'Attention, Mr. and Mrs. Canada: This is the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation coming to you live from deep within the ground 40 kilometres west of Ottawa. This is not a drill. I repeat — this is not a drill. We are under attack. Stay tuned for emergency evacuation information . . ."
It's all I can think of as I peer into the vintage CBC studio at the Diefenbunker, which bills itself as "Canada's Cold War Museum." What on earth would it have been like to be in that sound booth when the big one finally dropped, knowing that yours was the sole voice of reason crackling through on battery-powered radios to families huddled in basements and community bomb shelters?
I've been a radio guy for more than a dozen years and I don't think I could have held it together.
The Diefenbunker — open for public tours since 1998 — is more than just a broadcast studio; it's an amazing testament to Canada's willingness to survive in the event of a nuclear attack during those long, cold years after the Russians launched Sputnik.
The Prime Minister's bedroom is the pinnacle of opulence! (Dave LeBlanc)
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Described by tour guide, volunteer and board president Doug Beaton as "Canada's strongest building," it's a 100,000-square-foot, four-storey concrete fortress and mini-city buried deep in a hillside at Canadian Forces Station Carp.
It boasts everything from a dentist's office, hospital and massive cafeteria to a "war cabinet room," Bank of Canada vault and sleeping quarters for more than 500 people, including the Prime Minister and Governor-General.
Where else do you think Mr. Diefenbaker was going to bed down when the air-raid sirens caterwauled?
Started in 1959, completed in just 13 months under the "Continuity of Government Program," and in use for 33 years, the Ottawa region's most unique tourist attraction almost didn't see the light of day — literally. Like the military had done with similar structures, when the bunker was decommissioned in 1994, plans were already in place to seal it shut so it could quietly rot away while a subdivision was built on top. However, a small but determined group of local citizens stepped in and saved it.
Problem was, almost everything that wasn't bolted down and even the stuff that was (remember the structure was designed to withstand massive blast waves and therefore had most things bolted to the floor in anticipation of the building shifting suddenly), had already been removed and shipped to other government facilities. So, over the past decade, using vintage photographs and first-hand accounts from former employees, this mostly volunteer group has located, purchased and reinstalled much of the bunker's furniture or trucked in similar stuff from other decommissioned bases (some from Camp Borden, northwest of Toronto).
When they have changed things around, they've done it with the utmost of care. "The volunteers here, the staff, they're all trained," Mr. Beaton notes.
"They know that you don't just take a door off and change it for whatever reason. Even if we make a hole in the wall, we have to document everything because it's the next generation — a hundred generations down the road — that we want to show this to."
And what those generations will visit is a place that's not at all claustrophobic but actually quite cheery, despite the circumstances for which it was designed. While bedrooms were shared and therefore cramped for everyone save the Prime Minister and Governor-General (who had larger, private suites complete with showers), the pastel-coloured Steelcase furniture, good lighting and paint schemes would have made working here for an extended period at least somewhat pleasant.
As for engineering, the visitors will learn about the massive four-inch-thick rebar that snakes its way though the five-foot-thick concrete roof held up by 36 columns, and "Cloudburst One," the system that would have sealed shut the doors and diesel engine exhaust ports a few milliseconds before radioactive dust got in.
In former offices are exhibits exploring the United Nation's peacekeeping efforts during the Cold War, the history of radioactivity, and how product design was influenced by the atomic age. In the former officer's lounge is a gallery of photographs documenting the devastation at Hiroshima. There's also a research library packed with government manuals on civil defence and the history of 20th-century warfare.
Mr. Beaton, who describes himself as "a scrounger," has spent much of his free time locating these items on-line or at antique markets with his wife. And while he admits they've been "unbelievably lucky" securing donations of heavy equipment to put on display deep down in the Diefenbunker — including a massive vintage diesel engine to match the one that was there — he says that as a not-for-profit charitable organization with hydro bills ranging from $3,000 to $4,000 a month, they can use all help they can get.
When coaxed, he also tells me that a few of the more, er, adventurous Diefenbunker employees chose to live here full-time back in the 1960s.
I wonder if it was paranoia brought on by listening to the CBC announcer rehearsing for the big day?
For more information on this National Historic Site of Canada, visit www.diefenbunker.ca
Dave LeBlanc hosts The Architourist on CFRB Sunday mornings. Inquiries can be sent to dave.leblanc@globeandmail.com.
