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"There's a story I can tell you", a fellow called Bruno Lat said to me a few years back in Hawaii. "I was 13 at that time. My dad was working with the Navy as a laborer on Kwajalein", an atoll in Lat's native Marshall Islands controlled by the US military. "It was early, early morning. We were all outside on that day waiting in the dark. Everybody was waiting for the Bravo."
That day was fifty years ago, yesterday. March 1, 1954. Bravo was not the first, or the last, just the worst of America's nuclear tests in the Pacific, a fission-fusion-fission reaction, a thermonuclear explosion, an H-Bomb, America's biggest blast. In today's poverty of expression, it would be called a WMD. Except that it was "ours", and so real that days after marveling that some strange sun had lighted the western sky with "all kinds of beautiful colors", young Bruno also took in the sight of refugees from downwind of the blast at Bikini Atoll, miserable and burned and belatedly evacuated to Kwajalein. Their scalp, he recalled, "you could peel it like fried chicken skin".
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