2019-07-19 15:12:25 UTC
How Historians Are Reckoning With the Former Nazi Who Launched America's
Werner von Braun (1912-1977), the German-born American rocket engineer
with model rockets.
Werner von Braun (1912-1977), the German-born American rocket engineer
with model rockets. Hulton Deutsch—Corbis via Getty Images
BY ALEJANDRO DE LA GARZA
JULY 18, 2019
Sporting a gray double-breasted suit, slicked-back curls and a slide
rule, rocket engineer Wernher von Braun cuts a suave, authoritative
figure in Disney’s 1955 television special Man and the Moon. Speaking
with a German accent, the then-director of development at the U.S. Army
Ballistic Missile Agency in Huntsville, Ala., uses a series of models
and illustrations to explain how America will reach the moon — with the
aid of an enormous nuclear-powered space station, of course.
The United States eventually planted a flag on the lunar surface, though
without the help of any orbital reactors. And all through the Space
Race, von Braun, a German scientist scooped up by the U.S. in the waning
days of World War II, was the public face of the American space program,
as well as one of its chief architects. But much of the Cold War-era
coverage of von Braun downplayed the darker details of his past: before
he was building rockets for America, he was building them for Hitler.
Germany launched more than 3,000 missiles of his design against Britain
and other countries, indiscriminately killing approximately 5,000
people, while as many as 20,000 concentration camp prisoners died
assembling the weapons.
In the years since the original Space Race has ended, historians have
begun to reassess von Braun’s legacy. Some have portrayed his time
working for the Nazis as a survival strategy, but others have gone so
far as to frame him as a war criminal, or something close to it. Von
Braun died in 1977, so there’s no possibility of hearing him out. But as
the country and the world celebrates the 50th anniversary of the Apollo
11 moon landing — a feat that might not have been possible without von
Braun’s contributions — his image, as Cold War hero, whitewashed Nazi
villain or something in between, is being debated more fiercely than
ever, as is the extent of America’s moral bargaining in using him to
propel its otherworldly ambitions.
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Born to an aristocratic Prussian family, Wernher von Braun became
obsessed with space travel early in life, studying fields like physics
and mathematics in order to grasp the fundamentals of rocketry. As a
young man, he launched primitive rockets with other enthusiasts at an
abandoned ammunition dump in suburban Berlin. The experiments, and von
Braun’s leadership of the group, piqued the interest of the German army.
In 1932, the 20-year-old wunderkind became the top civilian specialist
at the German army’s Kummersdorf rocket station, south of Berlin. By
1935, von Braun’s group had successfully fired two rockets using
liquid-fueled engines, a then-embryonic technology that became the basis
for modern spaceflight. The facility was soon moved to a new location on
the Baltic coast at Peenemünde.
With the start of World War II in 1939, von Braun came under increasing
pressure to produce useful military weapons. He delivered. In 1942, his
group successfully tested the A-4 missile, firing the weapon nearly 60
miles into the atmosphere. The trial caught Hitler’s attention, and the
Reich began to mass produce the rockets at a feverish pace, often using
slave labor. (The project also drew the interest of Heinrich Himmler’s
Schutzstaffel (SS), which briefly imprisoned von Braun as part of an
attempted takeover of the program.) By the later stages of the war, when
von Braun’s missiles began to rain down on London, Nazi propaganda had
given them a new name: the Vengeance Weapon Two, or V-2, so named
because they were intended as retribution for Allied bombings of German
The V-2 was a particularly terrifying weapon. The missiles traveled so
fast that victims, most of whom were civilians, often heard nothing
until after they struck. For his part, von Braun, who was apparently
still interested in space travel, is said to have remarked that the
rockets worked perfectly, except for landing on the wrong planet — a
line that, at best, paints him as detached from the consequences of his
work. But as fearsome as the V-2 was, it had little strategic impact and
failed to turn the war in Germany’s direction. As the Allies advanced
into the heart of Germany, von Braun and his engineering team headed
south to surrender to the Americans, rather than await the Red Army.
Von Braun was one of about 120 German scientists who, in a then-secret
U.S. project known as Operation Paperclip, were taken to the U.S. to
develop military technology. Rather than be held accountable like other
important figures in Nazi Germany, they were given new lives. The Soviet
Union also took German scientists for similar reasons, foreshadowing the
superpower showdown that was to come.
Once he was settled in the U.S., von Braun’s career took off, largely
fueled by the U.S.-Soviet technological rivalry that would develop into
the Space Race. By 1953, his team developed America’s first ballistic
missile, the Redstone, which could hurl a nuclear warhead up to 250
miles downrange. The Jupiter-C, a modified version of the Redstone,
launched the United States’ first satellite, Explorer 1, in 1958 — a
full year after the Soviets launched their first satellite, Sputnik 1. A
von Braun TIME cover arrived in 1958, with the engineer’s calm, coifed
likeness superimposed over the flames of a missile launch. Von Braun
later became director of NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center, developing
the behemoth Saturn V rocket, which 50 years ago this week carried Neil
Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin to the moon’s surface, while Michael Collins
waited in lunar orbit.
The cheerful, well-spoken von Braun became the center of America’s space
obsession: an extraordinary engineer, communicator and manager who
promised America the moon and delivered, beating the arch-rival Soviets
in the process. But his past wasn’t completely hidden. TIME noted in
1958 that, to some, Von Braun’s “transfer of loyalty from Nazi Germany
to the U.S. seemed to come too fast, too easy.” That sentiment was
echoed in a 1967 song by satirist Tom Lehrer: “Once the rockets are up,
who cares where they come down? / That’s not my department, says Wernher
Wernher von Braun TIME cover.
More recent examinations of von Braun’s life have gained distance from
the nationalistic fervor that prevailed at the height of the Space Race.
In Von Braun: Dreamer of Space, Engineer of War, Michael Neufeld, former
chair of the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum’s space history
department, sheds light on how knowledge of von Braun’s collaboration
with the Nazi regime was purposefully suppressed. But Neufeld stops
short of casting him as a complete villain. It would have been dangerous
for von Braun to complain to Nazi leadership about his work or the
conditions in which his missiles were made, Nuefeld says. He also argues
that von Braun’s membership in the SS, which was classified information
in the U.S., was at least somewhat coerced. But at the same time, the
“missileman” seldom if ever seemed to consider anything beyond advancing
his own career.
“He was not ideologically very interested in Nazi ideas,” says Nuefeld.
“Although he was happy to profit from his status as an Aryan aristocrat.”
A more damning take comes from Wayne Biddle, a Pulitzer Prize-winning
journalist and author of Dark Side of the Moon. Biddle frames von Braun
as a war criminal with direct involvement in the V-2 slave labor
project, and a man who only escaped justice thanks to the efforts of the
American government, which was desperate for help in beating the Soviets.
“One always has a choice in life, and [von Braun] never made a choice
that moved him away from the Nazi regime,” says Biddle. He also echoes
Nuefeld’s characterization of von Braun as career-obsessed. “He always
made choices that resulted in his rapid advancement at a very young age.”
But von Braun wasn’t the only one who prioritized success. Confronted
with the growing power of Stalin’s U.S.S.R., the U.S. Government
sanitized von Braun and other German scientists’ images in order to use
their skills; to a large extent, the American public went along with it.
“There was public protest in early 1947 over the importation of the
Germans,” explains Nuefeld. “And then Cold War heat got worse, and it
pretty much went away.”
That moral calculation enabled von Braun to become an iconic leader in
the American space program, admired by many and untouchable out of sheer
national necessity. Decades later, Biddle argues, the reassessment of
his legacy may have had less to do with a growing understanding of his
crimes than the fact that the engineer was simply no longer needed.
“[Von Braun] was brought over originally to milk his knowledge,” says
Biddle. “Once that was used up, he became expendable.”
That we’re still debating Wernher von Braun’s legacy 50 years after his
rockets put men on the moon speaks to the profound effect he had on
America’s image. And while he was undeniably an engineering genius, that
this onetime cog in the Wehrmacht died a largely unquestioned American
hero speaks to what was perhaps his greatest skill: salesmanship. To
survive in Nazi Germany, he sold Hitler a dream of victory through
superior technology. Later, he sold the U.S. Army a vision of
intercontinental nuclear dominance. But von Braun’s biggest sale of all
is apparent in that Disney footage. To Americans, he sold the dream of
men in space and flags on the moon. And by and large, the nation bought
it, no questions asked.
Write to Alejandro de la Garza at ***@time.com.