In 1951, John Fondahl had an embarrassing problem: “Persons with a sense of misguided humor” were circulating letters ridiculing the District of Columbia’s Civil Defense Air Warden Service. Fondahl was the Director of the DC Office of Civil Defense, which had been created the year before by the Board of Commissioners. At the time the letters were being distributed, Fondahl and his small staff were struggling to find citizens to fill the ranks of the District’s all-volunteer warden service, and so Fondahl was far from amused by the anonymous satire. He even referred the matter to the Postal Service and the FBI for investigation because, as he put it, “the contents [of the letters] may be construed as subversive.”

    The following point should be taken from this anecdote: Fondahl and his staff took civil defense in the District very seriously, but their fellow citizens did not. Certainly most Washingtonians did not make special efforts to deride the Office of Civil Defense, but they did ignore it. During the 1950s, when atomic civil defense became a national concern, the majority of DC residents shrugged off participation in civil defense drills, declined to volunteer their services to warden and evacuation programs, and generally made few preparations for an atomic attack. Although the Post joked that Washington would be the last place the Russians would bomb because that might end all the confusion in the nation’s capital, in fact, the District was a prime target, and its residents knew it.  Why then the widespread apathy toward atomic civil defense?

    In my remarks today, I will provide a four-part answer to this question. First, civil defense officials—not just in DC, but across the nation—labored to convince average citizens they could indeed protect themselves from an atomic blast. Second, the Office of Civil Defense found itself caught in a vicious circle: Congress refused to grant sufficient funds for the OCD, citing its inability to recruit volunteers, but Congress’s frugality discouraged volunteers, since the OCD could not even pay for basic gear like warden helmets. Third, segregation within the District presented a formidable obstacle to the OCD. For atomic civil defense to have any chance of working if put to a real test, the OCD’s plans and practices had to apply to the District as a whole, not just selected parts. Finally, the OCD worked in the shadow of the federal government, which of course was acutely interested in the problem of preparing the District for a possible atomic attack. Since so many residents worked for the federal government, they looked to it, not the OCD, for protection or evacuation. Likewise, the branches of the federal government were concerned almost exclusively with protecting their own operations, records, and essential personnel, and paid scant attention to the needs of the District.

    Let me begin by defining the term “civil defense.” A brief definition includes the following: construction of bomb and fallout shelter space; the maintenance of air raid warning alarms and an emergency broadcast system; the charting of evacuation routes; public awareness and information campaigns; and finally, drills to test alarms and readiness. Throughout the 1950s, the DC Office of Civil Defense engaged, to varying degrees, in each of these activities.

    However, the initiative for civil defense within Washington first came from the National Security Resources Board, a civilian agency within the executive branch. In March 1949, President Harry Truman directed the NSRB to take responsibility for the planning of states’ civil defense measures. Later that year, in September, the Soviet Union successfully tested its first atomic bomb, and the NSRB informed the DC Board of Commissioners that its plans would apply to Washington as well. But DC was not like the states. As Assistant Engineer Commissioner Thomas J. Hayes reported to his superior, “NSRB has a special relation with the District’s civil defense activities, in that NSRB is responsible for planning the security of the National Capital, which, in practice, is inseparable from the civil defense of Washington as a municipality.” Nevertheless, Hayes indicated that the federal government had given the District a “green light” to initiate its own civil defense planning.

    Taking Hayes’ advice, the Board of Commissioners convened a meeting with a cross-section of DC residents and civic leaders in March 1950. Present at the meeting were representatives from the DC Medical Society, the Board of Trade, the Federation of Civic Associations, and the Federation of Citizens Associations, among many other organizations. Officials from the NSRB and other federal agencies also attended. Engineer Commissioner Gordon Young headed the meeting and outlined two goals. One, the DC government would ask Congress to fund a full-time civil defense director for the District, and two, those present needed to start drafting specific plans that could aid in the formulation of an overall plan. For example, medical professionals were asked to make proposals regarding treatment of surviving blast and bomb victims.  Later that month, the Board of Commissioners appointed John Fondahl the temporary director of civil defense for the District. A World War I veteran, Fondahl was the Commander of the Metropolitan Police’s Eighth Precinct. However, until Congress provided funds and legislation for DC’s civil defense, neither Fondahl nor the District Commissioners were in a position to do more than plan.

    The outbreak of war on the Korean peninsula in June 1950 impelled Congress to act.  In August, Public Law 686 (81st Cong., 2nd sess.) authorized the Board of Commissioners to set up an Office of Civil Defense with the following powers: devise a comprehensive civil defense plan for the District, making sure to coordinate it with federal and neighboring states’ plans; implement training and public information programs; and make any needed surveys. PL 686 went into effect even before Congress created a national civil defense agency.

    The OCD began its work with vigor. By December 1950, it had set up a city-wide warden service. With only six staff members working out of a school building in the 1700 block of Massachusetts Avenue NW, the warden service relied heavily on volunteers to oversee civil defense preparation. Among other duties, wardens were responsible for charting routes in and out of their respective neighborhoods, keeping track of police and public telephones and fire hydrants, and taking courses in first aid, crowd control, and fire-fighting.  From its temporary quarters at the National Guard Armory on East Capitol Street, the OCD tackled a variety of other tasks. In January 1951, it released one of its first publications, “In Case of an A-Bomb Attack What Should You Do?” The wallet-sized pamphlet advised citizens at home to remain calm, turn off gas burners, and seek shelter. Persons on the streets were instructed to “Cover yourself with anything at hand. Even a newspaper will be helpful.”  Seeking to strengthen ties to the community, a Citizens’ Advisory Council on Civil Defense was organized in early 1951. Invitations were sent to area newspapers, labor groups, women’s clubs, and the Board of Trade. Meanwhile the OCD carried out a survey of the District infrastructure: gas and water mains, Potomac Electric power installations, fire station equipment, and telephone lines.

    This overview of the OCD’s work is deceptive, however; accomplishments recounted in reports rarely matched tangible results in the field. No matter how many pamphlets the OCD distributed throughout the District, it was practically impossible to measure their effectiveness. Just because Washingtonians picked up the fliers for a quick glance did not mean they memorized the advice within or undertook the prescribed actions. Furthermore, predictions about the anticipated effects of an atomic attack on the District openly contradicted OCD advice such as using a newspaper for protection against atomic blast burns and equally unrealistic instructions. As the Washington Post proclaimed in a front page headline, “One A-Bomb Could Cripple Washington.” Using an Atomic Energy Commission report, the Post described what residents could expect from one average-sized atomic explosion. Fires from electric and gas lines would rage city-wide while fire-fighting equipment lay destroyed, water pressure would drop to nothing, and homes within six to eight square miles would be crushed or inhabitable.  In a related article about thermonuclear weapons, the Washington Star was more succinct than the Post, but its prognosis was just as unnerving: “One hydrogen bomb . . ., dropped in the center of Washington, would just about wipe out the whole District of Columbia.”  Given such ominous predictions, District residents threw up their hands when asked to contribute to civil defense efforts. In March 1951, the OCD commenced a city-wide drive to enroll 100,000 volunteers as wardens, first aid providers, and auxiliary police and fire persons. On the first day of registration, only six citizens showed up. During the District’s first air raid siren test since WWII, few residents called to ask the OCD what was happening, even though the sirens were sounded at 11AM. Weak or faulty equipment accounted for much of the low response, but Fondahl was still discouraged.

    To add to its woes, the OCD had difficulty attracting and keeping those Washingtonians who did accept the claim that modest preparation, and some volunteer work on their part, could offset an atomic blast and boost survival rates. Essentially, the OCD confronted a discouraging dilemma. Congress failed to appropriate adequate funds for the OCD, which meant volunteers were offering their time and talents to an understaffed, ill-equipped, and struggling program. When volunteer rates dropped as a result, Congress branded the OCD a failure and refused to increase the its budgets. In August 1950, right after Public Law 686 set up the OCD, the House Appropriations Committee proposed a paltry $30,000 to get the fledgling program off the ground. Although the House as a whole voted to grant the OCD $290,000, House and Senate conferees cut this amount to $100,000. Fondahl informed Engineer Commissioner Gordon Young that these funds couldn’t even cover salaries and office equipment.  Hopes for more money in the following years went unfulfilled as Congress consistently rebuffed the OCD’s budget requests. 1953 was a particularly rough year. The OCD requested 50 staff positions and $870,000; Congress approved just 19 employees and $160,000. Struggling to make it through the year, the OCD came close to folding when the House granted just $23,000 for the next fiscal year. The Board of Commissioners publicly declared that the OCD would have to cease operations, and Fondahl asked to return to the police force if the cut stood. The Senate intervened, but the final amount was still just $90,000. The OCD remained open, but barely.

    Congress’s frugality not only frustrated Fondahl and his staff, it also discouraged the few volunteers the OCD had signed up. In September 1952, Fondahl reported that air raid wardens were quitting because the OCD had no money for equipment or training. At least $150,000 was needed to equip wardens, but Congress had appropriated just $275,000 for the entire OCD that year. The chief of the warden service, Max Schwartz, a volunteer himself, said that wardens believed there was little reason for them to volunteer when Congress plainly had no interest in the District’s civil defense program. By spring 1955, the warden service had only 1000 members—the goal was 60,000. Rather than show Congress the need for bigger budgets, however, apathy justified continued budget cuts and indifferent treatment of the OCD. Why throw money at a lost cause? This seemed to be the attitude prevailing on the House and Senate Appropriations Committees.

    Though prominent and persistent, public doubts about atomic civil defense and Congressional indifference do not by themselves explain the OCD’s difficulties. In order to operate effectively, the OCD need residents who were willing to cooperate with one another and think of civil defense as a city-wide program, not just one limited to their neighborhood. In 1950, however, the District was a deeply-divided city; its white residents and white-controlled municipal government had long maintained segregation of public space and private housing, pushing black Washingtonians into a separate and unequal sphere. Black residents had never accepted segregation without resistance, but postwar struggles to destroy racial barriers brought the greatest results.  As disparate as they might seem, civil defense and desegregation overlapped in many ways. As black residents watched civil defense unfold, several pressing questions arose. Were black volunteers welcome in the warden and auxiliary police and fire services? Were the OCD’s hiring practices fair? Would evacuation routes and shelter construction be distributed evenly? In a city with over 280,000 African-American residents in 1950, the OCD could ill-afford to ignore these matters.

    The Federation of Civic Associations, which represented black neighborhood groups, first brought attention to race and civil defense. At a meeting in February 1951, Federation members expressed concern that black residents were not adequately represented within the District’s civil defense programs. Warden Service Head Max Schwartz pointed out that four of his eight staff members were black, but of his six warden division chiefs, only one was black, or so Schwartz thought—he wasn’t sure.  In a confidential memorandum to the Board of Commissioners, Fondahl indicated this was not the first instance of “friction” between the Federation and the OCD’s Warden Services. To settle the matter, the Board of Commissioners authorized the OCD to increase the number of black appointments within the Warden Service’s command structure from sixty-one to 116. This represented thirty-eight percent of the fulfilled and scheduled positions. Fondahl also recommended that the OCD establish a new division north of Bennings Road and east of the Anacostia River and appoint a black warden to oversee the area.

    In one area of civil defense, the OCD relied entirely on black volunteers. Lorenzo Miller, resident manager of the George Washington Carver Gardens, headed the District’s only ground observer post. Ground observers used binoculars to scan the skies, looking for enemy aircraft. The post began it operations in June 1951, relying on five-person crews working in two hour shifts between 9AM and 6PM. By September, Miller had recruited over forty volunteers, all of whom were black. The observation station was atop J.C. Nalle Elementary School on the corner of 50th and C Streets, S.E. This ground observer post was the only one in the District at the time, and as the Pittsburgh Courier pointed out, the only all-black observer unit in the US.  Though situated in southeast Washington, the ground observers’ work theoretically served the entire city. If an observer spotted an enemy, that is, Soviet aircraft, the Air Force was to be contacted immediately and if needed, the air raid horns would be sounded, giving all the District’s residents the opportunity to evacuate or seek shelter.

    When it came to receiving a share of civil defense preparation, however, predominantly black sections of the District were slighted. OCD evacuation routes out of the city are an example. These routes were laid out on existing streets, and in case of the so-called “red alert”—the signal for imminent attack—police and auxiliary volunteers were supposed to redirect traffic patterns on these streets. For example, all incoming traffic would be halted and turned around, arterials such as 16th Street would become one-way, and cross traffic would be rerouted onto roads leading out of the city. Civil defense maps show that predominantly white neighborhoods had more evacuation routes than did black neighborhoods. Between 1950 and 1956, the black population of Washington increased from 280,000 to approximately 350,000, with 93 percent of this increase occurring in neighborhoods east of the Capitol. Meanwhile neighborhoods in upper Northwest and Georgetown experienced a growth in their white population. There were fifteen evacuation routes for these neighborhoods, but only ten routes for the eastern portion of the District.

    For this reason, perhaps, the OCD expected the city to suffer the heaviest casualties in Southeast in case of an atomic attack. In 1959, the OCD participated in an exercise called Operation Alert. Held annually beginning in 1955, Operation Alerts, or OPALs, as they were called, were drills testing both civilian readiness to take shelter and the ability of District and federal government officials to evacuate to pre-designated emergency headquarters. For the District, the DC Reformatory and Workhouse in Lorton, Virginia served as the relocation spot, and during OPAL 1959, John Fondahl and the Board of Commissioners rendezvoused there after the exercise began. As part of the activity, the OCD drafted a mock list of casualties—they were highest in Southeast, where 11,000 were ‘left behind’ to theoretically face a hydrogen bomb explosion. Casualties were lower in Northwest.  Of course, no one really died, but the message was clear: white neighborhoods were a higher priority than black neighborhoods during an evacuation.

    As a final reason for OCD’s failure to attract consistent and widespread support from Washingtonians, I offer the exclusionary strategies of the federal government. I mentioned earlier that the National Security Resources Board was undertaking civil defense planning for Washington by early 1949. Although the NSRB encouraged the District government to undertake its own civil defense program, it quickly became clear that the NSRB, as well as the rest of the federal government, was not particularly concerned with the District’s efforts. First of all, the federal government itself fragmented its own civil defense tasks. The NSRB focused only on the civil agencies of the executive branch; the military services took responsibility for their preparations. Likewise, Congress and the Judiciary Branch were left to their own devices.  Second, as the NSRB began long-term planning, which consisted of dispersing federal office complexes at least ten miles from the zero milestone marker, it decided to minimize the inclusion of the DC government. “[I]n respect to the District Government, use should be made only of the representative of the District Engineer Commissioner,” declared an internal NSRB memorandum in February 1950.  And third, each federal agency designated or constructed its own emergency headquarters far from the District and one another and identified the personnel who were supposed to evacuate, if possible, to these headquarters in case of an atomic attack. Congress, for example, had (and still has) the Greenbrier facility, while the Defense Department constructed a top-secret second Pentagon near Fort Ritchie, located along the Maryland/Pennsylvania border. Added together, these lists of “essential” government workers numbered in the tens of thousands. These persons were not just federal workers, of course; they were also District or DC metro area dwellers. But now they had no incentive or even need to volunteer their services to the DC OCD, which desperately needed as many volunteers as possible.

    Given these four challenges—public indifference, Congressional neglect, segregation, and exclusionary federal plans—it’s no surprise the District’s Office of Civil Defense struggled throughout its existence. In 1950, seeking 100,000 volunteers from a total population of more than 800,000 might have been too lofty a goal, but to only attract six on the first day of recruitment? That’s somewhere between abysmal and hopeless. To be sure, the DC OCD wasn’t the only municipal or state civil defense agency to confront apathy, but as I hope I’ve persuasively explained, the OCD’s woes were largely a result of the District’s status as the host to the nation’s capital, its financial and legal dependence on Congress, and the divisions between its black and white residents.