It was the winter of 1941.
That year, the fires of World War II raged fiercely. The entire world was bleeding, suffering, groaning, and struggling.
That winter was especially cold. December 1941 was a season of freezing temperatures. On the streets of Washington D.C., the American capital, thick layers of snow covered everything, and the icy roads were treacherously slippery. Christmas was approaching, yet there was no sign of holiday cheer; people hurried along, focused only on their destinations.
It was late at night. Robert Oppenheimer, the "father of the American atomic bomb," wandered alone through the empty streets. He didn't know where to go or what to do. He didn't want to go home, even though it was warm and his beloved wife was waiting for him.
He truly didn't know how to face President Roosevelt. He had exhausted every possible way to explain to the president what an atomic bomb was, what atoms were, what atomic nuclei were, and what nuclear fission was. The great president had zero knowledge of nuclear physics.
He couldn't make the president understand how a single atomic bomb could possess such unimaginable destructive power, how one bomb could equal the explosive force of tens of thousands of tons of TNT, how it could obliterate an entire city, and instantly kill hundreds of thousands of people. And this wasn't science fiction—war allowed no fantasy.
He couldn't make the president understand what a shockwave was, what thermal radiation was, why an atomic explosion would cause nuclear contamination, or how long that contamination would last. He couldn't make the president grasp why an atomic explosion could create temperatures of tens or even hundreds of thousands of degrees Celsius—temperatures comparable to the sun's core, capable of incinerating everything.
The president's bewildered expression showed his growing frustration and exhaustion. Not only the president, but Oppenheimer himself was hoarse and utterly drained. He had spoken for four full hours, and it was clear the president hadn't understood a thing. Getting the president to approve funding for his Manhattan Project—billions of dollars—was utterly impossible. For America in wartime 1941, no amount of money was ever enough.
After years of effort, Robert Oppenheimer had assembled everything needed: the world's top scientists, including Einstein, were under his command. He had gathered every available expert. All technical problems for developing a practical atomic bomb had been solved; the laboratory phase was complete.
But to develop and manufacture an atomic bomb that could be deployed in war, one capable of determining the course and even the outcome of the war, they were still very, very far from ready. He urgently needed billions of dollars in funding and the commitment of at least 100,000 people—none of which was possible without the president's support.
If he failed to secure this funding, all his efforts would come to nothing, collapsing at the final hurdle. All his hard work would be wasted, and he would have no face to show to the world.
He had one more chance, perhaps his last. Tomorrow morning, he would have breakfast with the president. He had to use the simplest, most accessible language—perhaps only three minutes—to make the president understand why the atomic bomb must be developed, and thus gain his support for the project.
Dawn gradually approached; the morning star faded on the horizon. At that precise moment of daybreak, a sudden idea flashed through his mind—perhaps what people call inspiration. A surge of quiet joy filled him: he had a way out.
Over breakfast with President Roosevelt, Oppenheimer told him a story.
In December 1804, Napoleon was crowned Emperor of the French, known historically as Napoleon I. He founded the First French Empire and, through his remarkable military achievements, crushed five coalitions against France, becoming the dominant power on the European continent. His control extended from the Pyrenees to the Niemen River, and from the North Sea to the Adriatic Sea.
The invincible Napoleon was unstoppable on land.
Yet this rare military genius and warrior, unmatched in the history of warfare, suffered repeated defeats at sea. The French navy was utterly routed by the British, losing ships and men in droves, with corpses littering the sea like dead branches and fallen leaves—truly a horrific sight. When Napoleon was nearly bankrupt in naval strength and at his wit's end, fortune smiled upon him.
An engineer came to see him and suggested converting wooden warships into steel-armored vessels, removing all sails, and replacing them with steam turbine engines.
The world-renowned military genius listened and merely smiled dismissively. His brilliant mind reasoned: if wooden planks were replaced with steel plates, could the ship still float? If sails were removed, what would propel the ship? Just that big teapot? He thought: Is this man really an engineer? He's just a madman.
He ordered the chattering "madman" to be slapped and thrown out.
Napoleon might never have known what a grave error he had made. If he had listened to this chattering "madman," history would have been rewritten. He would not have ended up, after defeat, imprisoned and dying alone on a small island.
After hearing this little story, the president remained silent. For a long moment, as Oppenheimer fell into complete despair, the president looked at his briefcase and said: "I won't order anyone to slap you, this chattering madman, out the door. Take out your report."