friend who became his mentor. After completing eighth grade, he left school to fully support his family, who had previously been potato farmers. Despite lacking formal education, his relentless work ethic allowed him to provide for his loved ones.

Before he could comprehend the reality of his draft notice, he learned that he had mere days to report for basic training. Finding someone to manage his store proved impossible, and he suddenly left for Fort Riley, Kansas. When regular customers found out about his induction, they vanished, leading to significant financial losses. Ultimately, he had no choice but to abandon the business he had painstakingly built.

Following basic training, he received new orders, which assigned him to the sustainment and support (CSS) Quartermaster Corps at Los Alamos. There, the Army utilized his expertise in grocery procurement and meat cutting, though he was unaware that he was entering a pivotal historical site that would alter the course of history.

A Harsh Existence in the Desert

Life at the secretive base in the desert was grueling. My father and his team worked tirelessly, ensuring the scientists involved in the Manhattan Project had the necessary provisions. This project, spearheaded by Dr. Oppenheimer and General Leslie R. Groves, culminated in the creation of the atomic bombs that would later be dropped on two Japanese cities in 1945.

To maintain secrecy around the Manhattan Project, the Army provided affordable meals to everyone on base, including the families of scientists and local residents. Due to security protocols, no one could leave the area, and the threat of espionage loomed constantly. My father felt fortunate to avoid combat, unlike many of his friends and relatives who perished in the war. However, he remained blissfully unaware that the Army had signed his death warrant through radiation exposure—a fate that would bring a much slower demise than a gunshot.

The first video, How Israeli Apartheid Destroyed My Hometown, provides a personal narrative that parallels the themes of loss and destruction found in my father's story. It explores the enduring impact of conflict on families and communities.

The Second Shock in My Father's Life

President Harry Truman ordered the Army to expedite bomb development to end the war and to outpace Russia's efforts. My father learned of the horrifying experiments conducted at the testing site. On July 16, 1945, at 5:29 a.m., he was present for the first nuclear device test, known as Trinity.

The implosion-type bomb detonated at New Mexico's Alamogordo Range, with an estimated yield of 25 kilotons of TNT. The explosion occurred atop a 100-foot metal tower, and about 500,000 residents lived within a 250-mile radius. The blast surpassed scientists' expectations, creating a mushroom cloud that ascended 50,000 to 70,000 feet into the atmosphere, with a shockwave following closely behind. The intense heat transformed sand into glass, producing more light and heat than the Sun.

The second video, Medal of Honor Recipient David Bellavia On Selfless Sacrifice, echoes the themes of duty and sacrifice found in my father's experiences, shedding light on the profound impact of service in times of war.

The Aftermath of the Trinity Test

While the radiation from the Trinity explosion was invisible, its presence was undeniable. Ash rained down, contaminating everything it touched, including animals and crops. Truman ordered the Army to avoid evacuating nearby towns to prevent panic, leaving many, including military personnel and civilians, unaware of the actual cause of the fireball. Because of the project's classified nature, no warnings were issued before or after the test.

A month later, the atomic bombs Little Boy and Fat Man were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, with several Manhattan Project personnel involved in the bomb assembly. When my father learned that the scientists at his base had played a role in ending the war, he felt a sense of pride, though he was also deeply saddened by the massive loss of life. The memories haunted him for the rest of his days, and he rarely discussed them.

The End of the Manhattan Project and Its Consequences

World War II concluded swiftly after the bombings, but the devastation wrought by the Manhattan Project led to dire long-term consequences. Research indicates that the explosions in New Mexico and Japan resulted in numerous radiation-related cancers worldwide. Many in Japan died immediately from the blasts, while others later succumbed to radiation-induced illnesses. Thousands living near the Trinity blast zone developed various diseases and cancers, now referred to as Downwinders®. Those who served at Los Alamos, including my father, are known as Atomic Veterans®.

On February 18, 1967, 22 years post-war, Dr. Oppenheimer passed away from throat cancer, likely exacerbated by radiation exposure. Although smoking and drinking contributed to his demise, it was believed that his radiation exposure hastened his end. Recently, he was memorialized in a blockbuster film that has brought attention to these historic events for new generations.

My Father's Unfinished Journey

Though the Manhattan Project officially concluded on August 25, 1947, my father, who had risen to the rank of Master Sergeant (MSG), was honorably discharged in 1946. He returned to St. Louis, married his wartime sweetheart, and worked to save for a house. Tragically, his mother had passed away before he returned from the war. Due to his previous losses, he was unable to secure credit to open his grocery store, forcing him to suppress his dreams and take a job as a meat cutter for a national grocery chain.

In the years following his service, my father grappled with mental and physical ailments, including low-grade depression, anxiety, an eating disorder, and chronic colon issues. He often sought solace in alcohol, drowning his memories and sorrows in beer, bourbon, and Scotch.

For the remainder of his post-Army life, he labored tirelessly to support his family, which grew to include three children. While his life did not match the happiness he once envisioned, he did his best under the circumstances.

A Life Cut Short

After 25 years of cutting meat, my father anticipated a fulfilling retirement with his wife, family, and beloved flower gardens. However, just three years later, he succumbed to colon cancer complications, leaving his family heartbroken and his wife in despair. I was only 24 when I lost my father, and the grief has lingered ever since. My children never had the opportunity to know their grandfather.

Could his cancer be linked to his proximity to atomic bomb testing? It’s a valid consideration. More troubling was the loss of his entrepreneurial aspirations before being drafted and the burden of post-war ailments he carried.

It is not an exaggeration to assert that the U.S. Army and the atomic bomb effectively dismantled my father's life. Not in the immediate aftermath of the blasts, but in the subtle ways that made him collateral damage. My father would have never declined to serve his country, but the price he paid was one he could not foresee—one that would cost him his life, albeit not from a bullet, but from the lingering effects of an atomic bomb.

Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer's words, "There’s no going back," resonate profoundly for my father and our family.

If you found this story impactful, I invite you to explore my new narrative: I Never Knew My Father Until After His Death: It Took Me 43 Years.