America’s Human Test Subjects

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In the winter of 1958, 25-year-old Army Sergeant James Stanley sat patiently in a military hospital ward.

He'd been waiting for someone to tell him what to do.

With all the snow outside, the facility had the radiators cranked all the way up.

Stanley was starting to get uncomfortable.

It wasn't just the heat that was making him sweat.

The Edgewood Arsenal in Maryland was very different from his home base in Kentucky.

He had volunteered for some kind of medical test, but no one one would tell him exactly what it was.

He'd been waiting in this strange room for over an hour.

Finally, the door swung open and an Army doctor walked in.

He handed Stanley a glass of water.

Thirsty from the heat, Stanley gratefully gulped it down.

The doctor then walked out of the room without another word.

Stanley figured he would wait for further instructions.

After about half an hour, Stanley began to feel strange.

His heart was racing.

He could feel sweat dripping down his back, drenching his shirt.

He held his hand to his forehead and realized he was burning up, as if he had a fever.

He wondered if he was coming down with something.

Maybe he'd caught the flu from another soldier.

Stanley felt so agitated that he couldn't sit in his chair, so he lay down on a hospital bed nearby and closed his eyes.

But instead of darkness, his vision now swirled with brightly colored patterns, as if he was looking into a kaleidoscope.

A wave of nausea crashed over him, and he tried to remember where the nearest bathroom was.

His memory was suddenly hazy.

Within a few minutes, Stanley was struggling to remember where or who he was.

His brain felt like a gumball machine, spitting out more vivid and colorful memories every minute.

The door creaked open again.

Another doctor came into the room, carrying a clipboard.

Stanley spotted the captain's bars on his uniform.

He didn't know him or have any reason to be angry with him, but suddenly, Stanley was gripped by an intense and terrifying thought.

He had to kill this man.

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from Balin Studios and Wondery, I'm Luke Lamana, and this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations, and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments try to hide.

This week's episode is called

Guinea Pigs.

As the threat of nuclear war with the Soviet Union grew in the decades after World War II, the American government searched for an alternative method of conducting war, one without the use of bombs and bullets.

U.S.

officials believed chemical and biological weapons, including psychoactive drugs like LSD, could be a safer way to fight the Cold War.

Some of these substances were still potentially lethal, though the damage they caused could be more easily targeted and controlled.

But in order to use these weapons, military and intelligence officials needed to test them first.

They knew these tests would have to be tightly controlled and kept a secret.

For their test subjects, the U.S.

military turned to its own servicemen, men like James Stanley.

Stanley was a star soldier.

He'd enlisted at 15.

and at 20 had become one of the youngest ever master sergeants of the Army.

He was a model of military discipline, but when doctors at the Edgewood Arsenal drugged him with a high dose of LSD without his knowledge, he became disoriented, distraught, and violent.

The doctors dosed him three more times in the weeks that followed.

They kept him under close watch to monitor his reaction to the drug.

When his time as a test subject was complete, they sent Stanley back to his base and forgot about him.

He was on his own.

In the years following the experiments, Stanley continued to experience hallucinations, confusion, and memory loss.

He'd sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, filled with a violent urge to beat his wife and kids.

His marriage and his career quickly fell apart.

After his trip to Edgewood, Stanley lived in a nightmare, but he had no idea why.

He was just one of thousands of servicemen who were subjected to tests of chemicals like LSD, BZ, and even nerve agents like sarin gas, all in the name of winning the Cold War.

Most had no idea that they were participating in tests that could potentially jeopardize their health, and many were sworn to secrecy.

So, when they later developed diseases or mental health symptoms, they largely suffered in silence.

Ultimately, they were left guessing what was happening to them and whether these tests had anything to do with it.

I can somewhat relate to what happened to these men, but on a much smaller scale.

Back when I started basic training, one of the first unpleasant experiences I had was reaching the front of a very long line of recruits and being ordered to put my hands on the wall in front of me.

A very rude nurse then told me to relax my arms and legs.

I was then treated like a human pincushion, with an unbelievable number of needles being stuck into my body.

And not for a moment did it ever occur to me to ask what was in the needles.

That's just how it goes in the military sometimes.

From day one, you already have an expectation of doing what you're told without questioning it.

It doesn't surprise me in the least that soldiers in the post-war period would never have asked what their doctors were dosing them with.

You tend to trust that doctors always have your best interests in mind.

Today, we're going to tell two stories about these experiments.

In our first story, we'll take a close look at one of the most important scientists researching chemical weapons.

He was driven by a desire to uncover a humane alternative to the devastation of nuclear war.

But some said his single-minded passion made him blind to the way he recklessly endangered the servicemen under his watch.

In our second story, we'll follow a naval officer who was an unwitting part of a different military testing program.

After developing severe health issues later in life, he became one of the most prominent voices demanding that the military admit what they had done and never do it again.

So, why would the United States test chemical and biological weapons on their own soldiers?

What drove the scientists behind these experiments to ignore safety concerns?

And perhaps most chillingly, would they have stopped if the public had not risen up and stopped them first?

Late one night in 1961, 29-year-old Army Dr.

James Ketchum entered his office at Edgewood Arsenal in Maryland.

A clipboard awaited him on his desk.

It was the overnight report on his volunteers who were monitored around the clock.

Ketchum swept back his sandy hair and read the report with a giddy smile.

The experiment seemed to be going even better than he had hoped.

He walked briskly to the volunteer ward to see the results for himself.

The room was brightly lit and sterile, filled with rows of hospital beds.

Two soldiers were seated at a table in the center.

Ketchum walked up and greeted them with a smile, but they seemed not to notice he was there.

The soldiers had been given a generous dose of BZ, an incapacitating drug that the Army was studying as a potential weapon.

BZ produced delirium and confusion that could last for days without killing the patient.

Army scientists hoped it could be used to temporarily disrupt enemy troops' cognitive function, essentially making them useless as soldiers.

Ketchum asked the two men how they were feeling.

One of the men then shouted into an aluminum water pitcher, calling out to someone he thought had fallen into a well.

Then he attempted to take a bite out of a non-existent chicken before realizing it was rubber.

Ketchum grinned as he jotted down their crazy reactions, feeling the familiar buzz of scientific discovery.

Ketchum was the first first formerly trained psychiatrist to join Edgewood.

He arrived the previous year when the Kennedy administration ramped up funding for the experiments.

He viewed Edgewood's studies as a bold venture into the frontier of the human mind and modern warfare.

He took control of his experiments with passion.

Suddenly, there was a loud noise in the hallway.

Ketchum's heart skipped a beat.

A few months earlier, one of the volunteers had escaped from his room in a paranoid delirium.

He rushed into the hall, hoping it hadn't happened again.

But instead of a patient, Ketchum found Edgewood's chief of medical research, Van Sim.

Sim was a giant of a man, built like a linebacker.

And at the moment, he wasn't wearing any pants.

During his time at Edgewood, Sim had developed a reputation for unorthodox methods.

In order to test chemical agents on his volunteers in good conscience, he insisted on trying every single one himself.

He had personally ingested deadly nerve agents like VX and saringas, as well as drugs like BZ, LSD, and others.

From time to time, he would also give unsuspecting staff doses of LSD and watch how they reacted.

Staring at his boss, who was wearing nothing but his underwear, Ketchum immediately worried that Sim had given himself BZ.

the same drug his volunteers were tripping on.

But glassy-eyed and distracted, Sim then held up his hand hand to show that he had taped a glass disc to his wrist.

Sim explained that he had put LSD under the glass to see if the drug could be absorbed under the skin.

Sim insisted that, so far, it hasn't had any particular effect, though his lack of clothes and dazed expression suggested otherwise.

Ketchum was uneasy about people testing drugs on themselves, especially in such a sloppy way.

Sim ingested LSD without supervision or objective objective reporting, endangering himself and the people around him.

For a moment, Ketchum thought about reporting Sim,

but he took a deep breath and reminded himself of the bigger picture.

Ketchum was eager to continue his research on his own terms without a lot of restrictions.

The fewer eyeballs on Edgewood, the better.

As he watched Sim lumber off down the hall, Ketchum swore to himself that he would professionalize the work they did there.

He had a vision for his research, turning modern warfare into something more humane and far less destructive.

And Ketchum expected the other researchers to do their part to help him change the world.

A few years later, just before Thanksgiving in 1964, Ketchum was sitting inside a sealed trailer in the Utah desert.

It was just before dawn, and he'd already been awake for hours.

He was hopped up on a mix of black coffee, adrenaline, and a stimulant called dexadrin.

He He fidgeted anxiously in his seat, waiting for an experiment to begin.

Ketchum was at the Army's Dugway Proving Ground, about 80 miles west of Salt Lake City.

Dugway was a seemingly endless expanse of land surrounded by mountains.

It was bigger in square mileage than all of Rhode Island, and it was one of the few places within the continental U.S.

where scientists could do large-scale tests of chemical weapons without having to worry about their neighbors.

Inside his protective trailer, trailer, Ketchum watched carefully through the windows.

Outside, four soldiers wearing full-body protective suits and gas masks stood with their backs to him.

They looked like they were dressed for a nuclear apocalypse, or, more accurately, a chemical one.

Any minute now, a plume of BZ would be released a thousand yards away.

Ketchum's job was to study its effects on the soldiers.

By this point, Ketchum had become a dedicated and prolific researcher.

His tests administering LSD and PCP to Army volunteers found that high doses could drastically impair the soldier's ability to follow orders.

Ketchum and other scientists would often film their experiments at Edgewood.

One shows a soldier high on PCP, also known as Angel Dust.

He's crawling through an obstacle course with difficulty.

His movements are uncoordinated and goofy, and he seems confused.

Yes, let me see.

What was I supposed to do tomorrow?

Uh

tomorrow?

What, is today Thursday?

Today's Thursday.

Ketchum believed that if the Army could incapacitate an enemy soldier with drugs like these, perhaps they wouldn't need to kill him.

In his eyes, the volunteers of his drug tests were doing valuable work in moving humanity forward.

And already, U.S.

military leaders were showing great interest in Ketchum's work.

A few weeks earlier, the Army had approached his superiors at Edgewood with a pressing question.

Soviet ships were lurking off the coast of Alaska.

Could the Army release BZ downwind of them and incapacitate them?

Ketchum's bosses said it could not be done, at least for now.

BZ had not been field tested.

Ketchum also thought the idea was outlandish.

Such a plan would involve countless variables they could not control, like the temperature and direction of the wind.

But it also stirred his imagination.

In a private meeting, Ketchum told the Army he could devise an experiment to test the operation.

He drew up the plans within a week, and the Army approved it.

That's why he was now in Utah.

As he waited for the test to begin, Ketchum reviewed the possible outcomes.

He knew that BZ showed promise at incapacitating people.

He had personally watched the drug put soldiers into a stupor.

Then, hours later, they'd wake up delirious.

and start ranting and raving or carrying on conversations with people who weren't there.

But there had been more disturbing results.

After one soldier inhaled BZ in a wind tunnel, he became totally unresponsive.

He lay in a rigid position with his arms and legs twitching.

A doctor said he showed signs of major head trauma.

The soldier was treated with an antidote that Ketchum and his team had discovered.

When they tested the soldier a month later, they found him to be normal.

He was released from Edgewood and given no further follow-up.

The incident alarmed the top brass and briefly halted research on BZ, but it wasn't enough to stop the program entirely.

Sitting in his trailer, Ketchum was filled with tense excitement.

He believed BZ and other chemicals still had potential as alternatives to more destructive weapons.

Now he had the chance to prove it.

Ketchum radioed to Dugway's command center, telling them to release the BZ.

He then watched the soldiers anxiously from behind the sealed glass.

After several minutes, he spotted an eerie cloud of white haze floating toward them.

Soon enough, the soldiers were fully enveloped.

Ketchum prayed the dose would be enough to have an effect.

Just in case it wasn't, he got on the microphone to the soldiers and ordered them to jog in place.

The harder they breathed, the more gas they would inhale.

Ketchum watched the instruments that measured how much of the chemical the soldiers were inhaling.

He was delighted to see that the heavy breathing seemed to be working.

After about 40 minutes of jogging in place, the soldiers had consumed the target dose of BZ.

The cloud dissipated shortly after, and the soldiers were flown by helicopter to a medical tent about 20 minutes away.

A doctor and nurse immediately began taking their vital signs, checking their reflexes and noting any initial symptoms.

They were then given a series of cognitive and military tests.

At first, the soldiers only appeared somewhat dazed, but after several hours, the full effects of the BZ began to take hold.

The men could hardly walk, they became drowsy and couldn't keep their heads up.

Some rubbed their eyes incessantly as their vision blurred.

After eight hours of observation and testing, two soldiers were deemed fully incapacitated by the chemical, while the other two were still partially functional.

Ketchum was overjoyed.

As far as he was concerned, the test was a success.

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In his eagerness to capture the drama of the experiment, Ketchum spent the next few weeks making a film about the promise of BZ as a weapon.

He set out to make more of an art film than the standard dry military documentary.

He titled it Cloud of Confusion and added an eerie classical score as well as an Orson Welles-like voiceover.

The film showed the soldiers under the influence of BZ failing miserably at the tasks that were given to them.

Ketchum hoped that it could capture the mind-altering effect of the drug and the way it could be used to render enemy troops useless.

In the end, though, the film had little impact.

Ketchum heard nothing back from the military officials who had seen it.

Four years later, in late 1968, Ketchum was in his new corner office at Edgewood, feeling stressed as he went over a few reports.

Since taking over the clinical research department, he had been busier than ever.

His marriage was falling apart, but that would at least give him more time for his work.

After his film Cloud of Confusion, was ignored by the Army brass, Ketchum applied for a two-year leave for military service.

He hoped spending some time in academia could help bolster his research.

He attended Stanford University in California, but had little success in his postdoctoral program.

He eventually dropped out.

Meanwhile, with Ketchum gone, the experiments at Edgewood became even more chaotic, and a number of test subjects received overdoses of BZ and LSD as a result of faulty calculations.

Army higher-ups had asked Ketchum to return to Edgewood to oversee all human experiments.

Ketchum agreed.

because it seemed like an opportunity to take his research to the next level.

Someone knocked on his office door.

The last thing Ketchum needed right now was a distraction, but he called for them to come in.

It was one of the recently hired doctors.

He looked upset.

Ketchum gave him a tight smile and asked him what was wrong.

The doctor said he was uncomfortable with the medical research program.

He told Ketchum point blank that he refused to participate in any studies that tested psychochemicals on Army volunteers, especially when they didn't fully understand what was being done to them.

He said the experiments were irresponsible.

What if somebody went crazy?

Ketchum had heard this argument before.

He calmly explained the bigger purpose at play.

Their research could change the world.

The volunteers were bravely putting themselves on the line for the greater good.

But the doctor didn't want to listen.

Ketchum said he couldn't just refuse.

The doctor leaned in close and said, throw me in jail.

Ketchum gritted his teeth.

Since he'd returned to Edgewood, it had become a different place.

Gone were the days of Van Simm lumbering around in his underwear.

The doctors that came in were no longer fresh recruits, eager to help out with groundbreaking experiments.

Many were specialists who had used the military to pay for their training and now had come back years later.

To Ketchum, this presented a problem.

These doctors did not accept how things were done at Edgewood.

They were appalled that soldiers were being tested with dangerous chemicals and with shoddy practices.

Perhaps they had been influenced by the growing hostility toward chemical weapons research in the media and the public.

Revelations about the use of chemicals like Agent Orange in Vietnam had led to outrage and fear.

Ketchum stood up and reminded the doctor that the soldiers were volunteers.

They could always opt out of the tests.

But the doctor said that if they did that, they would likely be sent to Vietnam.

And he stormed out of the office.

Ketchum sighed.

For a moment, he thought about writing the man up for insubordination, but ultimately, he decided against it.

He didn't want to achieve his goals through force.

He wanted to convince the world of what he believed in.

Still, a thought burned in the back of his mind.

For now, this doctor had come to him alone.

But how soon before more people came knocking on his door, demanding answers about his experiments?

The following year, in 1969, Ketchum walked through the halls of Edgewood with a welcoming smile plastered on his face.

He was explaining Edgewood's mission as pleasantly as he could.

Behind him trailed a female reporter from the Associated Press and a casually dressed, long-haired photographer.

The reporter took down notes as Ketchum talked.

He couldn't tell if his showmanship was swaying her.

As they walked, Ketchum reminded himself to be grateful.

His superiors had tried to stop the tour tour from even happening, but Ketchum thought they needed to prove they had nothing to hide.

That would be the only way to fight against the growing backlash to their research.

He wrote his superiors a fiery memo, saying, quote, this is a medical research laboratory.

This is not Buchenwald.

They ultimately relented, but now he needed to convince the world.

Ketchum brought the journalists to a large open area outside the buildings.

The photographer snapped pictures as a masked military volunteer was sprayed in the face with tear gas.

The reporters asked a few questions about the volunteer.

Ketchum answered as frankly as he could.

He figured they would put a negative spin on anything that seemed evasive or untruthful.

Still, he couldn't help himself for making a dark joke or two.

The reporter asked what would happen to the tear gas left on the concrete floor.

Ketchum replied, Oh, I guess it'll be picked up by the wind and carried into downtown Baltimore, incapacitating the entire city.

The reporter gave him a horrified look.

Ketchum's heart tightened.

The last thing he wanted was to endanger his research with a harmless joke.

He flashed her a smile, hoping she would understand.

She didn't seem amused.

Soon after the reporter's visit, a lengthy article was published, illustrated with several pictures.

It appeared, at least in part, in over 6,000 news publications.

Ketchum grabbed a copy of the Baltimore Sun and was dismayed at the result.

The term unwitting guinea pigs appeared again and again throughout the article.

Ketchum was disappointed but hardly surprised.

He was starting to see that phrase more and more about anything related to the work at Edgewood.

Even though the soldiers signed up voluntarily, the media acted like they had no agency.

In Ketchum's mind, if his volunteers were guinea pigs, then so was anyone who signed up for military service.

None of them were given all the details about the dangers they might encounter on the battlefield.

Ketchum had hoped that the article would change how people felt about Edgewood, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.

The public was horrified that such experiments were happening to soldiers without them knowing the full effects.

Later that year, in response to public outcry, President Nixon announced that the U.S.

would be ending its research into biological and chemical weapons.

It was the final blow for Ketchum's research.

Shortly after, he submitted a request to be demoted.

He was demoralized, demoralized, but the writing was on the wall.

Still, Ketchum couldn't just leave his work behind.

He took the entirety of his detailed Edgewood files with him.

The records of nearly every experiment he conducted were safely held at his house.

Ketchum hoped his files would one day prove his research was as critical and groundbreaking as he believed it to be.

But they would take on an even more important role as evidence of unethical human experiments.

The psychochemical empire had crumbled.

Ketchum managed to escape the rubble.

Many others did not.

And the fallout surrounding them was only just the beginning.

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On a winter evening in 1965, 32-year-old Lieutenant Jack Alderson stood on one of the sandy beaches of Johnston Atoll, a group of remote Pacific islands.

Alderson looked through his binoculars at a group of five Army tugboats floating just off the coast.

He could faintly hear the sounds of ghastly howls and shouts from the decks.

It made his stomach churn.

Alderson's men had placed cages of rhesus monkeys on each of the boats.

The monkeys, evidently, were seasick.

Alderson felt guilty about what they were going to be subjected to, but orders were orders.

He looked to the moonlit sky.

Everything looked clear.

He put down his binoculars and gave the go-ahead to one of his men.

Alderson had traveled all over the world during his near decade in the Navy.

Just a few years earlier, he'd served as an advisor to the Imperial Iranian Navy.

and had been on the ground when Iraq threatened to invade Kuwait for the first time.

He was no stranger to challenging assignments in far-off places, but Johnston Atoll felt like it was a million miles from anywhere.

As he looked off at the ocean, Alderson heard wind and waves slapping at the shore and the squawks of red-tailed tropical birds that were common here.

The atoll was home to one of the world's largest colonies of the species, along with other types of seabirds.

Like Alderson, the birds were experienced travelers.

They flew thousands of miles during their seasonal migrations.

When U.S.

military officials first considered testing chemical and biological weapons in the area, surveyors had warned it wasn't a good place to release pathogens.

The birds could potentially spread the disease to populated areas.

One had even turned up as far away as Maine.

But the military had gone ahead with the plan anyway.

Behind him, Alderson could hear the sound of a plane taking off.

It looped around the atoll and came in low over the tugboats.

As it flew by, the plane dropped its payload, a cloud of a biological agent.

It drifted slowly downwards and settled over the boats.

They'd been doing this for days as part of a mission called Operation Shady Grove.

Their goal was to see how well Navy ships could defend against biological and chemical weapons.

After all, the Soviets were developing these kinds of weapons.

so the U.S.

had to be ready.

Tonight, the plane dropped bacteria similar to the one that causes an anthrax infection, which can lead to a range of symptoms from blisters to bloody vomit.

The night before, they tested the bacteria that causes a rare illness called Q fever.

And the night before that, it had been E.

coli, the bacteria behind many cases of food poisoning.

Their hope was to find out how these substances would affect the monkeys.

and by extension, human beings.

Alderson's job was to make sure the tests went off without a hitch.

After about 20 minutes, the experiment was over.

In the morning, his men needed to retrieve the monkeys.

Normally, Alderson just watched them from the atoll, but he decided that tomorrow, he needed to see the results for himself.

The next morning, Alderson shielded his eyes from the bright sun as he stepped onto the deck of one of his tugboats.

As he approached the ship's bow, he noticed the monkeys were nearly motionless inside their cages.

They were barely breathing and totally out of it.

Alderson watched as his men carried the cages off the ship for the Army scientists to study.

It made him sad to see the monkeys suffer so much, but he understood it was all in service of an important mission.

He was also confident the military was taking the proper precautions for his men.

They had to clean up the chemicals that were used to decontaminate the boats after each test.

Alderson had seen the sailors coughing after they returned from these cleanup sessions.

It wasn't pretty.

They sounded like they were hacking up lungs.

But he took comfort in the fact that they had been given medicines and vaccines during training before they ever got to this remote place.

He had been told this would protect them.

Now, Alderson could see his men were tired, but luckily the operation was almost finished.

In just a few more days, they would return to Honolulu for a well-deserved break.

They couldn't wait to blow off some steam in in the bars and sink their toes into the sand on the beach.

Still, Alderson had a strange feeling in his stomach, and it wasn't only because of the strange smell on the boat.

He and his men had been sworn to secrecy about the bizarre scene at Johnston Atoll, and he'd hoped these experiments would tell the government what it needed to know to keep Americans safe.

But he couldn't help but wonder: what would the rest of the country think if they found out?

Nearly 30 years after Alderson led the test off the coast of Johnston Atoll, he pulled up to a small banquet hall in San Diego.

It was 1993, and Alderson had organized a reunion for the men he'd served with on Project Shad, which stood for Shipboard, Hazard, and Defense.

The project was a series of biological and chemical weapons tests that they were all a part of back in the day, including Operation Shady Grove.

Alderson was excited to reconnect with some of his Navy buddies.

It had been a long time since he'd seen them.

They reminded him of a far more exciting time in his life.

Alderson was now in his 60s.

After leaving the Navy, he settled in a town called Eureka in Northern California, and he was working as a harbor master and ports manager.

The gathering was 750 miles away, but he knew it would be worth it.

As he walked into the venue, Alderson reminded himself to temper his expectations.

Though he arrived early to set things up on the big day, he knew it would be a relatively small party.

Out of the 500 or so crew members involved in the tests, only around 40 had agreed to attend the reunion, and even getting them on board was a challenge.

Most of the men hadn't stayed in touch.

When Alderson began reaching out, many of them never returned his calls or responded to his letters.

A certain level of caution about communication made sense.

After all, they worked on a top-secret project and had been forbidden to talk about it.

But to Alderson, it seemed that some men simply wanted nothing more to do with their experience in the Navy.

At the venue, food, drinks, and chairs all stood at the ready.

Alderson was buzzing, but as the veterans started to arrive, his excitement about catching up quickly turned into concern.

Many of the men appeared sickly, coughing non-stop.

It reminded him of the way they'd hacked after cleaning the boats all those years ago.

Alderson turned to one of the men and asked how he was doing.

The man clutched a handkerchief close to his mouth and told Alderson that he'd had trouble breathing for years, and recently he'd been diagnosed with cancer.

Alderson had a long list of his own health problems.

He'd been treated for prostate cancer and malignant melanoma, a life-threatening form of skin cancer.

He'd suffered from ongoing fatigue and severe allergies.

and he discovered that he had four pieces of asbestos in his lungs.

He wasn't sure exactly what to make of it.

He knew that as people age, they often get sicker, but he suspected some of these issues might have come from his time in the Navy.

Now, seeing all these aging veterans with similar problems began to raise alarm bells.

Alderson had always wondered if there would be any lasting impacts from the chemicals they'd been exposed to.

He'd been assured the military had taken every precaution necessary, but now he wasn't so sure, and that scared him.

Alderson was determined to find answers.

As a commanding officer, he owed it to his men.

On October 10th, 2002, nearly a decade after that sparsely attended San Diego Reunion, Jack Alderson felt a sense of triumph as he walked into the Russell Senate office building in Washington, D.C.

He was there for a hearing about the series of secret chemical and biological weapons tests conducted by the military in the 1960s, known as Project Shad.

Finally, the military brass would have to answer publicly for what it had put its own servicemen through.

The hearing had been a long time in the making.

After the reunion, Alderson had spoken with Senator Dianne Feinstein of California about his experience in the Navy and the health of his men.

She told him to write it all down and forwarded his letter to the Department of Defense.

The The DoD wrote back, saying Alderson should contact them directly rather than through a U.S.

Senator.

Then, the Navy's Medicine and Surgery Bureau said it had no records of Project Shad existing at all.

Even a veterans group Alderson approached dismissed his concerns.

They didn't believe that the military would expose its own servicemen to harmful chemicals.

Alderson was discouraged.

He felt the military was giving him the runaround, but he didn't want to give up.

His men were getting sicker with each passing year, and a few had already died.

Alderson didn't want their suffering to be in vain.

Eventually, he got in touch with Congressman Mike Thompson of California, who actually took his case seriously.

Thompson began to investigate the issue and demand answers.

Meanwhile, in 2000, CBS News began publishing a series of stories about the tests that uncovered some of the health problems that veterans were suffering from, including chronic respiratory illnesses and cancer.

After years of getting stonewalled, Alderson could feel the momentum building.

As he waited for the hearing to begin, Alderson nervously straightened his tie.

He'd never spoken in front of Congress before, and he hoped he would be able to convey his message in a clear and compelling way.

As the room filled up, he greeted Congressman Thompson.

He said hello to two other veterans of Project Shad who would also be testifying.

Unlike Alderson, neither had known they were participating in any chemical and biological weapons tests, but the military had refused to provide information to all three men about their own medical records, and they had all been told over and over that their health issues had nothing to do with the testing.

Alderson watched as Thompson began his opening remarks.

He explained why Alderson had come to him.

He said that the Department of Defense had initially denied Project Shad even existed, and as other members of Congress chimed in, Alderson leaned forward.

It was satisfying to hear top elected officials take the military to task for trying to cover the program up.

As two DoD representatives were called to speak, Alderson felt his body tighten.

They said the military had done its best to protect soldiers involved in chemical and biological weapons tests.

To Alderson, this sounded like an excuse.

Finally, it was his turn to speak.

He gathered himself and calmly approached the microphone.

He began by explaining his role in Operation Shady Grove and how he and his men had overseen the monkeys monkeys that were being exposed to bioweapons.

He explained that none of the inoculations his men received were in their medical records before they went to Johnson Atoll.

Neither were any of the agents they were exposed to while they were there.

Their top secret work had left them in the dark about potential risks to their health.

All the people who work for me and with full trust in the United States Navy may not know that they have a problem and or that the problem relates to what they did with Project Shad in the mid-1960s.

He concluded his testimony by asking the government to make a realistic effort to locate the Project Shad veterans who were still alive and determine the cause of death for those who weren't.

When the hearing adjourned, Alderson felt hopeful.

It seemed like finally his men might get the answers and support they deserved.

Alderson's testimony led to a major breakthrough.

Two months after the hearing, in December 2002, President George W.

Bush signed a law requiring the military to disclose information about Project Shadd to the Department of Veterans Affairs and the Government Accountability Office.

The latter found that Project Shad was just the tip of the iceberg.

Hundreds of similar chemical and biological tests were conducted outside the program during the same time period.

These included open-air tests that leaked pathogens into Washington National Airport and the New York City subway, along with James Ketchum's research at Edgewood Arsenal.

Two studies have found there is no clear evidence of specific long-term health problems associated with Project Shad.

But over the years, the military has continued to withhold information, even though in 2003, DOD officials told Congress it had released all medically relevant details.

At the time, Congressman Thompson called out the military for its lack of transparency, saying they haven't done the work.

In 2009, a class action lawsuit was filed on behalf of veterans who participated in studies at Edgewood Arsenal, where Dr.

James Ketchum gave soldiers BZ, LSD, and other substances.

Ketchum fully cooperated and provided some 30,000 documents for the lawyers about the experiments he directed.

In 2015, thanks in part to Ketchum's files, the court ruled that the Army has a duty to provide ongoing medical care to veterans who participated in U.S.

chemical and biological testing programs.

That's more than 50 years since Project Shad first began.

James Ketchum died in 2019 at the age of 87.

Throughout his life, he maintained that his research was in the public interest, that his volunteers were always adequately assessed before any experiment and given the option of declining.

He also admitted, however, that some practices at Edgewood were irresponsible and that the lack of long-term follow-up with patients was wrong.

Jack Alderson died in 2021 at the age of 88.

Without his efforts, it could have taken even longer for the veterans involved in these tests to get answers and help from the government.

By the early 2000s, many of them had already died.

Some of those who are still alive have no idea they were ever exposed to toxic agents.

The Cold War was a tense and uncertain time for the American military.

They constantly had to prepare for a vast number of hypothetical threats, nuclear, biological, chemical.

In theory, Project Shad had positive aims.

The military was hoping to prepare itself for a new kind of warfare, one that had never been seen before.

But ultimately, Project Shad and the Edgewood tests failed to develop viable new weapons.

Even worse, they endangered American lives.

In the name of out-competing the Soviet Union, the U.S.

biological and chemical weapons tests put its most dedicated and loyal citizens in harm's way.

It took their bravery and persistence to make the government take any accountability for their dangerous mistakes.

Follow Redacted Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke Lamana, on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.

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from Balin Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted, Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke Lamana.

A quick note about our stories.

We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized.

We used many different sources for our show, but we especially recommend James Ketchum's memoir, Chemical Warfare Secrets Almost Forgotten, a personal story of medical testing of army volunteers, the New Yorker article, Operation Delirium, by Rafi Kachadorian, The Biology of Doom by Edward Regis, and the article, Searching for Project Shad, Vet's Efforts Lead to Investigation, Legislation by Elizabeth Larson in Lake County News.

This episode was written by Susie Armitage and Jake Natureman.

Sound design by Andre Plus.

Our producers are Christopher B.

Dunn and John Reed.

Our associate producers are Ines Rodnike and Molly Quinlan Artwick.

Fact-checking by Sheila Patterson.

For Balin Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt.

Script editing by Scott Allen.

Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins.

Production support by Avery Siegel.

Produced by me, Luke Lamana.

Executive producers are Mr.

Bollin and Nick Witters.

For Wondery, our senior producers are Laura Donna Palavota, Dave Schilling, and Rachel Engelman.

Senior managing producer is Nick Ryan.

Managing producer is Olivia Fonte.

Executive producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louie.

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