Betrayed: Secrecy, Lies, and Consequences Page 6

  Wernher was equally ruthless when dealing with subordinates who failed to show adequate enthusiasm. He transferred a group of design engineers to the Mittlewerk when he felt their work was “in no way carried out to my satisfaction and that they in fact passively resisted.” The transfer was intended to put them “where these men will have increased supervision” by Arthur Rudolph and the SS.22 For most of his staff, the exhortations were more effective than the threats. After all, the scientists and engineers at Peenemünde were a close-knit group brought together by a shared common vision, the triumph of Germany over its enemies. They felt confident that under Wernher’s leadership, the V-2 rocket would make that vision a reality.

  All of their considerable talents and creativity were focused on creating a missile that would fulfill that goal. The hours devoted and the design tweaks continuously produced (estimates range from 35,000-65,000 changes in specifications during production) were testimony to their dedication. By June 1944, both sides knew that the Germans could still turn defeat into a stalemate, if not a victory, if their plans for long-range missiles, jet planes, anti-aircraft rockets, and the atomic bomb came to fruition. The technical breakthroughs that made the first three of these advanced weapons possible occurred at Peenemünde, and a lot of the paperwork crossed Wernher’s desk.

  So, as much as he wanted to go down to the launch site to see how the preparations were going, he would have to leave that to his staff. He sighed — every day was as busy as this one. Wernher turned to the pile of paperwork on his desk, and returned to work. There was a war to win, and he had a job to do.

  Wernher von Braun was born in Prussia in March 1912 to a proudly nationalistic family. He would be an aristocrat, with the title of “Baron.” His father, Magnus von Braun, was a prominent attorney who at that time was chief administrator of a province in Prussia. Three years later, he would shift to the Ministry of the Interior in Berlin. In 1920, Magnus became involved in an attempt by right-wing ultra-nationalists to overthrow the Weimar Republic that had been established in Germany after WWI. Initially successful, the coup collapsed after a few days, temporarily scuttling Magnus’s political career.

  Wernher had an older brother, Sigismund, and a younger brother, Magnus. Sigismund, as the eldest son, was groomed for government work. He was sent to the French Gymnasium in Berlin, the preeminent choice for the children of the German elite. Founded in 1689, it conducted classes in French, rather than German, and its graduates were well suited, if not predestined, for foreign service. Wernher was precocious but unfocused. As a child he learned to play the piano, and at one stage he wanted to become a composer. In 1925, Wernher was sent to a boarding school in Ettersburg, situated in a converted castle on the outskirts of Weimar. This progressive school was organized on the principles of Hermann Lietz, who felt that classical languages and rote learning were a waste of time. At first Wernher did poorly and seemed uninterested in his classes, which included physics and mathematics. But reading a book by Hermann Oberth, By Rocket into Planetary Space, changed the course of his life by stimulating both his imagination and an interest in science and engineering. This coincided with his transfer to the newly opened Hermann Lietz boarding school in Spiekeroog, a sandy island bordering the North Sea. (His brother Magnus, seven years younger than Wernher, would be sent to this school as well, and would later get a masters degree in organic chemistry.)

  While at the Lietz school, Wernher’s dreams of a music career evaporated, and he became totally fascinated by and fixated on rocketry. Rockets were making news in Germany. Racing drivers were setting speed records by attaching rockets to cars, bicycles, gliders, and sleds. Wernher was so impressed that he bought a pile of fireworks and strapped them to his wagon to see how fast it would go. He spent his last year at Lietz doing independent study and developing mathematical models and formulae relevant to rocketry. He joined the Society for Space Travel (Verein für Raumschiffahrt or VfR) and got advice from a German science writer and spaceflight advocate, Willy Ley, about how to pursue a career in rocketry.

  Wernher graduated from the Lietz school a year early, sitting his final exams in the spring of 1930. He knew he needed an advanced degree in engineering, and the Technical University of Berlin was close to his parents’ home (his father Magnus, transgressions forgiven, was again working in the government). Berlin was also the headquarters of the Vfr, and Wernher quickly solidified his connection with that group, attending meetings and assisting with the preparation and launching of experimental rockets.

  Although Oberth and Ley had formed the nucleus around which the society had formed, the operation was poorly managed and so short of cash that, by the end of 1929, it had stopped publishing a journal. The managerial void was filled by Rudolph Nebel. Nebel was a flamboyant showman who would stretch the truth at a moment’s notice if that would achieve his goals. He raised money by giving speeches and publishing right-wing pamphlets that promoted the use of rockets to free Germany from the shackles imposed by greedy and unscrupulous foreigners after WWI. These lectures and handouts, which played upon the nationalistic and xenophobic feelings and frustrations of pre-Nazi Germany, supported the VfR and raised enough money to secure a small but dedicated area for rocket design and testing. The area was known as the Raketenflugplatz (rocket airfield).

  Despite his fundraising success, based in part on the promise of intercontinental ballistic missiles, Nebel’s group had trouble building rockets that managed more than a few seconds of flight. That sort of progress would require a much larger commitment of funds and personnel. The promotional work, and Nebel’s grand promises, attracted the attention of the Ordnance Department of the Heer (German Army), which provided some funds toward development of a rocket with military potential. Whereas advances in artillery were explicitly prohibited by the Treaty of Versailles that ended WWI, rockets weren’t mentioned at all. It was an enticing loophole.

  Wernher learned important lessons during his time with the VfR. First, he learned about the power of media and the importance of showmanship in fundraising. Wernher’s talent for “persuasion” was noticed early. He was often asked to make presentations to potential donors, and from time to time, Nebel took him along on promotional trips. So, his second lesson was that he had a knack for convincing others to fund his rocket work. Third, he learned that funding was only part of the puzzle, and that organization, management, and record keeping were vital to successful work.

  Unfortunately, those three insights could not compensate for three essentials that the Raketenflugplatz group lacked: (1) There was no development plan. When a rocket failed, everyone went home disappointed, and when they came back, someone would suggest a modification, and they would try again. (2) There was little semblance of discipline. When everything worked and the rocket flew, it was time for a party. In Wernher’s view, it was a grand social group but not much of a research team. (3) There was no structure to the organization. They had no test equipment, no schematics, and only sketchy records and opinions about what had worked and what hadn’t. It was basically a bootstraps operation chronically short of funds.

  In early 1932, shortly before Wernher received his diploma in engineering, he met then-Captain (Hauptmann) Walter Dornberger of the Army Ordnance Department, who was visiting the Raketenflugplatz to see what was going on. Wernher made a big impression, and Dornberger was struck by the young man’s enthusiasm, energy, and organization. He was less than impressed with the rest of the VfR operation, however.

  Despite their dislike for Nebel’s flagrant exaggeration and self-promotion, the Ordnance Department invited Nebel and members of his group, including Wernher, to give a rocket demonstration at the ordnance testing grounds at Kummersdorf, south of Berlin. The demonstration did not go well — the rocket exploded a few seconds after launch.

  The failure appeared to confirm Nebel’s reputation for inflated claims and unreliable results. In the aftermath, the Army decided that the Ordnance Department would pursue rocket development in-house.
With Dornberger’s endorsement, the Army lured Wernher away from the Technical University and the Raketenflugplatz before he had completed his bachelor’s degree. The Army registered him in the graduate school of Friederich-Wilhelm University in Berlin, but his graduate work would be done at Kummersdorf.

  In preparation, the Kummersdorf facility was upgraded, adding test stands, new buildings, and testing equipment that could monitor things like thrust generation and fuel consumption. This kind of instrumentation and record keeping was essential for the transition from amateur “try this and see what happens” rocketry to a focused, professional approach to rocket development. Everything about the rocket project and Wernher’s role was so secret that even his close friends in the amateur rocket community were unaware of the arrangement.

  In 1932, Magnus, Wernher’s father, became the Minister of the Interior, a cabinet level position. He was still a right-wing nationalist, and his support was influential in the Nazi takeover of the government. However, he only retained his cabinet position until 1933, when Hitler became chancellor and started filling government positions with long-term Nazi loyalists and personal friends.

  Almost immediately upon taking office, Hitler began rearming Germany, ignoring the terms of the Versailles Treaty. He also started consolidating his hold on society, establishing Dachau, the first of many concentration camps intended for political and social undesirables. That same year, while in graduate school at Friederich-Wilhelm University, Wernher joined an equestrian unit of the SS. Although Wernher dropped out of the unit after two years, he was kept on their books as inactive until he rejoined in 1940.

  Wernher von Braun became Dr. von Braun in 1934, at the age of 22. Although doctorates typically require a thesis presenting original research by the candidate, Wernher’s dissertation, classified Top Secret, summarized the work done by an army team that was developing liquid rocket fuels. Wernher was a key member of that team, but although it was a group effort, he was the one who received the degree and the kudos. Although he had made several key design improvements, what most impressed Dornberger (and his superiors) were Wernher’s talents for organization and team motivation. It was probably not coincidental that Dornberger received an honorary doctorate in engineering that same year — it was already apparent that the fates of Dornberger and von Braun were intertwined. They were a potent duo. Dornberger, older and politically astute, provided important guidance to his younger colleague, while Wernher’s organizational skills and salesmanship helped Dornberger keep the program funded.

  Dornberger’s rocket program continued to expand as the Nazi government, at the request of Army Ordnance, quietly disbanded or shut down amateur rocket societies and clubs across Germany. Members with useful skills and experience were hired by the Army and brought to Kummersdorf to work under tight security, free from the prying eyes of Germany’s enemies. In this way, two influential engineers joined von Braun’s “team.” The first was Arthur Rudolph, who had built a working rocket engine for the Army on a shoestring budget, and the second was Walter Riedel (nicknamed “Papa”), an older engineer with industrial experience in quality control practices. Both would become valuable and trusted colleagues.

  In 1935, Dornberger was promoted to major as his responsibilities increased. At this point, the Kummersdorf group was working on a small rocket designated the A-2 (A meant “aggregate,” a term intended to obscure its meaning). There was a move within the Ordnance Department to focus on the A-2 as an artillery alternative, but Wernher was able to convince Dornberger’s superiors that the A-2s were too limited and unreliable, and that with further investment, they could have long-range missiles with intercontinental range.

  It was clear to von Braun and Dornberger that they faced both a funding problem and a PR problem. Both had to be overcome before the rocket program could advance. Wernher’s strategy, reminiscent of Nebel’s, was to prepare an elaborate presentation that he delivered to representatives of the Army and the Luftwaffe in June 1935. In it, he proposed the establishment of a joint research facility that would develop long-range liquid-fueled rockets that could be adapted to power advanced aircraft. Development would be done at a special site, housing all equipment and personnel in one highly secure, top secret location. Commercial firms would be excluded and all work would be done in-house, presumably under his direction.

  The proposal hit all of the right buttons — German missile and aircraft supremacy, total secrecy, and organizational efficiency — and Wernher’s delivery was dramatic and convincing. By 1936, funding was secured for the establishment of an Army Rocket Center at Peenemünde. The site was largely Wernher’s idea, as it was near a coastal resort town and close to his family’s estates. The research complex would sit on the edge of the Baltic Sea, near the mouth of the Peene River in northeastern Germany.

  The creation of the Peenemünde facility was a remarkable accomplishment both physically and politically. In terms of relative influence, the Army had the upper hand, as the Luftwaffe had control of a mere 22 acres in the northwest corner of the facility, an area known as Peenemünde-West. The rest of the complex, Peenemünde-East, was controlled by the Army Ordnance Department. It would have eleven launch pads, areas for testing components, and a highly sophisticated wind tunnel for advanced design work. With both the German Army and the Luftwaffe providing funds, no expense was spared, and what emerged over time was largely self-contained and physically insulated from the deprivations and sacrifices made by German citizens elsewhere.

  Construction took two years (1936-1938), and much of the heavy labor involved in building Peenemünde was done by slave laborers housed in a squalid mini-concentration camp near the site. In 1937, while construction was still underway, Peenemünde-East was occupied by the ordnance team. Major Dornberger was appointed Director of the Army Rocket Center (Peenemünde-East), with Dr. Wernher von Braun as the Technical Director, responsible for research, budgeting, and missile production. To say that Wernher’s ascent had been meteoric was no exaggeration. He had graduated from high school at 18, received his doctorate at 22, and at 25 he was Technical Director at Peenemünde.

  By the time war began in 1939, Dornberger had been promoted to Lieutenant Colonel (Oberstleutnant), and over 90% of the employees, including Dr. von Braun, were members of the Nazi party.23 In 1940, Wernher had rejoined the SS as a lieutenant and gained a snappy black uniform to go with his usual dark suits. Over the years, both Dornberger and von Braun would be promoted at regular intervals, and by 12 June 1944, Dornberger would be an army brigadier general and von Braun an SS-major.

  Peenemünde was a cloistered community of very social young people who loved to party, and Wernher greatly enjoyed (and was renowned for) cutting a wide swath through the unattached young women. There were also “special entertainments” available to the personnel entrusted with security and labor control. The SS operated a small brothel, probably staffed by “volunteers” from the women’s concentration camp at Ravensbrük. For five reichsmarks ($25 today), an SS officer could get a drink, a cigarette, and a woman. Of course, such a facility posed serious threats to security — nobody could predict what secrets would accidentally be revealed in pillow talk. No record has been found to show how that was handled at Peenemünde, but at SS brothels run for V-2 launch sites in Holland, the women and girls were routinely executed after a month “in service,” and a new group brought in. The diversity probably made the business even more attractive to its patrons.

  Wernher saw the Führer at a distance in 1933, and again in 1934. Each time, he came away unimpressed. But after personal meetings in 1939 and 1941, he was struck by Hitler’s intellect and force of personality, describing him as a colossus and a new Napoleon. Hitler was equally impressed by the young engineer, and Wernher convinced him that the missiles built at Peenemünde could reshape the course of the war. With Hitler behind the program 100%, additional resources became available, but since the collapse of the Russian offensive in December 1941, labor was a serious limiting fa
ctor for all of German industry. The solution Propaganda Minister Göbbels announced was “Total War.” It required the total commitment of the German population. Established norms of civilized behavior were tossed aside, and the use of POWs (primarily Russian and Polish) and slave laborers from concentration camps became commonplace all across Germany.

  Wernher was responsible for budgeting, and he was also a key member of the A-4 Special Committee, tasked with project oversight and the finalization of production deadlines. The promised delivery dates were slipping away, in part because he had too few German technicians to deal with rocket production and assembly. A factory he had visited was using POW labor, with one German technician overseeing groups of skilled slave laborers. The approach was definitely worth considering as a way to maximize the productivity of German technicians. In May 1942, he wrote to Gerhard Degenkolb, the chairman of the A-4 Special Committee, to suggest that fuel-tank construction be done by foreign laborers and POWs.24 This practice was subsequently adopted by a number of subsidiary production firms.

  In April 1943, Wernher authorized his friend and subordinate Arthur Rudolph, head of the Development and Fabrication Laboratory, to visit an aircraft manufacturing facility where civilian employees each had charge of ten skilled slave laborers provided by the SS. Rudolph was impressed by what he saw, and he endorsed the approach in a report to von Braun. This led to a detailed proposal to use skilled slave laborers on assembly lines to mass-produce the missiles. In addition to a substantial savings relative to a contracted, salaried workforce — something significant for Wernher, as he was in charge of budgeting — there was also the issue of improved security. Contract laborers had friends outside of Peenemünde with whom they corresponded and visited when on leave. The more contracted workers, the greater the risk of security breaches and leaks. Security would be much easier to manage with a small group of known and trusted technicians supervising prisoners who were completely cut off from the outside world.