We continue now with an analysis of the ethical dilemma posed by use of atomic bombs on Japanese cities. This exercise as defined in the last post seems to meet the standard of virtue ethics in light of the careful approach we are taking. We need only identify the morally balanced center between two extremes: (1) intentionally or negligently prolonging the war with its awful consequences and (2) ending the war at any cost – including dishonor, injustice, and a lingering threat of an aggressive totalitarian state. Here I believe the soonest possible conclusion of the war on FDR’s terms of unconditional surrender is the correct or at least a reasonable ethical choice.
Second, since I am not reconsidering the facts entering into the decision, we must assume the choice made in 1945 by President Truman and his advisors is the correct utilitarian decision as that was the basis for their decision. This is to say that deaths and illnesses caused by the two atomic bombs were most likely less than would be reasonably expected from a full scale invasion of Japan and additional fighting in the other Pacific theatres.
This brings us to Kantian deontology where dropping the atomic bomb becomes troublesome. We might accept the universalizability of the decision – that is, the use of nuclear weapons is universally acceptable in defense of a large unprovoked, attack by an aggressor state – since most states including our own would in theory never choose this course. However there seems no way to meet Kant’s moral imperative to treat all sentient beings not as means, but as ends. 
The annihilation of secondary cities occupied by mostly (or entirely) innocent residents in order to persuade Japanese leaders to surrender is clearly treating those sacrificed as a mere means to a rapid end of the war. It might be defensible as retributive justice if the Japanese leaders responsible for the attack (or perhaps military installations) were the main targets, but that was deliberately not the case.
In conclusion, after this analysis, I could not personally choose to use the atomic bomb as it was used despite the defensibility of that choice by Utilitarian ethics. If I could not avoid deciding, I would choose to use it first on an unoccupied area of Japan or second on the largest possible military target (both thought at the time to be ineffective for concluding the war). I might be able to endorse a third choice – use on the center of leadership, presumably an area of Tokyo, where retributive justice would more fairly apply, although national chaos in Japan would likely have been the result. Of course a great country may not be able to follow the Golden Rule under conditions of war, in which case, the ethical choice for persons like me is to avoid or refuse becoming the decision maker, that is, the President.
Next time we pick back up with the theological perspective of ultimate reality.
We arrive at last at the crux of any philosophical analysis related to the story of Los Alamos – an analysis of the ethical dilemma posed by use of atomic bombs on Japanese cities. First a few clarifications. I will not consider the prudence (meaning effectiveness) of using the atomic bomb; to some extent the subsequent historical events answer that question. Nor do I intend to assess the truth content of the facts that shaped the choice (such as the number of American and Japanese lives that would have been lost with an American invasion). It is also not my purpose to offer a retrospective criticism of the decision made by the American leaders responsible for concluding that atrocious war as they had lived through the events leading up to the use of the atomic bomb, and I did not. We must grant thoughtful and benevolent historical figures the right to choose their course based on the unique circumstances of their time, and assume they practiced principled care in their decision-making. Rather what follows is an analysis of how I would resolve for myself the ethical dilemma they faced if I had been the final decision-maker.
Third we must address the two approaches to retributive justice.20 On the one hand, the retributivist sees punishment as the intuitive right of others to impose suffering on one guilty of an acknowledged offense. On the other, Utilitarian theories consider the net balance of good derived from the evil of making a person suffer for his or her wrong. Extenuating circumstances in both models are lack of freedom of action or ignorance of the evil of the action. In short, justice requires punishment only of free and knowing responsible agents, and in no event including the innocent. The severity of punishment for the retributivist is one fitting of the wrong (“an eye for an eye”) while for the Utilitarian is that necessary for deterrence and possible rehabilitation.
The Magic Mountain, by Thomas Mann, which is about a TB sanitarium in Switzerland prior to World War I, inspired a romantic vision of Los Alamos for Oppenheimer according to Robert Wilson. Wilson contrasts this idealized notion with real concerns on the practicality of some of Oppenheimer’s ideas, such as scientists as soldiers in uniforms, or Oppenheimer’s dubious belief that “this war was different from any war ever fought before”, in that “it was being fought for the principles of freedom… by the people’s army. ”17 It turns out Dorothy McKibben spent time in a TB sanitarium (1925-1927) and Oppenheimer also suffered from a case of tuberculosis, though did not go to a sanitarium.
The second involves the great leader and comes from Oppenheimer who said at the Los Alamos memorial to FDR. “When three days ago, the world had word of the death of President Roosevelt, many wept who are unaccustomed to tears, many men and women, little enough accustomed to prayer, prayed to God. Many of us looked with deep trouble to the future; many of us felt less certain that our works would be to a good end; all of us were reminded of how precious a thing human greatness is.”10 Precious and rare as people of the 21st century are learning.
The second philosophical theme is the philosophy of science which increasingly dominates discussions among the Los Alamos scientists during 1944 and 1945, specifically on the nature of physics and its future in light of nuclear experiments. Stanislaw Ulam notes there were “wide-ranging discussions of the philosophy of science…The intellectual quality of so many interesting persons and their being constantly together was unique. In the entire history of science there had never been anything even remotely approaching such a concentration.”6 Wouldn’t it be fascinating to be in the rooms with these groundbreaking researchers and engineers as they debate the truth, meaning, and use of science in a shrinking world at war.
Third, as this site is focused on the dual summa bonum of happiness and meaning, I cannot leave out Dorothy McKibbin’s thoughts on happiness (referring to the time just after the birth of her son, Peter). One is amazed that what one assumes is the transient exhilaration of recent motherhood produces such a complex description of the more profound meaning of happiness:
A one paragraph synopsis of the key events of this story is perhaps foolish, but for unfamiliar readers, here goes. In 1939, refugee scientists Leo Szilard and Albert Einstein prompt President Roosevelt to authorize research on a nuclear weapon because they fear Nazi Germany is pursuing one. The Manhattan Project (so-called because the first office was in Manhattan) begins in 1941 and leads to creation of several laboratories over the next three years. J. Robert Oppenheimer who has been leading a group of physicists at Berkeley in California studying the logistics of developing an atomic weapon is recruited in October 1942 by General Leslie Groves of the U.S. Corps of Engineers (chosen for the Manhattan Project after completing the Pentagon on time and under budget) to lead the design and fabrication of the device at Los Alamos in New Mexico. Oppenheimer in turn recruits Dorothy McKibbin to lead the Santa Fe office. After 28 months of long work days, seemingly constant technical difficulties, and atrocious working conditions, Oppenheimer’s team of 5000 scientists, technicians, and engineers create an atomic bomb that is exploded in July 1945 at Trinity – the code name for the test site in southern New Mexico. 
Two atomic bombs are dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August 1945 leading to the Japanese unconditional surrender that ends World War II. After a period of fame and national expressions of gratitude, Oppenheimer is accused of being a communist sympathizer and in 1953 his security clearance with the Atomic Energy Commission is revoked, effectively ending his career as a nuclear physicist.
“A few people laughed, a few cried. Most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad Gita: Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty and to impress him he takes on his multi-armored form and says, ‘I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’ I suppose we all thought that, one way or another.” – J. Robert Oppenheimer on his memory of witnessing the explosion of the test atomic bomb at Trinity.1
On the day we visited, there was a cheery, knowledgeable, and most helpful woman at the front desk who recommended, if I were to read only one book, not American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of Robert J. Oppenheimer on which the movie was based, but an older book called 109 East Palace by Jennet Conant.3 This 398 page work tells the same story through the eyes of the young widow, Dorothy McKibbin, who was recruited by Oppenheimer to operate the Santa Fe office through which all participants entered the top-secret military facility and which connected them to the outside world. The book is in reality a dual biography of the parallel lives Oppenheimer and McKibbin led before, during, and after the project. The final enticement was that the author is the granddaughter of Oppenheimer’s mentor, James Conant, the Harvard president who during World War II was the deputy administrator of the Office of Scientific Research and Development (OSRD) which supervised the Manhattan Project.
Most of the school clocks were off; this has apparently been the case for some time – “Does anyone really know what time it is?”
To conclude, caring, virtue, self-control, finding new unpracticed purpose, and supererogatory duty are the philosophical lessons of my first day of substitute teaching. I also have to add that my respect for teachers is magnified by the experience.
“A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.” – Henry Adams
Still in that same week, I next selected a 7th grade math and science class at a magnet school (Noe Middle School1), and asked the regular teacher to contact me to help familiarize me with details and expectations. This was the beginning of a fascinating experience. The teacher, a smart, confident amiable woman in her 40s called and reassured me a physician would make an excellent substitute for her classes, especially since the current science module was built around tissue healing on a child with a broken foot. She had prepared everything I would need and assured me that expectations for substitute coverage are limited, mainly she hoped I could keep the class from degenerating into utter mayhem. Any progress on the curriculum would be an added bonus.
1Sam V. Noe was a former superintendent of the Jefferson County Public School system.
