Including factory 221, home to China's first atomic bomb is now completely abandoned
In 1958, Dong Zhiyong, a 22-year-old member of the transportation
squadron, arrived at the military base on the Jinyintan Prairie, in
Qinghai Province, expecting to grow potatoes. There was little by way of
amenities at the ramshackle facility which stood at 3,300 meters above
sea level, save for the bamboo beds they had brought upon their trucks.
At the base, altitude sickness, extreme temperatures, and wild
weather were the norm, but Dong and his comrades were there for the long
haul. After all, assigning soldiers to guard and cultivate land in
remote areas was nothing new. But before long they were assigned to
build factories and railroads, and Dong went from transporting
people, construction materials, and equipment to eventually hauling materials marked as hazardous.
On these occasions, Dong was given careful orders to travel at a
speed of less than ten kilometers per hour; the truck itself was closely
guarded by vehicles at the front and back throughout the journey. There
was to be absolutely no bumping or friction, and extreme caution was
paramount. Dong’s driving skills were put to the strictest tests,
especially considering the rigors and whims of high altitude weather.
While Dong and other low-level officers and staff were left wondering
about the mysterious task at hand, almost 2,000 kilometers to the west,
on an even more remote base at the west edge of Lop Nur, a
propaganda campaign was in progress at the regimental level and above.
In early 1964, all the officers were told that they were carrying out
a “glorious task” while Chairman Mao Zedong’s quotes on the subject
were being brandished around the nation: “The world has already entered
the atomic era,” “The imperialist countries are self-glorifying their
atomic weapons,” and “The atomic bomb is not large, but if we don’t have
it, our words will never count.” That same year, the documentary
Operation Crossroad, detailing the disastrous and cruel American tests
in the Marshall Islands, was shown to high-level officers. At this
point, the higher-ups were able to piece together the not-so-cryptic
message—they were preparing for China’s very first atomic bomb.
Back at the Qinghai base, Dong and his comrades were busy working in
what is now known as Factory 221. They were engaged in mysterious tasks
including transportation, manufacturing, and assembly. They remained
clueless about the greater task in which they were involved, and were
equally unaware of the unimaginable scale on which national resources
were secretly being mobilized.
China’s own “Manhattan Project” was officially commissioned in 1955
by Mao Zedong himself. At the time, the US, the Soviet Union, and the UK
were the only three countries in the world possessing atomic weapons.
While the former Soviet Union had agreed to help China with research,
the agreement only lasted for just over a year before all foreign
experts were withdrawn—all blueprints, plans, and data destroyed. Led by
physicist Qian Sanqiang (钱三强), a group of Chinese scientists from the
Modern Physics Research Institute of China Science Academy began to
explore the subject on their own with out-of-date data processing tools
such as mechanical calculators and abacuses—primitive, even by the
standards of the time. To commemorate independence, the project was
given the code “Project 596”. It was a reference to the date the former
Soviet Union withdrew their experts: June, 1959. In the early years of
the PRC, when the nation was still suffering from political unrest and
famine, the project was given top priority. The concentrated uranium, a
crucial element in building the bomb, involved the efforts of over 20
national departments and 900 factories across the nation. Factory 221
served as the final stop on the assembly line for the first and the next
15 atomic weapons, where they were transported in secrecy to
experimental grounds deep in the Gobi desert of Lop Nur.
One of the innermost wastelands on planet Earth, where very little
life can thrive, Lop Nur was ideal for the experiment: minimum
precipitation, west winds sweeping the area year round, and not a single
footprint to be found to the east for 400 kilometers. Finally, at 15:00
on October 16, 1964, China’s first atomic bomb went off. A few
hours later, the nation was informed via news broadcast.
For the ordinary soldiers involved, life went on as before—except for
the pride and honor they felt at completing such an important task of
the nation. When their military service ended, they went back home,
telling friends and family that they spent their years growing potatoes
in the west. They had been told to take the secrets of that Qinghai
plateau to their grave.
Dong Zhiyong is now 78 years old, living peacefully in retirement in
Hefei, Anhui Province, along with 500 other veterans from Qinghai—others
were settled in Hebei, Shandong, and other provinces. As for
Factory 221, it was shut down in the 1980s.
On July 29, 1996, China conducted its last nuclear test and decided
to halt such experiments for the foreseeable future. But long forgotten
were those who served at Factory 221 and the Lop Nur base. Despite their
dedication to the country’s nuclear project, many walked away from it
cursed—for the rest of their lives and even for the lives of their
descendants. The opening of that nuclear Pandora’s box came at a great
cost.
Many of the soldiers who served Project 596 died during their service
due to radiation exposure. Those who made it out alive often suffered
long-term skin and lung diseases, damage to the immune system,
and cancer later in life. Perhaps the cruelest consequence was the
effect on the veterans’ offspring who have very high rates—sometimes
more than a thousand times higher—of developing leukemia, birth defects,
and mental deficiencies. While the Bureau of Civil Affairs provides
healthcare for the affected atomic veterans, their children are often
left helpless.
In the end, when the country proudly declares its status as being the
only nuclear weapon state to give unqualified security assurance to
non-nuclear-weapon states, its policy has always been one of deterrence,
to never strike first, but, perhaps, the first blow was struck decades
ago without anyone noticing: the hundreds of thousands of ordinary
people at various posts around the nation who paid for the price for
creating these now world-ending weapons—knowingly or not.