ABSTRACT
Title of Dissertation: ENGINEERING CONSENT: PEENEMUENDE,
NATIONAL SOCIALISM, AND THE V-2 MISSILE,
1924-1945
Michael Brian Petersen, Doctor of Philosophy, 2005
Dissertation Directed By: Professor Jeffrey Herf 
Department of History
This dissertation is the story of the German scientists and engineers who 
developed, tested, and produced the V-2 missile, the world?s first liquid-fueled ballistic 
missile.  It examines the social, political, and cultural roots of the program in the Weimar 
Republic, the professional world of the Peenem?nde missile base, and the results of the 
specialists? decision to use concentration camp slave labor to produce the missile.  
Previous studies of this subject have been the domain of either of sensationalistic 
journalists or the unabashed admirers of the German missile pioneers.  Only rarely have 
historians ventured into this area of inquiry, fruitfully examining the history of the 
German missile program from the top down while noting its administrative battles and 
technical development.  However, this work has been done at the expense of a detailed 
examination of the mid and lower-level employees who formed the backbone of the 
research and production effort.  This work addresses that shortcoming by investigating 
the daily lives of these employees and the social, cultural, and political environment in 
which they existed.  It focuses on the key questions of dedication, motivation, and 
criminality in the Nazi regime by asking ?How did Nazi authorities in charge of the 
missile program enlist the support of their employees in their effort??  ?How did their 
work translate into political consent for the regime??  ?How did these employees come to 
view slave labor as a viable option for completing their work??  This study is informed 
by traditions in European intellectual and social history while borrowing from different 
methods of sociology and anthropology.  I argue that a web of professional ambition, 
internal dynamics, military pressure, and fear coalesced in this project.  The interaction of 
these forces made the rapid development of the V-2 possible, but also contributed to an 
environment in which terrible crimes could be committed against concentration camp 
prisoners in the name of defending National Socialist Germany.       
ENGINEERING CONSENT: PEENEMUENDE, NATIONAL SOCIALISM, AND THE 
V-2 MISSILE, 1924-1945
by
Michael Brian Petersen
Thesis submitted to the Faculty of the Graduate School of the
University of Maryland, College Park in partial fulfillment 
of the requirements for the degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
2005
Advisory Committee:
Professor Jeffrey Herf, Chair
Professor C. Fred Alford
Professor John Lampe
Professor Marsha Rozenblit
Professor Thomas Zeller 
?Copyright by
Michael Brian Petersen
2005
ii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This dissertation was completed in very large measure because of the patience and 
guidance of my committee of readers.  My advisor and mentor, Jeffrey Herf, proved to be 
especially forbearing while also pushing me to conceptualize this work in a way that 
addressed important historical issues beyond the scope of its subject.  In addition, his 
insightful criticism improved each draft that I handed him.  I owe him a great deal.  
Thomas Zeller availed me of his notable intellectual gifts, his impressive knowledge of 
German technical archives, and his warm friendship.  Marsha Rozenblit and John Lampe 
provided a great deal of friendly and helpful advice, especially at the earliest stages of 
this project, and C. Fred Alford graciously came aboard at a late stage to help usher the 
project along to completion.  
Though not on my committee, I also owe a number of other readers a deep debt of 
gratitude.  Second to none in this regard is Michael Neufeld.  He generously commented 
on numerous drafts and offered the benefit of his extraordinary knowledge of the German 
missile program as well as several obscure, but important sources necessary to complete 
this work.  Also helpful were Martin Collins, John Delaney, David DeVorkin, Wolf-
Gr?ner, Martina Hessler, Laura Hilton, Alex Roland, and Jill Stephenson, who read early 
versions of chapters presented at various conferences and talks.  I owe a special debt of 
gratitude to Suzanne Brown-Fleming, who provided both intellectual and moral support 
at the most difficult stages of this process.  I would also like to extend my appreciation to 
the University of Maryland, which supplied me with research and travel funding to carry 
out much of this work, and the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum for the very 
iii
generous Guggenheim Pre-Doctoral Fellowship that enabled me complete a great deal of 
research and writing.
Great thanks are also due to the staff at the Archives of the Smithsonian National 
Air and Space Museum?s Garber Facility.  The archival staff there was fantastically 
accommodating to a researcher who spent more than his fair share of time requesting 
rolls of microfilm and taking up space in their rather cozy, but rich archive.  I quickly 
came to value their expertise and friendship.
In Germany, I had the benefit of expert advice from other notable historians, 
archivists, and curators.  Andreas Heusler provided me with helpful research advice for
German archives.  Jens-Christian Wagner shared his first- rate knowledge of Dora-
Mittelbau and the incumbent historical issues that are wrapped up in what Jeffrey Herf 
has called the ?Divided Memory? of the post-war Germanys.  Dirk Zache and Manfred 
Kanetzky of the Historisches- Technisches Informationszentrum Peenem?nde paid me the 
great privilege of making available their raft of archival and museum holdings that are 
normally not open to the public.  Their contribution is writ large across the pages that 
follow.  Frau B?rbel Galonska, archivist at the Stasi Archive in Berlin, went well beyond 
the call of duty to provide me with many important documents while regaling me with 
stories of her childhood outside of Peenem?nde and stories of the fall of the Berlin Wall.  
Peggy Schmidt generously opened her wonderful apartment in the center of Berlin and 
gave me not only a comfortable couch to sleep on, but also a trove of great memories that 
include trips to see the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra perform and thrice-weekly jogs 
through the Brandenburg Gate.
iv
My friends, family, and loved ones deserve all of the thanks that one person can 
muster.  John Apinis always provided the best laughs when I needed them most, and 
Rugby reminded me that even in the most difficult parts of dissertation writing, it was 
still fun to wrestle on the living room floor.  My parents, Hans Petersen and Theo 
Fellows, first inspired my love for history and nurtured it through many years while no 
doubt silently wondering what I would do with a degree in history and when I would 
finally find a ?real? job.   Finally, this project would never have been completed if not for 
the love and encouragement of Heather Jacobsen.  Her steadfast support and profound 
patience were constants throughout this process, and it is to her and my parents that this 
work is dedicated.       
v
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
Introduction:  The Community of Innovation and Culture of Consent 
in the Raketen-Stadt ??????????????????.1
Chapter 1: ?Help Build the Spaceship!?:  Culture and Community in
German Rocketry, 1924-1934??????????????...19
Chapter 2: State Commitments, State Secrets: Establishing the 
Peenem?nde Community of Rocketeers???????????78
Chapter 3: ?It was a Fantastic Life!?: Living and Working in a Secret 
Rocket Facility????????????????????...148
Chapter 4: The Armaments Ministry, SS, and Foreign Labor at Peenem?nde...225
Chapter 5: Manufacturing the V-2 at Dora-Mittelbau??????????.270
Chapter 6: G?tterd?mmerung: The End of the V-2 Program???????..351
Conclusion: Engineering Consent at Peenem?nde????????????.412
1
Introduction
The Community of Innovation and Culture of Consent in the Raketen-
Stadt
It?s a factory-state here, a City of the Future full of 
extrapolated 1930s swoop-facaded and balconied 
skyscrapers, lean chrome caryatids with bobbed 
hairdos, classy airships of all descriptions drifting in the 
boom and hush of the city abysses, golden lovelies 
sunning in roof gardens and turning to wave as you 
pass.  It is the Raketen-Stadt.
Thomas Pynchon, Gravity?s Rainbow
1
It occurred just after twelve noon on October 3, 1942, a clear, unseasonably 
warm day on the Baltic coast.  With great anticipation and a deafening roar, twenty-
five tons of thrust lifted the forty-six foot tall A-4 (or V-2), the world?s first large, 
liquid-fueled ballistic missile, from its launch moorings and into the sky.  The black 
and white test missile accelerated rapidly until it hurtled through the air at nearly 
3500 miles per hour, cut off its thrust, slipped out of Earth?s atmosphere, and then 
came careening back to the planet at over three times the speed of sound, landing five 
minutes later some 125 miles away in the Baltic Sea.
2
  The scientists and engineers at 
the huge missile research facility at Peenem?nde had carried out the first successful 
launch of the A-4.  For the first time, humans had managed to launch an object into 
space, an epochal achievement which was accomplished with virtually no previous 
practical knowledge and only a few years of theoretical experience.  This feat is made 
even more impressive when one considers that the plans for this particular rocket 
were hammered out and facilities constructed for its development in 1937 and it only 
1
 Thoms Pynchon, Gravity?s Rainbow (New York: Viking Press, 1973), 674.
2
 Walter Dornberger, V-2 (New York: Viking Press, 1955), 3-15.
2
took a mere five years for this first successful test to take place.  It was a scientific 
and technical event of nearly unparalleled magnitude and of fundamental importance 
to the modern world.  
However, though many of its ambitious developers would argue after the war 
that they dreamed of nothing but spaceflight, this was no humanitarian project.  For 
the observant Thomas Pynchon, the missile?s arcing flight path, ?Gravity?s 
Rainbow,? marked both the arrival and the passing of death.  The symbolism is 
appropriate.  The V-2?s purpose was to terrify civilian populations by delivering, 
without warning, a warhead to a target nearly 150 miles from its launch origin.  
Worse, in January 1944, the first mass-produced missiles rolled off of the assembly 
line over the broken bodies of thousands of prisoners of the Third Reich at the 
terrifying underground rocket factory Dora-Mittelbau.  By the time of Dora?s 
liberation at the hands of American soldiers in April 1945, nearly 2200 missiles had 
rained down on London and Antwerp, and perhaps as many as 20,000 slave laborers 
at the Dora-Mittelbau camp complex were dead.
3
This dissertation is the story of life and work within the German missile 
program as it played itself out at the missile base at Peenem?nde.  I argue that a 
complex interaction of professional ambition, internal cultural dynamics, military 
pressure, and political coercion coalesced in the texture of life at the facility.  The 
interaction of these forces made the rapid development of the A-4 possible, but also 
3
 Manfred Bornemann and Martin Broszat, ?Das KL Dora/Mittelbau,? in Studien zur Geschichte der 
Konzentrationslager (Stuttgart: Deutsche-Verlags Anstalt, 1970), 154-198.  This estimate includes the 
1500 prisoners killed by the British bombing raids on the neighboring town of Nordhausen on April 3-
4, 1945, Dora prisoners deemed ?unfit for work? and sent to the gas chambers at Auschwitz and 
Majdanek, and those who were murdered during the evacuation of the camp.
3
contributed to an environment in which stunning brutality could be committed against 
concentration camp prisoners in the name of defending the Nazi state.  The engineers 
and other missile specialists at Peenem?nde, only a fraction of whom were committed 
National Socialists, reacted to these pressures in a variety of ways. In essence, they 
became either passive facilitators of Nazi brutality, enthusiastically doing their duty 
in support of the Nazi war effort, or they manifested a more radical tendency, 
combining rationality and ideology in a way that served the dual goals of producing 
weapons and persecuting perceived enemies of the state.  
Understanding the ways in which the institution of Peenem?nde was able to 
enlist the unequivocal support of its members is also central to a deeper
comprehension of how major technological systems develop and reproduce 
themselves, especially in the intensified atmosphere of war.  This study moves 
beyond the external functions of state financing and resource support to examine how 
individuals within the program endowed their institution with personal significance.  
Moreover, in the Nazi context, identification with the goals of the institution also 
meant that many engineers and technicians were willing to countenance, even 
participate in, the brutal excesses of the regime.  Though Peenem?nde experienced 
the impact of Nazification as much as any place in Germany, the reasons for their 
complicity were not solely or explicitly ideological.  Rather, they are located in the 
quotidian rhythms of life at the research station on the Baltic coast.
This study aims to take what appeared to those at Peenem?nde as 
commonsense beliefs and practices and show that they were in fact part of the process 
of what anthropologists might call ?enculturation,? the steady, relentless 
4
internalization of a particular set of group norms and ideals.  At Peenem?nde, 
technical specialists absorbed a body of beliefs about the importance of their work in 
a nation in the midst of a desperate war for its very survival.  This both created and 
reinforced their own ideas as a collective identity.  Thus socialized, they came to see 
the concerns of other groups as being far less consequential than their own.  The 
result was a narrowed technical and patriotic vision that consented to some of the 
worst crimes of the Nazi regime.
In this study, I employ a multi-disciplinary approach, utilizing the techniques 
of the historian while borrowing from anthropology and sociology to show that 
missile developers at Peenem?nde were not solely united by any overt political 
program, but rather a shared dedication to a technological program that is best 
characterized not as apolitical, but rather as transpolitical.  By transpolitical, I mean 
cultural and technological dynamics that function across a broad spectrum of political 
ideologies and that can subtly reinforce an individual?s loyalty to any number of 
political agendas.  However, during the Nazi era, missile specialists at Peenem?nde 
also exhibited a durable loyalty to Hitler?s regime.  In the context of a National 
Socialist government that pursued rearmament, war, and total war as policy ends, the 
decisions of weapons engineers, whose very work helped to both realize these goals 
and defend the system that set them forth in the first place, were nothing if not 
conclusive statements about their political sentiments toward the Nazi state.  In the 
end, Peenem?nde engineers and technicians not only contributed to the physical 
defense of Nazi Germany, they also helped shore up domestic support for the 
government that made their work possible.
5
The issue of consensus and collaboration under Hitler is perhaps the most 
important and, therefore, most contentious issue in the historiography on Nazi 
Germany.  In the 1980s, the effort to document the ?history of everyday life? 
(Alltagsgeschichte) in Nazi Germany led historians to conclude that support for the 
Nazis sprang from a well of many different sources.  However, the valuable literature 
on this subject indicates that the Nazis were successful in carrying out only those 
policies that were not widely opposed by the population at large.  A minority of 
Germans took up the Nazi banner and pushed forward its ideology, while those who 
did not were mostly passive onlookers or fellow travelers.  This cleared the ground 
for the ideological vanguard to push ever more radical policies.  The most fanatic 
Nazi ideas were most successful when German citizens had nothing against them and 
thus acquiesced to their prosecution.  A sort of consensus on certain issues moved 
people to passive toleration and cooperation.  Happiness and self-perception had an 
important effect on what was possible within the Nazi regime.
4
  Other, more recent 
books, have re-examined consensus for Nazi policy and shown that even passive 
onlookers were in fact not so passive.  Robert Gellately, for example, illustrates the 
4
 Ian Kershaw, Popular Opinion and Political Dissent in the Third Reich: Bavaria, 1933-1945 
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983).  See also Detlev Peukert, ?Alltag und Barberei: Zur 
Normalit?t des Dritten Reiches,? in Dan Diner, ed., Ist der Nationalsozialismus Geschichte? Zur 
Historisierung und Historikerstreit (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1987), 51-61.  Among a vast array of 
books that examine the support for the Nazi regime, the classic work is William Sheridan Allen?s The 
Nazi Seizure of Power: The Experience of a Single German Town, 1922-1945 (New York: Franklin 
and Watts, 1964).  Also useful are Ian Kershaw?s reflections on Hitler?s popularity in Hitler 1889-
1936: Hubris (New York: W.W. Norton, 1999) and The "Hitler Myth": Image and Reality in the Third 
Reich (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987).  Though not technically a part of the 
Alltagsgeschichte effort, Peter Fritzsche?s Germans into Nazis (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University 
Press, 1998) and Detlev Peukert?s The Weimar Republic: The Crisis of Classical Modernity (New 
York: Hill and Wang, 1989) offer thought-provoking cases, though they do not seek to explain the 
popular support for Hitler in the long term.  For women?s support of the Nazi regime, see Alison 
Owings, Frauen: German Women Recall the Third Reich (New Brunswick, NJ:  Rutgers University 
Press, 1993) and Ute Frevert, Women in German History: From Bourgeois Emancipation to Sexual 
Liberation (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988).    
6
proactive participation of average Germans in the policing of the Nazi state.
5
  He also 
shows how a fluid but lasting consensus for Hitler developed within the first months 
of Hitler?s regime and through a combination of selective rewards and repression, 
remained firm until the end of the war.
6
  Through all of this work, one thing has 
become clear:  The Nazi regime carried out a colossal social, political, and cultural 
project in Germany that would not have been possible without the activism of a 
minority of the population coupled with the positive consent of the majority.  That 
they were as ?successful? as they were indicates that one way or another, the Nazis 
were able to produce powerful social bonds between individuals and with the regime.  
The success of the V-2 endeavor is a case in point.  This study revisits the 
historical traditions of Alltagsgeschichte by examining the texture of life at the 
Peenem?nde missile facility. The local practices in place at Peenem?nde resocialized 
its employees from an aggregate of disparate individuals into a cohesive group that 
strongly identified with the same sets of social, political, and technical ideals.  In 
becoming a part of the community of missile specialists at Peenem?nde (a 
?Peenem?nder?), individual specialists became firmly convinced that what they were 
doing was essential to the survival of their nation.  The work was, in their eyes, a 
noble project.  Despite whatever demographic differences that they might have had ?
there were, in fact, few ? the basic practices at Peenem?nde bound them together with 
a single mission.  A distinct set of dynamic social and professional practices ensured 
their commitment to Peenem?nde?s goals, which were inextricably linked to the 
5
 Robert Gellately, The Gestapo and German Society: Enforcing Racial Policy, 1933-1945 (New York: 
Oxford University Press, 1990). 
6
 Robert Gellately, Backing Hitler: Consent and Coercion in Nazi Germany (New York: Oxford 
University Press, 2001). 
7
murderous government that sponsored them in the first place.  Support for National 
Socialism, was, to borrow Alf L?dtke?s term, ?co-produced? by the cultural practices 
of everyday life.
7
Moreover, with a few exceptions, much scholarship on Nazi Germany has 
asked why virtually no one resisted the murderous policies of the Nazi regime.  
Alternatively, historians and others have sought to understand how it was that 
perpetrators and collaborators were able to overcome disillusionment with or 
revulsion at crimes they were to commit in the name of the regime and press on with 
their terrible tasks.
8
  This work has been instructive, but flawed.  Its fault lies in a 
7
 Alf L?dtke, Eigen-Sinn: Fabrikalltag, Arbeitererfahrungen und Politik vom Kaiserreich bis in den 
Faschismus (Hamburg: Ergebnisse Verlag, 1993), 332.  L?dtke?s conclusions in this essay collection 
are especially thought provoking and particularly informative insofar as this study is concerned.  His 
conception examines worker politics at the intersection of national parties and local conditions on the 
shop floor, in the home, and on the street.  He compellingly argues that factory workers made their 
daily choices based on individual and local circumstances.  In turn, national parties drew their 
legitimacy from decisions made by these workers as they negotiated their way through their daily lives.   
Factory employees, contends L?dtke, were especially susceptible to those parties, like the National 
Socialists, that made emotional references to culture and nationhood while also extolling the virtues of 
labor.  This would explain the weakness of the KPD and SPD in the face of the advancing National 
Socialist movement.  It is an argument that opens up interesting possibilities for other social groups in 
Weimar and Nazi Germany.    
8
 Hans Mommsen, ?Die Realisierung des Utopischen: Die ?Endl?sung der Judenfrage? im ?Dritten 
Reich,?? in Der Nationalsozialismus und die deutsche Gesellschaft (Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 
1991) asks ?Why did so many who participated in the series of events that led directly or indirectly to 
the extermination of the Jews fail to withdraw their contribution either through passive resistance or 
any form of resistance at all?? ? as if they knew the extermination of the Jews to be wrong (p. 186).  
Robert Lifton, The Nazi Doctors: Medical Killing and the Psychology of Genocide (New York: Basic 
Books, 1986), argues somewhat speciously that what enabled doctors to carry out their horrific crimes 
was their construction of a double life of work and home ? an argument that Robert Louis Stevenson 
might support, but is utterly problematic on its face.  The work is based on the assumption that they 
viewed what they were doing as wrong and therefore needed to erect defenses to deal with it.  More 
convincingly, but still problematically, Christopher Browning, Ordinary Men: Reserve Police 
Battalion 101 and the Final Solution in Poland (New York: Harper Collins, 1992) holds that it was a 
nearly irresistible internal pressure that allowed the Hamburg policemen to overcome revulsion for 
their work, again presupposing the very presence of a feeling of disgust.  To be sure, the shooting of 
Jews was gruesome work, and some did drop out of the killing, but most stayed on to continue the 
mass murder.  Those who dropped out voluntarily rejoined the group for later operations, a rather 
extraordinary phenomenon.  In his defense, Browning does stress the local initiative of individuals in 
carrying out the Holocaust, but he still underemphasizes the issue of moral and ideological 
commitment.  See also his book Nazi Policy, Jewish Workers, German Killers (New York: Cambridge 
University Press, 2000).  Others blame more impersonal structures.  Zygmunt Bauman?s Modernity 
and the Holocaust (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991) contends that the instrumental rationality of 
8
fundamental assumption that the perpetrators viewed what they were doing as 
criminal, or that they should have at least understood it as wrong.  Crimes perpetrated 
in the name of the Nazi regime, they would seem to indicate, were committed without 
conviction.  Rather, other forces were at work that enabled them to surmount their 
natural predilections that these were in fact immoral, illegal acts.  The question was 
immediately framed in terms of why Germans did not stand up and resist, as we 
might expect them to.  To my mind, this framework has been helpful, but not entirely 
satisfying.  Most often, it does not actually address the issue of moral dedication to 
the tasks in front of them.  In this work, historical actors avoid ethical questions and 
repress their feelings.  The work itself is merely a task to be performed, not a possible 
source of binding energy or motivation.  The problems confronting those who 
forcibly relocated Jews and other perceived enemies of the state, coordinated massive 
slave labor projects, developed the world?s first ballistic missile, or, for that matter, 
executed the ?Final Solution,? were colossal.  The success of these projects could 
only be counted on if those carrying them out were dedicated, conscientious, and 
motivated workers.
9
  Further inquiry into the actual work world of those perpetrators 
bureaucracy was perfectly suited to extermination of the Jews because moral considerations play 
absolutely no part in bureaucratic functions.  Indeed, argues Bauman, bureaucratic decisions have no 
intrinsic moral value.  Given the initial push by the ideological elite, Nazi bureaucrats acted 
automatically to achieve the ends of the force that gave it its impetus.   Finally, though problematic, 
one of the benefits of Daniel Goldhagen?s Hitler?s Willing Executioners: Ordinary Germans and the 
Holocaust (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1996) was to ask whether or not Germans actually faced any
dilemma at all in persecuting the Jews.     
9
 Historians have largely missed this point because they have tended to see internal struggles at every 
level of the different bureaucratic structures in the regime and assume that every new order perpetuated 
internecine strife.   Peter H?ttenberger?s essay, ?Nationalsozialistische Polykratie,? Geschichte und 
Gesellschaft 2 (1976), which argued that Nazi politics and institutions were characterized by multiple 
power centers that competed for influence within the Third Reich, was of fundamental importance in 
shaping historians? perspective on the regime.  Certainly, his argument has merit in the rarified air 
among Hitler?s paladins.  However, more recent literature has begun to point out that at the middle and 
lower levels of the bureaucracies, cooperation, not competition, was far more common than heretofore 
assumed.  See Michael Thad Allen?s work on the SS Economic and Administrative Main Office (SS-
9
and collaborators might reveal quite a different picture than one of repression, denial, 
or exclusion heretofore offered by many historians.
The work by the Peenem?nders to produce missiles for the Nazi regime as 
well the participation by missile specialists in the practice of slave labor have become 
the central points of controversy in the discourse about Peenem?nde generally.  For 
nearly fifty years after the war, most histories of the German ballistic missile program 
were written by participants themselves or their supporters.  The result was a 
narrative that both distanced their work from the regime that sponsored it while 
underplaying, misrepresenting, or downright ignoring their decisions about 
participation in the use of slave labor.
10
  In the late 1980s, in the wake of the Justice 
Department?s investigation of Arthur Rudolph, the Production Director at 
Peenem?nde and the slave labor factory at Mittelwerk, journalists began scrutinizing 
the Nazi past of the former Peenem?nders.  This work was valuable for the 
WVHA), The Business of Genocide: The SS, Slave Labor, and the Concentration Camps (Chapel Hill, 
NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2002; Michael Wildt?s qualitative study of the RSHA officer 
corps, Generation des Unbedingten: Das F?hrerkorps des Reichssicherheitshauptamt (Hamburg: 
Hamburger Edition, 2002); Eric A. Johnson?s study of the Krefeld Gestapo, Nazi Terror: The Gestapo, 
Jews, and Ordinary Germans (New York: Basic Books, 1999); and Hans Safrian?s work on Eichmann 
and the officers around him, Die Eichmann M?nner (Vienna: Europa Verlag, 1993).  Allen's useful 
book, which examines the cultural and ideological context in which SS business operations functioned, 
contains a chapter dedicated to the effort to manufacture the V-2.  In this chapter, he places ideology at 
the center of activities, missing, in my estimation, the connections between Peenem?nde and Dora-
Mittelbau, and therefore the other factors motivating work that resulted from this connection.
10
An excellent example of this type of work is Walter Dornberger?s V-2, Der Schuss ins Weltall: 
Geschichte einer Grossen Erfindung (Esslingen:  Bechtle Verlag, 1952).  It is a self-serving memoir 
that focuses on many technical aspects of the program and distances the rocket engineers from 
Himmler and the SS by ignoring the use of slave labor at Peenem?nde and Dora.  A decade later Dieter 
K. Huzel, an engineer in Peenem?nde and Wernher von Braun?s assistant, wrote Peenem?nde to 
Canaveral (Englewood Cliffs, CA: Prentice Hall, 1962), another memoir that focused on the technical 
development of the V-2 at the expense of raising self-reflective questions of the rocket engineers? 
complicity in Nazi crimes.  Peter Wegener?s memoir, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels: A Memoir (New 
Haven: Yale University Press, 1996) is the only work that does not whitewash their actions during the 
war.  Among the many examples of work written by other supporters of the Peenem?nders, see 
Thomas Franklin (pseudonym for Hugh McInnish), An American in Exile: The Story of Arthur 
Rudolph (Huntsville AL: Christopher Kaylor, 1987), Marsha Freeman, How We Got to the Moon: The 
Story of the German Space Pioneers (Washington DC: 21
st
 Century Science Associates, 1994).
10
documents it turned up, but unfortunately, it was much like that of the earlier work, 
painting a simplistic, though very different, picture of life in the Third Reich and the 
missile specialists? place in it.
11
  Thus, for nearly half a century, historians were left 
with a thoroughly incomplete understanding of one of the most significant 
technological endeavors of the twentieth century.
However, in 1995 Michael Neufeld addressed this oversight with his 
important book The Rocket and the Reich.  His work is an account of the 
technological and organizational history of the German ballistic missile program.  
According to Neufeld, the V-2 was ?the product of a narrow technological vision that 
obscured the strategic bankruptcy of the project.
12
  It was a weapon that had virtually 
no tactical or strategic value because it was wildly inaccurate and could only deliver a 
payload of one ton, scarcely more than a single American bomber.  Administrators of 
the project inflamed the expectations of the regime and used the regime?s polycratic 
struggles to establish the missile as Germany?s best chance to win the war.  Allied 
bombing raids provided the rationale for continued funding during the war, which 
was allocated at the expense of other more strategically valuable projects.  Moreover, 
according to Neufeld, the use of slave labor to mass produce the missile was a 
specifically Nazi, non-technocratic contribution to the program, not the result of 
11
 The most well known of these books is Linda Hunt, Secret Agenda: The United States Government, 
Nazi Scientists, and Project Paperclip (New York: St. Martin?s Press, 1991).  Another, less valuable 
book is Dennis Piskiewicz, The Nazi Rocketeers: Dreams of Space and Crimes of War (Westport, Ct: 
Praeger Press, 1995).  
12
 Michael J. Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich: Peenem?nde and the Coming of the Ballistic Missile 
Era (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 274.  Those seeking an excellent outline of the 
history of the program should start with this book.  In 1984, Heinz-Dieter H?lsken published the 
scholarly work Die V-Waffen: Entstehung ? Propaganda ? Kriegseinsatz (Stuttgart: Deutsche-Verlags 
Anstalt, 1984), but his work did not have access to the entire documentary record and fell prey to many 
of the myths about Peenem?nde established after the war.
11
rational decision making by the engineers developing the program or of any deeply 
held ideological beliefs they may have had.  In all, Neufeld shows that in the German 
context, such a huge technological leap forward would not have been possible 
without the megalomaniacal ambitions of National Socialism. 
In this dissertation, I argue the complementary converse, that while the grand 
designs of the Nazi regime were undoubtedly critical, such a task could also not have 
been accomplished without the willing identification of individual engineers and 
technicians with many of the same overblown ambitions.  The social, cultural, and 
political fabric at Peenem?nde inextricably bound the missile specialists to the goals 
of their institution and through them, to objectives of the regime itself.  Mike Neufeld 
necessarily focuses on the specialists? accomplishments as purely technological 
achievements, as ends themselves.  This dissertation examines the Peenem?nders? 
accomplishments not as technological statements, but as political and military ones.  
Such an approach changes the conception of missiles from ends themselves to means 
to an end, precisely what a weapon of war is.  In only five years, a nearly impossible 
period of time, missile specialists at Peenem?nde carried out one of the twentieth 
century?s most impressive technological achievements.  Such a stunning feat could 
indeed not have taken place without the willing and active identification of the 
Peenem?nders with the important work to which they were assigned.  Part and parcel 
of their connection with these goals was a willingness to set aside the priorities of all 
other groups and to engage in slave labor under some of the most horrific conditions 
in the Nazi empire.  The process by which the Peenem?nders came to internalize such 
imperious ambitions is at the center of this study.   
12
This dissertation is arranged both chronologically and thematically.  Chapter 
one examines the roots of rocket engineering in Weimar Germany.  The central 
feature of rocketry in this period was the collection of amateur rocket societies that 
were dedicated to the idea of spaceflight.  Perhaps the most important experimental 
facility was located in Reinickendorf, outside of Berlin, and had the impressive 
moniker Raketenflugplatz Berlin (Rocketport Berlin).  The members of the 
Raketenflugplatz were mostly unemployed engineers who were fascinated by the idea 
of space travel, and they commonly cast their work as an assertion of German cultural 
and national interest.  Radically new rocket technology was a statement of strength 
made by its practitioners on behalf of a nation that suffered so terribly in the wake of 
World War I.  Moreover, the common practices and shared conditions on the shop 
floor at the Raketenflugplatz acted to bind its members together into a closely-knit 
group that identified intensely with its work.  When the German Army began its own 
in-house missile program and was able to co-opt the services of the amateur 
rocketeers, the technological, economic, and nationalist interests of the 
Raketenflugplatz specialists began to be fulfilled, and the process by which their 
identities would be re-shaped as rocket specialists in the service of the state had 
begun.  
As the Army dedicated more and more resources to the work, it became clear 
that a new research facility was necessary.  Chapter two examines the rise of 
Peenem?nde and the framework within which Peenem?nde?s unique institutional 
culture would crystallize.  Missile specialists were drawn into a close cooperative 
relationship with authorities within the Nazi regime through a combination of military 
13
decisions, professional aspirations, and demands for secrecy.  The steadily 
strengthening Army made its commitment to missile technology clear.  Wild 
rearmament in the 1930s gave the specialists a first-rate research facility on the Baltic 
coast that was the most closely guarded secret in the nation.  The secrecy around this 
project had important implications for the formation of the engineers? group identity 
as missile specialists in the service of the Nazi state.  It fostered a sense of 
community, privilege, and loyalty, in addition to an overriding sense of observation 
by the authorities that set the framework for their future efforts on behalf of the 
regime that sponsored their work.  In this way, the practice of missile engineering at 
Peenem?nde was influenced both positively and negatively by its association with the 
Nazi state.
Chapter three analyzes the life and work of specialists inside the Peenem?nde 
research station.  Those who worked at the facility, which was somewhere between 
an army base and a utopian social experiment, recalled their years there as some of 
the best of their lives.  Engineers and scientists, most of whom would have been 
drafted into the Army to serve at the front if not for their work, were positively 
thrilled about being hired or assigned to Peenem?nde.  The development work, so 
profoundly advanced and playing about the edges of science fiction, was supremely 
exciting.  Many of them bonded personally and professionally while making many 
radical technological leaps forward.  The tasks at Peenem?nde deeply satisfied many 
of their personal and professional goals.  At the same time, engineers who designed 
and built the missile base made sure that the specialists were afforded spacious, 
comfortable housing for them and their families.  Community life at Peenem?nde was 
14
distinctly pleasant.  Inhabitants of the small, enclosed settlement established tight 
bonds with each other by holding many social events and partaking in the many 
leisure and recreation opportunities on their island base.  These activities helped 
solidify their identification with each other and established the community of 
?Peenem?nders,? a group of professionally and personally like-minded people whose 
shared circumstances fostered close bonds of personal familiarity and professional 
friendship.
This work, however, was not entirely set in an apolitical, technocratic 
environment.  It was clear to these Peenem?nders, who owed their identities and 
professional lives to the Nazi regime, that their work was being carried out in order to 
defend the government that made their work possible.  They were to develop and 
produce a powerful weapon for which there was no defense, and they were to do so as 
quickly as possible.  That they were doing so for a regime that embarked on a war 
that engulfed the continent, openly persecuted Jews, homosexuals, and others, and 
enslaved foreign civilians, was not a matter of particular concern for them.  A number 
of them even embraced Nazi political and military goals.  Those who were not 
necessarily committed Nazis still accepted the National Socialist rhetoric in which 
their work was cast.  Their comfortable personal lives and profound professional 
satisfaction, all established within a framework of intense secrecy that tended to stunt 
the development of contrary positions, led to the nearly automatic adherence to 
Peenem?nde?s central mission of developing an unstoppable weapon that could be 
used to defend the Nazi state.  Their concerns were central.  Those of other groups 
paled by comparison.
15
This dynamic led the Peenem?nders to consent to one of the most heinous acts 
of cruelty during the Nazi years.  Chapter four examines the decision by Peenem?nde 
managers to employ slave labor in the mass production of the V-2.  Specialists at 
Peenem?nde actively sought out slave labor as a solution to the increasingly pressing 
labor shortages that were occurring across Germany and welcomed the contributions 
of the SS in this regard.  Chapter four also analyzes the treatment of forced and slave 
laborers who worked at Peenem?nde.  An important dynamic established itself at the 
base, in which unskilled foreign labor suffered poor treatment, extremely arduous 
work, and impossible living conditions, while skilled labor, because of the its value 
for the project, enjoyed better treatment, easier work, and more comfortable housing.  
Those prisoners who were in a position to directly help the Peenem?nders and their 
work received much better treatment than those who were involved in more menial 
construction and materials transport work.  Peenem?nde specialists made no efforts to 
alleviate the condition of those unfortunate laborers who were not lucky enough to 
possess the skills that would enable them to assemble a functional ballistic missile.  
This was a pattern that would be reflected, with much more catastrophic results, at the 
notorious slave labor of Dora-Mittelbau.  The Peenem?nders? narrowed ethical 
outlook, a result of their strong identification with each other and the goals of their 
project, meant that the concerns of others barely weighed in the balance.
The terrible result of this was ready accommodation to increasingly barbarous 
slave labor in the missile program in 1943 and after.  Chapter five examines the 
actions of Peenem?nde specialists who were engaged in mass production in the 
terrifying slave labor factory of Mittelwerk.  The missile program?s mid-level 
16
managers who carried out their tasks at Mittelwerk proved to be willing collaborators 
with the SS, which supplied labor for the factory and set the overall conditions for its 
use, because both groups strongly identified with the military and technical goals of 
the missile project itself.  Former Peenem?nde specialists assumed important 
positions in the factory in which they had to make daily decisions that directly 
affected the lives and well-being of slave laborers who worked on the shop floor.  
Their strong identification with the program?s objectives, the major professional 
advances that they made in the move to Mittelwerk, and, it must be noted, a 
dramatically increased feeling of personal coercion to conduct the work successfully, 
combined to ensure the civilian specialists? utmost dedication to their production 
tasks.  The same dynamic as at Peenem?nde, in which management viewed skilled
labor as a valuable commodity and treated it as such while not concerning themselves 
with the fate of unskilled labor, rapidly took shape at Mittelwerk.  The result was a 
dynamic in which decisions about human value were made based on criteria of 
function and skill, while humanitarian considerations did not fit into the equation at 
all.      
Chapter six shifts the focus back to the experts at Peenem?nde.  In the last 
eighteen months of the war, the missile program was buffeted by major bureaucratic 
conflict at the highest levels of the regime.  The increased influence of the 
Armaments Ministry and SS, along with the Army?s weakening influence, opened up 
gray areas of influence in which these organizations each sought greater control.  
However, these conflicts were attenuated by the close cooperation between 
individuals in these organizations at the level of middle and lower management.  The 
17
Peenem?nders? expertise made them irreplaceable, while their shared dedication to 
the program?s goals made them willing collaborators with other organizations.  This 
working arrangement was the model for the solution to the administrative conflicts at 
the top of the program. 
Moreover, over the course of 1944 and early 1945, the missile specialists at 
Peenem?nde worked furiously to reverse Germany?s fortunes in the war.  This was a 
period of immense technological creativity that was characterized by both a steady 
advance in missile technology and the development of new weapons that sometimes 
were no more than desperation projects borne of technological fantasy.  In both cases, 
the scientists, engineers, and technicians at Peenem?nde prosecuted their work with 
phenomenal effort.  This chapter confirms Karl-Heinz Ludwig?s influential thesis on 
Selbstmobilisierung (self-mobilization), the notion that engineers under the Nazis 
went far beyond the normal call of duty in their daily work.
13
  The Peenem?nders 
never flagged in their technical dedication to missile technology and, therefore, the 
regime that sponsored them.  In this way, they made their own technological 
contribution to the cumulative radicalization that took place in Nazi Germany in the 
last months of the war.  Their experience at Peenem?nde, a place characterized by its 
utter secrecy, tightly-knit community, fascinating work, and persistent political 
rhetoric, fully imbued them with the idea that their livelihoods depended entirely 
13
 Karl-Heinz Ludwig, Technik und Ingenieure im Dritten Reich (D?sseldorf: Droste Verlag, 1974).  
Ludwig examined the socio-political conduct of engineers under the Nazis generally.  His work 
remains seminal in the historiography on technology in Nazi Germany.   For studies that followed on 
and reinforced his work, see, for example, Jeffrey Herf, Reactionary Modernism: Technology, Culture, 
and Politics in Weimar and the Third Reich (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1984), and 
somewhat more recently, Helmuth Trischler, ?Self-Mobilization or Resistance? Aeronautical Research 
and National Socialism,? in Monika Renneberg and Mark Walker, eds., Science, Technology, and 
National Socialism (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994). 
18
upon the continued service to the state, and they were bent on doing everything they 
could to ensure its survival.
In a recent essay, Norbert Frei has argued that it is necessary to look at periods 
of ?normalcy? under the Nazis and ask what kind of effect they had on the lives of 
regular Germans.  He holds that ?One must take into account collective feelings and 
subjective experiences which in part seemed to be more positive than was to be 
expected under the objective political circumstance of a dictatorship.?
14
  This 
dissertation is an effort to do exactly that.  Consensus and collaboration under the 
Nazis was not achieved by the dynamic established because of an individual?s or a 
group?s repression and avoidance.  Rather, the positive integration of individuals into 
a collective that body that believed in the goals of the Nazi project was central to the 
success of Hitler?s regime.
15
  Like many Germans, those at Peenem?nde shared some 
of the same goals as many of the most ardent members of the regime.  Many of the 
megalomaniacal ambitions of the Third Reich would not have been as successful as 
they were any other way. 
14
 Norbert Frei, ?Peoples? Community and War: Hitler?s Popular Support,? in Hans Mommsen, ed., 
The Third Reich Between Vision and Reality: New Perspectives on German History, 1918-1945 (New 
York: Berg, 2001).
15
 Despite its problems, Goldhagen?s Hitler?s Willing Executioners revealed a dearth of historical 
research on the circumstances surrounding the positive, integrationist aspects of the Nazi regime.  
Apart from its flaws, it addressed the very important question of what it was that Germans wanted 
from the regime.  A German tradition of ?eliminationist anti-Semitism? may not be the answer, but 
Goldhagen?s focus on the question is welcome.  
Chapter 1
  ?Help Build the Spaceship!?:  Culture and Community in German 
Rocketry, 1924-1934 
Liquid fueled rocket development in the Weimar era was shaped in complex 
and important ways by a combination of amateur rocketeers and professional military 
men.  The amateur rocket enthusiasts, who worked under preposterously primitive 
conditions, began to develop a social and cultural life during this time that heavily 
influenced the way they viewed their work.  The nationalist sentiments of their 
associational life combined with cultural factors specific to their specialized technical 
world to reinforce both their dedication to rocket development and its potential 
contributions to the German nation.  In 1934, Army-imposed restrictions on their 
work only buttressed this dedication by adding the promise of improved working 
conditions while forcibly erecting a cultural barrier between practitioners of rocketry 
and the outside world.  The effect of these restrictions laid the groundwork for a 
subtle, yet influential professional elitism that would play a major role in the cultural 
lives of the engineers during the years of the Nazi regime.
Many historians and sociologists have stressed that scientific and 
technological development cannot be understood only in terms of what scientists and 
engineers do ?on the shop floor.?  They emphasize the significance, for example, of 
examining practical and ideological alliances between engineers, and military leaders, 
politicians, or consumers.
1
  This chapter follows their lead by approaching the lives of 
1
 See, for example, Ulrich Albrecht, ?Military Technology and National Socialist Ideology,? in 
Science, Technology, and National Socialism, Mark Walker and Monika Renneberg, eds., (Cambridge: 
Cambridge University Press, 1994), Mario Biagioli, Galileo Courtier: The Practice of Science in the 
Culture of Absolutism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), Wiebe Bijker and John Law, eds., 
20
both amateur and Army engineers not with an analysis of their technical 
accomplishments, but rather with an eye toward an understanding of how their 
technical feats were reinscribed in the political, social, and cultural world of the 
engineers themselves.  For those developing this technology, the rocket was endowed 
with the powerful ability to guide the German nation out of the misery imposed by 
the victors of World War I while fending off the hostile intentions of competitive 
nations.  By casting their results of their work in this light, the engineers implicitly 
made themselves part and parcel of German renewal.  This began a process of moral 
and cultural self-definition that was augmented and expanded as the engineers went 
from working independently in small groups to working for the Reichswehr and then 
for the Nazi regime at Peenem?nde. 
Historians who have examined this period of rocket development have done 
so either by emphasizing technological advances or by casting the rocket engineers as 
apolitical technocrats who were only interested in creating a functional rocket.  They 
often emphasize the work of energetic and creative individuals at the expense of the 
group dynamic that emerged among Weimar rocketeers. 
2
  These approaches do not 
Shaping Technology/Building Society: Studies in Sociotechnical Change (Cambridge: MIT Press, 
1992), Eric Brose, The Politics of Technological Change in Prussia: Out of the Shadow of Antiquity, 
1809-1848 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), Bruno Latour, Science in Action: How to 
Follow Scientists and Engineers Through Society (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987), and 
Donald Mackenzie, Inventing Accuracy: A Historical Sociology of Nuclear Missile Guidance 
(Cambridge: MIT Press, 1990).
2
 While there are a great many books written by journalists and others who combine sensationalism 
with a simplistic view of life in the Third Reich or cite the memoirs of the participants uncritically, 
work by historians has been sparse. For historians? work, see Michael Neufeld, The Rocket and the 
Reich: Peenem?nde and the Coming of the Ballistic Missile Era (Cambridge: Harvard University 
Press, 1996), who emphasizes the independence and apolitical and opportunistic nature of the rocket 
engineers.  See also Frank Winter, Prelude to the Space Age, The Rocket Societies: 1924-1940
(Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1983), who closely follows the technical 
development of liquid fueled rocketry.  Both histories under-emphasize the role that nationalism 
played in technological advance, thereby overlooking the geopolitical implications that German 
21
develop the social, cultural, and political dimensions of the movement, which played 
a crucial role in shaping both the world of the amateur rocket enthusiast.  While their 
work has been invaluable, this chapter breaks with their analytical approaches and 
addresses three important, yet overlooked issues.  The first is the nationalist rhetoric 
in which many of the leading engineers who worked on rockets cast their work.  This 
rhetoric was important for the ways in which it helped influential conservatives 
reconcile themselves with technological advance.  It also conditioned the engineers to 
look favorably upon cooperation with the German military.  A second, related issue is 
the subtle politicization of aviation and rocket technology that the leading rocket 
engineers engaged in.  Their discourse tapped into the German fear of foreign 
dominance that was a legacy of the Treaty of Versailles and offered a way out from 
under the heel of Germany?s oppressors.  Finally, this chapter emphasizes the 
communal factors that formed the framework of the engineers? cultural world.  Bonds 
formed in the course of their work both reinforced the dedication of the engineers to 
each other and excluded those who could not conform to the norms that the work 
environment created.  All of these issues factored in to the cultural world of rocket 
engineering in the 1920s and ?30s.
I also wish to emphasize that this chapter is by no means an exhaustive history 
of rocket development in the Weimar era.  A great many technicians and engineers 
engaged with varying success in the pursuit of rocketry.  Their story has capably been 
written elsewhere.
3
  I examine only the two most important groups involved in this 
profession: the large amateur group based in Breslau (with its most advanced cadre of 
engineers ascribed to their work.  They also ignore the group dynamic that helped create an 
environment conducive to large technological advances.
3
 See the work of Neufeld and Winter noted above.
22
engineers in Berlin), and a small but talented collection of engineers working together 
in private industry.  These two groups would go on to constitute the core leadership 
personnel of the Army rocket program under the Nazi regime.
Finally, an explanatory note on the sources is necessary.  There is a paucity of 
available documents relating to rocket engineering in this period.  The amateur rocket 
groups in Weimar did not keep extensive records of their work.  The great dearth of 
money and raw material available as well as the ad hoc nature of their work combined 
to limit both the volume of documents they produced and any systematic record 
keeping of these documents.  Moreover, those documents and artifacts that were 
produced in the 1920s and ?30s were almost all lost during World War II.  Therefore, 
any attempt at a thorough investigation of this period must resort to the large number 
of memoirs written by participants in events of the period.  While this approach 
inevitably holds the potential for problems, as memoirists obviously write with the 
wisdom of hindsight and often construct a memory of events that is at odds with the 
reality of them, this strategy is also useful.  Unfortunately, many memoirs of the 
rocketry in Germany do not always place the events they describe in the proper 
chronological order, nor are the details of certain events accurately recalled.  Some, 
like Walter Dornberger?s memoir V-2, even gloss over more controversial issues in 
later periods, such as the use of slave labor later during the war.  However, they are 
invaluable for the insight they offer about the professional and cultural lives of the 
rocket engineers because the details of these lives are often so mundane that they 
warrant no ex post facto concern over moral or political malfeasance.  Moreover, for 
the purposes of this study, errors of factual detail because of temporal distance are of 
23
secondary concern.  Rather, the participants? ruminations on the cultural life of rocket 
development are far more important and, insofar as that cultural life developed over 
time, the importance of the chronology of technological development recedes into the 
background.  In the end, it is the impressions of participants such as Willy Ley, 
Walter Dornberger, and Wernher von Braun that take precedence over their own 
chronological and factual accuracy.
Amateur Rocketry in the Weimar Republic
The large scale development of rocketry in Weimar Germany emerged from 
two distinct cultural groups.  A small, dedicated group of engineers and technicians, 
augmented by the odd swindler and con-man, proved highly adept at fostering a 
nascent spaceflight movement among Germans in the middle of the 1920s.  In short 
order, German military officials became intrigued by developments in the field of 
liquid fueled rocketry.  They were eager to both rebuild the power of the German 
army and undercut the restrictions placed upon their military by the Treaty of 
Versailles.  To this end, they sought new and original forms of weapons technology 
that would not be covered under the articles of the Treaty and therefore not subject to 
legal restrictions.  These two groups began to forge strong connections with each 
other in the late 1920s and early 1930s.  By the time of the Nazi seizure of power in 
1933, they had established meaningful links that developed into a complex web of 
dependency that both subtly and overtly reinforced the dedication of one to the other.  
The bonds forged between amateur rocketeers and professional military men 
24
constituted the foundation upon which the massive installations at both Peenem?nde 
and Dora-Mittelbau would function so successfully and terribly years later.
During the 1920s, rocketry and space travel were exceedingly popular in 
Germany.
4
  This popularity is central to an understanding of the rocketeers? social and 
cultural environment.
5
  Technological advance played a central role in the 
advancement of the cultural life of the German nation.  What Detlev Peukert has 
termed Machbarkeitswahn, an erroneous belief that human intelligence could master 
all of the challenges of the modern world, so common in all Western nations at the 
turn of the century, spurred, among other things, a technological, technocratic 
impulse that was part of the legacy of the nineteenth century.
6
  Society was to be built 
on ambitious programs of social hygiene, industrial might, and foreign imperialism.  
4
 Asif Siddiqi?s emerging work on rocketry in the Soviet Union convincingly argues that amateur 
rocketry was more popular there than anywhere else.  For an introduction to this topic, see his article, 
?The Rocket?s Red Glare: Technology, Conflict, and Terror in the Soviet Union,? Technology and 
Culture 44/3 (July 2003), p. 470-501.   
5
To be sure, historians have addressed the intersection of technology and culture in German history, 
but they have most often done so with a focus on the intellectual elite rather than ?ordinary? Germans, 
who were forced to come to terms with technological advance no less than the German intelligentsia. 
See Geoff Eley, Reshaping the German Right: Radical Nationalism and Political Change After 
Bismarck (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980), Jeffrey Herf, Reactionary Modernism: 
Technology, Culture, and Politics in Weimar and the Third Reich (New York: Cambridge University 
Press, 1984), and Karl Heinz Ludwig, Technik und Ingenieure im Dritten Reich (Dusseldorf: Droste, 
1974). Reactionary Modernism offers an excellent analysis of the conservative reconciliation with 
technology, but unfortunately restricts itself to the intellectual elite and misses much of the popular 
assessment of technology before and after World War I.  By and large, historians of German popular 
culture have ignored the history of technology as it pertains to their field.  Two exceptions are 
Guillaume de Syon, Zeppelin! Germany and the Airship, 1900-1939 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins 
University Press, 2002), and Peter Fritzsche, A Nation of Flyers: German Aviation and the Popular 
Imagination (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992).  Clausberg?s book focuses on the history of 
the German imperial Zeppelin fascination, while Fritzsche connects the Imperial, Weimar and Nazi 
periods and examines the popular cultural movements that the idea of flight engendered.  See also 
Chrisoph Asendorf, Super Constellation ? Flugzeug und Raumrevolution: die Wirkung der Luftfahrt 
auf Kunst und Kultur der Moderne (New York: Springer, 1997).  Most recently, Michael Neufeld has 
examined popular rocketry explicitly.  See his article, ?Weimar Culture and Futuristic Technology: 
The Rocketry and Spaceflight Fad in Germany, 1923-1933,? in Technology and Culture 31 (October 
1990).  Neufeld?s article is enlightening, but also problematic.  While he notes the popular nationalism 
prevalent in Weimar, he pays little attention to the politicized rhetoric in which the most well-known 
group cast its work.
6
Detlev Peukert, ?The Genesis of the Final Solution from the Spirit of Science,? in David Crew, ed., 
Nazism and German Society, 1933-1945 (New York: Routledge, 1994).
25
Moreover, the state was to be the vehicle by which these programs would be enacted.
7
Seen in this way, technological advance fed a popular nationalism that was hardly 
mitigated by the fury of World War I.  Especially in post-war Germany, technological 
achievements upheld a durable sense of common national purpose in an otherwise 
fractured environment of disenchantment and depression.  For some, the rocket was 
emblematic of the ability of technological advance to function as a spur to national 
renewal.
Liquid fueled rockets and manned space travel first began to receive serious 
attention in Germany in 1923, with the publication of Hermann Oberth?s 
groundbreaking book Die Rakete zu den Planetenr?umen (The Rocket into 
Interplanetary Space).  Oberth, born on June 25, 1894 in Sibiu, Transylvania, was the 
son of a German physician.  After his service in the Austro-Hungarian army during 
World War I, he studied physics at Cluj in Romania, but after a year, moved on to 
study in Munich, G?ttingen, and Heidelberg, Germany.  In 1917, his proposal to the 
German Armaments Ministry to build a large, liquid fueled rocket was rejected on the 
grounds that the Armaments Ministry thought the task impossible.
8
  When he was 
twenty-nine years old, he published his seminal book which would go on to become, 
as one historian has put it, ?the cornerstone of the Space Age.?
9
7
E.L. Jones, The European Miracle: Environments, Economies, and Geopolitics in the History of 
Europe and Asia (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987).  See also Michael Adas, Machines 
as the Measure of Men: Science, Technology and Ideologies of Western Dominance (Ithaca, NY: 
Cornell University Press, 1989).
8
 Hermann Oberth, unpublished essay, ?My Contributions to Astronautics,? XVIII International 
Astronautics Congress, First History of Astronautics Symposium, ?Pre-1939 Memoirs of 
Astronautics,? September 26, 1967, 8, in National Air and Space Museum (NASM) File ?Germany, 
1920-1923.?
9
Frank Winter, Rockets Into Space (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1990), 18-19.
26
Die Rakete zu den Planetenr?umen, at eighty-seven pages, was by all 
accounts a short volume, but it covered nearly every important detail of space flight, 
including propulsion, guidance, life support, and re-entry.  Moreover, it offered a 
vigorous, if turgid, defense of the concept of manned space flight.  Removing the idea 
of space flight from the realm of science fiction, the book made interplanetary travel a 
solvable engineering problem that only lay a few years into the future.  Though 
Konstantin Tsiolkovsky arrived at similar conclusions before Oberth and Goddard 
contributed much to the discussion of the idea of spaceflight, their conclusions were 
almost totally inaccessible to the lay public.
10
  One of Oberth?s great contributions in 
his volume was the accessibility and availability of much of his work.  Though by no 
means a simple book, it was far more available than Tsiolkovsky?s writings, none of 
which appeared in the West between 1903 and 1923, and far bolder than Goddard?s 
cautious work. Thick with complex mathematical equations as it was, it remained 
accessible enough to the layperson so that it was able to energize its readers with the 
possibility of space travel.
11
Oberth?s book offered a number novel ideas.  First, he argued that the state of 
technology in the 1920s made it possible for man-made machines to climb ?higher 
than the earth?s atmosphere.?  In addition, these machines could be made capable of 
carrying human beings in relative comfort.  Also, while more work remained to be 
done, man-made machines could actually achieve escape velocity and breach the 
Earth?s atmosphere.  Finally, he argued that within a few decades, these space ships 
10
Tsiolkovsky?s Exploration of Cosmic Space by Means of Reaction Devices appeared in Russia in 
1911, and Goddard?s famous paper ?A Method of Reaching Extreme Altitudes? was published in 
1920.  See Winter, Rockets Into Space, 10-11, 17-18.  Oberth had never even heard of Tsiolkovsky 
until 1924.  Oberth, ?My Contributions,? 17.
11
Hermann Oberrth, Die Rakete zu den Planetenr?umen Reprint (Nuremberg: Uni-Verlag, 1960).
27
were almost certain to be profitable ?under certain conditions? which remained 
largely unspecified in his book.
12
Absent from Oberth?s book were pronouncements of nationalist goals or 
statements of political inclination.  For the most part, Oberth avoided bold statements 
of loyalty in favor of strict adherence to what one might characterize as scientific 
neutrality, and he did so throughout his career.  He preferred to focus on the practical 
and theoretical problems of space travel rather than engage in the polemics that so 
many of his scientific and technical colleagues found themselves embroiled in during 
the turbulent years of the Weimar Republic.  In the years to come, this ?neutrality? 
would become a false front once the Nazi regime began to invest heavily in the 
development of science and technology at Peenem?nde, but in the early 1920s, 
without the political and financial backing of the state, Oberth was careful to remain 
largely apolitical concerning the theoretical possibilities of space travel and its 
associated technology.
Nevertheless, German conservatives were quick to seize upon Oberth?s 
achievement.  The Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung (DAZ), a right wing newspaper 
closely aligned with German industrial interests, published a glowing review of Die 
Rakete zu den Planetenr?umen.  First noting its relationship to the work of Robert 
Goddard, the DAZ went on to report the ?happy news? that a German engineer had 
been devoting a great deal of his time to the problem of space travel ?with German 
thoroughness.?  While admitting that the technical means of rocket travel had not yet 
been realized, the DAZ did not question the idea that a rocket would be sent up to a 
height of one hundred kilometers within a short time.  Moreover, the newspaper was 
12
 Oberth, Die Rakete, 7.
28
quick to attach great significance to Oberth?s German heritage.  ?For us,? the 
newspaper jubilantly proclaimed, ?it is an uplifting feeling that in these years of the 
deepest distress of Germandom, a German engineer has carried out valuable work 
toward a solution of this technical problem.?
13
  In celebrating Oberth?s work as well 
as part and parcel of his nationality (despite his Rumanian citizenship), the DAZ 
helped to publicize Oberth?s radical technological ideas in Weimar?s influential 
conservative circles.  It also helped to reconcile his ideas with many conservatives? 
deep fears of modern technology.
14
 By drawing the conclusion that the inspiration for 
the rocket lay in Oberth?s German heritage, the DAZ made it clear that it was the 
German spirit that inspired technological advance and which could rescue the nation 
from its ?deepest distress.?  The Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung?s  search for signs of 
German renewal in Oberth?s work pointed to a nascent link between the interests of 
German rocket enthusiasts and the nationalist right wing in Weimar.
Nationalist interests aside, Oberth did openly acknowledge the possibility of 
using a rocket as a weapon that could sow mass destruction.  A noteworthy passage in
his 1929 book Wege zur Raumschiffahrt (Paths to Space Travel), a more rigorous 
development of the ideas first raised in Die Rakete zu den Planetenr?umen, Oberth 
pointed out that the value of rockets was not just in transportation, but in weaponry as 
well.  He raised the possibility of using rockets to engage in chemical warfare by 
equipping the warheads with poison gas.  Oberth also suggested the fanciful idea of 
setting up a space station and equipping it with mirrors that could redirect the sun?s 
13
 ?Die Raketen zu den Planeten,? Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung, December 2, 1923.  See also Neufeld, 
?Weimar Culture,? 744.
14
 See Herf, Reactionary Modernism, for a full exploration of the conservatives? conflicted feelings 
about modern technology.
29
energy, changing local weather patterns and laying waste to entire cities.
15
This 
admission, though brief, is important.  It is an early acknowledgment by a civilian of 
the rocket?s possibilities as a tool of destruction, rather than solely a scientific 
instrument imbued only with positive, constructive attributes.  This is significant 
because a primary component of the master narrative constructed by rocket engineers 
in the years after World War II was that they were never interested in building 
weapons of war and that they were forced into producing missiles that Germany 
could rain down on its enemies with impunity by a brutal dictatorial regime which 
brooked no opposition.  I shall return to this point at greater length later in this 
chapter and again later in the dissertation, but it is clear that the early rocket pioneers, 
while not necessarily devoted militarists, were at least open to the possibility using 
the fruits of their labor for less than humanitarian purposes. 
In any case, Oberth?s early work was not immediately embraced by academia 
or by the lay public.  As a doctoral dissertation, Die Rakete was rejected in 1922 by 
Max Wolf at the University of Heidelberg because of its unorthodox subject matter, 
and the high strung Oberth was fated to suffer the slings and arrows of other members 
of academia for some time after the book was published a year later.    Moreover, 
once published in 1923, sales of Oberth?s book were initially sluggish.
16
  However, 
Die Rakete did inspire a number of German authors to compose their own books on 
the possibilities of space travel.  These included Max Valier?s Der Vorstoss in den 
Weltenraum: eine technische M?glichkeit (The Thrust into Interplanetary Space: A 
15
 Hermann Oberth, Wege zur Raumschiffahrt reprint (Bucharest: Kriterion, 1974), 199-200.  Wernher 
von Braun, ?Reminiscences of German Rocketry,? Journal of the British Interplanetary Society 70 
(May/June 1956), 145.
16
Oberth, ?My Contributions,? 16.  Hans Barth, Hermann Oberth: Leben, Werk, und Auswirkung auf 
die sp?tere Raumfahrtentwicklung (Feucht: Uni-Verlag, 1985), 75-76, 93.
30
Technical Possibility ? 1924), Walter Hohmann?s Die Erreichbarkeit der 
Himmelsk?rper: Untersuchungen ?ber das Raumfahrtproblem (The Attainability of 
Celestial Bodies: Investigations into the Problem of Space Travel ? 1925), and 
Hermann Noordung?s Das Problem der Befahrung des Weltraums: Der Raketen-
Motor (The Problem of Space Travel: The Rocket Motor ? 1929).
17
  The most 
noteworthy of these disciples was Max Valier.  
Valier was born on February 9, 1895 in Bolzen (Bolsano) in South Tyrol.  He 
began his academic career by studying physics at Innsbruck from 1913-1915.  From
1915-1918, he served as a pilot in the Austro-Hungarian armed forces on both the 
Italian and Russian fronts, as well as in Rumania.  After the war, he studied 
astronomy, meteorology, and mathematics in Munich and Vienna.  The dynamic 
Austrian, an author of a number of books and articles on the occult as well as the 
pseudo-scientific idea of ?glacial cosmogony,? wrote to Oberth about a possible 
collaboration to further the ideas first introduced in Die Rakete.
18
  Oberth complied 
and sent Valier a number of calculations.  Valier?s effort, the semi-popular Der 
Vorstoss in den Weltenraum, was by no means an academically rigorous book.  For 
that matter, it contained a number of glaring errors that spoke volumes about Valier?s 
misunderstanding of Oberth?s work.  However, Valier was an irrepressible and 
energetic salesman with a gift for speaking and writing, and his book sold briskly, 
17
Max Valier, Der Vorstoss in den Weltenraum: eine technische M?glichkeit (Munich: Oldenbourg, 
1924);Walter Hohmann, Die Errichbarkeit der Himmelsk?rper: Untersuchungen uber das
Raumfahrtproblem (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1925); Hermann Noordung, Das Problem der Befahrung 
des Weltraums: Der Raketen-Motor (Berlin: Schmidt, 1929).
18
 ?Glacial Cosmogony? a theory first devised by Hans H?rbiger, held, among other things, that the 
planets and moon were coated with ice.  Ilse Essers, Max Valier: Pioneer of Space Travel (NASA 
Technical Translation TTF-664) (Washington, DC: 1976) 94-95.  Barth, Hermann Oberth, 106.
31
going into a second printing in 1925.
19
  Valier?s former colleague Hans H?rbiger 
wrote somewhat disdainfully of Valier?s talents that ?He needs a topic to make his 
name a household word all over the world, to spread the impact of his writings and to 
fill his lecture halls, since he has to make a living for himself and his two families.  
And he is an excellent speaker who does not need to use any notes.  But he also needs 
a gripping subject ? and space flight makes converts of the most cautious adherents, 
while the mysticism of the WEL [Glacial Cosmogany] requires a public with greater 
technical background in order to generate some cash flow.?
20
  Despite H?rbiger?s 
distaste of Valier, whom he felt had abandoned him to pursue the glamorous field of 
rocketry, Der Vorstoss helped increase the sales of Oberth?s book.  In the end, it was 
Valier who proved to be the most adept at popularizing Oberth?s ideas.
Valier toured Austria and Germany in an effort to promote his and Oberth?s 
work.  He made numerous lecture stops at the same time as he tirelessly wrote 
illustrated articles on spaceflight in magazines and newspapers, many of which were 
quite well-received.
21
  In his articles and speaking engagements, Valier made no 
effort to disguise his ardent nationalism. Like the conservative editors of the DAZ, he 
linked the accomplishments of rocketry and spaceflight with the triumph of an innate 
German spirit.  Valier?s lecture programs provide an example that captures both the 
salesmanship and nationalist spirit of Valier?s efforts.  In a lecture program that he 
had printed for a tour he made in support of Der Vorstoss, Valier wrote that his 
lecture, ?Despite its perfect scientific seriousness, it also sensationally brings to all 
listeners an undreamt-of enrichment of knowledge, an abundance of instruction, and 
19
Neufeld, ?Weimar Culture,? 730. 
20
 Horbiger to Ley, June 12, 1927, in NASM File ?Germany, 1920-1940, Correspondence.?
21
Essers, Max Valier, 62, 123.
32
enlightenment of the mysteries of the universe and their solutions through science and 
technology.  Holding [the lecture] promotes in all parts of Germany the execution of 
this grand work of German spirit and daring.?
22
  Florid language aside, Valier?s 
strong, if amorphous, nationalism is clear.  For him, the pursuit of space travel, with 
all of its risks and rewards, was a task perfectly suited for a bold German nation.  
Such a task captured the individual inventor spirit that German scientists and 
engineers closely associated with their nationality.  
Moreover, in the politically charged environment of Weimar Germany, 
Valier?s discourse on innovations in technology assumed a dangerous and partisan 
aspect.  In the field of aviation, the growth of gliding and commercial flight, the 
establishment in 1925 of Germany?s semi-public airline Luft Hansa, and the trans-
oceanic voyages of the massive Zeppelin airships were all inscribed with powerful 
nationalist meaning.  German aviation pointed the way to a new, more robust nation 
that could meet the demands of ever-growing international competition and renewed
contests for empire.  Aviation redrew the world map by establishing an 
unprecedented proximity that had fundamental military and political consequences.  
Technology, whether Germans liked it or not, would point the way toward a more 
prosperous future.
23
  Valier?s work was thoroughly imbued with this language of 
increased national competition.  For example, in the English language periodical 
Aviation Mechanics, Valier wrote of his desire to establish ongoing trans-Atlantic 
rocket flights.  After proclaiming the geopolitical importance of creating the world?s 
22
 Lecture Program, ?Der Vorstoss in den Weltenraum,? c. 1927, found in NASM file ?Max Valier.?
23
 Fritzsche, A Nation of Flyers, 132-184, and Syon, Zeppelin.  By 1931, Oberth would also place great 
value on the ability of rocket-equipped planes to shorten the flying time between two distant points.  
Hermann Oberth, ?Der Raketenantrieb bei Flugzeugen,? Flug 10 (October, 1931).
33
fastest link between Berlin and New York, Valier wrote, ?I want to state that it is not 
?speed mania? which impels me to set the travel time [between Berlin and New York] 
so low; but it is a matter of technical and economic necessities [sic].?
24
  In justifying 
his desires in terms of economic and technological need, Valier acknowledged a 
prevalent feeling among Germans that aviation technology was an important way for 
Germany to parry its neighbors? competitive and hostile intentions.  His writings 
situated him among those intellectuals for whom technological progress was a 
necessary step in both the protection and advancement of the German nation.
By 1927, Valier?s tireless efforts led to the formation of the Verein f?r 
Raumschiffahrt (Society for Space Ship Travel ? VfR).  Willy Ley, another space 
enthusiast who wrote about space travel, received a letter from Valier early in that 
year.  In it, Valier recommended to Ley that a club be organized in order to raise 
money for rocket experiments.  He went on to suggest that Ley contact Johannes 
Winkler in Breslau (now Wroclaw, Poland), an engineer who would know how to go 
about setting up such a venture.  Ley contacted Winkler, who agreed to Valier?s 
scheme, and on July 5, the VfR held its first meeting.
25
The purpose of the VfR, according to its charter members, including Valier 
and Winkler, was to develop large spacecraft ?which can be ultimately developed by 
their pilots and sent to the stars.?
26
  Above all, its membership earnestly desired to 
experiment, but in reality the VfR spent most of its time raising funds.  In addition to 
membership dues, the VfR made much of its money by organizing recruitment drives 
to increase membership and by selling cheap souvenirs.  Indeed, its leadership was 
24
Max Valier, ?Berlin to New York in One Hour,? Aviation Mechanics 4 (Nov.-Dec. 1930).
25
 Ley, Rockets, 136-137; Winter, Prelude, 35.
26
 ?Verein f?r Raumschiffahrt, E.V.,? Die Rakete, 1 (July 1927), 82. 
34
quite adept at recruiting new members.  Within a year of its founding, the society 
counted its members in the hundreds.  By late 1929, that number reached over 1000.
27
In 1927, less than a month after its establishment, nearly twenty percent of the VfR?s 
members were engineers.
28
  No data exists for membership of engineers beyond 1927, 
but it can reasonably be assumed that this number increased as many well-known 
names in rocketry, including Robert Esnault-Pelterie, Hermann Noordnung, and 
Oberth himself enrolled in the VfR.
29
  The society?s organ, Die Rakete, was edited by 
Winkler and was the first periodical exclusively devoted to rocketry.  Regularly 
published until December 1929, it was made up of articles on the development of 
different types of rockets, propulsion systems, life support measures, and various 
other aspects of space flight.  Moreover, the journal served as a forum in which VfR 
members could exchange views about such subjects and learn of others whose 
interests coincided with their own.  Finally, through Die Rakete, VfR members were 
more able to keep abreast of theoretical and technological developments in space 
flight.  In nearly every sense, Die Rakete became a respectable professional journal 
with some degree of international recognition in a very short time.
However, what truly caught the German public?s imagination were the daring 
and fantastic experiments conducted by Valier and Fritz von Opel, the cavalier heir to 
the automobile fortune of the same name.   Eschewing liquid fueled rockets and 
Oberth?s more methodical course, the two media savvy experimenters conducted 
27
Winter, Prelude, 36-37.
28
?Verein,? Die Rakete (July 1927), 83.
29
The VfR?s periodical, Die Rakete, regularly published the names of its most well-known members.  
See also Willy Ley, Rockets, Missiles, and Space Travel (New York: Viking Press, 1961), 118.  Ley?s 
recollections of the early rocket period are sometimes faulty, but they are nonetheless one of the most 
important sources of information on the VfR and Raketenflugplatz outside of Berlin.  Ley, no friend of 
National Socialism, was one of the only rocket engineers to flee Nazi Germany.  He escaped Germany 
in 1936.
35
spectacular tests of race cars equipped with black powder rockets in April and May 
1928.  Their first experiments took place in R?sselsheim at the Opel headquarters on 
April 11-12, and the second, far more dramatic test took place on May 23 in front of 
nearly 2000 spectators on the Avus racetrack in Berlin.
30
  Newspapers lent a great 
deal of coverage both events, and many amateurs and even the military began to take 
notice.
31
            Max Valier conducting static test on a rocket car.
Courtesy DM
The effusive publicity unleashed by these stunts resulted in a rash of new 
experiments conducted by Valier, Opel, and others.  Tests ran on such rocket-
powered objects as train cars, gliders, an ice sled, and even bicycles.
32
  News reels, 
print media, and radio broadcasts helped to popularize these events.
33
  The very 
30
Essers, Max Valier, 140-156; Neufeld, ?Weimar Culture,? 733-734.
31
Volkische Beobachter (Munich), Bavarian edition, April 15/16; Vorw?rts (Berlin), morning edition, 
April 14; Berliner Tageblatt, evening edition, May 23, 1928; Berliner Morgenpost, May 24, 1928; Die 
Umschau 32 (June, 1928) (487-488)
32
Winter, ?1928-1929 Forerunners of the Shuttle: The ?Von Opel? Flights,? Spaceflight 21 (1979); 
Essers, Max Valier, 207, 209-210.
33
Neufeld, ?Weimar Culture,? 736.  Both the German domestic and international press reported on 
these tests.  See, for example, ?Raketen-Flugzeug Steigt,? Berliner Morgenpost, October 1, 1929; 
?Raketen-Unfug und kein Ende!?, Flugsport, January 9, 1929; ?Raketenstart f?r Segelflugzeuge,? 
36
public experiments even helped to reinforce the desire of film director Fritz Lang, of 
Metropolis fame, to make a new film about space travel, which he entitled Frau im 
Mond (The Woman in the Moon).
34
  UFA (Universal Film Corporation) contracted 
Oberth to launch a rocket on the date of the film?s premiere, but Oberth was 
unsuccessful.
35
  Other, more scientific, experiments also followed.  Some of these 
were conducted with the financial backing of large industrial firms.  In 1929, Hugo 
Junkers, head of the Junkers Aircraft Company, lent his support to Winkler.  
Winkler?s research revolved around the creation of rocket assisted takeoff devices 
(RATO, or Starthilfe) for large airplanes as well as rocket propulsion for smaller 
ones.  Valier also managed to secure the backing of Paul Heylandt?s liquid oxygen 
manufacturing firm A.G. f?r Industriegasverwertung (Industrial Gas Utilization 
Company) in Berlin and was attempting to develop a rocket car that used liquid 
fuel.
36
It was in these experiments with liquid fueled rocket engines at the Heylandt 
Works that the flamboyant Valier met his death.  Heylandt was a proponent of 
rocketry and enthusiastically agreed when Valier first approached him about using 
liquid oxygen for the purposes of rocket propulsion.  At the time, liquid oxygen was 
primarily used for welding and in hospitals because its storage took up less space than 
gaseous oxygen.  However, from the standpoint of rocket propulsion, liquid oxygen 
burned much more efficiently and powerfully than black powder and had much more 
Luftfahrt 8 (April 22, 1928); New York Herald Tribune, ?Rockets Speed Sled in Test Near Munich,? 
January 24, 1929; New York Times, ?Valier Tries Rocket Sled,? January 24, 1929; ?Flying Bikes 
Fitted with Wings and Rockets,? Popular Mechanics, June 1932.
34
Ley, Rockets, 105-123.  See also Michael Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich: Peenem?nde and the 
Coming of the Ballistic Missile Era (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995), 8-9 
35
Winter, Prelude, 37; Ley, Rockets, 124-130.  Neufeld, ?Weimar Culture,? 737.
36
Neufeld, Rocket, 10-11.  Walter Riedel, ?A Chapter in Rocket History,? Journal of the British 
Interplanetary Society, 4 (July 1954), 209.
37
potential as a propellant.  On May 17, 1930, the determined Valier, assisted by Walter 
Riedel, who would become head of the design division at Peenem?nde, and a young 
Arthur Rudolph, the future production chief at Peenem?nde and Mittelwerk, was 
experimenting on a kerosene/liquid oxygen engine.  As Valier made a last close 
inspection of the idling engine, it exploded suddenly.  Rudolph recalls
I was suddenly knocked over on my back.  When I 
looked up the engine wasn?t there anymore.  I only saw 
a big stream of oxygen.  I saw Valier reeling back and 
forth, and I saw Riedel running up to him and catching 
him under the arms to steady him, and I saw Valier?s 
lips moving and then Riedel let go and ran towards the 
gate house to call for help.  Valier walked a few steps 
and fell on his face.  By that time I had gotten up, and I 
went to Valier and turned him over.  He was bleeding 
profusely from the mouth.  He had been hit in the chest 
by a piece of shrapnel.  There was nothing I could do.  
Within a minute, he was dead.
37
The explosion that killed Valier led to a short public stir that ended with a failed 
attempt in the Reichstag to ban rocket experiments.  Heylandt shut down the 
experiments, but Riedel and Rudolph continued their work on rockets.
38
Valier?s death did nothing to help the popular rocket craze in Germany, which 
began to falter in 1929.  Despite a lavish premiere, Frau im Mond was only 
moderately successful, a victim of a hackneyed plot and the growing popularity of 
talkies.
39
  Oberth?s failure to build a usable rocket for the film nearly caused the 
temperamental theorist to have a nervous breakdown, and he departed briefly to 
37
Printed in Thomas Franklin, An American in Exile: The Story of Arthur Rudolph (Huntsville, AL: 
Christopher Kaylor, 1987), 18-19.
38
NASM Oral History Interview (OHI), Arthur Rudolph, 6; Neufeld, The Rocket, 11; Essers, Max 
Valier, 247-265; Franklin, An American, 19.
39
 Neufeld, ?Weimar Culture,? 740.  Paul M. Jensen, The Cinema of Fritz Lang (New York: A.S. 
Barnes, 1969), 79-92.  Ufa newsletters and film magazines in Willy Ley Collection at NASM, Box 
2700, folder 164, and Box 2701, folder 200.  Ley, Rockets, 131.  Winter, Prelude, 37.  Ley was a 
publicist for Frau im Mond.  
38
Yugoslavia.  The VfR ceased publishing Die Rakete in order to devote more of its 
meager resources to experimental activities, thereby cutting it off from its members 
and losing their financial support.  Into this bleak situation stepped Rudolf Nebel, yet 
another irrepressible personality. 
The unscrupulous Nebel first made his presence known to rocket enthusiasts 
in late 1928, when a theoretically adept but technically deficient Oberth was casting 
about for engineers to help him build the rocket for the premier of Frau im Mond.  
Nebel, more con-man than engineer, only had a minimum of engineering experience, 
but was an infectiously enthusiastic salesman.  The World War I fighter pilot claimed 
to have started thinking about rockets as weapons in 1916, when he attached powder 
rockets to his biplane.  After the war, he earned an engineering degree and went to 
work for the Swedish-German firm SKF-Norma, manufacturing ball bearings.
40
Reflecting the growing conservative world view of many engineers in the Weimar era 
as well as that of many war veterans, Nebel also joined the Stahlhelm, a right wing 
veterans organization, and lent his political support to the highly conservative 
German National People?s Party (Deutsche Nationale Volkspartei ? DNVP).
41
  After 
bouncing around through several jobs in Berlin, Nebel was hired by Oberth to help 
him with the UFA film project without so much as a single interview to determine his 
qualifications.  That project was a fiasco, but the equipment purchased for them by 
40
 Rudolf Nebel, Raketenflug zum Mond ? Von der Idee zur Wirklichkeit (Dusseldorf: Privately Printed, 
1970), 4-6.  Much of Nebel?s written work is of questionable veracity, though some of his wilder 
assertions have been proven by other sources.
41
 Rudolf Nebel, Die Narren von Tegel (Dusseldorf: Droste Verlag, 1972), 16-17.
39
UFA was procured afterward by Nebel and he and the leadership of the VfR 
regrouped in Berlin.
42
Early in 1930, Nebel spent a great deal of time searching for funding and a 
secluded area in which the VfR could conduct experiments.  With the help of Willy 
Ley, he discovered funding sources from private donors and from the government.  
Of special importance was the 5000 marks he received from Army Ordnance after 
meeting with its head, Karl Becker.
43
  The VfR?s relationship with Ordnance will be 
developed shortly.  Moreover, Nebel found an empty area in Reinickendorf, a suburb 
of Berlin, in which the VfR could conduct its experiments.  After a short period of 
negotiations, the VfR was given access to the grounds in September 1930, and Nebel 
christened the site as the ?Raketenflugplatz Berlin? (Rocket Port Berlin).
44
  It would 
go on to become the home of the most influential rocket group of the pre-Nazi period.
The Weimar Republic owned the unused land, which stretched across nearly 
two square miles. It was totally unsuitable for manufacturing or settlement and the 
two roads that crossed it were little more than cow paths.  Swampy lowlands were 
sandwiched between rocky, tree covered hills, and the main guardhouse was filled 
with a long-forgotten supply of lumber, which had thoroughly rotted by the time that 
the VfR moved in.  There were no telephone facilities, and the buildings were 
overgrown with weeds and brush.  Moreover, the work stations and living quarters 
were tightly cramped.  The initial storage area doubled as a conference room, 
42
Ley, Rockets, 124-127; Winter, Prelude, 39; Barth, Hermann Oberth 139-153.  Once it became clear 
that they would not be able to stage a successful launch before the premiere of the film, Nebel 
unsuccessfully tried to convince Oberth that they should film a rocket being lowered from a balcony, 
turn the picture upside down, and tell the public that it was a rocket ascending through the air.  NASM 
Oral History Interview, Hermann Oberth, 32.
43
 Rudolf Nebel, Narren, 72-75.  Ley, Rockets, 136. Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 16-22.
44
 Ley, Rockets, 136-137; Winter, Prelude, 41. Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 14.
40
reception area, and office space.
45
  Compared to their future accommodations at 
Peenem?nde, working and living conditions were less than optimal.
Despite these limited accommodations, the Raketenflugplatz leadership, 
which Nebel had managed to co-opt, was able to have their facility up and running 
within a relatively short time.   The labor force at the Raketenflugplatz was free and 
plentiful, and Nebel?s astonishing ability to procure goods and raw material at no 
expense meant that the limited financial means of the group could be dedicated 
elsewhere.  The crushing economic circumstances of the Great Depression in 
Germany assured the enthusiasts of a large, inexpensive pool of skilled labor.  
Electricians, draftsmen, sheet metal workers, and engineers could live at the 
Raketenflugplatz and eat for free in exchange for work.
46
 One of the buildings on the 
grounds of the site was converted into a dormitory in which employees slept.  They 
were fed daily by a nearby soup kitchen that Nebel had managed to work out deal 
with, the particulars of which are unclear.  Indeed, Nebel?s negotiating skills were par 
excellence, and the Raketenflugplatz rarely had to pay for anything.  Siemens 
supplemented the food from the soup kitchen with cheap meals.  Shell Oil provided 
free gasoline, and other firms supplied nuts, bolts, paint, sheet metal, liquid oxygen, 
and even a motorcycle.
47
  Years later, von Braun offered a typical example of Nebel?s 
skill at procurement.  ?Nebel,? he wrote, ?once talked a Director of Siemens Halske, 
A.G. out of a goodly quantity of welding wire by vividly picturing the immediacy of 
space travel.  Our own use for such wire was extremely small, but Nebel offered it to 
45
 Wernher von Braun, ?Reminiscences of German Rocketry,? Journal of the British Interplanetary 
Society 70 (May/June 1956), 127.  NASM File ?Germany, 1920-1940,? Ley, Rockets, 138.
46
 Von Braun, ?Reminscences,? 127.
47
 Nebel, Die Narren, 86-87.  Ley, Rockets, 138.
41
a welding shop in exchange for the labor of a skilled worker, which we badly 
needed?Machine tools, raw material, and office equipment gradually accumulated as 
Nebel wove his spells around those who could spare them and who were vulnerable 
to space travel.?
48
  In this way, the Raketenflugplatz was able to scratch out a meager, 
yet fruitful existence.
This photo, taken in 1930, brings together some of the most important figures in 
Weimar rocketry.  At the far left is Rudolph Nebel, founder of the Raketenflugplatz, 
in the center is Hermann Oberth, and at the far right is eighteen-year-old Wernher von 
Braun.  Klaus Riedel, the design chief at the Raketenflugplatz, is holding a solid fuel 
rocket.  The free-standing rocket in the middle never flew and was used only for its 
propaganda value.
Courtesy DM
The leadership of the Raketenflugplatz couched the goals of its work in two 
equally important ways that are linked by their common assertions of German cultural 
and national interest.  One benefit of their results, as the enthusiasts saw it, was in 
terms of the rocket?s non-military, scientific, and economic applications.  Engineers 
48
 Von Braun, ?Reminiscences,? 127.
42
at Reinickendorf touted the rocket?s uses for mail delivery, passenger planes, weather 
research, and of course for space travel.  Indeed, their desire to explore space was a 
primary motivation for constructing the rocket in the first place.  However, 
Raketenflugplatz members were also sensitive to criticism about the reality and 
purpose of flying into space.  One member of the team wrote, ?After the most recent 
successes with rocket technology, the question of whether traveling by space ship and 
visiting neighboring heavenly bodies is realistic has come up again.  For us rocket 
researchers, there is no doubt that space travel is possible.?
49
  This same individual, 
however, attached a deeper meaning to their achievements.  ?Without doubt,? he 
wrote, ?space travel will be an expensive undertaking.  But shouldn?t it be possible to 
just once ante up for a cultural act of the first rank a fraction of the sum that one truly 
and uselessly ground away [verpulvert] during the World War??
50
  Journeys into 
space, therefore, were not merely valueless exercises demonstrating humanity?s 
mastering of the natural world.  They were also cultural events inscribed with deep 
meaning.  Indeed the Raketenflugplatz enthusiasts acknowledged a sincere desire for 
space travel, but in so doing ingrained in the act important cultural and even 
nationalist significance.  Using a phrase that became the de facto slogan of the 
Raketenflugplatz, one public appeal for funding cried out
Help build the spaceship!  This call goes out to 
everyone who wants to help with a new great act of 
German technology.  As at the beginning of aviation, 
interplanetary travel is created first by unselfish 
promotion on the part of those who see great cultural 
progress in the problem of space travel ? Only if we 
all unite will we be witnesses to the implementation of 
49
Raketenflug, 2 (February 1932).
50
 Ibid.
43
space travel, which has as its final goal the visiting of 
neighboring heavenly bodies.
51
Such sentiment reveals a desperation borne of the profound division caused by 
economic dislocation and depression, rampant unemployment, and chronic political 
chaos in the late years of the Weimar Republic.  Even more, it holds out the offer of a 
new, grand vision to heal such problems by uniting the nation behind rocket 
development.  Space travel, therefore, would not simply be an important scientific 
and technological achievement.  Rather, it was a profound cultural statement made by 
the Reinickendorf enthusiasts on behalf of the German nation.
A second way in which the Raketenflugplatz leadership conceived of its work 
was in a much more aggressively nationalist vein.  Despite Nebel?s proclivity for 
obtaining needed items, the Raketenflugplatz group was still chronically short of 
funds.  One strategy they had for addressing this was advertising their work and 
soliciting donations in these advertisements.  The most common tactic for doing so 
was through handbills.  These handbills attempted to arouse sympathy for their work 
by tapping German resentment of foreign restrictions imposed on the nation in the 
wake of World War I.  Moreover, as in Valier?s speeches, they couched their work on 
the rocket in terms of Germany?s resumption of world power status.  One handbill 
that appeared in the early 1930s jingoistically bemoaned the restrictions on Germany 
brought about by the Treaty of Versailles.
For decades, German scientists and technicians have 
worked on the problem of the rocket.  Finally, tangible 
results are within reach. For the continuation and 
expansion of our findings, we are missing that which 
we have the least help with ? money.  Foreign nations 
have made monstrous efforts to tear the results of our 
51
 Handbill, ?Helft das Raumschiff bauen!? NASM file ?Germany 1930-1940.?
44
studies away from us.  Hindering these efforts must lie 
in the heart of every German.  Everyone should give 
according to his means so that the fruit of our decades-
long labor will not escape us.  Through the solution of 
the rocket problem, Germany, at least in an economic 
and cultural sense, will strike a blow for the quick 
reconstitution of its international standing.
52
Statements of this sort, written most often by Nebel, who was rapidly becoming the 
mouthpiece of the rocket engineering community in general, portrayed the rocket 
engineers as victims of an unfair, nefarious peace settlement that undercut Germany?s 
national potential by limiting German technological achievement and plundering their 
nation of its economic and technological resources.  At the same time, these 
statements endowed the rocket, and indeed, its creators, with the ability to cut the web 
of international restrictions placed around Germany and to allow the nation to resume 
its proper place among the world?s powers.  
Nebel?s appeals in these handbills went even further than these 
pronouncements.  His skill as a propagandist, never mind his manipulative streak and 
penchant for stretching the truth, rivaled that of the Nazi Gauleiter of Berlin, Joseph 
Goebbels.  Indeed, his appeals echoed many of the sentiments that the future 
Propaganda Minster would use to such deadly effect later in his career.  In an early 
fundraising appeal for the VfR, probably printed in 1929, Nebel decried the tide of 
money flowing out of German hands and into the West.  Following on fellow
engineer and Nazi ideologue Gottfried Feder?s arguments about ?interest slavery,? 
Nebel wrote,
The German nation [Volk] pays 75 gold marks per 
second, 4500 gold Marks per minute to its enemies!  
52
 Handbill, ?Raketenflug Aufruf!? NASM, Herbert Shaeffer Collection, NASM, Smithsonian 
Institution Photo Number 77-6008.
45
This means slavery for all eternity [in alle Ewigkeit].  
Our primary duty must be to cast off these bonds of 
slavery.  For this, we need a new weapon!  Under the 
motto, ?Help build the Spaceship!? preparations for this 
goal were made and the Verein f?r Raumschiffahrt was 
founded.  Join the Verein f?r Raumschiffahrt!
53
Absent from Nebel?s appeal are any references to using the rocket in order to 
harmlessly deliver mail across Europe and the Atlantic.  Instead, what the rockets 
would deliver was national salvation from the oppressive bonds of western slavery.  
No longer would Germany have to suffer from the onerous reparations payments or 
the crushing economic and intellectual burden of national poverty.  Moreover, for 
Nebel, the small groups of rocket enthusiasts that were slowly coalescing under the 
aegis of the VfR in Breslau, Berlin, and elsewhere were not simply amateurs playing 
with children?s toys.  Rather, they were the soldiers of the future who would lead 
Germany back to world prominence through their development of the world?s most 
futuristic and advanced technology.
Indeed, Nebel was not above consideration of the rocket?s uses as a weapon 
that was capable of having a dramatic impact on the nature of modern warfare.  In a 
pamphlet he published in 1927, Nebel noted a number of ways in which the rocket 
would alter military realities in the twentieth century.  According to the self-styled 
engineer, who engaged in preposterous hyberpole on more than one occasion, liquid 
fueled rockets made possible ?A qualitative improvement in armaments as well as 
[the fighting of] a war that can be conducted with 1000 engineers in the place of an 
53
 Undated Nebel Handbill, NS 19/1795, BAL.  Feder?s early speeches in Munich made a deep 
impression on Hitler, who recognized in them both their propaganda value as well as a similarity with 
his own developing economic ideas.  See Ian Kershaw, Hitler, 1889-1936: Hubris (New York: W.W. 
Norton, 1998), 123, 138.  For Feder?s economic thought, see Albrecht Tyrell, ?Gottfried Feder and the 
NSDAP,? in Peter Stachura, ed., The Shaping of the Nazi State (New York: Barnes and Noble Books, 
1978), 49-87.
46
army of millions.?
54
  Moreover, and somewhat more realistically, in future warfare, 
rockets would, among other things, be deployed in an anti-aircraft capacity, bombard 
enemy positions, serve as the propulsion unit for fighter airplanes, and, ominously, 
act as the delivery platform for poison gas.  Echoing the sentiments of his colleagues 
in aviation, Nebel wrote that ?Long-distance rockets with gyroscopic steering 
[Kreiselsteurung] can strike any point on the Earth?s surface that one wishes.  It can, 
for example, travel from Berlin to Paris in five minutes, to London in six minutes, to 
Moscow in twelve minutes, to New York in thirty minutes, and to any other point on 
the earth?s surface in fifty minutes.?
55
  Nebel also emphasized that rockets which 
were manned by pilots would be able to deliver powerful warheads to precise targets 
such as munitions depots, air fields, industrial areas, fortifications, and city quarters.  
Finally, Nebel wrote that ?Disguising [Tarnung] and financing the mail rocket 
ensures at the same time the permanent readiness for national defense.?
56
Nebel?s arguments about the military use of the rocket clearly pointed up their 
utility in both civilian and military capacities.  Historians must be careful about any 
generalizations they make about this slippery character, but at least in this case, Nebel 
was quick to make use of the cover that touting the rocket?s civilian uses would give 
to its darker and more destructive potential.  Though the rocket did have clear 
peacetime uses, its military deployment was at least as important, if not more so, for 
the future of the nation.  It would enable Germany not only to ward off foreign 
threats, but also to stand off and destroy the nation?s enemies with impunity.  That the 
54
 Nebel, ?Raketen-Torpedos,? Raketenflug 14 (1927).
55
 Ibid.  In an article in the Berliner Zeitung am Mittag, Nebel also touted the rocket?s uses in air 
defense.  Rudolf Nebel, ?Raketen Schiessen die Grenzen,? Berliner Zeitung am Mittag 6/10/31.
56
 Ibid.
47
use of poison gas and the bombardment of civilian targets was proscribed by 
numerous international treaties was unimportant.  If called upon to be employed in 
such a way, the rocket would serve these ends perfectly.  Defense of the nation in an 
era both of unbridled international competition and unprecedented German military 
weakness demanded that these possibilities be kept in mind.  
Again, these arguments helped reconcile the progressive, modernist elements 
that seemed inherent to rocket technology with the more conservative discourse and 
militaristic demands of large and powerful segments of German society.   The appeal 
of this most modern technology dovetailed perfectly with conservative interests when 
cast not in terms of its peacetime utilization, but rather its wartime capabilities.  As 
usual, however, Nebel dramatically over-stated his case.  In 1927, rocket engineers 
could barely keep a small rocket in the air for more than a few seconds, and the 
promise of inter-continental ballistic missiles was a pipe dream that required far more 
resources than the meager material that private enthusiasts could drum up during the 
Weimar years.  Ironically, Nebel would prove to be unable and unwilling to work 
within the bounds set by the Reichswehr, the one institution that most clearly echoed 
his sentiments about the military applications of the rocket and that was capable of 
offering him the kind of financial and technological support necessary to see the 
project through to its successful conclusion.
In any case, rhetoric of the sort Nebel propounded was nothing new among 
the engineering community in Weimar.  Paul Heylandt, whose work emerged 
independently of the Raketenflugplatz and the VfR, also made claims of being able to 
reach distant locations in minutes.  In April 1931, he demonstrated his newest rocket 
48
car for a gathering of journalists, claiming that his rocket engines could reach 
anywhere in Europe in twelve minutes.
57
  The predominant ideological tradition of 
German engineers in this period took on a deeply and distinctively conservative 
outlook.  However, popular history writers and historians have, for different reasons, 
not linked the nationalism of the Raketenflugplatz members with the broader 
conservative discourse on nationalism and technology then taking place in Weimar.  
They have largely preferred to view the rocket engineers as apolitical technocrats, 
unconcerned with political issues and solely interested in rocket development.  These 
arguments fail to stand up because they ignore both the direct exploitation of 
nationalist rhetoric as well as the more subtle competitive nationalist reasons for 
developing aviation and space technology in the first place.
58
  The rocket engineers in 
Reinickendorf were products of their age, and they, like many Germans, chafed under 
the onerous restrictions imposed on them by the Treaty of Versailles. 
It was during the Raketenflugplatz years that the young, brilliant engineer 
Wernher von Braun, one the key figures in rocketry in the twentieth century, made his 
first foray into the field.  Von Braun?s family was of moderately wealthy Prussian 
Junker ancestry.  His father, Magnus von Braun, was a high ranking civil servant in 
the fledgling Weimar government whose purported association with the extreme right 
wing Kapp putschists forced him out of office.  The elder von Braun then went into 
banking and maintained his close ties with future President von Hindenburg and the 
57
 New York Herald Tribune, ?Motor Flight in Stratosphere Shown in Berlin,? 4/12/31; New York 
Times, ?Sees Lightning Speed for Liquid Gas Planes,? 4/19/31.
58
 For the nationalism of engineers generally, see especially Ludwig, Technik und Ingenieure and Herf, 
Reactionary Modernism.  For arguments that fail to fully capture the essence of the rocket engineers? 
nationalism, see Heinz Dieter H?lsken, Die V-Waffen: Entstehung, Propaganda, Kriegseinsatz
(Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags Anstalt, 1984), Winter, Rockets into Space, and Neufeld, The Rocket and 
the Reich.
49
old reactionary elites of the former Kaiserreich. In 1932, Franz von Papen made 
Wernher?s father the Minister of Agriculture in the reactionary ?Cabinet of Barons? 
just before Hitler came to power.  After Hitler was appointed Chancellor, von Braun 
did not become part of Hitler?s cabinet, but believed, as many conservatives did, that 
Hitler?s movement could be harnessed to their own ends.
59
  With this parental 
background, Wernher von Braun was reflexively nationalistic, but not necessarily 
sympathetic to the Nazi cause.  In any case, the nationalist histrionics of the 
Raketenflugplatz?s advertising campaign posed no problem for the young engineer.  
Von Braun was fascinated with the lure of space travel and joined the group for this 
reason.  If anything, the idea of Germany riding to national glory with the thrust of 
the rocket probably only made it easier for him to join.
Like many of the engineers who would come to work under him at 
Peenem?nde, the younger von Braun was a rocketry enthusiast whose interest in the 
technology began after reading Oberth in 1926 and was piqued by the work of Valier, 
Opel, and Fritz Lang?s Frau um Mond.
60
  Von Braun was an eighteen year old 
Wunderkind who was about to begin university studies at the Technical University of 
Berlin when he came to the Raketenflugplatz for the first time.  Walter Dornberger, 
the Army colonel who would go on to become von Braun?s closest ally at 
Peenem?nde, remembers being struck by von Braun?s energy and theoretical 
knowledge at such a young age.  Von Braun seemed to clearly understand the 
59
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 13.  Rainer Eisfeld, Mondsuchtig: Wernher von Braun und die 
Geb?rt der Raumfahrt aus dem Geist Barberei (Reinbeck bei Hamburg: Rowohlt Taschenbuch Verlag, 
1990), 41-42.  Magnus von Braun, Wege durch vier Zeitepochen: Vom ostpreussischen Gutsleben der 
V?ter bis zur Weltraumforschung des Sohnes  (Limburg an der Lahn: Starke, 1964), 234, 263.
60
 Von Braun, ?Reminiscences,? 125.  When he was fifteen, von Braun met Valier, who, ironically, 
upbraided the young Prussian for conducting experiments without proper safety precautions. 
50
problems inherent to developing a liquid fueled rocket and his ability to 
systematically dissect these problems far exceeded his age and station at 
Reinickendorf.  For Dornberger, ?In this respect, he had been a refreshing change 
from most of the leading men at the place.?
61
The rocket enthusiasts that von Braun joined in 1930 were a tightly-knit group 
who plied a dangerous trade.  Improvements made on the rockets tested at 
Reinickendorf were almost always ad hoc, and informal meetings between three to 
six people could result in major design changes.  Except for Nebel himself, it was rare 
for anyone to take individual credit for design changes.  Ley wrote that ?We never 
paid any attention to the question of who had thought of what, knowing that it was a 
long way from our experiments to definite shapes, and knowing also that our glory 
was a collective glory.?
62
  Moreover, the small number of people working at the 
Raketenflugplatz meant that nearly everyone knew each other relatively well and that 
supervision of even minute tasks could be consistent.  These factors led to a greater 
degree of personalized attention to detail and of better quality control in the 
development and assembly of parts.  Finally, successful experiments were often 
followed by long nights of celebratory drinking in a local pub.
63
  Nor did political 
issues escape their ken.  At communal dinner in the evenings, on Sundays, or during 
breaks in the work, the Reinickendorfers often engaged in political discussions.  
According to Rolf Engel, a Raketenflugplatz engineer and participant in such 
discussions, political allegiances among his friends were divided evenly between 
61
 Walter Dornberger, V-2 (New York: Viking Press, 1955), 27.
62
 Ley, Rockets, 142.
63
 Wernher von Braun, ?Behind the Scenes of Rocket Development in Germany, 1928 through 1945,? 
(date unclear, late 1940s), 6-7, Space and Rocket Center Huntsville (SRCH), Wernher von Braun 
Papers.  Neufeld, The Rocket, 14-15.  
51
Communism and National Socialism, but such differences never once affected their 
work.  Recalling this period years later, Engel wrote that ?The emotional connection 
to the technical problems of rocketry and space travel were so strong that political 
loyalties never broke them.?
64
  In short, the dynamics of the small community of 
engineers at Reinickendorf effected a profound and personal dedication to the success 
of the overall endeavor.  One visitor to the Raketenflugplatz wrote, ?The impression 
you took away with you was the frenzied devotion of Nebel?s men to their 
work?they belonged exclusively to a world dominated by one single wholehearted 
idea.?
65
  The bonds forged between the members of the Raketenflugplatz would go a 
long way in keeping a number of the most skilled men together during the transition 
period from privately funded rocket experiments to government sponsored ?big 
science? at Peenem?nde.
Technology itself was also a source of binding energy for the engineers.   In 
this regard, the development of the rocket in Reinickendorf deserves mention.  The 
instruments developed at the Raketenflugplatz represent the first real steps toward the 
large, liquid-fueled rocket.  The Mirak (?Minimum Rocket?) was the primary test 
vehicle.  Its original design was a version of Oberth?s rocket built for Frau im Mond, 
but in a short time, it went through a number of design changes that resulted in a 
rocket that was approximately fifteen feet long and ?propelled? by the oblong engine 
in its nose.  Dubbed the ?Repulsor,? this ?nose drive? configuration consciously 
64
 Heinz Horeis, Rolf Engel ? Raketenbauer der ersten Stunde (Munich: Lehrstuhl f?r 
Raumfahrttechnik, 1992), 24.  Written by Horeis with help from Engel, this semi-autobiographical 
book recounting Engels?s time as a rocket engineer is deeply self-serving and must be treated with 
great care. 
65
 Dimitri Marionoff, with Palma Wayne, Einstein, An Intimate Study of a Great Man (New York: 
Doubleday, 1944), 115.  Marionoff was Einstein?s son in law who introduced Nebel to the physicist in 
1932.  In the weeks after this first meeting, Nebel tried unsuccessfully to solicit financial support from 
Einstein, who rightly regarded Nebel?s overtures with suspicion.  Nebel, Narren, 114, 121-123.
52
emulated the design of powder rockets.  Its major drawback was that it was nearly 
impossible to achieve stability and control in flight.  However, stability was not of 
central importance to the engineers in Reinickendorf.  Their efforts were directed 
toward creating a rocket that simply worked semi-consistently and could achieve 
enough thrust for liftoff.  At this point, stability and guidance were of secondary 
importance, a situation that created less than favorable safety conditions.
66
In their experiments, the rocket engineers took major risks and were forced to 
trust each other implicitly.  Poor engine assembly was a primary danger.  Weak welds 
at the seams of the engine could blow apart under the intense pressure generated by 
the engine?s own combustion.  Shoddy assembly of even the smallest components 
could do the same.  Nevertheless, personal, consistent supervision, as well as the 
perks offered by the Raketenflugplatz during desperate economic times mitigated 
assembly problems by ensuring that the engineers and technicians had a vested 
interest in the successful flight of the Mirak.  Explosions and failures did occur, but 
these were the results of faulty design or improper materials, not shoddy 
workmanship and lack of attention to detail.  During testing, there were problems of a 
slightly different nature, and a strict task list was necessary to ensure that all of the 
procedures for safety as well as proper ignition were followed.  Preceding a static test, 
for example, the rocket engine was placed into a metal container which was then 
attached to a balance on the test stand.  A pipe on the bottom of the metal container 
drew cooling water from a large barrel next to the test stand.  A ground crew made 
sure that there was enough water in the barrel and then attached the engine to the test 
stand.  To this assembly, the ground crew then attached a thermite cartridge, which 
66
 Nebel, Narren, 99-116.  Winter, Prelude, 41-43.  Ley, Rockets, 140-154.
53
functioned as an ignition device, and manually poured the highly flammable liquid 
oxygen into the engine?s tank.  At this point, the ignition crew took over as the 
ground crew headed for safety.  One member of the ignition crew stood on the 
earthen berm surrounding the test stand and shouted orders to an engineer standing 
inside the shack, which was outside of the berm.  This engineer, who could not see 
the test stand, was expected to follow these orders quickly and exactly.  They first lit 
the thermite cartridge, then fired gasoline through the charge, followed by the liquid 
oxygen, which, if all went according to plan, resulted in a short, bright, bluish flame 
that emerged from the exhaust nozzle with a steady roar.
67
If these steps were not followed perfectly, disaster inevitably followed.  The 
accidental introduction of the liquid oxygen before the gasoline would result in the 
entire assembly violently blowing apart.  Once when this happened, Ley kept a piece 
of shrapnel that he found embedded into the handle of a shovel as a reminder of the 
danger of the experiments.  Improper attachment of the water cooling pipe could 
result in the walls of the combustion chamber superheating, melting through, and 
exploding, a problem that plagued the V-2 designers through 1942.  On one of these 
occasions, Ley recalled that they ?ducked quickly and with great disregard for 
curiosity.?  The lack of attention paid to stability and guidance also carried great 
risks.  Flying rockets could and did go astray, buzzing the engineers at very low 
altitude or crashing near their own test site.
68
  Clearly, the rudimentary work carried 
out at the Raketenflugplatz was difficult and dangerous.  To surmount these 
67
 Ley, Rockets, 144-145.
68
 Ibid., 143.  Neufeld, The Rocket, 73-109.
54
problems, the engineers were forced to fall back on a combination of professionalism, 
trust, and more than a little disregard for personal safety.    
However, there is more to these experiments than meets the eye.  
Heuristically, it is helpful to view the rocket flight tests as rituals that reinforced the 
rocket engineers? loyalty to each other and commitment to the project.
69
  A 
comparison of primitive rituals and modern technical testing illuminates the cultural 
and psychological significance of this testing.
70
  It captures the symbolic meaning of 
the tests carried out specifically in Reinickendorf and brings into relief the themes 
that apply both to rituals and technical testing.  These themes include the struggle to 
master a new challenge, fulfillment of personal ambition, the experience of 
community in a competitive world (this is particularly true in the harsh political and 
economic circumstances of the Weimar Republic), and the drama of bringing a new 
object into existence.  All of these tropes were central to the experimental experience 
at Reinickendorf.  Seen this way, the process of testing and experimentation not only 
led to improvements in rocket technology, the also enhanced the active identification 
of the engineers with each other and with the project, thereby contributing to and 
reinforcing the cultural dynamism of the Raketenflugplatz.  Thrown together in 
ramshackle buildings and conducting dangerous experiments on untested technology, 
the enthusiasts kept up their labor while making very little concessions to safety 
69
 No exact data on dates and types of experiments performed at the Raketenfluplatz exists and the 
historian is forced to rely on Ley?s memoir and the papers of G. Edward Pendray, an American who 
visited Reinickendorf in April 1931.  See NASM file ?G. Edward Pendray.  Nevertheless, Frank 
Winter ably sorts out much of the confusion.  See Prelude, 120.  The lack of testing documentation 
was a source of considerable annoyance for Walter Dornberger.
70
 S.F. Moore and Barbara Myerhoff, eds., Secular Ritual (Assen: Van Gorkum, 1977).  Moore and 
Myerhoff point out that ritual analysis can be meaningfully used when studying events that are not 
necessarily sacred or religious.  See also Hugh Gusterson, ?The Rituals of Science: Comment of Abir-
Am,? Social Epistemology 6/4 (1992).
55
except to trust in their co-workers? professionalism and commitment to the work and 
each other, which was strengthened in a number of ways by the testing experience 
itself.  In the process, the unemployed engineers created a sense of community and 
received the professional satisfaction of developing new technology, never mind the 
benefit of eating free meals and receiving free accommodations in exchange for their 
work.  The result of this dynamic was a small corps of engineers and technicians that 
were intensely dedicated to the complex and hazardous job at hand.
However, the work of these engineers was limited by their small number and 
lack of resources.  This, combined with their zeal for actually seeing the rocket in 
flight, meant that they dedicated the vast bulk of their talent and material to the 
propulsion system.  The engineers set aside guidance and steering problems until they 
could achieve what they viewed as consistently satisfactory engine performance. 
With this approach, accidents because of unstable, unguided rockets were 
unavoidable, and one incident led to serious curtailing of their experiments. At the 
end of 1931, a repulsor crashed with great noise and fright outside the grounds of the 
Raketenflugplatz.  At least two Repulsors crashed before this one, but the third 
actually destroyed a barracks belonging to the local police force.  No one was injured, 
but the damage was finally enough for the angry gendarmes to descend quickly on the 
launch site.  After a stretch of negotiations that lasted several days, the police placed a 
number of restrictions on the tests.  The engineers could fuel the test rockets with no 
more than five kilograms of fuel, and the new engines had to undergo three successful 
static tests before they were permitted to be launched.  Moreover, the police were to 
be informed before every launch, and the launch tests were only permitted Mondays 
56
through Fridays from seven a.m. to three p.m.  Finally, the engineers were forbidden 
from launching rockets on anything even closely resembling a windy day.
71
  These 
regulations effectively capped the size of any rocket they attempted to build. They 
also seriously restricted the number of actual launch tests that could be run, 
drastically slowing research in the area in which it was most needed, guidance and 
control.  For the men of the VfR, who dreamed of massive rockets capable of 
delivering large payloads across the continents, this was a most difficult arrangement.
In a strictly professional sense, this was also not very impressive.  Though the 
Reinickendorfers carefully machined their parts, methodically worked through the 
testing ritual, and experimented often, much of their work was thoroughly amateurish.  
The enthusiasts chronically failed to keep important data measurements such as 
pressure distribution, fuel flow, and exhaust speed, and they virtually never recorded 
the results of their launch experiments.  The result was an ad hoc trial and error 
approach to a technology that demanded advanced theoretical and scientific testing 
which was regularized by systematic data keeping.  Moreover, resource procurement 
and dedication was always inconsistent, resulting once again in an inability to 
systematically work through the deeply complex development issues.  Furthermore, 
even though the engineers and technicians got to practice their skills, they did not 
make any wages or a salary at the Raketenflugplatz.  They only earned meals or a 
place to sleep for their work.  Though the many individuals at the Raketenflugplatz 
earned valuable experience while there and made some technical progress, in the late 
1920s and early 1930s, the most well-known, aggressively experimenting rocket 
71
 Ley, Rockets, 148-152.  Grzescinsky to Nebel, October 17, 1931, in NASM File ?Germany, 1930-
1934.?
57
outfit in Germany was in truth little more than a flophouse for technically proficient 
spaceflight aficionados who were led by a morally suspect con-man.  
This was not necessarily the case everywhere.  At the same time that Nebel 
was pulling together the VfR at the Raketenflugplatz, other important research on 
liquid fueled rockets was being conducted elsewhere with much less fanfare and self-
promotion.  One of the few experimental groups that received limited corporate 
support was the small group under Max Valier, which was financially supported by 
the Heylandt Works.  On the staff of this group and serving as assistants to Valier 
were two figures who would go on to become very important in the future 
development of the V-2, Arthur Rudolph and Walter ?Papa? Riedel.  
Born in K?nigswusterhausen, just outside of Berlin, in 1902, Riedel was the 
son of a locomotive engineer and a housewife.  From 1921 to 1928, he worked as a 
civil engineering technician for two construction firms, Mamag and Wolf, Netter, and 
Jacobi.  In December 1928, Riedel was hired by the Heylandt Works as a research 
engineer.  After Valier?s death in 1930, Heylandt re-assigned Riedel to other tasks 
within the firm.  Riedel never lost his job during the Great Depression and lived 
relatively comfortably through the early 1930s.  Despite his lack of economic 
dislocation, he showed his early faith in the party, first voting for the Nazis in the 
elections of March 1933, which solidified Hitler?s grip on power shortly after he 
became Chancellor.  Riedel would go on to join the party in 1937, when party 
enrollment was re-opened after a three year hiatus.
72
72
 Walter Riedel Dossier, Box 371, RG 319, Records of the Army Staff, National Archives.  On the 
Nazi rise to power, see, among others, William Sheridan Allen, The Nazi Seizure of Power: The 
Experience of a Single German Town, 1922-1945 (New York: Franklin -Watts, 1965); Martin Broszat, 
Hitler and the Collapse of Weimar Germany (New York: St. Martin?s Press, 1987); Gerhard Schulz, 
58
Riedel?s fellow party member and co-worker, Arthur Rudolph, was born 
November 9, 1906 in Stepfershausen.  Like von Braun, Rudolph also took part in the 
spaceflight fad that swept Germany in the 1920s.  He was fascinated by Valier and 
Opel?s stunts on the Avus, read a number of articles on rockets and spaceflight, and 
saw the film Frau im Mond.
73
   In 1930, he graduated from the factory technical 
school in Berlin with a major in mechanical engineering.
74
  Serendipitously, Heylandt 
hired him to work as a draftsman a few weeks after he graduated in the spring of 
1930.  In this capacity, Rudolph met Valier, with whom he worked as an assistant.
75
After Valier?s death, Rudolph continued to work on the problem of the rocket engine 
against the expressed orders of Paul Heylandt.  He successfully redesigned the fuel 
injection system of the engine model that malfunctioned and led to the accident that 
killed Valier in 1930.
76
In 1931, Rudolph joined the Nazi party and the S.A.
77
  Though there is no 
evidence of his participating in the violent street brawls for which the brown-shirted 
thugs are so infamous,  Rudolph did participate in rallies in which he carried a banner 
Aufstieg des Nationalsozialismus: Krise und Revolution in Deutschland (Frankfurt am Main: 
Propyl?en Verlag, 1975).  For the internal development of the Nazi Party and its sources of support, 
see especially Martin Broszat, The Hitler State: The Foundation and Development of the Internal 
Structure of the Third Reich Transl. By John W. Hiden, (New York: Longman, 1981), which, though 
dated, is still one of the best books on the subject; also Robert Gellately Backing Hitler: Consent and 
Coercion in Nazi Germany (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001).  
73
 NASM OHI Interview, Arthur Rudolph, 1.
74
 OSI interrogation of Arthur Rudolph, October 13, 1982, printed in Thomas Franklin, An American, 
189-190.  Since the institution Rudolph attended was a small technical school, not a larger technical 
university, Rudolph graduated with a certificate in mechanical engineering and might be professionally 
described as a technician (Techniker), rather than one of the academically trained engineers (Diplom-
Ingenieure) produced by the technical universities.  See Konrad Jarausch, The Unfree Professions: 
German Lawyers, Teachers, and Engineers, 1900-1950 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990) 
and Ludwig, Technik and Ingenieure, for a nuanced discussion of the differences.
75
 OSI interrogation of Arthur Rudolph, October 13, 1982 in Franklin, An American, 191.
76
 NASM OHI Interview, Arthur Rudolph, 6.
77
 Arthur Rudolph Dossier, Box 636, RG 319, Records of the Army Staff, National Archives.
59
and sang the Horst Wessel Song.
78
  According to postwar interviews, Rudolph joined 
the Nazis because he feared a Communist revolt.  A year earlier, the severe economic 
crisis of the Great Depression began creating an army of unemployed, and the 
Communist Party (KPD) capitalized on this with large political gains that were 
surpassed only by the Nazis.  According to Rudolph, one of his coworkers convinced 
him that only the Nazis were capable of meeting the needs of the unemployed while 
beating back the communist threat.
79
  These assertions may very well have a degree 
of truth.  Berlin, where Rudolph lived and worked, was a center of KPD activity in 
the 1920s and 1930s.  In addition to being confronted with catastrophic 
unemployment, Rudolph was exposed daily to the rhetoric of both parties, and his 
aspiring middle class sensibilities forbade him from lending his support to the KPD.
80
Widespread Nazi propaganda efforts to gain the support of technicians and engineers 
certainly played their part in garnering Rudolph?s support as well.
81
  In any case, 
Rudolph?s enrollment in the party and S.A. a full two years before the Nazi accession 
to power indicates that, for whatever reason, he did indeed support specific planks in 
the party platform and was ideologically predisposed to at least some of the goals of 
the National Socialist project.
78
 Rudolph OSI interrogation, Franklin, An American in Exile, 283. 
79
 Arthur Rudolph OSI interrogation, Franklin, An American, 192-196.  NASM OHI, Arthur Rudolph, 
26.
80
 The best English language examination of the KPD is Erich Weitz, Creating German Communism: 
From Popular Protest to Socialist State (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997).  See also 
Klaus Michael Mallmann, ?Milieu, Radikalismus und lokale Gesellschaft: Zur Sozialgechichtes des 
Kommunismus in der Weimarer Republik,? Geschichte und Gesellschaft 21/1 (1995), who makes an 
excellent case for the importance of locality in shaping Communist demands and protest.  
81
 For the shape and appeal of this propaganda, see Herf, Reactionary Modernism, Ludwig, Technik 
und Ingenieure, and Gerd Hortleder, Das Gesellschaftsbild des Ingenieurs: Zum politischen Verhalten 
der technischen Intelligenz in Deutschland (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1970).
60
Nor was Rudolph above working with the Nazi party or the Army when it 
suited his interests to do so.  In 1932, Heylandt was forced to fire Rudolph because 
the Depression was ravaging Industriegasverwertung.  Rudolph and Alfons Pietsch, 
his foreman from the Heylandt Works who was also fired, were determined to 
continue their rocket work.  In the spring, they went to the local head of the Berlin 
S.A. for financial backing.  The S.A. expressed interest in sponsoring the two rocket 
specialists, but had no money to offer them and they were forced to look elsewhere.  
Rudolph and Pietsch then unsuccessfully attempted to secure the backing of the 
Kaiser Wilhelm Gesellschaft, which was the leading state-sponsored scientific 
foundation in Germany, and various industrial interests.
82
Historians must be careful not to read too much into the organizations to 
which Rudolph applied for funding.   There is simply not enough evidence to argue 
that he appealed to the Nazis for funds because of any firmly held ideological beliefs 
about the supposedly mutually beneficial relationship between science and National 
Socialism.   To be sure, the Kaiser Wilhelm Gesellschaft was largely made up of 
scientists among whom the consensus political opinion was strongly nationalist, but 
the society also regarded open opposition to Weimar as ?a transgression of the 
professional code.?
83
  Moreover, Henry Ashby Turner has conclusively shown that 
82
 NASM OHI, Arthur Rudolph, 15-16.  OSI Interrogation of Arthur Rudolph, October 13, 1982, in 
Franklin, An American, 198-199.  There is no record of Pietsch?s political background.
83
 Alan Beyerchen, Scientists Under Hitler:  Politics and the Physics Community in the Third Reich, 
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977) 4.  With the forced removal of its Jewish members because 
of the Nazi policy of Gleichschaltung, the KWG became increasingly anti-Semitic as more and more 
fanatical Nazis began to take over important positions and carry out increasingly cruel and 
scientifically questionable studies.  See, for example, Matthias Weber, ?Rassenhygenische und 
genetische Forschungen an der Deutschen Forschungsanstalt f?r Psychiatrie/Kaiser-Wilhelm Institut in 
M?nchen vor und nach 1933,? 95-111, and Volker Roelcke, ?Psychiatrische Wissenschaft im Kontex 
Nationalsozialisticher Politik und ?Euthansie:? Zur Rolle von Ernst R?din und der Deutschen 
Forschungsanstalt f?r Psychiatrie/Kaiser Wilhelm Insitut,? 112-150, in Doris Kaufmann, ed., 
61
German industrial barons of the 1920s and 1930s were alarmed at Hitler?s rhetoric 
and that they also saw no advantage to supporting National Socialist ambitions.  Only 
after Hitler became Chancellor did money in support of the Nazis begin to flow from 
the opportunistic industrial interests.  Before the Machtergreifung, German industry 
was no friend to National Socialism.
84
  In addition, had Rudolph been an 
ideologically committed Nazi and S.A. member, he would have found large capitalist 
industry to be repugnant and likely not sought its support.
85
 Rudolph?s post-war 
assertion that he and Pietsch both sought any financial support they could find is 
likely true.
86
  To the utilitarian Rudolph, the struggle for economic support during the 
lean years of the Depression trumped ideological prerogatives.  Rudolph and Pietsch 
first sought the support of the S.A. because they felt that it was here that they could 
exploit Rudolph?s membership in the Nazi party most fully.  After this initiative 
failed, the two engineers, without regard for political inclination, merely sought out 
others whom they felt might be most interested in the further development of 
rocketry.  
Despite their failure to garner the support of the party, big business, and 
academicians, the two men kept up their efforts.  In the spring of 1933, they applied 
to the Army for financial support, which they received in the form of a contract to 
Geschichte der Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gesellschaft im Nationalsozialismus: Bestandsaufnahme und 
Perspektiven der Forschung (G?ttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 2000). 
84
 Henry Ashby Turner, German Big Business and the Rise of Hitler (New York: Oxford University 
Press, 1985).  Turner also convincingly demonstrates that Hitler could not afford to be perceived as 
accepting the support of big business in the form of financial donations even though he courted 
business interests by emphasizing individual achievement and the productive exploitation of private 
capital.  The dynamism of the early Nazi movement was dependent on the active support of those party 
members who saw Nazism as a crusade against big business in all forms. 
85
 See Turner, passim, and Herf, Reactionary Modernism, who has shown that the engineering 
intelligentsia had a deep distrust of large corporate capitalism.
86
 NASM OHI, Arthur Rudolph, 16.
62
build a new engine.  Pietsch squandered the money and shortly afterwards 
disappeared, leaving Rudolph to explain to his Army sponsors why they had no 
money left and only a half-completed rocket engine.  Walter Dornberger, who 
originally offered the Army?s support, allowed Rudolph an extra three hundred 
Reichsmarks to finish the work.  Rudolph received no salary or expenses from the 
Army and was forced to live off of the paltry unemployment insurance offered by the 
Republic, which amounted to seven reichsmarks, fifty pfennig per week.  
Nevertheless, he did manage to finish the engine and successfully test it in front of his 
army benefactors.  Impressed by Rudolph?s work, Dornberger hired the hungry, 
impoverished engineer shortly thereafter.  One of the stipulations of his employment 
was that he leave the SA, but he could remain a member of the Nazi party.
87
The Army Ordnance Bureau and Liquid-Fueled Rocketry
Dornberger?s enlistment of Rudolph?s talents was part of a larger effort by the 
Army Ordnance Department to develop missile technology.  Lieutenant Colonel Karl 
Becker was the head of the ballistics and munitions section of Ordnance.  Becker, 
who held a doctorate in engineering from the Technical University of Berlin, first 
took an interest in rocketry in 1929.
88
  This interest was engendered by the popularity 
of amateur rocketry during the second half of the 1920s as well as the Reichswehr?s 
secret rearmament projects in the later years of the Weimar Republic.
87
 To be sure that Rudolph kept up his part of the bargain, a nonplussed Dornberger sent his deputy, 
Leo Zanssen to check on the progress of Rudolph?s work every week.  NASM OHI, Arthur Rudolph, 
16-19, 23, 25.  Rudolph file, Berlin Document Center (BDC), RG 339, NA.
88
 Michael Neufeld, ?The Reichswehr, the Rocket, and the Versailles Treaty: A Popular Myth 
Reexamined,? Journal of the British Interplanetary Society 53 (2000), 163.
63
Rocket development in Germany must be understood in the context of 
military rearmament.  As Germany began to repair its international standing with the 
diplomatic successes of the Treaty of Locarno in 1925 and its entrance into the 
League of Nations in 1926, foreign control over its armaments became much less 
stringent.  Reichswehr Minister Wilhelm Gr?ner, a retired general, surreptitiously 
began a rearmament program in the fall of 1928, systematically stockpiling arms and 
training an expanded (and illegal) army in the Soviet Union.  In addition, the 
increasingly conservative Weimar cabinets throughout the 1920s assured that the 
Reichswehr would have a steady financial base from which it could expand its 
strength.
89
  Though the fact that the restrictive provisions on Germany?s military in 
the Treaty of Versailles made no mention of rockets was an added bonus to Becker, 
his efforts to utilize rockets as weapons must also be seen in the context of German 
rearmament during the late 1920s.  
This is clearly indicated in a meeting that took place on December 1930, in 
which Becker presented his case for the value of the rocket as weapon to a number of 
important Reichswehr officers in charge of rearmament, including General Alfred 
von Vollard-Bockelberg, the head of Army Ordnance, and Colonel Erich Karlewski, 
head of the Ordnance Testing Branch.  In his presentation, Becker discussed both the 
potential uses for a rocket (as a substitute for heavy artillery and a delivery system for 
poison gas, which was strictly forbidden by the treaty) as well as the present state of 
the art in rocket technology.  Colonel Karlewski was convinced by Becker?s 
89
 Hans Gatzke, Stresemann and the Rearmament of Germany (New York: W.W. Norton, 1969).  
Wilhelm Deist, ?Die Aufr?stung der Wehrmacht,? in Milit?rgeschichtliches Forschungsamt, ed., Das 
Deutsche Reich und der Zweite Weltkrieg, (Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 1979), 379-392.  
Edward Bennet, German Rearmament and the West, 1932-1933 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University 
Press, 1979), 36-38.  Neufeld, ?The Reischswehr, the Rocket, and the Versailles Treaty,? 164.
64
discussion.  His comments on the military and political potential of the rocket, in 
addition to offering clues as to the army?s operational concept for the weapon, bear a 
fascinating resemblance to the nationalist concerns of the amateur rocketeers.  In 
supporting Becker, Karlewski stated that ?Along with remote guidance, infrared and 
ultraviolet rays, etc., [The rocket] belongs to the areas from which one day the 
revolutionary new invention may emerge that Germany has been waiting for in order 
to achieve rapid liberation.  We must stick to our oars in these questions in order to 
possibly overtake the other powers.  If we do not do something in this regard, or do 
not do it quickly enough, someone else may one day surprise us with the new 
weapon.?
90
  The nationalist themes present in the exhortations of amateur rocketeers 
were also common in military circles.  For Karlewski, Germany?s weakness lay in the 
fact that it was subject to foreign oppression and control and unbearably weak vis-?-
vis its rivals.  Therefore, its efforts to compete with other nations on a level playing 
field were seriously retarded.  Germany?s military inferiority and poor world power 
status could be overcome if this oppression could be lifted.  The rocket?s potential as 
a weapon was a primary means in which Germany could extricate itself from the heel 
of foreign dominance and exploitation and resume its rightful place as one of the 
chief powers in the world.  In addition, the theme of foreign military competition 
raised by Karlewski would become a familiar trope later in the years of V-2 
development at Peenem?nde.  German military officials were convinced that rocket 
development in other nations, especially the United States, either equaled or 
surpassed their own.  Because of the weapon?s decisive importance, they would argue 
90
 ?Sitzungsbericht vom 17.12.1930 ?ber die Raktenfrage,? M.I. 14/820 (V), 1, 26-27, Imperial War 
Museum.  I am indebted to Michael Neufeld for his generosity in making this document available to 
me.
65
in later years that they must dedicate all of their resources to this new and potentially 
lethal weapon.  The hyperventilating enthusiasm of the amateur rocketeers for their 
technology was matched only by the more sober, but no less positive nationalist 
assessment of the rocket?s potential for the German nation held by the Ordnance 
officers in 1930.
However, Becker?s first step was to commission a study on the state of the art 
in rocket technology in 1929.  The engineer in charge of the study was Captain 
D?Aubigny von Engelbrunner H?rstig, known simply as von H?rstig.  Army captain 
and diploma engineer Walter Dornberger, who would go on to become the head of 
the Army?s liquid fueled rocket program, was assigned as von H?rstig?s aide in this 
project.  The results of their work were discouraging.  Except for Rudolph?s 
endeavors at the Heylandt Works and Oberth?s failed attempts at a stunt rocket for 
Frau im Mond, virtually no work on liquid fueled rockets had been done.  Industry 
and technical universities had no interest in developing rocket propulsion, and the 
Raketenflugplatz had not begun to coalesce in any meaningful way when Horstig 
revealed the results of his study to Becker.  Moreover, the VfR had not yet begun any 
serious experimentation, and even when they did, they did not keep detailed records 
of their work, a point of increasing friction between the Army and the VfR.
91
Nevertheless, German amateur rocket groups were initially key to the 
development of the rocket as a military weapon.  The Ordnance office contracted out 
to private organizations and individuals to see what might come of cooperation with 
the amateur groups.  Becker?s association with amateur rocket enthusiasts began in 
earlier in 1930, when he secretly authorized 5000 marks to support research involved 
91
 Winter, Prelude, 41-44, 51; Dornberger, V-2, 19-20.
66
with launching Oberth?s rocket for Frau im Mond.  After the failure of that project, 
during which Nebel openly discussed the Army?s donation (much to Becker?s 
chagrin), the Army severed contact until Nebel revived the relationship by touting the 
Raketenflugplatz?s success with liquid fueled rockets over a year later, in 1932.
92
In April of that year, Becker, intrigued by Nebel?s supposed success, wrote to 
Nebel and asked him to demonstrate their new rocket at the Army?s proving ground at 
Kummersdorf outside of Berlin.
93
  The test took place in June, and present at this 
demonstration were a number of important personalities in Ordnance, including 
Becker, Dornberger, and Dr. Erich Schumann, a physics professor at the University of 
Berlin who would go on to become a central figure in the formulation of Nazi science 
policy.  In order to maintain the veil of secrecy around the Army?s involvement in 
rocketry, Nebel, Klaus Riedel, and von Braun were ordered to report with their nose-
driven rocket to Kummersdorf at 4:00 a.m.  To the chagrin of a number of his 
colleagues, Nebel did not even go to the trouble of informing the board of directors of 
the Raketenflugplatz that they would be conducting this demonstration for the Army, 
one of the signs of the growing dissension and frustration with Nebel among the 
engineers at Reinickendorf.
94
The launch demonstration was a spectacular failure.  The rocket rose to a 
height of less than half a mile and crashed only a mile away.  Almost immediately, 
92
 Nebel, Narren, 72-75.  Neufeld, The Rocket, 5- 23.  
93
 Nebel, Narren, 133-135.  Wernher von Braun, ?Behind the Scenes,? 8, Wernher von Braun Papers, 
SRCH.
94
Wernher von Braun, ?Behind the Scenes,? 8-9.  Nebel, Narren, 135-137.  Hans Ebert and Hermann 
Rupieper, ?Technische Wissenschaft und nationalsozialistische R?stungspolitik: Die Wehrtechnische 
Fakult?t der TH Berlin, 1933-1945,? in Reinhard R?rup, ed., Wissenschaft und Gesellschaft: Beitr?ge 
zur Geschichte der Technischen Universit?t Berlin, 1879-1979 (New York: Springer, 1979), 469-481.  
For Schumann?s role in the formation of National Socialist science policy, see also Alan Beyerchen, 
Scientists Under Hitler: Politics and the Physics Community in the Third Reich (New Haven : Yale 
University Press, 1977).  Ley, Rockets, 155-156.
67
Ordnance made its dislike for Nebel clear.  Its report on the launch stated that in 
addition to Nebel?s clear inability to conduct work in secret, ?the conclusion must be 
reached that, because he makes assertions against his better judgement, closer 
cooperation with Nebel is out of the question, even though he was able to produce a 
liquid-fueled rocket with an engine that worked well for a duration of many 
seconds.?
95
  Ordnance severed its relationship with Nebel in the middle of 1932 and 
shortly afterwards changed its focus from farming out rocket work to developing its 
own liquid-fueled rocket program in-house.
96
Besides the failed test, there was another important reason that Army 
Ordnance distrusted Nebel and decided to develop its own liquid-fueled rocket 
program.  Becker, who already thought Nebel a slippery character, despised the 
endless publicity-seeking and the ad-hoc, un-documented approach of the 
Raketenflugplatz.  According to Dornberger, ?We wanted to have done once and for 
all with theory, unproved claims, and boastful fantasy, and to arrive at conclusions 
based on a sound scientific foundation.?
97
  Nebel?s penchant for exaggerated 
salesmanship subverted both the army?s attempts at secrecy and any attempts to 
systematically assess the state of the technology and directions of development.  
Aside from the desire to keep Germany?s rearmament program in general secret, the 
rocket?s capacity for shock and surprise was essential to the its deployment as a 
weapon.  Ordnance wanted to be able to deliver the rocket unannounced, so as to 
terrify Germany?s enemies into submission.  If Nebel were to be involved in rocket 
95
 Ley, Rockets, 155-156.  Schneider Report, 6/23/32, IWM, MI 14/801 (V).
96
 Ordnance had been pursuing solid fuel rocket development on its own since 1930.  See Neufeld, The 
Rocket and the Reich, 16-17.
97
 Dornberger, V-2, 20.
68
development for the Army, his grandstanding would have made secrecy 
considerations impossible to maintain, thereby exposing Germany?s rearmament and, 
in the eyes of the Army, lessening the rocket?s effectiveness as a weapon.
98
  This 
episode would mark the first time that secrecy began to play an important role in the 
professional development of the German rocket engineers.  Those engineers who 
were able to adjust to this new dynamic in their work would flourish within the 
confines of the Army rocket program.  Those who could not adjust, like Nebel, were 
marginalized by the Army and virtually ignored by their colleagues.
99
  The practice of 
secrecy would go on to become a major factor in the reproduction of the engineers? 
cultural lives at Peenem?nde. 
Nevertheless, Ordnance?s strained relationship with the amateur rocketeers 
did result in a personnel coup.  Through Nebel, Von Braun was introduced to Becker 
and Dornberger, who were immediately impressed by the young engineer?s 
intelligence and energy.
100
  Several months later, the Army hired von Braun by 
offering him the chance to carry out his doctoral research on rocket development at 
Kummersdorf.   Von Braun actually finished only part of his mechanical engineering 
program before being made a doctoral candidate under the phlegmatic Schumann at 
the University of Berlin.  His work began in earnest in December 1932 when he 
began researching for his dissertation, ?Constructive, Theoretical, and Experimental 
Contributions to the Problem of the Liquid Fueled Rocket,? while working for the 
98
 Walter Dornberger, ?Denkschrift,? c. 1943, NASM Fort Eustis (FE) Files, FE 496.
99
 For Nebel?s marginalization by the Army, see below as well as Michael Neufeld, ?The Excluded: 
Hermann Oberth and Rudolf Nebel in the Third Reich,? Quest 5/4 (1996).
100
 Dornberger, V-2, 26-27.
69
Army at Kummersdorf.
101
  Von Braun was not yet an Army employee, but received a 
stipend of 300 marks per month to work for the military.
102
  Nevertheless, as Neufeld 
correctly points out, ?When von Braun began to work at Kummersdorf, Ordnance?s 
own liquid-fuel rocket program can fairly be said to have begun.?
103
Von Braun?s immediate supervisor and contact with Army Ordnance was 
Walter Dornberger.  Nicknamed Sepp by his close friends (including von Braun), 
Dornberger was born in Giessen on September 6, 1895.  In 1926, the Army captain 
enrolled in the engineering program at the Technical University of Berlin.
104
Dornberger was part of the ?study officer? program initiated by Becker, who was 
deeply concerned about the anti-technological assumptions of the old-line officer 
corps.  This program allowed selected officers to gain valuable engineering training at 
TU Berlin.
105
  Dornberger completed his Diploma-Engineer studies in 1930.  
However, he was able to continue his academic training and in 1934, earned a 
doctorate in engineering.
106
Ordnance set up its rocket research station at its proving ground in 
Kummersdorf, approximately seventeen miles south of Berlin.  A test stand for 
powder rockets was already in place, but Ordnance quickly built two new work 
buildings and a new test stand for liquid fueled engines.  These facilities were a major 
101
 Dornberger, V-2, 27; ?Werdegang des Professors von Braun,? NASM FE 341.  Wernher von Braun, 
?Konstruktive, theoretische, und experimentelle Beitr?ge zu dem Problem der Fl?ssigkeitsrakete,? 
Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Berlin, 1934, reprinted in Raketentechnik und Raumfahrtforschung, 
Sonderheft 1, 1960.
102
 Wernher von Braun-Ordnance Contract, 4/4/33, Wernher von Braun Papers, SRCH.
103
 Neufeld, The Rocket, 23.  Von Braun?s role at Kummersdorf is examined in greater detail in chapter 
2.
104
 Walter Dornberger IRR Dossier, Box 371, RG 319, Records of the Army Staff, National Archives.  
Dornberger?s penchant for wearing leather Sepplhosen when off-duty garnered for him the sobriquet.  
Dieter Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1962), 72.
105
 W. Phillips, ?Karl Becker,? Obituary, Zeitschrift des Vereines deutscher Ingenieure 84 (May 4, 
1940), 293-294.  Ebert and Rupieper, ?Technische Wissenschaft,? 469-480.
106
 Dornberger IRR Dossier, NA.
70
improvement over the third rate setup at Reinickendorf.  The new test stand, 
completed in December 1932, was made up of three concrete walls that were twelve 
feet high and eighteen feet long.  Large metal doors completed the enclosure, which 
was covered by a retractable roof.  Built into one of the concrete walls was an 
observation room that housed the testing crew as well as instruments used to measure 
flow rates, pressure, temperature, thrust, and other critical components of the test 
process.  Large tanks built onto the walls automatically pumped liquid oxygen and 
alcohol directly into the engine, thereby disposing with the dangerous task of 
manually pouring liquid oxygen, and an automated measuring system calculated fuel 
consumption during tests.
107
  In 1932-?33 Von Braun was limited to using one half of 
the test stand and his staff was minimal, but nevertheless, the facilities at 
Kummersdorf were a major improvement over those at the Raketenflugplatz.
108
In January 1934, von Braun was joined at Kummersdorf by Walter Riedel 
from the Heylandt Works.
109
  The addition of Riedel was part of the Army?s effort to 
consolidate liquid fueled rocket development under their own aegis and suppress the 
work of the amateur rocket groups.  Hitler?s appointment as Chancellor in the far 
right wing coalition government on January 30, 1933 allowed the Nazis to ruthlessly 
do away with rival parties and organizations.
110
  The Army, which managed to 
maintain nominal independence from the party, took the opportunity to eliminate 
amateur development and public experimentation.  Becker had long despised the 
107
 Dornberger, V-2, 23-24.  
108
 Von Braun, ?Behind the Scenes,? 63, Wernher von Braun Papers, SRCH.  Initially, Von Braun had 
only one technician under him.  
109
 Riedel IRR Dossier, NA.
110
 Ian Kershaw, The Nazi Dictatorship: Problems and Perspectives of Interpretation (New York: 
Routledge, Chapman, and Hall, 1993), 65-81.
71
amateurs? very public approach to their work and considered the secret development 
of the rocket to be paramount, but the Weimar constitution made it impossible for 
Becker to act on these concerns.  With the constitutional controls removed by Hitler 
and the Nazis, Becker seized the chance.  By the end of 1934, the Army had either co-
opted the work of the amateur groups by hiring their leading experts or forced the 
collapse of nearly all of the groups themselves.  Nebel, who had been thrown out of 
the VfR (see below), was denounced by the Army to the Gestapo for violating 
secrecy and also briefly arrested in June during the Night of the Long Knives, the 
bloody purge of SA leadership.  Due to his close connections with Franz Seldte, the 
leader of the ultra-nationalist Stahlhelm group, the slippery rocket enthusiast was 
released quickly.  Nevertheless, because of the Army?s stranglehold on rocket 
development, Nebel never again rose to prominence in the field.
111
The End of the VfR and Raketenflugplatz
However, even before the Army?s campaign to eliminate the amateur groups, 
Nebel?s folly had already begun the collapse of the VfR and the Raketenflugplatz.  In 
the summer of 1932, shortly after Nebel?s disastrous test at Kummersdorf, Franz 
Mengering, an engineer with friends on the Magdeburg city council, came to the 
Raketenflugplatz touting the bizarre idea that the Earth actually existed inside a 
sphere.  He wanted to test his idea by launching a rocket and seeing if it would crash 
against the outer edge of the sphere.  Although it is likely that even Nebel rightly 
111
 The story of the Army?s campaign to suppress the rocket groups is complex and somewhat obscure.  
Michael Neufeld ably sorts out the details.  See Neufeld, ?The Excluded,?; The Rocket and the Reich, 
23-32; and ?Rolf Engel vs. the German Army: A Nazi Career in Rocketry and Repression,? History 
and Technology 13 (1996), 53-72.
72
thought the idea incredibly foolish, this was a perfect chance for him to put his 
opportunistic fundraising skills to use.  He succeeded in obtaining 35,000 marks from 
the city of Magdeburg for his ?Magdeburg Pilot Rocket.? After securing money, the 
VfR attempted to build a rocket that was capable of launching a human and have him 
jump out of it with a parachute once it reached maximum altitude.  This launch was to 
take place in Magdeburg during Pentecost in 1933.  Predictably, the attempt to build 
such a rocket was an embarrassing failure, and the leadership of the Raketenflugplatz 
began to distance themselves from Nebel?s activities.
112
Moreover, Nebel?s questionable business methods were beginning to catch up 
with him.  In February 1930, unbeknownst to the VfR leadership, Nebel, as Treasurer 
of the organization, filed a bankruptcy petition for the society and allegedly began 
cooking the financial books.
113
  Nebel was apparently using the VfR?s money for his 
own personal gain.  In September 1933, Hans-Wolf von Dickhuth-Harrach and Willy 
Ley, the respective President and Vice President of the VfR, discovered this scheme, 
accused Nebel of fraud, and expelled him from the society.  Citing the close ties 
between the Raketenflugplatz and the VfR, Von Dickuth-Harrach also severed the 
ties between two organizations.  Von Dickuth-Harrach?s explanation for Nebel?s 
expulsion in Raketentechnik, the VfR?s newsletter, is noteworthy for the direction of 
the political development of the society.  He cast his decision to expel Nebel in terms 
of the larger ?cleansing? of the economy then going on as a result of the National 
Socialist seizure of power.  In arguing that Nebel had been engaging in fraudulent 
financial activities with VfR money, Von Dickuth Harrach wrote, ?This highest ideal 
112
 Ley, Rockets, 157-160;  Nebel, Narren, 125-128; Winter, Prelude, 44-46.  
113
 Ley, Rockets, 157.
73
[a ?clean economy? ? saubere Wirtschaft],? he wrote, ?which was unfortunately 
almost completely lost in German intellectual circles during the years of Marxism, 
has become honorable again, thanks to the will of our F?hrer, Peoples? Chancellor 
Adolf Hitler.  Hopefully it will soon be considered in the way is was before the war; 
that is, each German feels in his flesh and blood that he cannot act anything less than 
honestly and openly.?
114
  With this statement, Von Dickhuth-Harrach, who became 
President of the VfR in 1931, aligned the society with the National Socialist policy of 
eliminating the supposed corruption and morally depravity of the sinister Weimar 
Republic.  He went on by writing that the worst enemies in this regard were not those 
who openly supported the Republic?s political and economic initiatives, but rather 
those who cloaked their own narrow self interest by acting ?decently in speech and 
emphasizing their usefulness to the community.?
115
  For the VfR leadership, Nebel?s 
behavior, with its corruption, deceit, and lack of communal spirit, represented all of 
the worst characteristics of the Weimar Republic.  Nebel?s proclivity for self-
promotion was emblematic of an era scandal and self-aggrandizement.  He violated 
the trust of the close community of rocket specialists, both within and outside of the 
Raketenflugplatz, and for this, he received from his colleaguues the strongest rebuke 
they could bring ? expulsion from their ranks. Moreover, the communal spirit that 
bonded the engineers became increasingly politicized in the 1930s, falling back on 
harsh National Socialist rhetoric to explain the causes for this lack of communal 
feeling.  National Socialism offered a solution to these problems by sweeping aside 
114
 Hans-Wolfe von Dickuth-Harrach, ?Saubere Wirtschaft,? Raketentechnik, November 1, 1933, 1, in 
NASM file ?Germany 1920-1940, Correspondence.?  Von Braun was elected to the board of the VfR 
in September 1932, but dropped out of the organization in 1933.  Raketenflug 7 (December, 1932), von 
Braun, ?Reminiscences,? 130.
115
 Ibid., 2.
74
the selfishness and fraud inherent in capitalism and reviving the honorable idea of 
service to the larger community.  
Nebel?s fall from the leadership of the amateur rocket circles is indicative of 
larger trends among German rocket engineers during the onset of the Nazi regime.  
The first is the growing influence of Becker and the Army Ordnance Office.  
Ordnance favored proceeding from a sober, rational, realistic assessment of the 
capabilities of rocket technology as they stood at the beginning of the 1930s.  They 
sought out talented individuals, such as von Braun and Rudolph, who could carry on 
their work anonymously and with strict attention to scientific and technical detail, 
which would produce systematic, measurable, repeatable results.  Nebel, on the other 
hand, failed them utterly in this regard by literally promising them the moon and 
delivering to them a farce.  His (and others? at the Raketenflugplatz) shortsightedness 
and failure to consistently measure and record the results obtained through 
experimentation led to frequent and sometimes major technical failures, wild 
inconsistencies in experimental findings, and exaggerated assertions about the level 
of rocket technology at that point in its development.   Short of seeing a rocket in 
flight, Ordnance had no way to know for sure about the exact state of the art.  When 
they saw for themselves how deeply flawed the rocket was and how badly fabricated 
Nebel?s assertions were, they determined to develop the technology themselves and 
co-opted the valuable and necessary personnel from the amateur groups. Moreover, 
Nebel?s capacity for overstatement and seeking the public spotlight irritated Ordnance 
leadership, who considered strict secrecy to be one of the most important 
considerations of their work.  This in turn led to a growing mistrust and resentment of 
75
Nebel.  In the end, the growing influence of the Army, coupled with the veil of 
secrecy descending upon rocket research, combined to exclude Nebel from the larger 
community of rocket engineers.
However, the final blow to the Raketenflugplatz came from something far 
more prosaic and unexpected than military pressure or Nebel?s trickery.  In the midst 
of the Magdeburg debacle, a city official arrived in Reinickendorf with a huge water 
bill for the Raketenflugplatz.  Leaky faucets in some of the buildings that were never 
used accrued a large water bill over the years of the rocketeers? residence on the site. 
Since the chronically destitute Raketenflugplatz had no money to pay the bill, the city 
cancelled its lease to the land.  Moreover, the pressure on the group by Army 
Ordnance to cease its activities proved irresistible.  Much of the equipment and what 
few documents they had traveled to Siemens with some of the engineers who were 
subsequently hired by the firm.  Through von Braun, these men, including such 
luminaries as Klaus Riedel, Hans H?ter, and Kurt Hainisch, were eventually hired to 
work at Peenem?nde.
116
****
The Weimar years of German rocketry proved to be difficult, yet rewarding 
for the engineers who sought to develop a liquid fueled rocket.  For a profession 
struggling to gain the same public approbation and political influence as that held by 
the ?free? professions (doctors, teachers, and lawyers), rocketry proved to be a boon 
in more ways than one.  Its popularity, which was fostered by very public and 
dramatic experiments, led to much greater recognition for many luminaries among 
116
 Ley, Rockets, 160-161; Winter, Prelude, 48; Riedel, Hainisch, and H?ter questionnaires, folder 
?Boston,?  Box 703, RG 165, Assistant Chief of Staff, Enemy POW Interrogation File, 1943-
1945,NARA.
76
engineering.  In addition, rocket engineers were able to set up their own professional 
societies, complete with meetings and a regular journal that enhanced their ideas of 
professionalism.  Even when the work did not pay, as was the case for those at the 
Raketenflugplatz, it did provide food and shelter as well as a great deal of 
camaraderie.
The growth of this professionalism was balanced by the wholly amateurish 
and ad hoc approach taken on the shop floor by the most important group of 
enthusiasts at the Raketenflugplatz.  They had no regular source of supply, other than 
Nebel?s undoubted bargaining skill, no systematic approach to their experiments, and 
no money to pay their engineers and technicians.  Their unabashed enthusiasm could 
only paper over these problems for so long.     
Nevertheless, it was the very popularity of rocketry in the Weimar Republic 
that brought the enthusiasts? work to the attention of the Army, who, in their quest to 
re-arm Germany, could provide them with vastly improved facilities and resources.  
The conditions on this employment were that they eschew the public aspects of their 
work and focus on quietly improving the scientific and technical groundwork laid in 
the previous years.  Technical development of a deadly weapon, not gaudy and 
fanciful expositions of the rocket?s many potential uses, was the rule of the day.  
While similar nationalist ideas helped inspire the two groups to work with one 
another, the Army also put a great deal of emphasis on scientific and technological 
professionalism and the willingness of the engineers to work in secret.  Nearly all of 
the important rocket enthusiasts in Germany held nationalist beliefs of some sort, but 
some were unable to set aside their lofty dreams of space travel and focus on the more 
77
mundane matters of rocket development that were the key to the success of the rocket 
endeavor.  Others were simply unable to work within the shroud of secrecy that the 
Army wished to impose on rocket development and believed they could build a 
rocket on their own or with corporate support.  This betrayed an inability to 
comprehend the vast complexity of the task in front of them, which could only be met 
with the funding and resources that a large, well-developed industrialized nation 
could provide.  Ultimately, those who could not work within these parameters were 
shunned not only by the Army, but also by their colleagues in the slowly developing 
profession of rocket engineering.  If they were willing to keep this bargain, they were 
either hired right away by the Army or would be once plans for the massive research 
installation at Peenem?nde were completed.  
It was only with the increased dedication of the regime to developing a 
ballistic missile that the idea of the professional rocket engineer began to take form.  
Those who came to work for the Nazis on the missile in the 1930s and ?40s 
fundamentally shaped its maturation.  Their professional circle would grow much 
larger in the years to come even as the cultural and political world of engineers 
became increasingly complex and the bonds between them and the state grew much 
stronger.
Chapter 2
State Commitments, State Secrets: Establishing the Peenem?nde Community of 
Rocketeers 
In working on rocket development for Army?s Ordnance Bureau, the small 
group of civilian rocket pioneers under Braun at Kummersdorf began the process by 
which their identities would be re-shaped as rocket specialists in the service of the 
state.  This chapter argues that the rocket specialists, first at Kummersdorf and then at 
Peenem?nde, were relentlessly drawn into even closer cooperation with authorities 
within the Nazi regime through a combination of military decisions, professional 
aspirations, and demands for secrecy.  First, technical specialists engaged in rocket 
work experienced a dramatic growth not only in money, resources, and manpower, 
but also in demand for their very special skills.  A corresponding growth in their 
prestige was the result.  The increased military and technological demands mingled 
with the professional aspirations of the development specialists led by Wernher von 
Braun.  The result was the construction of a first rate technological facility on the 
Baltic coast that was dedicated solely to their work.  Secondly, this chapter argues 
that the Army?s absolute demand for total secrecy in rocket development resulted in a 
strict network of regulations that formed the framework within which rocket 
specialists lived both their personal and professional lives, shaping their identities in 
profound and important ways.  Individuals at Peenem?nde deeply internalized 
secrecy practices, and their adherence to the rules was automatic, behavior that 
improved their chances of success while guaranteeing their loyalty to the regime.  
79
The expansion of the program at Kummersdorf and its eventual resettlement 
at Peenem?nde took place within the frenzied context of the National Socialist 
rearming of Germany.  The regime actively pursued the development and production 
of technologically advanced weapons, and Ordnance and their rocket developers at 
Kummersdorf were only too eager to supply them.  They capitalized on the demands 
for rearmament by expanding their budget, enlarging their staff, and improving their 
facilities.  In the end, rocket developers were awarded with one of the largest, most 
modern, most well-equipped scientific and technological installations in the world.  
The secrets within this installation were kept strictly off-limits to anyone not 
involved in the work.  In the context of missile development, maintenance of absolute 
secrecy was second in importance only to the development work itself.  The 
regulations enacted to guard the secret work were all-encompassing and erected 
imposing physical and psychological barriers between those subject to secrecy and 
the outside world.  These daily practices that set Peenem?nde employees off from the 
rest of German society became the anvil upon which their identities were reshaped as 
missile developers in the service of the Nazi state.  Secrecy was fundamental to the 
re-ordering and reproduction of the identities of employees from individual, skilled, 
technical experts into ?Peenem?nders,? a group of elite weapons designers working 
on the very cutting edge of modern technology.  This re-definition of individual 
identity into a group form had important implications, not only for the pace of 
innovation and development, but also in terms of political compliance within the Nazi 
regime.
80
In the end, a combination of several factors enhanced the individual technical 
specialist?s identification with the project in its early years.  Unwavering support by 
the Army was one key.  Without this support, which grew steadily in the 1930s, the 
practice of rocketry would likely have languished in relative obscurity.  Also 
important were the specialists? own aspirations within this nascent community of 
professionals.  Their own desire to work in this highly specialized project grew as the 
Army made its commitment to their work clear.  Civilian specialists and their Army 
benefactors saw great use, for whatever purpose, in large, liquid-fueled rockets.  
Finally, the imposition of secrecy around their work and their care in maintaining it 
began to foster a deep, abiding sense of community, privilege, and loyalty.  All of this 
set out the framework of future efforts on behalf of the regime that sponsored their 
work. 
One note on the goals of this chapter is necessary.  What follows does not aim 
at an exhaustive history of the events leading up to and during construction at 
Peenem?nde.  Michael Neufeld?s ambitious work covers this in detail.
1
  Rather, the 
first section of this chapter highlights the ways in which the experience of missile 
development in the early 1930s informed decisions that were made about the conduct 
of work at Peenem?nde.  It also illustrates how the goals of authorities in the Army, 
1
  Michael Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich: Peenem?nde and the Coming of the Ballistic Missile 
Era (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995).  Neufeld?s work is the first English language 
monograph to examine the existing German documentary record of Peenem?nde and corrects the 
numerous errors made in books written by other historians and space enthusiasts.  Heinz Dieter 
H?lsken, Die V-Waffen: Entstehung, Propaganda, Kriegseinsatz (Stuttgart: Deutsche-Verlags Anstalt, 
1984), was the first German effort on this front, but H?lsken did not have access to the entire 
documentary record and his book falls prey to some of the postwar myths about Peenem?nde that 
Neufeld corrects.  An early, influential, often erroneous history of the German rocket program that 
white-washes the records of many German rocket specialists is Fred Ordway and Mitchell Sharpe, The 
Rocket Team (New York: Crowell, 1979).  Its authors, both space enthusiasts, draw their arguments 
almost entirely from postwar interviews with the German participants themselves.
81
as representatives of the regime, and those of early civilian technical specialists in 
rocket development became increasingly intertwined in the period before the rocket 
center at Peenem?nde was constructed.  The second section, which comprises the 
bulk of the chapter, examines the daily practices of secrecy at Peenem?nde once the 
facility was opened in 1937.  It describes the framework in which individual 
specialists of varying scientific and technical backgrounds from across Germany 
developed into a dynamic community with a unitary vision on an isolated island on 
the Baltic coast.  Rather than offer a history of the physical development of 
Peenem?nde, this chapter explores the foundations of the dynamic technical 
community that formed at the facility and examines the contours within which the 
basic forces that affected individuals? daily lives took shape. 
Kummersdorf Proving Ground, Army Ordnance, and the Roots of ?Big? 
German Missile Research, 1933-1937
The development of the German Army missile program at Kummersdorf and 
the work that went on at the proving ground contained the seeds of the experience 
that would emerge at Peenem?nde only a few years later.  A corps of highly 
motivated, deeply dedicated developers, backed by the growing financial support of a 
regime bent on rearming its depleted military, made substantial progress toward the 
development of the world?s first ballistic missile.  The work was carried out in utter 
secrecy, and its increasingly advanced nature dictated the emergence of a specific set 
of professional norms governing the conduct of work.  In a very real sense, the 
Kummersdorf experience foreshadowed the onset of ?big research? at Peenem?nde.
2
2
 On big research, see Margit Sz?ll?si-Janze and Helmuth Trischler, eds., Grossforschung in 
Deutschland (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1990).
82
From nearly its first moment in power, the National Socialist regime made the 
rearming of Germany?s weakened military its top priority.  As early as February 8, 
1933, nine days after Hitler ascended to the Chancellor?s post, he reported to his 
cabinet that ?The next five years must be devoted to the restoration of the defense 
capacity of the German people,? and he proclaimed that every state-funded work 
creation measure must be judged in terms of its value to this goal.
3
  For the Nazis, 
Germany?s future depended solely on rebuilding its armed forces that were shattered 
in World War One and cut to the bone by restrictions in the Treaty of Versailles.  All 
other government expenditures were secondary to this task.  The demands of the 
nation?s armed forces were to take precedence over any other institution.  
Accordingly, the government diverted hundreds of millions of Reichsmarks from 
other measures to pay for the illegal German rearmament.
4
  In April, the government 
initiated the ?Second Armaments Program,? which circumvented the standard 
budgeting process in order to provide money that was not included in the state budget 
directly to the Army.
5
  Hitler?s dedication to rebuilding the German Army was the 
cornerstone of the Army?s loyalty to the Reich.  Though it would prove to have a 
troubled relationship with Hitler, the Army leadership found in him a man whose 
military interests largely coincided with its own.  Moreover, Hitler?s approach to 
military spending ignored any practical limitations and rejected international law.  
Though in the opening years of his rule, he proceeded very carefully with 
3
 Quoted in Ian Kershaw, Hitler, 1889-1936: Hubris (New York: W.W. Norton, 1998), 444.
4
 Heinz H?hne, Zeit der Illusionen: Hitler und die Anf?nge des 3.Reiches 1933 bis 1936 (D?sseldorf: 
Econ-Verlag, 1991), 58.
5
 Michael Geyer, Deutsche R?stungspolitik, 1860-1980 (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1984), 140.
83
rearmament, he later proved himself willing to flout international accords and spend 
profligately.  
The Armed Forces pounced on the opportunities for expansion and innovation 
that the dictator?s aggressive armaments policy offered.  Acting on their own 
concerns, they naturally showed little evidence of reflection on the deep, long-term 
problems that all-out rearmament inflicted on the economy.
6
  They were fully aware 
that they had Hitler?s whole-hearted support and continued to press for increasingly 
advanced and modern weaponry.
7
  Ian Kershaw has pointed out that this was not 
merely based on the desire to increase Germany?s military strength.  It was also, he 
contends, one aspect of the armed forces? leadership ?working toward the F?hrer,? 
that is, consciously acting in accordance with what they perceived to be Hitler?s own 
goals.
8
  This phenomenon was not limited to the upper echelons of the armed forces 
leadership.  Rather, it extended deeply into the Army?s bureaucracy.  
This accelerated pace of rearmament under the Nazis as well as the polycratic 
nature of the regime?s administrative structures only served to benefit the aspirations 
of rocketry enthusiasts by allowing the ambitious head of the Army Ordnance Testing 
Section, Colonel Karl Becker, who would be promoted to General and assume the 
post of Ordnance Chief in 1938, and his fast-rising subordinate, Major Walter 
6
 The lack of focus on improving consumer spending inevitably led to major economic difficulties, 
devastating the Reich?s finances and increasing the risk of dramatic inflation.  Historians have shown 
that such fiscal policies in fact retarded German economic growth, even as they gave it a needed 
injection of energy.  See, for example, Dieter Petzina, Autarkiepolitik im Dritten Reich: Der 
nationalsozialistische Vierjahresplan (Stuttgart: Deutsche-Verlags Anstalt, 1968) and Jane Caplan, ed., 
Nazism, Fascism, and the Working Class: Essays by Tim Mason (New York: Cambridge University 
Press, 1995).
7
 Kershaw, Hitler, Hubris, 437-444.  Wilhelm Deist, The Wehrmacht and German Rearmament
(Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1981), 24-25.  Klaus-Jurgen M?ller Das Heer und Hitler: 
Armee und Nationalsozialistisches Regime, 1933-1940, 2
nd
 Edition, (Stuttgart: Deutsche-Verlags 
Anstalt, 1988), 53-61.  
8
 Ian Kershaw, Hitler: Nemesis, 1936-1945 (New York: W.W. Norton, 2000), 9-18.
84
Dornberger, to carve out an administrative empire that catered to their professional 
aspirations by putting missile development front and center in the German 
rearmament effort.
9
  The determined missile developers at Kummersdorf benefited 
greatly from the skillful shepherding of Becker and Dornberger.  The massive effort 
to rearm Germany as quickly as possible and without consideration for internal 
economics or external treaties helped to create the institutional environment for major 
technological innovation in the rocket program by providing the necessary facilities, 
raw materials, and brain power.      
Throughout the 1930s, the Army?s in-house missile development program 
made significant strides.  The National Socialist assumption of power allowed 
officials in the Army?s Ordnance branch, which headed the official effort at rocket 
development, to restrict access to the technology by imposing a tight curtain of 
secrecy around German rocketry.  For Becker and Dornberger, secrecy was a 
consideration of paramount importance.  Ordnance effectively closed down nearly all 
amateur rocket societies and development projects.  By 1934, Dornberger had 
completely cut Rudolph Nebel out of the Army program because of the grandstanding 
engineer?s proclivity to seek out publicity for his work.  Ordnance welcomed only 
9
 On the chaotic nature of the Nazi administrative hierarchy and the competition that developed within 
it, see Peter H?ttenberger, ?Nationalsozialistische Polykratie,? Geschichte und Gesellschaft 2 (1976), 
417-442, perhaps the single-most influential essay in the historiography of Nazi Germany.  See also 
Martin Broszat, The Hitler State: The Foundation and Development of the Internal Structure of the 
Third Reich, Transl. John W. Hiden (New York: Longman, 1981).  Ian Kershaw, The Nazi 
Dictatorship: Problems and Perspectives of Interpretation (London: E. Arnold, 1985), argues that the 
regime was divided into power blocs made up of the SS, armed forces, and armaments ministry, 
among others.  This interpretation has come under increasing scrutiny by historians who argue that 
even these blocs, especially the SS, had warring factions.  See Michael Thad Allen, The Business of 
Genocide: The SS, Slave Labor, and the Concentration Camps (Chapel Hill: University of North 
Carolina Press, 2002), Jan-Erik Schulte, Zwangsarbeit und Vernichtung: das Wirtschaftsimperium der 
SS: Oswald Pohl und das SS-Wirtschaftsverwaltungs-Hauptamt, 1933-1945 (Paderborn: Sch?ningh, 
2001), and Karin Orth, Das System der nationalsozialistischen Konzentrationslager: Eine politische 
Organisationsgeschichte (Hamburg: Hamburg Edition, 1999).
85
those specialists who were willing to carry out their research under the strictest 
secrecy regulations.  Some former amateur rocketeers, including Wernher von Braun, 
found themselves working in the modern and modestly well-equipped firing range at 
Kummersdorf outside of Berlin.  
As von Braun could attest, the conditions at Kummersdorf were far better than 
at the Raketenflugplatz.  Instead of unemployed engineers living in ramshackle 
quarters and squeezed elbow to elbow in primitive work stations, Kummersdorf 
offered the prospect of paid employment (employees at Kummersdorf earned between 
2400 and 8000 Reichsmarks per year, depending on education and experience) while 
utilizing some of the best equipment that money could buy.
10
  Safety considerations 
were much easier to maintain and the work was not restricted by angry policemen 
concerned about collateral damage.  All of this combined to help facilitate the 
creation of professional bonds between the Army and engineers.  That many of the 
engineers at Kummersdorf were deeply nationalist only strengthened the links 
between the two until stronger institutional bonds could be forged.  
At the proving ground, von Braun?s small team, with its improved facilities 
and funding, surpassed the work of the amateur groups rather quickly.  The year 1934 
proved to be both personally and professionally rewarding for many in rocket 
development there.  In June, Braun defended his dissertation, ?Konstruktive, 
theoretische, und experimentelle Beitr?ge zur Problem der Fl?ssigkeitsrakete? 
(?Constructive, Theoretical, and Experimental Contributions to the Problem of the 
10
 For the salaries of civilian engineers at Kummersdorf, see the collection of professional dossiers in 
RG 165, Records of the Army Chief of Staff, Box 702, File ?Boston,? National Archives and Records 
Administratio (NARA).
86
Liquid Fueled Rocket?).
11
  The twenty-two year old was awarded the Ph.D. with high 
honors for his work on rocket development, and his star was rapidly on the rise.  By 
this time, the process by which he would endow this work with great personal 
significance was well under way.  The long-time space enthusiast?s research on 
rocket technology was groundbreaking, and he saw in his work for the Army the 
fulfillment of many of his professional ambitions.
12
  At the end of 1934 on the island 
of Borkum, Braun?s group staged successful test launches of two relatively small 
rockets, code-named A-2s, but known affectionately by his group as Max and Moritz, 
after the ne?er do well characters in the cartoon The Katzenjammer Kids.  Among the 
participants in the launches were Braun, Arthur Rudolph, and Walter ?Papa? Riedel, 
an important participant in Heylandt?s liquid fueled rocket efforts.
13
  Riedel, 
sometimes gruff and stubborn, proved to be extremely important to the early work at 
Kummersdorf, providing practical design experience while maintaining a close level 
of supervision and quality control that was so important for the relatively small group 
at the firing range.  Indeed, Braun recalled that ?Hardly a rivet or washer in our 
experimental A-3, A-5, A-9, and particularly the A-4 [missiles] can have escaped his 
personal scrutiny.?
14
   When Peenem?nde opened in 1937, Riedel would go on to 
head the Design Bureau for a time.  
11
 Werner von Braun, ?Konstruktive, theoretische, und experimentelle Beitr?ge zur Problem der 
Fl?ssigkeitsrakete,? Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Berlin, 1934.  Reprinted in ?Raketentechnik und 
Raumfahrtforschung,? Sonderheft 1, 1960.
12
 Wernher von Braun, ?Behind the Scenes of German Rocket Development,? Wernher von Braun 
Papers, Space and Rocket Center, Huntsville, (SRCH).
13
 Michael Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich: Peenem?nde and the Coming of the Ballistic Missile 
Era (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1996), 38.  Arthur Rudolph Oral History Interview (OHI), 
NASM.
14
 Wernher von Braun, ?Reminiscences of German Rocketry,? Journal of the British Interplanetary 
Society, 70 (May/June 1956), 131-132.
87
The Kummersdorf group?s success with the A-2 test rockets proved to be an 
important point in the effort to create a larger, state-funded rocketry program.  In 
addition to creating considerable elation among the developers, the December 
launches at Borkum met with great enthusiasm among Ordnance officials and a
further loosening of Army purse strings.
15
  When they presented their findings to their 
Army masters in mid-January 1935, one officer?s enthusiasm for the technology got 
the better of him.  He made a premature and short-sighted proposal to quickly mass-
produce a scaled-up version of the relatively primitive test rockets for use in artillery 
style bombardments.  In an early indication of his willingness to conceive of his work 
in terms of its military applications as well as his desire to build even bigger 
machines, an unenthusiastic Braun had to throw cold water on this idea by arguing 
that the A-2s were inaccurate, unreliable, and might damage the case for larger 
weapons in the future.
16
   The armed forces accepted this argument, and despite a 
moderate, but not unreasonable, degree of penny pinching by the Army, the budget 
for rocketry grew continually throughout the early 1930s, as the senior service made 
its commitment to the technology increasingly clear.  Larger budgets meant that the 
staff at Kummersdorf grew, the offices expanded, and the testing hardware was 
enlarged and improved.  Braun?s earlier spatial limitations at Kummersdorf were 
eliminated and the complexity of his facilities dramatically expanded.  For example, 
Ordnance built a larger test stand for liquid fueled engines that was surrounded by a 
blast wall and serviced by a locomotive that could tow large testing equipment and 
15
 Wernher von Braun, ?I Reached for the Stars,? Box 200, Folder 7, Wernher von Braun Papers, 
SRCH.
16
 Wernher von Braun, Denkschrift, 1/18/35, FE 727/a, NASM.
88
even complete rockets into firing position.
17
  The staff dedicated to rocket 
development grew to seventy-eight people, and the research budget reached up to 
80,000 Reichsmarks.
18
  All of this was a far cry from the lean years at the 
Raketenflugplatz, but even so, increasing military demands on rocket technology and 
growing ambitions of its supporters were beginning to make even the large proving 
ground at Kummersdorf too small for developing and testing large rockets.  
It was during this period that secrecy began to define itself as a major force in 
the culture of missile development.  It played a key role in obtaining necessary 
resources for development as well as helping to establish the rocket developers as 
participants in activities that could only be the domain of a privileged few.  Despite 
Becker?s efforts and Kummersdorf?s improved conditions over those at the 
Raketenflugplatz, resources remained undeniably scarce in the first two years of Nazi 
rule.  Ordnance addressed this problem with a combination of inventive requisition 
requests (referring, for example, to a pencil sharpener as an ?Appliance for milling 
wooden dowels up to ten millimeters in diameter?) and resorting to secrecy.  If 
circumlocution failed, then, ?We entrenched ourselves behind the magic word 
?secret.?  There, the budget bureau was powerless.?
19
  Dornberger offers a telling 
example.
Once, in the summer of 1933, we bought two boxes of 
Christmas tree sparklers.  The idea was to use these 
sparklers inside the nozzle for igniting the first drops of 
oxygen and alcohol.  A year passed.  Then the Bureau 
17
Neufeld, The Rocket 36-54.  Dornberger, V-2, 33.
18
 Braun, ?Reminiscences,? 134.  Volkhard Bode and Gerhard Kaiser, Raketenspuren: Peenem?nde, 
1936-1996 (Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag, 1996), 43.  For a history of the Kummersdorf Proving Grounds, 
see Wolfgang Fleischer, Die Heeresversuchsstelle Kummersdorf: Maus, Tiger, Panther, Luchs, 
Raketen und andere Waffen der Wehrmacht bei der Erprobung (W?lfersheim-Berstadt: Podzun-Pallas 
Verlag, 1995).
19
 Dornberger, V-2, 37.
89
of the Budget asked what Christmas sparklers were 
used for in the middle of summer.  We replied tersely, 
?For experiments.?  But the Bureau of the Budget was 
not happy with this answer, and eight weeks later asked 
us what kind of experiments.  We answered, ?Secret 
experiments.?  Then they gave up.
20
Such practices drew a firm and early boundary between initiates, that is, individuals 
with access to privileged information, and others who were not privy to secrets.  In 
addition to producing needed materials, secrecy also provided the power to refute the 
demands of those whose prerogatives normally exercised a decisive effect on the 
daily conduct of work at Kummersdorf.  In this case, it allowed Ordnance to dictate 
access to information viewed by nearly all involved in rocket development as being 
of decisive importance.
21
  It helped establish the boundaries within which a privileged 
few, who had the proper qualifications, could operate relatively freely and unfettered 
by normal limitations.  Ordnance strove to keep as few people as possible from 
knowing about their rocket research, but in doing so, also established a dynamic in 
which those who conducted the research, both producers and recipients of secret 
information, began to crystallize their ideals of professionalism, privilege, and power.
In any case, another aspect of the demand for improved rocket technology was 
driven by foreign development competition and Ordnance?s desire to maintain its lead 
in this area.  Ordnance officers increasingly argued that though Germany might have 
taken the lead in rocket development, other countries, especially the United States and 
Soviet Union, were showing signs of catching up.  For the officers in charge of 
shepherding Germany?s rocket program along, the presence of foreign development 
competition was a serious concern.  Troublingly for the Army, they were receiving a 
20
 Ibid., 38.
21
 See chapter 1.
90
number of reports of progress being made in this field, especially by Robert Goddard 
in the United States.  In January 1936, the German Military Attach? in Washington 
sent a detailed report of Goddard?s work on liquid fueled rockets to Berlin, where 
Ordnance obtained a copy.  The report contained information on the size, altitude 
capability, and speed of Goddard?s instrument, which, though erroneous, gave cause 
for increased concern among Ordnance officials.
22
  In February, the General Staff 
forwarded a copy of the American Science Newsletter, which contained information 
about Goddard?s ongoing work.
23
  Another report indicated to Ordnance the flight of 
a small rocket from New York City across the Hudson River to New Jersey on 
February 9, 1936.
24
  Unfortunately, there is little evidence relating to German 
intelligence on Soviet activities in the 1930s.  Though none of this work even came 
close to approximating the scale or success of the German program, it was at least 
enough to give Ordnance justification for improved funding and expansion of the 
program.  However spotty, this intelligence provided yet more impetus for officials in 
the armed forces to argue that continued missile development was of decisive 
importance to the German nation?s massive rearmament effort aimed at military 
superiority over its rivals.  In the future, Dornberger would seize on it to promote the 
highest wartime armaments priority level for rocketry in an attempt to guarantee 
unlimited development and production resources.  In the 1940s, his resort to citing 
foreign competition as justification for a project that consumed increasing resources 
would eventually put his development and production engineers under massive strain 
22
 Boetticher, ?Raketenversuche in den Vereinigten Staaten,? 1/7/36, RG 226, T-78/434, NARA.
23
 ?Rocket Sent to 7500 Feet at 700 Miles an Hour, Science Newsletter, 1/4/36, RH8/v.1945, 
Bundesarchiv/Milit?rarchive Freiburg (BA/MA.)
24
 Auszug aus Technische Nachrichten Nr. 27, RH8/v.1945, BA/MA.
91
to produce.  However, in the middle of the 1930s, Ordnance?s concern about foreign 
development helped encourage them to push for a massive expansion of the program.
The development of the idea for an expanded missile program first gained 
traction in early 1935, shortly after the successful A-2 experiments.  In February, the 
Luftwaffe?s Technical Development Office, under the guidance of Wolfram von 
Richtofen, began to show an interest in the rocket?s potential uses in combat aircraft.  
In May, Captain Leo Zanssen, who would go on to become the military commander 
at Peenem?nde in 1938, sent a memo to the Air Ministry endorsing the idea of 
cooperation between the two organizations.  Zanssen first noted that the use of rocket 
engines was perceived ?primarily as a military weapon (a liquid fueled long range 
missile),? making it perfectly clear that Ordnance was not in any way interested in 
spaceflight.  He continued by writing that ?A considerable development lead vis-?-vis 
foreign countries has been reached here, the relinquishment of which would be 
intolerable because the element of surprise is in the interest of national defense.?
25
Zanssen?s memo also underlined the increasing importance that Ordnance 
attached to secrecy in missile development.  The Luftwaffe hoped to conduct a joint 
development venture with the Junkers aircraft firm, but Ordnance was reluctant to 
join this effort because of secrecy considerations.  Zanssen argued that the rocket 
engine?s use for missile technology would have maximum impact if developed in 
secret and deployed by surprise.
26
  The following June, Ordnance convened a meeting 
with the Reich Air Ministry (RLM) at Kummersdorf in order to address Ordnance?s 
ongoing concerns and attempt to hammer out the terms of an inter-service agreement.  
25
Zanssen to RLM, ?Raketenflugzeug,? 5/22/35, FE 732, NASM.
26
Ibid.
92
Among those present were Richtofen from the RLM, two representatives of Junkers, 
Ordnance officer Engelbrunner von Horstig, and von Braun and Rudolph from 
Ordnance.  In the meeting, Braun presented a position paper that, as Neufeld has 
noted, ?Must be regarded as Peenem?nde?s birth certificate.?
27
  In it, Braun outlined 
his position on cooperative development, laying particular emphasis the idea of the 
creation of a single facility dedicated solely to developing rocket engines for missiles 
and airplanes.  His paper called attention to the advantages of cooperation between 
the Army and Luftwaffe by arguing that ?The difference between an engine for a free 
flying liquid fueled rocket and for a rocket plane does not come into question.  
Rather, it exists only in spatial arrangements.  It is therefore advantageous that in the 
future, the development of the free flying liquid fueled rocket and the rocket engine 
for airplanes be carried out together in the same place.?
28
  For the young engineer, 
who also happened to be a flying enthusiast, inter-service cooperation to construct a 
facility solely for rocket development was the most efficacious path to continued 
improvement on a technology that he wholeheartedly embraced.
However, Braun also had deeper desires beyond mere cooperation.  His paper, 
in addition to playing to the concerns of Braun?s superiors in Ordnance, revealed his 
own aspirations for rocket development.  ?For the implementation of this goal,? he 
wrote, ?it is desired that all new workers entering into this area of activity also remain 
[bleiben] in this ?experimental rocket center? [Raketenversuchsanstalt].  Section 1 
feels that it is particularly important that it is agreed that the workers placed by the 
RLM for the development of new engines will later be taken over by Ordnance 
27
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 46.
28
Wernher von Braun, Stellungnahme von Wa. Prw. 1 zur Entwicklung eines 
Raketenflugzeugantriebes in Verbindung mit RLM, FE 732, NASM.
93
offices and/or the ?experimental rocket center.??
29
Braun was intent on retaining as 
many specialists in one location as possible.  He pushed this point for two reasons.  In 
his time under Army employment, he had become thoroughly imbued with the 
Ordnance?s strong desire to maintain a monopoly on rocket development and what it 
viewed as proprietary information that emerged from the development process.  
Though Ordnance officers welcomed the RLM?s financial and material contributions, 
at the administrative level, they nonetheless jealously guarded the secret 
developmental information and feared that the Air Ministry would make off with this 
knowledge and key personnel once they had attained what they sought from 
cooperation with the Army.  Braun?s position paper spoke to this fear of losing a 
monopoly on rocket development and sought to ensure this would not occur.   
Moreover, Braun?s paper also points to his own vision of what professional 
rocket specialists should be and do. Once brought to the experimental rocket center, 
they would remain there, forming the nucleus of a like-minded group of technical 
specialists who would then work toward a common technological goal.  Use of the 
verb ?bleiben? indicated that Braun did not simply mean for employees to live at the 
facility while they were employed there or depart for other projects at the whim of 
their superiors.  Rather, these specialists should remain at the facility in order to focus 
their energy on continuing development of rocket technology.  The new rocket center 
would serve as the physical locus of a new, cutting edge technical profession.  This 
arrangement would also allow for the reproduction of new specialists by controlling 
29
 Braun, Stellungnahme, FE 732, NASM.
94
the selection and training of newcomers from one central location.
30
   Inclusion in the 
Peenem?nde community was to become a hallmark of the increasing 
professionalization within the highly specialized world of rocket engineering.
31
  In his 
effort to shape this emerging specialization along the professional lines he saw fit, 
Braun actively sought to determine the physical framework within which this new 
group of technical experts would carry out their important tasks.  
Finally, von Braun noted that while cooperation between the Army and 
Luftwaffe in the rocket venture made obvious sense, ties with private industry should 
not be fostered.  He insisted that no documents produced by the military be made 
available to any private firms.  In addition to the paramount importance of secrecy, 
von Braun contended that ?There is the danger that profit-making opportunities 
would arise from development that the state has carried out at tremendous expense.?
32
Rocket technology developed by the state, argued von Braun, should simply not be 
exploited by large industry.
It is tempting to view von Braun?s statement on industrial exploitation of 
state-developed rocketry as a sign that the widespread Nazi anti-capitalist rhetoric 
held some degree of appeal for him.  Certainly, von Braun was imbued with the 
deeply conservative nationalist sentiment that was rife in the universities and that shot 
through his profession.  However, Michael Neufeld has plausibly argued that the 
30
 This process is essential for the growth of the educated professions.  See Lennart G. Svensson, 
?Knowledge as a Professional Resource: Case Studies of Architects and Psychologists at Work,? and 
Charles McClelland, ?Escape From Freedom? Reflections on German Professionalization, 1870-
1933,? in Rolf Torstendahl, ed., The Formation of Professions: Knowledge, State, Strategy (London: 
Sage Productions, 1990).  William J. Goode has also noted this phenomenon among the professions.  
See his article, ?Community Within a Community: The Professions,? American Sociological Review, 
22/2 (April 1957), 194-200.  
31
 See chapter three.
32
 Wernher von Braun, Stellungnahme von Wa. Prw. 1 zur Entwicklung eines 
Raketenflugzeugantriebes in Verbindung mit RLM, FE 732, NASM.
95
young engineer?s mistrust of capitalism ?drew less on National Socialist ideology 
than on centuries-old traditions of state ownership in Prussia and Germany.?
33
  His 
overriding concern was the maintenance of secrecy considerations and that the 
missile would lose its effectiveness as a weapon if it were somehow exposed to 
industry.  Though Braun found great personal and professional satisfaction in the 
Nazi rearmament program and would join the Nazi party in 1937, he did so only after 
being requested to do so.  There are no extant declarations of his political loyalty to 
the regime, and his actions indicate that rather than being an ideologue who invested 
heavily in Nazi ideology, he was distinctly an opportunist who saw ample prospects 
under the regime to advance his own goals and concerns.  The science writer Willy 
Ley wrote of von Braun, ?Did we discuss politics? Hardly, our minds were always far 
out in space.  But I remember a few chance remarks which might be condensed into 
saying that ? the German Republic was no good and the Nazis ridiculous.?
34
Though the circumstantial evidence makes it tempting to do so, there is simply not 
enough of it to determine that von Braun was an outspoken proponent of National 
Socialist ideology.  He was at worst an opportunist who used the resources that the 
regime put at his disposal to further his own cause.
35
In any case, Ordnance officials subsequently followed Braun?s line of 
argument closely in their dealings with outside entities.  They made it clear that they 
would only include industry in their plans if there were a way to ensure that Junkers 
33
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 46-47.
34
 Quoted in Michael Neufeld, ?Wernher von Braun, the SS, and Concentration Camp Labor: 
Questions of Moral, Political, and Criminal Responsibility,? German Studies Review 25/1 (2002), 59.
35
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 47.  See also Rainier Eisfeld, Mondsuchtig: Wernher von Braun 
und die Geburt der Raumfahrt aus dem Geist der Barberei (Hamburg: RowohltTaschenbuch Verlag, 
1996), 70-74 for a less plausible and heavy-handed argument that von Braun favored a number of 
National Socialist principles.
96
would be able to adhere to the strict secrecy considerations that Ordnance thought 
necessary to implement.  Horstig laid out the Army?s security measures, stating that 
?[Ordnance] must insist that absolutely no drawings, documents, and so forth that are 
based our experiences be in any way made available to industry (not even the 
Junkerswerk), without special permission obtained from Section 1.  The 
developments and research obtained here must remain in the hands of the developers 
here.?
36
  Again, though commercial exploitation may have been on the minds of the 
Ordnance representatives, their main concern was that their work be carried out in 
absolute secrecy.  The only way to maintain such total seclusion, they contended, was 
to pursue all development and production work from one central location rather than 
farm it out to various industrial firms.
Ordnance slightly scaled back its strict secrecy requirements later in 1935 and 
allowed a limited number of industry representatives access to rocket development.  
In the summer of that year, the Air Ministry brought Heinkel Aircraft into the rocket 
program.  In September, Army officials agreed to this addition after the tiny number 
of Junkers and Heinkel employees privy to the project signed a declaration protecting 
the secrecy of the development.  The agreement read, in part, ?The devices developed 
by the Army Ordnance Office for rockets should be used as engines for airplanes.  In 
order to create functional designs, the absolutely secret documents must be made 
more accessible to the aircraft firms.  Since this work must remain totally secret, the 
firms are obligated to make the documents handed to them accessible only to people 
given permission to see them by the Air Ministry.?  Ordnance representatives 
36
 Protokoll ?ber die am 27.6.35 in Kummersdorf stattgefundene Besprechung zwischen RLM, Wa 
Prw. 1 und Vertretern der Junkers-Flugzeugbau A.G., FE 732, NASM.
97
remained determined to keep the circle of initiates as tightly drawn as possible.  They 
and their counterparts in the Air Ministry limited the number of specialists working 
on rocket technology to four people at Junkers and six people at Heinkel while 
ordering that they carry out their experiments in workshops that were off limits to 
other employees of the firms.
37
  The emphasis on total secrecy is clear.  Tactical 
surprise and a strong desire to maintain the Army?s monopoly contributed to this 
dynamic.  Army officials only gave their grudging agreement to cooperation with 
private firms after they made every effort to protect their efforts from disclosure.  
They only relented after Junkers and Heinkel pledged to maintain such secrecy and to 
severely limit the number of people exposed to it at the firms.  Nevertheless, 
Ordnance officials clearly preferred that private industry not be involved at all.  This 
ad hoc arrangement would come to an end when the Army and Luftwaffe parted ways 
in 1938, allowing Ordnance largely ignore private industry and to concentrate nearly 
all of its developmental capability at Peenem?nde and ensuring that secrecy 
considerations could be maintained as tightly as possible.
38
Technical successes, the fear of foreign competition, the overweening desire 
for secrecy, and the rocketeers? own desire to build larger rockets led Becker and his 
assistants to begin thinking about the need for a newer, larger development facility.  
The prospect of cooperation with the Air Ministry made this idea even more 
appealing.  However, even before Ordnance began receiving intelligence about rocket 
development in the United States, the successful flight of the Katzenjammer Kids at 
the end of 1934 made it clear even then that Kummersdorf was rapidly becoming too 
37
 ?Vereinbarung ?ber Zusammenarbeit auf dem Gebiet der Rauchspur zwischen HWA, RLM, Junkers, 
Heinkel,? 9/2/35, FE 746-b, NASM.
38
 For the breakup of the Army-Luftwaffe alliance, see Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 54-63.
98
small for their work, nor was the firing range?s location in the Berlin suburbs 
conducive to secrecy or safety.
39
  Their ambition, however, was not simply to build a 
bigger, more secluded research station.  Rather, in an indication of his philosophy 
behind the assembly of a new facility, Dornberger wrote, 
We wanted to build, to build on a grand scale, and 
beautifully ... We wanted to investigate and develop on 
a single site everything that seemed essential to the 
effective employment of such a new and powerful 
weapon.  We wanted to develop, not only the rocket 
itself, but also the necessary ground handling and 
testing equipment, and to study all its implications in 
the most diverse branches of technology and science.  
We wanted to start with applied research and end up 
with a fully developed article ready for production in 
the factories.  In short, we wished to put through on our 
own account a complete program.  We needed a 
research and development site fully equipped with all 
the latest resources of science and technology.
40
The project of rocket and missile development would be no small-scale 
program.  A crucial consideration in the assembly of any new base was that its size 
and aesthetics match the importance that rocket enthusiasts attributed to the weapon.  
Building ?on a grand scale and beautifully? was essential.  Moreover, Dornberger?s 
notion that all of the work, including development, assembly, and production, should 
be carried out under one roof (?Alles unter einem Dach?) profoundly shaped the 
notions of how rocket development should be carried out in Germany.  This idea was 
rooted in the state-centered tradition of Prussian Army culture and National Socialist 
rhetorical anti-capitalism.
41
  Both Becker and Dornberger believed that single 
39
 Dornberger, V-2, 38.
40
 Ibid., 38-39.
41
 On the deep roots of the Army?s anti-capitalism, see Walter Goerlitz, History of the German General 
Staff, 1657-1945 (New York: Frederick A. Praeger Publishers, 1962),  54-57.  An excellent analysis of 
99
location that could more easily handle the variety of problems inherent in such a 
radically new technology was essential for the completion of the work.  For Ordnance 
and civilian leadership, the most advanced weapon required the largest, most 
advanced research, development, and production facility that could be assembled.  
Thus, even before the rocket specialists sketched out the A-4 as a concept and any 
equipment to be used in its development existed, the idea of an elaborate station for 
the development of ever-larger rockets had taken root.  Ordnance was banking not 
only on the potential of the rocket as a weapon, but also on the skill of the people 
working in the program.  Though it would prove a difficult period of development, 
the rocketeers would not disappoint.
Cooperation with the Luftwaffe meant even more funding and support for 
rocket development from both military branches.  In December 1935, after several 
weeks of searching, Luftwaffe and Army officials settled on the area around 
Peenem?nde, a tiny, isolated fishing village on the Baltic coast with a population of 
447 residents, as the site for the single rocket facility proposed by Braun the previous 
year.  After viewing an engine demonstration at Kummersdorf in March, General 
Werner von Fritsch, the Commander-in-Chief of the Army, candidly asked 
Dornberger, ?How much do you want??
42
  As Braun put it in 1956, ?In this manner 
our modest effort, whose yearly budget had never exceeded 80,000 marks, emerged 
into what Americans call the ?big time.??
43
  To the delight of the developers, millions 
of marks began flowing in support of the rocket venture.
National Socialism?s schizophrenic anti-capitalism is Avraham Barkai, Nazi Economics: Ideology, 
Theory, and Policy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990).
42
 Dornberger, V-2, 38-39.
43
 Braun, ?I Reached for the Stars,? WvB Papers, SRCH.
100
By April 1936, the Luftwaffe approved final construction plans and 
groundbreaking at Peenem?nde began in August.  Over 10,000 workers under 
contract to civilian firms, Organization Todt, and the Reich Labor Service descended 
on the sleepy island to lay roads and train tracks, erect living quarters, and construct 
development workshops.
44
  The Luftwaffe?s construction office administered the 
building project.  The pace of this work and the decisive efforts of the Luftwaffe in 
support the rocket venture were met with great enthusiasm by the developers, who 
were more than a little impressed by the air force?s willingness to advance their 
cause.  Arthur Rudolph recalled years later that it was ?entirely new, fantastic, 
unbureaucratic, fast moving.?
45
  ?The guys were fantastic,? he also proclaimed.
46
Braun cited the important similarities between the rocketeers and the Luftwaffe 
officers that encouraged mutual identification, writing that they ?were young, 
enterprising, and receptive, and did not suffer from the hidebound mentalities and 
masses of red tape which handicapped the Army and Navy.?
47
  ?Here was action 
indeed!? gushed Dornberger.
48
  The financial commitment by both services was 
massive, as the rocketeers? aims benefited from interservice rivalry to finance their 
work.  The Air Ministry gave an initial promise of five million marks, which Becker, 
44
 Volkhard Bode and Gerhard Kaiser, Raketenspuren: Peenem?nde 1936-1996 (Berlin: Ch. Links 
Verlag, 1996), 24, 27-28.  In an indication of its remoteness, electricity had only been introduced to the 
tiny fishing village in 1928, but most residents still burned oil for light.  Braun?s mother, who spent 
much of her time in the nearby town of Anklam, and whose husband hunted around the village, 
suggested Peenem?nde to her son the previous December.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 49.
45
 Arthur Rudolph Oral History Interview (OHI), NASM.
46
 Thomas Franklin, An American in Exile: The Story of Arthur Rudolph (Huntsville, AL: Christopher 
Kaylor, 1987), 48.  Thomas Franklin is a pseudonym for Hugh McInnish.  His book is based largely on 
conversations with Rudolph himself.  Though it provides some small pieces of interesting evidence, it 
is one of the most glaring examples of uncritical apologia about rocket research in Germany. 
47
 Braun, ?I Reached for the Stars,? 58.
48
 Dornberger, V-2, 41.
101
not willing to let the Army take a back seat to the junior service?s audacity, promised 
to exceed by another million.
49
Therefore, the early work carried out by the rocket specialists at Kummersdorf 
benefited from several factors.  The most important of these was the entrance of the 
Luftwaffe into an agreement with the Army to cooperate in rocket research.  Though 
this pact proved to be short lived, disintegrating in 1938 over technical differences 
and administrative problems, it was the key to providing enough funding and material 
to build the new rocket research station at Peenem?nde.
50
  The geographic limitations 
at Kummersdorf and the pressure provided by foreign competition also played a 
significant role.
51
  Moreover, during this period, the demands of secrecy began to play 
an increasingly important role in both policy level decisions and the daily conduct 
missile research.  
All of this, however, played directly into the hands of Becker, Braun, and 
Dornberger, whose aspirations to build a large facility dedicated solely to rocket 
development were never far from the top of their concerns.  Indeed, the development 
of a rocket facility for research and development took center stage even before 
Ordnance had any detailed conception of the twin objectives of a ballistic missile and 
rocket fighter.  It was only after the site was chosen and funds dedicated to 
construction and development that von Braun, Dornberger, and the skillful engine 
49
 Wernher von Braun, ?Behind the Scenes of German Rocket Development,? 18.  Wernher von Braun, 
?Reminscences of German Rocketry,? Journal of the British Interplanetary Society 15 (May/June 
1956), 135.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 50.
50
 See Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 54-63, for an examination of the decline of the Luftwaffe-
Army alliance.
51
 Army officials also laid plans for an expansion of Kummersdorf while Peenemunde was being built.  
They wanted to expand the firing range?s settlement area so as to accomodate eighty married 
employees, 100 workers, and approximately sixty temporary employees and workers.  Wambsganz to 
Pfeiffer, 3/3/38, R3901/21299, Bundesarchiv Lichterfelde (BAL).
102
technician Walter Riedel, who would for a time head the design group at 
Peenem?nde, hammered out the technical outlines of the A-4 missile, known to 
posterity as the V-2.
52
The Rise of Peenem?nde
In constructing the base at Peenem?nde, Dornberger and Ordnance officials 
wished to spare virtually no expense.  In August 1936, workers began arriving at 
Peenem?nde to begin constructing roads, rail lines, development workshops, an air 
field, and living quarters for employees.  The 447 residents of the tiny fishing village 
on the northern tip of the island were ordered to move.
53
  At the end of 1937, while 
construction of the development workshops was still ongoing, Dornberger voiced his 
desire to construct a production plant at the base as well.  In November 1938, Army 
Commander in Chief Walther von Brauchitsch gave the go-ahead to begin expansion 
of the facility to include the production plant.
54
  Factory planners estimated that the 
workforce required to man this plant would be approximately 5000 people, but 
Usedom did not have the housing facilities for so many.  Their solution was quite 
literally to build a town for the employees, which came to be known as the 
?Settlement.?
55
  In March 1939, Dornberger informed Becker, who been promoted a 
year earlier to Ordnance Chief, of the scale of the construction, informing his superior 
52
 Walter Dornberger, ?The German V-2,? Technology and Culture IV/4 (Fall 1963), 398-399.  The 
missile was to have a 25 ton thrust engine, a range of 250 kilometers, be able to carry a one ton 
warhead, and be able to fit through a standard railroad tunnel.  Dornberger, V-2, 47-48, Neufeld, The 
Rocket and the Reich, 51-52.
53
 Volkard Bode, Gerhard Kaiser, Raketenspuren: Peenem?nde, 1936-1996 (Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag, 
1996) 27-28.  
54
 Arthur Rudolph OHI, NASM.  Wichtige Daten bei der Durchf?hrung des Vorhabens Peenem?nde, 
7/5/41, FE 342, NASM.
55
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, p. 114. Schubert Vortrag, 6/7/39, BA/MA RH8/v.1206.
103
that they planned, among other things, twenty kilometers of streets, twenty-five 
kilometers of train tracks, a new harbor, six kilometers of four-foot high dykes along 
the coast, 600 dwellings for employees, barracks for four thousand construction 
workers, mess halls, a new administration building, and an apprenticeship workshop 
in the production plant itself.
56
  The chief factory planner, Godomar Schubert, 
estimated put the cost of construction at 180 million Reichsmarks.
57
Part of this massive financial layout came because Dornberger and Schubert 
desired to build a modern, ?model? industrial facility.  All of the buildings, their 
technical equipment, and their accommodations for the employees were to be top 
quality.  Moreover, they planned to equip the settlement with walking paths, park 
benches, gardens, and a sport field.
58
  This extravagance and expense met with 
resistance from Armaments Minister Fritz Todt, who was making strenuous, if only 
partially effective, efforts to curb the massive consumption of raw materials at 
construction projects across Germany, especially for projects that showed no signs of 
immediate completion or success.
59
  This effort continued into 1941, when he 
ordered, among other things, that buildings must be planned simply and sparingly, 
while aesthetic considerations were to play no role whatsoever in construction.
60
Even so, in an indication of the chaotic administrative situation in the Third Reich, 
Dornberger and Schubert consciously ignored his orders and brushed aside Todt?s 
56
 Neufeld, The Rocket and Reich, 113.  Dornberger to Becker, 3/31/39, FE 342, NASM.
57
 Schubert to Speer, 10/12/39, RH8/v.1206, BA/MA.
58
 Entstehungsgeschichte der Fertigungsstelle Peenem?nde, 2/10/39, RH8/v.1206, BA/MA. 
59
 In April, Todt ordered a halt to all construction on projects that could not be completed by October.  
Entstehungsgeschichte, 4/6/40, FE 342.
60
 Fritz Todt, Richtlinien f?r behelfsm?ssige Kriegsbauweise, 7/2/41, FE 831, NASM.
104
representative at Peenem?nde, a Minister Sch?nleben.
61
  They reasoned that the if 
employees at Peenem?nde had the best living and working accommodations possible,
they would perform better on the job.  Poor working conditions, Dornberger argued, 
only led to unproductive laborers.  According to Schubert, Dornberger reasoned 
simply that ?The employees? happiness at work will suffer if the working conditions 
are too primitive.?
62
  In return, an angry Todt wrote to General Friederich Fromm, 
Commander in Chief of the Home Army, to complain about Dornberger?s efforts.  ?I 
am convinced,? he wrote, ?that the actual useful work toward the goal can be done 
quickly without increasing the laborers very much if we remember that we are living 
in a war and if the guidelines for makeshift construction are employed.  In 
Peenem?nde, they have created a paradise.  The accommodations, the social 
provisions (Sozialeinrichtungen), clubs and apartments, the factory halls, the 
warehouses, all exhibit the highest degree of expense that one can possibly 
imagine.?
63
  Nevertheless, in the end, Dornberger and Schubert managed to enact 
their own plans for Peenem?nde.  Just as Todt began to receive the powers he needed 
from Hitler to conduct a major overhaul of the war economy, he was killed in a plane 
crash while leaving East Prussia in February 1942.
64
  Albert Speer replaced Todt, and 
the missile program would enjoy a great deal of support from the ambitious architect 
for most of the remainder of the war.
65
61
 Schubert wrote that ?Under no circumstances can I accept Dr. Sch?nleben?s views.  Dr. Sch?nleben 
believes that what is possible at the front must also be possible at home.?  Entstehungsgeschichte, 
10/1-3/41, FE 831, NASM.
62
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 10/1-3/41, FE 831, NASM. 
63
 Todt to Fromm, 7/30/41, FE 342.
64
 Franz Seidler, Fritz Todt: Baumeister des dritten Reiches (Munich: Herbig, 1986), 367-369.
65
 On his early unequivocal support of the V-2 program, see Albert Speer, Inside the Third Reich (New 
York: MacMillan, 1970), 469- 470.  For a full account of Todt?s battles with Army authorities over
105
Thus, throughout the 1930s and into the 1940s, civilian rocket specialists 
working for the Army found themselves drawn ever closer to the regime that made 
their work possible.  The armed forces welcomed their talents, elevated their status, 
financed their research, and fed their creative energies by guaranteeing them the most 
technically advanced research facility in the world and dedicating millions of 
Reichsmarks to a project that a number of them had labored on in relative obscurity 
for years.  This massive state commitment to rocket technology also had a dramatic 
effect on the quality and pace of research.  Ever-growing budgets and high level 
intervention overrode any lingering ambivalence about rocket technology on the part 
of the military and virtually guaranteed increased technical innovation.  In addition, 
there was very little technological ambiguity in the goals sketched out by Dornberger, 
von Braun, and Riedel, even if there were questions as to how to achieve these aims.  
In evoking a collective focus, this technical clarity helped prevent the internecine 
strife between developers that was stunting Soviet missile development in the same 
period.
66
  Finally, military administrators gave a certain degree of latitude to the 
rocket developers to pursue multiple lines of development.  All of this meant an 
increased level of official support, professional independence, and personal 
satisfaction, even if it was carried out under the aegis of a secret military development 
project.  
Peenem?nde, see Michael Neufeld, ?Hitler, the V-2, and the Battle for Priority,? The Journal of 
Military History 57 (July 1993), 511-538. 
66
 In the 1930s, Soviet missile development was riven by internal personal and technical 
disagreements, which exploded into often life-threatening political disputes.  Scholarly research has 
only recently begun to uncover these conflicts.  See Asif Siddiqi?s important article, ?The Rockets? 
Red Glare: Technology, Conflict, and Terror in the Soviet Union,? Technology and Culture, 44/3 (July 
2003), 470-501.
106
Die Geheimnistr?ger: Bearing Secrets at Peenem?nde
It was this very secrecy around the project that came to have a decisive effect 
on how rocket developers at Peenem?nde saw themselves and their work.  An 
essential condition in the construction of the community of rocket developers at 
Peenem?nde was the effort at keeping their work secret.  Secrecy was the central fact 
of life at Peenem?nde.  It had a profound effect on how rocket employees at the 
facility perceived themselves and their work.  Indeed, the practice of secrecy was the 
very basis upon which the institution of Peenem?nde re-made their identities as 
rocket engineers in the service of the Nazi state.  The remainder of this chapter 
examines the complex structure of secrecy at the facility and its diverse practices, 
from the investigations of potential civilian employees of the base to the regular daily 
activities that secrecy demanded.  The practice of secrecy not only temporarily 
prevented the Allies from discovering the activities at the facility, but they were also 
central to the formation of a community there.  Secrecy erected the framework within 
which the Peenem?nde specialists came to understand their place and roles with 
German society.  In the end, all-encompassing secrecy regulations created a sense of 
group identity and loyalty among a large, sometimes disparate aggregate of 
individuals.  This in turn helped foster a feeling among engineers and technicians that 
they were a technological elite.  The regulations were the guideposts by which 
individual specialists who labored to develop and produce the rocket came to form 
the closed, exclusive group of ?Peenem?nders.?  Moreover, the regulations also thrust 
upon these people an overarching surveillance that coercively reinforced their loyalty 
to the program and to the regime.  In both a positive and negative sense, the insistent 
107
and all-encompassing practices of secrecy remolded the rocketeers? identities, 
increasingly defining them as a community of elite weapons designers in the service 
of the Nazi state.
Conceptually, it is useful to view the research base at Peenem?nde as a secret 
society.  Indeed, the facility followed the form and function of many such groups.  
Georg Simmel has developed a somewhat stylized, though useful typology of the 
internal dynamics of secret societies, and many of the characteristics he outlines 
compare well to conditions at the rocket center.  To more easily understand how 
Simmel?s model applies to Peenem?nde, a brief exposition of his points is helpful 
here.  I will examine the following conditions in greater detail later in this chapter, 
but an outline of these factors here will help clarify them. The first of Simmel?s points 
of emphasis is on the importance of reciprocal confidence among a secret society?s 
members.  The complex work of rocket development, from machining individual 
experimental parts to conducting launch experiments, demanded that employees at 
the base place firm personal and professional trust in each other.  Secondly, Simmel 
notes that written communication in such groups is governed by intricate norms.  At 
Peenem?nde, all written correspondence contained stamps indicating secrecy grades, 
coded departmental letterhead, and euphemisms indicating specific technologies 
contained in the communication.  Third, according to Simmel, secrecy is not simply 
of tool for the secret society, but rather the purpose of the group.  Ordnance gave 
secrecy the highest priority at Peenem?nde, and nearly everyone at the base made 
decisions with an eye toward its maintenance.  The community of Peenem?nders was 
also physically, professionally, and even linguistically segregated from the rest of 
108
Germany.  This was done precisely to fulfill the goal of maintaining secrecy.  Fourth, 
Simmel shows that the division of labor through a strict hierarchy is absolute in secret 
societies.  At Peenem?nde, employees worked within a rigidly hierarchical and 
structured system that they organized according to function and task.  Finally, For 
Simmel, secrecy permits among members of secret groups a measure of freedom that 
is not present in the outside society.
67
  Peenem?nde was, in ways to be described in 
later chapters, a place that offered specific advantages to living and working 
anywhere else in Nazi Germany.  In these ways, the rocket facility at Peenem?nde 
offers a striking example of a modern, technologically advanced, secret society.
  Within this society, the practice of secrecy was the cornerstone of the 
process by which Ordnance and civilian administrators were able to bring together a 
large group of people with disparate political and social views, foster identification 
with the goals of the military installation, and encourage them to work cooperatively 
on the rocket project.  Anthropologists who have studied secret societies have shown 
that secrecy is a powerful means of making and breaking bonds. The practices of 
secrecy create loyalty and community among those subjected to them, while isolating 
those individuals who do not have access to the secrets being protected.  Sissela 
Bok?s point on this subject is revealing.  She argues that members of secret societies 
are united by ?Secrecy itself: secrecy of purpose, belief, methods, often membership.  
In this way ? the secret societies promise the brotherhood and community feeling 
that many lack in their daily life. [They] give insiders [a] stark sense of separation 
67
Georg Simmel, The Sociology of Georg Simmel, Transl. by Kurt Wolff (New York: Free Press, 
1950), 360.
109
from outsiders.?
68
  Part of the attraction of secret societies is that members not only 
gain meaning in their own lives, but they also are able to participate in something 
beyond their own individual existence which they view as having an overwhelming 
importance for a larger cause.  Secrecy, therefore, is often an adaptive, community-
building process that can play a vital role in social life, enabling groups that hold 
communal secrets to achieve a particular set of objectives and decisively transforming 
the networks of relationships occupied by those who are subject to its practices.
69
When the ?East Works? of the Peenem?nde Experimental Center opened in 
May 1937, the daily practice of secrecy at the facility was of fundamental importance, 
not only to the research there, but also to the constitution of the employees? identities 
as members of an elite group that was working toward an important goal.  Moreover, 
they inculcated a sense of group loyalty as well as forced upon the employees a sense 
of surveillance that was out of all touch with the reality of such scrutiny. To 
understand how this occurred on Usedom, it is necessary to closely examine these 
practices as well as their cultural impact on everyday life at Peenem?nde.  In what 
ways did the Peenem?nders practice secrecy?  How did adherence to the rules of 
secrecy affect the Peenem?nder?s self-identification?  What were the negative effects
of secrecy regulations on activities on Usedom?  An entire cultural complex of 
secrecy played a central role in the formation of identity on the island.   
Understanding the ways in which secrecy shaped identity is a key to understanding 
both technical development political loyalty.
68
Sissela Bok, Secrets: On the Ethics of Concealment and Revelation (New York: Vintage, 1989), 46.
69
See also Stanton K. Tefft, Secrecy: A Cross-Cultural Perspective (New York: Human Sciences 
Press, 1980), 13-17.
110
On the ground at Peenem?nde, Ordnance created a huge, secret world that was 
isolated from the rest of Nazi-era Germany.  From the standpoint of the demand for 
secrecy, the area around the tiny village was ideal.  The physical separation of the 
facility was one important way in which employees were cut off from the outside 
world.  Usedom was (and remains) a remote, heavily forested island located on the 
Baltic Sea approximately 100 miles due north of Berlin.  It is separated from the coast 
by the Stettin Lagoon to the south, the Peene River to the west, and the Swina 
Channel to the east.  The island was not directly connected to any major roadways 
and was accessible only across three bridges which were closely monitored by 
military authorities.  The Luftwaffe development facility, or ?Peenem?nde West,? 
occupied the northwest tip of Usedom?s peninsula.
70
  The research center, many test 
stands, and a number of employee accommodations were located on the somewhat 
more isolated northern peninsula of the island.  Especially during the war years and 
after the Luftwaffe-Army alliance went into decline, the Army establishment at 
Peenem?nde East was separated from the Luftwaffe facility ?by a tight fence and 
stringent regulations.?
71
  Usedom?s northern peninsula allowed test engineers to 
launch their experimental rockets on an eastward trajectory over the Baltic, thereby 
helping to maintain the secret nature of their work and ensuring that it did not crash 
over populated areas.  The Army could also erect measurement stations along the 
coast to track the rockets test launches.  The largest settlements on Usedom were the 
70
 Specialists at Peenem?nde West conducted research and testing on various rocket plane and rocket 
assisted take-off (RATO, or Starthilfe) technology for heavily loaded bombers in addition to the later 
V-1 cruise missile.  Developers at Peenem?nde East, or the ?East Works,? focused purely on ballistic, 
and later anti-aircraft, missile technology.  Very little work by professional historians has focused 
exclusively on Peenem?nde West.  For a decent first-hand account of events at the Luftwaffe facility, 
see Botho St?we, Peenem?nde West: Die Erprobungsstelle der Luftwaffe f?r geheime Fernlenkwaffen 
und deren Entwicklungsgeschichte (Esslingen: Bechtle Verlag, 1995).
71
 Peter Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), 16.
111
tourist destinations, such as Zinnowitz and Zempin, which were scattered along the 
coast southeast of Peenem?nde.  Before construction engineers arrived to transform 
the quiet peninsula, the closest train station was in Trassenheide, connected by a 
seven mile foot path.
72
  The heavily forested island offered an abundance of natural 
camouflage, and construction planners attempted to remove as few trees as possible 
in order to conceal activities there.  Despite the thousands of people on the island, 
massive construction projects, and thunderous engine tests, one engineer recalled that 
?Peenem?nde never lost its character as an isolated wilderness.?
73
  This isolation 
would prove a boon to the ongoing work on Usedom, but it also sealed off employees 
of the rocket center from the rest of Germany, markedly limiting their contact with 
the outside world.  Such separation would make the facility an oasis in the turbulent 
pre-war years and a refuge in the violent war years, but it also instilled in the 
Peenem?nders the notion that the violence and war wrought by the Nazi regime 
would remain at arm?s length.  When the destruction of the war burst upon them in 
the middle of 1943, it revealed the depth of their complacency and its terror shook 
them deeply.
74
Physical isolation was only one way in which the Peenem?nders maintained 
the secrecy of their project.  The construction of the massive facility necessitated a 
huge expansion in the number of specialists who worked on the missile.  However, 
secrecy considerations forced Ordnance personnel to face the dilemma of luring 
skilled workers to Peenem?nde without actually informing them of the kind of work
72
 Peter August Rolfs, Die Insel Usedom: Ein Heimatbuch und Reisef?hrer (Swinem?nde: 1933; 
Reprint, Husum, 1991), 9.
73
 Dieter K. Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1962), 50.
74
 I examine the British bombing raid in August 1943 and its effects in chapter 4.
112
they would do if they were hired.  Prospective employees could not get wind of the 
ultra-secret work until they actually set foot on the base, and activities at Peenem?nde 
could not be concealed without first properly educating the employees about the 
myriad of rules regarding secrecy. The logistical problem of maintaining secrecy 
while interviewing and hiring new workers, thereby dramatically widening the circle 
of those ?in the know,? without informing them directly of the work going on at 
Peenem?nde, was overcome by resorting to an ungainly, time-consuming process that 
itself turned to secrecy for successful completion.  After obtaining the permission of 
the Army authorities, management at the base posted advertisements for skilled 
positions in major urban newspapers without actually making clear the location of the 
work, the employer, or the nature of the job to be done.  The advertisements stated 
that interested individuals should send their applications to an anonymous address in 
Berlin.
75
  Once applications began arriving, they were screened for the requisite skills 
and those applicants who passed this screening received background questionnaires in 
the mail a few weeks later.  Once managers re-obtained the questionnaires, they 
interviewed suitable applicants off-site.  The best applicants were selected both on the 
basis of character and technical knowledge.  At this stage, the applicants still had no 
idea where the work was to be carried out, nor did political inclinations figure at all in 
decisions about whom to hire.  Before he arrived at the facility, one engineer stated 
that he had no idea what went on there and that Peenem?nde was for him ?a Chinese 
word.?
76
  Managers of the responsible labor and military offices discussed those 
75
 Arthur Rudolph OHI, NASM.
76
 Georg von Tiesenhausen, Interview with sociologist Donald E. Tarter, University of Alabama 
Huntsville (UAH), hereafter cited as ?Huntsville Interviews, UAH.?  Tartar conducted over thirteen 
hours of video taped interviews with former Peenem?nders residing in Huntsville, a series he entitled 
113
applications that they considered the most promising, by now copied in quadruplicate, 
so that they could avoid any conflict over conscription.  Meanwhile, Ordnance 
officials enlisted both Army Counter Intelligence (the Abwehr) and the Gestapo to 
examine the selected applicants for possible links to supposedly dangerous domestic 
or foreign elements.  After these investigations, the local police branches checked the 
applicants? background for any criminal behavior.  Only after passing this rigorous 
application, background, and screening process were applicants promised a job and 
told of the location and nature of the work.
77
However, practical considerations often overrode this formal hiring process 
when the skills of particular individuals were required quickly.  Personal connections 
and recommendations proved to be exceedingly important, though secrecy 
considerations still dictated that caution be taken with information given to outsiders.  
For example, in 1935, a friend of Braun?s who worked at Kummersdorf introduced 
the development chief to engineer Bernard Tessmann, who would go on to become an 
important figure in production planning at Peenem?nde.  On the basis of Tessmann?s 
qualifications and on the recommendation of his friend, Braun asked Tessmann to 
come to Kummersdorf, explaining only that there was ?interesting work there and it 
[was] a good place for young engineers just starting out.?  He told Tessmann nothing 
about what kind of work was being done there, only that it was an entirely new field 
?Our Future in Space: Messages from the Beginning.?  The results of this work, a comparative essay 
published as ?Peenem?nde and Los Alamos: Two Studies,? History of Technology 14 (1992), attempt 
to compare the work environments at the German missile base and American atomic bomb facility.  
The work falls prey to the widespread postwar myths about Peenem?nde and utterly lacks any 
sophisticated understanding of life in the Third Reich. 
77
 Richtlinien f?r die Werbung von Facharbeitern, RH8/v.1429, BA/MA.  Dornberger, 
Abwehrauskunft ?ber Dipl. Ing. Otto Muck, FE 366, NASM.
114
of research and development.
78
  Braun also hired several of his former colleagues, 
Nebel obviously excepted, from the Raketenflugplatz days.
79
  Many of the leading 
administrative heads were also hired through their personal connections with 
individuals already in place at Peenem?nde.  Though a number of important people at 
Peenem?nde were party members, there is no documentary evidence that political 
considerations played a part in whether or not they were hired.
80
A good example of this is the case of Ernst Steinhoff.  Born on February 11, 
1908 in Treysa, near Kassel, Steinhoff received his Diploma Engineer degree in 1933 
from the Technical University in Darmstadt.  During his studies, he became an avid 
gliding enthusiast, and after graduation, entered into employment at the German 
Research Institute for Glider Flight (Deutsche Forschungsanstalt f?r Segelflug), 
which was under the direct administrative control of the RLM.  In 1940, Steinhoff 
completed his Doctorate in engineering at TH Darmstadt.
81
  According to 
Dornberger, Braun met his fellow gliding enthusiast at the school in 1939.
82
  They 
were likely introduced by Dr. Hermann Steuding, an instructor there who was brought 
into the missile project in order to help develop the guidance theory needed for 
development.  On the strength of Steuding?s recommendation, Steinhoff, who joined 
the Nazi party in 1937 and was a dedicated National Socialist, began working at 
Peenem?nde in July 1939 as head of the guidance section.  
Nevertheless, in his work, Steinhoff rarely invoked the Nazi ideals that were 
so close to his heart.  Dornberger, whose memoirs must be treated with care, 
78
 Bernard Tessmann OHI, NASM.
79
 Braun, ?I Reached for the Stars,? WvB Papers, Box 200, Folder 7, SRCH.
80
 For a thorough discussion of the impact of Nazism at Peenem?nde, see chapter three.
81
 Steinhoff Dossier, RG 319, IRR, Box 400, NARA.
82
 Dornberger, V-2, 15.
115
remembers Steinhoff being overawed by the prospect of working in rocketry, but only 
because he found the technology so interesting.
83
  Employees in Steinhoff?s guidance 
section describe him as being defined not by his enthusiasm for National Socialism, 
but rather by his zeal for the technical work of missile development.  He had a 
reputation for being a demanding boss, but also for making sure that the people who 
worked hard for him received their due.  Though he did not make many fundamental 
contributions to the basic design of the V-2, he was an excellent administrator and 
brought with him numerous contacts with experts in the technical professions, both in 
and out of the party, many of whom eventually found themselves working at 
Peenem?nde.
84
Though there is little doubt that Steinhoff was an ardent National Socialist, he 
was not hired because of his party membership, which meant little to the quotidian 
technical activities within the community at Peenem?nde.  Steinhoff received his 
position at the facility through his contacts with specialists within the facility and 
maintained his important position because of the surfeit of managerial talent he 
commanded.  Though it is possible that Steinhoff may have benefited in more subtle 
ways from his membership in the Nazi party, his support for party principles was not 
the reason for his important position in missile research.  Professional qualifications 
mattered most in the day-to-day activities at Peenem?nde.  
  For all of the employees who arrived in the area of Usedom, there existed 
layered security system that projected state power, kept prying eyes out, and tightly 
regulated behavior inside the facility.  Until 1943, well-armed Army security units 
83
 Dornberger, V-2, 15-16.
84
 Steinhoff Basic Personnel Record, RG 165, Box 703, folder ?Boston,? NARA. Steinhoff Dossier, 
IRR, Box 400, NARA.  Dornberger, V-2, 15.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 101.
116
controlled the bridges leading to the island and checked the various travel papers of 
people who wished to gain entrance to Usedom.  Their presence was especially 
prominent in Wolgast, the main crossing point from the mainland to Usedom.
85
  The 
tiny number of people who lived on Usedom but who did not work at the base did 
have controlled access to the island.  The area of Usedom from Karlshagen 
southeastward along the coast was not strictly controlled and individuals could move 
about freely, but only those who had the proper paperwork that gained them access to 
the island could experience this level of freedom.  This area, therefore, acted as a 
buffer zone between the more sensitive grounds of the rocket facility and the outside 
world.  However, individuals were not allowed to venture on to the northern 
peninsula of Usedom (from Karlshagen northward), site of the development 
workshops, test stands, production factory, and many accommodations.  Only 
employees and guests of the facility could travel into this area.  The entire peninsula 
was an area reserved for official use (Sperrgebiet), and Ordnance did not allow 
anyone access to it who did not have the proper paperwork.
86
These are two of the different styles of aluminum badge needed by Peenem?nde employees to enter the 
base. Courtesy HTIZP
85
 Kurt Borntr?ger Testimony, Hitler?s geheime Waffenschmiede Peenem?nde, Dir. Jakob Kurzenhalt, 
Polar Film and Media, GmbH, 2001.  In May 1943, when Peenem?nde administrators began 
introducing concentration camp labor into production, SS Chief Heinrich Himmler instructed that the 
first SS guard posts be set up at the base gate at Karlshagen.  This was one indication of the SS?s 
growing role in the rocket program, to be discussed in chapter four.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the
Reich, 199.
86
 Gustl Friedl Testimony, Hitler?s geheime Waffenschmiede.  Friedl was for a time Braun?s secretary.
117
To have access to the base itself and to the secret information within it, 
employees had to have yet another object that granted them entrance into this world.  
This came in the form of an aluminum badge that each individual wore on his or her 
clothing.  Ordnance divided the base at Peenem?nde into numerous security zones.  
These plackets both allowed employees entrance to the base and indicated where in 
the facility each individual was allowed access.  They were of different colors and 
shapes so as to be readily recognizable by base security.  Along with these plackets, 
each individual had to carry identification papers with them at all times and present 
them upon request.  This occurred regularly on the factory train that ran from 
Zinnowitz to the development works, on which armed guards checked the 
identification of all individuals.  Guards often re-checked plackets and identification 
papers at the train stops.
87
  The use of these plackets made secrecy itself a sign of 
privilege.  They entitled the individual bearer to physical access to the technological 
facility, making entrance to the base the reward of a select few.
88
  Finally, the division 
of the base into zones of varying security control strengthened the internal hierarchy 
of the community at Peenem?nde, a key ingredient to the success of their endeavor 
(and examined in greater detail below).  Only the highest ranking military officers in 
the program, such as Dornberger and base commander Leo Zanssen and their staffs, 
as well as the civilian executives, such as Braun and Arthur Rudolph, had access to 
any area within the facility.
89
87
Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 31.
88
 Anthropologist Richard Schaeffer discusses this phenomenon at length in his essay ?The 
Management of Secrecy:  The Ku Klux Klan?s Successful Secret,? in Stanton K. Tefft, ed., Secrecy: A 
Cross-Cultural Perspective (New York: Human Sciences Press, 1980), 161-174.
89
 Plaketten f?r Zugangsberechtigung zu den Sicherheitszonen von Peenem?nde, 1938-1944, HTIZP.
118
The guard gate outside of the development workshops at Peenem?nde.  Security posts dotted the 
grounds of the base.
           Courtesy DM
Moreover, after passing through the physical barriers erected to guard to the 
facility, employees had to grapple with an internal complex of layered security 
measures that were designed to emphasize the demand for absolute secrecy.  
Foremost among these were oaths and declarations of secrecy.  Sociologist Georg 
Simmel has pointed out that all secret societies seek to promote and reinforce among 
its members the secrecy that forms the basis of the group.  Oaths and threats of 
punishment, he demonstrates, are the central features in the effort to reproduce 
secrecy among initiates.
90
  This was entirely the case at Peenem?nde.  In order to gain 
access to the base at Peenem?nde and the secrets lying within it, individuals had to 
first sign declarations of secrecy and swear oaths to remain quiet about what they 
learned while they were on the grounds of the facility.  Specifically, newly arrived 
employees swore that they would not break secrecy regulations and that they would 
90
 Georg Simmel, The Sociology of Georg Simmel, Transl. by Kurt H. Wolff, (Glencoe, CA: The Free 
Press, 1950), 349.
119
not remove documents, letters, drawings, and so forth from their work areas.
91
  All 
military men who were ordered to Peenem?nde had to swear an oath that pledged that 
they would keep their knowledge of the base absolutely secret.
92
  Finally, all 
personnel, military or civilian, visitors or employees, had to sign declarations of 
secrecy if they were present at any tests of missile technology.
93
  These declarations 
formed the backbone of the efforts to keep the activities at the base secret.  The text 
of one signed secrecy agreement read, ?I have been informed and instructed by Herr 
Heinisch of the Army Research Station Peenem?nde that I must keep silent to 
everyone about all knowledge of work and facilities at the Army Research Station 
Peenem?nde and the Greifswalder Oie as well as about what I have seen personally or 
learned in conferences.  It is communicated to me further that this oath of silence is a 
requirement as well as a prohibition issued from the Reich Government for the 
Guarantee of National Defense [Reichsregierung zur Sicherung der 
Landesverteidigung] in the sense of section 92b of the Reich Penal Code [RSTGB].  I 
have also been made aware that a transgression against this oath of silence 
[Schweigepflicht] is punishable according to the Law Against Bribery and Betrayal of 
State Secrets of 5/3/1917, the version of 2/12/1920, as well as the stipulations of 
section 88 of the Reich Penal Code.  I have been made aware of both stipulations.?
94
91
 Dienstanweisung Werk Ost, 7/1/37, FE 348, NASM.
92
 Guido de Maesseneer, Peenem?nde:  The Extraordinary Story of Hitler?s Secret Weapons V-1 and 
V-2 (Vancouver: AJ Publishing, 2001), 193.  Maeseneer?s book is the most recent work published by 
uncritical admirers of the former Peenem?nde employees and glosses over a number of the more 
troubling questions about their activities.  However, it is valuable in that most of it is based on 
conversations with the Peenem?nders themselves and reveals much about the non-controversial 
aspects of daily life at the base.
93
 I will examine the cultural dynamics of missile testing in chapter three.
120
All such declarations made by Peenem?nde employees remained in the possession of 
the base commander, who sent copies of them to the administration of the 
development facility.
95
These oaths and threats of punishment for breaking them thrust state power 
squarely into the world of employees at Peenem?nde.  They sharply delineated the 
Peenem?nders? universe of knowledge from the outside world, not only making the 
activities at the facility the prerogative of a privileged few, but also making clear the 
disciplinary measures in store for those who transgressed against their vows.  
Anthropologists have shown that oaths of secrecy ?transform obligations.?
96
  They 
argue that the new world that individuals enter after taking such oaths decisively 
influences their activities in the larger society in which they live.  These two 
universes are not mutually exclusive, however.  They are capable of existing side by 
side and of even reinforcing each other.  Those who made the oaths to receive 
knowledge also gained a sense of privilege that separated them from society at large.  
As I will show in the next chapter, these privileges did not simply come in the form of 
entrance to a restricted world.  They also provided the access to a number of deeply 
satisfying personal and professional rewards.   
In any case, once employees made their declarations, they found that 
reminders of the absolute importance of secrecy and the imperative that the work be 
kept as confidential as possible, even within their secret world, were commonplace.  
94
Verpflichtserkl?rung, October 1938, RH8/v.1215, BA/MA.  The Greifswalder Oie was a small 
island just located next to Usedom on which a number of early important launch tests took place.  I 
will examine these experiments in more detail in chapter three.
95
 Dienstanweisungen Werk Ost, 7/1/37, FE 348, NASM.  The basic outlines of these regulations 
remained in place throughout the war years.
96
Bok, Secrets, 21.  Michael S. Laguerre, ?Bizango:  A Voodoo Secret Society in Haiti,? in Stanton 
Tefft, ed., Secrecy:  A Cross Cultural Perspective (New York: Human Sciences Press, 1980), 147-158.
121
Both formal and informal regulations that guided their behavior were thoroughgoing, 
and the individuals subjected to them adhered to these rules almost automatically.  
For example, base administrators put up posters around the facility which read ?What 
you see, what you hear, when you leave, leave it here.?
97
  Another poster warned to 
employees to ?Be careful what you say ? the enemy is listening!?
98
  Such 
admonitions were central to the formation and maintenance of the secret society on 
Peenem?nde.  Simmel notes that all such societies continuously seek to promote the 
fact of secrecy.
99
  Posters such as these were a part of the ongoing and systematic 
instruction of neophytes in the task of keeping silent.  
A poster warning Peenem?nders to ?Be careful what you say ? the enemy is listening!?
           Courtesy  HTIZP
Employees found their discursive worlds regulated by rules of secrecy in other 
ways as well.  Service regulations strictly limited telephone conversations.  
Employees could only engage in telephone use after receiving permission from the 
97
Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 31.
98
 Museum artifact, HTIZP.
99
Simmel, The Sociology of Georg Simmel, 349.
122
division head.  In acute circumstances, employees could use the telephone network 
only if timely clarification of an issue was not possible by resorting to the division 
head.  All conversations were to be kept as short as possible (admittedly, this was to 
save money and lessen the strain on the island?s telephone system more than anything 
else).
100
  On a more informal level, nearly every employee found it safer and more 
security conscious to refer in their spoken and written interactions to the missile that 
they were developing with simple euphemisms.  At first, Ordnance officials referred 
to the missile as a ?smoke trail instrument? (Rauchspurger?t).  Over time, however, 
the simpler euphemism ?instrument? (Ger?t) came into far more common parlance at 
Peenem?nde.  The subject line on a great deal of correspondence, circulars, and 
memoranda was simply ?Instrument A-4.?  The ?A? in these designations stood for 
?Aggregat,? or ?Assembly.?  Clearly, then, formal secrecy regulations with regard to 
the spoken word made steady headway into the Peenem?nders? world.   The result in 
some cases was the adoption of more informal measures that not only maintained 
secrecy, but also re-shaped the linguistic world of those who were subject these 
formal and informal stipulations.
The jargon and coding of technology used both orally and in written 
correspondence became a part of everyday life at Peenem?nde.  Administrators at the 
base inaugurated the use of coded terms to formalize measures that most employees 
had already rapidly adopted for referring to parts and technologies.  For example, an 
undated list of code words that was passed out to each division head at the base made 
uniform the formal and informal terms to be used in all written correspondence.  The 
on-board radio receiver (Funkkommandoempf?nger) was informally known as 
100
 Dienstanweisungen Werk Ost, 7/1/37, FE 348, NASM.
123
?Honnef? and formally designated FT-Kdo-21b.  The on-board telemetry transmitter 
(Messwertsender) received the code-name ?Messina,? or Ms-1-92a.  Even fire 
extinguishers received the oblique designation ?Intra,? and the launch platform came 
to be both formally and informally known as the ?table? (Tisch), though thankfully, 
no such formal alpha-numeric designation for these items came into existence.
101
  In 
any case, such terms not only obscured the objects? meaning and use, they also 
represented a linguistic barrier to membership in Peenem?nde?s increasingly 
exclusive club of technological elite.  Without the proper initiation and training, 
technical specialists who otherwise had at least a moderately good theoretical 
knowledge of such types of technology would be hopelessly lost in the welter of 
coded terms used not only in written correspondence, but also in oral communication.
These linguistic gymnastics are also the hallmark of another emerging 
dynamic at Peenem?nde: the ever-increasing professionalization of rocket 
engineering.  Sociologists have increasingly come to see professional problems as 
posed and solved in a particularly constructed conceptual framework.  The concepts 
created within this framework are only capable of being employed by those who are 
properly trained to do so.  According to sociologists, professional, problem-solving 
groups use jargon to represent these concepts.  The discourse created by this resort to 
jargon provides a space of mutual understanding that is not commonly shared by 
others.  Sociologist Margatti Sarfatti Larson has shown that this is a common trait in 
the professional certification of knowledge and the incumbent separation of 
individual professional groups from other segments of society.  Employing a bit of 
jargon herself, she argues that, ?Individual professionals and professional groups have 
101
 Tarnbezeichnungsliste f?r Ger?t A4, FE 330, NASM.
124
different capacities to appropriate authoritative and authorizing discourse.  This 
differential capacity constitutes a singular and characteristic dimension of social 
inequality.?
102
  In other words, individuals within professional groups travel over a 
common linguistic ground that both affirms their expertise and announces their social 
and experiential partition from the larger society in which they live.  At Peenem?nde, 
the rocket specialists were no different.  Even if some technical specialists outside of 
their community understood the fundamental characteristics of some of the equipment 
they used, the outsider was unable not only to comprehend the use to which it was 
being put, but also was completely incapable of penetrating the language used to refer 
to the technology in the first place.  Only those specialists who had been initiated into 
the secret world at Peenem?nde and given access to its forbidden knowledge were 
capable of reproducing the jargon by putting it to use.  Secrecy, therefore, enhanced 
the idea of a nascent profession in development at the facility.  Though no one at 
Peenem?nde referred to themselves as professional rocket engineers, they did 
experience a growing sense of professional elitism that was fostered by the utterly 
secret conceptual world that fundamentally shaped the way they viewed their work 
and the terms they used to discuss it.                 
The linguistic world of the Peenem?nders was not the only part of the 
Peenem?nder?s lives that was altered by the curtain of secrecy in place at the facility.  
The rules pertaining to secrecy stretched much farther than simply placing limits on 
the types of conversations that employees were able to have with one another or on 
camouflaging the terms they deployed within these conversations.  Peenem?nde 
102
 Margatti Sarfatti Larson, ?In the Matter of Experts and Professionals, or How Impossible is it to 
Leave Nothing Unsaid,? in Rolf Torstendahl and Michael Burrage, eds., The Formation of 
Professions: Knowledge, State, Strategy (London: Sage Publications, 1990), 25-26.  
125
administrators placed even more stringent regulations on the handling of documents.  
Simmel has noted that the written word is generally opposed to secrecy because it is 
more permanent than speech and ?wholly unprotected against anybody?s taking note 
of it.?
103
  Indeed, technical drawings, minutes of meetings, developmental 
correspondence, and administrative procedures all represented information that was 
more fungible, permanent, and often more specific than the spoken word.  Ordnance 
was well aware that these characteristics made documents the subject of increased 
interest and invited unwanted intrusion by prying eyes not only among foreign 
enemies, but also among the Peenem?nders themselves.  Administrators at 
Peenem?nde took great strides to limit the amount of information any single middle 
or lower level employee knew about activities at the facility.  Clearly, the more 
secrets an individual knew, the more damage would result were he or she to fall into 
enemy hands.
One of the most important methods that Peenem?nde management had for 
dealing with such concerns was to make every employee at the base absolutely 
cognizant not only of the need for security with documents, but also of the practices 
used to maintain it.  The primary means of carrying this out was the copy of service 
regulations handed out to each office in the workshops and kept by the division 
heads.  This fifteen page set of basic rules constituted another object of overriding 
importance in ensuring that the Peenem?nders knew and understood the rules of 
secrecy.  Ordnance first introduced these regulations at Peenem?nde in July 1937.  
All employees were informed of them when they arrived at the facility, and 
administrators expected the Peenem?nders to be intimately familiar with them.  To 
103
Simmel, The Sociology of Georg Simmel, 352.
126
ensure that all employees knew and understood the regulations, management made 
them sign an attestation every six months, on January 10 and July 10, that they read 
the statutes and were aware of the rules.
104
  This extraordinary source outlines the 
organizational structure of the experimental center, the responsibilities of the division 
heads, the rules governing care and treatment of documents, employee 
responsibilities, and service trips.  Though the heads of the administrative divisions 
amended them a number of times between 1937 and 1945, the broad general outlines 
of the conditions set forth in them changed very little, even if the more narrow details 
did alter over time.  They offer a precise and thorough look into the daily practice of 
secrecy on the ground at the Army research center.
The service regulations with regard to documents at Peenem?nde carefully 
controlled access to all documents and were exhaustive in their comprehensiveness.  
One test engineer remarked that ?Office procedures and handling of classified 
correspondence were as cumbersome and strict as could possibly be.?
105
  A registrar 
catalogued all incoming and outgoing letters into letter books according to their 
secrecy rankings.  Administrators at Peenem?nde generally employed three levels of 
secrecy for documents: top secret (Geheime Kommandosache), secret (Geheim) and 
open.  Occasionally, a document bearing the designation Geheime Reichssache or 
Chefsache (essentially, super top secret) emerge in correspondence at Peenem?nde, 
and only the highest administrators at Peenem?nde had access to these documents.  
In any case, the document registrar distributed the re-sealed incoming mail by 
currier to the division that it pertained to.  When it arrived in a particular division, 
104
 Dienstanweisung f?r Werk Ost, 7/1/38, FE 348, NASM.
105
Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 60.
127
only department supervisors and top administrative personnel were allowed access to 
documents rated top secret.  Secret and open documents were treated somewhat less 
stringently, but still with tight control.  Only specifically and individually cleared 
employees could view these letters, and they had to do so under the supervision of 
their department supervisor.  Workshop employees could only make copies of secret 
or top secret documents with the permission and in the presence of the supervisor.  
Service regulations stipulated that files containing technical and developmental 
information, no matter what secrecy grade, were to be kept in the department 
supervisor?s office and locked in a safe.  The documents were then distributed from 
there, but regulations expressly forbade employees from removing them from their 
workshops.  Documents containing information pertaining to the daily basic 
administration of the base were exempt from this rule.  Only the department 
supervisor and his deputy were authorized to hold a key to the safe.  If because of 
retirement, transfer, or even vacation, the department supervisor or his deputy were to 
be away from the workshops for an extended period of time, Peenem?nde East 
administrators had the responsibility of making sure that he did not take any 
documents with him.  Moreover, all of the personal papers of all employees in the 
workshops were the property of the base commander.  If an employee departed from 
Peenem?nde, the base commander and administrators of the development facility 
examined his personal papers in an effort to decide whether or not they had contained 
any secret information and, consequently, whether they were eligible for release.
106
Correspondence composed in the workshops was required to contain a list of 
the secret contents on the first page.  Department supervisors sealed all outgoing 
106
 Dienstanweisungen, 7/1/37, FE 348, NASM.
128
letters in letter books and messengers delivered them by currier to the Commander?s 
office.  Individual employees were strictly forbidden from taking drawings, letters, 
and other documents out of his workshop.  In the Commander?s office, his staff 
examined all correspondence marked top secret, and if the letters passed muster, they 
were re-sealed and sent off.  Again, regulations permitted only specially designated 
curriers to carry outgoing messages.
107
If the written word is inherently open in character, technical drawings created
at Peenem?nde posed an even greater security problem.  While typewritten 
documents contained information on the function and design of parts and assemblies, 
they did not illustrate the layout of such objects or how they fit together with each 
other.  The technical drawings were the key to assembling a functional missile and 
therefore received the most stringent security precautions.  The Drawing 
Administration division (Zeichnungsverwaltung) of the technical office served as a 
repository and clearinghouse for technical drawings, all of which were rated top 
secret.  Many of them received stamps with notices indicating the penalty for 
misusing the drawings.  For example, the numerous technical drawings for testing the 
A-3 missile, predecessor to the A-4, in late 1937 were stamped, ?State Secret!  This is 
a secret object in accordance with Section 88 of the Reich Penal Code (Version of 24 
April, 1934).  Misuse is punishable in accordance with the conditions of this law, 
provided that no other conditions of punishment come into question.?
108
  Further 
regulations explicitly forbade employees from producing secret sketches for use in 
their workshops.  If a sketch laid out the requirements for an instrument that needed 
107
Dienstanweisungen, 7/1/37, FE 348, NASM.
108
 See, for example, technical drawings enclosed in von Braun to Dornberger, 9/20/37, FE 367, 
NASM.
129
to be put into production, then it was forwarded to the design office, where illustrators 
produced the official design drawing.  Employees were to destroy these hand-drawn 
sketches as soon as they were made into official technical drawings.  From there, 
officials in the Drawing Administration either forwarded the design to Peenem?nde?s 
in-house developers, given only against a return receipt, or to a subsidiary private 
firm.
109
  While the development and production shops inside the facility only required 
a special pass to receive these documents, drawings to be sent to subsidiary firms 
were packed in folders by the Drawing Administration personnel, bound with tape, 
and sent to the secrecy registrar?s office for further packing and shipment.
110
   As I 
shall indicate in chapter three, this process did not function quite so smoothly when 
the regime demanded the onset of mass production, and it was found that many 
production drawings were incomplete or missing altogether, which led to major 
problems.  In any case, by keeping the vital technical drawings in one location and 
limiting employees? access to them, Peenem?nde administrators were able to 
maintain a close watch on these documents, closely tracking to whom and when they 
were passed.
Complementing this host of regulations aimed at ensuring the secrecy of 
activities at Peenem?nde were the occasional supplementary orders issued by the 
rocket program?s administrators during the war years.  Though Ordnance relaxed its 
secrecy regulations somewhat in the fall 1939, allowing greater contact between 
Peenem?nde and the universities, it insisted that those with knowledge of the program 
109
 Dienstanweisung, 7/1/37, FE 348, NASM.
110
 Aktenvermerk ?ber ?berpr?fung der Zeichnungsverwaltung in Peenem?nde durch Oberstleutnant 
Krehnke am 29. u. 30.4.42, 5/1/42, RH8/v.1215, BA/MA.
130
follow strict guidelines so as to maintain as much secrecy as possible.
111
  These 
orders became especially necessary with the massive expansion of the program that 
was inaugurated when the changeover to mass production brought hundreds, if not 
thousands, of people into the secret of Peenem?nde.  For the most part, these orders 
only reflected the concerns first raised in the service regulations, but they 
occasionally added new considerations based on the increased production of 
paperwork, greater number of service trips, and increased level of awareness of the 
missile project.  For example, in late 1943, Walter Dornberger published a set of 
orders aimed at reinforcing the regulations and addressing other individual problems.  
He ordered, for example, that drawings, records, and correspondence about the 
program were to be handled only for official purposes, that use of records for private 
purposes was expressly forbidden, and that even the temporary keeping of official 
correspondence was prohibited.
112
  In addition, in July 1943, Heinz Kunze, Deputy 
Director of the A-4 Special Committee, the Armaments Ministry group detailed to 
coordinate raw materials delivery, development, production, and quality control of 
the missile, ordered a strict compartmentalization of information in all 
correspondence with firms outside of Germany proper.  He directed that foreign 
companies under German control not even be informed of the existence of the A-4 
program.  All letters to them were to be categorized as top secret and references to A-
4 development and production were to be made in only the most oblique terms.
113
Though orders such as this one only impacted the Peenem?nders marginally, they are 
111
 I examine the relationship of the Peenem?nders to the universities in the next chapter.
112
 Dornberger circular ?Geheimhaltung,? date unclear, likely late 1943, RH8/v.1254, BA/MA.
113
 Kunze to Leader of A-4 Special Committee Sub-Committee Leaders, ?Geheimhaltung,? 
RH8/v.1254, BA/MA.
131
illustrative of the massive effort put forth to maintain a thoroughgoing sense of 
secrecy around the program, even as production created a situation in which more 
people inevitably became aware of the work.  Even as the missile program 
experienced massive growth in the middle of the war years, the maintenance of 
secrecy around the work remained of paramount importance.
At Peenem?nde, this complex and thoroughgoing effort to keep activities as 
secret as possible created a massive social and geographical patchwork of restricted 
areas, objects, and topics.  These structured limitations became a part of the daily 
practical lives of people who lived and worked at the facility.  As individuals 
navigated through their daily routines, they came to take these regulations for granted 
and integrated them without any reflection into their everyday practices.  On the 
factory train on the way to work, at the security checkpoints, and in the workshops, 
the observance of the rules of secrecy became a part of their common practical 
consciousness.  For example, Otto Hirschler, a specialist in the guidance section, 
recalled that he had to camouflage his conversation with a co-worker on the factory 
on the way to work.  He remembered his co-worker glancing nervously around the 
train and refusing to talk until they got to the lab.
114
  Production manager Arthur 
Rudolph stated flatly that ?It was selbstverst?ndlich, it was understood, that you 
didn?t [talk about the work].  You worked and didn?t talk about it.?
115
  When engineer 
Herbert Lucht witnessed a rocket launch just after his arrival at Peenem?nde in 1940, 
his colleague told him that ?That is the most secret thing here in Peenem?nde, and 
114
 Otto Hirschler Testimony, Huntsville Interviews, UAH.
115
Thomas Franklin, An American in Exile: The Story of Arthur Rudolph (Huntsville, AL: Christopher 
Kaylor, 1987), 51.
132
you can?t say a word about it to your friends, at home, or at parties.?
116
  Wernher 
Br?hne, a technical illustrator at Peenem?nde, noted that the death sentence for 
breaking the secrecy regulations as well as the many informers operating at the 
facility (to be examined below) did not remotely aggravate or upset the employees.
117
Such attitudes not only spoke to the strength of the regulations, but also are an 
indication of the degree in which they penetrated the practical consciousness of 
employees at the base.  Adherence to these, in anthropological terms, ?rituals? of 
secrecy at Peenem?nde was nearly automatic.
This habitual adherence to the rules of secrecy also segregated the 
Peenem?nders from other segments of society.  If regulations officially curtailed 
discussions inside the rocket center, individuals found that they were required to be 
even more strict outside the facility.  Employees could not discuss their efforts with 
anyone not involved with their work, even with others within the facility.  Moreover, 
they could not publish their work or present it publicly, effectively cutting themselves 
off from the rest of the professional community of engineers and scientists in 
Germany.  
Without question, these efforts at secrecy occasionally ran up against larger 
professional norms.  However, secrecy concerns held priority over contact with 
specialists outside the community at Peenem?nde, and employees accepted this as a 
matter of course.  For example, in May 1943, the German Academy for Aeronautical 
Research (Deutsche Akademie f?r Luftfahrtforschung) contacted Braun to ask him to 
116
 Herbert Lucht statement, Peenem?nde: Schatten eines Mythos, Matthias Schmidt, Dir. (MJB Film-
und Fernsehproduktion, 2001).
117
Werner Br?hne, unpublished manuscript, ?Die Mittelwerk GmbH. Eine Chronik ?ber Firma und 
Werk,? unpag., Gericht Rep. 299, Bd. 582, HStaD-ZA Kalkum. 
133
speak about liquid oxygen fueled rocket engines at a gathering of propulsion 
specialists on August 5.  Officials at the academy pointed out that Reich Marshall 
Hermann G?ring, the head of the Luftwaffe and President of the Academy for 
Aeronautical Research, directed that ?the most secret things can and should be 
discussed at the conference.? Moreover, organizers stated, the results of the 
conference were secret, ?and nothing about it will be mentioned to third parties.?
118
Braun received this invitation on May 14, but a week later, Dornberger sent a curt 
response indicating that Braun could not participate in this conference, a staple of 
many professions.  Despite the promises of secrecy, Dornberger remarked, ?O.K.H. 
refers to an order of the F?hrer that the ongoing development in Peenem?nde should 
be considered top secret, even super top secret [Geheime Chefsache].  Development 
may only be discussed when completion of the work is absolutely necessary.  Since 
the F?hrer?s order cannot be abrogated, Dr. von Braun cannot give a lecture on this 
topic.?
119
  The requirements of secrecy proved to be more influential than the call of 
professionalism at Peenem?nde.  However, this did not prove to be a source of 
limitation for most of the specialists at the facility.  In fact, secrecy became an 
integral part of the professional conduct among the Peenem?nders.  Historians have 
shown that German professionalism, especially in the technical professions, was 
defined as much by service to the state as by interaction with one?s colleagues and 
membership in professional organizations.
120
  Secrecy, imposed from above by the 
118
 Deutsche Akademie der Luftfahrtforschung to von Braun, 5/12/43, RH8/v.1960, BA/MA.
119
 Dornberger to Deutsche Akademie f?r Luftfahrtforschung, 5/20/43, RH8/v.1960.  Von Braun 
received his copy of this letter five days later.
120
 See, for example, Konrad Jarausch, The Unfree Professions: German Lawyers, Teachers, and 
Engineers, 1900-1950 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), 3-24, 115-196, and Karl-Heinz 
Ludwig, Technik und Ingenieure im Dritten Reich (D?sseldorf: Droste Verlag, 1974), 103-159.
134
state, was a given in this program, and those working at Peenem?nde accepted it as a 
part of their professional duties.  Moreover, secrecy itself imparted a sense of 
distinction on those who worked on the rocket.  It compensated those who were 
forced by the regulations to limit their other professional opportunities by rewarding 
them with membership in a privileged elite and allowing them access to all of the 
benefits of life at Peenem?nde.  Ordnance?s refusal to allow Braun to participate in 
the conference at the Aeronautical Academy so that his state sponsored work could 
continue in relative secrecy was a small price to pay for the major satisfaction that the 
young engineer drew from his work, which rested in part on its ultra-secret nature.
Practices of secrecy lent a certain value to the activities at Peenem?nde, a 
phenomenon not unrelated to the segregation that went hand in hand with the work 
carried out there.  Simmel has shown that the employment of secrecy inherently 
creates the perception of value and importance among those subject to its norms.  For 
him, property, whether intellectual or physical, gains value both when its owner 
understands that others must do without it and when those denied it attribute special 
significance to it.  He writes that ?Inner property of the most heterogeneous kinds, 
thus, attains a characteristic value accent through the form of secrecy.?
121
   The 
system in place that divided both the island and the rocket facility into areas of 
greater or lesser prohibition and exclusion helped to place an intrinsic value on the 
information and individuals who moved around in these geographic spaces.  Initiates, 
that is, employees, were welcomed.  Non-initiates were not.  The quotidian practices 
of those within this world also contributed to this dynamic.  Before he became a full-
fledged member of the Peenem?nde community, test engineer Dieter Huzel recalled 
121
Simmel, The Sociology of Georg Simmel, 332.
135
that ?I admired from a distance those whom I believed had already achieved this 
higher order of existence ? from the obscure language, the secrecy that seemed to 
shroud their actions, and from the occasional ?private notebook? tactics that some of 
them used.?
122
  The insistent practices of secrecy that Huzel points to, the coded, 
jargon-filled language, the curtain behind which they worked, and the very objects 
that were off limits, segregated the Peenem?nde rocket specialists and helped to 
foster the sense that they were a community of elites, one that, as I shall indicate in 
chapter three, worked at the very cutting edge of technological development.
In addition, secrecy regulations both created and reinforced the hierarchy of 
authority at Peenem?nde.  Technological leaders controlled information by limiting 
access to a relatively small number of people.  These individuals had to learn the 
proper uses of the secret information through a long process of group recruitment and 
training that was guided by their superiors.  The authority of those in charge at 
Peenem?nde, therefore, proceeded in part from their larger knowledge of the 
technological activities on the island and their power of granting or denying access to 
secrets.  Indeed, part of Braun?s leadership capability lay in his nearly omniscient 
knowledge of technical development that grew in part from his unfettered access to 
every secret in the facility.  This knowledge cemented the strict administrative 
hierarchy at the base, a hierarchy that, according to Simmel, is central to the effective 
functioning of all secret societies.
123
  The authority of the leading administrators at 
Peenem?nde to promulgate such regulations did not simply proceed from the 
positions accorded them by Ordnance.  It also originated in their knowledge of 
122
Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 77.
123
 Simmel, The Sociology of Georg Simmel, 346-357.
136
developments at the base and was strengthened by the regulations published by the 
administrators themselves. 
Clearly, these practices formed the bedrock of all of the activities at 
Peenem?nde.  For new employees, the hiring process, background check, swearing of 
oaths, and signature of the service regulations were important moments that made 
clear to them the rules that bound them together in secrecy.
124
  If examined through 
an anthropological lens, these practices can be seen as initiation rituals that served to 
integrate individual newcomers into a larger, secret, and privileged group.  In 
undergoing these rituals, neophytes were made aware of other members who worked 
at the installation, the formal and informal norms governing their professional 
existence, and of the stratification within the facility itself.  Without these rites, which 
had the power to ?rearrange and to transform allegiances, boundaries, and identities,? 
secrecy could not be maintained.
125
  For veteran Peenem?nders, they re-emphasized 
the fundamental importance of secrecy to their purposes and aided in tying them 
together as cohesive group.
Secrecy, Coercion, and Consent at Peenem?nde
The presence of all of these security regulations also meant the presence of 
enforcement mechanisms.  Both a real and imagined sense of coercion helped ensure 
adherence to the rules of the institution.  In the first place, Army officials handled the 
124
Their working and living conditions, to be examined in the next chapter, also were important 
sources of binding energy.
125
Bok, Secrets, 50.
137
majority of counter-intelligence matters at the base throughout the war years.
126
However, the Gestapo also commonly resorted to informants in Peenem?nde to keep 
abreast of developments inside the facility.  These informants were under the 
command of Gestapo officials operating out of the office in Stettin, southeast of 
Peenem?nde.
127
  The earliest available record of Gestapo operations in Peenem?nde 
is dated November 1939.  The massive expansion of construction on Usedom because 
of the planned assembly plant and accompanying worker accommodations made 
necessary the addition of nearly another 1500 laborers.  In a striking contrast to the 
accommodations for the technical employees, the influx of these workers strained the 
facilities set up for their accommodations to the breaking point.  The barracks built 
for them did not have enough beds, nor were many of them heated against the Baltic 
winter.  Mess halls built for 1000 men had to feed 3000, forcing hungry workers to 
queue up for over two hours.  Many were lucky if the food was not all gone when 
they reached the front of the line.  All of this led to a deepening discontent among the 
workers and worse, an ongoing and significant number of work refusals.
128
Later that same month, the Army?s counter intelligence office in Swinem?nde 
requested that the Gestapo further investigate the situation.
129
   Almost six months 
later, officials from the office of the Reich Trusteeship for Labor (Reichstreuh?nder 
der Arbeit) in Pomerania, a government organization charged with acting as a liaison 
between labor and management in large construction projects, noted the continuing 
problem and recommended that the Gestapo set up a penal camp on Usedom to deal 
126
 Niederschrift ?ber die Besprechung am 7.8.44, 8/8/44, RH8/v.1941, BA/MA.
127
 Stolze Bericht, ?Bonner Bundepr?sident L?bke,? BStU, AV 7/85, Bd. 32.
128
 Untitled Gestapo report, author unknown, 11/21/39, AV7/85, Bd. 26, BStU.
129
Unsigned telegram, Gestapo office Stettin to R?hlmann, 11/23/39, AV7/85, Bd. 26, BStU.
138
with the unhappy workers.
130
  Construction Directors Erwin Mahs and Heinrich 
L?bke (who would become President of the Federal Republic of Germany in the late 
1950s) at Baugruppe Schlempp, the Armaments Ministry organization that took over 
construction in May 1940, agreed to these measures, leaving the Gestapo in charge of 
organizing the supervision of the camp.
131
  By September 1940, the Gestapo office in 
Stettin received authority to monitor activities on Usedom.  The official order 
granting this power indicated that they could rely on Mahs and L?bke for any help the 
Gestapo needed because ?Both have proven themselves to be trustworthy.?
132
  Over 
the next several months and years, the Gestapo operated informants in Peenem?nde 
who had access to both construction groups as well as the research station?s 
employees.
133
  In addition, as noted above, Army officials sought the Gestapo?s help 
in running background checks to ensure that prospective employees were not 
involved in any activities that the regime might deem untoward.  Thus, the Gestapo 
did not have to surreptitiously infiltrate Usedom or engage in a bureaucratic battle 
with Army or construction authorities at Peenem?nde in order to gain access to the 
base.  Army counter-intelligence sought out the Gestapo?s help so that Ordnance?s 
research and production plans could proceed apace, and construction directors 
actively supported their efforts in order to keep the facility?s frantic building activity 
moving forward.  The result was the active cooperation between Army counter-
intelligence, Armaments Ministry representatives, and the dreaded secret police not 
130
Reichstreuh?nder der Arbeit to Gestapo Stettin (signature illegible), 6/14/40, AV7/85, Bd. 26, 
BStU.
131
Zusatzbericht zum Bericht vom 14.6.1940, 6/19/40, AV7/85, Bd. 26, BStU.
132
Gestapo Order 5538/39, 9/24/40, AV7/85, Bd. 26, BStU.
133
Stolze Bericht, ?Bonner Bundespr?sident L?bke,? AV7/85, Bd. 32, BStU.
139
only to combat labor intransigence, but also to ensure that secrecy was fully 
maintained on the island.
The presence of both Army counter-intelligence officers and Gestapo 
informants on Usedom did a great deal to enforce the rules of secrecy.  Huzel noted 
that ?The supervision of [office procedures and handling of secret documents] and the 
punishment of security violators as a matter of fact provided an excellent opportunity 
for ambitious security officers.?
134
  Interestingly, however, the internalization of the 
institutional regulations created a situation in which the employees themselves 
monitored their own behavior and attempted at all cost to avoid breaking the rules.  
This commitment was reinforced by the presence of Army counter-intelligence and 
the Gestapo and the sense of ubiquitous surveillance that the Peenem?nders operated 
under.  
In Discipline and Punish, Michel Foucault shows that surveillance is a 
powerful way of imposing social discipline.  The root of this discipline, he argues, the 
very visibility of those subject to surveillance:  ?Disciplinary power ? imposes on 
those whom it subjects a principle of compulsory visibility.  In discipline, it is the 
subjects who have to be seen.  Their visibility assures the hold of the power that is 
exercised over them.  It is the fact of being constantly seen, of being able always to be 
seen, that maintains the individual in his subjection.?
135
  Visibility, then, helps to 
ensure social control.  In contrast, the authorities in charge of security on Usedom 
were often invisible.  The invisibility and unprovable nature of surveillance from 
moment to moment was the secret to its success.  Invisibility made the notion of 
134
Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 60.
135
Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, Transl. by Alan Sheridan (New 
York: Vintage Books, 1979), 187.
140
surveillance omnipresent.  The Peenem?nders understood that they could be 
observed, but did not know when, if it all, the gaze of the authorities fell on them.  In 
the words of one engineer, ?One never knew when one was being watched.?
136
Discipline, therefore, could be imposed even in the absence of state authority.  It was 
internalized by individuals in Peenem?nde, who constantly felt subjected to it, 
whether or not it existed in reality.  In Foucaultian terms, this ensured ?the automatic 
functioning of power? by creating a situation in which the Peenem?nders were caught 
up ?in a power situation in which they themselves are the bearers.?
137
  The threat of 
force was never absent, and there is strong circumstantial evidence, though spotty and 
undocumented, that coercive force may have been brought to bear on occasion 
against civilians at Peenem?nde when at least one, and perhaps as many as twenty, 
civilian employees were hanged inbetween 1939 and 1945 for transgressions against 
secrecy regulations.
138
  Nevertheless, in the end, it was the fear of observation and 
force, not its actual presence, that established a dynamic in which employees  
tightened the limits of allowable behavior and mitigated against any acts that might 
be considered inappropriate by state authorities.
An important factor in sustaining this dynamic was the background 
investigation that preceded an individual?s employment at Peenem?nde.  The Gestapo 
investigation transformed the employees from relatively anonymous people moving 
136
?Bericht eines nicht genannten ?Peenem?nder,? ver?ffentlicht in der Wochenzeitung ?Christ und 
Welt? im Juni 1950,? Gericht Rep. 299, Bd. 158, HStaD-ZA Kalkum. 
137
Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 201.
138
Manfred Kanetzky personal correspondence with author, 4/27/04.  Kanetzky is the archivist at the 
Historisches-Technisches Informationszentrum Peenem?nde and has learned through conversations 
with former Peenem?nders that at least one civilian was hanged, though documentary evidence that 
could prove this has not been found.  He notes that others have cited up to twenty hangings.  In each 
case, it is not clear if the Gestapo, Army, or civilian authorities charged the individuals and carried out 
the death sentences.
141
about in a large social milieu into individuals whose identity was closely known by 
the state and, therefore, subject to greater state control.  In a totalitarian political 
system that possessed no scruples about invading the private lives of its citizens in the 
first place (and indeed obliterated the very notion of privacy), the sense of being 
under constant surveillance was sharpened even further.  Peenem?nde employees 
were, in principle, under more scrutiny by the state than citizens who were not 
involved in such top secret research.  The Nazi regime stripped away the privacy 
rights of its citizens as a matter of course.  The Gestapo background investigations of 
potential employees at Peenem?nde then shined a light on the people whose 
individual rights were subsumed before the power of the state, enhancing the sense of 
being exposed at all times and encouraging individuals to closely regulate their own 
behavior.
139
Wernher von Braun was also a central figure in this process of self-policing.  
He regularly wrote letters and circulars to mid-level management and department 
heads reminding them of stipulations regarding rules of secrecy and upbraiding them 
on the uncommon occasion when they did break the rules.  Braun vigorously guarded 
the secrets at Peenem?nde and was unafraid to confront others about breaches in 
security.  As late as December 1944, when Germany stood on the brink of utter 
collapse and the war was irretrievably lost, Walther Riedel (known in the 
correspondence as Riedel III, no relation to Walter H.J. Riedel), the head of the 
139
 Ironically, it is likely that the Gestapo did not have the manpower to properly carry out its 
enforcement duties.  Elisabeth Kohlhaas estimates that in 1937, there was a maximum of 7000 officials 
in the entire Gestapo.  Even in August 1941, there were no more than 7600 in all of prewar Germany.  
See her article ?Die Mitarbeiter der regionalen Staatspolizeistellen: Quantitiative und qualitative 
Befunde zur Personalausstattung der Gestapo,? in Gerhard Paul and Klaus-Michael Mallmann, Die 
Gestapo ? Mythos und Realit?t (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buch Gesellschaft, 1995), 220-235.
142
Peenem?nde Design Bureau, met with members of the Four Year Plan Institute for 
Transportation (Vierjahrsplaninstitut f?r Kraftfahrzeuge) at Berlin Technical 
University concerning work on V-2 transportation development.  In the midst of this 
top-secret meeting, a secretary from the university attempted to work in the same 
room.  After several minutes and repeated requests that she leave the room because of 
the secrecy of the discussion, an argument ensued with her superiors.  In the end, the 
angry woman departed in a huff.  When Braun received news of the institute?s 
inability to effectively control access to secret information, he wrote an acerbic letter 
to a Dr. Schmidt, the head of the group, in which he voiced his concerns about 
secrecy.  His reaction to the episode indicates his own sense of propriety as well as 
his overriding concern with keeping information about the V-2 to as few people as 
possible.  ?The improper tone and the general behavior of Frau Wolfe,? he testily 
asserted, ?exhibits a major lack of discipline.  [We] are indignant over the above 
incident and the affront therein by one of your representatives.  In the future, we will 
choose the meeting place for all further meetings with the VfK.?
140
  At first glance, 
one is tempted to read a certain self-importance into this letter, but its subject line, 
?Secrecy,? (Geheimhaltung) indicates Braun?s real concern.  The control of secret 
information about the V-2 project simply could not be allowed to wane, even if 
Germany?s fortunes in the war were.  Even as his enthusiasm for the project began to 
diminish and the limits of the V-2?s effectiveness became clearer by the day, Braun 
proved himself to be more than willing to call onto the carpet those who breeched the 
tight ring of secrecy around missile development, and his demand that the 
Peenem?nders choose the location for future meetings with the VfK is indicative of 
140
Braun to Schmidt, ?Geheimhaltung,? 12/2/44, RH8/v.1265, BA/MA.
143
his faith in the base employees? ability to tightly control access to secret information.  
This supposed weakness of the VfK, combined with Frau Wolfe?s ?Improper tone 
and general behavior,? was an affront to the high professional standards that were so 
important to the work of the Peenem?nders.  Braun?s own adherence to the secrecy 
regulations was fully automatic, a part of his identity as a rocket developer.  His 
internalization of Peenem?nde?s institutional regulations regarding secrecy was 
emblematic of many Peenem?nders, and resulted in a habitual, often pro-active 
commitment to these rules.
Secrecy, therefore, functioned to segregate employees of the facility from 
society while ensuring the loyalty of those who were privy to secrets.  On one hand, 
the practice of secrecy was an adaptive process that built communal feeling and 
enabled individuals to achieve particular objectives.  By restricting physical access, 
making documents the domain of a privileged few, and necessitating the use of jargon 
and code words, the practice of secrecy provided Peenem?nders with a sense of their 
own elitism which compensated for the restrictions it placed on their professional 
world.  Indeed, secrecy even enhanced the rocket specialists? notions of 
professionalism as it became part and parcel of their everyday experience. 
On the other hand, however, secrecy was also a maladaptive process in that its 
insistent daily practices acted to squelch dissent or criticism by providing both a real 
and imagined coercion around the work.  Even if we are to take as truthful the 
postwar assertions of many engineers who argued that they had no control of the 
larger policy decisions when it came to determinations about labor deployment and 
treatment of the prisoners, surveillance became a mechanism for curtailing what 
144
might be construed in the Nazi context as politically deviant, inclining the 
Peenem?nders to engage in very little, if any, dissent.  Thus, the overriding dearth of 
large scale discord at Peenem?nde was not simply a result of the specific technical 
vision of the project that guided employees down the same path.  Though this was 
certainly an important factor, an equally durable and meaningful means of evoking 
their collective focus was the internalization and automatic adherence to the rules of 
secrecy that guided the employees? behavior.  Though individual employees 
disagreed, sometimes strenuously, their disputes were limited to the more narrowly 
defined technical arena and never exploded into larger questions about the purposes 
of their work, the nature of the regime that sponsored it, or even the eventual use of 
slave labor to inaugurate mass production.  This was a function of the secret society 
created at Peenem?nde.  Entrance to this society involved a thoroughgoing process of 
initiation and re-socialization along the lines laid out by its members, and the Army 
and Gestapo ensured disciplinary compliance by providing a powerful, if, in reality, 
inconsistent, enforcement mechanism.  This by no mean excuses the actions of 
engineers and technicians at Peenem?nde.  Employees there made individual 
decisions based on their own conceptions of right and wrong, but these choices were 
made in the context of an overarching dynamic of secrecy that acted to strengthen 
their identification with the project at hand while stifling public dissent.  The result 
was a community of like-minded experts who automatically adhered to the dictates of 
the regime that made their work possible.   
****
145
In conclusion, two major factors laid the groundwork for the establishment of 
the strong and viable community of scientific and technical expertise at Peenem?nde.  
The first was the regime?s tremendous financial commitment to the project of rocket 
development.  Ordnance authorities recognized that in order to successfully develop a 
large, liquid-fueled, ballistic missile, the paltry resources of the private amateur 
groups and the small experimental set-up at Kummersdorf were simply inadequate to 
the challenge.  A brand new, large, ultra-modern facility, financed by massive state 
investment, could be the only way to solve the myriad of technical difficulties 
associated with development.  For the small group of individuals who were involved 
in the program during Weimar?s lean years and even in the first years of work at 
Kummersdorf, the Army and Luftwaffe commitment to expansion of the program and 
establishment of a new, entirely modern facility dedicated solely to their work was 
most gratifying.  Though it was cloaked in secrecy, their work became all the more 
satisfying because of the improved pay, expanded resources, and increased prestige 
that working on such a massive, well-financed project inevitably brought with it.  The 
Nazi regime?s revanchist, nationalist, militaristic foreign policy was in line with much 
of the propaganda about the rocket that they were imbued with during the 
Raketenflugplatz years, and Hitler?s unbridled rearmament spending guaranteed the 
continuation of their work. 
The foundation of this emerging community of professionals at Peenem?nde 
was laid on a bedrock of secrecy.  Pervasive regulations guarding the work at the base 
governed almost all aspects of behavior on the island of Usedom, segregating 
employees from the rest of German society and reshaping their discursive worlds.  In 
146
the course of their daily activities, the Peenem?nders internalized secrecy rules and 
automatically behaved according to their stipulations.  Moreover, secrecy was so 
fundamental to their daily functions that it became central to the formation of 
professional identity at Peenem?nde.  However, the daily practice of secrecy had 
negative consequences as well.  Individuals who internalized these regulations were 
also less apt to question the larger initiatives of the regime that sponsored the work.  
Admittedly, support for the re-armament project did not automatically translate into 
support for many of the regime?s harsher measures, including crackdowns against 
supposed internal enemies of the nation, war, total war, and slave labor.  However, 
the coercive effects of secrecy regulations meant that as the regime enacted these 
policies, individuals at Peenem?nde were less likely to register their dissent.  Indeed, 
as I will point out in the next chapters, the very lack of dissent among those involved 
in missile development and production is one of the most striking features of the 
program.  
Financial commitments and secrecy considerations profoundly shaped the 
process by which individual technical and scientific specialists from different 
disciplines across Germany developed into a dynamic community with a singular 
vision on a tiny island off of Germany?s Baltic coast.  They created the framework in 
which individuals conducted their daily lives.  It is this daily behavior, shaped by 
state sponsorship and carried out in utter secrecy, that explains the roots of consent 
for the Nazi regime at Peenem?nde and the stunning technical achievement of the 
long range ballistic missile.  The tightly knit community that employees wove 
together was based on strong professional, communal, and personal bonds, not 
147
dedication to National Socialist principles or bureaucratic inertia.  Nevertheless, the 
resulting strong identification with each other would ensure the smooth functioning of 
both technological practices and state power within the Peenem?nde technical 
community.
Chapter 3
?It was a Fantastic Life!?: Living and Working in a Secret Rocket 
Facility
Despite some of the restrictions that secrecy imposed on life at Peenem?nde 
and the near total physical isolation of Usedom from the rest of Germany, employees 
of the rocket facility found their lives on the island to be personally rewarding and 
professionally stimulating.  This in turn ensured the technical specialists? absolute 
dedication to the goals of Peenem?nde as an institution.  In large part, this was a 
function of the lavish accoutrements that the Army provided for them, the abundant 
opportunities for leisure and recreational activities (especially before the middle of 
1943), and the exciting, well-paying work that was carried out in a congenial, 
professional environment.  Their satisfaction with their lives on Usedom encouraged 
employees to put an even more personal stake in the endeavor that brought them such 
good fortune.  For them, the goals of the Peenem?nde Army Research Station were 
intrinsically linked to both their personal and professional satisfaction.  Success in the 
A-4 project not only meant enhanced professional prestige, but also continued 
enjoyment of a comfortable life that provided liberal social outlets and was free, at 
least until August 1943, from the deprivations of war.  Though not explicitly 
ideological in nature, life and work at Peenem?nde were central to the social 
reproduction of support for the Nazi regime because of the subtle ways in which 
individuals at the facility came to identify their own goals and happiness with the 
mission of the institution, which was ostensibly to defend the Nazi regime from 
149
further harm.  The process by which this support came about at Peenem?nde is at the 
core of this chapter.  
Max Weber has shown that individuals in society often relate to each other 
based on sentiment.
1
  More recent studies have expanded on this point, arguing that 
sentiment is largely derived from group processes.  Individual identities largely 
depend upon the groups within which people exist.
2
  Much of what people know, they 
learn from their social environment.  They believe certain things to be true simply 
because the people around them repeatedly assert that they are.  Once people have 
these beliefs and discover that others within their given social networks share them, 
they take them as simple truths that have no need for further explanation or 
evaluation.
3
A decisive component in constructing the Peenem?nde specialists? ideals and 
enhancing their dedication to their facility?s institutional goals was the emergence of 
a new professional rocket engineering community on Usedom.  The Raketenflugplatz
bore the seeds of this emergence, which germinated during the Kummersdorf years.  
However, the profession of rocket engineering, at best nascent in earlier years, 
assumed a mature identity at Peenem?nde between 1937 and 1943.  In assuming this 
identity, it established a community of like-minded people who shared the same 
sentiment and identified with the same goals.  Sociologist William J. Goode has 
1
 This point is most clearly enunciated in D.B. Clark, ?The Concept of Community: A Re-
examination,? Sociological Review (New Series), 21 (1973) 397-416.
2
 Michael A. Hogg and Dominic Abrams, Social Identifications: A Social Psychology of Intergroup 
Relations and Group Processes (London: Routledge, 1988).  R. Scott Tindale, Catherine Munier, 
Michelle Wasserman, and Christine M. Smith, ?Group Processes and the Holocaust,? in Leonard S. 
Newman, Ralph Erber, eds., Understanding Genocide: The Social Psychology of the Holocaust (New 
York: Oxford University Press, 2002), p. 143-161.
3
Serge Moscovici, ?The Phenomenon of Social Representations,? in Robert M. Farr and Serge 
Moscovici, eds., Social Representations (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 3-69.
150
shown that the establishment of a ?community of profession? is a central goal of all 
professional life.  Once formed, this community decisively shaped the behavior of its 
individual members.  In a community of profession, members are bound by a sense of 
identity and share many values in common.  According to Goode, a commonly 
invoked ideal of this community is the unique service that it can perform for the 
larger society.  The professional community also exacts from its members high 
standards of education and performance.  This in turn is fundamental to a profession?s 
claim to elite status.
4
  All of these factors were in play at the Army?s missile research 
and production facility on Usedom.  
At Peenemunde, the engineers? sense of significance, professional 
achievement, career development, and prestige, was largely a function of this 
community of profession.  They had a very high degree of solidarity and sense of 
self-significance, which grew out of their participation in this community.  Their 
mores and values emerged as a result of their individual interactions with the larger 
group dynamic.  What is more, individual members of the Peenem?nde engineering 
profession were relatively isolated from outside sources of influence and 
socialization, finding their rewards and sanctions largely within their own 
community.  At bottom, this further created the sense among Peenem?nde employees 
that they felt themselves to part of an elite technical profession that performed a 
unique and profoundly important service for their nation.  Their individual behavior 
was almost entirely informed by their consciously and unconsciously felt membership 
within the community that espoused this very belief.
4
 William J. Goode, ?Community Within a Community: The Professions,? American Sociological 
Review 22/2 (April 1957), 194-200. 
151
Communal feeling and group identification emerged in a number of ways.  
One of the most important was the individuals? membership in Peenem?nde?s secret 
society.  Another was in the unparalleled conditions in which employees conducted 
their personal and professional lives.  Life on Usedom offered benefits that were 
unique in Germany, and work on the super-secret missile base was the source of a 
great deal of interest, excitement, and pride.  Most employees were not only loathe to 
give up the advantages of such a stimulating life, they were also deeply dedicated to 
maintaining and reproducing it.  The best way to do so was to embrace the goals of 
the project.  Moreover, senior military administrators appealed to the specialists? 
patriotism and nationalism in much the same way that the Raketenflugplatz appealed 
for funding in the years before the Nazi regime.  They cast their work in terms if its 
overriding importance for national survival, especially during the war.  This not only 
enhanced a professional ethic that drew on the long-held idea of public service as a 
virtue, it also gave cause for the employees to redouble their efforts to defend the 
regime that made their relatively comfortable lives possible.  However, it had the 
negative effect of creating an atmosphere that was colored by the desire to exact 
revenge on Germany?s enemies, thereby encouraging the engineers? tacit, if not 
direct, support for Nazi initiatives.  In the end, this group dynamic in place at 
Peenem?nde ensured rapid technological development and encouraged political 
support for Hitler?s government.            
152
The ?Paradise? of Peenem?nde
Despite Army Ordnance?s protracted battle with higher regime authorities, 
especially Armaments Minister Fritz Todt, over the costs, amount of labor and raw 
materials needed to construct the base, the Army?s and Luftwaffe?s largesse resulted 
to both a first-rate technical facility as well as attractive and comfortable living 
accommodations for the employees who worked there.  Dornberger?s desire ?to build 
on a grand scale and beautifully? was largely fulfilled.  The results of his efforts 
combined with the beauty of the island to dazzle the employees.  The entire facility, 
from the tip of Usedom?s northern peninsula to the tiny village of Karlshagen 
stretched for nearly eight miles.  From a naturalists? perspective, the site was idyllic.  
A pristine beach ran along the east coast of the island, parallel to almost the entire 
base.  The pine forest that covered most of the island provided an excellent habitat for 
deer and other wildlife.
5
  For one engineer, Peenem?nde ?was the most beautiful area, 
wooded area, you know, with lots of pine trees and leaf trees like oak trees and elm 
trees ? a beautiful spot ? We had beautiful birds in this area, all kinds of ducks.?
6
Peter Wegener felt a warm nostalgia when he arrived at Peenem?nde, recalling that 
?Most of my early summers were spent at one of the many resorts on Usedom.  For a 
child from Berlin, the Baltic seashore ? with its pure white sand, its dunes, and its 
hunting grounds for shells and amber ? was the closest ocean holiday spot ... The 
5
 Dornberger, V-2 (New York: Viking Press, 1955), 40.
6
 Tessmann, OHI, National Air and Space Museum (NASM).
153
scenery, the smell, and the waters of Peenemunde were truly familiar.?
7
  The island?s 
natural beauty, however, was not the only attribute that impressed employees.
As Todt stridently indicated in 1941, the building accommodations for 
employees were par excellence.  Construction engineers strove to avoid monotony in 
designing and arranging the buildings and added many of their own unique flourishes 
to the design of the facility.  For example, to enter the employee settlement, workers 
and their families passed through the so-called ?Brandenburg Gate,? a large stone 
building through which a car could traverse and that contained bachelor apartments 
on either wing.
8
  Past the Brandenburg Gate to the East lay the actual housing 
settlement itself.  It was based on the idea of the ?Garden City,? a concept celebrated 
by right wing architects who wished to spiritually unite German families with their 
native soil.  Trees and a number of personal garden plots dotted the settlement, which 
was made up of two-story row houses and individual, detached family homes.  
Planners designed the living quarters in staggered rows to vary the settlement?s 
appearance and used a number of decorative architectural touches on the ends of the 
row houses to improve their appearance even further.
9
  Bakeries, cafes, a butcher 
shop, a grocery, and even a beauty salon and a bookstore opened in the settlement.  
Architects also built a school, a large sports field, and tennis courts.  Reinhold 
Kr?ger, a technical apprentice at Peenem?nde, was deeply impressed, recalling, 
?Above all, I was taken in by the new buildings in the clean, perfect town.  For me, 
7
 Peter Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels: A Memoir (New Haven: Yale University Press, 
1996), 17.
8
 Photograph 47 575, Brandenburger Tor der Siedlung Karlshagen, Peenem?nde, Luft-und 
Raumfahrtarchiv des Deutsches Museum.
9
 See Deutsches Museum photograph ?Siedlung im Heeresgutsbezirk Peenem?nde, Bild-Nr. *23881, 
on order from the Deutsches Museum.  Many of these row houses are still in use today.
154
this was the epitome of German exactitude and cleanliness.?
10
  The entire settlement 
area itself lay just west of the beach, and was separated from it only by a stand of pine 
trees.  ?It was beautiful,? recalled project engineer Werner Dahm.  ?Our house was 
right at the woods, and for my lunch time I could walk to the beach.?
11
  Many 
scientists, engineers, technicians and military officers were only too happy to move 
into the settlement upon arriving in Peenem?nde with their families.
       A view down Hindenburgstrasse in the employee ?Settlement? at Peenem?nde.
Courtesy DM
Dahm?s glowing assessment might have just as easily described ?Peenem?nde 
East,? the site of the development workshops.  This group of buildings was located 
approximately one mile north of the settlement and was connected to it by a modern 
electric railway, complete with bright red cars modeled after the famous Berlin S-
Bahn.  It was made up of technical workshops, a dormitory for single employees, and 
a large administration building.  Designers also built two ornate clubs for officers and 
civilian workers.
12
  Rocket engine test stands dotted the coast of the peninsula to the 
10
 Reinhold Kr?ger statement, quoted in Volkhard Bode and Gerhard Kaiser, Raketenspuren: 
Peenem?nde 1936-1996 (Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag, 1996), 38. 
11
 Werner Dahm OHI, NASM. 
12
 Closer to the Settlement, designers converted a modern hotel located on the beach into a third club, 
called the ?Kameradshchaftsheim.?  This club and another one known as the  ?Kasino? were the two 
155
north of the workshops, ending at Test Stand VII, the large and complex launch site at 
the tip of the island, from which all test models were launched.
13
  All of the 
structures, for reasons of camouflage, were nestled among the many trees left intact 
after construction.  According to Wegener, ?Administration buildings, laboratories, 
housing units, and test stands were widely separated according to a well-planned 
layout, and a bucolic atmosphere prevailed.  The architecture was attractive, 
combining a resemblance to the older municipal buildings of the northern provinces 
of Germany with a touch of the twentieth century Bauhaus school.?
14
Sandwiched between the employees? settlement and the development 
workshops was the massive rocket assembly and storage hall, dubbed F-1 by the 
Peenem?nders.  At 600,000 square feet, it was one of the largest free-standing, 
industrial structures in Germany.
15
  It only had windows on its front face, but the 
roof?s sawtooth construction, designed to minimize air raid damage, also let in a great 
deal of light.  Engineers and technicians in the assembly hall built the test rockets 
vertically, rather than horizontally.
16
  F-1 was designed to hold rockets much larger 
than just the V-2.  Rather, planners structured it to hold the A-10, a two-stage missile 
with a 100 ton thrust engine that remained on the drawing board throughout the war.
17
Obviously, they did not want to build a facility that was immediately obsolete, but 
most popular on the island.  The Kameradschaftsheim also doubled as women?s dormitory.  See 
Deutsches Museum photo 38798 ?Kasino in Peenem?nde,? on order from the museum.
13
 Lageplan der Erprobungsstelle Peenem?nde, photo number 16776, DM. 
14
 Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels, 17. 
15
 Arthur Rudolph OHI, NASM.  On the dawning realization of the size and complexity of such a 
structure, Rudolph, the building?s chief planner, recalled, ?I now felt as if I had been standing in the 
snow and making that little snowball and it began to roll and I could catch that ball any time I wanted 
to, but suddenly this snowball was an avalanche.  A tremendous avalanche.  And I got really scared.?  
16
 Bode and Kaiser, Raketenspuren, 36.  Although administrators laid extensive plans for mass 
production in F-1, production was transferred to central Germany before they could be enacted. 
17
 Rudolph OHI, NASM.  The A-10 was conceived as the world?s first intercontinental ballistic 
missile. 
156
this was also a reflection of their confidence that money would keep coming in and 
the political support to allowing them to expand their work would be ever-present.  In 
any case, this was the largest and, when combined with its electrical power and 
employment demands, the most expensive structure on the island.  It completed a 
research, development, and production complex for new weapons that, in terms of its 
size, complexity, and social considerations, was without equal in the world.
?It Was Absolutely Wonderful?: The Social and Cultural World of the 
Peenem?nder
Living in this ?paradise? on the Baltic coast proved in many ways to be a 
deeply rewarding experience, especially in the context of World War II Germany.  
Peenem?nde officials took great care to ensure that all of the concerns of those 
working at the facility could be easily attended to, enabling employees of the base to 
establish a dynamic, vibrant, and exciting culture on the island that belied the 
worsening war situation throughout their country.  Both in and out of the workplace, 
the ties between individual Peenem?nders grew increasingly strong, and a dynamic 
emerged in which personal and professional bonds mutually reinforced one another.  
This in turn allowed them to forge their unique group identity as ?Peenem?nders,? a 
homogenous community of like-minded individuals that emphasized both their 
professional elitism and their thorough identification with each other.  The rapid 
success of the Peenem?nders? work on the missile was the result.  In addition, the 
comfort and relative ease of their lives, despite the great pressure on them for results, 
only fortified their dedication to the missile program?s goals and spurred them to ever 
increasing efforts on the regime?s behalf.  Indeed, the lively and spirited community 
that grew up on Usedom owed its existence to the National Socialist regime that 
157
served as their benefactor.  Even so, years later, many former Peenem?nders would 
recall that during the war, when Nazi Germany was visiting unprecedented 
destruction on Europe, the years 1939 to 1945 were the best of their lives.   
The island of Usedom had much to offer its new residents.  Ruth Kraft, a data 
recorder in the Aerodynamics Institute, stated that ?For those of us who came from 
central Germany or Saxony, the Baltic Sea was a wonderful experience.?
18
  Gerda 
Erdmann, whose husband was a lathe operator in the development workshops, stated 
years after the war that ?Everything was wonderful.  It?s terrible that it?s all broken 
down now.?
19
  In the first place, Usedom offered a variety of accommodations for the 
Peenem?nders.  Many single men lived in dormitories either at the development 
works or in the Settlement, but others found rooms in the unused guesthouses in the 
popular beach town Zinnowitz and elsewhere. Wegener wrote that he met a number 
of interesting people in his dormitory, and many became his good friends.
20
  Most 
engineers who had families were able to live in the well-equipped settlement. Werner 
Rossinski and his wife lived with their child in one of the row houses here, but when 
they had a second child in 1940, they were able to move into a house that was only 
three minutes by foot from the beach.  He recalled warmly how in the summer, his 
family would eat breakfast and then go for a walk on the beach.
21
  Rossinski?s 
sentiment is typical of nearly all of the Peenem?nders.  The accommodations 
available to them on Usedom were pleasant, functional, and had the advantage of 
18
 Ruth Kraft Testimony, Originaltonaussagen von Mitarbeiter der ehemaligen Heeresversuchsanstalt 
Peenem?nde-Ost zum Thema Alltag in Peenem?nde, Historisches-Technisches Informationszentrum 
Peenem?nde (HTIZP).
19
 Gerda Erdmann Testimony, Originaltonaussagen, HTIZP.
20
 Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels, p. 19. 
21
 Werner Rossinski Testimony, Originaltonaussagen, HTIZP. 
158
being located in some of the most prime beachfront property in all of Germany.  
Rudolf Hermann, the head of the aerodynamics group, happily recalled that ?Our 
house was only 200 meters from the beach.  Stepping out of the house, already you 
hear the noise of the sea.?
22
Moreover, the employees of the missile facility had many outlets for their 
social and cultural needs.  Outdoor recreational activities abounded in the summer, 
and the Peenem?nders took full advantage of them.  The quiet Peene River and the 
Stettin lagoon allowed for excellent sailing.  Many of the more skilled and 
adventurous sailors at Peenem?nde, von Braun among them, even enjoyed sailing to 
the Greifswalder Oie.  This was a small island in the Baltic just north of Usedom, 
which, in addition to a number of important test launch facilities, had a small inn, 
where, ?despite all of the war rationing, one could always eat well.?
23
  Sunbathing 
and sports competitions during time off of work were other popular pastimes.  For 
example, early every Wednesday morning in the summer, many co-workers and 
friends gathered for ?morning sport? on the beach.  They played handball, soccer, 
swam, or simply went for walks before gathering for breakfast, cleaning up, and 
catching the train for work.  At the sporting field in the settlement, employees also 
arranged competitions and games between the various branches and organizations at 
the base.  Many Peenem?nders, including Dornberger and Zanssen, also enjoyed 
taking their families to the interior of the island to pick the wild blueberries that grew 
22
 ?Memoirs of Rudolf Hermann,? unpublished, p. 19, University of Alabama, Huntsville (UAH).  This 
source is rather more like an oral history than a memoir.  It is a transcript of an interview Hermann 
gave to Sandy Sherman in 1988 in Huntsville, Alabama.
23
Wernher von Braun Anekdotisch, gathered by Bob Ward, (Esslingen: Bechtle Verlag, 1972), p. 41.
159
there.
24
  The base?s high ranking officials, von Braun included, also enjoyed riding in 
the woods the island on horses kept from the stables reserved for these men.
25
         Peenem?nders on the beach near Zinnowitz, July 1943.
Courtesy HTIZP
In the winter, the theater and films (there were four cinemas on Usedom) were 
the primary source of entertainment.  Huzel?s favorite was the cinema in Karlshagen, 
just south of the settlement, which showed old films, ?invariably of good quality,? 
and that never had anything to do with the war.
26
  A local Festzeitschrift  kept people 
up date about the social and cultural events happening on the base.  Feierabends and 
Kameradschaftsabends were consistently the most popular events of the year.  These 
were parties in the clubs that were often sponsored by the various administrative 
divisions of the base.  Participants told jokes, put on skits, played music, sang songs, 
24
 Herbert Lucht Testimony, Originaltonaussagen, HTIZP.
25
 Martin Middlebrook, The Peenem?nde Raid: 17-18 August, 1943(London: Cassell and Co., 1982), 
20.  Middlebrook?s book is essentially a minute by minute account, drawn largely from oral history 
interviews he conducted, of the destructive RAF bombing raid on Peenem?nde in August 1943.
26
 Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 130.
160
ate, and drank together, often poking fun at themselves and each other.
27
  In addition, 
employees themselves often put on concerts and plays, which were well attended by 
their colleagues.  Rudolph Hermann, for example, was a member of perhaps history?s 
most technically brilliant chamber music quartet, with von Braun, who played the 
cello, measurement specialist Gerhard Reisig, who played the viola, and 
aerodynamicist Heinrich Ramm, who played first violin.  They often performed 
together in public.
28
                ?Kantine Fischer,? the site of many Kameradschaftsabends.
Courtesy DM
The Peenem?nders also established strong and durable social bonds while on 
Usedom.  Many workers celebrated holidays and birthdays together, often exchanging 
hand-made gifts.
29
  Friends and co-workers commonly gathered for in the famous 
resorts in Zinnowitz.  Huzel remembers these gatherings fondly. 
27
 See, for example, ?Festfolge zum Kameradschaftsabend der Abteilungen TA/L, TA/Proj., TA/Che 
und TA/TB am Sonnabend, dem 15. M?rz 1941, 16 Uhr in Schwabes Hotel Zinnowitz,? HTIZP.  The 
festivities included an opening speech by von Braun, a reading of Otto Schairer?s poem ?Deutschland 
dir mein Vaterland? and a performance of the song ?Die echte deutsche Gr?ndlichkeit.?
28
 Hermann Memoirs, p. 19, UAH.  Hermann played second violin. 
29
 Herbert Lucht Testimony, Originaltonaussagen, HTIZP. 
161
This town had been a swank seaside resort, and a 
number of restaurants were still operating? The 
waiters wore white tie and tails; there were white 
tablecloths; and the food was pretty good for those 
times?As wine was unavailable, it was acceptable for 
the customer to bring his own ? which we usually 
managed to do.  After dinner the waiter would spend 
twice the time with the ration coupons that he did with 
the bill.  These were moments of pleasure stolen out of 
tragedy, and our humor was always high as we finally 
made our way back to House 1 [the bachelors? 
dormitory].
30
Family life was pleasant as well.  The demands of work and the war did not 
preclude many from starting or expanding their families at Peenem?nde.  Most 
families had their own small, but pleasant houses, and parents found no lack of people 
willing to supervise their children when they both worked.  Hermann?s family 
gathered with the families of friends and co-workers on the weekends to ?play games 
together at the beach.?
31
  Moreover, though the majority of people at Peenem?nde 
were men, there were plenty of women on the island who served as secretaries, 
clerks, typists, and measurement takers.  Most of the women were single and lived in 
the ?Kameradschaftsheim,? the hotel that was converted into a club and dormitory.  
Needless to say, this opened up many romantic opportunities for the young and single 
Peenem?nders.  Kiddy Luckman, a young female data recorder in the measurement 
group, often traveled with her friends to Zinnowitz in search of young men.
32
  Some, 
like development foreman Horst Wiessner, even met their future spouses on such 
occasions.
33
30
 Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 130.
31
 Hermann Memoirs, p. 19, UAH.
32
 Kiddy Luckman Testimony, Originaltonaussagen, HTIZP.  
33
 Horst Wiessner Testimony, Originaltonaussagen, HTIZP.
162
Life on Usedom, then, was quite comfortable for the Peenem?nders, even in 
the context of total war.  Nearly everyone recognized this truth.  For example, 
rationing demands made food scarce across the nation, but because of Peenem?nde?s 
location on the Baltic Sea, residents there were easily able to supplement their rations 
with fish and eel.  Partially for this reason, Dieter Huzel was convinced the 
Peenem?nders did not have it as bad as other Germans throughout the country.
34
Except for wine, alcohol was also plentiful.  Chemists at Peenem?nde were able to 
distill ethyl alcohol into pure alcohol that they made a sort of moonshine out of and 
added different flavors to.
35
  Georg Tiesenhausen commented wryly (and, it might be 
said, disturbingly, in a gastronomic sense), ?We had parties.  Parties with rocket 
fuel.?
36
  Konrad Dannenberg held that the availability of such items in Peenem?nde 
meant that they were not badly off there.  He noted that, ?It was probably much worse 
all over the rest of Germany.?
37
  Nearly all Peenem?nders were quite conscious that 
their lives were vastly better than the majority of their countrymen, and they 
embraced this fact.  As one former employee recalled about his time at Peenem?nde, 
?It was a fantastic life!?
38
  In the context of Nazi Germany, this secret life, largely 
free from the deprivations of the war and reinforced by an abundance of recreation 
and a tightly knit social community, became an oasis in the steadily mounting 
drumbeat of distress and destruction across the rest of Germany.
All of these benefits and events constituted moments of fundamental 
importance in the growth of the community of Peenem?nders.  In an anthropological 
34
 Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 80. 
35
 Konrad Dannenberg OHI, NASM.
36
 Georg Tiesenhausen OHI, NASM.
37
 Konard Dannenberg OHI, NASM.
38
 Werner Rossinski testimony, Originaltonaussagen, HTIZP.
163
sense, they helped make up the foundations of the complex social community on 
Usedom.  These events should be seen as both formal and informal rituals that in their 
execution, strengthened individual ties to the group.  In a revealing comment about 
the strength of these bonds, technician Gerhard R?hr noted
This comradeship was present in Peenem?nde and was 
not confined to professional or social groups.  Whether 
one traveled by train or was in a club or in an air raid 
shelter or at a lathe, we all felt like one big family.  
Perhaps this spirit of togetherness was due to the fact 
that we had all, from the youngest apprentice to the 
general in command, come to this lonely island from all 
parts of Germany to witness the building of the A-4 
rocket? You might even meet von Braun at the 
dentist?s.
39
In this secret society, recreational activities, friendly, informal gatherings, and 
formalized social evenings such as the Kameradschaftsabends helped reaffirm the 
unity of this unique group.  These were central steps of the process in which the 
institution of Peenem?nde remolded the old, heterogeneous identities of its individual 
members into the closed, elite, and privileged community of Peenem?nders.  The 
reciprocal bonds that they established in these rituals gave a strong boost to the their 
activities in the workplace and spawned a highly developed sense of solidarity and 
loyalty among those specialists who came to live and work at Peenem?nde.     
?We Here are Super-Engineers!?:  Work, Community, and Identity at 
Peenem?nde
Besides the relatively comfortable life on Usedom, another source of 
centripetal force that effected technological development and political loyalty was the 
work itself.  Employment at one of the world?s most advanced research, development, 
39
 Quoted in Middlebrook, The Peenem?nde Raid, 27-28.
164
and production facilities on one of the world?s most advanced forms of weaponry 
proved highly rewarding.  It provided many engineers, scientists, technicians and 
craftsmen with some of the most challenging, exciting, cutting edge work that they 
had ever known.  In carrying out their tasks at Peenem?nde, the employees? sense of 
significance, professional achievement, career development, and peer prestige all 
grew enormously.  Moreover, though they never employed the term themselves, the 
Peenem?nders came to define precisely what it meant to be a rocket specialist.  The 
fledgling profession of rocket engineering underwent a profound maturation in the 
years between 1937 and 1945, and the professional model established at Peenem?nde 
would be duplicated after the war in rocket research stations in the United States and 
Soviet Union.  Nevertheless, it was in Hitler?s Germany that many Peenem?nders 
found the most rewarding period of their lives.
Between 1937 and 1943, the development of missile technology in Germany 
made its most remarkable and important advances.  This was particularly true in three 
areas.  Perhaps the most difficult of these was in guidance and control, which had to 
date received the least developmental scrutiny.  Under the leadership of Dr. Ernst 
Steinhoff, a combination of in-house researchers and university professors under 
contract to Peenem?nde achieved a number of significant and critical steps forward.  
In the area of liquid fueled propulsion, the gifted but irascible Dr. Walter Thiel 
successfully, but not without difficulty, spearheaded the design of the required 
twenty-five ton thrust engine and pushed the engine?s fuel efficiency to its theoretical 
limits.  Rudolph Herrmann?s aerodynamicists, against a chorus of artillery specialists 
who argued that it could not be done, crafted the world?s first fin-stabilized (or 
165
?arrow stable?) supersonic body.
40
  Without question, these impressive advancements 
were possible in part because of the major funding and support given to the work at 
Peenem?nde.
41
  Helmuth Trischler and Margit Sz?ll?si-Janze have used the term 
?Grossforschung? (Big Research) to describe the rise and dynamics of large-scale, 
heavily funded research projects that enlist the cooperation of university, industrial, 
and state resources in Germany in the twentieth century.  They are careful to note, 
however, that ?Big research is not simply ?big? in the quantitative sense.?  Rather, the 
organization and use of resources in ?Big Research? projects is also fundamentally 
important to the work at hand.
42
  This was certainly the case at Peenem?nde, where 
the complicated technical problems of guidance, thrust, and supersonic aerodynamics 
could not have been solved without the proper dedication and delegation of authority 
and resources.   
However, the availability of money and material only tells part of the story of 
the V-2?s rapid and successful development.  Of equal importance to the physical 
resources dedicated by the regime was the environment in which the intellectual 
resources, that is, the missile developers themselves, functioned, as well as the ways 
in which Army authorities motivated their work.  These talented specialists at the 
facility worked incredibly hard on behalf of a regime that obliterated enlightened 
notions of human rights, waged an aggressive war against Europe, and placed 
40
 Donald Mackenzie, Inventing Accuracy: A Historical Sociology of Nuclear Missile Guidance
(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990), 44-60.  Gerhard Reisig, ?Von den Peenem?nde ?Aggregaten? zur 
Amerikanische ?Mondrakete,?? Astronautik, 4 (1987), 5-9, 44-47, 73-79.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the 
Reich, 73-109.
41
 On some elements of Peenem?nde?s expansion, see the previous chapter.  For a more detailed 
discussion, see Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 41-143, and Neufeld, ?Hitler, the V-2 and the 
Battle for Priority, 1939-1943,? The Journal of Military History 57 (July 1993), 511-538.
42
  Margit Sz?ll?si-Janze and Helmuth Trischler, eds., Grossforschung in Deutschland (Frankfurt am 
Main: Suhrkamp, 1990), 13.
166
increasingly harsh demands upon its own population.  What convinced them that this 
was the right thing to do?  
Many postwar memoirs and histories of Peenem?nde attempt to argue that the
specialists on the base retreated into a sort of ?inner migration? and became narrowly 
focused on their work.
43
  According to this line of reasoning, no other considerations 
played a part in their daily lives.  To the extent that they conceptualized their work at 
all, they thought of it in terms of its ability to send humans to space.  This argument 
has become a central part of the myth of Peenem?nde that was built up by the former 
Peenem?nders and their supporters in the years after the war.  
The essential fault with this interpretation is that it ignores much of the larger 
intellectual milieu in which the Peenem?nders traveled.  Closer to reality is that the 
military purposes of their work were clear and were embraced by nearly everyone.  
The terms in which their work was cast by regime authorities meant that employees at 
Peenem?nde were confronted almost daily with the military, nationalist, and 
ideological implications of their work.  In what ways did this confrontation occur?  
Did it have an important effect on the patterns of life and work at the base?  Did it 
shape how the Peenem?nders viewed themselves or their work?  Rather than argue, as 
many defenders of the Peenem?nde community have in the past, that their 
technological work was inherently apolitical, it is more useful to examine how their 
technological work was reconciled with the politico-military aims of the regime.    
43
 See, for example Wernher von Braun, ?Behind the Scenes of German Rocket Development,? 
Wernher von Braun Papers, Space and Rocket Center, Huntsville (SRCH). ?Inner migration? is a term 
first coined by Alan D. Beyerchen in his important, but now dated book, Scientists Under Hitler: 
Politics and the Physics Community in the Third Reich (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1977).
167
In the first place, more innocent considerations, such as space travel, were 
secondary or even unimportant for many Peenem?nders.  Indeed, wind tunnel 
specialist Peter Wegener wrote that ?During my time at the Baltic, I never heard a 
single remark about spaceflight ... No one ever mentioned in my presence that the A-
4 would be a stepping stone toward a moon flight.  In my several meetings with von 
Braun, he never suggested this possibility, even in small social gatherings.?
44
Wegener?s remark is, admittedly, not common.  Certainly, it is reasonable to expect 
that some people at Peenem?nde did speak quietly of spaceflight.  However, 
Wegener?s admission offers an important corrective to the master post-war narrative, 
which would have observers believe that whispered conversations about moon 
rockets and plans for sustaining people in space occurred on a daily basis.  Rather, the 
rule of the day was in fact much less humanitarian:  to create an operational ballistic 
missile in the shortest time possible in order to defend the regime and the nation that 
made their work possible.  All other considerations disintegrated in the face of this 
one task.  According to their military leaders, the Peenem?nders? work would allow 
them to play a central role in Germany?s very struggle for survival.  The military 
authorities at Peenem?nde made this clear in no uncertain terms.  For them, Germany 
was a victim in this conflict, fighting a misunderstood war against the Bolshevik 
menace to the East that would have subjugated and enslaved Europe if Germany had 
not acted.  The Peenem?nde engineers were in the vanguard of the defense of their 
nation.  Indeed, their work was of paramount importance for the security not only of 
Germany, but for all of Europe.
44
 Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels, 41-42.
168
This essential belief is borne out most clearly in an address that Dornberger 
gave in the middle of June 1943 to nearly 6500 German employees and soldiers 
assigned to technical work at the missile base shortly before they were to begin full-
time operations.  His speech took place in the massive main assembly hall of the 
production plant, and only Germans were permitted to attend.  All foreign workers 
were expressly excluded from the gathering.
45
  The address contained a heady, self-
serving mixture of militaristic nationalism, technological triumphalism, Nazi 
ideology, and paternal advice that reveals not only how deeply Dornberger espoused 
many of the more aggressive features of National Socialism, but also the light in 
which working at Peenem?nde was cast by authorities who sponsored the project.  It 
is worth examining at length both because of its ideological tone as well as the fact 
that it illuminates the context in which the Army sought to place the work at 
Peenem?nde.  It also makes clear that success at Peenem?nde was founded on a 
mixture of factors that, a robust dose of ideology aside, were not necessarily unique to 
the German experience at the facility. 
The General began his long address by offering his assessment of why 
Germany was involved in the war.  In a manner typical of Nazi propagandists across 
the country, he explained away German belligerence by painting the country as the 
victim of Soviet plans to cast all of Europe under the Communist yoke.  The Soviet 
Union, he held, arose on the strength of an industrial sector that exploited and 
degraded its workers as mere ?beasts of burden? [Arbeitstieren].  The workers of 
Europe, he implied, were next.  Painting his nation as the bulwark against Communist 
aggression in Europe, he argued that ?It is henceforth the task of the German 
45
 Stichworte f?r den Betriebsappell, FE 833, NASM.
169
armaments industry, which is organized for Total War, as well as the coordinated 
Europeans [sic ? gleichgeschalteten Europaischen], to struggle against this foe.?  
Germany, according to Dornberger?s logic, was only fighting for security in Europe, 
?So that our children will have better living conditions than we did, and so that no 
European state is ever in the position, out of envy or mistrust, of plotting a war of all 
against all.?  Assuaging his audience?s potential fear of the Red Army, which only 
three months earlier had crushed the Sixth Army at Stalingrad, a blow from which the 
Ostheer would never recover, he boasted, ?Militarily, we are absolutely superior to all 
of the soldiers of the world, especially the Russians.  Just ask our soldiers on the 
Eastern Front, and they will confirm it.?
46
  There can be no doubt that many high-
ranking officers in the Army had a long and established fear of the Soviet threat.  
Even so, Dornberger?s remarks reveal the depth to which the chief administrator of 
Germany?s missile program bought into this fear of communist aggression and 
internalized the National Socialist message.  Like so many others, he never once 
considered that the tide of war had irrevocably turned against his country.  
Dornberger sought to instill the idea that the V-2 would see to it that Germany?s 
fortunes never waned.
Germany as a nation of victims was an old canard in the Nazi propaganda 
machine.  Army leadership had also long since bought into the notion, exploited 
heavily by the Nazis, that Germany was the victim of ruthless foreign enemies who 
unceasingly sought the prostration of their nation.  As a career soldier and influential 
officer in the armed forces, Dornberger had worked tirelessly to overcome the 
limitations of the Treaty of Versailles and then restore Germany to what he perceived 
46
 Dornberger, Betriebsappell am 18.6.43, p. 1, FE 833, NASM.
170
to be its rightful place as the most powerful nation in Europe.  Moreover, as an 
engineer, Dornberger wholeheartedly believed that his profession must play an 
important role in this effort.
Turning to the tasks before the German engineering community, especially 
those at Peenem?nde, Dornberger emphasized their importance in the current 
struggle.  ?They [Germany?s enemies] want to come,? he challenged.  ?Well let them 
come.  We will give them a proper reception.  So that we can do so, so that we can 
pay them back for all of the damage they have done to Germany and the European 
nations, it is essential that the German armaments industry works continuously in 
order to put the best weapons in the hands of the best soldiers in the world.?  German 
engineers and workers ?Must through action prove every day that they, as outstanding 
representatives of the German nation [Volk], acknowledge our nation?s claim to 
leadership in Europe.?
47
  Much like the Nazi propaganda regarding technology that 
became so prevalent in the 1920s and ?30s, Dornberger celebrated the engineers? 
unique contribution to strengthening German society.
48
  The value of the engineer lay 
in his ability to provide the nation with the technological muscle it needed to fend off 
its enemies and bring about final victory over them.  He exalted the engineers as the 
vanguard of this endeavor.  Constructing the missile was to be the centerpiece of such 
an effort.
For Dornberger, the work of those at Peenem?nde ?plays a decisive role? in 
the struggle.  Returning to his theme of Germany as the victim of foreign aggression 
in order to emphasize the Peenem?nders? importance in the nation?s efforts, he 
47
 Ibid., p. 2.
48
 See esp. Herf, Reactionary Modernism, and Karl-Heinz Ludwig, Technik und Ingenieure im Dritten 
Reich (D?sseldorf: Droste Verlag, 1974.) 
171
emphasized the destruction that the Allied bombing campaign spread across 
Germany.  ?We wish to pay the English back for the terrible sorrow that they have 
caused to our country, especially our women and children, through their terror 
attacks,? he declared.  The missile was particularly valuable because it would allow 
Germany to do this without risking ?precious German blood? in the crew of an 
airplane.
49
  In this war ?for the very existence of the German nation [deutschen 
Volkes],? all other concerns were secondary.  Dornberger implored the Peenem?nders 
to set aside all of their personal desires and concerns so that their work in the name of 
the nation could be quickly completed.  ?We must do our utmost in the unshakeable 
belief that we can bring our new technology into operation as soon as possible,? he 
exhorted.
50
Dornberger?s call for sacrifice then turned to the conditions themselves at 
Peenem?nde.  He pointed out that the Army provided the Peenem?nders with ?the 
archetype of a National Socialist factory,? complete with ?the most modern technical 
and social considerations.?  Dornberger informed them that Peenem?nde?s leadership 
had done everything it could to set up a facility in which so many people could come 
together and work efficiently and enthusiastically on the missile.  He would, he 
announced, do everything in his power to ensure that conditions remained that way.  
However, he also warned that ?I will ruthlessly come down on those who believe, to 
the detriment of the employees, that their own interests come ahead of the project.?
51
Since the Army had provided for all of the cares that the Peenem?nders could 
possible have, Dornberger felt that there was no excuse for them to concentrate on 
49
 Dornberger, Betriebsappell am 18.6.43,  p. 2, FE 833, NASM.
50
 Ibdi., p. 3.
51
 Ibid., p. 4.
172
anything other than the tasks provided for them.  As the ?archetypal Nazi factory? 
(complete, he neglected to mention, with foreign slave labor), the production plant 
made high output possible by ensuring that workers there were well-compensated 
financially, socially, and culturally.
Dornberger then took the opportunity to remind the Peenem?nders of the 
demands that would be made on them because of the unique situation in which they 
worked.  The most important of these was the demand for secrecy.  Dornberger 
warned the employees that ?You must remember that every thoughtless word you 
speak about our work here, about our results, about our goals, can come to the ears of 
the enemy.?  He directed the Peenem?nders to actively police themselves for secrecy 
violations, stating that ?You yourselves are the best custodians of secrecy ? Strike 
the gossipers on their big mouths [sic. ? ?Schlagt den Schw?tzern aufs Maul?].  Get 
them on the hook and report them for punishment.?
52
  Loose lips, the general 
cautioned, could cost not only their own lives, but also the lives of their families and 
coworkers.  A spy could be anyone that they did not know, according to Dornberger, 
especially if he or she asked too many questions.  The general then gave the 
assembled group an ominous warning about the risks they ran if they defied secrecy 
regulations: ?Apart from the danger of the enemy, you also run the risk of being 
arrested and spending the rest of your days dressed in black and white as a prisoner.  
Be assured that in such a case, I will have no mercy.?
53
  This threat to imprison in a 
concentration camp, with no chance of release, those who broke secrecy regulations, 
is totally ignored in all of the post-war memoirs and hagiographies of the ?rocket 
52
 Ibid., p. 4.
53
 Ibid., p. 5.
173
team.? It is perhaps the only direct surviving statement of the coercion that the 
program?s senior military leadership engaged in to protect their project.  Dornberger 
clearly had no objection to the use of force within the increasingly oppressive police 
state.  Though Himmler?s SS would steadily assert control over the missile program 
later in 1943 through the end of the war, Dornberger made this threat independently 
of any ideologically motivated police organization or directive from the regime.  His 
remark betrays a certain ruthlessness that he increasingly became willing to employ in 
order to see the project through to its conclusion.  It also foreshadowed his 
willingness to cooperate with the SS to use even more brutal tactics to get the rocket 
into mass deployment.
54
  Finally, it exposed the Peenem?nders even further to the 
violence, brutality, and capriciousness of the regime.  As the Damoclean Sword of 
imprisonment in a concentration camp increasingly hung over their own heads, they 
would go on to become even less concerned with humanitarian considerations in the 
completion of their tasks.  When concentration camp manpower became the primary 
means of production, threats such as Dornberger?s only made more extreme and 
violent methods of punishment an increasingly conceivable option for all employees, 
and the victims of this punishment were inevitably the prisoners themselves. 
The General, now in full form, then turned to what it would take to bring their 
project to a successful conclusion.  Reminding them again that the nation was in the 
midst of total war, he explained that such times required every individual?s last effort.  
To overcome the inevitable frustration, exhaustion, and human difficulties that would 
come with this work, he turned to what was fast becoming the Nazi regime?s primary 
solution to the increasingly intractable problems facing the nation in the war.  ?The 
54
 I examine the details of this cooperation more fully in chapter 4. 
174
will,? Dornberger lectured, ?is always the best medicine.  Total war demands total 
action from everyone.?
55
  Every last minute of work time must be dedicated to the 
work at hand.  Employees at the facility ?must be the bearers of the unshakeable 
belief in our success.  You must fill the newly arriving employees with your spirit and 
inspire them with your acts.?  He implored individuals to not allow their minds drift 
to matters other than their tasks and to focus completely on their work in order to turn 
out the best missiles possible.  ?He who is careless,? Dornberger remarked, ?works 
for the enemy.?
56
  After his warning to the employees about what would happen to 
them if they did indeed work for the enemy, the meaning of this comment was no 
doubt perfectly clear.
Dornberger spent the rest of his long speech going over more limited, 
practical issues.  For example, in addition to telling employees to take care to avoid 
accidents and to keep work areas clean, he also warned employees not to smoke in the 
very old forest surrounding the factory because of the risk of fire destroying the 
installation.  Men were also to keep their hands off of the women who would be 
working there.  Of note, however, he went out of his way to inform them that in the 
factory, rank was irrelevant.  Only factory expertise mattered.  In addition, he noted 
that in this, the fourth year of the war, they had to reckon with the use of foreign 
labor, concentration camp prisoners, and prisoners of war.  ?Lead them in their 
work,? Dornberger advised.  ?Show them what a German can do.  But do not engage 
in any chicanery with them.?
57
  He categorically forbade the Peenem?nders from 
mistreating prisoners.  However, notably absent from this portion of the speech was 
55
 Dornberger, Betriebsapell am 18.6.1943, p. 7, FE 833, NASM.
56
 Ibid., p. 6.
57
 Ibid., 8-10, 13.
175
any threat of action against any individuals who did indeed act poorly with regard to 
the prisoners.  In the event, virtually no one did, though incidents between civilian 
employees and concentration camp prisoners would increase later in the war at the 
underground factory Dora-Mittelbau.
Nearing the end of his speech, Dornberger attempted to spell out the 
importance of the achievements at Peenem?nde.  ?My comrades!? he cheered, ?What 
has been produced in the last few years here at Peenem?nde is a part of history.  If at 
some point, the history of the technology of the war is written, a special place in it 
will be devoted to our influential work here.?
58
  German soldiers, he stated, were 
doing their part.  Those at Peenem?nde, he argued, were obligated to give them their 
best efforts.  ?Our only task is and remains to help to victory the man who for 
centuries of German history has been appointed to make the German nation free.?  He 
finally closed his speech with a crescendo of ?Sieg Heils? to ?Our F?hrer and 
Supreme Commander.?
59
There is no evidence that indicates the reactions of those Peenem?nders who 
heard or heard about Dornberger?s speech.  However, one can plausibly argue that it 
had the desired effect of bolstering their dedication, for whatever reason, to the 
success of the program.  Dornberger?s speech skillfully blended traditional German 
patriotism with Nazi ideological motifs while also highlighting and reinforcing many
of the unique factors that made missile development so successful at Peenem?nde in 
the first place.  By emphasizing the path-breaking nature of their work as well as its 
singular importance to the war effort, all while playing on the popular fear of the 
58
 Ibid., 15. 
59
 Ibid., 16. 
176
Soviet Union and the disdain for the Western Allies for bombing their cities into 
rubble, Dornberger had composed a powerful message that would certainly appeal to 
many Peenem?nders.  Their novel and important work made them a part of the 
hallowed group of people working to ?make Germany free.?  Moreover, Dornberger?s 
carefully worded speech made it clear that the regime had done all it could to make 
their lives as comfortable and as favorable as possible, and now it was up to them to 
make sure that they did their utmost to defend the benefactors of their work.  
Betraying the government?s trust or giving anything less than their full dedication 
would result in swift and harsh official reaction.  
Even so, Dornberger?s plea for the engineers to immerse themselves in their 
tasks proved unnecessary.  Their dedication to this project, his entreaties aside, was 
second to none.  Those whose dedication faded or who never fully committed 
themselves to the work in the first place found themselves either removed from their 
positions rather quickly and transferred to tasks that required less of them or working 
in positions of much stricter supervision.  Dornberger?s speech, in addition to 
illustrating his depth of dedication to many Nazi ideals, highlights nearly all of the 
factors that established this dynamic at Peenem?nde, from strict adherence to secrecy, 
dedication to patriotic goals, and the singular feeling of professional importance 
among the employees, that made the work at Peenem?nde so successful.
Dornberger?s sentiments had fertile ground among his subordinates.  Earlier in 
1943, his Chief of Staff for liquid fueled rocketry, Lieutenant Colonel Georg Thom, 
composed a report, passed to high ranking military authorities as well as to 
Peenem?nde management, entitled ?Das Ger?t A-4 im totalen Krieg? (The A-4 
177
Instrument in Total War).  In it, Thom emphasized that in total war, all means of 
achieving victory should be attempted and that all weapons, no matter what the cost, 
were important tools for achieving this goal.  He argued that ?In modern war, the 
necessary types of weapons can no longer be made dependent on their cost of 
construction and manufacture, on the more or less great number of front line and rear 
echelon troops that use them, or on correctly marshaling these weapons and soldiers ?
they depend alone on the toughness and morale of the opponent and on the singular 
will to strike down the enemy through the employment of all means of war 
[Kriegsmittel] and all of the reserves of the nation [Volkes] ? The most important 
factor is the will [to embrace] the totality of war!? [emphasis in original].  Thom went 
on to argue total war meant precisely what it implied, that every means of winning 
must be tirelessly brought into operation in order to ensure victory.  He blamed 
Germany?s loss in World War I not on any shortage of ?inventor spirit,? but on the 
unwillingness of military leaders to embrace all of the possibilities that this spirit 
could conceive.  Moreover, Thom held that missile operations against England were 
important not only because they saved German lives and valuable raw material (sic!), 
but also because ?In smashing the English nerve, the A-4 is far superior to the 
airplane.?  He concluded by writing that ?In this decisive hour, Germany cannot be 
strong enough!?
60
60
 Georg Thom Report, ?Das Ger?t A-4 im totalen Krieg,? RH8/v.1231, Bundesarchiv/Mitlit?rarchiv 
(BA/MA).  Thom disingenuously argued that the loss of one bomber was equal to the loss of ten 
single-use missiles.  While there can obviously be no price on the lives of the bomber crew members, 
the resources, expense, and man-hours dedicated to missile operations, from development through 
mass- production and deployment, were astronomically higher than bomber operations and of far less 
strategic value.
178
Thom?s report, then, made a number of issues clear.  Those taking part in the 
fighting, including, he implied, armaments engineers on the home front, must not 
spare any energy in their quest for victory.  Total war was ruthless, violent business 
that depended more than anything else on the will of the nations fighting it.  Though 
all weapons were important for this effort, it was in this area, that of the national will 
to fight a total war, that the missile was particularly important.  Specialists at 
Peenem?nde must be willing to develop a weapon that in its surprise and indefensible 
application would destroy England?s desire to fight on by raining unstoppable 
destruction on its cities (Thom?s report included a hand-drawn illustration of a 
burning city quarter).  Thom placed the Peenem?nders? activities squarely in the 
middle of the total war effort.  Their will to go to these lengths, he implied, would 
result in the utter defeat of their enemies.  
Thom?s report also clarified the context in which the Peenem?nders were 
working.  Clearly, they were building what was envisioned by their Army masters as 
an important, if not decisive weapon that, in its operation against civilian targets, 
pointed the way toward victory in total war.  His report, Dornberger?s speech in the 
assembly hall, and other evocations of this sort helped cement what anthropologist 
Hugh Gusterson has in, his work on the Lawrence Livermore Nuclear Laboratory, 
called the ?central axiom? of life at the facility.
61
  At Peenem?nde, this central axiom 
was that the specialists were there to produce a weapon to defend their nation, even 
Western civilization, against enemies who were bent on destroying it.  This was at the 
heart of their reason for being on the base.  All other concerns were unimportant.  
61
 Hugh Gusterson, Nuclear Rites: A Weapons Laboratory at the End of the Cold War (Berkeley, CA: 
University of California Press, 1996), 56. 
179
Dornberger?s and Thom?s sentiments may, on the surface, appear to be nothing more 
than mere nationalist and even ideological propaganda parroted from Goebbels for 
the benefit of the program?s masters in the government.  Even if there is some truth to 
this, their statements still established a particular milieu in which the Peenem?nders 
operated.  Clifford Geertz has perceptively pointed out that with enough use, 
powerful ideological messages can easily be adopted into widespread utilization and 
become interpreted as a given, or, in other words, as common sense.  He writes, 
?Common sense is not what the mind cleared of cant spontaneously apprehends; it is 
what the mind filled with presuppositions concludes.?
62
  Part of the experience of 
being a Peenem?nder was coming to understand the significance that this central 
axiom played in establishing a framework for all other activities by fostering the 
presupposition that working on the missile to defend the nation and regime was the 
sine qua non of their professional lives.  Indeed, events such as Dornberger?s speech 
helped to transform ideological drivel into simple truths for the Peenem?nders.
There is, of course, some question as to whether the Peenem?nders truly 
believed in this axiom and its ideologically loaded message.  Admittedly, there are no 
extant German documents that directly indicate their belief in this notion.  However, 
former Peenem?nders Peter Wegener and Dieter Huzel acknowledged that it was an 
important, if unspoken assumption that their work was absolutely central to the 
survival of the nation.  Wegener wrote that ?Whatever personal opinions might have 
been held by individuals, the support of the war effort was uncritical: the technical 
work had to be done in the shortest possible time.?
63
  Huzel, whose memoir tends to 
62
 Clifford Geertz, Local Knowledge (New York: Basic Books, 1983), 84.
63
 Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels, 41.
180
whitewash the activities at Peenem?nde much more than Wegener?s, explained with 
candor that the most important factor motivating their work ?was the realization that 
the job was critical to the war effort, and that a long working day was merely a 
nuisance compared to the hardships endured by others.?
64
  Wind Tunnel Chief and 
local party leader Rudolf Hermann stated ?Sure, already in Germany during the war, 
we were only concerned about getting a weapon ready for the war, nothing else.?
65
  In 
1972, in an effort to justify his actions and to distance himself from what he called the 
?misuse? of his work, von Braun offered, 
I deeply and sincerely regret the victims of the rockets 
[sic]; but there were victims on both sides.  I repeatedly 
raised protests against the misuse of the rockets as tools 
of destruction.  But war is war, and since my country 
found itself at war [und da mein Land sich im Krieg 
befand], I had the conviction that I did not have the 
right to bring moral criteria into the matter.  My 
obligation was to help win the war, whether I had 
sympathy for the government or not.  I had none.
66
Perhaps Von Braun truly did not, as he claimed, have any sympathy for National 
Socialism.  Even so, he made absolutely no protests about the use to which he was 
being put.  Worse, his argument about the victimization Germany reflected the 
rhetoric in which Nazis and their sympathizers (such as Dornberger) cast the reasons 
for war, and would be echoed nearly fifteen years afterwards by right wing historian 
Andreas Hillgruber in his book Zweierlei Untergang (Two Kinds of Ruin), a work that 
earned Hillgruber the opprobrium of most of the historical community.
67
  It reveals 
64
 Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 84.
65
 ?The Memoirs of Rudolph Hermann,? 18, UAH.
66
 Bob Ward, ed, Wernher von Braun Anekdotisch (Esslingen: Bechtle Verlag, 1972), 31.
67
 See Andreas Hilgruber, Zweierlei Untergang: die. Zerschlagung des. Deutcshen. Reiches und das. 
Ende des europaischen Judentums (Berlin: Siedler, 1986).  Hillgruber relativized the Holocaust by 
comparing the massacre of European Jews favorably with Stalin?s use of resettlement camps as well as 
Germany?s own ruin (Untergang) and victimization at the hands of Allied forces.  This work 
181
how deeply the rhetoric of victimization penetrated the consciousness the 
Peenem?nders, even almost thirty years after the fact.  According to von Braun, 
Germany had passively ?found itself? at war, rather than having actively and 
unilaterally embarked on war.  Germans were in every way equal victims of the war 
as their enemies.
68
  His understandable, but reflexive, patriotism and nationalism only 
fed the Nazi rhetoric, and he became fully imbued with Peenem?nde?s central 
mission of unquestioned service to the state.  
Clearly therefore, the Peenem?nders did not simply dismiss rhetoric such as 
Dornberger?s and Thom?s.  Certainly, some questioned the assertions that the V-2 
was as decisive a weapon as regime authorities argued, but even these thoughts were 
largely kept private.
69
  Documents such as Thom?s held out the promise of the 
continuation of their unique social and professional existence while drawing on 
National Socialist ideological tenets justify their work.  Even if some Peenem?nders 
thought dependence on the missile was tactically and technically misguided, they
nevertheless reflexively held that the work was central to their nation?s survival.  
Many at Peenem?nde embraced this message, and it became axiomatic that missile 
development and production in the midst of total war played an essential part in 
helping Germany defeat its enemies, and therefore must completed as quickly as 
possible.   
contributed to the uproar already created by Ernst N?lte in his controversial article in the Frankfurter 
Allgemeine Zeitung, ?Vergangenheit die nicht vergehen will,? June 6, 1986.  The works touched off a 
furious debate in Germany over the nature of German historical understanding and German self-
conceptions.  For the best discussion of this Historikerstreit, see Charles Maier, The Unmasterable 
Past (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1988).
68
 Von Braun made no mention of the Jews, but he presumably was including them as well.
69
 Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels, 43. 
182
There is also postwar evidence to suggest that the Peenem?nders agreed with 
Dornberger?s general rhetoric about the supposedly heroic position occupied by Nazi 
Germany in the world order.  In June 1945, shortly after the German surrender, many 
of the leading Peenem?nders, including von Braun, Dornberger, Riedel III, and many 
others, were in the custody of the U.S. Army.  They were held at Garmisch-
Partenkirchen, near the Austrian border, awaiting transfer to technical positions in the 
United States, a project termed Operation Overcast, which later became Project 
Paperclip.  Second Lieutenant Walter Jessel of the Army?s Military Intelligence 
Service (MIS) conducted a security check of the personnel and wrote a report that in 
part assessed the Peenem?nders? political and security liabilities.  Jessel?s report 
indicates that the specialists actually did internalize the political messages that they 
received during the war.  He wrote that among the Peenem?nders in Garmisch-
Partenkirchen, ?There is almost nowhere any realization that there was something 
basically wrong with Germany?s war or the employment of V-weapons.?  The 
Peenem?nders refused to acknowledge German responsibility for starting the war, 
preferring instead to view their nation as a victim of foreign aggression.  Nor did they 
have any compunction about using their work for destructive purposes.
70
  This 
observation by Jessel was completely and conveniently forgotten by the 
Peenem?nders after they came to the United States to begin their work.  No memoirs, 
interviews, or histories written after the war by their enthusiastic and blinkered 
supporters raise the issue of war guilt, while nearly all of them point to some degree 
of regret that their rocket was employed as a missile.  Closer to the truth is that even 
70
 Osborne to Army Chief of Staff, G-2, USFET, Appendix A, Walter Jessel, Special Screening Report, 
10/29/45, RG 260, OMGUS/FIAT, Box 8, folder 47.94, NARA.  My thanks to Mike Neufeld for 
bringing this document to my attention.
183
the less ideologically pre-disposed Peenem?nders were thoroughly imbued with the 
Nazi rhetoric of victimization and were unapologetic about the goals toward which 
they worked during the war.  
Moreover, Jessel pointed out that nearly all of the missile specialists were 
convinced that war between the U.S. and Soviet Union was ?around the corner.?  
Jessel wrote that ?They shake their heads in amusement and some contempt at our 
political ignorance and are impatient at our slowness in recognizing the true saviors 
of Western Civilization from Asia?s hordes.?
71
  Undoubtedly, many Peenem?nde 
specialists bought in to the aggressive anti-communist rhetoric spewed by Dornberger 
and prominent party ideologues during the war.  Of course, anti-communism is not a 
crime, but to characterize the unequaled slaughter conducted by the Nazi regime as a 
service to western civilization is, to the outsider, a blatant and base misconstruction of 
the facts and an affront to the memories of the victims of Nazi aggression.  On the 
other hand, to Peenem?nders, this was simply the articulation of the central axiom of 
their former institution, which was an outgrowth of vicious National Socialist rhetoric 
about communists, Slavs, and Jews.  Dornberger?s anti-communist message and 
Thom?s call to embrace total war inculcated and reinforced Peenem?nde?s central 
axiom, borne of Nazi rhetoric, that missile development and production was essential 
to the survival of the German nation.  This powerful ideological message became an 
undisputed, unquestioned fact at Peenem?nde.  
Life in National Socialist Germany was permeated with ideological messages 
designed to imbue its citizens with the strength, determination, and benefits of Nazi 
71
 Ibid.  Of the Allies? refusal to acknowledge the ?service? Germany supposedly performed for the 
western world, Jessel also wrote pointedly that this ?Does not prevent them from playing with the idea 
of selling out to Asia?s hordes if such recognition is not soon extended.? 
184
governance and the malevolence, corruption, and immorality of Jews, Slavs, 
Communists, and others.  The Goebbels propaganda machine, in its tireless effort to 
manufacture and maintain consensus among the German population, ensured that 
these ideas were inescapable.
72
  Their efforts were largely successful.  Avraham 
Barkai writes that ?Seven or eight years of fanatical ideological indoctrination and 
concrete visual instruction in racial matters could befog the consciences of millions of 
Germans and corrode their moral inhibitions.?
73
  Jessel?s report indicates that 
important segments of Peenem?nde?s professional community were not immune to 
the ubiquitous barrage that the Propaganda Ministry and others on the base itself 
regularly poured forth.  The National Socialist and ideological components of life at 
Peenem?nde, therefore, cannot be ignored.  
In the first place, the percentage of people at Peenem?nde who were members 
of the Nazi Party was remarkably high, compared to Germany overall.  Many of the 
heads of administrative divisions and sections at Peenem?nde, including Braun, were 
party members.
74
  A substantial number of them showed some likely form of 
ideological commitment to party principles before or during 1933.  Arthur Rudolph 
72
 On the scope and effectiveness of propaganda during the Nazi period, see David Welch, ed., Nazi 
Propaganda: The Power and Limitations (Totowa, New Jersey: Barnes and Noble Books, 1983), Ian 
Kershaw, The Hitler Myth: Image and Reality in the Third Reich, 2
nd
 Edition,  (New York: Oxford 
University Press, 2001). Martin Broszat also long ago offered a convincing explanation that ?social 
motivations? bonded the German population to Hitler and the Nazis.  See Martin Broszat, ?Soziale 
Motivation und F?hrer-Bindung des Nationalsozialismus,? Vierteljahreshefte f?r Zeitgeschichte 18 
(1970), 392-409.
73
 Avaraham Barkai, ?The German Volksgemeinschaft from the Persecution of the Jews to the ?Final 
Solution?,? Michael Burleigh, ed., Confronting the Nazi Past: New Debates in Modern German 
History (New York: St. Martin?s Press, 1996), 96.
74
 Though Army and regime officials reorganized Peenem?nde?s administrative structure several times, 
it generally retained the same core group of administrators involved in both development and 
production.  For the various permutations of the facility?s administrative structure, see Neufeld, The 
Rocket and the Reich, 285- 288.  See also administrative charts in files AV7/85, Bd. 33, BStU and RHE 
28/83 USA, Bundesbeauftragte f?r die Unterlagen des Staatssicherheitsdienstes der ehemaligen 
Deutschen Demokratischen Republik (BStU). 
185
joined the Nazis in June 1931, well before their seizure of power.  Rudolf Herrmann, 
the brilliant head of the Aerodynamics Institute who worked previously at the 
Technical University at Aachen, joined the SA in 1933, as did Kurt Debus, the future 
head of operations at Test Stand VII (used for launch tests), becoming a member of 
the SS in 1940.
75
  Herrmann was also the branch leader of the local party office on 
Usedom from 1941 until his departure in 1943.  Hans Lindenberg, one of Thiel?s 
deputies in the propulsion section, entered the party in 1934.
76
  Six, Braun among 
them, entered the Party in 1937 or later, but at least one of these, longtime rocket 
enthusiast Walter ?Papa? Riedel, first voted for the Nazis in 1933.
77
Though a lack of documentation and the shifting numbers of employees at the 
base make it difficult to arrive at firm statistical conclusions with any surety, 
generally speaking, party membership among leading Peenem?nders was higher than 
the average in Nazi Germany.  One helpful source for making this determination 
originated after the cessation of hostilities.  In late 1945, 84 technical specialists from 
Peenem?nde filled out background forms after being shipped to the United States by 
Army authorities.  These forms provide a wealth of data on the specialists? education, 
family background, and political affiliation.  Though party membership is not always 
a good indicator of ideological commitment, it at least provides a rough guide to the 
75
 Arthur Rudolph Dossier, RG 319, Records of the Army Staff, Counter Intelligence Corps (CIC), 
Records of the Investigatory Records Repository (IRR) [hereafter cited as IRR], box 636, NARA.  
Rudolf Herrman Dossier, RG 319, IRR, Box 279, National Archives and Records Administration 
(NARA).  Kurt Debus SS Officer Dossier, Roll A3343-RS-A5426, RG 242, NARA.  Debus lied to 
Allied investigators after the war about his SS past, claiming that he was merely an SS candidate.  See 
his Basic Personnel Record, RG 165, Records of the Army Chief of Staff, G-2, Intelligence Division, 
Captured POW and Material Branch, Enemy POW Interrogation File, 1943-1945, Box 703, Folder 
?Boston,? NARA.  From July 1962 to November 1974, he was the first director of the Kennedy Space 
Center, overseeing the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo programs.
76
Hans Lindenberg Basic Personnel Record, RG 165, Box 703, Folder ?Boston,? NARA.
77
 Erich Ball, Gerhard Reisig, Ernst Steinhoff, Bernhard Tessmann Basic Personnel Records, RG 165, 
Box 703, Folder ?Boston,? NARA.  Walter Riedel Dossier, RG 319, IRR, Box 371, NARA.
186
extent to which Peenem?nde scientists, engineers, and technicians were willing 
become fellow travelers with the party.  The numbers bear out their general affinity 
for National Socialism.  Forty-three of these men, or 48%, indicated that they were 
formerly members of the Nazi Party.  Of this number, eleven joined before or during 
1933.  Twenty-one entered the party between 1937 and 1939, and eleven joined after 
the outbreak of war, including three who joined in 1942 or later.  Of the forty-one 
who were not party members, nine (22%) admitted their membership in organizations 
that had strong elements of Nazi ideology, such as the National Socialist Students? 
League, SA, or SS.
78
One instructive example is that of Anton Beier, an engineer employed at 
Peenem?nde between 1938 and 1945.  Born in 1906 in Upper Silesia, Beier earned an 
engineering degree at the Mittweids Technical College in Saxony and in 1930, landed 
a job with the municipal utilities in the town of Ziegenhalls, in Upper Silesia.  
However, in 1932, Beier lost his modest job to the Great Depression and spent 
approximately a year on the unemployment lists.  However, 1933 proved to be a 
pivotal year for him.  In March, Beier embraced the Nazi movement, which was 
flushed with victory after Hitler?s recent appointment to the Chancellor?s post.  In 
addition to joining the party, according to his background questionnaire, Beier also 
enrolled in the SS, where he would eventually rise to the rank of Scharf?hrer (Staff 
Sergeant).  His employment fortunes changed as well.  He found a job with the 
customs office in Neustadt in Upper Silesia that paid him a modest 4800 Reichsmarks 
78
 See the collection of background dossiers in RG 165, Records of the Army Chief of Staff, G-2, 
Intelligence Division, Captured POW and Material Branch, Enemy POW Interrogation File, 1943-
1945, Box 703, Folder ?Boston,? NARA.  This file does not include information on Wernher von 
Braun, who was both a Nazi party member (1937) and member of the SS (1940).  Thanks to Mike 
Neufeld for pointing out this collection to me.
187
per year.  After four years in this office, he moved on to work for the Weigel Werke 
corporation, which specialized in the planning and installation of breweries.  After a 
year with the Weigel Werke, he applied for and received a job at Peenem?nde, 
working as an engineer in charge of installing test stands.  According the Weigel, his 
work at the facility paid him a very respectable 9600 Reichsmarks per year.
79
Beier?s case is typical for many technical professionals throughout Germany 
in the early 1930s.  He was the victim of the crushing economic conditions in the 
country during this period, losing his relatively low-paying position and spending a 
substantial amount of time among the ranks of the unemployed.  At the same time, he 
was receptive to the strident appeals of the Nazi party and joined its ideological 
vanguard, which among other things, promised to raise the nation out to of the swamp 
of the depression while glorifying the important work of the German technical 
professionals.  In the ten years between 1933 and 1943, his salary more than doubled, 
he found a prestigious job of major consequence, and he assumed a position of 
importance in his nation?s most elite cadre of Nazis.  Beier had handsomely benefited 
not only from Hitler?s rapid rise to power, but also from the F?hrer?s aggressive 
rearmament efforts in which the missile program would assume a central place.   
Clearly then, a disproportionate number of party members held important 
positions in the management strata of the facility.  This was due to a number of 
different factors.  Many of these, however, had to do with the larger demographic 
factors at work in Germany in the early twentieth century.  Upper-level civilian 
managers at Peenem?nde had many characteristics in common.  Most, like Beier, 
79
 Anton Beier Basic Personnel Record, RG 165, Box 703, Folder ?Boston,? NARA.
188
emerged from the same age cohort, born between 1900 and 1914.
80
  The young men 
born in these years experienced profound crises of war, revolution, and economic 
collapse.  Their educations in the turbulent academic climate of the 1920s and 1930s 
tended to encourage their support for National Socialism.  German universities, 
especially in the postwar years, bred a virulent political radicalism that excoriated 
democracy and saw the solution for Germany?s problems in extreme right-wing 
politics.  Many in this ?generation of the unbound? quickly became disillusioned with 
both traditional and republican institutions of authority and found in National 
Socialism a vibrant third way.
81
Additionally, the majority of these men, von Braun an obvious exception, 
came from middle class or lower middle class backgrounds.  In the economically lean 
years between 1918 and 1933, many of them undoubtedly felt themselves at the 
mercy of forces beyond their control.  The emphasis placed by Nazi ideologues on the 
value of technology and the technological professions, hitherto disdained by the ?old 
order? of conservative elites and ?exploited? by the new order of capitalists and 
industrialists, encouraged young technical specialists to offer their support to a party 
that welcomed their particular talents and promised them a place of high esteem.
82
80
 Personnel dossiers indicate that 68 of the first 102 specialists from Peenem?nde and Mittelwerk were 
born between 1900 and 1913.  A further 25 were born in the years of World War I.  
81
 Michael Wildt coins this term in his recent and excellent book Generation des Unbedingten: Das 
F?hrerkorps des Reichssicherheitshauptamtes (Hamburg: Hamburg Edition, 2002).
82
 On universities and National Socialism, see, for example, Fritz Ringer, The Decline of the German 
Mandarins: The German Academic Community (Hanover: Wesleyan University Press, 1969, 
reprinted1983); Jonathan Harwood, ?The Rise of the Party-Political Professor? Changing Self-
understandings among German Academics, 1890-1933,? Doris Kaufmann, ed., Geschichte der Kaiser-
Wilhelm Gesellschaft im Nationalsozialismus: Bestandsaufnahme und Perspektive der Forshung 
(G?ttingen: Walstein, 2000), 21-45; Steven Remy, The Heidelberg Myth: The Nazification and 
Denazification of a German University (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002).  On 
technology and National Socialism, see Karl-Heinz Ludwig, Technik und Ingenieure im Dritten Reich
(D?sseldorf: Droste Verlag, 1974); Jeffrey Herf, Reactionary Modernism: Technology, Culture, and 
Politics in Weimar and the Third Reich (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984); Kees Gispen, 
189
Moreover, the National Socialist party was on the dramatic rise in the late 1920s and 
early 1930s, precisely the point at which many of these individuals would begin to 
develop an adult political consciousness.  The temptation to attach their wagons to a 
rising political star that made no bones about embracing technological work in the 
first place proved to be too much for many to resist.  Von Braun was asked to join the 
party and did so out of concern for his job, but he certainly was aware of the 
possibility that extra favors might be curried through party membership.  Finally, 
many owed their jobs and prosperity to the Nazi rearmament project.  
These common socio-economic and political factors were the primary forces 
in encouraging their membership in the Nazi party.  Most Peenem?nders came of age 
with the Nazi regime and its sectarian hostility to all other sources of political, social, 
and cultural ideas.  Even those who were not red-hot ideologues had no other way of 
conceiving their role except as to serve the Nazi state.  Even if some individuals, such 
as von Braun late in the war, began to have concerns about the legitimacy of National 
Socialism, their doubts could barely find expression.  They were raised in an 
environment in which individuals were taught to view the world around them 
exclusively in the terms cast by the Nazi regime itself. 
National Socialism drew many supporters this way.  Norbert Frei?s important 
work bears out the fact that Nazi propaganda often found sympathetic ears among the 
majority of Germans, even those who did not join the party.  He shows conclusively 
that explanations for the success of the regime falter completely unless one comes to 
terms with the fact that the party was able to produce ?powerful socially binding 
Poems in Steel: National Socialism and the Politics of Inventing from Weimar to Bonn (New York: 
Berghahn Books, 2002).   
190
forces? and forge a durable national unity.  The vehicle by which this was most 
clearly accomplished was the notion of the Volksgemeinschaft.  Frei argues that in the 
years between 1933 and 1939 most Germans embraced the idea that life had changed 
for the better under the Nazis.  ?A large majority of Germans,? he writes, ?Really 
believed in a ?national resurrection? and in their chances of a personal career, in a 
heroic future, and in a better life for themselves and future generations.?  During the 
war years, Frei shows that the Nazis enjoyed a great deal of success in their efforts to 
build a feeling of social equality among Germany?s (Aryan) citizens.  These 
Germans, despite their lack of enthusiasm for the war, showed a profound willingness 
to sacrifice on behalf of this feeling of national community and the party that forged 
it.  Any remaining doubts melted in the face of early victories.  The virtually 
unimpeded destruction through air attacks later in the war produced a ubiquitous but 
resigned siege mentality that was based on the commonality of suffering which only 
reinforced the idea of a ?national community.?
83
  The Nazis? ideological messages 
had gotten through.  
Under these circumstances, the constant barrage of National Socialist ideology 
could only help but fortify the Peenem?nders? will to fight on or to make ever-more 
sacrifices.  Between 1937 and 1943, engineers at Peenem?nde would had to have 
been stubbornly dull-witted, obtuse, and imperceptive to miss the meanings of these 
83
 Norbert Frei, ?Peoples? Community and War: Hitler?s Popular Support,? in Hans Mommsen, ed., 
The Third Reich Between Image and Reality: New Perspectives on German History (Oxford: Berg, 
2001), 59-75.  One of Frei?s many useful contributions in this essay is to point out that it is a mistake 
for historians to underestimate the pull of ideology, no matter how crackpot it may be, among average 
Germans.  In addition, Avraham Barkai argues convincingly that ?Traditional hostility towards Jews 
was deeply rooted in almost every section of the population.?  This deep-seated anti-Semitism, such a 
critical part of the Volksgemeinschaft, became even more widely accepted by the population at large 
once it had been elevated by the Nazi Party to a state ideology.  See Avaraham Barkai, ?The German 
Volksgemeinschaft,? 85. 
191
messages in their lives, a condition for which there is absolutely no evidence.  The 
Peenem?nders embraced the goals of the institution for which they worked, knowing 
full-well the purpose and aims of the regime.  Though much of this was for reasons 
that were explicitly non-ideological, the steady drumbeat of National Socialist 
rhetoric and imperatives was the kernel upon which Peenem?nde?s central axiom was 
articulated.  Though this identification would be strained in the last eighteen months 
of the war, the relationship between the regime and missile program proved to be 
rather durable and sturdy.
On the other hand, access to a comfortable life and the pull of any ideological 
imperatives still does not fully explain the absolute dedication of Peenem?nde?s 
employees to the institution?s goals.  A third factor in motivating their dedication had 
to do with the daily professional duties and every day work dynamic at Peenem?nde.  
What were the daily conditions of work on the shop floor at Peenem?nde?  What 
factors most impacted the way in which they carried out their work?  A project the 
size of the V-2 program required a careful strategy for utilizing both personnel and 
material so that neither was wasted in the increasingly competitive and pressurized 
armaments industry.  What was that strategy?  The answers to these questions help 
get to the root of the success of the missile endeavor at Peenem?nde. 
Working at Peenem?nde was by no means an easy assignment.  This was due 
mainly to the intense pressure placed by military authorities on the Peenem?nders to 
produce a viable weapon.  As early as September 1939, Dornberger secured an order 
from Walther von Brauchitsch, the Army?s Commander in Chief, which ensured that 
the A-4 project would be guaranteed access to the resources it needed as the new war 
192
progressed.  However, in return, Dornberger agreed that the missile would be ready 
two years earlier, in 1941 instead of 1943.
84
  Among the military hierarchy, this 
immediately raised unrealistic expectations of the weapon?s state of readiness, and 
any delays would cast doubt on the Peenem?nders? ability to create a functional 
weapon by a specific deadline.  At the same time, it forced Dornberger to make even 
greater demands on the Reich?s already strained labor and raw materials so that the 
missile?s large production plant at Peenem?nde would be ready to go into action 
when development was complete.
85
  In any case, Brauchitsch did not give Dornberger 
carte blanche.  He intended to keep a close watch on the program and demanded 
quarterly reports from Dornberger on the progress of development.
86
  Later that year, 
Dornberger raised even greater expectations of the development work at 
Peenem?nde, forecasting, in addition to an operational V-2 by 1941, another missile, 
ready by summer 1941, with a payload of one ton and the extended range of 500 
kilometers, and yet another missile with a four ton payload and a range of 800 
kilometers, which would be complete by the end of 1943.
87
Much of the development pressure, then, came from Dornberger himself.  
These grandiose development plans indicate both a fundamental misunderstanding of 
the complex problems involved in missile development in addition to a grave 
miscalculation, made for political reasons, of the advances in rocket technology that 
could be made in so short a time.  By promising so much, Dornberger put his own 
84
 Entstehungsgeschichte der Fertigungstelle Peenem?nde, 9/6/39, RH8/v.1206, BA/MA.  Von 
Brauchitsch to Dornberger, 9/5/39, FE 342, NASM.  
85
 On the battles over the priority of missile production, see Michael Neufeld ?Hitler, The V-2, and the 
Battle for Priority, 1939-1943,? The Journal of Military History 57/3 (July 1993), 511-538.  Neufeld 
shows that the priority battles over the missile program were fought largely over the production plant 
and that development was only minimally effected.
86
 Von Brauchitsch to Dornberger, 9/5/39, FE 342, NASM.
87
 Dornberger, Vortragsnotiz, 12/14/39, FE 349, NASM. 
193
engineers under extreme pressure to craft an operational ballistic missile in an 
impossibly short time.  He and his subordinates imposed these deadlines in an effort 
to maintain official high level support for Peenem?nde?s activities, which, he 
claimed, were of surpassing military importance.  From the earliest days of the war, 
missile developers at Peenem?nde faced unachievable demands to complete their 
work and were forced to labor under wildly impractical deadlines that, despite their 
best efforts, they could never meet.  
For example, Leo Zanssen, base commander at Peenem?nde, wrote in June 
1940 that developers would have the first experimental rocket on the test stand by 
August 1941, and a test run of twenty missiles would be ready a year later.  Zanssen 
reported that by the end of 1942, the production plant at Peenem?nde would be 
turning out five hundred missiles per year.
88
  As it became more apparent that this 
schedule could not be met, Dornberger ordered his section chiefs to make monthly 
reports to him so that he would have a better picture of the problems caused by delays 
in each section.
89
  In October 1941, he wrote to the Army General Staff with a revised 
schedule indicating that development would be completed by the fall of 1942 and that 
preparations were under way to manufacture as many as 150,000 missiles, if Hitler 
would only give the order.
90
  This was a patently absurd number, given Germany?s 
economic, military, and industrial capabilities.  Two months later, Dornberger 
increased the pressure on the Peenem?nde developers by announcing to them that in 
order to maintain support of the Army higher authorities, the first experimental 
88
 Zanssen report, 6/20/40, FE 357, NASM.
89
 Dornberger to Zanssen, 12/16/40, FE 349, NASM.
90
 Dornberger to Koch, 10/11/41, FE 341, NASM.
194
missile had to be launched by the end of February 1942.
91
  After the Peenem?nders 
failed to launch a rocket in that month, Dornberger wrote to Speer that the first test 
launch would not be attempted until early June 1942.
92
During and after the war, Dornberger blamed these delays on the varying 
levels of wartime priority and, therefore, fluctuations in the availability of raw 
materials and resources given to the work at Peenem?nde.  The convoluted, ever-
shifting government priority rating system for wartime industrial projects alternately 
ranked Peenem?nde as a super-priority project to, during the Battle of Britain, as low 
as a third level priority.
93
  Closer to the truth, however, was that the sheer complexity 
of the technology was the most important factor in the Peenem?nder?s inability to 
meet the shortened deadlines.  Designing an engine that could atomize and mix the 
propellants, feed them into the combustion chamber at extremely high pressure, and 
produce the required exhaust velocity and thrust, all while cooling the combustion 
chamber so that it did not explode, was only one of the more daunting challenges 
facing the designers.  Guidance, steering, and supersonic aerodynamics also presented 
their own seemingly insurmountable obstacles.  The first static test model of the A-4 
arrived on the test stand in October 1940.  A raft of problems kept it there through the 
middle of 1941.  Two other test models were catastrophic failures, spectacularly 
exploding on the test stand in late October and early November 1941, damaging much 
of the measuring and launch equipment.  In early 1942, another delicate test model 
slipped out of its corset and crashed to the ground after being tanked with liquid 
oxygen, the extremely cold temperatures of which caused the fuselage to shrink.  
91
 Dornberger Aktennotiz, 12/23/41, FE 728/E, NASM.
92
 Dornberger to Speer, 2/3/42, FE 342, NASM.
93
 Michael Neufeld, ?Hitler, the V-2, and the Battle for Priority, 1939-1943,? 511-538.
195
Other problems delayed launch activities until October of that year.
94
  Rocket 
development proved to be a much more difficult and demanding technology to bring 
into being than anyone among the military or civilian specialists anticipated.
By September 1942, a raft of technical glitches and development errors meant 
that the rocket had yet to conduct a successful test flight.  The absolute failure to meet 
any of the deadlines assigned by Dornberger only increased the regime?s pessimism 
about the missile.  At the end of September, a despairing Dornberger wrote to 
Peenem?nde that Hitler had come to believe that the missile would not be accurate 
enough to deliver its payload over a long range.  Armaments Minister Albert Speer, 
General Friederich Fromm (the Head of Army Armaments and Commander of the 
Reserve Army), and Field Marshall Erhard Milch, G?ring?s deputy in the Air 
Ministry, also all doubted the success of Dornberger?s project.  Dornberger admitted 
that with the current military situation, especially the massive consumption of 
material on the increasingly worrisome Eastern Front, it was understandable that they 
bridled at committing so many of their resources to a project whose prospects for 
success were entirely unknown.  He wrote to the Peenem?nders that ?That fight can 
be conducted with many great prospects of success if the first successful launch 
experiment is behind us and the results of this test came quickly one after the other.  I 
now have the impression that we only have a few months? time to produce proof of 
the success of our development, its suitability for factory production, and its 
usefulness at the front [Emphasis in original].?  Dornberger praised the efforts of the 
developers, but cautioned that regime authorities were not interested in their 
difficulties.  ?They are only interested,? he continued, ?in when we will get how 
94
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 155-156, 158.
196
many pieces into operation.  Only then can they direct the support that a project will 
give to the life and death struggle of a nation.?  He went on to request that the 
Peenem?nders pour all of their energy into launching twenty test rockets by the end 
of December and that they extend their working hours, taking no days off, in order to 
meet this goal.
95
Dornberger?s behavior regarding the development schedule fits a pattern 
common to the military-industrial complex in many nations.
96
  His predictions of 
technical performance, at best, overly optimistic and at worst, absurd, betrayed his 
strong desire, in this case politically motivated, to deliver the promised performance 
from the missile in an extremely short span of time, despite the fact that no project of 
this sort had ever been attempted.  This phenomenon has been termed ?self-efficacy? 
by psychologists.  They argue that modifications and advancements across a variety 
of endeavors can be motivated by the belief that such changes are possible, even in 
cases in which there is no evidence to indicate that this shift is achievable.  
Furthermore, self-efficacy is a strong determinant in whether an entity attempts a 
given task, the degree of persistence when the group encounters difficulties, and the 
ultimate success of the effort.
97
  For Dornberger, the efficaciousness of missile 
development was never in doubt, prompting the general to make promises that he had 
no idea how to fulfill.  However, consciously or unconsciously, he understood that he 
would receive no high level support, so essential to the life of the missile project, if he 
95
 Dornberger to Peenem?nde, 10/29/42, FE 342, NASM. 
96
 Phillip Scranton?s fascinating new research on jet engine development in the Cold War, tentatively 
titled ?Fabricating Innovation: Specialty Production in Cold War America,? is an excellent example of 
how self-efficacy theory can be applied to the history of technology.
97
 Anthony Bandura, ?Self-efficacy: Toward a Unifying Theory of Behaviour Change,? Psychological 
Review, 84 (1977), 191-215.  Bandura is the first to conceptualize this theory.
197
did not make these promises.  In essence, it was in large part due to his assurances of 
the missile?s availability and performance that the entire project did not whither on 
the vine for lack of resources.  Nevertheless, there were negative consequences of his 
strategy.     
Developers at Peenem?nde clearly felt the strain of Dornberger?s demands.  
Even if Dornberger had not agreed to shorten the deadline for operations by two years 
and then set overly optimistic deadlines, the Peenem?nders likely would have found 
the work to be carried out under intense circumstances anyway.  The difficulties 
inherent in working in an entirely new field of technology, with its host of unknown 
problems, made it virtually impossible to accurately predict a date by which testing 
could be completed and mass-produced missiles could be brought into operation.  The 
General?s optimism, politically motivated, but also a sign of his faith in the 
development engineers, only made matters more difficult.  For example, even without 
Dornberger?s plea to extend the employees? shifts, working hours were always 
relatively long, averaging upwards of twelve hours per day.  Nevertheless, the 
Peenem?nders responded to their leader?s call, often extending their shifts to ?round 
the clock work before important tests.
98
  Despite the natural difficulties inherent in 
nurturing a radically new technology through its growing pains and the increased 
problems created by Dornberger?s arguably dishonest development schedule, the 
development specialists at Peenem?nde proved absolutely willing to make sacrifices 
in order to achieve the goals laid out for them by military and political leaders.  Given 
these demanding goals, pressure to produce successful results was omnipresent.  
98
 Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels, 20.  Georg Tiesenhausen OHI, NASM.  Huzel, From 
Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 79. 
198
Georg von Tiesenhausen noted that ?We worked under colossal strain at 
Peenem?nde.?
99
  Propulsion specialist Konrad Dannenberg recalled that ?There was 
always a lot of pressure ? I certainly felt the pressure.?
100
  Nevertheless, the 
Peenem?nders showed that they were willing to completely dedicate themselves to 
their work, and despite the political and military demands made upon them, 
demonstrated a resilience that spoke volumes about their professionalism and 
individual dedication to the goals of the missile program. 
The seemingly unending technical difficulties and the mounting pressures that 
came with them drove some of the engineers to the brink of despair.  Walter Thiel, 
the mercurial, fastidious, and absolutely brilliant propulsion group chief, wrote to 
Braun in early 1943, several months before production would begin, that he was 
completely exhausted.  Thiel was dyspeptic over his inability to make the fuel pumps 
function reliably and to simplify the design of the fuel injectors.  He left Peenem?nde 
for a much needed vacation in March.
101
  Despite these problems and many others, 
the Peenem?nders soldiered on.  Dieter Huzel put it most succinctly, writing that ?If 
there were technical difficulties that strained the so-called state of the art, there were 
also times that tried the mettle of the men at Peenem?nde, for above all this was a 
place of human beings.  There were days when even the toughest minds seemed to 
run out of resources, only to bounce back full of new ideas, drive, and enthusiasm ?
often after a long and sleepless night.?
102
Undoubtedly, the tasks taken on by the 
Peenem?nders were some of the most difficult and complex of their careers.  The 
99
 Tiesenhausen OHI, NASM.
100
 Dannenberg OHI, NASM.  
101
 Thiel to Braun, 3/16/43, FE 692/F, NASM. 
102
 Huzel, Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 80.
199
pressure of the war only complicated matters.  Nevertheless, the rocket specialists at 
Peenem?nde succeeded in bringing the world?s first ballistic missile, a technology 
that existed only in the minds of science fiction writers and amateur enthusiasts, from 
the drawing board and into mass production in only seven years, a feat that took no 
small amount of determination and resilience.  Huzel?s remark about the engineers? 
intellectual fortitude points to this strength and reveals a strong professional 
identification with the development of this new technology.  Indeed, the technology 
of rocketry proved to be one of the most important factors in facilitating their 
identification with the goals of the institution, despite the tremendous strain it placed 
on them.  
The novel and unique tasks performed in the workshops and production 
facilities was a part of the appeal of working at the base.  Though it had come a long 
way from the days of short means and primitive experiments at the Raketenflugplatz, 
rocket technology as practiced at Peenem?nde was still in its infancy.  Braun?s 
deputy, Eberhard Rees, who also helped set up the production plant at Peenem?nde, 
held that ?Rocketry at that time was quite new, and it was for engineers very, very 
interesting.  Peenem?nde was for most engineers a most interesting place.?
103
  Karl 
Heimburg agreed with Rees, remembering ?Even for those who had no contact at all 
with the rocket fad of the 1920s, work at Peenem?nde was incredibly exciting 
because it was so new, so radical.?
104
  The cutting edge nature of the work helped 
drive the employees? enthusiasm and provided them with the energy they needed to 
continue in the face military pressure and technological failure.  Measurement 
103
 Eberhard Rees OHI, NASM. 
104
 Karl Heimburg OHI, NASM.
200
specialist Gerhard Reisig stated with only slight exaggeration that ?It was always 
exciting ? I can?t remember a single day at Peenem?nde that was not exciting or at 
least interesting, because something was always up.?
105
  The gifted aerodynamicist 
Rudolf Hermann, a Docent at the Technical University of Aachen before coming to 
Peenem?nde, turned down another job as a Professor at the University of 
Braunschweig in 1937 ?because I saw all the possibilities at Peenem?nde with the 
rocket development, big problems to solve.?
106
  In tackling these problems, many, 
like Hermann, doubtless also saw an excellent chance for career advancement at the 
base that surpassed that offered by the university.  Clearly, for many Peenem?nders, 
the cutting edge nature of their work spurred their excitement and was reason for 
many of them to continue, despite the strain of short deadlines and the growing pains 
inherent to a radically new technology.
The first-rate technical facilities themselves offered another incentive to work 
at Peenem?nde.  Upon being offered a position as an assistant to the chief engineer at 
test stand seven, from which all missile launch tests were performed, Huzel, who 
began at Peenem?nde in the guidance section under Ernst Steinhoff, wrote ?Finally!  
Here was the break I had been seeking ? Such an assignment would bring me right 
into the heart of the experimental rocket development, in the largest and most 
complete facility in the plant.?
107
  For Huzel, work at test stand seven, from which the 
first man-made vehicle to reach space was launched, represented the pinnacle of his 
professional career.  Rudolf Hermann?s case is also instructive.  He began his 
association with Braun in early January 1936, when the budding rocketeer traveled to 
105
 Gerhard Reisig OHI, NASM.
106
 Rudolf Hermann Memoirs, (unpublished), 16, UAH.
107
 Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 65.
201
TU Aachen to request that they be given permission to use the small supersonic wind 
tunnel there (the square-shaped tunnel was four inches on a side), the maximum 
velocity of which was Mach 3.3, just over three times the speed of sound.  When it 
became apparent that Peenem?nde would need its own wind tunnel, Braun offered 
Hermann the chance to run what would be the world?s largest and fastest facility, 
measuring sixteen inches per side with a maximum velocity of Mach 4.4.  Casting 
aside the chance for a full Professorship at TU Braunschweig, which the university 
offered the Docent at nearly the same time, Hermann jumped at the opportunity and 
came to Peenem?nde on April 1, 1937.  The excitement of the work as well as the 
unequaled technical resources made the offer too much to resist.
108
  By the middle of 
1939, Hermann?s staff at the institute reached sixty, and by 1943, he had 200 
employees at his disposal.
109
  The talented aerodynamicist had made what by any 
measure was a significant professional step forward.    
In addition, many of the scientists, technicians, and engineers at Peenem?nde 
either received civilian draft exemptions to work there or were already members of 
the Army.  At the beginning of 1940, nearly 1700 employees at Peenem?nde had 
civilian draft exemptions, and, though exact numbers are unavailable, this number 
dramatically increased as the regime dedicated more technical specialists to the base 
over the next three years.
110
  This mutually beneficial arrangement lasted until late in 
the war, when overwhelming personnel shortages forced the army to seek more 
soldiers wherever they could find them, while local party authorities attempted to 
conscript more and more individuals into the Volkssturm militia units.  Even so, many 
108
 Hermann, Memoirs, 16-17, UAH.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 86-87.
109
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 88. 
110
 Peenem?nde employment survey, 1/1/40, FE 357, NASM.
202
Peenem?nders survived such harrowing close calls.  Guidance specialist Walter 
Hauesserman?s case is typical.  Though he was drafted in September 1939, Ernst 
Steinhoff, who had many contacts at TU Darmstadt, where Hauesserman earned his
Diploma-Engineer degree in 1938, managed to get Hauesserman removed from the 
army and sent to Peenem?nde in December 1939.  There, Hauesserman received his 
civilian draft exemption so he could work uninterrupted in the guidance department.  
However, in the middle of 1943, Hauesserman received orders to report to his old unit 
to join the fighting on the Eastern Front.  By this point, the engineer had contributed a 
number of important advances to the guidance system of the V-2.  According to 
Hauesserman, Von Braun intervened with army authorities on the basis that it was 
imperative that he be allowed to continue his work.  Because of von Braun?s 
intervention, Hauesserman maintained his draft exempt status and went on to perform 
valuable guidance work on the V-2, the Wasserfall anti-aircraft missile, and advanced 
torpedoes for the navy.
111
  His technical expertise, therefore, offered him the chance 
to both fulfill important professional goals while avoiding some of the worst horrors 
of war at the front.
However, another group of specialists at Peenem?nde did not receive draft 
exemptions.  Rather, they were members of an army unit, ordered into creation in late 
1941 by von Brauchitsch, called Versuchskommando Nord (VkN ? Northern 
Experimental Command).  The VkN, under the command of a Major Heigl, a career 
officer with no technical experience, first numbered approximately 620 men, but 
rapidly expanded to nine companies of about 300 men each, nearly all of whom had 
111
 Walter Hauesserman OHI, NASM.
203
formal engineering or technical backgrounds.
112
  The Army classified these soldiers 
as front line troops on temporary duty in Peenem?nde, which officially kept them off 
limits from civilian authorities who might wish to requisition them for any number of 
projects. Soldiers of the VkN worked in both the development workshops and 
production plant.
113
  Payment for these men was excellent, by Army standards.  
Though the officers received standard Army scale salary, which was marginally less 
than they would receive as civilians, the enlisted men earned approximately the same 
amount of money as civilians at the base, which was a major increase in the standard 
Army salary.
114
VkN members found even more important reasons to consider their 
assignment to Peenem?nde a stroke of good fortune.  Of course, the most important 
of these was that they no longer feared for their lives every day, especially those who 
came from the Eastern Front.  Peter Wegener, who found himself assigned to 
Peenem?nde in the spring of 1943 after serving on the Eastern Front, wrote that he 
was ?continually mindful of the great advantage of not being involved in further 
fighting in Russia, fighting that turned increasingly into disaster for the German 
troops.  I shared my father?s frequently repeated view, based on his World War I 
experience, that in war, any place where nobody shoots at you is fine.  I had no 
responsibilities for others or daily worries about survival.?
115
  Huzel, who also served 
in the Soviet campaign, paints an even more vivid picture of the contrast between the 
112
 Organisatorische Massnahmen seit F?hrererlass, date unclear, likely early 1942, FE 692/C, NASM.  
Unidentified prisoner of war statement, NASM File ?V-2 (A-4) Missile (Germany, WWII) Intelligence 
Interrogations.?  Guido de Maeseneer, Peenem?nde : the Extraordinary Story of Hitler's Secret 
Weapons V-1 and V-2, (Vancouver, Canada : AJ Publishing, 2001), 102-103. 
113
 Organisatorische Massnahmen seit F?hrererlass, FE 692/C, NASM. 
114
  Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 34.  Huzel himself was a member of the VkN, drawn from 
the Eastern Front in the winter of 1942.
115
 Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels, 19.
204
front and Peenem?nde.  ?The trying business of constant alert,? he wrote, ?the 
automatic feeling of guilt at the mere sight of a trim uniform, the old frustration of 
motion for motion?s sake, were fast fading ? Outside the summer air was fresh and 
clean, the afternoon sun bright and warm, and the war a long, dim way off.?
116
The daily routines of this military unit were surprisingly casual, and the 
trappings of military life were almost non-existent.  When Wegener arrived at 
Peenem?nde late in the evening and reported for duty, declaring in his best military 
voice his name and assignment, he was greeted by a man in pajamas who told him 
that he could have waited until the morning, to find quarters for the night, and to 
come back the next day.
117
  Though many soldiers ate in the Army mess hall, 
individuals were not always expected to eat meals with their comrades.  Rather, they 
were able to take meals wherever they preferred, either in the local resort town of 
Zinnowitz or one of the Army cantinas.  Of the daily role calls, Huzel fondly recalled 
the straggling, sleepy, half-dressed soldiers who would climb out of bed, form terrible 
lines, and chide their sergeant for calling the role too slowly.  He noted with delight, 
?From a strictly military point of view, this was a mess.  Personally, it was a 
pleasure.?
118
  Beginning in early 1944, certain VkN soldiers were even allowed to 
wear civilian clothes.  This was largely done for reasons of security, as more VkN 
specialists made long and secretive trips to the various assembly plants across 
Germany.
119
  In addition, military rank melted away in the face of professional 
qualifications.  It was not uncommon for a corporal who also happened to hold an 
116
 Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 39.
117
 Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels, 13.
118
 Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 36, 39-40.
119
 Storch to Heigl, 1/15/44, FE 732, NASM.  See also Storch to Heigl 10/17/44, Heigl to Storch, 
10/23/44, both in RH8/v.1941, BA/MA, and Storch to Heigl, 1/3/45, FE 732, NASM.
205
advanced degree in engineering to give orders to his technically less-qualified 
superior officers when they were on the shop floor.
120
  Indeed, military considerations 
were entirely secondary to technical ones.  As it did for civilians, life at Peenem?nde 
proved to be idyllic for soldiers who had only recently endured the savagery of the 
war, only to find themselves dropped into the middle of a virtual technological and 
scientific paradise.
VkN specialists adjusted quickly to their work.  One report noted, ?The new 
employees of the Northern Experimental Command have generally proven their value 
and clearly find happiness in their work.?
121
  A central component to this new-found 
satisfaction with their work was found in its professional elements and the contrast to 
the misuse of their talents at the front.  Huzel illustrated this frustration, writing, ?My 
duties on the Russian front made no use whatsoever of my degree and years of 
experience in engineering.  I was a Landser, an ordinary foot soldier, and my real 
capabilities, along with those of thousands of other good technical people drafted in a 
similar manner, were lost to the now-desperate German war effort.?  Of the idea of 
removing technical specialists from the front and placing them at jobs that utilized 
their abilities, he wrote with joy that remained undisguised even forty years after the 
war, ?Overnight, Ph.D.s were liberated from KP duty, masters of science were 
recalled from orderly service, mathematicians were hauled out of bakeries, and 
precision mechanics ceased to be truck drivers.?
122
  Once away from the front and in 
120
 Helmut Hoelzer OHI, NASM.
121
 Organisatorische Massnahmen seit F?hrererlass, FE 692/C, NASM.  The same report noted, 
however, that unskilled employees were still in desperately short supply and noted the ongoing failures 
to overcome this bottleneck.  Peenem?nde engineers eventually chose slave labor as the solution.  See 
chapter four. 
122
 Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 23, 27.
206
place at the aerodynamics institute, former infantryman Wegener wrote with 
satisfaction that ?I was learning a great deal of fascinating science and engineering 
and was slowly adapting to intellectual challenges.?
123
  Thus, in a number of ways, 
the soldiers of the VkN endowed their work with a great deal of personal 
significance.  Not only did it save their lives, but it also removed them from the most 
frustrating elements of military life, paid them very well, and catered to their 
professional aspirations by setting them to work on some of the most cutting-edge 
technology on the planet.  In a world in which the alternative to their work was 
carrying a rifle on the Eastern front, these considerations went a long way toward 
ensuring their unequivocal dedication to their work.         
For military and civilian employees alike, absolute cooperation and teamwork 
in the missile endeavor was essential to their success.  Indeed, despite the tight 
regulations governing secrecy, administrators at Peenem?nde encouraged a great deal 
of collaboration between workshops.  For example, in a circular sent to Peenem?nde 
in June 1942 that clarified the division of labor between various development and 
assembly branches, Dornberger emphasized that ?The clear, full understanding and 
cooperation of all divisions is the indispensable precondition for the success of the 
entire project [emphasis in original].?
124
  To ensure this collaboration, administrative 
divisions and the workshops that comprised them mutually supported each other, 
actively communicating questions, problems, concerns, and experimental results in 
order to most effectively utilize the little time available to them.  Service regulations 
directed division and workshop managers to freely and punctually communicate 
123
 Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels, 19. 
124
 Dornberger, Entwicklung und Fertigung des Ger?tes A 4,? 6/6/42, RH8/v. 1959, BA/MA.
207
information requested by their partners in other areas.  For example, they specifically 
mandated that the manager of the group in charge of static and launch tests maintain 
as close cooperation as possible with the Aerodynamics Institute and the 
Measurement Group.  Regulations also directed employees of the Ballistics Office to 
work closely with development engineers in the Technical Office and Aerodynamics 
group.
125
  The utterly complex nature of rocket development meant that cooperation 
between specific divisions and specializations was absolutely essential to the project?s 
success.  By inserting provisions regarding cooperation between Peenem?nde?s 
specific technical divisions into the service regulations, the facility?s administrators 
formalized a cooperative environment and made technical collaboration a hallmark of 
rocket development.  
This was the result of a set of thoughtful, conscious decisions made by Braun 
and others regarding the best way to rapidly development missile technology.  
Braun?s ideas fundamentally shaped the emerging profession of rocket engineering in 
the middle of the twentieth century.  For him, the absolute complexity of rocket and 
missile technology demanded that cooperation between diverse specialists be the 
permanent watchword.  Writing after the war in an American periodical, he 
emphasized that ?The missile field, extending as far as it does into technical areas as 
far apart as fuel chemistry and ultra-high frequency radio, stress analysis and 
supersonic aerodynamics, materials research and gyroscopes, pure mathematics and 
shop management, cannot possibly be encompassed by a single brain.  As in baseball, 
good players are needed, but it is the quality of the teamwork among these players 
125
Dienstanweisung f?r das Pr?ffeld, Dienstordnung f?r das Ballistische B?ro, Dienstordnung f?r die 
Abteilung Messgruppe, 1937, all in FE 348, NASM.
208
that decides whether they are big league or bush league.?
126
  Though his own case 
might be considered an exception, for Braun, there could be no single individual 
capable of understanding all of the intricacies such a difficult project.  The mark of a 
professional rocket engineer was his ability to understand this and work with others 
of varying skills and specializations to bring the project to its successful conclusion.  
He continued, ?Whether they are scientists, engineers, or mechanics, they must be 
given an opportunity to learn to appreciate the capabilities and accomplishments of 
their fellow team members.  In guided missile development this is particularly 
important because there simply cannot be an argument as to what professional group 
is more important.?
127
  Cooperation, then, was fundamental to such a difficult 
endeavor.  A good rocket specialist was only partially defined by his technical skill, 
whatever that may be.  Of equal importance was his willingness and ability to work 
cooperatively with other technical and scientific experts, an aspect of the activities at 
Peenem?nde that was both formally and informally encouraged.
Braun?s ideas, while put to paper after the war, fundamentally shaped 
interpersonal relationships at Peenem?nde during the Nazi period.  Unfailingly, the 
testimonies of former Peenem?nders after the war indicated that Peenem?nde was a 
facility in which cooperation and collaboration were the rules of the day.  Helmut 
Zoike warmly remembered that ?The main thing of the whole story was the teamwork 
that people had there.?  Zoike went on to credit Braun with setting an excellent 
example of hard work, teamwork, and leadership.
128
  Gerhard Reisig, the Chief of the 
Measurement Section, also noted Braun?s central role in setting the tone of 
126
Braun, ?Teamwork,? 38-39, Box 200, Folder 7, WvB Papers, SRCH.
127
 Ibid., 41.
128
 Helmut Zoike Statement, Schatten eines Mythos.
209
cooperation at the missile facility.
129
 The emphasis on teamwork enhanced the 
individual employees? active identification with each other and their work while 
offering them the chance to participate in a collaborative venture of surpassing 
importance.  The result was the smooth day-to-day functioning of research and 
development as well as the establishment of strong bonds of community inside the 
work place that reinforced those already in place outside of it. 
Personal and professional relationships on the shop floor at Peenem?nde 
closely reflected Braun?s ideas.  The atmosphere in the workshops was almost always 
friendly and cordial, with employees often referring to each other and even to their 
superiors by their first names, no small feat in a deeply title-conscious society.  
Though there inevitably were moments of friction between individuals, work at 
Peenem?nde was for the most part characterized by harmony between both 
individuals and administrative divisions.  Ernst K?tbach, an employee in the 
measurement section, characterized the workshops as having ?A highly tolerant 
feeling of camaraderie [Kameradschaft].?
130
 Herbert Lucht remembered that ?We 
were all equals, engineers, doctor engineers, and so forth.  And that was always, in 
my opinion, good for us ? this camaraderie.?
131
  When Peter Wegener arrived at 
Peenem?nde, he found his supervisor at the Aerodynamics Institute, the highly 
respected Professor Hermann Kurzweg from the University of Leipzig, to be ?an 
exceptionally pleasant person ? In retrospect, I find it remarkable that this varied 
group, disregarding the individuals? particular ranks in the hierarchy of the institute, 
129
 Gerhard Reisig OHI, NASM.
130
 Ernst K?tbach Statement, Originaltonaussagen von Mitarbeiter der ehemaligen 
Heeresversuchsanstalt Peenem?nde-Ost zum Thema Alltag in Peenem?nde, HTIZP.
131
 Lucht Statement, Peenem?nde: Schatten? .
210
worked together so smoothly.  I never heard a harsh word: everyone helped everyone 
else, and good humor reigned; in fact, it was a pleasure to work in this place.?
132
  A 
thoroughly pleasant and professional environment pervaded the workshops.  This was 
a major factor in the swift technological advances made at Peenem?nde.  Most 
employees enjoyed the pleasant professionalism and intellectual respect of their 
comrades, which made the often arduous and stressful work a far more enjoyable and 
rewarding experience.
 Nevertheless, some friction was unavoidable in a facility with so many 
employees.  However, most of the disagreements remained in the upper levels of the 
administrative hierarchy and did not filter down to the shop floor.  These fissures 
opened because of the tremendous pressure on the leading Peenem?nders to complete 
the A-4?s development and begin mass production.  Brauchitsch?s order, examined
above, as well as Dornberger?s unrealistic deadlines that led many higher authorities 
in the regime to question the efficacy of the missile, sometimes strained relations 
between department managers at Peenem?nde. 
For example, the failure to solve these technological problems by the 
established deadlines as well as the numerous and expensive testing errors were 
sources of friction between the design bureau, headed by longtime rocket specialist 
Walter ?Papa? Riedel, and other divisions.  In an angry memo written in February 
1942, near the peak of the missile design and priority crises, Dornberger pointed out 
that the emphasis on teamwork between the divisions that was laid out in the service 
regulations was not being practiced.  He blamed many of the design problems on this 
failure, raging that among other things, ?Cooperation between the Test Group and the 
132
 Peter Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels, 26-27.
211
Design Bureau is totally absent.?
133
  Riedel?s Bureau, according to marginalia 
scribbled on Dornberger?s missive by propulsion group head Thiel, would not allow 
the propulsion or test groups to participate in the overall design process.  Moreover, 
workable design drawings, also the bailiwick of the design group, were largely non-
existent.
134
  The pressure created by shortened deadlines and development delays 
spurred Dornberger?s heated memo, but the incident reveals deeper problems as well. 
Riedel, the holder of a two-year engineering degree and an old Kummersdorf 
employee with deep connections to the rocket movement in the Weimar years, was 
known to have a difficult personality and resented the influence of neophyte diploma 
and Ph.D. engineers who were placed above him.
135
  A few months later, this 
inauspicious situation, compounded by the pressure for quick experimental results, 
forced Riedel out of his position as head of the design group.  His difficulties, 
combined with the increasing professional standards at Peenem?nde, hastened his 
removal.  He was replaced by the able diploma-engineer with the ironic and nearly 
identical name Walther Riedel (no relation to his predecessor, but known by his 
colleagues as Riedel III ? the second Riedel was test stand and deployment chief 
Klaus Riedel, also no relation).
136
  ?Papa? Riedel moved into the production planning 
group, where he was assigned to preparing production drawings ? for all intents and 
purposes, a demotion.
137
The ?Papa? Riedel case is instructive for a number of reasons.  Clearly, there 
was some friction between influential individuals at Peenem?nde.  In the first place, 
133
 Dornberger Circular to Peenem?nde, 2/5/42, in Technical File ?Peenem?nde #2,? NASM. 
134
 Ibid.  See also Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 158-159.
135
 Dannenberg OHI, Rudolph OHI, NASM.
136
 Mueller, OHI, NASM.
137
 Dannenberg OHI, NASM. 
212
this was caused by the tremendous pressure to show experimental results coming 
from above the Peenem?nders? heads.  The unrealistic deadlines expected of the 
developers made for many long nights and several angry memorandums from 
Dornberger, their chief representative.  Total cooperation was paramount if these 
deadlines were to be met and the program?s benefactors satisfied, but the sometimes 
stubborn and difficult Riedel was faced with a task that was beyond his talents and 
unsuited to his personality.  Though his years at the Heylandt Works and under Braun 
at Kummersdorf equipped him with a great deal of practical knowledge, his less 
distinguished education, unwillingness to cooperate with his better educated 
colleagues, and Peenem?nde?s increasing academic and professional standards forced 
Braun to remove Riedel from his important position.  The energetic Riedel III, who 
had more formal academic training and who proved more willing to work 
collaboratively, moved into his position, and within a short time, the dysfunctional 
relationship between the design group and other branches dramatically improved.  
The emphasis on high professional standards is clear in this case.  Those who had the 
requisite training and who could work within the formal and informal stipulations laid 
out by Peenem?nde authorities would flourish, while those who could not would 
flounder.  Though Braun no doubt felt some degree of personal loyalty to his long-
time colleague, Riedel?s failure to work closely with those in other divisions, as 
mandated by the service regulations, in addition to his obstreperousness with other 
Peenem?nders, forced Braun?s hand.  Riedel?s lack of formalized engineering training 
only sealed the matter.  In the emerging world of the professional rocket specialist, 
Riedel was unsuited to a high-ranking administrative position.  Though the failures to 
213
develop the weapon on time can in no way be laid solely at his feet, its technological 
complexity, the intense pressure for rapid results, and heavy emphasis placed on 
teamwork made ?Papa? a hindrance which had to be removed.   
The Reidel case offers the opportunity to examine another aspect of Braun?s 
leadership style as well.  His management philosophy, though based on teamwork, 
cooperation, and constructive feedback, also incorporated rewards for particularly 
hard and successful workers and punishments for those who did not live up to his 
standards.  Though most employees spoke very highly of Braun, who was quick to 
praise and reward, he was not always positive and encouraging.  The young aristocrat 
proved willing to push disaffected employees back into line, chide managers who 
broke the rules or missed deadlines, and fire workers who did not live up to his very 
high standards.  His carrot and stick approach went a long way toward urging the 
Peenem?nders to their best efforts.
Employees at Peenem?nde often received a number of different kinds of 
rewards for their work on the missile.  These ranged anywhere from official state 
awards to promotions, bonuses, and the awarding of various titles.  Braun himself was 
the beneficiary of this system.  In the summer of 1943, just before the A-4 was to go 
into mass production, Hitler approved Albert Speer?s request that von Braun be 
awarded the prestigious title of Professor.  The dictator was so impressed with Braun
that he insisted on signing the document himself.
138
  In the fall of 1944, von Braun 
and Dornberger both received the War Service Cross for their efforts on behalf of the 
138
 Speer meeting minutes, 7/8/43, T-74, Reel 192, RG-242, p. 3,405,674, NARA.  Neufeld, The 
Rocket and the Reich, 192.
214
missile program.
139
  Other valuable employees received different awards.  In October 
1944, a number of engineers who were key in the development and production 
processes, including propulsion expert Konrad Dannenberg, test engineer Karl 
Heimburg, and production planner Bernard Tessmann, received from Peenem?nde 
administrators the title Oberingenieur, along with all of the professional recognition 
and authority that this title held.
140
  All employees, no matter what rank or position 
they held, also won awards for individual technical improvements that they 
spearheaded.  Bruno Helm, an assembly foreman, won a prize for improvements he 
made in sealing rocket combustion chambers.
141
  Less formal measures that 
encouraged hard work and loyalty were also common.  For example, measurement 
specialist Helmut Hoelzer stated that Braun encouraged debate, but once a decision 
was made, no matter how difficult, he always made sure that there was no personal 
damage done by buying personnel a drink or simply visiting them in the workshops 
the next day to make sure that there were no hard feelings.  ?Hardly anyone held a 
grudge against him,? Hoelzer reported.
142
  This type of personal managerial touch 
built an excellent repoire between the Technical Director and employees at 
Peenem?nde.  Loyalty to von Braun was also a key component in structuring the 
group reality at Peenem?nde.  It was also indicative of the positive measures taken by 
the facility?s administrators to reward hard and dedicated work with a range of 
139
 Riedel to Kunze, 12/11/44, FE 732, NASM.  Two missile production directors won the award as 
well.
140
 Braun and Storch to Dannenberg, Hackh, Heimburg, Tessmann, and Martin, 10/15/44, RH8/v.1941, 
BA/MA.  
141
 Bruno Helm Basic Personnel Record, RG 165, Entry 179, Box 703, File ?Boston,? NA.
142
 Helmut Hoelzer OHI, NASM.
215
personal and professional honors.  These incentives encouraged individual dedication 
and enhanced personal identification with the goals of the institution of Peenem?nde.
However, Braun was also quick to introduce negative measures for employees 
who failed to live up to his lofty standards or whose performance proved to be a drag 
on missile development and production.  In January 1943, when engineers at 
Peenem?nde were frantically attempting to begin mass production of the missile and 
pressure from regime authorities for results was rapidly mounting, Braun found 
himself working almost non-stop in an effort to coordinate the work of the 
development and production groups.  In a memo to a group of engineers charged with 
organizing the production drawings for electrical parts of the missile, Braun revealed 
his willingness to use his authority to coerce employees.  In no uncertain terms, he 
informed these engineers, ?If I ascertain that the deadlines [for completion of this 
work] have been exceeded and there has been no report of intervening difficulties, I 
will call the responsible people into account.?
143
  In another case, Braun wrote in 
April 1944 to Georg Rickhey, the General Director of the corporation that mass-
produced the V-2 (examined in detail in the next chapter), about a number of 
engineers who arrived in Peenem?nde earlier in the year to continue further missile 
development.  He informed Rickhey that three of these engineers, Thomasowits, 
Bornfeld, and Deb?ser, were not cut out for work at Peenem?nde because they were, 
according to Braun, incapable of independent hard work.  Further, Braun reported 
that he gave Bornfeld and Deb?ser a number of orders that were ?in no way carried 
out to my satisfaction and which they in fact passively resisted.?  He closed by 
informing Rickhey that he was transferring all three men to the production facility run 
143
 Braun to Arbeitsausschuss ?Elektrische Ger?te,? 6/26/43, FE 732, NASM.
216
by Rickhey, ?where these men will have increased supervision.?
144
  Without question, 
Braun was deeply dissatisfied with these engineers, but also understood that their 
technical training gave them a certain value in a nation struggling with a shortage of 
technical expertise.  Though he wished them out of development at Peenem?nde, 
which required a particular ability to balance independent work with an approach 
based on teamwork and cooperation, their professional training might still be useful 
in a different missile facility.  
Clearly, Braun expected a great deal out employees that worked under him at 
Peenem?nde.  Despite his aforementioned long association with ?Papa? Riedel, Braun 
understood that Riedel hindered the rapid completion of the experimental missile and 
therefore had to be moved out of his position.  As the war progressed and pressure to 
deploy the V-2 mounted, Braun also proved more and more willing to call people on 
the carpet if they missed deadlines or failed to perform satisfactorily.  If this failed, 
the hard-working head of technical development transferred or eliminated the 
offending employees.  Braun?s pro-active, interventionist management style, 
combined with his deep theoretical and technical knowledge, kept his employees in 
line as much as it drove his own desire to see the program through to success.  His 
approach combined, to the great benefit of the missile program, the carrot and the 
stick, promising impressive rewards for those who worked hard and swift punishment 
for those who failed to live up to his standards.
Employees at Peenem?nde were also able to, in their own way, take part in 
many of the hallmarks of the free professional life.  Though secrecy regulations 
144
 Braun to Rickhey, 4/23/44, FE 694/a, NASM.  The production facility was the infamous 
underground factory ?Mittelwerk,? which used slave laborers to construct the V-2.  This will be 
examined in detail in the next chapter.
217
curtailed some aspects of professional and associational life at Peenem?nde, most 
employees had access to other outlets for their professional aspirations.  For example, 
one of the most important aspects of professional practice is publishing in respected, 
peer-reviewed journals.  The tight rules governing secrecy obviously prevented the 
Peenem?nders from publishing their experimental results in open, publicly accessible, 
professional journals.  The rocket specialists at Peenem?nde overcame this limitation 
on their professional lives by publishing the results of their work internally, within the 
secret confines of the base.  Though the reports were not made accessible to all 
employees, copies of them were held in a central archival facility on the base.  
Hundreds of these technical reports, which came to be known as the Peenem?nde 
Archive Reports, detailed the myriad of technical advances in every phase of rocket 
development and production.
145
  Engineers and scientists wrote on everything from 
their attempts to develop experimental hardware and raw materials to processes for 
creating new fuels, missile design changes, wind tunnel tests, and assembly 
techniques.  This technical archive was a veritable cornucopia of experimental and 
production-related material, and its continued growth throughout the war is evidence 
of the Peenem?nders? utter dedication to the success of missile development.
146
Engineers and scientists at Peenem?nde also had other outlets for their 
professional aspirations.  After the outbreak of the war, Ordnance marginally 
loosened security considerations so that outside experts might be able to take some 
145
 The largest collection of Peenem?nde Archive Reports is held by the Deutsches Museum in 
Munich.  In addition, the Fort Eustis microfilm at the Smithsonian National Air and Space museum 
contains a substantial number of these records.
146
 For example, see report on experiments in connection with the emptying of missile fuel tanks, FE 
110, test results on new liquid propellants, FE 128, a report investigating the air flow patterns in the 
wind tunnel, FE 579, and a mathematical exposition on iteration methods applied to differential 
equation, FE 621, all held at the NASM archive.  These are but a fraction of the hundreds of technical 
reports that are available to researchers at NASM and the Deutsches Museum.
218
part in the improving the pace of development at Peenem?nde.  Brauchitsch?s order 
for the acceleration of work on the missile, shortening the development time from 
four years to two, was impossible to fulfill, but it led to an intensification of the 
development work at Peenem?nde and a closer cooperation between the military 
installation and other experts in many of Germany technical universities.  The rocket 
specialists held a small number of conferences in September 1939, which culminated 
at the facility that month in the ?Day of Wisdom,? an event in which nearly forty 
professors came to Peenem?nde to contribute their knowledge to the now 
increasingly intensive work.
147
  For a variety of reasons, including ideological 
commitment as well as scientific interest, university professors were largely willing to 
work on the development program, and an intensely focused, mutually beneficial 
relationship was the result for much of the war period.  The universities received 
more funding and professors and researchers in their departments obtained draft 
exemptions, while Peenem?nde received the benefit of their expertise.  The technical 
universities cooperated closely with the engineers and scientists at the base.  
Especially prominent was the work done for the benefit of the missile program by 
professors at TU Darmstadt, Dresden, Stuttgart, Hannover, and G?ttingen.  Their 
work centered mostly on parts development, but they also helped contribute 
theoretical and mathematical ideas, such equations designed to help reduce the 
dispersal of the rocket from its target and increase its range.  They also suggested 
147
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 83.
219
theoretical techniques to assume launch and trajectory angles, as well as write 
important papers on the abilities of different instruments within the rocket.
148
Contacts with the technical universities also satisfied important professional 
goals for those at Peenem?nde as well.  Particularly thorny issues could be solved by 
larger meetings and conferences with faculty members at the universities.  
Peenem?nde development specialists met with professors and other engineers who 
were particularly skilled in certain areas in conferences that could last for several 
days.  The Peenem?nders took their questions, solutions, developments, and problems 
to these conferences in order to hear the solutions proposed by their academic 
colleagues.  The engineers, all of whom were almost always Doctor-Engineers or 
Diploma-Engineers (mere technicians were rarely, if ever, invited), updated their 
colleagues on the latest research in the field, learned about the newest advances in 
technology, and traded development ideas in their particular field of work.  In this 
way, Peenem?nde development engineers and scientists were able to reinforce their 
professional standing among their colleagues as well as meet and work with like-
minded individuals who had the same interests.  These were, in short, professional 
conferences of the highest order, designed for the same purposes as those in other 
academic and professional meetings, and went a long way toward satisfying the 
professional ideals of engineering and scientific specialists at Peenem?nde.
149
All of their cutting edge work combined with the exclusivity of the technical 
community at Peenem?nde to awake in the specialists an increased sense of 
148
 Reisig, Raketenforschung, 100- 103.  Reisig?s measurement section especially benefited from the 
connections to the technical universities.
149
 See, for example, Protokoll ?ber die VP-Hochschultagung in Darmstadt, 29.9 bis 1.10.42, 
RH8/v.1265, BA/MA.  This particular meeting focused on how to solve several of the seemingly 
intractable guidance problems.
220
professional self-worth.  William J. Goode has argued that the elite of any profession 
is almost always conscious of a communal identity.
150
  This was certainly the case at 
Peenem?nde.  The specialists there increasingly came to define themselves in terms 
of their very unique work and showed a great deal of pride in what they were doing.  
Gerhard Hufer stated that, ?I was immensely proud to be at Peenem?nde and 
associated with that wonder weapon which we called the V-2.  We knew all about the 
so-called V-1 flying bomb, but it was our rocket that was the big hope.  We realized 
that the enemy could shoot down the V-1, but they could have no defense against our 
rockets.?
151
  Another specialist declared to Huzel shortly after his arrival on the base, 
?We here are super engineers!?
152
  Huzel?s own opinion was somewhat more modest, 
but still an evocative statement of his belief in his colleague?s professional worth.  He 
wrote that they were ?believing, stubborn, undaunted, hard workers? whose genius, 
?given unshaken belief, untiring effort, ingenuity, hard work, dedication, is capable of 
solving almost anything.?
153
  Clearly, the work performed at Peenem?nde did not 
merely satisfy the technical specialists? professional goals.  Rather, they came to view 
themselves as elite members of their profession.  Only the dauntless ?super engineer? 
was capable of gaining entry into this community and also helping it to reproduce by 
continuing to some of the most complex technical challenges in the world.  The 
Peenemunde engineers? sense of significance, their professional achievements, career 
development, peer prestige, were largely a function of the elite community 
constructed at the base.  
150
 William J. Goode, ?Community Within a Community: The Professions,? American Sociological 
Review, 22/2 (April 1957), 194.
151
 Quoted in Middlebrook, The Peenem?nde Raid, p. 28.
152
 Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, p. 77. 
153
 Ibid., pp. 77-78. 
221
Peenem?nde specialists needed every bit of the fortitude that they could 
muster for their work on the missile.  A seemingly endless series of problems plagued 
the missile?s development and caused a good deal of tension between the divisions on 
the base.  However, in the late afternoon of October 3, 1942, the Peenem?nders? hard 
work finally paid off.  The rocket labeled A4/V4, the fourth experimental launch 
rocket, lifted off from its platform flew away east over the Baltic Sea.  It achieved a 
maximum speed of nearly 3500 miles per hour as it flew to an altitude of fifty miles 
and crashed into the sea nearly 120 miles away.  This was the first time that any man-
made instrument had actually made it into space, and it was a titanic achievement.  
Dornberger wrote that ?I am not ashamed to admit that I wept with joy.  I couldn?t 
speak for a moment; my emotion was too great.  I could see that Colonel Zanssen was 
in the same state ? We yelled and embraced each other like excited little boys.?  
According to Dornberger, everyone who participated in the test was doing the 
same.
154
  Werner Rosinski recalled that after the launch, ?Everyone was really 
excited.  Everybody thought that we?ve got it made now.?
155
  That evening, 
Dornberger held a celebration in the officers? club at Peenem?nde in which he 
delivered a speech using language that was striking in its similarity to the Weimar 
rocket enthusiasts?.  Describing his panegyric in his post-war memoirs, Dornberger 
stated to those assembled that ?The following points may be deemed of decisive 
significance in the history of technology: we have invaded space with our rocket and 
for the first ? mark this well ? have used space as a bridge between two points on the 
earth ? To land, sea, and air may now be added infinite empty space and an area of 
154
 Dornberger, V-2, 12-13.
155
 Wernher Rosinski Interview with sociologist Donald E. Tarter, University of Alabama Huntsville 
(UAH).
222
future intercontinental traffic, thereby acquiring political importance.?  Though 
Dornberger raised space travel as an obvious result of their work, he went on to 
emphasize to his listeners that this was not their first priority.  ?So long as the war 
lasts,? he pointed out, ?our most urgent task can only be the rapid perfecting of the 
rocket as a weapon.?
156
  The exigencies of war would not wait.  
Nevertheless, despite this profoundly impressive technological achievement, it 
was also, as Michael Neufeld points out, very lucky.
157
  Major developmental 
problems still existed, and it would be many months before the Peenem?nders would 
be able to construct a reliable, problem-free, easily mass-produced weapon.  Even so, 
the successful launch caught the attention of many important members of the regime, 
and the pressure to succeed grew even more while powerful organizations jockeyed 
for control of the program.  Despite this, the Peenem?nders continued on, laboring 
tirelessly to capitalize on their remarkable achievement.      
****
The personal and professional dynamics in place at the Army?s secret rocket 
facility on the Baltic coast were central to the process of remolding its individual 
technical specialists? heterogeneous identities into Peenem?nders, a unified, 
homogenous community with a singular professional vision.  This process involved a 
subtle, but relentless process of re-socialization into the secret world of the 
Peenem?nde army rocket center, and was based on the convergence of a number of 
powerful forces.  In the first place, Peenem?nde did indeed prove to be a paradise, as 
Fritz Todt complained in 1941.  The living accommodations, food situation, and 
156
 Dornberger, V-2, 17.
157
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 165.
223
social arrangements were all first-rate and far better than anything else that existed in 
wartime Germany.  Peenem?nde employees availed themselves of the numerous 
diversions that living on Usedom offered, and found that their assignment to the 
rocket facility was a major stroke of personal good fortune.
In addition, employees at Peenem?nde also fulfilled many of their 
professional ambitions at the base.  They carried out their exciting, cutting edge work 
in an atmosphere of collegiality and respect that enhanced their dedication to the 
project at the same time as it established a specialized blueprint for the emergent 
profession of rocket engineering.  They were fully conscious of the ?community of 
profession? and self-identified as the elite of German engineering.  Moreover, the 
Peenem?nders accepted as a given that they were there to develop and produce a 
ballistic missile to help defend their nation against the onslaught of its enemies.  They 
adhered to their institution?s central axiom fully automatically, and all other 
considerations were secondary to the successful completion of this task.  
When combined with the overwhelming labor shortage that Germany 
experienced during the war, this situation would have a devastating effect on the lives 
of foreign workers dragooned into armaments production and the ill-fated prisoners 
that SS pressed into slave labor.  In this climate of utter dedication to the goals of the 
Peenem?nde project, the missile specialists? interests outweighed the concerns of any 
other groups.  Even those Peenem?nders who did not agree with use of forced and 
slave labor nonetheless condoned its practice, partially because of disciplinary 
coercion enacted by the regime and partially because the concerns of these 
unfortunate prisoners weighed lightly in the balance.  The interests of the slave 
224
laborers paled in comparison to those of the engineers, who staked their personal and 
professional lives on rocket development and production.  Their identification with 
the goals of the rocket project, learned and internalized in Peenem?nde, would deeply 
implicate them in the systematic torture and murder of concentration camp prisoners 
at the terrifying underground factory of Mittelwerk.
Chapter 4
The Armaments Ministry, the SS, and Foreign Labor at Peenem?nde
Developmental success in October 1942 spurred the increased interest of very 
powerful organizations within the Third Reich.  Albert Speer?s Armaments Ministry 
had, under Fritz Todt, been content to supply labor and technical guidance to the 
construction at Usedom, but saw that the time was finally right to seize the reigns of 
the program and push for the highest priority for mass producing the nation?s newest 
technological marvel.  In addition, Heinrich Himmler, whose fascination with 
technical novelty was surpassed only by his ideological fervor and understated 
barbarity, increasingly came to see his SS as the organization most fit to guide the 
burgeoning success of the missile program.  The Army, though still a powerful factor 
in decisions about the program, began a steady decline in influence over its prized 
possession.  Nevertheless, its long-time civilian and military specialists at 
Peenem?nde proved themselves to be perfectly willing to cooperate with these new, 
but contentious allies.  The Peenem?nders, despite some misgivings, accepted their 
ideologically motivated, often intrusive masters, ultimately discovering that 
collaboration with these organizations could assist them in very important ways on 
the path to completion of their work.          
Nevertheless, at the end of 1942, many obstacles still loomed in their way.  
Perhaps the most intransigent of these was the labor supply needed to continue and 
expand their work.  German industry in general suffered from a labor shortage, but by 
early 1943, those at Peenem?nde felt it most acutely.  The developmental success in 
October of the previous year meant that the regime expected mass production shortly 
226
thereafter, but a number of difficult development and production problems remained.  
The developmental issues would have to be solved by sheer determination and 
intelligence, but the labor problem remained hugely problematic as long as their 
nation?s general dearth of workers continued.  In early 1943, administrators at 
Peenem?nde solved this problem by agreeing to the use of concentration camp slave 
labor to mass produce the V-2 missile.  The employment of slave labor in the missile 
program illustrates the extent to which its participants, many of whom were not 
particularly motivated National Socialists, came to identify their success, both 
professionally and personally, with the production and deployment of the missile.  
They became eager and willing participants in the wanton exploitation of perceived 
racial and national enemies in order to further their own ends and, as a consequence, 
defend the Nazi state.  Motivating all of this was the internalization of the cultural 
dynamic unique to Peenem?nde in which secrecy, ideology, and group-level self-
interest all played a paramount role.   
This chapter examines the growing collaboration between the Peenem?nde 
missile base, the Armaments Ministry, and the SS.  The outcome of this collaboration 
was the Peenem?nders? decision to employ slave labor in their work. Many 
specialists at the missile base resented the intrusion of Speer?s Ministry into their 
bailiwick, but were kept in line by the judicious employment of administrative muscle 
as well as the common end of defending the regime ? all of this despite of the dislike 
that many Peenem?nde specialists had for certain Armaments Ministry engineers.  
When Reichsf?hrer-SS Heinrich Himmler signaled his interest in the missile 
program, leading Peenem?nders also initially blanched at the idea, but as wartime 
227
manpower demands increasingly endangered their institution?s central goal of 
producing thousands of operational missiles, they turned to the SS for the solutions to 
their problems.  The catastrophic result of this cooperation was the terrible 
underground camp and factory known as Dora-Mittelbau.
Even before the SS transferred mass production to Dora, the Peenem?nders 
had the opportunity to view slave labor for themselves on Usedom.  This chapter also 
examines, for the first time, the conditions of forced and slave labor at Peenem?nde 
itself.  Though more work yet needs to be done in this area to draw firm conclusions 
about the scope and dynamics of foreign labor on Usedom, it is clear that what 
mattered most for the survival chances of foreign labor at Peenem?nde had nothing to 
do with Nazi conceptions of race.  Rather, they had everything to do with the 
technical skill of individual workers.  Frighteningly, conditions for these workers at 
Peenem?nde mirrored those discovered by the even more unfortunate laborers at 
Dora Mittelbau.
Setting aside the work of investigative journalists on one hand, for whom the 
engineers? guilt in SS crimes is a foregone conclusion, and postwar rocketry 
enthusiasts on the other, who argue equally implausibly that the Peenem?nders were 
innocent victims caught up in a battle of institutional forces beyond their control (if 
they mention Mittelwerk at all), the work by professional historians in this area has 
been instructive, but problematic.
1
  Recent studies have done a great deal to elucidate 
1
 Though slave labor in the missile program began receiving historians? attention in the late 1960s, it 
remained a relatively unknown phenomenon until only recently.  East German historians were the first 
to begin serious study of the camp, and they did so relatively early compared to historians elsewhere.  
A student research circle at Humboldt University, led by Walter Bartel, himself a former prisoner at 
Buchenwald, produced a number of masters theses and dissertations on the subject.  Many are now 
difficult to find, but may be located in the Stasi archive (Die Bundesbeauftragte f?r die Unterlagen des 
Staatssicherheitsdienstes der ehemaligen Deutschen Demokratischen Republik -- BStU) in Berlin.  See, 
228
the framework in which the decision to employ slave labor was made as well as the 
actual conditions of those prisoners who worked to manufacture the missile in the 
underground factory.  However, this scholarship tends to draw too strict a division 
between the development engineers at Peenem?nde and the production engineers 
from the Armaments Ministry and SS.  Their arguments strongly imply that once 
mass production began, with labor supplied by the SS, development specialists at 
Peenem?nde had a minimal and uneven impact on the V-2 program generally, only 
suggesting minor technical changes to improve performance and to solve some of the 
more intransigent operational issues.  Production engineers supplied by the 
Armaments Ministry and SS, they indicate, began to dominate the most important 
for example, Gotz Dieckmann, ?Existenzbegingungen und Widerstand im Konzentrationslager-Dora-
Mittelbau unter dem Aspekt der funkionellen Einbeziehung der SS in das System der faschistischen 
Kriegswirtschaft,? Ph.D. Dissertation, Humboldt University, 1968, and Laurenz Demps, ?Zum 
weiteren Ausbau des staatsmonopolistischen Apparates der faschistischen Kriegswirtschaft in den 
Jahren 1943 bis 1945 und zur Rolle der SS und der Konzentrationslager im Rahmen der 
R?stungsproduktion, dargestellt am Beispiel der unterirdischen Verlagerung von Teilen der 
R?stungsindustrie,? Ph.D. Dissertation, Humboldt University, 1970.  Much of this work was motivated 
by the West German Dora trial in Essen from 1967-1970, and focused on the main camp of Dora itself, 
ignoring its many subsidiary camps.  The first West German study of Dora-Mittelbau was Manfred 
Bornemann and Martin Broszat, ?Das KL Dora-Mittelbau,? in Studien zur Geschichte der 
Konzentrationslager, Schriftenreihe der Vierteljahreshefte f?r Zeitgeschichte, 21 (Stuttgart: Deutsche 
Verlags Anstalt, 1970), 154-198, and Bornemann, Geheimprojekt Mittelbau: Die Geschichte der 
deutschen V-Waffen Werke (Munich: Lehmann, 1971).  Both studies drew largely from the previous 
East German work.  After this flurry, work on the Dora camp was largely dormant until the 1990s.  
The work of Michael Neufeld The Rocket and the Reich: Peenem?nde and the Coming of the Ballistic 
Missile Era (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995) and Rainer Eisfeld, Die Unmenschliche 
Fabrik: V-2 Produktion und Mittelbau-Dora (Erfurt: Landeszentrale f?r Politische Bildung Th?ringen, 
1993) necessarily focused on missile production at Dora, but even more recent studies have refocused 
the historiography of this camp on its subsidiaries, where the majority of the inmates perished while 
working at massive construction projects.  See Joachim Neander, Das Konzentrationslager "Mittelbau" 
in der Endphase der nationalsozialistischen Diktatur : zur Geschichte des letzten im "Dritten Reich" 
gegr?ndeten selbst?ndigen Konzentrationslagers unter besonderer Ber?cksichtigung seiner 
Aufl?sungsphase (Clausthal-Zellerfeld : Papierflieger, 1999), Andre Sellier, A History of the Dora 
Camp: The Story of the Nazi Slave Labor Camp That Secretly Manufactured V-2 Rockets Transl. By 
Stephen Wright and Susan Taponier, (Chicago: Ivan R. Dee, 2003), and Jens-Christian Wagner?s 
magisterial, unequalled Produktion des Todes: Das KZ Mittelbau-Dora (G?ttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 
2001).
229
decisions made with regard to the V-2.
2
  This picture of the Peenem?nders draws too 
great of a distinction between Peenem?nde?s development employees and the 
production engineers who plied their trade in Mittelwerk.
3
The following two chapters modify these assertions by showing that
development engineers from Peenem?nde were in fact central to decisions that deeply 
implicated the missile program in the crimes of the Third Reich.  Chapter four shows 
that there was in fact an increasingly widespread collaboration between Peenem?nde 
authorities and the two competitive institutions of the Armaments Ministry and the 
SS.  It also examines the conditions of life for the numerous types of foreign workers 
on Usedom.  Chapter five further develops these same issues as they played 
themselves out in the murderous conditions at concentration camp Dora.  The 
relationships that crystallized while production remained at Peenem?nde established a 
model for those at Dora, except that those at Dora took place in an environment of 
constantly increasing radicalization, desperation, and ferocity.  Former Peenem?nde 
engineers had an important part to play in this tragic period leading up to the end of 
the war.  Indeed, as early as the middle of 1943, Peenem?nde, with its deeply 
ingrained institutional culture of self-interest, unavoidable National Socialist 
ideological messages, and steadily increasing cooperation with some of the regime?s 
most barbaric elements, had embarked on a path that would eventually involve it in 
some of the regime worst criminal atrocities.
2
 See, for example, Michael Thad Allen, The Business of Genocide: The SS, Slave Labor, and the 
Concentration Camps (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002), 208-239, Neufeld, The 
Rocket and the Reich, 167- 238, Sellier, A History of the Dora Camp, and Wagner, Produktion des 
Todes.
230
Strong Arms: The Armaments Ministry and the SS 
As the Peenem?nders slowly began to overcome the technical difficulties of 
missile development in the summer and fall of 1942, the issue of mass production 
began to loom ever larger.  For the specialists at the facility, the missile program had 
always been carried out on a crash basis, but Dornberger?s and the Army leadership?s 
incessant demands that the missile be operational as soon as possible only increased 
the pressure to usher in mass production with absolutely no delays.  Once the missile 
had been successfully launched in October 1942 and began to show, at least to regime 
authorities, its promise as a ?wonder weapon,? Peenem?nde?s nominal independence 
as an Army program quickly began to wane.  The Armaments Ministry and SS both 
began to take an interest in subsuming it under their large and powerful umbrellas.
4
Nevertheless, even though both organizations would, with varying degrees of success, 
compete with each other to exert increased control over the program, Peenem?nde 
missile specialists proved themselves to be perfectly willing to cooperate with 
individuals in either organization in order to solved the complex issues of mass 
production and labor procurement.  The reason for this lies in the fact that those 
engineers from both the Armaments Ministry and the SS who were detailed to work 
in the program held many of the same institutional goals that bound the 
Peenem?nders together as a dynamic technological community.
4
  Michael Allen has successfully argued that these battles over large and important projects by such 
influential organizations were not merely efforts to gain increasing power in the polycratic National 
Socialist system.  Rather, in the second half of the war, these organizations, especially the SS, were 
motivated to remake the state on the model provided by their own specific ideological vision.  Michael 
Thad Allen, The Business of Genocide: The SS, Slave Labor, and the Concentration Camps (Chapel 
Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002).  Karin Orth?s wide-ranging study of the Nazi camp 
system argues less convincingly that such battles were merely a part of Himmler?s ?political power 
calculations.?  See Karin Orth, Das System der Nationalsozialistischen Konzentrationslager (Munich: 
Pendo Verlag, 2002), esp. 162-221.    
231
Nearly two months after the successful launch test on October 3, 1942 (and 
three days after the Soviet Union began its onslaught against the Sixth Army at 
Stalingrad), Hitler ordered Albert Speer to begin mass producing the missile as 
quickly as possible.  One of the dictator?s primary reasons for doing so was to extract 
?vengeance? on England for its destructive bombing raids on German cities.
5
  To 
bring the V-2 on line as quickly as possible, in early December, Speer organized what 
he called the A-4 Special Committee.  This group was made up of some twenty sub-
committees whose members included specialists from Peenem?nde, industrial 
representatives, and Armaments Ministry officials.  Their job was to coordinate the 
production and delivery of parts as well as the finished missile, organize proper 
transportation of raw materials, and test the mass-produced batch runs for quality 
control.  Speer charged the famous locomotive engineer Gerhard Degenkolb with the 
leadership of this large and important body.
6
  By January, the energetic Degenkolb 
began assembling his subcommittees.  Of note, he made von Braun the chairman of 
the subcommittee for ?Final Acceptance? (Endabnahme).  Von Braun?s deputies 
included the mercurial Thiel and several other engineers from Peenem?nde.
7
Degenkolb was an absolutely fanatical Nazi, complete with a blustering, 
overbearing, and even rude personality, as well as a reputation for ruthlessly 
completing his large projects with little regard for cost or human considerations.  
Dornberger?s physical description of him is indicative of his personal distaste for the 
gifted but imperious engineer.
5
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 169-170.
6
 Stahlknecht, Protokol ?ber Besprechung 5.12.42, RH8/v.1959, Bundesarchive/Milit?rarchiv 
(BA/MA).
7
 Von Braun to Degenkolb, 2/11/43, FE 732, National Air and Space Museum (NASM). 
232
He had a well-nourished appearance.  In his round, 
sallow face, the obliquely set, keen blue eyes darted 
restlessly hither and thither.  Prominent swellings above 
his eyebrows and the clearly marked veins in his 
temples were evidence of a hasty temper.  This was 
Degenkolb, one of the closest associates of our greatest 
adversary in the Ministry of Munitions, [Karl Otto] 
Sauer, the all-powerful Hauptamtsleiter (Chief of the 
Regional Party Office) ?  [Degenkolb] had a 
completely bald and spherical head, his soft, loose 
cheeks, bull neck, and fleshy lips revealed a tendency 
toward good living and sensual pleasures, while the 
restlessness of his powerful hands and the vigor of his 
movements were evidence of vitality and mental 
alertness.  He was never still.  His reputation as the 
creator of the war locomotive stood high.
8
Degenkolb did nothing to ingratiate himself with the community of missile 
specialists at Peenem?nde.  Almost immediately, he began making demands on the 
Peenem?nders that were virtually impossible to fulfill.  For example, by February 1, 
1943, Degenkolb demanded the construction and installation of fifty assembly trucks 
per month for the production line at Peenem?nde?s F-1 plant.  Because of bottlenecks 
in transportation and raw materials, only five were completed by that date.  Engineer 
Kruck at Peenem?nde, who was in charge of installation, noted that he simply did not 
have the resources to achieve this goal.
9
  Similarly, Degenkolb demanded that by 
February 1, 100 steering parts should be prepared at F-1 each month.  In fact, only a 
total of four were ready by then.  Again, the engineer in charge, Kowall, noted 
sharply that the resources were simply not available and such a demand impossible to 
fulfill.
10
  In addition, most of the production drawings, either of parts or assemblies, 
8
 Walter Dornberger, V-2 (New York: Viking Press, 1955), 75.
9
 Kruck, ?Fertigungsplanung Ger?t A4, Sonderausschuss A4.  Stand 1.2.43.  Aufstellung zu Position 
4b der Planungsubersicht, 1.2.43,? GD638.0.17, Deutsches Museum (DM).
10
 Kowall, ?Fertigungsplanung Ger?t A4 (Sonderausschuss A4.  Stand 1.2.43. Aufstellung zu Position 
5b der Planungsubersicht, 1.2.32,? GD638.0.17, DM 
233
were not yet prepared.  Those that were happened to be were in an extraordinary state 
of disorganization.  This was not just a problem at Peenemunde, but many of the 
firms contracted to make sub-assemblies and parts simply did not have production 
drawings ready, assembly machinery installed or easily mass-producible parts made 
up.
11
  Degenkolb could not have been pleased by this news.  Nevertheless, despite 
these and other problems, Degenkolb aggressively streamlined subassembly, 
systematized communications between the Peenem?nde developers, their suppliers, 
and other subsidiary firms, and rationalized technical innovations in mass production 
by ordering batch runs that set strict deadlines on the inclusion of such advances.
Even though Degenkolb took critical steps toward rationalizing mass 
production of the missile, Dornberger and the rest of the Peenem?nders who had 
contact with the domineering Nazi came to despise his methods.  Dornberger wrote of 
him that ?He intervened brutally wherever he considered it necessary to do so, pulled 
all the strings he thought needed jerking for him to get his way, scrounged, dismissed, 
or interchanged executives without any special mandate on the strength of his 
position in the Ministry of Munitions.  He dispensed insults, curses, and threats, and 
refused to go into detail ? He acted like a burly, endlessly threatening slave 
driver.?
12
  Indeed, many Peenem?nders beyond Dornberger considered him a crude 
barbarian who lacked any appreciation for the complexity and importance of their 
technological achievements.
To make matters worse, Degenkolb promulgated a production schedule in the 
beginning of April 1943 that made deeply onerous demands on the Peenem?nders and 
11
 Fertigungsplanung Ger?t A4, Sonderausschuss A4.  Stand 1.2.43. A4 Ger?t.  Auftr?ge f?r Fertigteile, 
25.1.43,? GD638.0.17, DM.
12
 Ibid., 89. 
234
was well nigh impossible to fulfill.  His schedule envisioned a monthly output of 
thirty missiles by July 1943, a number that would be ramped up to 450 by November 
and a preposterous 900 missiles per month by December.
13
  These missiles were to be 
produced at three sites: the F-1 production plant at Peenem?nde, Luftschiffbau 
Zeppelin in Friederichshafen, and Rax Werke in Wiener Neustadt.  A previous 
production schedule, devised by Detmar Stahlknecht, an Armaments Ministry expert 
who worked closely with the Peenem?nders beginning in mid-1942, called for a 
maximum of three hundred missiles per month at Friederichshafen and Peenem?nde 
by September 1944.
14
  Degenkolb brusquely shoved this schedule aside in favor of his 
more ambitious and unrealistic plan.  A number of problems remained to be ironed 
out, however.  Production drawings were non-existent or totally disorganized, parts 
lists were at best half completed, the assembly plants would not be ready on time, and 
Peenem?nde developers were still struggling to get consistent results from their test 
launches.
15
  Even as Degenkolb disciplined production planning, his schedule for 
final assembly was a fantasy because it simply ignored the realities of raw materials 
availability and the state of the V-2?s technological development.  Worse, the 
ambitious schedule caused a great deal of unhappiness and dissatisfaction among the 
missile specialists, who felt acutely the additional strain that it placed on them. 
Nevertheless, Degenkolb quickly moved to impress upon the Peenem?nders 
his unwillingness to brook any opposition to his schedule.  On April 15, less than two 
13
 Degenkolb, Fertigungsprogramm A4, 4/2/43, FE 732, NASM.
14
 Stahlknecht to von Braun, 2/24/43, FE 358, NASM.  Arthur Rudolph, the production chief at 
Peenem?nde, was less optimistic.  He felt that the Peenem?nde production plant would be able to 
produce approximately 250 missiles per month, or about 3000 per year.  Rudolph, ?Vortrag Dir. 
Rudolph vor den Mitgliedern des A4-Ausschusses ahnl?sslich ihres Besuches am 10.3.43 in 
Peenem?nde,? FE 833, NASM.  
15
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 175. 
235
weeks after he published his desired production numbers, the steely engineer 
convened a meeting at the headquarters of the A-4 Special Committee in the 
?Locomotive House? in Berlin.  Present, along with Degenkolb and his deputy, Heinz 
Kunze, were Dornberger, Zanssen, von Braun, Rudolph, and several other important 
representatives from Peenem?nde.  Degenkolb immediately reiterated to his audience 
in no uncertain terms that his production schedule stood as ordered.  Among other 
things, he also directed that every subcommittee leader was to send a bi-weekly report 
on the status of their work directly to him, and that all work not related to the missile 
was to cease immediately so that all available energy could be focused on rapidly 
completing the V-2.
16
  Two weeks later, Degenkolb delivered a circular to 
Peenem?nde that emphasized these points, ordering development on all other projects 
to stop ?until the development of this instrument is tirelessly brought to a 
conclusion.?  Furthermore, he ordered that once production began, ?any impairment 
of production will not under any circumstances be tolerated.?
17
  All of this sent many 
Peenem?nders into a fury.  According to Rudolph, Thiel was so angry that he 
threatened to quit Peenem?nde and teach at a university.
18
  He had already 
complained to von Braun that this was no simple piece of equipment that could be 
moved into mass production on a whim and made it clear that he felt Degenkolb had 
no appreciation for the engine?s technical complexity.
19
  Georg von Tiesenhausen 
stated that Degenkolb?s demands created a ?colossal strain.?
20
  The pressure to 
16
Degenkolb, Aktennotiz Nr. T-9/43, FE 833, NASM.
17
 Degenkolb, Anordnung Nr. 3/43g, FE 732, NASM.
18
 Rudolph OHI, NASM.  Dornberger noted that Thiel threatened this on a number of occasions, but in 
this case, he was struck by the meteoric developer?s sincerity.  Dornberger, V-2, 148-152.
19
 Thiel to von Braun, 3/16/43, RH8/v.1960, BA/MA.
20
 Georg von Tiesenhausen OHI, NASM.
236
successfully complete development at Peenem?nde, already nearly overwhelming, 
became unbearable under Degenkolb?s demands.  His impossible production schedule 
and ceaseless haranguing only increased the tension under which the Peenem?nders 
had to complete their work.
Even so, despite their personal distaste for Degenkolb and the increased 
pressure that he placed on the Peenem?nders, the leadership of the Baltic facility 
demonstrated a willingness to do their best by the A4 Special Committee?s Chairman.  
They certainly blanched at his personality and gnashed their teeth at his orders, but 
they nevertheless committed themselves to his schedule.  In the first place, 
Dornberger, probably sensing that the chickens of his earlier overly-optimistic 
salesmanship had come home to roost, gave the Peenem?nders a direct order to 
follow Degenkolb?s demands.
21
  However, once again, von Braun was the central 
figure in the enlistment of their support for Degenkolb?s schedule.  The brilliant
development engineer set an example by laboring mightily to fulfill Degenkolb?s 
orders, working on his own initiative to help open up production bottlenecks, shorten 
delivery delays, and improve quality control.
22
  He also used his authority to coax, 
chide, and push his flagging subordinates back into line.  
For example, in a circular that he sent to all of his deputies at Peenem?nde and 
to his ?Final Acceptance? subcommittee at the end of April, von Braun made it clear 
that they were to put forth their best efforts to meet Degenkolb?s schedule.  He stated 
flatly that ?The published production program of A-4 Special Committee Director 
Degenkolb is to be seen as the only valid one for future production planning.?  
21
 Dornberger, Aktennotiz, 6/6/42, RH8/v1210, BA/MA. 
22
 Von Braun to Degenkolb, 3/6/43, FE 732, NASM.
237
Sensing the dissatisfaction among many Peenem?nders, he required ?All employees 
of the [development office], the Special Committee, and the Work Committees to 
support the standing precepts with all means and to take up a healthy collaboration 
with this position.?
23
Von Braun clearly sensed the displeasure with the Degenkolb 
numbers and sought to make sure that the Peenem?nders did their best to support the 
Degenkolb program.  When the specialists? identification with their institutional goals 
began to break down in the face of an overbearing ideologue who seemingly had no 
idea of the difficulties involved in the missile?s development, von Braun, the most 
influential and inspiring leader in the entire effort, was able to bring their support for 
the program back into line by deploying his powerful managerial and symbolic 
authority.  To be sure, everyone at Peenem?nde had no choice but to accept 
Degenkolb?s program or perhaps face the end of their work, but this only explains 
part of the dynamic at the facility in early 1943.  A fatalistic acceptance of the 
inflated and premature production numbers would hardly help to rapidly overcome 
the myriad of technical problems still facing the developers.  Instead, when an 
opportunity arose for the engineers to delay, equivocate, or simply slow the pace of 
their work for lack of enthusiasm, von Braun intervened, explaining to them that the 
Degenkolb schedule would stand, but also successfully appealing to them to redouble 
their efforts, despite the untoward demands placed upon them.  In the end, this was 
one of the secrets of the success of the V-2 development and production programs.  
Von Braun?s dynamic leadership was a key to the rapid development of such 
radically new technology.  It not only helped to restore the flagging enthusiasm of 
many at Peenem?nde, but it also encouraged them to make even greater efforts on 
23
 Von Braun Rundschreiben, 4/30/43, FE 732, NASM. 
238
behalf of the program.  Many of them wavered in the face of Degenkolb?s often 
outrageous orders, but their shared dedication to his ultimate goal, propped up by von 
Braun?s energetic interventionism, drove them to accelerate the already breakneck 
pace of their work in line with the demands placed upon them by powerful regime 
officials.  
Even though Degenkolb?s schedule was never met, by early August, the 
Peenem?nders had managed to iron out many of the prickly development and supply 
issues and came to an uneasy, but permanent truce with the fiery and bullying Special 
Committee Chairman. At a meeting on August 4, Degenkolb and his deputy Kunze 
met with Dornberger and Zanssen in an effort to specifically lay out the terms 
cooperation between the Army missile program and the Armaments Ministry 
representatives under Degenkolb.  They agreed on a number of important points.  
Albin Sawatzki, a Degenkolb appointee who formerly worked for Henschel to 
produce Tiger tanks (and an engineer who would figure prominently in production at 
Mittelwerk), was given the responsibility for overall production planning.  However, 
Degenkolb compromised by making Sawatzki and production managers whom he 
assigned to the Rax Werke in Wiener Neustadt formally subordinate to Zanssen, the 
Army?s base commander at Peenem?nde.  Importantly, production planning at 
Peenem?nde fell to von Braun?s deputy in development, Eberhard Rees.  Dornberger 
and Degenkolb agreed to give Rees ?full dictatorial powers,? and he was fully 
responsible for the completion of the Degenkolb program at Peenem?nde.  Further, 
they ordered Rees to confer with Rudolph, Sawatzki, and Thiel in order to come up 
with a final plan for labor demands in production.  The minutes for this meeting 
239
formalized the plan to carry out production using concentration camp slaves, and 
Rees had the responsibility of providing accommodations for these ?convicts,? as 
Dornberger would erroneously label them.
24
  Thus, despite initial, widespread 
disagreement and personal dislike on the part of many Peenem?nders for Degenkolb, 
they were able to look past their differences in the interests of moving the program 
forward as quickly as possible.  Peenem?nde specialists forged a cooperative 
relationship with clearly defined spheres of influence and control between themselves 
and representatives of the Armaments Ministry.  In addition, by clarifying these 
spheres of competence and control, their plans further involved the Peenem?nde 
specialists in an increasingly brutal National Socialist labor policy.  In one stroke, 
they granted a civilian engineer full authority over all aspects of production at 
Peenem?nde while legitimizing the use of slave labor to carry it out by granting it an 
additional official seal of approval.  Peenem?nde specialists fully accepted the 
utilization of slave labor to complete their work, and indeed, had very few qualms 
about doing so in a regime that made high virtues out of service to the state and the 
exploitation of foreign enemies.
25
Bringing in the Blackshirts 
At the same time that the Peenem?nders were grappling with the Armaments 
Ministry?s demands on their technology, the SS began to take a keen interest in the 
24
 Niederschrift ?ber die Besprechung am 4.8.43 beim Heimat-Artillerie-Park 11, RH8/v. 1254, 
BA/MA.  The original decision to use concentration camp prisoners is discussed in the next section. 
25
 Another factor in this truce was that in July, Karl Otto Sauer, Speer?s ruthless deputy, giddy with the 
possibilities of the V-2, ordered that production be ramped up to 900 in October and 1500 by January, 
effectively doubling Degenkolb?s program in half the allotted time.  Dornberger, Aktennotiz Nr. T 
21/43, FE 833, NASM.  Speer recognized the absurdity of these demands and, to the relief of many 
Peenem?nders, ordered a reversion to Degenkolb?s overblown schedule, which was reasonable by 
comparison.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, p. 194-195.  
240
events on Usedom. For both personal and ideological reasons, Himmler had long 
possessed a deep and abiding fascination for complex technology, though his 
knowledge of it and his organization?s ability to produce it on a large scale was 
demonstrably sub-par.
26
  A program that possessed the size and spectacular potential 
of the V-2 was bound to draw his interest eventually.  Nevertheless, the first 
meaningful contacts between his organization and the missile producers were due 
largely to the prodding of Peenem?nde officials themselves.  In December 1942, 
Himmler visited the facility, where he toured the grounds and witnessed an 
unsuccessful launch test.  Unperturbed, Dornberger calculated less than a week later 
that he might be able to use Himmler?s recent interest to enhance the program?s status 
within the war economy.  He ordered the Army Commander of Peenem?nde?s 
Development Works, Lieutenant Colonel Gerhard Stegmaier, who was ?happy as a 
school girl about his special greeting from the Reischf?hrer-SS,? to pass along a 
message to Himmler through Stegmaier?s friend, Himmler crony Gottlob Berger, 
informing the head of the SS of Dornberger?s desire to meet with Hitler in order to 
pitch the aims of the program directly to him one more time.
27
  In the event, the 
meeting never materialized, but Dornberger continued to develop his connection to 
Himmler through Stegmaier and Berger in an effort to ensure that the program would 
have all of the resources it needed for rapid completion.
28
26
 Himmler, according to an SS business manager, ?supported all inventors on principle.?  See Allen, 
The Business of Genocide, esp. 57-164, for the myriad of failed technological projects attempted by the 
SS.
27
 Berger to Himmler, 12/16/42, RG 242, T-175, reel 117, NARA.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 
176. 
28
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, p. 176-178.
241
There was also another important connection between Peenem?nde and the 
SS.  Wernher von Braun himself joined the organization in 1940, though, as Neufeld 
points out, did so only after a local SS Colonel, purportedly acting on Himmler?s 
order, urged the young aristocrat to do so.  After some deliberation, von Braun 
agreed, though was not a particularly active member.  The development chief only 
attended meetings periodically and was known to have worn his uniform only a 
handful of times, supposedly surprising some who had no idea that he was a member 
of the dreaded blackshirts.  According to Neufeld, von Braun was not particularly 
enamored of the SS or even of Nazi ideology, and ?was motivated first and foremost 
by a desire to advance [himself] and [his] work, compounded perhaps by enthusiasm 
for the foreign and domestic ?accomplishments? of National Socialism.?
29
  Though he 
would use his SS membership when it benefited him to do so, what was truly 
important to von Braun were not his ideological convictions, such as they were.  
Rather, his career in rocketry assumed precedence over all other things.  
Nevertheless, the young aristocrat?s membership was yet another indication that the 
tenets of this organization were in no way an anathema to him.  At the very least, he 
was willing to cooperate with them as long such an activity would further his personal 
and professional goals.  That this collaboration also benefited the SS was a secondary 
consequence.  Even so, von Braun?s membership in Himmler?s organization would 
have important repercussions later in 1943.  
Despite all of this, Himmler made a clumsy and ill-fated attempt to seize 
control of the missile program in the spring of 1943.  The Reichsf?hrer-SS, based on 
29
 Michael Neufeld, ?Wernher von Braun, the SS, and Concentration Camp Labor: Questions of Moral, 
Political, and Criminal Responsibility,? German Studies Review 25/1 (2002), 61-62.  Also Neufeld, 
The Rocket and the Reich, 178- 180. 
242
a dishonest report that Berger received from Stegmaier, accused Peenem?nde?s 
commander, Leo Zanssen, of being a member of the local branch of the ?Catholic 
Action,? an anti-Nazi group largely made up of Catholic priests, and ordered him 
removed from his post.  While it is true that Zanssen was a Catholic, he was 
nevertheless a loyal member of the Army who, if anything, may have been growing 
disillusioned with the Nazi regime, though not enough to seek its defeat.  Fritz 
Fromm, the Chief of Army Armaments, empowered Dornberger to investigate the 
charges.  Dornberger temporarily assumed direct control at Peenem?nde and set about 
uncovering the affair.  He eventually managed to clear his friend?s name and have a 
shaken Zanssen returned to Peenem?nde.  Remarkably, Stegmaier retained his 
position ? Dornberger could at least rely on his loyalty to the regime ? and Himmler 
quietly backed off.
30
Though this affair resulted in a number of charged confrontations and bruised 
egos, Himmler made little progress in his attempt to seize control of the program.  
Nevertheless, the incident could not but have shaken the Peenem?nders and 
encouraged them to act even more strictly within what they thought were proper 
boundaries of behavior.  It only made more apparent to them that the Gestapo may 
very well have been actively operating behind the scenes at Peenem?nde to root out 
all anti-Nazi elements.  If an officer as important as Zanssen could be accused of 
seditious activities and removed from his post, there was no telling who among the 
civilians might be next.  Dornberger wrote that after he managed to restore Zanssen to 
his post in the fall, ?The threat of a formidable power working behind the scenes 
30
 On the particulars of this affair, see RG 242, T-175, Roll 124, NARA.  Michael Neufeld has also 
ably sorted out this story as well.  See The Rocket and the Reich, 180-183; also Dornberger, V-2, 182-
185.
243
remained.?
31
  This threat would rear its head again nearly a year later, but even then, 
the general would continue to show a remarkable proclivity to seek out the SS in 
order to fulfill the program?s needs.  Though the Zanssen affair was a rattling 
experience, it did not permanently poison the relationship between missile program 
administrators and the SS.
?Production By Convicts ? No Objections?:  Forced and Slave Labor in the 
Army Rocket Program, 1939-1943
Despite Himmler?s meddling and the near imprisonment of one of 
Peenem?nde?s key military figures, administrators at the missile base continued to 
remain open to the options offered by the SS.  Their deeply entrenched desire to 
satisfy Peenem?nde?s institutional goals by successfully delivering on the Army?s 
promises to the regime dictated that they should think flexibly about their remaining 
problems and remain open to any possible solutions.  One of the most intransigent 
problems was finding a labor force to assemble the missile.  Though many popular 
histories and memoirs of the period loudly proclaim that the SS forced slave labor 
upon the helpless Peenem?nders, the truth is far more sinister.  High- ranking officials 
at Peenem?nde either recommended the employment of SS-controlled concentration 
camp labor or enthusiastically agreed to using it once the option became available.  In 
no way did the SS compel the Peenem?nders to use slave labor.
32
  Once at the 
facility, the uses to which these prisoners were put foreshadowed in many ways their 
experiences in the hell of Dora-Mittelbau.  Indeed, the patterns of work for the slaves 
31
 Dornberger, V-2, 185. 
32
 Mark Spoerer has surveyed thirty-three industrial firms that used concentration camp prisoners as 
their labor force.  He has found only one instance in which state institutions coerced factories or firms 
into employing slave labor against their managers? will.  Mark Spoerer, ?Profitierten Unternehmen von 
KZ-Arbeit?  Eine kritische Analyse der Literatur,? Historische Zeitschrift 268 (1999), 61-95.
244
on Usedom laid the very foundation for the far more terrible experience underground 
months later.      
The use of foreign labor, either forced labor, prisoners of war, or 
concentration camp prisoners, in the missile program reflects the general ideas and 
patterns about such labor under the Nazi regime.  As was the case across the country, 
there was no predetermined plan for its mass operation at Peenem?nde.  However, 
though the Nazis were quite chary about using it at all because of ideological 
considerations, construction administrators at Peenem?nde recognized very early that 
the deadlines established by their own optimistic projections and by regime 
authorities could not be reached without resorting to foreign labor.  Acute manpower 
shortages because of the large military drain on the domestic labor pool forced their 
hand.  In the end, foreign labor proved an essential element not only in easing 
pressure on the labor sector in Germany generally, it was also central to the 
establishment, expansion and technological work that was carried out at 
Peenem?nde.
33
Foreign labor at Peenem?nde has roots that stretch back until just before the 
outbreak of war in 1939.  The first foreign workers in Peenem?nde were voluntary 
33
 Ulrich Herbert, Fremdarbeiter: Politik und Praxis des ?Ausl?nder-Einsatzes? in der 
Kriegswirtschaft des Dritten Reiches (Bonn: J.H.W. Dietz, 1985), translated into English as Hitler?s 
Foreign Workers: Enforced Foreign Labor in Germany Under the Third Reich, transl. By William 
Templer, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997).  English translation cited hereafter.  
Though somewhat dated, Herbert?s study remains essential reading on the topic.  His seminal work 
inspired many studies that largely confirmed and strengthened his own findings.  To date, historians 
have established a broad knowledge of how the forced labor system evolved and what dimensions it 
took as the Nazi period wore on.  More recent scholarship expands this knowledge by investigating 
forced labor outside of Nazi Germany proper and also examining how systemic factors such as age, 
gender, and employment sector determined the conditions of forced labor.  See, for example, Wolf 
Gr?ner?s forthcoming work Forced Labor of Jews: Comparative Studies on Forced Labor of German, 
Austrian, and Polish Jews Outside the Concentration Camps in the Third Reich (New York: 
Cambridge University Press) and Mark Spoerer?s ambitious and excellent study Zwangsarbeit unter 
dem Hakenkreuz: Ausl?ndische Zivilarbeiter, Kriegsgefangene und H?ftlinge im Dritten Reich und im 
besetzten Europa (Stuttgart: DVA, 2001).   
245
Czech contractors.  They arrived at the base to work either on the construction of the 
mammoth missile production plant at Peenem?nde East or at Peenem?nde West, the 
Luftwaffe facility.  Indeed, all foreign workers at Peenem?nde between 1939 and 
1943 labored only at construction sites around the base, not on development projects.  
It was not until 1943 that foreign workers were allowed into the development works.  
Nevertheless, because of secrecy concerns after the outbreak of war, Army 
administrators removed these Czechs from the island.
34
  The first forced foreign 
laborers to arrive at Peenem?nde were those dragooned by the vicious occupying 
forces in western Poland in the middle of 1940.
35
  These workers eventually 
numbered between 600 and 1000, depending upon the time of year, and augmented a 
German construction force of approximately 4800 men.
36
In short order, however, secrecy considerations also began to impinge on the 
use of foreign forced labor at Peenem?nde.  In July 1940, the Armed Forces High 
Command (OKW) ordered that no foreign laborers be allowed to work in top-secret 
facilities.
37
The number of Polish forced laborers diminished, but did not disappear 
altogether.  The exigencies of the demands for rapid construction dictated that they 
remain in place.  On July 27, Heinrich L?bke, who oversaw Peenem?nde construction 
for Baugruppe Schlempp, informed Peenem?nde administrators that he would do 
everything he could to retain the Polish workers.
38
  In this, he was relatively 
34
 Dornberger to Zanssen, 8/28/39, FE 342, NASM.  Rudolph to Speer, 10/12/39, RH8/v.1206, 
BA/MA. 
35
 Entstehungsgeschichte der Fertigungsstelle Peenem?nde, 7/2-4/40, RH8/v.1207, BA/MA.  Hereafter 
cited as Entstehungsgeschichte.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 185.  
36
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 12/2-4/40, RH8/v.1207, BA/MA.
37
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 7/2-4/40, FE 830, NASM.  Dornberger to Schlempp, 7/24/40, RH8/v. 1213, 
BA/MA.  Hitler also feared the risks of sabotage security breaches that came with the use of foreign 
labor.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 184. 
246
successful.  By December, a total of 630 Poles worked in construction projects at 
Peenem?nde, down from a high of approximately 1000 in August.
39
  Nevertheless, 
throughout 1941, construction on the production plant, rail line, and other support 
facilities was pressed forward as quickly as possible.  The only way to maintain the 
highest possible pace of the work was by resorting to foreign labor.  For this reason, 
the use of foreign labor was a matter of course in construction at Peenem?nde, and, 
outside of the demands made by OKW, there was very little discussion about its 
morality or disadvantages.  The only questions that came up revolved around how 
many workers construction administrators could procure and to what purpose they 
would be used.
40
  Despite OKW?s security concerns, nearly 1000 Italian workers 
arrived in Peenem?nde over the spring and summer of 1941 to help with construction 
projects for Peenem?nde West.  In April, Dornberger indicated that since Italians 
were employed by the Luftwaffe, he had no quarrel with their use at the Army 
facility, and Peenem?nde began employing them as well.
41
  In early 1942, French 
construction workers arrived at Peenem?nde to add to the work force.
42
The winter of 1941-?42 marked a watershed period for the use of forced labor 
in Germany.  The collapse of the Blitzkrieg strategy and new emphasis on total war 
meant that the Reich?s already strained labor supply was stretched to the breaking 
point.  To help overcome serious labor shortages, Reich officials turned in part to 
Soviet prisoners of war and other ?Eastern Workers.?
43
  In the second half of 1942, an 
38
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 7/27/40, FE 830, NASM. 
39
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 12/2-4/40, RH8/v. 1207, BA/MA. 
40
 Aktennotiz ?ber die Besprechung in Pee am 10.-12.2.41, 2/17/41, FE 831, NASM.
41
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 4/16/41, FE 831, NASM.  Baugruppe Schlempp, Bauleitung Peenem?nde, 
Aktenvermerk, 7/28/41, NASM, FE 342. 
42
 Aktennotiz, 4/2/42, RH8/v. 1209, BA/MA.
247
increasing number of these prisoners began arriving in the area around Peenem?nde.  
Planners there began to consider using them not only as construction workers, but 
also as assembly and production personnel.  Some 400 Soviet Army officers were 
housed in Wolgast, on the mainland approximately six miles away from the base.  
These men had technical backgrounds and the authorities utilized them as skilled 
laborers on Usedom.
44
  Hundreds of other unskilled Soviet prisoners were kept at a 
barracks camp outside of Trassenheide, approximately one mile south of the 
employees? settlement.  Arthur Rudolph originally hoped to use many of these 
prisoners in the assembly hall, but was forbidden to do so by regime authorities on 
secrecy grounds.
45
  All told, by April 1943, Army and Armaments Ministry 
authorities housed more than 3000 foreign laborers and prisoners of war on the 
island.
46
During this period, foreign labor also became the common solution for labor 
problems at subsidiary firms that manufactured parts and assemblies for the missile.  
Peenem?nde administrators had a strong hand in decisions about the use of these 
workers at the plants.  Perhaps the most important subsidiary firm was Luftschiffbau 
Zeppelin in Friederichshafen.  In the middle of 1941, Peenem?nde developers 
considered using the assembly plant there to produce small parts and fuel tanks for 
the missile.
47
  By the end of the year, they designated it as the second mass 
43
 Ulrich Herbert, ?Labor as Spoils of Conquest, 1933-1945,? in David F. Crew, ed., Nazism and 
German Society, 1933-1945 (New York: Routledge, 1994), 222.  
44
 Middlebrook, The Peenem?nde Raid, 32.
45
 Rudolph Aktenvermerk, 2/9/43, RH8/v. 1210, BA/MA.
46
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 185.
47
 Niederschrift ?ber die Besprechung am 3.-4.9.41 in Friederichshafen, Entwicklungsarbeiten bei 
Luftschiffbau Zeppelin GmbH Friederichshafen, 9/8/41, FE 728/B, NASM.
248
production site.
48
  In April 1942, Ordnance unveiled ambitious proposals to expand 
this plant and equip it with engine test stands, a liquid oxygen plant, and the requisite 
service facilities.
49
  The next month, von Braun himself traveled to Friederichshafen 
to assess what needed to be done to begin mass production there.   His report on the 
trip marks the first known instance in which he directly implicated himself in the use 
of forced labor in the missile program.  
In Friederichshafen that spring, von Braun carried out a thorough inspection 
of the assembly facility in order to determine its requirements for mass production of 
the missile.  He toured the assembly halls, delivery areas, work facilities, train 
installations, and power supply, all while noting the labor requirements for the 
factory.  A number of skilled workers at the plant were already available for use in 
the plant, but von Braun observed that they still needed to be complemented by 
trained workers from Peenem?nde.  He considered transferring a number of VkN 
soldiers to Friederichshafen for this task.  Moreover, von Braun strengthened the links 
between Peenem?nde and Friederichshafen by ordering the Zeppelin Works to send 
four work and production planners to Usedom in order to learn the best way to run a 
missile assembly plant.  Shop floor labor was difficult to find, but notably, he 
recommended that ?Construction of fuel tanks can be done by foreign workers and 
prisoners of war.?  Von Braun felt that approximately twenty German supervisors 
48
Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 143.
49
 Thom, ?Bauvolumen Ger?t A4,? FE 728/B, NASM.  The test stand would eventually be constructed 
at Oberaderach.
249
would be required to work with them and that the company could work out the details 
of their supervision itself.
50
Von Braun?s recommendations were taken to heart.  In October, Detmar 
Stahlknecht drew up a projected number of Soviet prisoners of war needed for labor 
in various subsidiary firms and sent it to Fritz Sauckel, the brutal and ruthless 
Gauleiter of Thuringia and General Plenipotentiary for Labor Supply in Germany.  
Stahlknecht requested that firms such as Klein, Schanzlin, and Becker in Frankenthal, 
Ardelt Werke in Eberswalde, and Friedrichs and Company in Hamburg all receive 
between 25 and 130 Soviet workers.  Most importantly, Stahlknecht ordered 200 
prisoners for work at Luftschiffbau Zeppelin.  Stahlknecht had also worked out 
precisely which skills were necessary and the number of each set of skilled laborers 
that would be needed.  Among other things, he requested from Sauckel one hundred 
mechanics, ten lathe operators, and ten tool makers for the Zeppelin Works, but 
provided a precise list of skills for each of the seven firms he was requesting prisoner 
labor for.
51
  In November, the Armaments Ministry informed Stahlknecht that the 
prisoners he requested were unavailable, as they were urgently required for mining 
operations elsewhere.
52
  Ultimately, it was the SS that provided the required labor for 
the Friederichshafen plant. In February 1943, Dachau administrators made the first 
50
 Von Braun, ?Niederschrift ?ber die Dienstreise vom 2.-5.5.42 nach Friederichshafen,? RH8/v.1959, 
BA/MA.  In his excellent history of the German missile program, Neufeld notes that the impetus for 
foreign labor at Friederichshafen came from Dornberger in October.  See The Rocket and the Reich, 
184.
51
 Stahlknecht to Sauckel, ?Ausl?ndischer Bedarf an russischen Fachhandwerkern f?r Sonderprogramm 
Peenem?nde,? 10/28/42, R41/282, Bundesarchiv Lichterfelde (BAL). 
52
 Letsch to Stahlknecht, 11/12/42, R3901/20.173, BAL.
250
shipment of prisoner labor to the Zeppelin Works in order to begin parts assembly for 
the missile
53
Thus, the transition to total war not only intensified the pressure on the 
Peenem?nders to complete their own tasks, it also drastically cut into the available 
supply of German labor while increasing the compulsion with which the missile 
specialists would put labor to work.  Well before they considered using concentration 
camp slave labor, managers at Peenem?nde took the first steps on their own crooked 
road to Auschwitz by taking the initiative and reaching out to find whatever sources 
of labor they thought might be useful for the successful completion of their work.  
This enterprising, committed search for labor, coupled with the shortages even after 
the German economy turned to Soviet prisoners (well over half of the 3.3 million 
Soviets captured in 1941 perished by the end of the year), meant that it was only a 
matter of time before Peenem?nde managers sought out what many across Germany 
believed to be the one last limitless supply of human reserves in the Reich ?
concentration camp slaves.
54
The resort to slave labor at Peenem?nde itself was not long in coming.  As the 
onset of serial production loomed closer and closer, the question of laborers to 
assemble the rockets became increasingly pressing.  Thus, in April 1943, Rudolph?s 
associate, Jaeger, the head of the labor operations subcommittee of the A-4 Special 
Committee, recommended to the production plant chief that they use concentration 
53
 Martin Weinman, ed., Das Nationalsozialistische Lagersystem (Frankfurt am Main: 
Zweitausendeins, 1990), 629.
54
 Edward Homze, Foreign Labor in Nazi Germany (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967) 83.  
Herbert, Hitler?s Foreign Workers, 133-149.  In late 1941-42, the SS also undertook a dramatic 
reorganization of its camp administration, setting up the SS-Wirtschaftsverwaltungshauptamt (SS-
WVHA ? Economic and Administrative Main Office).  One of the primary tasks of this office was to 
provide cheap slave labor to German industry.  Allen, The Business of Genocide, 128-164.
251
camp labor to assemble missiles on Usedom.  On April 12, Rudolph went on a tour of 
the Heinkel aircraft factory in Oranienburg, which used prisoners to manufacture 
airplanes.  Heinkel began using slave labor in this factory by requesting prisoners 
from Sachsenhausen in 1941.  In the summer of 1942, it built a subsidiary camp of 
Sachsenhausen on the grounds of the factory.   By April 1943, nearly 4000 detainees 
worked in the aircraft plant.
55
After his inspection, Rudolph returned to Peenem?nde with a glowing 
assessment of the possibilities of concentration camp labor for missile production.  
His report of the trip marks the beginning of Peenem?nde?s complicity in the use 
slave labor in the production plant on Usedom.  In it, Rudolph noted that Heinkel 
ordered prisoners from the SS according to professional group, though he also learned 
that he could only count on less than a quarter of these prisoners to have formal 
training in the requested field.  One free German civilian served as a supervisor for 
every ten prisoners.  He also reported that much of the Heinkel prisoner labor force 
was crowded into a large locker room directly adjacent to the assembly hall.  The SS 
guarded the prisoners and also provided food, clothing, and cleaning facilities for 
them.  Importantly, ever-present secrecy and security considerations also figured 
largely in Rudolph?s report.  He noted that prisoners of different national groups were 
not segregated on the shop floor, but rather that Heinkel managers integrated all of 
the various nationalities in the factory.  ?This by itself is decisive for the conduct of 
work,? he wrote.  ?The mixing together of nationalities has the advantage of limiting 
the formation of secret resistance groups.?  Moreover, he continued later in the report, 
?The operation of detainees offers considerable advantages over the earlier use of 
55
 Orth, Das System der nationalsozialistischen Konzentrationslager, 175-176.
252
foreigners, since all tasks not related to work will be taken over by the SS and offer 
greater security in terms of the demand for secrecy.? Rudolph ? clearly impressed 
with the SS?s willingness and ability to everlastingly ensure that these prisoners 
would never be free ? closed his report by noting that prisoner labor was the most 
feasible way to equip the production plant at Peenem?nde with workers.  He would 
request that Jaeger contact the SS about providing prisoners.  Meanwhile, the 
ambitious production planner noted, he would begin fencing-in the plant as well as 
the streets around it in order to make it secure for prisoner labor.
56
Concerns about maintaining secrecy, therefore, drove home a conception that 
foreign forced labor was inadequate.  Forced laborers were generally able to live and 
work together in groups, according to nationality.  They also were eligible for 
vacation time and could return to their native countries during periods of leave.  On 
the other hand, SS minders ensured that the slaves beneath them were offered no such 
solicitude.  Their policy toward slave laborers nicely complemented the 
Peenem?nders? secrecy considerations.  The demand for absolute secrecy made it 
clear that one of the best ways to sustain the program?s anonymity was to use 
concentration camp labor, which was utterly cut off from all contact with the outside 
world and had no hope of ever rejoining society.  After their inspection of the Heinkel 
factory, Rudolph and Jaeger also made it clear in June 1943 that, ?for reasons of 
secrecy and security,? they wished to exchange to French foreign laborers at the 
production plant with prisoners who were not eligible for any vacation time.  Foreign 
laborers who had the option of taking short trips home, they emphasized, should not 
56
 Rudolph, ?Besichtigung des H?ftlings-Einsatzes bei den Heinkel-Werken, Oranienburg, am 
12.4.43,? 4/16/43, RH8/v.1210, BA/MA.
253
be allowed on the grounds of the facility at all.  Heinz Kunze, Degenkolb?s deputy on 
the A-4 Special Committee, agreed immediately and directed that all forced laborers, 
not simply the French, be exchanged for prisoners who were not eligible for 
vacation.
57
  This left concentration camp slaves as the only option as a production 
labor force.  Thus, Peenem?nde?s budding relationship with the SS emerged from the 
ranks of its senior management and was conditioned on one hand by the dearth of 
labor in wartime Germany and on the other hand by their overweening desire to 
maintain the absolute secrecy of their work.  Rudolph recognized that he would solve 
two problems at once, and it was only after his positive assessment of slave labor and 
direct request for camp prisoners from the SS that the Armaments Ministry actually 
agreed to its utilization.
In addition, quite separately from Rudolph?s endorsement of slave labor, 
Dornberger also embraced the idea of using SS prisoners in the assembly plant.  At 
nearly the same time that Rudolph was touring the Heinkel works and giving his 
assessment of their its arrangement with the SS, Dornberger was inspecting the two 
other planned assembly facilities, the Zeppelin factory in Friederichshafen and Rax 
Werke in Wiener Neustadt (In July, a fourth production facility, DEMAG 
Fahrzeugwerke in Berlin, was added).  Without having any knowledge of Rudolph?s 
activities, Dornberger noted the possibility of ?a closed operation of 2200 skilled 
laborers from concentration camps around Rax Werke.?  These prisoners, he 
proposed, should be housed in the direct vicinity of the factory hall.  With this 
arrangement, he held, both the camp and factory could be fenced in and security 
57
 Aktenvermerk ?ber die Besprechung beim A4 ? Auschuss (Arbeitseinsatz) am 2.6.43 in Berlin 
(Lokomotivhaus), FE 833, NASM.
254
maintained relatively easily.
58
  Indeed, secrecy and security, in addition to the factory 
output, were key issues for Dornberger.  Slave labor in the missile program meant 
that industrial security could be expanded, labor problems solved, and costs reigned 
in.  All the while, projected output remained the same.  The similarity to Rudolph?s 
ideas, despite their lack of contact and discussion in the pivotal month of April 1943, 
was based on a strong collective understanding of the goals of their common 
endeavor.
Peenem?nde administrators and A-4 Special Committee embraced the 
proposals to use slave labor and moved quickly to make arrangements with the SS.  
On June 17, the first 200 concentration camp prisoners, half of them German and half 
of them Russian, arrived with their SS guards from Buchenwald.  They were housed 
in the cellar of the production plant, and their first task was to build a fence around 
the massive assembly hall in which they lived and worked.
59
  By the beginning of 
August, 600 skilled concentration camp prisoners were in place at Peenem?nde.  Base 
administrators had plans to build a camp just outside the assembly plant that could 
accommodate up to 2500 slave laborers.  Once this camp was complete, its 
commandant, ?In direct cooperation with Herr Director Rudolph, will be able to call 
train after train of prisoners to Karlshagen.?
60
  The arrival of these prisoners on 
Usedom marks the consummation of the relationship between Peenem?nde and the 
SS.       
58
 Heereswaffenamt, Arbeitsstab A4, Aktennotiz ?ber Reise mit dem Sonderausschuss A4 nach 
Friederichshafen und Wien vom 13.-20.4.1943, 4/24/43, RH8/v. 1959, BA/MA.  For the inclusion of 
DEMAG?s facility in production plans, See Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 193.
59
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 6/17/43, RH8/ v.1210, BA/MA.  
60
 Niederschrift ?ber die Besprechung beim HAP 11 am 4.8.43, RH8/ v. 1254, BA/MA.  Quotation in 
Aktenvermerk ?ber Besprechung beim Sonderausschuss A4 (Arbeitseinsatz) am 2.6.43 in Berlin 
(Lokomotivhaus), FE 833 NASM.  
255
Slave labor at Peenem?nde, then, emerged out of a variety of different 
considerations.  From the earliest days of the program, pressure to show results was 
omnipresent.  However, the era of total war had a dramatic impact on the missile 
program at the base, dramatically restricting the available labor pool while making 
missile operations an increasing priority.  The failure of German conventional 
weaponry gave cause for many in the regime to see Germany?s salvation in the new 
?wonder weapons.?  Hitler finally fast-tracked the V-2 production program early 
1943, just after the major defeats in the Soviet Union and Africa.
61
  Though there can 
be little doubt that many Peenem?nders welcomed this decision, it also placed great 
pressure on them to finally meet their institution?s goals by completing development 
and beginning mass production.  In turn, this pressure, combined with the constant 
need to maintain the utter secrecy of the program and Himmler?s desire to establish a 
presence at Peenem?nde, pushed the boundaries of the possible, making the use of 
slave labor not only a conceivable option, but also the best one.  Like the rest of the 
German state, Peenem?nde officials sought to mobilize every last drop of labor 
capacity available within the Reich.  The victims of their technological tunnel vision 
would be the unfortunate mass of starving prisoners within the slave empire of the 
SS.   
Nevertheless, these larger considerations fail to fully explain the turn into 
moral abomination.  Cultural dynamics within the community at Peenem?nde also 
made its unique contribution to this shift.  In the first place, the defining feature of life 
at Peenem?nde was the ubiquitous secrecy that the facility operated under daily.  This 
was obviously of paramount importance when it came to considering a labor force as 
61
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 191.
256
well.  Slave laborers were entirely and eternally cut off from the outside world.  In 
addition, while secrecy served to heighten the sense of community among those at the 
base, it also had important negative effects.  Secret practices helped to forge a 
community of closely-knit individuals who believed in identical principles and had 
the same group ideals.  The difficulty is that this dynamic also tended to shut out 
criticism and feedback within the community.  Some Peenem?nders feared 
registering their dissent, and the isolation that secrecy granted the Peenem?nders also 
sharpened their internal focus on their own unquestioned institutional goals, fostering 
a climate in which an admittedly shrinking number of alternatives were a priori not 
even considered.  According to Sissela Bok, this dynamic leads members of secret 
societies ?to become mired down in stereotyped, unexamined, often erroneous beliefs 
and ways of thinking.  Neither their perception of a problem nor their reasoning about 
it then receives the benefit of challenge and exposure.?
62
  This stunting of moral 
considerations was compounded by the general climate of racism and xenophobia that 
marked everyday life in the Third Reich.  Moreover, the Peenem?nders? relative 
contentment with their lives and disinclination to risk parting with the comfortable 
advantages to living on Usedom only helped to seal the matter.  The pressures of the 
war, the ideological tenor of National Socialist Germany, and the internal cultural 
dynamics at Peenem?nde utterly eradicated the conceptual possibility of alternatives 
to forced and slave labor while ensuring that opposition to its use was totally absent.     
62
 Sissela Bok, Secrecy: On the Ethics of Concealment and Revelation (New York: Random House, 
1983), 25.  This dynamic has important contemporary examples as well.  It figured largely in the 2004 
controversy over the CIA?s intelligence estimates regarding weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.  See 
?Senators Assail C.I.A. Judgments on Iraq?s Arms as Deeply Flawed,? New York Times, 7/10/04.  The 
Senate Select Committee on Intelligence labeled this dynamic ?Group Think.?
257
The practice of absolute secrecy also had an impact on a secondary level.  
Since the essence of secrecy is in its creation of boundaries and segregation of 
individuals or groups, discrimination of one form or another lies at its heart.  
Peenem?nders identified themselves as a cohesive community with like minds and 
like interests.  They most assuredly did not consider foreign workers of any stripe to 
be a part of their group.  The sense of elitism imparted by secrecy gave them the 
opportunity to segregate themselves from the prisoners.  This distinction between 
Peenem?nders and prisoners on Usedom was also reinforced by Dornberger.  
According to K. Friederich Baudrexl, a VkN technical illustrator, before 
concentration camp prisoners began arriving at Peenem?nde, the general announced 
to an assembly of employees that ?In the near future, convicts [Strafgefangene ?
Dornberger used this term instead of the commonly employed SS term H?ftlinge , or 
detainees] who are to work with everyone will appear here. I say to you now directly 
that they are all murderers, thieves, and criminals, and every criminal will always 
protest that he is innocent.?
63
  By drawing a distinct difference between the 
Peenem?nders and the so-called ?convicts,? Dornberger?s pronouncement helped to 
activate, reinforce, and clarify the Peenem?nder?s group identity as well as their 
perceptions of the foreign labor force on the island while establishing an environment 
in which the prisoners? priorities could mean virtually nothing to the civilians on 
Usedom.  Social psychologists have argued that in order to know what (or who) a 
group actually is, it is helpful to know what (or who) it is not.  Therefore, having an 
out-group with which to compare one?s in-group helps to clarify the categorization 
63
 K. Friederich Baudrexl, ?Als Techniker in der deutschen R?stung,? in Torsten Hess and Thomas A. 
Seidel, eds., Vernichtung durch Fortschritt: am Beispiel der Raketenproduktion im 
Konzentrationslager Mittelbau (Berlin: Westkreuz Verlag, 1995) 17.
258
process.  Moreover, group level categorizations become more prevalent in inter-group 
situations, like that on Usedom.  The ?elite? Peenem?nders stood in stark contrast to 
the poorly treated, underfed, shabby, and supposedly criminal mass of foreign 
workers.  According to social psychologists, once these types of group level 
categories are activated, members try to differentiate their group from the comparison 
group.  Inevitably, they argue, most inter-group comparisons favor the in-group, and 
the priorities of the out-group are virtually ignored.
64
  At the army?s missile base, the 
concerns of the Peenem?nders ? successful development, full and rapid mass 
production leading to large output and the onset of operations ? outweighed 
considerations for the foreign laborers at their disposal.  Their first priority was to 
defend the National Socialist state.  That this had to be done through the exploitation 
of other, less fortunate groups who were not even co-nationals, let alone ?co-
specialists,? was simply a matter of course.
Indeed, one of the most remarkable features of the Peenem?nde community is 
the very lack of contravening dissent over slave labor voiced by employees there, 
dissent that personnel might have expressed in petty administrative obstruction or 
even in simply deciding not to work as hard as they did.  They were quick to raise 
strident objections ? for which they suffered no reprisal ? when they disagreed with 
policies they felt negatively impacted their work or made impossible demands upon 
them.  Importantly, however, there was no great hue and cry, or even a considered 
debate in Peenem?nde, over the use of slave labor.  Nor was there a slackening of the 
frenzied activity there when concentration camp prisoners and their SS masters began 
64
 R. Scott Tindale, Catherine Munier, Michelle Wasserman, and Christine M. Smith, ?Group 
Processes and the Holocaust,? in Leonard S. Newman, Ralph Erber, eds., Understanding Genocide: 
The Social Psychology of the Holocaust (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 146.
259
arriving.  Employees at the base reflexively acquiesced to it through their absolute 
dedication to their deeply-knit technological community.  Management automatically 
endorsed it, and employees, through the total passivity that emerged as a result of 
their concern for other priorities, gave their consent.  Alternatives never weighed in 
the balance, and a slowdown in the work was inconceivable, both for the 
Peenem?nders and for their military masters.  Of course, most did not have access to 
the levers of power at the base, and it is perhaps unfair to expect an outpouring of 
disagreement or anger over foreign labor on Usedom. However, this does not mean 
that dissent could not have been registered in more subtle ways.  Instead, they 
adhered closely to the institutional goals of their community, expressing this 
commitment through collective, dedicated action that rapidly moved the program 
through the design stage to early phases of mass production.  This was a matter of 
their reflexive communal identity as a scientific and technological elite that had been 
granted a position of privilege by the Nazi state.    
The Life of a Foreign Laborer at Peenem?nde
An investigation into the life of foreign workers of any kind ? forced labor, 
prisoners of war, or concentration camp labor ? at Peenem?nde presents a number of 
challenges.  In the first place, the changing numbers of workers at the base makes it 
difficult to determine with real certainty the amount of foreign labor used there over 
time.  The shifting priority level of the production program between 1939 and 1942 
the seasonal nature of the construction work resulted in major fluctuations in the 
260
number of workers, including German civilians, assigned to Peenem?nde.
65
  Even 
more importantly, it is not easy to conceptually separate the different forms of foreign 
labor at Peenem?nde.  Forced laborers worked side by side with prisoners of war and 
even, for a time, concentration camp laborers, especially at construction sites on 
Usedom.  Fewer foreign workers were employed in development areas because of 
secrecy considerations.  This leads to the final problem involved in examining foreign 
labor at Peenem?nde.  There is, in fact, a limited amount of documentary evidence 
available on foreign workers involved with missile development, most of whom 
worked to machine tools or assemble parts.  The majority of foreigners worked for 
Baugruppe Schlempp on construction projects around the base.  They were only 
employed by the Army or Luftwaffe for a short period.
66
  Many of the records of 
BGS were largely destroyed or are currently unavailable.  It is therefore fairly 
difficult to formulate an exact picture of the conditions at the facility for a large 
number of foreign laborers.  Nevertheless, some broad conclusions can be arrived at.    
The basic fact of life for foreign labor at Peenem?nde was that the conditions 
of life on the island varied dramatically, not by arbitrarily assigned Nazi racial 
categories, but rather by skill and function.  This is an important counterpoint to a 
great deal of earlier literature on foreign labor in Nazi Germany.  For example, Ulrich 
Herbert has argued in several different pieces that the system of forced labor in Nazi 
Germany adhered to a strict set of racial guidelines that, despite some adjustments, 
65
 In the winter of 1939-1940, poor weather forced construction activities to shut down.  They restarted 
work at the end of March 1940.  Schubert, ?Wichtige Daten bei der Durchf?hrung des Vorhabens 
Peenem?nde,? FE 342, NASM.
66
 In September 1940, BGS took over construction management duties from the Army Construction 
Office.  Its local manager was Erwin Mahs, who reported to Heinrich L?bke in Berlin.  According to at 
least one report, in addition to its missile-related construction work, the BGS office in Peenem?nde 
also helped construct the labor camps and concentration camps that served as a repository for slave 
labor.  Max D?ring Statement, AV 7/85, Bd. 25, BStU.     
261
was never significantly altered.
67
  According to the Nazi conceptions of race, 
prisoners from northern and western Europe, such as the Scandinavians or French, 
occupied the highest position in the racial hierarchy and were treated accordingly.  
However, according to Herbert, a procession down the racial hierarchy reveals 
progressively worsening living and working conditions. Below the northern and 
western Europeans on this scale were southern Europeans, followed by Slavs, 
especially Russians, and finally, the concentration camp prisoners and Jews, who 
received the worst treatment of the lot. For Herbert, ?One?s belonging to a specific 
Volkstum, a specific national ethnic background, determined to a pronounced degree 
the actual fate of the individual laborer.?
68
An investigation of foreign labor at Peenem?nde reveals a rather different 
picture.  Significantly, Nazi ideological conceptions regarding race were not the 
determining feature in the conditions endured by different foreign labor categories.  
Instead, a more central factor in determining the conditions of foreign labor at 
Peenem?nde was the skill level of various groups of foreign workers.  Much of the 
work done by foreign labor at Peenem?nde was heavy construction, such as the 
building of dykes, laying of roads, and clearing of forests, which required the 
dedication of major concentrations of largely unskilled manpower to complete.  The 
work was dirty, exhausting, and dangerous, and the risk of injury or death ran high. 
Unskilled labor, which was relatively plentiful and cheap, required no training before 
being put into operation and could thus be replaced without any decline or slowdown 
in productivity. Therefore, BGS construction managers at Peenem?nde had very little 
67
 Herbert, Hitler?s Foreign Workers, 1-12.
68
 Herbert, ?Labor as Spoils of Conquest,? 241.
262
compunction to ensure that the conditions under which they labored were anything 
more than bare subsistence.  
Along with the vast majority of unskilled, forced foreign laborers across 
Germany, those at Peenem?nde found extremely difficult lives during their time at 
the facility.  Administrators dedicated an absolute minimum of resources for their 
well-being.  Their primary concern was the timely completion of their work.  Franz 
Brauns, a civilian construction engineer noted that Erwin Mahs, the leader of BGS on 
site at Peenem?nde, often met with Dornberger, Zanssen, and their deputies.  
According to Brauns, Mahs ?only cared about building? and ignored the needs of the 
construction gangs on the island.
69
  Construction administrators segregated unskilled 
forced laborers from the rest of the German population, had to live in cramped, 
shoddily constructed barracks, and Nazi officials often expropriated their miniscule 
wages.  Backbreaking, twelve-hour days at the construction site were the norm, and 
construction managers scarcely considered safety precautions for these workers.
70
The Italians, who, as citizens of Germany?s closest ally and, technically speaking, 
voluntary contract workers, might have expected decent conditions.  Instead, they 
found the situation at Peenem?nde unbearable.  In October 1941, they staged an 
uprising that was rapidly quelled by Army security forces.  Several of them were 
arrested and the rest went back to work, but shortly thereafter, construction 
administrators removed them from Usedom.
71
  A 1942 report noted that French 
workers, who had arrived only earlier that year, were sick and exhausted from 
69
 Franz Brauns Statement, AV7/85, Bd. 25, BStU.
70
 Martin Middlebrook, The Peenem?nde Raid: 17-18 August 1943 (London: Cassell, 1982), 31-32. 
71
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 10/16/41, FE 831, NASM. 
263
overwork.
72
  In the beginning of 1943, over three hundred Dutch laborers who had 
arrived only four months earlier purportedly found the conditions at Peenem?nde so 
difficult that they refused to return from their Christmas vacation.
73
  In October 1943, 
a typhus outbreak ravaged the foreign workers.  1300 Poles were unable to work for 
almost a month, pushing back deadlines for the ongoing building programs planned 
by Baugruppe Schlempp.
74
  Without question, the furious pace of construction along 
with the neglectful conditions under which they lived and worked took a heavy toll on 
unskilled forced laborers.   
Unskilled concentration camp laborers experienced even worse suffering at 
Peenem?nde.  Many arrived at Peenem?nde in terrible condition, the victims of 
malnutrition and long train rides in over-stuffed railroad cars.
75
  While at the facility, 
these workers existed under undeniably difficult conditions.  According to Paul 
Baader, a VkN soldier who worked on materials testing in the development 
workshops, unskilled concentration camp prisoners always received the worst and 
dirtiest work.
76
  Workers on the construction brigades ran an ever-present risk of 
serious injury or death.  Werner Rottleb was a camp prisoner sent from Neuengamme 
to Peenem?nde in 1943 and set to work on various arduous construction projects in 
both Peenem?nde East and West.  He remembers that the food in his camp was 
terrible and of insufficient quantity.  SS captors beat and even shot several workers at 
72
 Aktennotiz, 4/2/42, RH8/v. 1209, BA/MA.
73
 L.H. Jahnke Statement, ?KZ Peenem?nde ? Bericht der VdN-Forschungskommission Rostock,? 
AV7/85, Bd. 32, p. 2, BStU.
74
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 10/19/43, FE 873, NASM.
75
 Walter Grewe Statement, ?KZ Peenem?nde ? Bericht der VdN-Forschungskommission Rostock,? 
AV7/85, Bd. 32, p. 6, BStU.
76
 Paul Baader Statement, AV7/85, Bd. 33, BStU. 
264
the worksite.
77
   Many prisoners who did not work at the construction sites unloaded 
trains or ships in exhausting and brutal transport kommandos.  Karl Kr?ger worked 
with a civilian group in Peenem?nde harbor that marked and recovered test rockets in 
the Baltic.  He saw how camp prisoners slaved to move cement sacks from ships to 
waiting trucks and trains.  They had to carry their loads over impossible distances and 
SS guards beat or shot whoever could not bear the work.
78
Indeed, SS guards, in the camps as well as in the work gangs, treated their 
charges in the most murderous tradition of their organization.  Many unskilled 
laborers were killed during their time at Peenem?nde, but a direct figure is nearly 
impossible to estimate, given the paucity of sources.  Most prisoners were beaten or 
worked to death in the construction and transport kommandos, many others shot.  
According to one German witness, the prisoners were ?underfed, always hungry, 
totally weakened.?
79
  The explanations of deaths given by the SS, such as being shot 
?for resistance,? hung ?on the order of the Reichsf?hrer-SS [Himmler],? or the
ubiquitous term ?shot while attempting to escape,? (used by camp administrators to 
explain away the multitude of random acts of arbitrary violence that SS tormentors 
engaged in daily) only obscured the truth of the matter.
80
  The remains of many 
prisoners killed at Peenem?nde were incinerated in a crematorium in nearby 
Greifswald.
81
77
 Werner Rottleb Statement, ?KZ Peenem?nde ? Bericht der VdN-Forschungskommission Rostock,? 
AV7/85, Bd. 32, p. 2, BStU.
78
 Karl Kr?ger Statement, AV7/85, Bd. 25, BStU.
79
 Karl Dachner Statement, AV7/85, Bd. 25, BStU.
80
 See the collection of death reports in AV 7/85, Bd. 26, BStU.
81
 ?Auszug aus den Totenlisten des Krematoriums in Greifswald,? AV 7/85, Bd. 26, BStU.  Such 
generally vicious treatment may have inspired a resistance movement on Usedom.  In 1965, Theo 
Franz, a former civilian construction worker at Peenem?nde then living in East Germany, wrote to an 
SED apparatchik that a member of a prisoner resistance group told him that a group of Soviet officers 
265
In contrast, technically proficient foreign workers often fared much better than 
their unskilled compatriots.  Though available documents describing the conditions of 
skilled workers are even less common than those for unskilled laborers, some 
generalizations can nevertheless be made.  Skilled workers largely found more 
comfortable accommodations as well as far easier working conditions during their 
time on the island.   Frenchman Michel Fliecx arrived in Peenem?nde from 
Buchenwald in the early summer 1943.  On his second day at the facility, he and his 
fellow inmates had to line up inside the factory grounds where a civilian specialist 
who wore a party pin asked for their technical qualifications.  According to Fliecx, 
the Peenem?nder singled out welders, lathe operators, mechanics and other skilled 
laborers.  Fliecx, along with many other prisoners, was a university student, but 
luckily managed to convince the civilian overseers that they were in fact technically 
skilled laborers.
82
  Once given a skilled position, a German prisoner, Willy Steimel, 
noted that working in the factory with civilians was generally not difficult.  Work 
allocations in the assembly facility were assigned on the basis of technical 
qualifications.  He testified after the war that prisoners? technical skills ?Forced the 
civilian management to value the prisoner as a specialist and also to treat him 
accordingly, namely as a human being.  This brought about a partly bearable 
situation.?
83
  For Fliecx?s group, work days were from 7:00 a.m. to 5:30 p.m., with a 
was shot in the woods around Greifswald and buried in a mass grave.  The resistance group, 
purportedly known as the ?White Guard,? was made up of Belgian, Polish, and Russian prisoners.  
There are no other known documents beyond Franz?s letter to support his claim.  Theo Franz to Albert 
Norden, 2/5/66, AV7/85, Bd. 32, BStU.  
82
  Michel Fliecx, ?Wegen des Vergehens der Hoffnung ? Zwei Jahre Buchenwald ? Peenem?nde ?
Dora ? Belsen,? AV7/85, Bd. 32, BStU.
83
 Willy Steimel Testimony, RG 242, M-1079, U.S. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al, roll 4, NARA.  According 
to Neufeld, Steimel?s testimony is not entirely trustworthy because he was probably an SS informant.  
266
thirty minute break for lunch.  At the end of the shift, prisoners even had the 
opportunity to clean themselves and lounge on warm evenings under the spruce trees 
inside the factory fence.
84
Conditions outside of work also augered well for skilled prisoners.  Fliecx 
considered the food ?adequate, but we were nevertheless hungry.?
85
 Steimel, who 
also made the two-day journey from Buchenwald, noted that the food was much 
better than at his former camp.
86
  The prisoners were given individual bunk beds with 
two blankets each, as well as their own wash basins.  The sixty SS overseers, except 
for a sadistic Rumanian-German guard, a Volksdeutscher, whom the prisoners 
nicknamed ?Moustache? generally treated them well.  When ?Moustache? did go 
hunting for victims on which to take out his frustrations, civilian managers were able 
to complain about him to his commanding officer and limit his chicanery.
87
  Steimel 
also noted that SS guards ?Could not use the usual methods of the concentration camp 
because of the fact that a lot of civilian and military workers were present and did not 
permit it.?
88
  Under these conditions, the health of the prisoners generally improved, 
but this only cast into more stark relief the differences between skilled and unskilled 
foreign workers at Peenem?nde. 
Administrators of the missile program expressly sought skilled laborers to 
fulfill their needs.  In July 1943, 400 unskilled French prisoners arrived at 
See Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 189.  Nevertheless, most of his observations are confirmed by 
Michel Fliecx?s important memoir, which was unavailable to Neufeld when his work was published.
84
 Michel Fliecx, ?Wegen des Vergehens der Hoffnung ,? AV7/85, Bd. 32, BStU.
85
 Ibid.
86
 Steimel Testimony, RG 242, M-1079, roll 4, NARA.
87
 Fliecx, ?Wegen des Vergehens der Hoffnung,? BStU.
88
 Steimel Testimony, RG 242, M-1079, roll 4, NARA.  Even so, Fliecx notes that some guards did 
beat prisoners that they caught sleeping and sometimes made them perform physically torturous 
exercises during roll calls.
267
Peenem?nde from Buchenwald, and production administrators immediately attempted 
to exchange them for trained workers through SS-WVHA.  In the event, the exchange 
never took place because more prisoners arrived on the heels of this transport, and 
they were put to work in the necessary areas.
89
  For the most part, however, the SS 
promptly satisfied their demands.  Rudolph and Jaeger made requisitions, divided by 
skill, through Gerhard Maurer in the SS-WVHA, who would assign prisoners 
accordingly.
90
   This system worked relatively efficiently, and by early August, final 
plans to inaugurate the missile?s mass production could be laid.  After years of 
painstaking development, the final stages of the V-2 program were in sight.
****
The Peenem?nde missile base began using foreign laborers before the 
outbreak of hostilities in 1939, but by 1943, with the war situation worsening by the 
day and no easy solution in sight for the missile program?s desperate search for 
manpower, administrators voluntarily turned the SS in order to fulfill its needs.   
In the years after World War II, German rocket engineers in the United States 
proclaimed that they in fact had no control over the decisions made to use forced and 
slave labor to mass-produce the missile.  In truth, they were central to the effort, 
especially when it came to utilizing slave labor.  Specialists at Peenem?nde, not in the 
SS or Armaments Ministry, first broached the idea of using concentration camp 
prisoners.  After taking the initiative to discover how effective such labor actually 
was, they then approached the SS with their proposal.  Their acceptance of such a 
89
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 7/11/43, RH8/v. 1210, BA/MA.
90
 Aktenvermerk ?ber die Besprechung beim A4 ? Ausschuss (Arbeitseinsatz) am 2.6.43 in Berlin 
(Lokomotivhaus), FE 833, NASM.  For transport lists of prisoners to Peenem?nde, see National 
Archives Capture German Records Collection, ACC1996.A.0342, Reel 161, located at the United 
States Holocaust Memorial Museum (USHMM). 
268
measure was conditioned in large part by the institutional culture of their base, which 
subtly remade their individual identities into a collective body whose priorities 
outweighed all other considerations.  A combination of group self-interest, ideology, 
and the ever-present culture of secrecy, all exacerbated by the intensifying pressure of 
Germany?s military situation, eliminated nearly any possibility of serious examination 
of the course of their work and the regime which sponsored it.
Interestingly, the most serious objections raised by Peenem?nders and, 
therefore, one of the most serious threats to development and production, had nothing 
to do with slave labor.  When Albert Speer?s Armaments Ministry assumed an 
increased position of influence within the program by assigning the overbearing 
Degenkolb, roundly despised by all, to coordinate development and production, many 
Peenem?nders complained noisily and, in some cases, even threatened to quit.  In the 
end, what kept them in line was Peenem?nde?s institutional culture that promoted 
self-interest above all else, as well as a liberal amount managerial arm-twisting on the 
part of key figures such as von Braun.  These important features of the missile 
program enabled Peenem?nders to eventually see past the problematic demands (and 
Degenkolb?s abrasive personality) that were imposed upon them by the Armaments 
Ministry.  Despite the difficulties and complaints, they carried on as they always had, 
working feverishly to complete their work.
The Peenem?nders? relationship to Degenkolb also illustrates an important 
point.  When Degenkolb began making his influence on the program felt, 
Peenem?nde specialists were able to register their displeasure with him without fear 
of reprisal or punishment.  Engineers, scientists, and technicians replied to the Special 
269
Committee Chairman?s demands with vocal, strident, and often angry responses.  In 
this case, they clearly felt comfortable registering their dissent and displeasure.  
Some, like Thiel, even went to the extreme of threatening to quit the project 
altogether.  Dissent, therefore, was not out of the question at Peenem?nde.  
Nevertheless, internal hostility over the course of the program only surfaced 
when the designers? prerogatives themselves were threatened.  Only when higher 
regime authorities imposed policies upon the Peenem?nders policies that facility 
employees perceived as unfair, did employees act in a way that threatened to weaken 
the program from within.  In truth, even these problems were mitigated by the deeply 
ingrained, automatically activated sense of loyalty to Peenem?nde?s mission.  The 
acquisition of concentration camp workers promised to alleviate the program?s most 
pressing labor problems, which cut off at the knees any concern for the moral 
dilemmas wrapped up in slave labor.  The long-time presence of foreign forced labor 
probably only served to inoculate German civilians against such moral concerns.  
Self-interest reigned at Peenem?nde, promoting and justifying cooperation with some 
of the regime?s most fearsome elements.  The victims of the Peenem?nders? self-
interest were inevitably the camp prisoners themselves.  The full implications of this 
dynamic would play out in the infernal underground conditions at Dora-Mittelbau.
Chapter Five
Manufacturing the V-2 at Dora-Mittelbau
In the summer of 1943, employees at Peenem?nde considered themselves 
extraordinarily lucky.  Their work, though deeply strenuous, was as rewarding as 
anything they could have imagined in their professional lives.  At home, they either 
lived the lives of happy singles, started new families, or raised their children in a 
small, tightly knit community that was held together by deep and durable and social 
bonds.  The utter isolation and absolute secrecy of Peenem?nde meant that their lives 
went untouched by the violence of the war, and they experienced its deprivations 
perhaps less than any other community in Nazi Germany.  Though daily life on 
Usedom was not without its stresses, the Peenem?nders had every reason to count 
themselves among the lucky in a nation at war.
Much of this irrevocably changed when the war finally came to Peenem?nde 
in the middle of August 1943.  Unbeknownst to the Peenem?nders, the Royal Air 
Force had been plotting the destruction of the base since the end of June, and they 
conducted a terrifying, if not altogether successful raid, on the facility the following 
August.  Despite the failure to meet many of its goals, the August raid had a profound 
effect on life on Usedom, scattering much of the work there to sites across the Third 
Reich bringing the missile specialists into increased contact with ever more ruthless 
elements within the regime itself.  After the massive raid struck Peenem?nde, its 
administrators showed a nimble ability to respond flexibly to the new demands from 
the regime that missile production be moved underground and be carried out using 
slave labor from the concentration camps.  It would be here, in the mass production of 
271
V-2s in the inferno of Dora-Mittelbau in central Germany, that they would work 
hand-in-glove with some of the most ruthless and brutal elements in the Nazi regime.  
Their initiation into the secretive, singular world at Peenem?nde as well as the daily 
practices that they internalized there laid the groundwork for this cooperation by 
teaching them that the survival of the nation depended largely on their work and that 
the considerations of all other groups were of little or no consequence in comparison 
to their own.
Those Peenem?nders who were displaced carried much as before, bending all 
of their effort toward successfully producing a usable weapon that could help reverse 
German fortunes in the war.  The reasons for this lie in the deeply ingrained patterns 
of life and work that they learned in their time as employees of the Army research 
station on the Baltic Coast.  The strong identification with the missile project, forged 
before the specialists? dispersal from Usedom, enabled their close cooperation with 
the SS in the exploitation of slave labor in late 1943 and beyond.  Some historians 
have implied that a distinction between Peenem?nde developers, production 
engineers, and the SS emerged when production moved out of the Army facility and 
the Armaments Ministry and SS exerted ever-increasing influence over the program.  
These distinctions and the varying methods by which each organization approached 
the project led to conflicts between the V-2 developers at Peenem?nde and the V-2 
producers at Dora-Mittelbau.
1
  By focusing on the periodic and inevitable 
1
  Michael Allen writes that immediately after the transfer of production to Dora-Mittelbau, ?Tension 
began to mount between an axis of fanatic Nazi engineers around Degenolb and Kammler and other 
including Wernher von Braun and General Dornberger who were not Nazi fundamentalists.?  He notes 
the strong loyalties between the newcomers to the program, but not the old guard of Peenem?nders.  
According to Allen, these loyalties were based almost exclusively on National Socialist ideological 
motives.  This interpretation misses the basic professional connections between the old Peenem?nders.  
See The Business of Genocide: The SS, Slave Labor, and the Concentration Camps (Chapel Hill: 
272
administrative conflicts at the top of the program, however, they underestimate the 
large numbers of personnel who transferred from Peenem?nde to Dora and the 
fundamental impact that they had on the shop floor.  This approach, quite 
unintentionally (it seems) helps to perpetuate the postwar myth, spelled out after the 
war by the Peenem?nders themselves, of a ?clean? Peenem?nde and the terrible 
Dora-Mittelbau, the managers of which, supposedly all SS-men, had decidedly much 
more blood on their hands.
2
Instead, this chapter emphasizes the important role played by the 
Peenem?nders, not some new group of production engineers who entered the program 
only when factory assembly began, in the daily functioning of the missile factory.  
Until now, historians have failed to thoroughly scrutinize the middle and lower 
management sectors at Mittelwerk.  A close examination of the post war trial records 
and captured documents reveals that a surprisingly large number of Peenem?nde 
specialists transferred from their homes on the Baltic to the Mittelwerk.  Their 
important influence in Mittelwerk was based in large part on cooperation and mutual 
consent between themselves and the SS.  It was not founded simply upon ideological 
grounds, but rather upon the formation of shared objectives and a deep self-interest 
that provided the framework within which they worked.  Instead of emphasizing the 
University of North Carolina Press, 2002), p. 221.  Michael Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich: 
Peenem?nde and the Coming of the Ballistic Missile Era (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 
1995), also necessarily emphasizes the struggles between individuals such as Dornberger and 
Kammler, but such an approach misses the fact that at the level of middle-management, where the 
daily grind of technical production was carried out, a thoroughgoing cooperation emerged rather 
quickly between Peenem?nders and the SS.
2
 Jens-Christian Wagner, Produktion des Todes: Das KZ Mittelbau-Dora (G?ttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 
2001) was the first work by a historian to explicitly note this juxtaposition.  In statements made at Dora 
war crimes trials in 1947 and 1967, former Peene?nders went to great lengths to distance themselves 
from Mittelwerk.  Their pattern to this day is either to steadfastly maintain that they had little to do 
with the factory or attempt to emphasize their efforts to help prisoners imprisoned by the SS.  Neither 
argument holds much water.
273
division between developers and producers and the friction that emerged because of 
it, it is perhaps more accurate to argue that rather than a black and white distinction 
between the specialists, a gray zone existed between them, a space of consent and 
cooperation that emerged because of their mutual identification with the same goals.  
The terrible success of mass production in Dora was based in part on a web of 
institutional forces, bonds, and loyalties inhabited by the Peenem?nders that were 
forged in large part before slave labor at Dora and its incumbent close association 
with the SS became a conceivable policy option.  For these reasons, when slave labor 
underground became a reality, most Peenem?nders were able to make an easy 
adjustment to their new relationship with some of the regimes? most criminal 
elements. 
The technical complexity of the V-2 made Peenem?nde employees the ideal 
specialists for the new production plant.  As production shifted from Peenem?nde to 
the Mittelwerk factory, many Peenem?nders also found themselves working as 
civilian specialists in the new location.  After regime authorities made the decision to 
transfer production to this site, thousands of Peenem?nders left Usedom in order to 
help set up the massive underground factory there.  Many received important 
positions in the factory administration and with this, substantial pay raises.  
Moreover, the conduct of daily work at the factory was informed by the experiences 
of these people when they worked at Peenem?nde.  They became significant factors 
in the shaping of the daily technical practices performed there, and much of this was 
done along the lines of what they learned in their former institution.  In more ways 
than one, the Peenem?nde specialists who moved to Mittelwerk had a decisive effect 
274
on the shaping of daily life within the new and terrible phase of the Third Reich?s 
missile program.  What is more, the guidelines laid down by factory production 
engineers from the Armaments Ministry and SS often corresponded quite well with 
the Peenem?nders? own vision of their work.  The practices learned during their 
period on Usedom benefited the Peenem?nders in that they enabled the specialists to 
cooperate automatically and without any hesitation with organizations as murderous 
as the SS because the overall goals, if not the methods, of the two institutions were 
closely aligned.  Most were able to carry on as they did earlier, without any regard for 
the plight of the unfortunates housed in the camp just outside the factory.  For those 
few who did stop to consider the fate of the prisoners, the deeply ingrained habits 
learned at Peenem?nde as well as, it must be said, the increasing threat of force on the 
part of the regime, overrode any humanitarian concerns, forcing the civilian 
specialists to focus solely on the goals of their work and ignore the means by which 
they were realized. 
Paradise Lost ? The British Bombing Raid on Peenem?nde
Just before mass production was scheduled to begin at Peenem?nde, the war 
in all its fury burst in on life at the base.  On the night of August 17-18, the Royal Air 
Force struck with nearly all of its impressive firepower at the heretofore peaceful 
island.  The Peenem?nders had grown exceedingly comfortable on Usedom, and the 
raid came as a profound shock to some of them. The RAF attack on Peenem?nde was 
a pivotal event in the history of the facility as well as for its employees, whose lives 
had become so deeply intertwined with its existence.  The most important effect of 
275
the raid was the relocation of much of the base?s personnel and hardware to more 
distant, supposedly safer locations.  Most importantly, the production plant was 
evacuated to the Harz Mountains in Thuringia.  Much of the personnel at 
Peenem?nde followed these divisions to their new homes, and the staff at their former 
base shrank considerably.  
The peaceful life at Peenem?nde had lulled nearly everyone there into a false 
sense of security.  The war, such a ?long, dim way off,? had not yet intruded on their 
lives, and they had yet to be touched by any real deprivation.  Though air raid 
warnings occurred often enough ? bomber units and reconnaissance aircraft passed by 
Peenem?nde on their way to Berlin ? the frequent sirens did not concern the 
employees much.  Even for combat veteran Peter Wegener, life was so pleasant and 
free of difficulty at Peenem?nde that ?It never occurred to me that I lived in a most 
attractive location for an enemy air raid ... Apparently my delight in the altered 
lifestyle kept me from pondering the future of the laboratory.?
3
  According to Huzel, 
virtually no one on the base took the periodic air raid warnings seriously.
4
  For many, 
their immersion in their work and their own naivet? about the war gave them the false 
sense that its violence posed no danger for them.
Peenem?nde authorities were woefully unprepared for the attack.  Army 
officials at the facility only made rudimentary preparations for potential air raids, and 
these were well short of what was needed.  The Settlement was lightly built, and in 
many locations on the island, the only reasonable air raid bunkers here were in fact 
3
 Peter Wegener, The Peenem?nde Wind Tunnels: A Memoir (New Haven: Yale University Press, 
1996), 19, 63.
4
 Dieter Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral(Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1962), 51.
276
the cellars underneath the homes.  Planners had made few considerations for 
protection.  Elsewhere on the base, a meager number of Splitterschutzgraben, 
splinter-proof trenches, were the only air raid accommodations.
5
  Nevertheless, the 
increasing frequency of warnings throughout the summer of 1943 forced officials to 
come up with some kind of plan to deal with an attack.  In early August, they drew up 
a plan that gave mostly Army personnel, but some civilians as well, specific 
assignments in the event of an air raid.  The base?s Army authorities allocated various 
tasks to civilians, including fighting fires in the woods around Peenem?nde and 
protecting sensitive missile hardware, though how this second task was to be 
accomplished was left up in the air.  Others were responsible for relocating 
nonessential personnel such as wives and children into more widely dispersed (and, 
presumably, safer) quarters.  Administrators charged the soldiers at Peenem?nde, 
including the VkN, with ensuring that enough extra food was on hand for a three-day 
period and also with securing the crossing the points over the Peene River in order to 
maintain the facility?s security.  Interestingly, Army authorities assigned soldiers 
from the Ninth Company of the VkN to help Army and SS men guard both the 
prisoner of war camps and concentration camps on the island in the event of an 
attack.
6
  Though these measures were rushed into place, they were only elementary 
plans that barely got off the ground in the days before the raid.  On August 17, there 
was no respectable fire brigade at Peenem?nde, virtually no large or well-organized 
5
 Middlebrook, The Peenem?nde Raid, 133-153.
6
 Stichwortartige Zusammenstellung der bei der Befehlsausgabe am 3.8. vormittags 9 Uhr im 
Offizierheim ausgegebenen Richtlinien ?ber luftschutztechnische Massnahmen, die sorfort unter 
Zur?ckstellung aller anderen Aufgaben durchf?hren sind, 8/4/43, FE 833, National Air and Space 
Museum (NASM).  In the event, the scientists, engineers, and technicians of this unit never carried out 
this responsibility.
277
medical establishment that could deal with the effects of an attack, and there 
remained a dearth of air raid shelters and other proper measures to truly protect lives 
against the coming onslaught.
During the day before the raid took place, most Peenem?nders carried on as 
usual.  The development heads held a stormy meeting with Dornberger about the 
demands that the accelerated production program was making on their work.
7
  Many 
others relaxed on the beach or in the ocean.  Inge Holz, a secretary in the 
Development Works, remembered ?It was a very happy evening for the girls ? At 
about eleven p.m., we all went home.  As we girls walked back to our home, we sang 
a little as we went, and we talked of the pleasant time we had had.?
8
  Despite the 
increasing signs of a potential raid against Peenem?nde, life on the evening of August 
17 carried for the most part as usual.  
The first British bombers participating in ?Operation Hydra? arrived at 
Peenem?nde shortly after 1:00 a.m., while most slept.  Their goal was to kill the 
engineers working on the project as well as destroy the important testing and 
industrial facilities.  However, a series of targeting errors meant that many bombers 
missed their assigned marks.  The individuals who bore the brunt of this error were 
the foreign workers locked up in the shacks of the Trassenheide labor camp.  The 
camp, with its closely packed wooden barracks, barbed wire fence and single exit 
gate, was a death trap.  Peenem?nde planners did not concern themselves with 
constructing air raid shelters within the camp, and there was virtually no fire-fighting 
7
 According to Dornberger, Thiel, Rees, and even von Braun briefly threatened to quit over the rush 
into production.  Though this behavior certainly fits a pattern for serially despondent Thiel, I have 
found no evidence that Rees or von Braun actually threatened to do so.  Dornberger, V-2, 149-151.  
See also chapter four.
8
 Printed in Middlebrook, The Peenem?nde Raid, 135.
278
equipment on the grounds.  Tragically, several air raid trenches were located just 
beyond the camp?s fence, and though some prisoners made it out of the camp, none of 
them were able to reach the trenches.
9
  Between 500 and 600 foreign workers died in 
the attack, which lasted just under one hour.
At the Settlement, one of the primary targets, the situation was moderately 
better, but still terrifying.  When the air raid sirens and approaching engine noises 
jolted them from their sleep, many employees had the chance to seek shelter.  Even 
so, the attack was a jarring experience.  Rudolph?s family and their neighbors barely 
made the hundred-foot sprint into the shelter before the bombs began crashing around 
them.  In the shelter, a shower of sparks from a phosphorous bomb nearly set his 
young daughter?s hair on fire ? his wife patted them out with her hands ? and the 
outer door of the shelter was blown away by a near miss.
10
  Another civilian who 
found shelter recollected that ?I had experienced raids in Berlin, but I had never 
experienced such intense bombing and, this time, I felt that we really were going to 
die.?
11
  Almost three-quarters of the dwellings in the Settlement were destroyed and 
178 of its inhabitants lost their lives.
12
  In an area that housed nearly 4000 people, this 
is a surprisingly small number, but it perhaps could have been even less.  A report 
filed after the bombing raid indicated that there was not enough firefighting 
equipment in the Settlement and that those in charge of air raid countermeasures had 
failed to fill many of the water tanks that were to be used to fight fires in case of an 
9
 Walter Reuss, Erfahrungsbericht ?ber die Bombennacht vom 17. zum 18.8.43, 8/30/43, FE 833, 
NASM.
10
 Thomas Franklin, An American in Exile: The Story of Arthur Rudolph (Huntsville, AL: Christopher 
Kaylor, 1987), p. 71.
11
 Printed in Middlebrook, The Peenem?nde Raid, 142. 
12
 Ibid., 144.  Dornberger, V-2, 168. 
279
attack.  The Peenem?nders? ability to limit the extensive damage and loss of life was 
severely limited by this oversight.
13
  In any case, from the development standpoint, 
the only irreplaceable loss was Thiel, the brilliant head of the propulsion group, who, 
along with his entire family, perished when their shelter suffered a direct hit.
14
  The 
RAF?s mission to kill as many civilian specialists as possible failed miserably.
            The employee settlement was badly damaged during the British air raid of August 17/18.
                Courtesy DM
The attack also had the intention of destroying Peenem?nde?s development 
and production capacity as well.  However, the targeting errors, anti-aircraft 
measures, and the individual pilots? tendencies to ?pile on? the destruction already 
created by earlier attack waves meant that more bombs fell on the Trassenheide camp 
and the Settlement.  Some planes did find their mark, however.  Some thirty-five 
buildings were either destroyed or damaged in the raid.  The assembly plant received 
13
 Reuss, Erfahrungsbericht, 8/30/43, FE 833, NASM.
14
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 198. 
280
only minor damage, while the Luftwaffe facility, liquid oxygen plant, and 
aerodynamics institute were untouched.
15
Besides the widespread damage and substantial loss of life over the night, the 
attack effected life at Peenem?nde in significant and varied ways.  It forced many to 
confront the reality of their activities at the facility.  Scientist Siegfried Winter stated 
?I began to realize that here I was, possibly sitting on the end of an English bomb, yet 
during the day, I was working at preparing exactly the same thing, in rocket form, to 
send to the English ? It forced me to take stock of what I was doing in my own work 
? but life took over as normal the next morning.?
16
  This is as powerful as statement 
as any about the inertia that the project developed and the automatic adherence with 
which Peenem?nders clung their institution?s goals.  Another result of the raid was a 
general unease among all of the facility?s employees about the prospect of another 
raid.  ?We had been stung once,? Huzel wrote.  ?An air of intense expectancy 
prevailed.  The bombers would certainly be back.?
17
  The aesthetic beauty of the base 
was also obliterated, and much of the damage was left in place in an effort to 
convince the Allies that it was no longer functioning.
18
  Administrative offices had to 
be relocated, and all air raid warnings were ever-after taken very seriously.
19
  Along 
with much of the base, the na?ve and carefree attitudes toward the war that were such 
a part of the fabric of life at Peenem?nde were irrevocably destroyed.
15
 Middlebrook, The Peenem?nde Raid, 150-152.
16
 Ibid., 142.
17
 Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 92. 
18
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 205.
19
 Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 61-63.
281
From Paradise on the Baltic to Perdition in the Harz
In addition to earning the Allies a great deal of the Peenem?nders? enmity, a 
far more important result of the bombing raid was the wide dispersal of the people 
and facilities at Peenem?nde.  Families abandoned much of the Settlement and 
relocated to the villages scattered on the island.  However, the most fundamental 
change at Peenem?nde was the relocation of the production facilities.  There was 
wide agreement, both at the highest levels of the Reich government and at the level of 
Peenem?nde management, that this must take place.  Less than a week after the 
attack, Himmler convinced Hitler that the facilities on Usedom should be moved to 
more secure locations.
20
  Hitler declared that development should be moved to the 
Waffen-SS camp at Bliszna in the General Government.  More importantly, however, 
the production plant was to relocate to an as yet unspecified, bombproof factory.  In a 
point similar to the one Rudolph made several months earlier in his report on slave 
labor in the Heinkel Works, the Reichsf?hrer-SS argued that in order to maintain the 
strictest secrecy around the work, the assembly lines should be fully manned by camp 
prisoners who had no contact with the outside world.
21
  This proved to be Himmler?s 
most effective gambit in his efforts to assume control of Germany?s most 
technologically advanced weapons program. 
Most administrators at Peenem?nde resisted the wholesale relocation of their 
work, but there was little major opposition to Himmler?s suggestion to remove 
20
 On June 21, British bombers damaged the production site at the Zeppelin factory in 
Friederichshafen, though they did not know that it was used for this purpose, and on August 13, the 
U.S. Air Force bombarded the Rax Werke in an effort to halt airplane construction there.  These two 
attacks, combined with the one at Peenem?nde, convinced Hitler and his paladins that the secret base 
on Usedom had been discovered.  See  Heinz-Dieter H?lsken, V-Missiles of the Third Reich: The V-1 
and V-2 (Sturbridge, MA: Monogram Aviation Publications, 1994) 90, and Neufeld, The Rocket and 
the Reich, 199.
21
H?lsken, V-Missiles of the Third Reich,  97.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 200.
282
production to an even more secure site.  At the very least, there was a growing 
opinion among many administrators that the program should be both restructured and 
relocated.  On August 23, Georg Thom, undoubtedly on orders from Dornberger, sent 
a proposal to Friederich Fromm that Dornberger bear sole responsibility for managing 
the missile program.  He argued that ?A condition for success is the eventual 
centralization of all measures under the strictest military leadership.  In the future, it 
must be reckoned that the enemy will try to destroy development and production, and 
therefore all protective and counter-intelligence measures must be adjusted to a new 
reality.?
22
  Despite Degenkolb?s streamlining efforts, Thom argued that the twin 
structure of the OKH and Armaments Ministry was too cumbersome and did not 
move the program any closer to its goals.  This measure would have effectively given 
Dornberger control over the querulous Degenkolb, but not eliminated his position.  
Dornberger clearly sensed that change was in the wind and sought to manage and 
direct it as much as possible.  He still retained, with good reason, a proprietary 
interest in the missile program and was deeply convinced that it could only achieve its 
lofty goals with his stewardship.  If change was to occur, it should do so under Army 
auspices.
The most important of these imminent changes was the relocation of the 
production facilities.  Dornberger was not informed of Hitler?s decision to move 
much of the program out of Peenem?nde until August 25.  It is likely, though not 
entirely clear, that he initially did not lend his full support such a radical change, as it 
ran counter to his ?Everything under one roof? concept.
23
  Development was the 
22
 Thom to Fromm, 8/23/43, RH8/v. 1211, BA/MA.
23
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 202.
283
sticking point.  In a hastily assembled meeting on the twenty-fifth, called by 
Dornberger and chaired by von Braun (with several of his key deputies in 
attendance), Peenem?nde managers decided flatly that the development work should 
stay on the base.  The minutes of their meeting note that ?The technical work, that is, 
operational assembly, operational testing and operational measurement, of individual 
parts must remain in close proximity to Peenem?nde.?  Eventually, only the launch 
tests were moved to the SS camp at Bliszna.  In contrast, however, they were ready to 
remove mass production and began laying plans for dispersing it and its prisoner 
labor force different sites in Germany.  In an early demonstration of the Peenem?nde 
developers? willingness to cooperate with assembly specialists in the Armaments 
Ministry and SS to bring about the quick onset of mass production, von Braun and 
others set out these concrete plans to aid the reestablishment of a manufacturing 
facility so that the program could continue with its work.
24
  This cooperation would 
eventually deepen to include direct participation on the part of many Peenem?nde 
developers in horrific crimes perpetrated with an eye toward the final success of the 
V-2 program.     
At the same time, there was a groundswell of opinion among many other 
individuals in other sectors of the program that at least production should be 
restructured and relocated.  Immediately after the raid, several employees openly 
wondered if the factory should not be rebuilt, but rather set up somewhere else.
25
This sentiment reached into rather high places in the administration.  In his survey of 
24
 Niederschrift ?ber die Besprechung in Karlshagen am 25.8.43, FE 732, NASM.
25
Werner Br?hne, unpublished manuscript, ?Die Mittelwerk GmbH. Eine Chronik ?ber Firma und 
Werk,? unpag., Gericht Rep. 299, Bd. 582, Hauptstadtsarchiv D?sseldorf, Zweigarchiv Kalkum 
(HStaD-ZA Kalkum). 
284
the bomb damage after the raid, Arthur Rudolph, who did not participate in the 
August 25 meeting, also came to the conclusion that production must be moved.  
Though he filed his own report after Hitler?s order to move production, Rudolph?s 
language indicated that he had no doubts about the wisdom of the decision to do so, 
even before the F?hrer?s decision.  He wrote that ?Despite [the construction design of 
the production plant], it appears that there is no way to guarantee production if it is 
located above ground.  I believe that it is necessary in this case to make all facilities 
absolutely bomb-proof by moving them to underground locations.  However, this 
does not apply only to the factory facilities, but rather the accommodations for all 
employees must also be secured against air raids so as not to disrupt the course of 
daily life as well as manufacturing.?
26
  For Rudolph, there was no question of the 
viability of moving everything associated with production, including the labor force, 
underground.  He was in absolute agreement with Hitler?s decision, and even wanted 
to go further, arguing that even civilian employees should be housed in secure 
underground facilities as well.  Rudolph?s highest priority was to ensure that 
production goals could be met as quickly as possible.  Part of this process was the 
need to keep manufacturing centers safe from attack, a major concern of many regime 
officials.  In all likelihood, his new vision included the use of the concentration camp 
labor already on hand at Peenem?nde to help accelerate the relocation.  He would 
become a central figure in the installation of the underground factory that began 
shortly thereafter.    
The effort to relocate mass production introduced to the program one of the 
most capable, energetic, and vicious figures in Himmler?s entire murderous 
26
 Arthur Rudolph, Erfahrungsbericht ?ber den Feind-Angriff vom 17. zum 18.8.43, FE 833, NASM. 
285
organization: SS Brigadier General (SS-Brigadef?hrer) Dr. Hans Kammler. The head 
of Office ?C? (Construction) of the SS Economic and Administrative Main Office 
(SS-Wirtschaftsverwaltungshauptamt ? WVHA), Kammler was a dashing, brilliant 
officer who held a Ph.D. in civil engineering.  Dornberger was duly impressed with 
Kammler?s appearance: ?One?s first impression was of a virile, handsome, and 
captivating personality.  He looked like some hero of the Renaissance, a condottiere
of the civil wars of Northern Italy.  The mobile features were full of expression.?
27
Ideologically, Kammler was the perfect embodiment of the ?reactionary modernist,? 
combining equal doses of technological expertise with National Socialist fanaticism 
and romanticism.
28
  Born in 1901, Kammler did not participate in the First World 
War, but did fight with the Freikorps in Rossbach immediately after the war.  He 
joined the Nazi Party in 1932 and held a number of administrative posts in the Air 
and Agriculture Ministries, volunteering his services part time to the SS.  In 1941, he 
joined the blackshirts full-time. Oswald Pohl, the head of the WVHA, almost 
immediately assigned him some of the SS?s most important and secret work ?
constructing the gas chambers at Auschwitz-Birkenau and Majdanek.
29
  His 
murderously effective office also seized control of the slave labor industry within the 
SS and deployed unfortunate prisoners in mobile construction brigades with a 
27
 Dornberger, V-2, 198.
28
 In 1934, Kammler co-authored a book with Edgar Hotz entitled Grundlagen der Kostenrechnung 
und Organization eines Baubetriebs f?r den Wohnungs- und Siedlungsbau in Stadt und Land (Berlin: 
Verlagsgesellschaft R. M?ller, 1934) ? Fundamentals of Price Calculation and of Construction Firms 
for Dwelling and Settlement Construction in City and State ? in which he outlined a number of 
efficient means of organizing and operating large bureaucratic hierarchies for the purpose of settlement 
development.  However, he also wrote that National Socialism was the key to fully harnessing the 
benefits of such work because its ideology was ?dedicated to the firm connection of the man to the soil 
through hearth and home as the basic foundation of the nation and state.  Therefore, the German?s 
hereditary health and the hereditary health given by the German soil stand at the focal point of the 
German Reich?s program of renewal.?  See p. 1. 
29
 Allen, The Business of Genocide, 140-148. 
286
ruthlessness that was unmatched in its efficiency and scope.
30
  Armed with an order 
from Himmler to do everything possible to hasten mass production and deployment 
of the V-2, Kammler unleashed his limitless energy on the missile project.  In so 
doing, he came to rely heavily upon key members of the missile program in order to 
meet his goals.
SS-Brigadef?hrer Dr. Hans Kammler
Courtesy DM
The process of transferring production to a bomb-proof facility was entirely 
improvised.  The site selected by Kammler, Degenkolb, Dornberger, and Karl Otto 
Sauer, Albert Speer?s ruthless deputy, was a tunnel complex in the southern Harz 
Mountains in Thuringia, near the town of Nordhausen.  Originally, the company 
Ammoniak, a subsidiary of I.G. Farben, dug the tunnels into the face of a mountain 
known as Kohnstein and mined it for calcium sulfate.  In 1938, I.G. Farben struck a 
deal with a government corporation named ?Wifo,? an acronym for Wirtschaftliche 
Forschungsgesellschaft (Economic Research Society).  In exchange for paying a 
30
 See Allen, ibid., 140-239. 
287
share of the mining expenses, Wifo received large underground storage areas for 
strategic gasoline and oil reserves.
31
  The tunnels themselves consisted of two parallel 
main lines which ran north to south with forty-four perpendicular galleries linking 
them.  Each main tunnel was just over a mile long, and each gallery was a little less 
than 500 feet long.
32
  At the end of August, the Armaments Ministry and SS took 
them over for the purpose of missile production.  On August 28, a mere ten days after 
the British struck Peenem?nde, the first 107 prisoners arrived from Buchenwald to 
begin expanding the tunnels in preparation for factory installation.  The new 
underground camp was code-named ?Dora-Mittelbau.?
33
The first priority under Kohnstein was the expansion of the tunnels so that 
they could accommodate the large assembly line necessary for missile production.  
As expansion proceeded, heavy equipment was shipped from Peenem?nde and other 
assembly plants for installation.  At Kammler?s order, thousands of prisoners 
continually streamed in to complete this work.  By the end of September, nearly 3000 
prisoners labored in the tunnels, and by the end of November, there were upwards of 
8000 slaves working in barbaric conditions underground.  In this period, the majority 
of the prisoners arrived from Buchenwald, but in the middle of October, most of the 
slave laborers at Peenem?nde departed with their SS guards to Dora, though some did 
remain behind.
34
  When the New Year arrived, the SS had fully proven its value as a 
31
 Georg Rickhey Statement, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al., roll 4, M-1079, National Arichives and 
Records Administration (NARA).  
32
 Manfred Bornemann, Geheimprojekt Mittelbau: Vom zentralen ?llager des Deutschen Reiches zur 
gr?ssten Raketenfabrik im Zweiten Weltkrieg (Bonn: Bernard u. Graefe Verlag, 1994), 11-20. 
33
 Yves B?on, Planet Dora: A Memoir of the Holocaust and the Birth of the Space Age (Boulder, CO: 
Westview Press, 1997), xii.
34
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 10/13-15/43, FE 873, NASM. 
288
labor supplier, however murderous, as it managed to deliver a total of 10,000 
prisoners to the tunnels.
35
As the daily transports rolled in to deliver their human cargo to this genocidal 
mining and construction project, the SS made no effort whatsoever to care for the 
prisoners.  The level of maltreatment engendered by the idea of extermination 
through work [Vernichtung durch Arbeit] set new standards of inhumanity.  The 
miserable slaves used dynamite, jackhammers, and hand tools to bore into the 
mountain, filling the tunnels with dust and ammonia fumes that burned throats and 
lungs.  Water seeped and dripped from the walls, helping to create a dank chill in the 
caverns.
36
  Prisoners removed rocks and boulders by hand, a dangerous job because 
the SS, keen to push the work forward, drove the prisoners into the rock pile without 
regard for loosened, only partially collapsed parts of the wall.  Falling rocks crushed 
many prisoners.
37
  The prisoners loaded the stones onto rail carts, which they pushed 
outside for disposal.  Kapos (prisoner functionaries who supervised small groups of 
internees) and SS men drove the pace of the work to breakneck speed and reigned in 
the tunnels with wanton brutality.  Yves B?on paints a stark and terrifying picture 
worthy of Bosch:
The air inside, oppressively thick with choking dust, 
fumes of burnt oil, and humidity, engulfs the 
newcomers.  Here are hills of gravel, there valleys filled 
with water, and throughout the cave, pools of light 
alternate with suspicious areas of shadow.  Gray beings 
shovel, hollow out, and tear away at surfaces.  Narrow 
hoppers loaded with stones and trash roll through a 
35
 Jens-Christian Wagner, Produktion des Todes: Das KZ Mittelbau-Dora (G?ttingen: Wallstein 
Verlag, 2001), 186-187.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 209-210.  Sellier, A History of the Dora 
Camp, 55-57.
36
 B?on, Planet Dora, 16.
37
 Xavier Delogne Interview, Fortunoff Video Archives (FVA), Yale University.
289
narrow passageway, pushed by men in filthy rags.  In 
the unnatural light, lines of ghostly figures carry pieces 
of carpentry on their shoulders.  Others push, pull, and 
drag insane loads.  Shouting and swearing, the SS, 
Kapos, and Vorarbeiter [foremen] rush among them, 
whipping and clubbing the terrified prisoners.  In the 
distance, the sound of mine blasting adds to the chaos, 
and the air resounds with a thousand clamors.
38
The work away from the mine face was no easier.  Large transport kommandos made 
up exclusively of prisoner labor unloaded trains outside of the tunnels and carried 
their cargo in by hand.  This commonly involved manhandling large and heavy 
machinery that was to be installed in the factory.  Most of the time, the prisoners had 
no mechanical help, and their efforts were made even more difficult by their 
barbarous overseers, who beat them senseless if they worked too slowly or fell out of 
line.  Even so, the transport work continued.  By the end of Feb. 1944, according to 
one estimate, this exhausting, deadly ?Warenannahme? kommando had unloaded 
nearly 1300 freight cars worth of material.
39
The short time away from the murderous work offered no respite.  Czech 
survivor Wincenty Hein estimated that the prisoners had approximately eighteen 
hours of activity per day and often less than six hours of rest.
40
  During this short rest 
time, prisoners rarely emerged from the tunnel.  The SS gave the construction of free-
standing barracks outside of the tunnels the lowest priority.  Instead, the sleeping 
facilities that SS allowed the prisoners were bunk beds in a cross-tunnel that was 
located relatively close to the mine?s face.  Rest and sleep were impossible, as the din 
38
 B?on, Planet Dora, 4. 
39
 Wincenty Hein Testimony, ZM 1625, Bd. 23, Akte 35, BStU.  By the end of December, most of the 
production equipment from Peenem?nde and the Rax Werk in Wiener Neustadt had arrived at 
Mittelwerk.  Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 87.
40
 Wincenty Hein, ?Lebens- und Arbeitsbedingungen der H?ftlinge im Konzentrationslager ?Dora?-
?Mittelbau? und ihre Folgen,? ZM 1625, Bd. 22, Akte 34, BStU.  
290
from jackhammers, pickaxes, and explosions continually rang through the tunnel.  
Jean Michel, a French prisoner in the tunnel at Dora, wrote in his memoirs that ?The 
noise bores into the brain and sheers the nerves ? Over a thousand despairing men, 
at the limit of their existence and racked with thirst, lie there hoping for sleep which 
never comes.?
41
Andr? Rogerie, who arrived at Dora in November, recalled that the 
dust could be so thick that prisoners could not see from one end of the sleeping tunnel 
to the other.
42
  Construction supervisors divided up the prisoners into two shifts of 
twelve hours each, meaning that the sleeping quarters were always occupied and 
crawled with filth, vermin, and disease.  There were no cleaning facilities and only 
makeshift latrines, which were made out of oil drums that were cut in half and 
periodically sprinkled with chlorine.  Brutal kapos or SS guards often pushed the 
already dysenteric and miserable prisoners into the barrels for sport.  Outbreaks of 
tuberculosis and pneumonia swept mercilessly through the prisoner population, and 
the corpses of those who died in the night were piled up by the entrance to the 
sleeping tunnels.
43
  One prisoner remembered laconically, ?I dreamed about 
Buchenwald like it was Heaven when I was in Dora.?
44
  Indeed, Dora-Mittelbau was 
quite simply one of the most horrifying camps in the entire Nazi system.
Such conditions contributed to an atrocious death rate.  172 prisoners died in 
November.  In January 1944, that number increased to 669.  In March, 721 prisoners, 
41
 Jean Michel and Louis Nucera, Dora, Transl. By Jennifer Kidd (New York: Holt, Rhinehart, and 
Winston, 1979), 68. 
42
 Andr? Rogerie Interview, FVA, Yale University.
43
 Sellier, A History of the Dora Camp, 59-60.  Rogerie Interview, FVA, Yale University.
44
 Ben Giladi Interview, FVA, Yale University. 
291
an average of twenty-four per day, were worked to death in the tunnels.
45
  To this 
number must also be added several outbound transports of prisoners whom the SS 
deemed ?unfit for work,? and were therefore prime candidates to be murdered.  
Between the beginning January 1944 and early February 1944, two transports totaling 
2000 prisoners went to Majdanek.  A third transport containing 300 prisoners also left 
for Majdanek on January 11.  On April 8, the SS sent another 1000 prisoners to 
Bergen-Belsen.
46
  Most of those who survived the trip to these camps were, in the 
case of the Majdanek transports, likely gassed, or in the case of the Bergen-Belsen 
transports, crammed into shoddy, disease-ridden barracks and left to die.  The death 
rate became so bad at Dora in the winter of 1943-?44 that the inbound prisoner 
transports from Buchenwald could barely keep pace with the catastrophe unfolding 
under Kohnstein.  Of the 17,000 prisoners shipped to Dora between August 1943 and 
March 1944, 6000 died in the course of expanding the tunnels and installing the 
missile factory, corresponding to a death rate of well over one-third of all prisoners.
47
Only when the expansion and installation work was completed, coupled with the 
construction of prisoner barracks outside the tunnels in the spring of 1944, did the 
death rate finally begin to decline.
48
45
 Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 647.  Yves B?on writes of a prisoner named Jacky whose task it was 
to roam the tunnels with a cart, searching for dead bodies to take to the morgue.  B?on, Planet Dora, 
11-12.
46
 On January 6, 1944, 1000 prisoners were shipped from Dora to Majdanek.  Five days later, on 
January 11, another 300 left by rail transport for the East.  On February 6, the SS also packed 1000 
prisoners into freight cars for shipment to Majdanek.  Camp administrators sent 1000 prisoners to 
Bergen-Belsen on April 8.  See the collection of transport lists in RG-04.006M, Nazi Concentration 
Camp Records, 1939-1945, Reel 18, USHMM.
47
 Bornemann and Broszat, ?Das KL Dora-Mittelbau,? 166-171.  Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 188-
190.
48
 Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 647.
292
This special brand of brutality did not take place only in Mittelwerk.  SS and 
Army officials gave their approval for other underground facilities to accommodate 
the missile program as well.  In September, ?Papa? Riedel and Godomar Schubert 
surveyed a site east of Salzburg for the installation of the development works 
underground, which was to be supplied by prisoners from concentration camp 
Ebensee, a subsidiary camp of Mauthausen.  Construction began in November, but 
this project, code-named ?Zement? (Cement), suffered from conflicts between the 
Army and SS as well as extremely high cost.
49
  The development works never 
relocated there, but a number of section chiefs at Peenem?nde, including ?Papa? 
Riedel, temporarily transferred there to assist in the work.
50
  Other test areas were 
constructed at Lehesten, in central Germany, and at Redl-Zipf in the Austrian Alps, 
just north of Ebensee.
51
  All of them used slave labor in their construction and, in the 
case of Zement, repeated the horrors of Mittelwerk, if only on a smaller scale and 
without forcing its prisoners to sleep underground.
52
  However, the plant in the Harz 
Mountains became the focal point of the missile program until the end of the war, 
49
 See Florian Freund, Arbeitslager ?Zement:? das Konzentrationslager Ebensee und die 
Raketenr?stung (Wien: Verlag f?r Gesellschaftskritik, 1989).  In the summer of 1944, Armaments 
Ministry officials scrapped the plan to relocate the development works and instead drew up plans to 
use Zement to assemble tanks as well as house an underground oil refinery.
50
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 11/2-11/16/43 and 11/25/43, FE 833, NASM. 
51
 See Dorit Gropp, Aussenkommando Laura und Vorwerk Mitte Lehesten: Testbetrieb f?r V2-
Triebwerke (Bad M?nstereiffel: Westkreuz Verlag, 1999) and Florian Freund and Bertrand Pertz, Das 
KZ in der Serbenhalle: Zur Kriegsindustrie in Wiener Neustadt (Wien: Verlag f?r Gesellschaftskritik, 
1989).  Lehesten, code-named ?Mitte,? was used to calibrate rocket engines and as a liquid oxygen 
facility.  It was supplied with laborers from Buchenwald and its sub-camps.  The Redl-Zipf facility, 
code-named ?Schleier,? was used in the same capacity, and received prisoners from Mauthausen.  
Originally, authorities planned to subsume them under Demag?s authority, but in December 1943, they 
were made a part of the Mittelwerk GmbH.  Niederschrift ?ber die 1. Sitzung des Beirates der 
Mittelwerk GmbH am Freitag d. 10. Dezember 1943, 12/14/43, R121/405, Bundesarchiv Lichterfelde 
(BAL).
52
 It should be noted as well that Army officials? attempts to maintain control over the missile program 
meant that they themselves would be willing to manage slave labor.  At the end of December 1943,
Thom laid a proposal before Kammler that spelled out plans to put Zement under the control of the 
Army Ordnance office.  Entstehungsgeschichte, 12/28/43, FE 833, NASM. 
293
with the staff at Peenem?nde dramatically shrunken and the base itself reduced to a 
pure research and development facility.
There can be no question that the individual who bore overall responsibility 
for this ?empire of horror,? as Michael Neufeld has called it, was Hans Kammler.
53
The SS-General had successfully mobilized concentration camp labor and brought his 
considerable resources to bear in order to expand the size and scope of Germany?s 
missile program.  Michael Allen has persuasively demonstrated Kammler?s activism 
and interventionism, as well as his viciousness and unwillingness to compromise in 
managerial matters.  His extremely competent office had skills that the war economy 
demanded, and he specialized in managing slave labor at far-flung locations across 
the Reich.
54
  Dora-Mittelbau was his crowning achievement.  However, on the job 
site, Kammler was forced to rely on like-minded individuals who, while perhaps not 
sharing his ideological vision, could at least come to quick agreement with him on 
technical matters.  The engineers in the V-2 program were well-suited to this task.  
Their particular expertise, combined with their unique zeal for the success of the 
missile, perfectly complemented Kammler?s own overall managerial philosophy, and 
they became vital cogs in the machinery of destruction under Kohnstein.
The ?Factory Community:? Civilians at Dora-Mittelbau
Even while the prisoners labored furiously to expand the tunnels in the winter 
of 1943-?44, factory installation proceeded apace.  Factory managers were able to 
install machinery in the tunnels so quickly that on New Year?s Eve, the first missiles 
53
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 209.
54
 Allen, The Business of Genocide, 202-206.
294
rolled off of the assembly line.  These weapons were so deeply flawed that they 
returned almost immediately to the factory, and serious developmental issues 
remained to be ironed out. Even so, it was an important and profound symbolic 
achievement, despite the barbarity with which it was carried out.  In any case, 
technical problems and the transfer of production from Peenem?nde to the Mittelwerk 
delayed the original production schedule by several months.  In May 1944, the 
factory managed to turn out 253 missiles, but a raft of technical problems caused 
output to drop precipitously throughout the summer.  Only in September did 
Mittelwerk begin to produce anything like the high numbers that were originally 
planned, usually between 600 and 700 per month.
55
  Overcoming these major 
obstacles required the close cooperation of specialists in both Peenem?nde and 
Mittelwerk. 
Running the nightmarish inferno at Mittelwerk in conjunction with the SS was 
a company called Mittelwerk GmbH (Central Work, Ltd).  At the end of September 
1943, Gerhard Degenkolb had moved to streamline the production operation, which 
sometimes struggled under the Army?s ungainly bureaucracy.  Under his supervision, 
the A-4 Special Committee created this company to manage missile production, and 
the company officially came into being on October 7.
56
  A state corporation that was 
organized in private form, Mittelwerk was financed by the Armaments Ministry and 
55
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 213.  The most pressing and difficult of the challenges faced by 
the developers was the issue of ?air bursts,? in which inbound missiles broke up during reentry.  The 
problem took months to solve, and it was only in late 1944 that it was finally overcome.  The issue was 
that the outer skin of the missile, weakened by heat friction during reentry, tore off of the body, 
resulting in the missile?s breakup.  See Neufeld, 220-230.
56
 Grundungseintrag Mittelwerk GmbH, 10.7.43, Reel 12, M-1079, NARA. 
295
placed under its umbrella firm, R?stungskontor GmbH.
57
  Originally, Degenkolb 
himself chaired the company?s advisory board, which also had Dornberger and Heinz 
Kunze, Degenkolb?s deputy, as members.
58
  Its board of directors was made up of 
industry men Kurt Kettler and Otto Bersch, as well as Dora camp commandant Otto 
F?rschner.  Kammler himself directly placed F?rschner on the board in an effort to 
maintain a prominent role for the SS in policy level factory decisions, even though 
the SS man spent his entire adult life as a career soldier.
59
  Officially, F?rschner was 
in charge of security and countering sabotage.  In theory, he could also participate in 
business decisions, but in reality, his utter lack of managerial experience meant that 
he had no input at all in daily determinations regarding factory operation.
60
  F?rschner 
57
 State-controlled corporations proved highly willing to use slave labor in their operations.  Beginning 
in 1942-?43, these organizations commonly entered into slave labor contracts with the SS.  Rainer 
Fr?be indicates that this was partially a function of the dynamic established as new managers, whose 
professional lives knew only the economic climate of Nazi Germany, entered positions of power.  See 
Rainer Fr?be, ?KZ H?ftlinge als Reserve qualifizierte Arbeitskraft: Eine sp?te Entdeckung der 
deutschen Industrie und Ihre Folgen,? in Ulrich Herbert, Karin Orth, Chrisoph Dieckmann, eds., Die 
Konzentrationslager ? Entwicklung und Struktur, Bd 2 (G?ttingen: Walstein Verlag, 1998), 636-681.  
In addition, Michael Allen has pointed out that National Socialist polycracy did not just lead to 
internecine struggles, as is so commonly assumed.  It also made possible useful business arrangements 
among like-minded individuals in different organizations, a necessary precondition for the use of the 
slave labor services offered by the SS.  Allen, The Business of Genocide, 168-171.
58
 Vermerk ?ber Besprechung im Reichsministerium f?r R?stung und Kriegsprodiktion, Generalreferat 
Wirtschaft und Finanzen, betr. Mittelwerk GmbH., am 21.9.43, R121/405, BAL.  Protokolle der 
Mittelwerk-Gesellschaftsversammlungen am 24.9.1943, R 121/544, BAL.  
59
 Born in 1902, F?rschner joined the Reichswehr when he was twenty years old.  Immediately after 
leaving the Reichswehr in 1931, he entered the SS, and three years later enrolled in its officer 
candidate school at Bad Tolz.  In late 1938, his career was marred by an incident in which he fathered 
a child out of wedlock with the girlfriend of a subordinate named Hugo Hochaus.  F?rschner, who 
married in 1931, paid Hochhaus twenty-five Reichsmarks per month to falsely claim paternity of the 
child.  After a few months, Hochaus attempted to blackmail F?rschner into paying him even more 
money.  Not surprisingly, the plot unraveled when F?rschner, whose drinking habit got him into this 
mess in the first place, drunkenly divulged the secret to an SS colleague.  F?rschner was demoted to 
the rank of private (SS-Mann) and then nearly thrown out of the SS.  The SS expelled Hochaus and he 
spent eight months in Sachsenhausen for his trouble.  However, F?rschner?s long service record and 
Hitler?s aggressive war planning in 1939 saved his career, as his unit was desperately short of officers.  
The SS eventually restored his status, and F?rschner went on to serve in the SS Death?s Head Division 
on the Eastern Front, later acting as the chief officer in charge of the SS guards at Buchenwald before 
coming to Dora in 1943.  See Otto F?rschner Dossier, SS Officer Files, Reel SSO-214, RG 242, 
NARA.     
60
 Heinrich Detmers Testimony, U.S.A vs. Kurt Andrae, et al, M-1079, roll 5, NARA.
296
also relied on his subordinates and prisoner functionaries to run daily camp 
operations, keeping his distance from the prisoners and usually, but not totally, 
refraining from abusing them while also doing very little to alleviate their situation.  
His generally laissez faire attitude and reliance on prisoners for many functions led to 
the rise of a substantial resistance organization at Dora-Mittelbau, which the Gestapo 
would combat in part by relying on civilian engineers in the tunnels.
61
The most active figure behind tunnel expansion was the ruthless and driven 
engineer Albin Sawatzki.  Born in 1909 in Danzig, Sawatzki was a young, ambitious 
diploma engineer with a mean streak.
62
  Before coming to the missile program, 
Sawatzki was a production engineer at the Henschel Works, where he made a name 
for himself in tank production.  Degenkolb brought him from Henschel to run the A-4 
Special Committee?s subcommittee for serial production.  After the August bombing 
raid, he left for Thuringia to manage installation and production under Kohnstein.
63
Sawatzki was not on Mittelwerk?s board of directors, nor was he a member of the SS, 
but Kammler gave him full authority inside the factory.  Sawatzki had the power to 
request and assign prisoners and became Kammler?s trustee for all problems 
61
 For F?rschner?s reliance on prisoner functionaries at Dora, see Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 301-
307.  The camp commandant also relied heavily on his SS subordinates to supply labor to the factory.  
See Wilhelm Simon testimony, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al, M-1079, roll 12, NARA.  Simon worked 
in the SS labor allocation office in Dora, which assigned prisoners to Mittelwerk.   
62
 Sawatzki Dossier, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 430, Hauptstadtsarchive D?sseldorf, Zweigarchiv Schloss 
Kalkum (HStaD-ZA Kalkum).
63
 Br?hne, ?Die Mittelwerk GmbH,? unpag., Gericht Rep. 299, Bd. 582, HStad-ZA Kalkum.  Sawatzki 
met Br?hne shortly after Br?hne was transferred from Peenem?nde to Mittelwerk.  Sawatzki 
immediately took a liking to Br?hne and gave the gifted technical illustrator what he called a ?Hunting 
Pass? (Jagdschein) to roam wherever he wished in the factory.  Sawatzki wanted him to document ?in 
both words and pictures? the events in Mittelwerk under his leadership.  Sawatzki?s self-serving vision 
was to publicize in the future his own role at the plant after the war was brought to a successful 
conclusion.  To his credit, Br?hne, who recognized very early the callous inhumanity of Dora-
Mittelbau, did exactly that, providing to posterity some of the most stark and disturbing illustrations of 
life and work in the factory.  Sawatzki?s deep belief in the ultimate victory of Nazi Germany, even at 
the end of 1943, is also noteworthy.
297
concerning V2 production.  He was fully independent of the factory hierarchy, but 
worked closely with it to ensure the rapid onset of production.
64
  In December 1943, 
Kammler, probably sensing that F?rschner was in over his head on the board of 
directors but also eager to maintain as much control as possible over Germany?s 
crown jewel weapons system, attempted to place Sawatzki on the board.
65
  He was 
rebuffed, but his acolyte retained his position as Kammler?s special envoy to 
Mittelwerk.  In May 1944, he would become the director of the production planning 
division, officially an employee of Mittelwerk.
66
Another key civilian engineer joined the Board of Directors in April 1944, just 
as the frenetic pace of tunnel expansion was beginning wind down.  Georg Johannes 
Rickhey, a purchasing specialist who previously worked at Demag Fahrzeugwerke in 
Berlin, was installed as the General Director of the operation, a position that gave him 
a decisive voice in meetings of the board of directors.  At his war crimes trial in 
Dachau in 1947, Rickhey successfully avoided conviction at the hands of American 
prosecutors by convincing the court that he was merely an apolitical technocrat who 
had no love for Nazi ideology and who was at the mercy of political forces beyond 
his control.  This was hardly the case.  A talented diploma engineer, Rickhey was 
born in 1898 and joined the Nazi Party in 1931.  In 1940, Rickhey worked as the 
chief technical advisor in the Main Office for Technology (Hauptamt f?r Technik) for 
the Gauleiter of Essen, SA-Lieutenant General (Obergruppenf?hrer) Josef Turboven.  
In this position, he helped streamline the heavily industrialized Gau?s war production 
64
 Rickhey Report, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al., M-1079, roll 4, NARA.
65
 Niederschrift ?ber die 1. Sitzung des Beirates der Mittelwerk GmbH am Freitag d. 10. Dezember 
1943, 12/14/43, R121/405 BAL.
66
 Direktionsanweisung zur MW-Gesamtorganisation, 5/26/44, R121/405, BAL.
298
measures and inaugurate more efficient use of its labor resources.  While working 
under Turboven, Rickhey exhibited an absolute dedication to his task and couched his 
work in ideological terms that mirrored what was then developing into the central 
axiom at Peenem?nde, far away on the Baltic coast.  For example, in a conference 
with his senior deputies in February 1940, he demanded that his colleagues across 
Gau Essen turn all of their resources to the war effort, telling them that ?All tools, 
machines, and the laborers necessary for them must, from the smallest workshop to 
the largest W- [weapons] and R? [armaments] operations, be engaged one hundred 
percent in production.  It is the task of the representatives of the Gau?s Office of 
Technology, and, therefore, the Party, to make exact [technical] recommendations 
and to uncover additional suitable areas in which machinery can be set up and 
brought into operation as quickly as possible ? Total war [sic!] demands the utmost 
exploitation of all means of production on hand and the strenuous effort of all 
available workers.?  He informed his deputies that since his office alone could not 
effect an increase in manufacturing productivity in the entire Gau by itself, it would 
be choosing ?Factory managers, engineers, technicians, and work Meisters who at the 
same time are members of the Party or are political leaders ... to examine the 
suitability of factory facilities on hand and to make proposals, either on their own or 
in cooperation with the Gau and Kreis representatives, about Armaments 
Kommandos or [factory] conversion? [emphasis in original].
67
67
 Bericht ?ber Besprechung auf dem Gauamt f?r Technik in Frankfurt/M. Friedenstrasse 2 am 20.2.40, 
Rickhey Dossier, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 411, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.  At his trial, prosecutors also raised 
the possibility that Rickhey might have been a central figure in the removal of the Jewish head of a 
local, private technical society called Haus der Technik in Essen in 1933, but they were unable to 
verify the claim.  Heinz Kunze statement, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al., M-1079, roll 10, NARA.
299
Even as early as the beginning of 1940, when the Nazi regime was still 
making strident efforts to shield the country?s population from the hardships of war 
and had not yet conceived of embarking the nation on a policy of total war, Rickhey 
was already embracing the idea.  He saw clearly that despite the Wehrmacht?s 
overwhelming success, the war had the potential to drag on for many years and 
require every last drop of productive energy that the nation could muster.  On his 
own, the engineer pushed for those under him to prepare for the full mobilization of 
his Gau?s resources for the war effort.  Moreover, this monumental task was not to be 
left to specialists who did not show evidence of ideological adherence and fervor.  
Rather, Rickhey clearly felt that only those whose political beliefs marched in 
lockstep with the regime were capable of successfully carrying out this work.  
Technical professionals in local party cadres were the ones best equipped and best 
motivated to carry out the difficult tasks ahead.  For him, ideology was the primary 
motivating factor in the work that he assigned.  The Nazi party was to be the 
vanguard in his early efforts to bend Germany?s industrial might entirely to the 
service of the war effort.    
At Mittelwerk, purchasing had proven to be one of the most difficult problems 
in completing the set-up of the factory.  In addition to his duties as General Director, 
Rickhey took over these functions as well as responsibility for personnel issues, 
quickly introducing a number of reforms that were designed to improve the 
purchasing and production processes.  Rickhey?s arrival also signified a 
reorganization of the corporate administration.  The primary result was that 
F?rschner?s duties became limited to counter-espionage.  Though he remained on the 
300
board of directors, this was in effect a demotion for the camp commander.
68
  He 
eventually transferred to Kaufering to assume command of the camp there, and his 
position on the board of directors remained unfilled, leaving the SS without a formal 
representative on that body.  Though there would be minor adjustments in the 
structure of the corporation, there were no further major reorganization or additions to 
its board of directors.  Civilian managers, therefore, not the SS, set forth the directives 
and guided the policies of the Mittelwerk GmbH.  The SS, of course, ran camp Dora, 
but its influence on the policy decisions and much of the daily operation of the 
factory was strictly limited.  Though the overall conditions at Mittelwerk were set by 
Kammler, he relied on civilian managers to carry out the tasks necessary to establish 
a mass production facility for the V-2 under Kohnstein.  Civilians alone were 
responsible for employment and handling of prisoners inside the factory itself.  They 
were supported by a large bureaucracy of civilian engineers on the various 
administrative levels below them.
Although no one from Peenem?nde served on the Mittelwerk board of 
directors, many development and production engineers from Usedom received 
positions in upper and middle management in the factory.  The most important of 
these men was Arthur Rudolph.  As the individual responsible for erecting the 
production facility at Peenem?nde, Rudolph naturally was heavily involved in the 
disassembly of the factory and its relocation to the Harz Mountains.  His official title 
with the Mittelwerk GmbH, as at Peenem?nde, was Factory Director, and he was 
responsible for missile assembly and production, but his first task was managing the 
68
 MW-Direktionsanweisung zur Gesamtsorganisation der Mittelwerk, G.m.b.H,? 5/26/44, BAL NS-4, 
Anhang, Nr. 16. 
301
transfer and installation of machinery.  He arrived in Dora-Mittelbau in September 
1943, and in this capacity, worked hand-in-glove with Sawatzki.
69
A number of Rudolph?s deputies and lower level managers from Peenem?nde 
left the facility on the Baltic to assist Rudolph with this work, and the production 
engineer relied heavily on them to complete many of the major tasks.  Many arrived 
with Rudolph in September.
70
  They were among the thousands of people who left 
Usedom for Dora-Mittelbau that autumn.  On November 16, for example, Albert 
Speer himself directed that Peenem?nde had to give up at least twenty percent of its 
skilled personnel, or approximately 1145 people, by Armaments Ministry estimates, 
for the project in the Mittelwerk.  Engineers, technicians, master craftsmen, 
secretaries, and other skilled laborers, such as joiners, electricians, and welders 
streamed out of Peenem?nde and into Mittelwerk.
71
By December 1, 1943, 386 
people had been transferred, including 128 engineers, technicians, and craftsmen. 
Two weeks later an additional 347 people were transferred to MW, 97 of them 
engineers and high-level technicians. Hundreds more would follow them in the weeks 
after.
72
This major relocation of personnel generally proceeded smoothly and with 
only minor problems.  Walther Riedel (Riedel III), von Braun, and Sawatzki directed 
much of the transfer process.  Cooperation between administrators at Peenem?nde 
and the Mittelwerk again ruled the day.  The only delays were caused by 
organizations outside the circle of missile specialists.  For example, to ease the strain 
69
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 9/8/43, FE 833, NASM.
70
 Arthur Rudolph Office of Special Investigation (OSI) Interrogation, printed in Thomas Franklin, An 
American in Exile 221. 
71
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 10/13/43, 10/19/43, 10/20/43; also 11/11/43 and 11/16/43, FE 833, NASM. 
72
 Undated Reisinger Report, FE 694, NASM.
302
on the German rail system, OKW forbade any unauthorized travel for all Germans 
between December 19 and January 7.  All rail passengers had to obtain special 
exemption passes in order to use railroad transport.  The order caused moderate 
delays in personnel transfer, but they were shortly overcome after the Peenem?nders 
were able to use their influence to acquire these passes from military authorities.
73
There were also some conflicts over where certain important specialists should work, 
either at Peenem?nde or at Mittelwerk (which lasted in to the spring of ?44), but in 
general, the transfer of skilled personnel from Usedom to the Harz Mountains was 
very smooth, and by the middle of November, the staff at the missile base had shrunk 
to just over 7200 employees.
74
  In April 1944, Sawatzki was able to determine that all 
of the positions needed for civilian labor had been filled, but that another 1850 
prisoners still needed to be placed in the plant.
75
  Once the underground missile 
factory had been completed and steady operations began, approximately 3000 
German civilians found themselves working there alongside some 5000 concentration 
camp slaves.  This number would multiply almost exponentially as more and more of 
Germany?s armaments industries began shifting their operations underground.
76
Security at the new production facility was extremely tight, but also increased 
dramatically as the tunnels expanded and were filled.  The SD and Gestapo operated 
73
 Von Braun to Lindenberg, 12/20/43, FE694/A, NASM.
74
 Von Braun labored mightily to ensure that the division of personnel between Peenem?nde and 
Mittelwerk was equitable.  Von Braun to Kettler, FE 694/a, Von Braun to Sawatzki, 4/12/44, FE 694/a, 
NASM.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 206.
75
 Sawatzki, Fertigungsumfang und ?aufwand A4 Mittelwerksanteil Stand 1.5.1944, FE 694/B, NASM.  
The list of recipients of this memorandum is also indicative of the links between administrators at 
Peenem?nde and Mittelwerk.  Of the twelve recipients, five, including von Braun and Rudolph, were 
Peenem?nders.  Others addressees included Kammler, Rickhey, and Bersch.   
76
 Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 549.  Major corporations such as Junkers and Askania opened 
operations in the tunnels in 1944.  The Mittelwerk GmbH also received contracts to produce the V-1 
cruise missile and the Heinkel He-162 ?People?s Fighter? [Volksjaeger].  
303
offices in Nordhausen (near Dora-Mittelbau) and other towns around Kohnstein in 
addition to establishing a strong presence in Mittelwerk itself.  Their activities were 
coordinated by the vicious head of security for the A-4 program, SS Lieutenant-
Colonel (Obersturmmbahnf?hrer) Helmut Bischoff, who received his orders directly 
from Kammler himself.
77
  At the end of May, 1944, the Armaments Ministry declared 
that the area within a thirty kilometre radius of Dora-Mittelbau would be a relocation 
zone for heavy industry that was being bombed to rubble in the cities.  This region 
was known as ?Sperrgebiet Mittelbau? and Bischoff, in yet another example of 
institutional cooperation within the Nazi regime, also assumed responsibility for 
security for the entire area.  Those who did not work or live in the area needed special 
permission from the Gestapo to enter it.
78
  A large motorized police unit operated out 
of Nordhausen, and a tank battalion was also assigned to help secure the area around 
the factory.
79
  In addition to the military units stationed in Nordhausen, the factory 
officials established a security detail [Werkschutz] which served as the guard troop for 
Mittelwerk.  Its members patrolled the entrances to the tunnels and maintained 
security checkpoints inside the factory.
80
  Security in the factory was maintained by 
other organizations in addition to the Werkschutz.  The Sicherheitsdienst and the 
Gestapo also held themselves responsible for ensuring the safety of Mittelwerk.  Both 
groups divided their tasks based on different types of cases.  For example, they 
maintained separate offices for combating sabotage and ?terror actions,? espionage, 
77
 Michael Allen, in his otherwise thoughtful book The Business of Genocide, mistakenly writes that 
Kammler placed Bischoff in this position because of Bischoff?s supposed engineering background.  In 
truth, Bischoff had no technical training and was a lifetime SS police official.  See Allen, p. 226.  For a 
more accurate picture of Bischoff, see Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 524-528.  
78
 Wernher Haack Statement, ZM 1625 Bd. 40, Akte 168, BStU.  How strictly this could be enforced is 
questionable.
79
 Heinrich Detmers Testimony, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al., M-1079, roll 5, NARA.
80
 Helmut Bischoff Testimony, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 23, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
304
and offenses by civilian workers. They also ran a network of informants in the factory 
whose activities were coordinated by the SD office in Niedersachswerfen, near the 
north entrance to the tunnels.
81
  With all of this in place, civilian employees faced a 
dizzying array of security measures in their daily activities at Mittelwerk.    
For the first several months at Mittelwerk, personnel transferred to the factory 
from Peenem?nde were first ordered to Ilfeld, the seat of the Mittelwerk GmbH?s 
local headquarters.  There, they received instructions and several days? worth of 
training regarding the factory?s secrecy regulations, espionage, and how to handle 
incidents of sabotage.  When they departed Ilfeld and arrived at their new temporary 
residences (often barracks ? the area lacked enough proper accommodations to absorb 
such a large influx of personnel), members of the SD met with them, photographed 
them, issued them passes into the tunnels, and eventually led them into the 
mountain.
82
  As at Peenem?nde, this introduction to the Mittelwerk served several 
functions.  It recalled their initiation into the world of secrecy shrouding the project, 
gave them entry into this exclusive world, and also brought them face to face with the 
oppressive mechanism of the Nazi state.  I will return to the issue of coercion shortly, 
but certainly the Mittelwerk employees felt nothing if not self-conscious in the 
knowledge that the notorious SD now had a file on them which included their name, 
address, and a photograph.  The sense of coercion around the project only grew, but it 
81
 Adolf H?ser Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 253, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.  H?ser was the Chief of the 
Gestapo in Niedersachserfen and Nordhausen. 
82
 Werner Haack Dossier, ZM 1625, Bd. 40, Akte 168, BStU.  Haack lived near Woffleben, a camp on 
opposite side of Kohnstein from Dora.  When he arrived in the tunnels in December 1943, he 
remembered that there was not much light underground, no air circulation, and the air reeked of sulfur 
and ammonia.
305
was still a secondary factor in ensuring the dedication of the civilians to missile 
effort.
More positive considerations also helped maintain their loyalty.  The 
engineers, technicians, and craftsmen who moved into the area around Dora-
Mittelbau in late 1943 and 1944 found a factory system in place that emphasized their 
importance to the German nation in both word and deed.  The articles of 
incorporation for the Mittelwerk GmbH, written by Degenkolb himself, attempted to 
manufacture a sense of community that was based both on the tasks ahead of them as 
well as Degenkolb?s own vision as to how the operation should run.  The articles 
recall Dornberger?s speech delivered to the Peenem?nders just a few months earlier, 
if only cast through an increasingly warped ideological prism.  Consciously 
attempting to maintain a sense of communal interest around the work and referring to 
the Mittelwerk?s employees as ?work comrades,? Degenkolb began by noting that 
?[Factory] Operations will be carried out in the spirit of a factory community 
[Betriebsgemeinschaft].?  Employees of Mittelwerk all had equal stake in the project, 
and all of the firm?s managers as well as each employee on the shop floor made up a 
strong, productive community of common interest. Degenkolb held that this common 
interest flowed explicitly from a sense of being a part of the national community 
[Volksgemeinschaft].  Accordingly, Degenkolb maintained that only ?Those who 
possess German blood can be a member of the factory community.?  For him, the 
Nazi Volksgemeinschaft, based as it was in large part along racial lines and on the 
common welfare of all Germans regardless of station, was both a model and 
wellspring of the community of missile specialists in the tunnels.  Like the Nazi 
306
Volksgemeinschaft, Degenkolb envisioned a factory community that was to be bound 
together by ?a spiritual commitment and reciprocal feeling of responsibility.?  He 
wrote that ?The destiny of the whole operation is the destiny of the entire factory 
community.  This destiny is therefore the communal task of all work comrades, who 
must uphold operations with their last reserves of strength and productivity ... The 
supreme principle of the National Socialist Party, ?Communal interest before personal 
interest,? is the highest goal of the factory community.?
83
  As at Peenem?nde, the 
success of one of Germany?s most modern factory production lines was to be based 
not simply on the skill of its laborers, its speed, or its efficiency, but also on the active 
identification of its workers with the goals for which it was put to use.  The sense of 
involvement in a project that was somehow larger than the sum of its parts was an 
important factor at both locations.  The only thing different for Degenkolb was the 
motivation.  His ideas embodied reactionary modernism in its penultimate form, 
embracing anti-modern notions of race and the German spirit as the central factors in 
the success of one of the world?s most advanced weapons.  Though his rhetoric 
differed sharply than that espoused at Peenem?nde, his message was similar.  
Personal interests should be set aside and communal interests embraced so that the 
work of defending the nation could be completed.  Every workers? last effort should 
be bent toward achieving this goal.
83
 Betriebsordnung Mittelwerk GmbH, 12/23/43, R121/405, BAL.  Michael Allen labels this effort to 
manufacture not only technology, but also the National Socialist spirit ? an act that supposedly would 
?yield up the German soul? (and relegated profit to secondary status) ?  ?productivism.?  There is little 
reason to doubt that this could be true, but Allen fails to note how easily such rhetoric could 
correspond with the less-ideologically inclined efforts to manufacture a sense of common interest 
among factory employees.  See Allen, The Business of Genocide, esp. 165-239. 
307
Degenkolb then went on to discuss the means by which it could be realized.  
After his resounding call to adhere to the tenets of a racially defined factory 
community centered on common national interest, most of these directives were 
mundane by comparison.  Nevertheless, they were important for emphasis they laid 
upon factors that defined the Peenem?nde community of specialists.  For example, he 
ordered that every employee receive a copy of the articles of incorporation and give 
his or her signature to confirm that they would abide by the rules it contained.  Such a 
signature would officially mark an individual?s entry into the community of missile 
production specialists in Mittelwerk and signified a commitment to its goals.  In 
addition, Degenkolb demanded that employees behave according to the strictest rules 
of secrecy regarding the plant?s operation.  Moreover, he encouraged all employees, 
no matter what rank, to proactively seek out improvements that could be made in 
their individual sectors and for management to be flexible in responding to these 
suggestions.  Factory managers received full authority to hire or requisition the 
necessary workers for their individual section.  Degenkolb also noted that employees 
could be summarily fired for such transgressions as ?Offenses against National 
Socialist principles,? ?Serious offenses against the laws of the Reich,? and 
?Disrupting ongoing work.?  Depending on the transgression, punishment ranged 
from an administrative wrist- slapping to the passing of the case to the Security 
Service (SD).
84
  However, most of these specific orders were not so different from the 
rules employees had to live under at Peenem?nde, and the transition to a different 
style of management in Mittelwerk was minimal.
84
 Betriebsordnung Mittelwerk GmbH, 12/23/43, R121/405, BAL.
308
This is evident in a letter written to Degenkolb in January 1944 by purchasing 
expert Heinz Schmid-Lossburg.  After reading Degenkolb?s missive, he noted a 
number of concerns and questions that it brought up.  He opened by stating dryly that 
?The section concerning the factory community is somewhat unclear,? and laid out a 
number of concerns about compensating employees, issues pertaining to overtime 
pay, and other financial questions.  However, Schmid-Lossburg also went on to state, 
among other things, that much of what Degenkolb emphasized in the articles of 
incorporation was not necessary.  Most employees had long been living and working 
under such rules and were still bound by them.  He informed Degenkolb that the 
statements he made concerning secrecy were unnecessary because nearly all of the 
employees of Mittelwerk were already obligated to follow the strictest secrecy 
guidelines.  Moreover, most managers already understood that the task of looking 
after the employees belonged ?fundamentally to the factory managers.?  Their roles 
as facilitators of improvement were clear, and they had always been open to 
suggestions from a range of employees.  According to Schmid-Lossburg, factory 
managers already understood that the importance of the project required that they 
have confidence in their (civilian) workers.  They had learned to take care of these 
issues during their time at Peenem?nde.
85
  Degenkolb?s call to bring together the 
factory community, while not falling on deaf ears, had, for reasons other than those 
put forward A-4 Special Committee Chairman, already been widely embraced by 
many new employees at Mittelwerk. 
Those civilians who came to Mittelwerk to join Degenkolb?s ?somewhat 
unclear? concept of a factory community received substantial compensation for 
85
 Schmidt-Lossburg to Degenkolb, 1/5/44, R121/544, BAL.
309
relocating their homes, workplaces, and often their families.  The Mittelwerk GmbH 
agreed to give its senior managers the handsome amount of up to six hundred 
Reichsmarks to cover moving expenses.  Other indispensable members of upper and 
middle management received up to five hundred Reichsmarks to cover expenses.
86
Because of the hasty and fully improvised transfer of production, many employees 
were also unable to find suitable accommodations immediately.  To help overcome 
the difficulties associated with such a rapid move, the Mittelwerk GmbH paid 
employees an extra per diem of RM 2.50 for the first six months they were in the 
area.  Benefits provided by the corporation were also quite generous.  Employees who 
worked overtime were eligible to earn up to one and a half times their normal salary 
for those hours.  The board of directors also recognized that working in the factory 
created a special strain on civilians in the tunnels.  Tellingly, every three months, 
employees received a generous ?allowance for difficult working conditions? 
[Erschwerniszulage], which amounted one quarter of the monthly payment rate, 
calculated assuming a seventy-two hour work week.  This benefit was available to 
employees only after they had been in the factory for two months.
87
  Karl Otto Saur, 
Albert Speer?s ambitious and ruthless subordinate, also showed an important interest 
in the well-being of Mittelwerk?s civilian employees, insisting that they were 
?especially burdened,? and should receive extra vacation time ?in view of the difficult 
working conditions.?
88
86
 Niederschrift ?ber die 1. Sitzung des Beirates der Mittelwerk GmbH, 12/14/43, NS4 Anh., Nr. 3, 
BAL.
87
 Bericht Dr. Kettler, 12/10/43, R121/405, BAL.  
88
Niederschrift ?ber die 1. Sitzung des Beirates der Mittelwerk GmbH, 12/14/43, NS4 Anh., Nr. 3, 
BAL.
310
The employees? social welfare was also a central consideration for members 
of the board of directors.  Married workers received an allowance for family-related 
expenses [Unterhalts-Beihilfe].  Single employees also received a similar allowance, 
though it was about half of what the married workers collected.  However, if a single 
employee got married, he and his wife received a one-time gift of RM 150 from the 
corporation.  The Mittelwerk GmbH also did its part in seeking to increase 
Germany?s birth rate.  On top of the family allowance, it awarded a one-time payment 
of RM 100 for the first child and a one-time payment of RM 50 for the second.  
Moreover, the company offered a subsidy of ten Reichsmarks per month for each 
child that married couples had past their second.  This would be in effect until the 
child was sixteen. Life insurance, no small matter in a country being steadily and 
systematically razed, was also a staple benefit.
89
  In the end, the Mittelwerk board of 
directors proved eager to look after the social welfare of its employees, an official 
concern that could only have helped enlist and maintain employees? willingness to 
put forth their best efforts on the program?s behalf.
In addition, and perhaps more importantly, individual employees? salaries rose 
markedly upon transfer to the Mittelwerk GmbH.  Generally speaking, engineers and 
technicians who occupied positions in the middle and upper-middle management 
levels at Peenem?nde earned between 10,000 and 12,000 Reichsmarks per year, 
depending upon education, experience, and seniority.  These numbers rose 
dramatically when civilian managers transferred to Mittelwerk.  For example, Erich 
Ball, an assembly specialist at Peenem?nde who earned approximately 10,000 
Reichsmarks per year between 1937 and 1943 (though no records exist for individual 
89
 Bericht Dr. Kettler, 12/10/43, R121/405, BAL.
311
years, one should assume that his salary was somewhat higher in 1943 than in 1937 
because of periodic raises and cost of living adjustments), earned a salary of 18,000 
Reichsmarks in his position as assembly line manager at Mittelwerk.  Technician 
G?nther Haukohl?s salary numbers are nearly identical.  Rudolf Schlidt, a technician 
who worked in materials testing at Peenem?nde and helped assemble exhaust jet 
vanes in Mittelwerk, saw his salary increase from RM 6000 to RM 10,000 per year.  
Perhaps the most dramatic salary increase was Arthur Rudolph?s.  The talented 
production supervisor, who held a two-year degree from a vocational school and who 
once had to subsist on just over seven Reichsmarks per week, earned a whopping RM 
29,900 in his position with the Mittelwerk GmbH, up from his salary of just over RM 
10,000 at Peenem?nde.  The once impoverished technician had done very well for 
himself under the Nazi regime.
90
  Unfortunately, it is impossible to conduct a 
thorough, systematic review of the specific salaries offered to any large percentage of
Peenem?nders who happened to be transferred to Mittelwerk.  There is simply of 
dearth of documents that might allow for such a large-scale examination.  However, 
though the evidence is too scanty to come to any final, solid conclusions about the 
salary increases offered by the Mittelwerk GmbH, based on the numbers that are 
available, one can plausibly argue that most employees who transferred from 
Peenem?nde likely received pay raises of between thirty and forty percent ? a 
substantial increase by any standard.  
Increased material awards, then, were used to buttress the civilians? personal 
dedication to the program?s success and to help override any lingering personal 
90
 Erich Ball, G?nther Haukohl, Rudolf Schlidt, and Arthur Rudolph Basic Personnel Records, RG 
165, Box 703, File ?Boston,? NARA.
312
reservations about the exploitation of slave labor in the concentration camp system.  
Those who came from Peenem?nde and elsewhere received a generous amount of 
money to help overcome relocation expenses as well as several different types of 
inducements to work efficiently in Mittelwerk.  They were well-compensated for their 
work and they could be certain that their families would be looked after by the state-
owned corporation, even if they should suffer an accident or death.  In addition, the 
handsome benefits package offered by the Mittelwerk GmbH showed its 
administrators? keen awareness of the arduous nature of employment in the factory.  
It was not an easy place to work, and conditions were ?difficult,? to say the least.  
Management consciously attempted to alleviate the stress of working underground in 
a high-pressure environment in which they daily were confronted with the concrete 
reality of slavery under the Nazi regime.  By offering generous pay, excellent 
benefits, and increased vacation time, even during the most radical period of the 
regime?s existence, the company hoped to mitigate the strains that it knew existed in a 
place that must have been as difficult to work in as Peenem?nde was exciting.  The 
rupture from their comfortable lives on the Baltic was no doubt unpleasant, but 
missile program administrators did their best to overcome any remaining sense of 
dislocation.  Even the bombastic Degenkolb, with his bizarre articles of incorporation, 
got into the act.  Though his missive may have been opaque to many employees, the 
tangible material benefits of working and living around Dora-Mittelbau were 
perfectly clear.  Even if life there was not as rewarding as in Peenem?nde, 
employment under Kohnstein offered other advantages, such as higher salaries and 
excellent social welfare benefits.  
313
In addition, another major advantage was the potential for professional 
advancement.  Personnel who had previously been employed at Peenem?nde often 
assumed positions in the Mittelwerk factory that were essential to its successful 
operation.  For many of these people, transfer to the underground facility meant a 
great deal of upward professional mobility.  Many employees who were deputies and 
assistants in Peenem?nde became section chiefs and division managers in Mittelwerk.  
According to Dornberger himself, nearly every working group in the factory was 
headed by an engineer who had originally been employed at Peenem?nde.
91
Sensibly, engineers at Peenem?nde who had experience in a particular area at their 
former base went on to become the experts in this same field in Mittelwerk.  Several 
individual cases as well as entire factory divisions within the Mittelwerk factory serve 
as useful examples of the importance of the Peenem?nders to the efficient functioning 
of the operation.  For example, engineer Erich Ball, who helped plan assembly at the 
F-1 plant in Peenem?nde, arrived from Usedom in September 1943 and assumed the 
position of assembly line chief at Mittelwerk.  Gunther Haukohl, a skilled technician 
at Peenem?nde who worked on the installation of the assembly line, helped plan 
extended manufacturing facilities and a repair shop in Mittelwerk.
92
  Engineer 
Firnrohr, a deputy group leader in the assembly plant at Peenem?nde, became the 
division head of the department responsible for assembly of the center section of the 
missile at Mittelwerk.  Engineer Busselt, a deputy leader in the division responsible 
for testing the wiring in experimental missiles at Peenem?nde, became the head of the 
91
 Dornberger Statement, ZM 1625, Bd. 44, Akte 189, BStU.
92
 U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae et al., M-1079, roll 4, NARA.  The notoriously brutal kapo ?Big Georg? 
Finkenzeller worked under Haukohl.
314
group responsible for testing the missile?s wiring at Mittelwerk.
93
  Many other 
engineers from Peenem?nde followed this career arc, which established direct 
connections between the research and development station on the Baltic and the 
assembly plant in the Harz Mountains.
Perhaps the most important section in this regard was the factory labor 
operations division (Betriebsarbeitseinsatz), which allocated both civilian and 
prisoner labor inside the assembly halls.  As Factory Director, Rudolph ultimately 
was in charge of this division, but former Peenem?nde specialists supervised its daily 
activities.  The two engineers in charge of this section, Broszat and Weckbrodt, were 
former Peenem?nders who worked closely with Rudolph in designing the production 
plant there.  In the Mittelwerk factory, they worked with the SS labor allocation office 
in concentration camp Dora in order to assign semi-skilled prisoners to the proper 
assembly and transport details.  Starting in the autumn of 1943 and continuing 
through March 1945, civilian managers in factory labor operations received daily 
prisoner strength reports that detailed how many slave laborers came into Dora, how 
many had died, and how many total prisoners worked in the tunnels.  These reports 
made the staggering death rate in the tunnels abundantly clear, and from them, 
Broszat and Weckbrodt were able to request and allocate more prisoners as needed.
94
In addition, engineer Raschdorf, Broszat?s deputy in this division, also previously 
worked at Peenem?nde.  Finally, the factory labor division was the civilian agency in 
charge of supervision and control.  Engineer Stuhlfauth, who ran this section, was not 
93
 My sincere thanks to Torsten Hess of the KZ Gedenkst?tte Dora-Mittelbau for his help in working 
through a number of the connections that individual engineers had between Peenem?nde and Dora-
Mittelbau.
94
 For examples of these strength reports, see Ver?nderungsmeldungen, ZM 1625 Bd. 69, Akte 348, 
BStU.
315
a Peenem?nder, but his deputy, an engineer Kuhlmann, had transferred from Usedom 
in November.
95
A second important example of the centrality of civilian experts from 
Peenem?nde in daily factory operations was in the production quality control division 
(Fertigungsaufsicht).  This division was created before the August air raid and 
subsequent dispersal of the base?s facilities and personnel.  It remained under the 
administrative control of the development group at Peenem?nde even after its main 
office relocated to Mittelwerk in May 1944.  The quality control division represented 
the embodiment and institutionalization of cooperation between missile specialists 
both in development and production.  Von Braun and Sawatzki worked very closely 
to ensure that this division functioned smoothly at Mittelwerk.  In April 1944, Von 
Braun traveled to the factory in order to discuss with Sawatzki how to improve and 
simplify the work of its staff members.  Both men agreed that one of the major 
problems confronting them was the difficulty of creating easily mass-produced, 
readily installed assemblies out of the often custom-made pieces of equipment made 
for test firings at Peenem?nde.  The experience of mass production had shown both of 
them that ?the questions still that remain to be solved must be worked out by 
cooperation between development, subsidiary firms, and assembly.?  These questions 
would be tackled by the quality control group, which would function as a technical 
?stormtroop? [Stosstrupp] in attacking problems as they came up, while also 
95
 Mittelwerk GmbH Betriebsabteilungen, 12/12/43, NS-4 Anh., Nr. 16, BAL.
316
coordinating the functions of all Army developers, production specialists, and private 
industry.
96
The group was made up of approximately fifty people from Peenem?nde, 
engineers who both supervised the incorporation of design changes in subsidiary 
firms and tested assemblies and sub-assemblies in the factory.  These civilian 
engineers also employed skilled prisoners as assistants.  The chief of this very 
important group, an engineer named Hans Lindenberg, was a deputy of von Braun?s 
when he worked at Peenem?nde.  For his tasks at Mittelwerk, he cooperated directly 
with Sawatzki on questions of development and production, but was technically still 
directly subordinate to von Braun.
97
  Even though he lived and worked in Ilfeld, not 
far from Mittelwerk, Lindenberg often sought out von Braun?s support on numerous 
production and design questions.  Moreover, in addition to coordinating development 
and production, the quality control group was also charged with ?removal of 
specialists (foreigners) [from the assembly line] who are not particularly qualified?
98
[parenthesis in original].  The fate of prisoners who were not on the factory assembly 
line was common knowledge.  Most were literally worked to death in the myriad of 
SS-managed construction projects in the Nordhausen area in 1944 and 1945.
99
96
 Sawatzki, Aktenvermerk ?ber die Besprechung am 12.4.1944 im Mittelwerk, 4/16/44, FE 694/A, 
NASM.
97
 Ibid.
98
 Dienstanweisung f?r die Fertigungsaufsicht, 5/15/44, NS-4 Anh., Nr. 23, BAL.
99
 See Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 359-367 and Allen, The Business of Genocide, 222-232.
317
     Civilian engineers inspect a V-2, without its warhead, in the Mittelwerk factory.
Courtesy of Michael Neufeld
Interestingly, Werner von Braun helped write the service instructions for the 
quality control group and was central in the set up of this office.
100
  Throughout the 
early part of 1944, while the tunnels were still being expanded and more parts of the 
factory were being brought on line, he remained tremendously important in defining 
the mission of the quality control group.  In February, he wrote a stern circular to all 
of the members of the quality control group in which he attempted to elaborate on and 
clarify the importance of their work.  In von Braun?s typical carrot and stick 
approach, he wrote to his subordinates that he would unerringly support any specialist 
who rejected useless or flawed items even if such rejections set back production 
quotas.  However, he also pointed out that he would call to account those members of 
100
 Wernher von Braun Statement, 2/7/69, ZM 1625, Bd. 60, Akte 268, BStU.
318
the group who frivolously ignored the demands of production or who could not 
clearly justify why production numbers were not being met.  All members of the 
group were to give their forthright cooperation to all of the firms involved in the 
manufacture of the V-2 so that high volume, steady output could be achieved.  ?I 
don?t need to mention to you,? he wrote, ?that attaining a high output of instruments 
as soon as possible is everyone?s dearest wish.?  Von Braun reminded the old 
Peenem?nders that in order to produce this high volume of serviceable missiles, 
developers and producers had to closely coordinate their activities.  For him, this was 
an overriding concern: ?We have no time to lose!  The fastest possible introduction 
and adaptation of [test] results in the [office responsible for coordinating technical 
changes] is the decisive demand upon which the success or failure of our entire 
project depends.?
101
  Cooperation, then, was to be the watchword for this group, as 
indeed it was for all Peenem?nders who came to work at Mittelwerk.  As at 
Peenem?nde, the fate of the entire project depended on the positive interaction of a 
motivated, cooperative German workforce.  The quality control group, made up 
almost exclusively of Peenem?nders, was a lynchpin to this success.
The links between engineers at the distant locations were founded on more 
than professional grounds.  Away from the shop floor and in higher management 
echelons, the social bonds between leading development and production engineers 
were close.  For example, Rickhey hosted a number of parties for Mittelwerk and 
Peenem?nde managers, complete with cognac and cigars.
102
  Other occasions go so 
far as to reveal the level of the Peenem?nders? indifference to the crimes committed 
101
 Von Braun, Rundschreiben an s?mtliche Angeh?rigen der Fertigungsaufsicht, 2/17/44, RH8/v. 
1980, BA/MA.
102
 Julius Bouda Testimony, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, roll 7, M-1079, NARA.
319
in the name of missile assembly.  For example, in December 1944, von Braun, 
Dornberger, and Heinz Kunze (Degenkolb?s deputy) won the War Service Cross for 
their efforts to develop and produce the V-2.  That month, they held a small 
celebration at Peenem?nde that revealed a great deal about the leading engineers? 
attitudes toward each other as well as toward slave labor.  A number of leading 
Peenem?nders and production engineers, Rickhey and Sawatzki, were invited to the 
celebration, which was organized by Riedel III.
103
    Photographs of the event reveal a 
pleasant, relaxed atmosphere, drink flowing and the conversation lively.  During the 
happy occasion, places around the dinner table were kept by illustrated cards that not 
only poked fun at each other?s foibles, but also revealed a callous attitude toward the 
fate of the prisoners at Dora.  Dornberger?s card depicts the general on the hunt for a 
buck, his favorite pastime, reckoning a five meter dispersal on his shot and declaring 
wistfully, ?Those were the days!? [Das waren noch Zeiten!].  Von Braun?s card 
shows the young engineer reclining in an armchair while using a solar reflector to 
cook his breakfast.  More troubling was Sawatzki?s card.  On it, a mass of prisoners 
struggles to pull his car out of ditch while a kapo looks on. On Rickhey?s card, 
inmates labor to pull an A-4 out of a tunnel, observed at a distance by a man in a crisp 
suit, presumably Rickhey himself.
104
  These illustrations were created no doubt to add 
a further air of levity to this occasion, but in this effort, they also revealed a 
thoroughgoing indifference to the struggles of the prisoners who labored in the 
tunnels of Mittelwerk.  Illustrations aside, these social occasions also helped to 
reaffirm the engineers? identification with each other and their willingness to 
103
 Riedel III to Kunze, 12/11/44, FE 372, NASM.
104
 Dinner card draft illustrations, FE 855, NASM. 
320
cooperate in the project.  Such events were important for maintaining an efficient, 
collegial, relationship between developers and producers.  In short, they reinforced 
the highly developed sense of solidarity among the stressed and beleaguered missile 
specialists.  
The division, therefore, between specialists at Peenem?nde and production 
engineers at Dora was not sharply defined.  While some historians and many rocketry 
enthusiasts have, for very different reasons, implied that one group had little to do 
with the other (except for the occasional exchanges of correspondence or odd meeting 
or that they only had periodic contacts at high levels), the truth is somewhat more 
321
    The place-keeping cards used at a dinner in Dornberger and von Braun?s honor, December 1944.
Courtesy NASM
complex.  A weapon as radical and advanced as the V-2 dictated that the developers 
remain in close contact with production engineers in order to iron out the inevitable 
322
wrinkles that would appear not only in a weapon that was being rushed into 
operational use, but also in the transition from experimental to mass production.  The 
transplanting of final assembly from Peenem?nde only served to complicate this 
transition.  Moreover, many Peenem?nders, who had internalized the missile center?s 
central axiom of service to the nation in time of war as well as, it should be noted, its 
deeply ingrained culture of group self-interest, moved into the Mittelwerk factory and 
became central in the management missile production.  Indeed, this line between the 
two groups was not a solid barrier at all, but rather a semi-permeable membrane in 
which people and information could be easily moved back and forth.  Former 
Peenem?nders inhabited the middle and upper-level management strata of the 
Mittelwerk GmbH, in precisely the positions in which their decisions would have the 
most impact upon the daily lives of concentration camp prisoners forced to work in 
the service of the missile program.  Every day at work, they were confronted with the 
reality of slave labor.  The decisions that they made from moment to moment on the 
shop floor reflected the deeply internalized culture of their former institution as well 
as the increasingly radicalized political climate in the last eighteen months of the 
National Socialist regime.      
            Dornberger and von Braun, December 1944.
    Courtesy DM
323
Slave Labor and the Civilian Workforce at Dora-Mittelbau
German civilian specialists were a fundamental part of the systematic 
persecution of slave laborers in Mittelwerk.  However, direct individual involvement 
in the crimes associated with slavery under Kohnstein varied widely.  Essentially, the 
missile specialists? behaviour was clustered around two main groupings.  Around one 
pole were the passive facilitators who competently did their duty or enthusiastically 
supported the war effort in their daily lives at work.  In this dedication, which in 
practice translated into support for the regime itself, these men created the essential 
precondition for more radical policies.  Their collective outlook at least tolerated Nazi 
brutality either by failing to protest against it or, worse, by turning it to their own 
advantage.  Around the second pole were those engineers, such as Sawatzki, who 
wholeheartedly exploited slave laborers in missile production and showed an 
astonishing combination of ideology and rationality that served the twin goals of 
producing weapons while also subjugating those perceived to be enemies of the Nazi 
state. These men were more heavily involved in Nazi crimes, though their numbers 
were smaller.  The direct and more fatal participation in the harsh excesses of the 
Nazi regime by individuals in the missile community, while admittedly less common, 
was itself one of the results of the atmosphere of dedication and cooperation that so 
many important specialists encouraged.   It is the most direct indication of the 
continued narrowing of the missile specialists? ethical outlook to service to the state.  
The final consequence of this was an uncaring attitude, or at least obliviousness, 
toward the tremendous human suffering that they caused.  
324
The period of factory installation described above was certainly the most 
brutal and terrifying for the prisoners at Dora.  Civilians who worked among these 
prisoners treated them in a wide variety of ways.  Most of the civilians involved in 
setting up the factory came from Peenem?nde or were sub-contracted employees of 
subsidiary firms.  Some of these civilian engineers physically mistreated the prisoners 
in the tunnels despite an SS order forbidding the practice.  In December, F?rschner 
circulated an order that prohibited civilians from having any contact with prisoners 
except for the purposes of detailing their tasks.  He attempted to make it clear that the 
SS was to be the only group responsible for disciplining the prisoners.
105
  Most 
complied, but some civilians outright ignored this order.  Sawatzki himself was 
perhaps the worst offender in this regard.  Eddie Verheyn, a French prisoner, recalled 
after the war that Sawatzki would roam the tunnels in the morning, ?calling us French 
swine and kicking several of us here and there.?
106
  Gerhard Hobert recalled clearly 
that civilians beat prisoners, accusing in particular Sawatzki, as well as an engineer 
named Siegel and section director Seidenstucker, a section chief on the assembly line.  
?It is not only true that the directors were bandits,? he stated, ?but the section leaders 
were just as bad.?
107
  Finally, engineer Jakob, a former Peenem?nder who helped run 
the portion of the production line that completed tail assembly, was also accused of 
abusing prisoners.  According to one prisoner, he purportedly ?? took pleasure in 
beating people and having people beaten.?
108
  Both Seidenstucker, who was described 
105
 F?rschner Aktennotiz, 12/30/43, NS4 Anh., Nr. 3, BAL.
106
 Eddie Verheyn Testimony, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al, roll 4, M-1079, NARA. 
107
 Gerhard Hobert Testimony, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al, roll 4, M-1079, NARA.  Willi Burgdorf, 
a prisoner who worked directly for Seidenstucker, offered that the engineer ?was a bad fellow.? 
108
 Verheyn Testimony, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al, roll 4, M-1079, NARA; Willi Steimel 
Testimony, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al, roll 5, M-1079, NARA.  
325
by one prisoner as a ?sadist,? and Jakob were two of Rudolph?s deputies.
109
  In any 
case, despite these examples and the fact that many prisoners clearly recalled the 
instances in which they witnessed civilians directly abusing the prisoners, the number 
of engineers who directly mistreated camp inmates remained relatively low.  
For the most part, civilian specialists in the tunnels left the disciplining of 
prisoners to the Kapos and SS.
110
  However, this does not mean that they overtly 
sympathized with the plight of the prisoners who suffered through their troglodyte 
existence.  In truth, the majority of civilians betrayed a callous indifference to the 
suffering around them in the terrible winter months of 1943-?44.  Yves B?on 
remembers civilians who guided factory installation ?continually measuring the 
galleries according to the plans they carry.  They move about, climbing the piles of 
rubble, going around machines and reels of cable, past turning concrete mixers, but 
never looking at the tattered men around them, nor even hearing the shouts, the 
vicious clubbings, or screams of pain.  Quietly, they indicate location points desired 
for machines, for junctions, for joints and fixing points for the electrical and 
pneumatic air ducts.?
111
  Installation of the factory, not care for the fate of the 
prisoners working to prepare the tunnels, was the first priority for most civilian 
specialists in the winter of 1943-?44.  Dr. Karl Kahr, the SS physician at Dora, 
testified in 1947 that the tempo of the work was one of the primary causes of fatigue 
and accidents.  He placed equal blame for this on civilian employees, kapos, and the 
109
 Tadeusz Kahl Testimony, 28/83 USA, BStU.
110
 Sellier, A History of the Dora Camp, 87.  Sellier also notes that of the thousands of deaths in this 
period, very few were because of outright executions.
111
 B?on, Planet Dora, 24.
326
SS.
112
  Those prisoners who did not or could not contribute their full energy to 
achieving the goal of quickly installing the factory were easily expendable and readily 
replaced.  A steady drumbeat of instructions from above reinforced these ideas, 
warning against sabotage and delays while pointing out, for example, that ?The fast 
and programmatic execution of our work of production and the guarantee of the 
working reliability of our plants and manufacturing equipment are at present our first 
requirements.?
113
  No mention was ever made of the care of the prisoners.  
Though most civilians abstained from direct abuse of the sort Sawatzki and 
others doled out, they could still be directly implicated in the system of maltreatment 
in Mittelwerk.  Clement van Hamme, a Dutch prisoner, explained that ?The civilians 
who were with us did nothing but watch the work and command.  They beat us little 
or not, but denounced the men who did not work to the SS.?
114
  At worst, then, in the 
early stages of tunnel expansion and factory construction, there is concrete evidence 
that some German specialists blatantly, (and, it must be said, illegally, even in the 
Nazi context) mistreated prisoners whom they deemed too lazy or too slow.  Most, 
however, betrayed little more than indifference to the prisoners? deep suffering.  In 
the course of doing their jobs properly, however, they became involved in the 
structure of abuse in the factory by reporting misbehaving workers, replacing those 
who could no longer function efficiently, and utterly failing to look out for their well-
being.
Slave labor in the tunnels under Kohnstein began to take on a new aspect in 
the late spring and early summer of 1944.  As the expansion of the galleries was 
112
 Karl Kahr Testimony, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae et al, M-1079, roll 8, NARA.
113
Kettler Sonderdirektionsanweisung D, 1/8/44, NS4 Anh, Nr. 3, BAL.
114
 Clement van Hamme Testimony, U.S.A vs. Kurt Andrae, Roll 2, M-1079, NARA.
327
completed and the installation of the missile factory?s assembly line began receiving 
its finishing touches, the ferocious pace of the work as well as the catastrophic death 
rate under the mountain began to abate.  By April 1, the primary tunneling work had 
completed, the tunnels were cleaned, air conditioning was installed, and machines 
were ready for operation.
115
  In addition, the SS finally began constructing barracks 
outside of the tunnels in January 1944 and began moving the prisoners into them 
shortly afterward.  The last of the prisoners emerged from the tunnels to take their 
places in the barracks in June.
116
Camp Dora would eventually be made up of over 
fifty barracks and also contain its own crematorium as well as a gallows and separate 
prison that came to be known as ?The Bunker.?  Almost all of the barracks were 
equipped with wash rooms and latrines, which limited the opportunity for diseases to 
spread.
117
At the same time, a medical barracks was constructed so that the SS made 
the possibility of medical care for the prisoners available, and the food situation for 
prisoners improved as well. Those fortunate enough to have the requisite skills to 
work on the assembly line experienced a drastic improvement in conditions, and the 
death rate dropped dramatically from April ?44.
118
The accommodations above 
ground, while not ideal, were nonetheless a monumental improvement over the cold, 
wet, and disease-ridden sleeping tunnels in the mountain.  
Attitudes toward the prisoner labor force also changed fundamentally.  Until 
the end of March, 1944, around eighty percent of the prisoners in the Dora-Mittelbau 
115
 Wincenty Hein Testimony, ZM 1625, Bd. 23, Akte 35, BStU.
116
 Monatsbericht, 5/23/44, Gericht Rep. 299, Bd. 562, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
117
 Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 192-194.  Wagner also points out that the lowered death rate at 
Dora was also the result of shipping several thousand prisoners who were no longer able to work to 
Dora?s growing network of subsidiary camps.
118
 Monatsbericht, H?ftlingskrankenbau Dora, 5/23/44, Gericht Rep. 299/562, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.  
328
complex worked at the tunnel face, blasting the rock and transporting it out.  About 
fifteen percent worked in so-called ?Fachkommandos? as joiners, electricians, 
handworkers, and other skilled positions, and approximately five percent were 
employed as secretaries, clerks, and stenographers in the business offices.
119
However, as the work in the tunnels required fewer high concentrations of unskilled 
manpower for digging, transport, and construction work, the job sites underground 
began to be populated increasingly by skilled laborers who were viewed as a much 
more valuable commodity, not only by the camp?s SS officials, but by civilian 
managers as well.  Assembling the missiles required a highly competent work force 
that was at least moderately familiar with the technical demands of such a task.  
Electricians, welders, metalworkers, and mechanics were especially valuable 
professions for prisoners.  Most often, the SS housed these skilled workers in the 
main camp of Dora itself, where the skilled labor pool could be most easily accessed 
and prisoners could move relatively easily to and from work.
120
  Skilled inmates in 
the main camp generally received better treatment as well.  
For example, in May 1944, an outbreak of typhus struck Dora and threatened 
to devastate the camp.  The SS medical staff ordered that ?skilled prisoners who are 
important for the factory? receive inoculations against the disease so that they could 
continue their work.
121
  Starting in July, prisoner doctors conducted twice-weekly 
health inspections, especially with the aim of limiting the spread of fleas.  The 
availability of food and water improved as well.  Nevertheless, these improvements 
119
 Anklageschrift gegen Bischoff, Busta, Sander, Konzentrationslager Mittelbau/Dora, ZM1625, Bd. 
5, Akte 15, BStU.  Wincenty Hein Testimony, ZM 1625, Bd. 23, Akte 35, BStU.   
120
 Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 367-368; Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 225; Sellier, A 
History of the Dora Camp, 149.
121
 Monatsbericht, 5/23/44, Gericht Rep. 299, Bd. 562, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
329
did not come about out of humanitarian concern, but rather the camp administrators? 
narrow technical self-interest.  Unskilled prisoners were often banished to Dora?s 
increasingly dense network of subsidiary camps, where conditions were much worse.  
They had to live with other, often fatal, disadvantages that skilled workers sometimes 
did not have to face.  For example, many prisoners lacked adequate shoes.  This was 
especially true among the unskilled laborers in the transport kommandos, where 
?abrasions [on the feet] are a consequence of the work performed.?
122
  Such 
considerations are seemingly mundane, but Primo Levi wrote powerfully of the 
necessity of proper footwear in the camps, reminding his readers that ?Death begins 
with the shoes; for most of us, they show themselves to be instruments of torture, 
which after a few hours of marching cause painful sores which become fatally 
infected ? To enter the hospital with a diagnosis of ?swollen feet? is extremely 
dangerous, because it is well-known to all, but especially to the SS, that there is no 
cure for that complaint.?
123
  Prisoners who could not be cured were no longer 
considered of any value to the SS, and were murdered.  To be sure, those skilled 
prisoners imprisoned at Dora and who worked in the factory dealt with some of these 
same risks because of problems with shoe supply.  However, these were mitigated by 
F?rschner?s move in the early summer of 1944 to provide leather shoes for prisoners 
who worked in the assembly shops as well as a number of other efforts by camp 
officials and medical personnel to improve their access to better clothing.
124
  Those 
who labored in positions requiring less skill but more physical exertion, and who, 
122
 Mrugorsky to Kammler, 7/4/44, Roll 1, M-1079, NARA.
123
 Primo Levi, Survival in Auschwitz, (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1996), 34-35.
124
 Mrugorsky to Kammler, 7/4/44, Roll 1, M-1079, NARA.
330
consequently, were most in need of proper shoes and better access to new clothes, 
received nothing.  
Civilian specialists had virtually no contact with the prisoners in the camp, but 
worked side by side with them in the factory every day.  The pattern of behavior at 
Peenem?nde, in which prisoners who were perceived to have more value because of 
their technical skills received better treatment, also took shape at Mittelwerk.  Factory 
administrators, for example, instituted a premium system in which prisoners could be 
rewarded with extra rations and cigarettes from the camp in exchange for excellent 
work.
125
  Those slaves who could help contribute to the goals of the program, 
therefore, had a much better chance of survival at the factory.  Interestingly, Nazi 
conceptions of race remained of little or no importance in determinations about who 
might be useful in achieving the factory?s ends.  The functional criteria of technical 
skill was in the end, the single most important factor in determining an individual 
prisoner?s chances of survival at Dora-Mittelbau.
Technical considerations were the dominant factor in decisions made about 
the treatment of prisoners.  The mass production of the V-2 required permanent and 
trained groups of workers.  Arthur Rudolph admitted that all of the civilians who 
worked in the factory were keenly aware of the V-2s importance to the war effort and 
that the primary objective at Mittelwerk was to mass-produce missiles quickly and 
efficiently.
126
  Continuous training of new workers was expensive and hampered the 
pace of production, as did a never-ending stream of prisoner abuse.  It was far easier 
and made much more technical sense to keep skilled workers alive and in the 
125
 Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 393-394.
126
 Rudolph OSI interrogation, Franklin, An American in Exile, 218.
331
workshops than it was to train a new one every time a worker died or suffered injuries 
requiring his removal from the assembly line.  Former prisoner Wincenty Hein 
pointed out that ?Since qualified work groups were more valuable [than unskilled 
labor], the treatment of the prisoners during their work time in the factory 
improved.?
127
  The better conditions for the prisoners, then, had little to do with the 
engineers? humanitarian concerns and much more to do with their own narrow self-
interest.  Because it was in the interest of this deeply self-serving group of missile 
specialists to keep skilled labor alive or uninjured, technically trained prisoners stood 
a much better chance of survival.  Engineer Willibald Feier, who worked at 
Peenem?nde from 1941 until his transfer to Mittelwerk in 1943, remarked coldly that 
?Since a huge death rate ruled among the prisoners at this time, we civilians appealed 
to the SS guards with the goal to reduce the death rate.  This was necessary for us, 
since we were concerned about having unskilled workers and it took a long time for 
us to train them.?
128
  Feier?s candid statement indicates not only his keen awareness 
of the horrors of working in the tunnels, but also the sharp narrowing of the civilians? 
ethical sensibilities when it came to considerations of the prisoners? conditions.  The 
technically skilled had value, the unskilled did not.  Such considerations categorized 
prisoners according to function and assigned no worth to those unlucky enough to be 
without the requisite skills.  Without question, the engineers? active identification 
with the goal of mass production, combined with pressure from above, manifested 
itself in a stunning ability to think not in terms of the human cost of their work, but 
rather the potential output of human labor.  
127
 Hein Testimony, ZM 1625, Bd. 23, Akte 35, BStU.
128
 Willibald Feier Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, Bd. 600, HstaD-ZA Kalkum.
332
The circumstances created by wartime events also cast the engineers? 
considerations in a revealing light.  In the spring and summer of 1944, allied air 
attacks increasingly began to create major problems for firms that manufactured parts 
and assemblies for the V-2.  Many of the production sites were relocated to 
Mittelwerk so that by the end of the summer, the entire tail assembly, the rudder 
machinery, and central section of the missile was being assembled in the tunnels.
129
The decision to move rudder machinery into Mittelwerk is an important example of 
the missile program?s managers? narrow, but strong identification with the goals of 
their work.  Rudder machinery had been manufactured by the firm Boverei and Cie at 
locations in Saarbrucken and outside of Paris.  Because of the intensity of allied air 
attacks, the program?s directors, including Dornberger, von Braun, Rudolph, 
Sawatzki, and Rickhey, agreed to move the production sites to Mittelwerk.  However, 
camp Dora did not have the requisite numbers of skilled workers necessary to man 
the assembly positions in the tunnels.  The program?s administrators understood that 
they had to relocate the workforce as well.  In the case of the French producers, they 
were absolutely clear on the idea that only way to make the French workers come to 
Mittelwerk was in fact by arresting them, transporting them to Dora, and enslaving 
them as concentration camp prisoners under Kohnstein.
130
  In short, V-2 
administrators made it quite clear through their actions that successful production, not 
129
 Pr?fbericht Mittelwerk GmbH zum 30.9.44, R 121/303, BAL. 
130
 Protokoll der Besprechung im B?ro Rickhey am 6.5.44, FE 694/b, NASM.  Whether or not these 
workers were actually arrested and brought to Dora is unclear.  In von Braun?s defense, the young 
engineer had himself been arrested by the Gestapo and released only two months earlier.  He lived with 
the threat of re-arrest for the rest of the war, and it is unreasonable to expect him to explicitly protest 
against slave labor after this episode.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 213-220.  I examine this 
incident in further detail in the next chapter.
333
compassion, governed the actions they took on behalf of the laborers tasked with 
assembling the missile.
However, the general improvement in working conditions does not necessarily 
mean that prisoners who labored in the tunnels were free from abuse at the hands of 
the SS, kapos, or even civilian specialists.  An SS guard named Erwin Busta roamed 
the halls of the factory, viciously abusing prisoners on a whim.  Busta, whom the 
prisoners nicknamed ?Horsehead? [Pferdekopf] because of his elongated features, 
was a sadist who dispensed ferocious beatings to skilled and unskilled prisoners alike.  
He was often seen hunting for prisoners that he felt were not working hard enough or 
fast enough.  Among the tragic litany of brutalities he committed in the tunnels, Busta 
whipped a prisoner to the point of unconsciousness and then shot him in the head 
(August 1944), shot two Russian lathe operators at their work stations for no apparent 
reason (December 1944), and beat another prisoner to death with an electric cable 
(winter 1945).
131
  At least one civilian who worked in the tunnels recalled after the 
war that even Germans in Mittelwerk feared Busta.
132
  However, they were not above 
using the SS man for their own ends.  For example, Vadim Bykadorov, a Russian 
engineer who arrived at Dora in the summer of 1944, testified in 1967 that ?German 
civilians who tested the quality of the work intimidated the prisoners with the threat 
that they would report cases in which the quality of work was not high to 
?Pferdekopf.? ... The results of such reports were that the prisoners were beaten or 
131
 Anklageschrift gegen Bischoff, Busta, Sander, Konzentrationslager Mittelbau/Dora, ZM1625, Bd. 
5, Akte 15, BStU.  Neumann Testimony, ?Verl?ufiges Ergebnis der Ermittlungen,? BstU ZM 1625, 
Bd. 4, Akte 14, BStU.
132
 Luise Speiss Statement, ZM 1625, Bd. 34, Akte 19, BStU.
334
taken out of the kommando and never seen again.?
133
  Many kapos also vented their 
frustrations on the prisoners whom they supervised on the shop floor.
134
  Skilled or 
not, few prisoners were completely exempt from every form of arbitrary abuse, 
though the pace and number of incidents slackened considerably.
One of the principle reasons for this was that technical considerations forced 
the SS to defer to the authority of civilian engineers and administrators.  Though the 
SS did indeed set up the framework in which the factory functioned, civilian 
engineers were fundamentally entrusted with production.
135
  Ernst Dutzmann, the 
former head of the Army Acceptance Office [Heeresabnahmestelle ? responsible for 
testing and delivering finished missiles and other materials to the missile battalions], 
stated that ?I did not see prisoners who were employed in assembly get mistreated by 
SS guards while they worked.  The German expert employees were their direct 
supervisors during work.?
136
Another civilian engineer remarked that ?I myself only 
saw a few SS men in the underground factory.  They were occasionally in the long 
tunnels.  I never saw SS men in the side tunnels [where sub-assemblies were put 
together].?
137
On the shop floor, civilians could, within their areas of expertise, exert 
authority even over SS men.  Some were even able to keep the vicious ?Pferdekopf? 
in check.
138
  The conversion from construction to mass production enhanced the 
authority of the civilian missile specialists in the factory while weakening the power 
of the SS.  
133
 Vadim Bykadorov Testimony, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 171, HStAD-ZA Kalkum. 
134
 Heinz Hilgenb?cker Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 274, HStAD-ZA Kalkum.
135
 Hubert Tacke Dossier, ZM 1625, Bd. 35, Akte 131, BStU.
136
 Ernst Dutzmann Testimony, Gerichte Rep. 299, Nr. 210, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
137
Heinz Krause Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 188, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
138
 Sellier, A History of the Dora Camp, 139.
335
However, the civilians, who were under tremendous pressure to produce 
results, still witnessed scenes of arbitrary brutality.  Even worse, they sometimes 
participated in the mistreatment of prisoners.  According to one former prisoner, 
approximately eighty percent of the civilians treated the prisoners normally and did 
not abuse them, but the other twenty percent had no qualms about slapping, kicking, 
or otherwise harming prisoner labor.
139
  The civilian board of directors was acutely 
aware of this behavior and under no circumstances condoned it.  In a memorandum 
circulated through the Mittelwerk factory in the early summer of 1944, factory 
management pointed out that ?The camp doctor has repeatedly determined that 
detainees who work in the offices or on the factory floor have been beaten by 
company employees because of this or that offense, or have even been stabbed with 
sharp instruments to the point that they must be given medical treatment.  Such 
interference with the camp commanders? authority on the part of Mittelwerk 
employees must cease under all circumstances.  If a prisoner is guilty of a punishable 
offense ? a written report must be submitted to camp commandant F?rschner ? A 
copy of the report is to be sent to executive factory management.  Further punishment 
will then be undertaken by the commander against the prisoner.?
140
  Despite an order 
previously circulated by F?rschner in his position as individual responsible for 
factory security, some civilian specialists saw fit to beat those working under them.  
Nevertheless, even though abuse of skilled prisoners on the shop floor certainly took 
place in this middle period, most incidents were relatively isolated.  In a factory of 
over 3000 civilians and 5000 prisoner laborers, incidents of direct maltreatment were 
139
 Josef Klaes Testimony, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al, Roll 5, M-1079, NARA.
140
 Rickhey and Kettler, Sonderdirektionsanweisung, 6/22/44, NS4, Anh. Nr. 3, BAL.
336
the exception rather than the rule.  The majority of civilian workers behaved less 
violently, though their reasons for this had less to do with humanitarian 
considerations than they did with technical reasons.
Importantly, some civilians sympathized with the prisoners and treated them 
as well as they could, given the circumstances.  Many prisoners went to great lengths 
after the war to recognize the foreman or engineer who gave them a piece of bread or 
helped shield them from the SS.
141
  For example, French prisoner Georg Soubirous 
recalled that ?For a short time I was in an electrician?s kommando named ?K?nig.?  
At the head of this kommando was a German engineer named K?nig who did 
everything to make our lives easier.  He did his utmost to make sure that we did not 
become ?Strafh?ftlinge.? [prisoners who were punished in the ?bunker? in Dora].?
142
After the war, many civilians who were employed in Mittelwerk claimed to have 
done everything they could to improve the lot of the prisoners, giving rise to what 
Jens Wagner has dubbed the ?Myth of the Bread Givers.?
143
  Most of this testimony, 
offered during war crimes trials, lacks all corroboration and documentation.  There is 
no evidence that most civilians on the shop floor actually attempted to pass food to 
prisoners.  It is clear, however, that a bare minority of civilian workers were willing 
to take such risks in order to help individuals in the small groups of laborers under 
their control. 
It is tempting to argue that the decent and moderately humane treatment 
accorded by some civilians to the prisoners is indicative of the presence of some 
141
 Sellier, A History of the Dora Camp, 137-138.
142
 Georges Soubirous Testimony, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 590, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
143
 See, for example, Werner Haack Statement, ZM 1625, Bd. 40, Akte 168, BStU; Indrak Statement, 
Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 599, HStaD-ZA Kalkum, and Walter Kash Dossier, ZM 1625, Bd. 30, Akte 88, 
BStU.  Also Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 552.
337
deeper and stronger moral fiber on the part of the missile specialists.  For most of 
those who did give aid, this may very well be the case.  However, their help for the 
prisoners throws the utter inaction on the part of the vast majority of civilians into 
stark relief.  Free Germans who helped the prisoners illustrate the fact that there was 
indeed a choice to be made in the tunnels of Mittelwerk.  Civilian missile specialists 
were not totally constrained by fear and repression, as so many would like posterity to 
think.  There were alternatives to simply going along with the orders of the SS.  
Instead, individual engineers and technicians were able to make decisions within their 
own spheres of individual responsibility that had a profound impact on the conditions 
of the prisoners working under them.
144
  The vast majority of them chose to be 
indifferent to and neglect the difficulties faced by the prisoner population, while some 
even elected on their own accord to mistreat the prisoners, despite strict orders from 
the SS to avoid this at all costs.  This willing indifference pervaded the Mittelwerk 
and helped condone the wider actions that the SS saw fit to carry out against 
supposed enemies of the state in an ever-radicalizing political environment.
Moreover, the enhanced authority of civilian managers on the shop floor at 
Mittelwerk may have signified on one hand a slackening of the number of incidents 
of abuse, but it also meant that individual specialists were more deeply implicated in 
the structure of abuse in the factory.  For example, the civilian factory managers, 
rather than the SS, had direct influence over prisoner allocation.  Specialists on the 
shop floor requested allocations of prisoners or made changes in the staffing of 
individual prisoners.
145
  These requests were sent to Rudolph?s factory labor 
144
 Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 553. 
145
 Hubert Tacke Statement, ZM 1625, Bd. 55, Akte 264, BStU.
338
operations office and then on to Dora administrators, who acted upon them.
146
When 
allocation problems arose, these civilians sometimes even had recourse to the SS 
officials in the camps that assigned labor to the factory.  One floor manager wrote 
directly to the labor office in Klein-Bodungen, a subsidiary camp of Dora that 
supplied skilled laborers, informing the office that the prisoners assigned to him ?are 
unusable for ?Dora assembly.?  I intend to exchange them with the following 
prisoners [numbers given].  These prisoners are skilled people and work in the 
transport section.  According to the [prisoner] foreman 02708 in ?Dora Assembly,? 
they are industrious workers.  I ask your permission that these three prisoners be 
trained in Dora Assembly.?
147
  It is worth recalling that unskilled laborers who were 
deemed ?unusable for Dora assembly? faced the prospect of slaving to death in the 
construction kommandos dotting the area around the Mittelwerk.
Civilians in Mittelwerk also had a substantial amount of the responsibility for 
recognizing and reporting incidents of sabotage.  There is no question that sabotage 
occurred in Mittelwerk.  The V-2 was a rather delicate weapon, and even simple acts 
could prove fatal to its performance.  Most commonly, prisoners purposely soldered 
weak welds, tightened nuts too much or too little, or engaged in surreptitious work 
slowdowns [Arbeitsbummelei].  One of the most common stories, possibly 
apocryphal, has many Russian prisoners randomly urinating in the missiles? engine 
blocks or instrumentation.
148
  Civilians had strict orders to be on the lookout for such 
146
 See, for example, Herbst to St?rfl, 11/17/44, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 561, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
147
 B?ttner to SS-Arbeitseinsatz, Klein-Bodungen, 10/16/44, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 561, HStaD-ZA,
Kalkum.
148
 A resistance group operated briefly in Dora-Mittelbau as well, before it was brutally smashed by the 
SD and its leaders murdered.  For a full accounting of the resistance organization and sabotage 
activites at Mittelwerk, see Manfred Bornemann, Aktiver und Passiver Widerstand im KZ Dora und im 
Mittelwerk: Eine Studie ?ber den Widerstand im KZ Mittelbau-Dora, (Berlin: Westkreuz Verlag, 
339
activity.  In January 1944, F?rschner and Kettler ordered factory managers to take 
concrete measures to detect and deter sabotage.
149
  The lack of technical experts 
among the various security elements in the factory required the vigilance of trained 
civilians.  In addition, it has already been noted above that upon their introduction to 
the factory, civilians were instructed by the SD to be on the lookout for incidents of 
espionage and sabotage.
150
It is very likely that the factory labor division 
[Betriebsarbeitseinsatz], under Rudolph and run by his two deputies, both 
Peenem?nders, was one of the civilian bodies that was directly implicated in the 
effort to eliminate such acts in the factory, an endeavor that only led to the torture and 
murder of slave laborers in Dora.  In its capacity as the section responsible for the 
supervision of labor operations, numerous sabotage reports filed by lower level 
civilian managers against prisoners most likely flowed through this office and into the 
hands of the SS camp administration or SD, which would see to it that prisoners were 
severely punished, often killed.  However, one must be very careful with this claim, 
simply because sabotage reports have not been located in the archives.  Historians are 
left with the testimony of those who were probably in a position to actually see such 
reports or claimed to handle them personally.  One such person was twenty-eight year 
old Honnelore Bannasch, Sawatzki?s secretary in Mittelwerk (the well-connected 
Bannasch also worked as von Braun?s secretary at Peenem?nde).  In her testimony at 
the Dora war crimes trial in 1947, Bannasch related that she often heard individuals 
verbally report instances of sabotage to Sawatzki, but more importantly, she also 
1994), Peter Hochmuth, Der illegale Widerstand der H?ftlinge des KZ Mittelbau-Dora: 
Dokumentation (Schkeuditz: GNN Verlag, 2000).  For a first-hand account of the resistance in Dora, 
see B?on, Planet Dora.
149
 Kettler and F?rschner, Sonderdirektionsanweisung, 1/8/44, NS4/Anh. 3, BAL.
150
 See also Karczewski Testimony, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 589, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
340
stated that she saw a number of paper reports.  She recalled that ?These reports were 
handled by the factory management and Mr. Sawatzki heard of them only as they 
were passed on by the factory management [Rudolph] ? If anybody had signed [a 
sabotage report] at the Werke, it would have been Mr. Rudolph.?
151
  In addition, Otto 
F?rschner?s secretary revealed after the war that production managers, the factory?s 
security detail [Werkschutz], and even mid-level managers all submitted sabotage 
reports to the SS.  The reports, sometimes counter-signed by civilian division heads 
(Abteilungsleiter), came to the kommandant?s office, who then forwarded them to the 
SD for disposal of the case.
152
  Another civilian engineer confirmed that factory 
management often gave sabotage reports to factory security, who then delivered them 
to the Security Service.
153
  Despite all of this testimony, these statements must be 
treated very carefully, given the paucity of documents that can directly attest to them.
Even so, within the authority structure in Mittelwerk, they make logical sense.  The 
retreat of the SS from the shop floor meant that civilians were the first line of defense 
against sabotage, and many understood their importance in this matter.  However, the 
civilians were also forbidden from punishing prisoners directly and therefore had to 
report these incidents to up the chain of command until they reached suitable 
authorities.  Former Peenem?nder Willibald Feier stated that ?Our most serious 
responsibility was to immediately report it [sabotage] to the SS.?
154
  Most civilians in 
151
  Bannasch Testimony, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al, M-1079, roll 10, NARA.
152
 Soddemann Testimony, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 589, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.  This practice likely began 
some time in the middle of 1944.  
153
 Molsen Testimony, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 589, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
154
  Feier Testimony, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 600, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.  Actual punishment for sabotage 
was most often meted out by the powerful and ruthless SD office that Kammler assigned to the 
Mittelwerk.  SD officials either murdered the prisoners outright in the ?Bunker? in Dora or tortured 
their victims before hanging them.  Public hangings in the camp began in the autumn of 1944 after the 
SD uncovered the communist-led resistance movement.  In March 1945, they ordered mass hangings 
341
Mittelwerk were aware of sabotage, understood their duties to avert it, and took 
action when they discovered it.
Of course, the question still remains that, given the absence of documentation 
in the archives, did civilian engineers actually file sabotage reports at all?  To be sure, 
there is no reason to think they would not have.  Given the intense radicalization of 
the home front in the closing eighteen months of the war, it would be a mistake to 
assume that most engineers in Mittelwerk were more concerned about the fate of the 
prisoners in the tunnels than they were about the fate of their nation, which was 
taking a savage pounding at the hands of the Allied strategic bombing campaign. 
Even if many engineers doubted that the missile was literally a bolt from the blue that 
would save Germany (as the Propaganda Ministry insisted), there can be no doubt 
that they did agree on the paramount importance of mass producing it and bringing it 
into operation against Allied targets.  Concern for the prisoners would simply not 
have been given equal measure to defending their country (or for that matter, keeping 
their jobs and their freedom).  As a group, missile specialists had consistently shown 
that all other factors were secondary to the success of their endeavor and its 
corresponding military contribution to their country at war.  Once at Mittelwerk and 
on the brink of success, there is no reason to suspect that other considerations would 
rise like a Phoenix from the ashes to trump their deeply ingrained and intensifying 
patriotism, nationalism, xenophobia, or even petty self-interest.  Industrial sabotage 
was a fact at Mittelwerk.  Failure to pass along sabotage reports, thereby abetting the 
from a crane inside the Mittelwerk tunnels as an intimidation tactic against saboteurs.   See Wagner, 
Produktion des Todes, 350-357.
342
undermining of the V-2 project, not only put the missile program in jeopardy, but also 
systematically placed their nation in ever increasing danger.
The primary method by which civilians in Mittelwerk guarded against 
sabotage first became a staple of their existence in Peenem?nde and is indeed a part 
of engineering?s basic professional principles: Equipment tests.  In addition to serving 
a quality control function, the testing process was designed to limit and discover 
potential cases of sabotage at several stages of the assembly process.  Civilian groups 
tested parts and subassemblies a number of times before they were handed off to the 
Army Acceptance Office [Heeresabnahme] for further testing.
155
  The Army 
Acceptance Office was staffed primarily by former Peenem?nders, many of whom 
were members of the Versuchskommando Nord, but it also incorporated officials from 
Rax Werke and Luftschiffbau Zeppelin.  The office was originally composed of 120
scientists and engineers, but grew later to nearly 200 men, and its members tested 
parts, sub-assemblies, and large assemblies once they were complete.
156
  At each 
stage, quality control supervisors had to sign a certificate indicating that the part or 
assembly passed inspection, then put a stamp on the equipment.
157
  Every part, 
subassembly, and general assembly had a specific portion of the factory where it was 
put together.  If there was a problem with a particular assembly, test engineers knew 
ahead of time precisely where that assembly was mounted and who was doing the 
155
 Heinz Kraus Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 188, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.  Hubert Tacke Statement, 
ZM 1625, Bd. 55, Akte 264.
156
 Three prisoners performed secretarial duties.  Von Braun to Kettler, 1/20/44,  FE 694/a, NASM.  
Von Braun to Heereswaffenamt Amtsgruppe f?r Endabnahme, 11/26/43, FE 694/a, NASM.  Ernst 
Dutzmann Testimony, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 210, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.  Heinz Hilgen?cker Statement, 
Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 174, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.  Hilgen?cker was himself a former VkN member who 
worked in the engine testing section at Mittelwerk.
157
 Kraus Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 188, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
343
work.
158
  In this way, quality control could be carefully monitored at every step of the 
process so that if sabotage was suspected, it could be more easily traced back its 
source.  Finally, completed missiles were tested by the Army at its firing range at 
Bliszna in Poland.
159
  The first line of defense against sabotage was not the SS or SD, 
but was made up of the civilian missile specialists, most of whom had been 
transferred from Peenem?nde, where they inculcated the institutional culture and 
learned the skills that would help them combat prisoners? efforts to impair their work.
In the end, civilian engineers, technicians, craftsmen and mechanics worked 
very closely every day with prisoners who had been enslaved by the SS.  Though 
some behaved abominably toward these slaves, most carried on in a way that made 
virtually no acknowledgement of the difficulties faced by the prisoners.  Many acted 
with the utmost professionalism, carrying out their work efficiently while restraining 
themselves from abusing their prisoners and even shielding them from beatings at the 
hands of others.  However, professional behavior in the Nazi context also meant 
removing prisoners they deemed unfit for work, requesting more slave labor as 
needed, and passing along reports of sabotage to higher authorities.  Most were given 
to an overriding indifference to the suffering around them.  A substantial part of this 
indifference was activated by the handsome pay and benefits offered to employees in 
the tunnels as well as the professional opportunities that working under Kohnstein 
offered.  However, other, less tangible factors were also at work.  The institutional 
inertia that was a result of their indoctrination at Peenem?nde played a large part in 
158
 Fritz Kunig Testimony, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 589, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.  Hans Joucks Testimony, 
ZM 1625, Bd. 55, Akte 264, BStU. 
159
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 220-222.
344
narrowing the missile specialists? focus to their own priorities and ignoring those of 
others. 
Civilian Motivation in Mittelwerk
Employees who came to Mittelwerk from Peenem?nde carried on much the 
same way as they had in previous years.  There is no question that the atmosphere in 
which they lived and worked every day was far more radicalized, but the intense 
work that they carried out in the unique institutional culture at Peenem?nde prepared 
the specialists for what they would discover at Mittelwerk and helped overcome any 
lingering dislocation.  Many of the factors that had direct bearing on the work in the 
tunnels were very similar to those that they had dealt with on Usedom and which had 
come to define them as elite missile specialists.
Secrecy practices, which formed the bedrock of the culture upon which their 
identity was founded at Peenem?nde, were very similar, if not more intensely 
practiced, at Mittelwerk.  In 1947, Georg Rickhey recalled that upon the move to 
Dora-Mittelbau, ?The top secret rules, which were extremely strict anyway, were 
made even stricter.?
160
   When they arrived in ?Sperrgebiet Mittelbau,? the 
Peenem?nders had their photos taken and assignments noted by the SD.  To enter the 
factory itself, they had to possess a special pass (Werkausweis) to get past security.  
Rather than a unique badge, as was the case at Peenem?nde, the factory passes had a 
picture of the employee on the front of it as well as a special mark indicating where in 
the factory the individual worked.
161
  Only individuals with special permission were 
160
 Rickhey Statement, U.S.A vs. Kurt Andrae, et al., M-1079, Roll 4, NARA.
161
 Erich D?nicke Factory Pass, D?nicke Dossier, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 186, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
345
able to obtain the ?Hunting Pass? (Jagdschein) that gave them permission to go 
anywhere in the factory.
162
The Werkschutz checked the passes once at the tunnel 
entrance and several times again inside tunnel.
163
  Strict rules also governed the 
treatment of documents in the factory.  All correspondence was labeled ?Secret? or 
?Top Secret,? and all documents were to be locked in safes when not in use.  There 
was to be no mark on any document that indicated the location of the Mittelwerk 
factory.  Incoming and outgoing letters all bore a generic address in Halle.  
The effect of these measures was quite the same as at Peenem?nde.  Entrance 
became a symbol of privilege and hierarchy, while the ability to enter the factory also 
meant that the full force of state security squarely confronted individual employees 
inside and outside the tunnels.  While at work, this security also contributed to a 
strong sense of isolation from the larger society in which employees existed outside 
of the tunnels.  As Wernher Br?hne recalled, ?The V-Weapon factory was like a state 
within a state, and it was totally shut off from the outside world.?
164
  Again, 
employees found themselves adhering automatically to the rules governing secrecy.  
Many refused to walk to places in the factory that their pass did not give them 
entrance to, and others complained vociferously when secrecy regulations were 
broken.
165
Civilian engineers assiduously made sure that document and 
correspondence secrecy was maintained at Mittelwerk.  No marks of origin, except 
162
 Werner Br?hne Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 158, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.  These passes were 
easily recognizable by security personnel, as they had three large brown buttons affixed to their face.
163
 Heinz Krause Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 588, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
164
 Br?hne Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 158, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
165
 Ewald Wenzel Testimony, Ewald Wenzel Dossier, ZM 1625, Bd. 51, Akte 259, BStU.  Wenzel 
worked as a plumber and truck driver in Peenem?nde from 1941 until 1944, when he relocated to 
Mittelwerk.
346
those in code, appeared on letters and delivery crates.
166
  They commonly reported to 
security officials the concerns that they had about transgressions against secrecy 
considerations.  Most often, the transgressions came in the form of correspondence 
from outside companies that used the Mittelwerk address directly, rather than its 
generic address in Halle, or other such lapses that would expose the location of the 
factory.  One engineer who a received a letter addressed as ?Elektromechanische 
Werk Ilfeld/Harz? (Elektromechansiche Werk was the corporate name given the 
Peenem?nde in 1944.  This is addressed in the next chapter) wrote to the factory 
security that ?Since such a designation totally contradicts the rules for secret 
correspondence, we request that the necessary measures be employed to deal with this 
problem.?
167
  Again, as in Peenem?nde, civilian employees remained strict custodians 
of official secrecy.
Observation activities also increased in scope and intensity, sharpening an 
already present sense of coercion in the atmosphere around Mittelwerk.  SS, SD, and 
Gestapo officials regularly intercepted mail and screened it for content.  For example, 
the Werkschutz intercepted two post cards written a civilian mechanic named 
Johannes Mrosek on which Mrosek gave his family directions indicating how he 
could be reached directly in Ilfeld, site of the factory headquarters.  Security officials 
166
 Unknown Prisoner of War Testimony, File ?V-2 (A-4) Missile (Germany, WWII), Intelligence 
Interrogations,? NASM.
167
 Heinemann to Abwehrbeauftragten, 3/9/45; NS4 Anh, Nr. 4, BAL. Officials commonly sent letters 
to both Bischoff and F?rschner (who left Dora in January 1945 and was replaced by former Auschwitz 
kommandant Richard Baer) that they had collected from Mittelwerk employees complaining about 
insecure correspondence practices.  Bischoff had been attempting to straighten out this issue since 
early 1944.  Bischoff Rundschreiben, 3/7/44, RH8/v.1265, BA/MA.   
347
gave him a stern warning never to do this again.
168
  The SD also searched the 
accommodations of factory employees.  In some cases, it discovered major offenses, 
such as in the case of engineer Fritz Schweinberger, formerly of the Rax-Werke, who 
was caught with a number of secret and top secret documents in his apartment.
169
  In 
another case, an employee left secret documents out on a work station instead of 
locking them up in the safe when he left there. He was arrested by the Gestapo and 
spent two weeks in the Nordhausen prison.
170
  Moreover, from its office in 
Niedersachswerfen, the SD operated a dense network of informants in the factory.
171
Both civilian and prisoner informants were ubiquitous, leading to increased tension, 
especially between civilians and prisoners.  Willy Steimel, himself likely a prisoner 
informant, stated in 1947 that ?A higher grade of mistrust of the prisoners [than there 
was at Peenem?nde] existed and went like a red thread through all of the happenings 
of the plant from the beginning to the end of the camp.  The reasons for must be 
found in the appearance of the SD and the Gestapo.?
172
The methods and practices of concealment, then, received even greater 
emphasis at Mittelwerk.  ?If secrecy was emphasized with all means in Peenem?nde, 
then it was handled even more sharply in the tunnels,? recalled one former employee 
of both facilities.  ?Secrecy went on ad absurdum.?
173
  Nevertheless, former 
Peenem?nders had already been equipped to deal with such a situation and adjusted 
168
 Schwohn to Bischoff, date unclear, NS-4 Anh, Nr. 4, BAL.  Schwohn sometimes asked Bischoff to 
discipline the offender, which was often a far worse fate.  Schwohn to Bischoff, 3/22/45, NS-4, Anh., 
Nr. 4 BAL. 
169
 Bischoff to Kammler, Series 2, Folder 2, RG 10.228.0002, USHMM.  Schweinberger?s fate is 
unknown.
170
 Rickhey Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 411, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
171
 H?ser Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 253, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
172
 Steimel Testimony, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al., M-1079, Roll 4, NARA. 
173
 Bericht eines nicht genannten ?Peenem?nder,? ver?ffentlicht in der Wochenzeitung ?Christ un 
Welt? im Juni 1950, Gericht Rep. 299, Bd. 158, HStaD-ZA Kalkum.
348
quickly.  They almost automatically adhered to the regulations and often proved 
willing to enforce the rules themselves by referring infringements to the authorities, 
just as they had done at Peenem?nde.  Within this framework, other factors 
influenced their behavior so that they continued their unequivocal support for their 
work.  One was simple institutional inertia.  Many Mittelwerk employees had cut 
their teeth at Peenem?nde and were thoroughly imbued with its central goal of 
developing and mass producing an effective missile.  Moving from Usedom to the 
Harz Mountains did not alter this feeling.  They had embraced the institutional culture 
of the missile program, and the steadily intensifying atmosphere in which its daily 
activities were carried out were all taken in stride.  Another factor was the fact that 
most employees were compensated handsomely for their work in the tunnel.  As their 
salaries grew, so too did their professional and social status.  Their families, at least in 
an economic sense, were well-cared for and would remain so as long as they did their 
jobs quickly and well.
More problematically, Nazi ideology, which arguably experienced the full 
flowering of its political and cultural ramifications as well as a deepening popular 
radicalization in the last eighteen months of the war, began to play an ever-increasing 
role in the world populated by the missile specialists.
174
  Years of intense 
propagandizing against Germany?s enemies had resulted in a population that was at 
least deeply xenophobic, if not radically nationalistic.  The German populace, which 
was perfectly aware of the atrocities committed by the Nazis in their name, feared the 
174
 See Norbert Frei, ?People?s Community and War: Hitler?s Popular Support,? 59-78, and Hans 
Mommsen, ?The Indian Summer and the Collapse of the Third Reich: The Last Act,? 109-127, both in 
Mommsen, ed., The Third Reich Between Vision and Reality: New Perspectives on German History, 
1918-1945 (New York: Berg, 2001).
349
concentration camp prisoners in their midst and sought ever more fervently to impose 
some kind of order on their slowly disintegrating society.  According to Jens Wagner, 
the quest for public security drew them closer and closer to the only organ that could 
successfully impose it ? the Nazi police apparatus.
175
 In the missile program itself, 
indoctrination, both into the regime?s ideology and into the program?s central ideals, 
only increased the willingness to do violence.  Once the moral proscription against 
violence had been broken, abuse of the prisoners in one form or another became a 
more conceivable act and easier to carry out again and again.  Once the act was done, 
there could be no going back.            
The dense veil of secrecy in the underground tunnels of Dora-Mittelbau only 
worsened this situation.  The utter isolation produced by the tunnels increased the 
chances that mistreatment of the prisoner labor force would occur.  Secrecy had a 
powerful binding effect, but it also exerted a corrupting influence.  Sissela Bok has 
argued that one of the most insidious effects of deep secrecy is that it debilitates 
character and judgment.  ?[Secrecy] can also lower resistance to the irrational and the 
pathological,? she writes.  ?It then poses great difficulties for individuals whose 
controls go awry.?  Secrecy carries some risk of corruption for everyone, but when it 
is combined with extraordinary powers over others, with no accountability to those 
whom it affects, the temptation for abuse is great.
176
  When power was joined to 
secrecy in the tunnels of Mittelwerk, the danger of immorality and abuse increased 
175
 Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 554-559.  Robert Gellately also shows that support for the regime 
remained strong, even late in the war, because of the balance that the police apparatus struck between 
order and oppression.  See Backing Hitler: Consent and Coercion in Nazi Germany (New York: 
Oxford University Press, 2001).
176
 Sissela Bok, Secrecy: On the Ethics of Concealment and Revelation (New York: Random House, 
1983), 25, 110.
350
exponentially.  Pressure, power, professionalism, fear, and secrecy all coalesced in 
the tunnels under Kohnstein, with disastrous results for prisoner labor force.  
Ironically, as Wagner points out, after the war, secrecy enabled individuals in the 
missile program, especially those who had worked at Peenem?nde, to argue that they 
had no idea of the criminal activities going on at Dora-Mittelbau.
177
  Secrecy served 
as the ultimate enabler, erecting a framework in which the crimes could be 
committed, and subsequently creating a plausible basis for deniability after the acts 
had been uncovered.  The actual activities of those left behind at Peenem?nde proves 
otherwise. 
177
 Wagner, Produktion des Todes, 562.
Chapter Six
G?tterd?mmerung: The End of the V-2 Program
The last eighteen months of the war continued to present huge challenges to 
the missile specialists at Peenem?nde.  In addition to ironing out the technical bugs 
that remained in the V-2 (even as mass production commenced at Mittelwerk), they 
worked feverishly to improve the missile?s performance and capabilities, attempted to 
develop anti-aircraft missile systems, and even engaged in several farcical attempts to 
expand the V-2?s operational versatility.  As the war situation became progressively 
worse for Nazi Germany, the Peenem?nders responded with prodigious activity that, 
while unsuccessful, exposed their level of commitment to both their work and the 
regime, while making important contributions to the conceptualization of future 
weapon systems, including the surface to air missile and the submarine launched 
ballistic missile.  Much of this furious work required their continued cooperation with 
Kammler and the SS, and they proved capable of striking a mutually accommodating 
relationship with Himmler?s men.  This was true even at the upper levels of the 
program?s administration, where there were a number of personal clashes, but also a 
conscious effort to overcome any acrimony between individuals for the good of the 
program and, therefore, National Socialist Germany.  The last eighteen months of 
Nazi Germany?s V-2 program are best characterized not by dissension and collapse, 
but rather by technical creativity and administrative cooperation.
After the war, the story told by Peenem?nders and their supporters about this 
period was dominated by themes of resistance, dissent, and distrust of Hitler and his 
regime.  They painted the SS as an unstoppable marauder, plundering and subjugating 
352
all projects that were not yet in their purview.  The Peenem?nders feared Himmler?s 
and Kammler?s machinations, and had no love for the regime.  All of the work that 
they did in this period, according to them, was done purely in the name of 
spaceflight.
1
  Such sentiments echoed and reflected the post-war mythmaking 
conducted by Albert Speer, who claimed that the SS conspired to infiltrate 
Armaments Ministry projects and that he actually never embraced a cooperative 
relationship with the blackshirts.
2
  Assertions such as these ignore the reality of the 
tasks carried out by the Peenem?nders and their associates every day.  Worse, they 
insult the memories of the victims of this work.
Clearly, the claims of the Peenem?nders fail unequivocally to stand up to the 
historical record.  Michael Neufeld?s examination of this period in the program makes 
clear that there were indeed serious conflicts at the highest levels of the Reich over 
administering the program.  At the same time, however, he notes that at Peenem?nde, 
developers continued to work on various projects as he further investigates technical 
issues such as design and construction.  In his approach, which focuses explicitly on 
the technological work that went forward, it is clear that the Peenem?nders continued 
to do their duty.  However, it does not help to explain the level of the Peenem?nders? 
commitment to completing their duty.  This chapter expands the story of Peenem?nde 
by examining the rewards and the penalties, the prestige and the punishment, that 
came along with working in the last few months of the program, and how these 
influenced the intensity of the work.  In addition, Neufeld necessarily focuses on the 
1
 See Wernher von Braun, ?Reminiscences of German Rocketry,? Journal of the British Interplanetary 
Society 15 (May-June 1956), 125-145; Walter Dornberger, V-2 (New York: Viking Press, 1955); 
Dieter K. Huzel, Peenem?nde to Canaveral (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1962).
2
 See esp. Albert Speer, Infiltration, Transl. By Joachim Neugroschel (New York: Macmillan, 1981).
353
specialists? accomplishments as purely technological achievements, as ends 
themselves.  This chapter examines the Peenem?nders? accomplishments not as 
technological statements, but as political and military ones.  Such an approach 
changes the conception of missiles from ends themselves to means to an end, 
precisely what a weapon of war is.  The Peenem?nders did not work as hard as they 
did just to see if they could build a rocket.  The intense effort put forth after the 
fundamental work was completed and missiles were successfully launched was done 
to help win the war for Nazi Germany.  There are few statements of political 
adherence and personal belief as strong as this one.
Karl-Heinz Ludwig, in his seminal work Technik und Ingenieure im Dritten 
Reich, coined the term self-mobilization (Selbstmobilisierung) to describe the 
activities of technical specialists in the years of Hitler?s regime.
3
  In the Nazi context, 
self-mobilization is best described as the voluntary involvement of individuals who 
went far beyond the call of duty to advance the objectives of the regime.  This term is 
particularly well-suited to understanding the commitment of the Peenem?nders 
during the entire war, but it is particularly so between 1943 and 1945.  At 
Peenem?nde, missile specialists showed an extraordinary willingness to invest all of 
their time and creative energies, to the point of transcending liberal, ?Enlightened? 
standards of behavior, in order to fulfill their wartime work.  This last spasm of 
activity drove them to design weapons that were well beyond their own technological 
capabilities while also resorting to technologies that were of limited value and had 
questionable chances for success.  The Peenem?nders did not, as they and their 
3
 Karl-Heinz Ludwig, Technik und Ingenieure im Dritten Reich (D?sseldorf: Droste Verlag, 1974).  
Ludwig?s book has fundamentally shaped the study of the history of science and technology in Nazi 
Germany.  It remains an indispensable work of scholarship in this field. 
354
enthusiastic supporters so often assert, merely satisfy the demands of the State and SS 
in the last year and a half of the war.  Nor did they carry out their projects because 
they were forced to do so, yet another common assertion.  Rather, their feverish 
activities during this period point to a strong willingness to defend the Third Reich 
from its steadily gaining enemies.  In their own way, they contributed to the 
atmosphere of increasing desperation and radicalization that characterized the last 
year of the Nazi regime.
This chapter shifts the focus away from Mittelwerk and back to Peenem?nde.  
The underground factory is never far from events, however, as missile specialists at 
Peenem?nde struggled and finally were able to closely coordinate their activities with 
their colleagues in production.  The final stages of the V-2 program at Peenem?nde 
and the efforts that the missile experts made to improve their weapon and to usher in 
what Nazi propagandists called ?Final Victory? (Endsieg) receive the most emphasis 
here.  Though some important individuals began to feel disillusioned by the regime, 
most Peenem?nders expended all of their effort and more to see the work through.  
Peenem?nde engineers were activist developers, eager to keep making improvements 
in the performance of their weapon.  If they were only interested in seeing a rocket fly 
successfully, they would not have gone to the strenuous efforts that they did after V-2 
went into high-volume, steady output mass production.  Of course, this does not make 
them responsible for the crimes of the Nazi regime, but it does tend to run against 
their own master narrative that they were only interested in building space ships.  It 
also demonstrates that they were willing defenders of Nazi Germany and freely 
collaborated with the regime?s worst elements in order to do so.  Peenem?nde 
355
specialists were fully imbued with the Nazi rhetoric of victimization and the need for 
national self-defense, and they demonstrated this by forth all of their effort in a final 
attempt to fend off their nation?s enemies.  If consenting to the use of slave labor to 
mass produce missiles while constantly seeking new technical advances in their work 
were the ways that they could do this, then they were only too happy to comply.     
Crisis and Reorganization: From Conflict to Cooperation
The years 1944 and 1945 proved to be tumultuous ones for the group of 
Peenem?nders who remained on Usedom, and they struggled on many fronts to see 
their operation through to completion.  Administrators had to cope with the departure 
of thousands of experts to Mittelwerk and elsewhere.  Those who stayed lived in fear 
of more air raids like the one of August 17/18, 1943.  In addition, technical problems 
with the missile were not ironed out in any acceptable way until late 1944.  Finally, 
the program itself was buffeted by external conflicts between the Army, Armaments 
Ministry, and the SS over who would manage it, resulting in fundamental changes in 
the facility?s administration and leadership.
Without question, a great deal of strain had been growing between the various 
organizations involved in the V-2 program in the first half of 1944.  As the Army, 
Armaments Ministry, and SS all jostled to assume control of various parts of the 
premier weapons program in the Reich, the areas of authority for each organization 
became increasingly hazy.  The first nine months of 1944 were marked by no small 
amount of personal and administrative friction at the highest levels of the program.  
However, this friction was attenuated by the general cooperation at the middle and 
356
lower levels of the program and made little impact on the activities occurring on the 
shop floor.  The compromise solution struck at the highest levels ? more through 
necessity than by desire ? reflected the cooperative realities of the work going on at 
the level of mid-level and shop floor management. Despite the steadily worsening 
wartime pressure, by the beginning of autumn 1944, the three organizations had come 
to an uneasy truce just in time for the onset of mass operations against Allied targets 
in the West.
Heinrich Himmler?s long-time desire to see the V-2 program put under his 
leadership was the catalyst to the conflicts of early 1944 and led to several dramatic 
battles over personnel.  Perhaps the most worrisome of these, from the 
Peenem?nders? perspective, was the arrest of Wernher von Braun, his brother 
Magnus (a chemist who arrived in Peenem?nde in 1943), Klaus Riedel (the chief of 
ground equipment development for the V-2), and Helmut Gr?ttrup (Fritz Steinhoff?s 
deputy and liaison to Dornberger).  The documentary record of this incident is 
incomplete and unclear, but Michael Neufeld has made sense of what probably 
happened to the young development chief and his colleagues.  In February 1944, von 
Braun, a major in the SS, received an order to report to Himmler?s headquarters of 
Hochwald, near Grossgarten (Pozezdrze) in East Prussia.  During their meeting,
Himmler offered von Braun all of the resources at his disposal to speed up progress 
on the V-2.  Sensing that Himmler, whose fascination with technology bordered on 
manic, sought to subsume the program under the aegis of his organization, von Braun 
rebuffed the SS Chief.  Von Braun was supremely loyal to Dornberger and likely felt 
little compunction to abandon Army control for the SS.  His rejection of Himmler?s 
357
offer forced the Reichsf?hrer?s hand.  Some time in late March, the Gestapo arrested 
both von Braun brothers, Riedel, and Gr?ttrup for allegedly claiming that their main 
task was to build a spaceship, not a weapon to be used in the war.  This, in no 
uncertain terms, was construed as an act of high treason.  All four men sat in jail in 
Stettin for some two weeks while Dornberger unsuccessfully attempted to work 
through Field Marshall Wilhelm Keitel and Gestapo Chief Heinrich M?ller to secure 
their release.  Finally, he was able have the engineers freed, likely because of Albert 
Speer?s intervention on their behalf.
4
After the war, von Braun?s arrest proved to be a major boon for those 
Peenem?nders who were in the United States.  They held it up as direct evidence that 
they fundamentally disagreed with the regime?s motives and attempted to resist
intrusions SS at all cost.  Of course, this conveniently ignores the documentary 
record, which makes it clear that the program?s administrators sought out cooperation 
with the SS.  Their regular and meticulous deception in this regard was done to 
conceal any evidence of their own identification with the objectives of Himmler?s 
organization and with the regime itself.  It is true that Von Braun had a long history of 
fascination with civilian space travel and that he probably engaged in surreptitious 
idle chatter with his colleagues at Peenem?nde about the idea.  However, there is no 
evidence that he failed to put forth his best effort to build a missile that could be used 
in wartime.  Throughout his time at Peenem?nde, he made it clear to his 
administrators that he expected their utmost effort to make their instrument work 
reliably (including improving its accuracy), and he demonstrated that he would accept 
4
 For a complete account, see Michael Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich: Peenem?nde and the 
Coming of the Ballistic Missile Era (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995), 213-220.
358
nothing less.  Moreover, he showed no evidence of being troubled by the introduction 
of slave labor to the program in the early summer of 1943, and was long an advocate 
of the use of forced labor to help development and production achieve its goals.
5
  The 
pace and intensity of his work did not slacken when these practices became common.  
Even so, there can also be little doubt that the arrest caused a great deal of worry for 
von Braun and his colleagues at Peenem?nde.  According to Dornberger, they 
discovered later that they were arrested because of reports filed by Gestapo 
informants in the nearby town of Zinnowitz.
6
   The engineers? brief incarceration 
made it even more readily apparent that the state had an eye fixed on their activities 
and was not afraid to thrust its power into their midst, even if it meant arresting the 
program?s most important individual on questionable charges.  As with the Zanssen 
affair, it became plain to the Peenem?nders that the Gestapo could strike any time and 
anywhere it chose, and that none of them were safe from its reach.  The sense of 
observation and coercion around their work on Usedom could only have increased 
dramatically.  Nearly all of von Braun?s activities for the rest of the war, and indeed 
those of all of the Peenem?nders, must be viewed in this light.     
The administrative threat from the SS did not abate after von Braun and the 
others were freed in early April.  Himmler, confident that his ideological shock troops 
were the best equipped to deal with the growing threat to the Reich, continued to 
expand his administrative empire and had his sites set squarely on the missile 
program.  The presence of the Army, Armaments Ministry, and the SS, with their 
multiple, overlapping responsibilities for administering different sectors of the 
5
 See chapter four.
6
 Walter Dornberger, V-2 (New York: Viking Press, 1955), 207.
359
program created fertile grounds for confusion and conflict at the uppermost levels of 
the program.  In May, Speer attempted to clear up this confusion in a circular to the 
titular chief technical administrators of the project.  He stated unambiguously that 
technical research, development, and testing was the bailiwick of Army Ordnance, as
it had been since the inception of the program.  He charged the A-4 Special 
Committee, which was responsible to the Armaments Ministry, with managing 
production contracts and guaranteeing production.  The Mittelwerk GmbH, also 
nominally an Armaments Ministry organization, managed the actual production.  
Speer also attempted to clearly delineate the duties of the SS, noting that they were 
responsible for the expansion of the industrial facilities under Kohnstein and for the 
ongoing construction projects in Sperrgebiet Mittelbau, as well as serving as the chief 
labor provider for all of the production effort.
7
   This seemed to be an arrangement 
that everyone involved could live with.  Dornberger would have been especially 
pleased.  At the end of the same month, the general attended a meeting in Mittelwerk 
along with nearly all of the key program members, including von Braun, Sawatzki, 
Rickhey.  In the meeting, the administrators held a productive discussion of 
development, deployment of slave labor, and missile production numbers.  
Dornberger, happy with the results of their discussions, closed the meeting by stating 
that it was a model of cooperation between the different branches involved in the 
program, and he encouraged them to continue their work in this light.  ?Not one 
against the other,? he urged, ?but everyone together!?
8
7
 Speer to Leeb, Kammler, Degenkolb, Rickhey, and Mittelwerk Board of Directors, 5/12/44, R121 Bd. 
405, Bundesarchiv Lichterfelde (BAL).
8
 Niederschrift ?ber die Besprechung am 6.5.44 im B?ro Gernaldirektor Rickhey, 5/6/44, FE 694/b, 
National Air and Space Museum (NASM).
360
Speer?s effort and Dornberger?s hopeful maxim, however, did not satisfy the 
rapacious Himmler, whose aggressive empire building knew few limitations.  In this 
regard, Hans Kammler was one of Himmler?s most important paladins.  In late 1943, 
with Himmler?s blessing, Kammler set about seizing military operational control of 
the program.  This meant a head-on confrontation with Dornberger.  When the 
program began its shift to mass production the previous autumn, it appeared that 
operations were imminent, and Dornberger received tactical command of the V-2 in 
September-October 1943.  However, this arrangement meant that Dornberger had to 
give up his formal control at Peenem?nde.
9
  In December 1943, Dornberger was 
forced from this position by the commander of the interservice missile corps that was 
ordered into creation by Hitler and dedicated to firing V-1 cruise missiles as well as 
the V-2.
10
  In May 1944, he attempted to have himself placed in command of the 
program again, but failed.
11
  Dornberger?s memoir blames Kammler for quietly and 
methodically working behind the scenes to expand his own influence and restrict the 
long-time administrator of the missile program.
12
  After the July 20, 1944 attempt on 
Hitler?s life, in which several high-ranking Army officials had taken part, Himmler 
and Kammler again made their move.  After missile enthusiast General Erich Fromm, 
Commander-in-Chief of the Reserve Army, was arrested for alleged cowardice, 
Dornberger lost one of his most influential patrons. Himmler, who took over 
command of the Reserve Army from Fromm, placed Kammler in command of the V-
9
 Entstehungsgeschichte, 9/28/43, RH8/v.1210, Bundesarchiv/Milit?rarchiv (BA/MA).  
10
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 204. 
11
 Dornberger to Fromm, 5/31/44, RH8/v.3730, BA/MA.
12
 Dornberger, V-2, 210-211.
361
2 program and Dornberger was virtually left out in the cold, serving in only a 
supervisory capacity for technical improvements.
13
Even though the leading Peenem?nders were fairly ambivalent toward the 
administrative challenge posed by Himmler?s organization, civilian managers and the 
SS were eager collaborators on the shop floor.
14
  Upper management welcomed the 
labor and resource support offered by the SS, but they resented the organization?s 
intrusion into a project that they rightfully felt a proprietary interest in.  The Army?s 
influence over the program had been on the wane since late 1943, but the Armaments 
Ministry had proven to be a helpful, if somewhat overbearing, ally.  However, the 
July 20 plot thrust the SS squarely into the forefront of the missile program.  In order 
to stave off the full control of the SS, the Armaments Ministry officially reorganized 
Peenem?nde development into a state-owned private corporation and christened it 
?Elektromechanishewerk, GmbH? [Electromechanical Industries ? EMW].  The idea 
had been circulating since the early summer of 1944, but the July plot made it a 
necessity if Peenem?nde was to remain nominally independent of the SS.  The base 
was to be dedicated specifically to development and testing.  It would serve as a 
research and training center for various state and industry projects relating to 
rocketry, and its primary task was to continue the development of reliable, mass-
produced missiles.  The day-to-day business activities, such as purchasing and 
financing, would be managed by the state.
15
13
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 239-240.  Hitler was furious with Fromm?s peremptory action in 
executing the July conspirators.  Fromm had also failed to successfully distance himself from the 
conspirators in the coup?s aftermath.  He was arrested shortly afterwards and executed in March 1945.  
See Ian Kershaw, Hitler, 1936-1945: Hubris (New York: W.W. Norton, 2001), 680-682, 689. 
14
 See chapter five.
15
 Die Aufgaben der Elektromechanischen Werke G.m.b.H, 6/28/44, RH8/v.1960, BA/MA. 
362
This transition took place on August 1 and proceeded rather smoothly, even if 
it set up a clumsy managerial situation.
16
  Essentially, the company was government-
owned and staffed.  The EMW operated, but did not own, the equipment at 
Peenem?nde.  Rather, it was a possession of the Army?s, which administered the 
base?s facilities.  The Army also continued its tasks in transportation, maintenance, 
and security.  At the middle and lower levels, the technical organization went largely 
unchanged, but at the top, development and testing were no longer exclusively under 
von Braun?s direct control.
17
  The Chief Executive of EMW, technically von Braun?s 
boss, was Paul Storch, a Siemen?s engineer who had previously served as the head of 
the subcommittee for electrical equipment on the A-4 Special Committee.  Storch was 
an advocate of slave labor to help solve the problems in the V-2 production program 
and had few major problems cooperating with either the Army or SS bureaucracy.
18
By the end of August, he helped oversee just over 4000 German employees, both 
civilian and Army, who staffed the base on Usedom.
19
  Though this arrangement was 
somewhat ungainly, the actual practice of work at Peenem?nde changed very little.
20
The transition to state-owned private industry succeeded in limiting SS 
influence at Peenem?nde, but throughout the summer and early autumn of 1944, 
Dornberger still had to fight Kammler for his professional life.  The SS general had 
been attempting to fully isolate Dornberger by seizing direct control of the newly 
formed operational missile batteries and cutting him out of any administrative 
16
 Eberhard Rees OHI, NASM.
17
 Dieter Huzel, Peenem?nde to Canaveral (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1962), 106. 
18
 In May 1944, Storch had solved the bottleneck in the production of electrical instruments by 
bringing slave labor to bear.  He also introduced the idea of enslaving the French workers engaged in 
rudder production by transferring them to Mittelwerk.  Niederschrift ?ber die Besprechung am 6.5.44 
im B?ro Generaldirektor Rickhey, 5/6/44, FE 694/b, NASM.     
19
 Storch to Kammler, 8/21/44, FE 692/f, NASM.
20
 Huzel, Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 106. 
363
decisions.  In the end, however, Kammler overreached, receiving an upbraiding from 
his superiors for his shabby treatment of Dornberger.  The SS General had to strike a 
compromise with Dornberger.  The Army general?s long service and expertise made 
him too important of a figure to be isolated from the program, and he was placed in 
charge of training and equipping the new missile troops.
21
  The two men eventually 
hit upon a compromise that was focused on mutual cooperation rather than 
interminable bureaucratic conflict.  It reflected the realities of the development and 
production situation already in place at the middle and lower levels of the 
development and production programs.
The personal acrimony that no doubt existed between Kammler and 
Dornberger as a result of Kammler?s aggressive moves was a reflection of the general 
friction between their two organizations.  However, their personal distaste for each 
other faded in the face of larger technical and wartime considerations and the two 
settled on a compromise solution that functioned relatively well.  Kammler 
understood that he could not manage the missile program without the willing 
participation and expertise of its members.  Dornberger possessed that expertise as 
well as years of experience.  Despite their mutual disdain, they could at least see eye-
to-eye on the fact that speeding the missile into operations was of paramount 
importance, and their technical backgrounds ensured that they could come to a 
common understanding on technological and bureaucratic issues.  In November, 
Dornberger drew up a set of proposals that clearly articulated and coordinated the 
spheres of activity for the different personnel in the various bureaucracies.  His goal 
21
 For a full description of Kammler?s efforts to seize control of the program from Dornberger, see 
Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 241-246.
364
was, as he put it, ?the smooth cooperation of all offices in the military and civilian 
sectors in order to achieve the best possible result without considerations of questions 
about prestige or competency.?  Dornberger made it clear that he accepted ? however 
grudgingly ? Kammler?s leadership ?in making decisions about the fundamental 
questions regarding the A-4.?  He immediately followed this by proposing himself as 
Kammler?s deputy ?in all A-4 matters.?  Dornberger?s tasks, as he outlined them, 
would be to coordinate the work of the civilian and military offices in the program.  If 
they could not come to an agreement under his supervision, then he consented to 
seeking out Kammler?s authority for a final decision.  However, Dornberger had 
clearly set himself up as the day-to-day arbiter for the program.  He would work with 
Army Ordnance, the EMW, and Mittelwerk to ensure their smooth functioning and 
coordination, as well as guide the training of the missile battalions.  All technical 
questions were to be referred to him, and he would delegate them accordingly.
22
If not on paper, Kammler had already agreed in practice to Dornberger?s 
ideas.  He deferred many of the technical decisions to Dornberger and tended to 
follow the General?s suggestions regarding manpower questions.  For example, when 
Dornberger opined to Kammler at the end of August that the Raderach test facility, 
near Luftschiffbau Zeppelin in Friederichshafen, had a staff of civilian specialists that 
was far larger than necessary, Kammler immediately agreed.  He ordered, ?in 
agreement with Dr. Dornberger,? that the staff should be trimmed and many sent to 
work at Peenem?nde.
23
  This type of arrangement between the two generals, with 
Dornberger the key administrator and Kammler the individual who had final say in all 
22
 Dornberger, Abgrenzung der Arbeitsgebiete und Verantwortlichkeiten auf dem Gebiet des A4-
Programmes, 11/11/44, RH8/v.1265, BA/MA.
23
 Von Braun to Justrow, 8/29/44, RH8/v.1960.
365
decisions, was, if not totally satisfactory to either one, at least serviceable.  In 
December, it was officially agreed upon, formalized, and confirmed by the SS.
24
In the face of organizational conflict and personal abhorrence, the two men 
managed to form a consensus.  The basis for agreement between Dornberger and 
Kammler was twofold.  Both men were equally committed to the goals of the missile 
project and understood its importance to their nation.  Moreover, Dornberger and 
Kammler, both Ph.D. engineers, proved able to come to common ground because of 
their mutual technical expertise.  They agreed closely on technical, managerial, and 
manpower issues that needed imminent solutions, while also understanding that each 
had something the other needed to resolve these important issues.  Technical 
necessity drove them into each other?s arms and provided a foundation upon which 
they could move forward.  These considerations were mirrored at various levels of the 
program?s administrative hierarchy as Peenem?nde specialists frantically sought to 
fulfill their institution?s goals.
Von Braun, for example, had struck up a suitable working relationship with 
production managers and slave labor officials well before Dornberger and Kammler 
found themselves at loggerheads in 1944 over who would be the final arbiter over the 
program?s decisions.  The Technical Director began involving himself in decisions 
about handling slave labor just after the British bombing raid in 1943 when he 
discussed evacuating production to sites in the Saar region.
25
  As 1943 wore on, he 
became more and more intimately involved in the planning and deployment of 
24
 Dornberger, Aktenvermerk ?ber die Besprechung am 24. Oktober 1944 bei Generallt. d. Waffen-SS 
Kammler in Berlin, 10/25/44;.  Dornberger, Aktenvermerk ?ber die Besprechung am 3.11.44 bei 
Generallt. d. Waffen-SS Kammler in Berlin, 11/4/44, RH8/v.1960, BA/MA.  J?ttner to Kammler,
12/31/44, RH8/v.1265, BA/MA.
25
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 202.
366
concentration camp labor.  In November, when the shortage of skilled German labor 
was increasingly threatening the Peenem?nde work force, von Braun sent a letter to 
Degenkolb in which he suggested using slave laborers in the place of some German 
civilians from Peenem?nde who were scheduled to depart to the test sites at Lehesten 
and Redl-Zipf. He thought that a ratio of two prisoners for every one German would 
be appropriate to operate the facilities.
26
  Von Braun did not concern himself with the 
moral questions around the use of slave labor, only with the issue of how to advance 
the goals of the missile program.  This practice helped bring him into agreement with 
more ideologically motivated managers of the project who also were deeply 
concerned, for different reasons, with the missile?s success.  Of course, it is asking 
too much of him to stand up in protest of National Socialist labor policies, but his 
behavior throughout 1943-?44 reveals a relentless pattern of narrow-minded self-
interest and technocratic thinking, which in practice also lent the use of concentration 
camp labor a certain legitimacy by embracing it as a viable solution to manpower 
problems.  Another option open to von Braun would have been to do nothing at all, 
even to delay or equivocate, but he cared too deeply about the success of his work to 
jeopardize its progress or chances for success by making a moral stand against slave 
labor.        
Von Braun involved himself in several important decisions about slave labor, 
even at Mittelwerk, later in 1943 and in 1944.  He visited the factory itself in August 
and October 1943, as well as in January and May 1944.
27
  The January meeting offers 
an important example of how the need for further technological development outlined 
26
 Von Braun to Degenkolb, 11/12/43, FE 732, NASM.
27
 Michael Neufeld, ?Wernher von Braun, the SS, and Concentration Camp Labor: Questions of Moral, 
Political, and Criminal Responsibility,? German Studies Review 25/1 (2002), 65.
367
by Peenem?nders could lead to the increased demand for concentration camp 
prisoners to work in the factory tunnel.  One of the technical details that became clear 
earlier in the year was that the jet vane assembly, which helped direct the thrust to 
steer the missile, needed to be strengthened.  After Peenem?nde engineers developed 
a method to manufacture improved versions, von Braun presented this information to 
Rudolph at a conference in Mittelwerk.  Accordingly, Rudolph set aside more work 
space in the factory to install the necessary machinery.  After a delay caused by 
unknown reasons, Rudolph wrote to von Braun to inform him that the work would 
begin in January 1944.  He reported that ?the necessary prisoners [to work in the 
transport kommando] and guards have been ordered from KL Dora.?
28
  Rudolph 
anticipated that the arduous transport and set-up tasks would take a total of three 
months to complete.
In May ? after his arrest ? von Braun attended a meeting at the factory (among 
others present were Dornberger and Rudolph) in which Sawatzki informed them that 
he would request an additional 1800 prisoners for tunnel work to replace those lost 
during the winter of 1943-?44.
29
  Von Braun behaved guardedly at this meeting and 
said little, but his narrow-minded drive returned to full form by August.  That month, 
he wrote to Sawatzki about a French physics professor, Charles Sadron, who was a 
prisoner in Buchenwald and whom von Braun hoped to bring to Mittelwerk.  Von 
Braun had actually traveled to the camp himself in order to evaluate the skilled labor 
there, were he met Sadron.  While at Buchenwald, von Braun informed Sawatzki that 
he had arranged for the transport of prisoner labor to Mittelwerk.  He also requested 
28
 Rudolph to von Braun, 1/21/44, FE 694/a, NASM.
29
 Niederschrift ?ber die Besprechung am 6.5.44 im B?ro Generaldirektor Rickhey, FE 694/b, NASM.  
Also Neufeld, ?Wernher von Braun, the SS, and Concentration Camp Labor,? 66.
368
that Sadron be given special privileges in Mittelwerk, such as permission to wear 
civilian clothing to encourage his willingness to perform the necessary work, as von 
Braun put it.
30
  Von Braun, who spoke perfect French, may indeed have felt a certain 
identification with the physics expert and had every good intention in attempting to 
secure some level of humanity for Sadron.  However, it was also clear that Sadron 
possessed certain skills that would help push the program forward, and von Braun 
recognized this.  Von Braun?s request to Sawatzki was not based on purely 
humanitarian considerations.  Utilitarian motives also played an important part.
31
  In 
any case, von Braun?s actions show that he had come to a willing acceptance of slave 
labor and an agreement on the importance of the SS as a labor supplier.       
In coming to a grudging acceptance of this role and their own places in 
relationship to the SS, Dornberger and von Braun reflected the more readily achieved 
relationship between lower-ranking Peenem?nders and Himmler?s representatives.  
Dornberger?s position was impacted much more forcefully and directly by the 
growing strength of the SS, but he eventually settled into an uneasy, but sensible 
relationship with Kammler.  Von Braun?s work was affected much less by the SS, and 
his narrow, self-interested technical vision enabled him to readily adapt to the 
challenges and benefits of the SS? strong presence in the missile program.  Both men, 
as well as all of the Peenem?nders beneath them, continued to work exceptionally 
hard on behalf of the Nazi regime.
30
 Von Braun to Sawatzki, 8/15/44, FE 694/a, NASM.  Andr? Sellier, A History of the Dora Camp: The 
Story of the Nazi slave Labor Camp that Secretly Manufactured V-2 Rockets (Chicago: Ivan R. Dee, 
2003), 105-106. 
31
 Neufeld has also noted that if von Braun had arranged transports of slave labor, this ?would at least 
in theory put him in violation of the Nuremberg standard applied to Albert Speer.? Neufeld, ?Wernher 
von Braun, the SS, and Concentration Camp Labor,? 69.
369
Work at Peenem?nde, 1944-1945
Despite the challenges and conflicts posed by the SS? assertion of power into 
the V-2 program, missile specialists remained committed to the success of their work 
and defense of their nation.  Their time at Peenem?nde, with all of its rewarding 
communal experiences, outstanding facilities, and fulfilling technical work, activated 
a deep connection to the missile base?s central mission of building a functional
ballistic missile to serve in the defense of their nation.  In late 1943 and 1944, when 
concentration camp prisoners were dying by the thousands in the service of their 
work, they remained deeply committed to the goals of their project.  The program?s 
managers, engineers, technicians, and other specialists all labored mightily to iron out 
seemingly intransigent technical problems, searched for improvements that would 
boost performance, and created new weapons out of missile technology.  This was a 
period of phenomenal technological creativity that is evidence of the Peenem?nders? 
continued deep connection to their work.  The areas of fuel consumption, accuracy, 
range, speed, destructive capability, and even raw materials consumption experienced 
major theoretical, if not concrete advancements.  Peenem?nde managers were 
activist, interventionist, and eager to keep making improvements in all technical 
fields related to the missile.  If they were only interested in seeing a rocket fly, as so 
many claimed in the decades after the war, they presumably would not have been so 
interested in eliminating production bottlenecks, reducing raw material consumption, 
or increasing the accuracy and power of the missile.  Their activities in this period 
help to disprove their own post-war master narrative that they only wished to build 
space vehicles and not weapons of war.  To be sure, some Peenem?nders were 
370
interested in space travel.  However, if this was all they sought, then once they had 
manufactured a consistently performing V-2, then they would not have devoted as 
much energy as they did to improving its war fighting capability.  Their loyalty to 
their institution and through it, to the regime, was second to none.  Moreover, their 
willingness to look past the crimes at Dora shored up support for the Nazi regime by 
utterly failing to act against it or even to engage in passive resistance.  In this way, the 
actions of the missile specialists in the last year of the war are evidence of their strong 
and continued backing for the Nazi regime.
Indeed, as Germany?s wartime situation became increasingly precarious 
during this time, the work of the Peenem?nde specialists became increasingly 
desperate and their ideas ever more absurd, especially given the capabilities and 
materials availability in late wartime Germany.  New projects that they designed, 
while foreshadowing the technical advances in missile technology that would be 
made later in the century, were fantasies born of nationalism, xenophobia, and keen 
sense of self-interest.  Like many armaments specialists in Germany, the 
Peenem?nders worked desperately hard until circumstances forced them to shut down 
their work in the last months of the war.  Their behavior is a powerful indicator of 
their profound and durable hold that Peenem?nde?s central mission held over them.
Their attitudes toward work in this period reflected a confrontation with the 
realities of war that had not existed before the August 1943 bombing raid.  A year 
after this raid, the American Eighth Air Force attacked Peenem?nde on three separate 
occasions, heavily damaging test stands and killing a few dozen people.
32
  No longer 
were the Peenem?nders blissfully ignorant of the war?s effects.  Many feared for their 
32
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 247-248.
371
safety, as the bombing raids jarred their sense of isolation and security.  The 
increasing shortage of raw materials slowed the pace of development and production, 
never mind the construction of necessary bomb shelters and the repair of important 
buildings.  Dieter Huzel recounted that this was a source of frequent discussion and 
more than a little trepidation among the employees.
33
  A sense of urgency began to 
pervade the station, and many Peenem?nders naturally responded to the increased 
privation with anger and even a renewed dedication.  Paul Figge, a production 
specialist with a number of ties to the personnel at Peenem?nde, stated after the war 
with some exaggeration that ?The bombings hardly affected progress on the A4 
program, because our enthusiasm still remained high to accomplish the goal.  So 
actually, the more difficult the conditions became, the more the enthusiasm grew to 
finish what we had begun.?
34
  Figge?s comment likely overstates the attitudes of most 
Peenem?nders (?Enthusiastic? was probably not how they would have described 
themselves after suffering multiple bombing raids), but the employees at the base 
certainly were determined to complete their work in the face of enormous difficulties.  
Their impressive efforts over the last year of the war bear this out.
Much of the frenetic activity involved in the willy-nilly transfer of production 
to underground sites caused major headaches for producers.  Initially, a major lack of 
coordination between developers, subsidiary firms, and the producers gave rise to a 
troublesome level of friction among these groups.  The administrative response to 
these problems is further evidence of the program?s managers? deep sense of 
importance of their work.  For instance, the harried move to Mittelwerk created a 
33
 Huzel, From Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 110.
34
 Quoted in Donald E. Tartar, ?Peenem?nde and Los Alamos: Two Studies,? History of Technology, 
14 (1992), 163.
372
confused administrative situation in which some offices were staffed but the 
equipment necessary for their work was not yet installed.  In early 1944, the Army 
Acceptance Office in Mittelwerk, responsible for final checkout of the parts, 
assemblies, and the finished product, had trouble fully carrying out its tasks because 
not all of its necessary equipment had yet been installed in the factory, leading to the 
impression among some production managers that it was bloated with personnel who 
had little to do.  This office was a key to coordinating production and development.  
Von Braun, concerned that the impression of bloat may lead to a reduction in the 
number of specialists in this very important office and, consequently, major delays in 
technical improvements, fought hard to maintain the size of this office.  He wrote to 
Kettler asking him to intervene with the production managers to explain to them why 
the work of the Army Acceptance Office was so important and why it was staffed the 
way it was.  He wanted to have this situation settled as quickly as possible because he 
did not want anyone getting the false impression that the Army Acceptance Office 
had a surplus of employees who were not all essential to the work they were to carry 
out.  He wrote that ?You can be sure ? that the tasking of 120 men for the Army 
Acceptance Office has not been so easily carried out.?  If their numbers were reduced, 
he argued, the time between final development work and assembly would lengthen 
dramatically, and if they did lose the services of some of these men, ?I don?t know
how they could be replaced.?
35
  A reduction in this office ran the risk of crippling the 
production of reliable missiles.  Von Braun was not only concerned with the 
development sector.  He worked strenuously to increase the efficiency and 
effectiveness of key offices within the project as a whole in an effort to improve the 
35
 Von Braun to Kettler, 1/21/44, FE 694/a, NASM.
373
entire endeavor?s overall chances for success.  In this case, he was able to maintain 
the Army Acceptance Office?s strength at 120, and it went on to successfully play a 
key part in coordinating development and assembly work.  The technical director 
proved to be a foresighted and effective manager in other areas of work in the missile 
program as well, even after his arrest.
After Dornberger secured his freedom, von Braun tackled his work with 
nearly limitless energy.  He needed all of his technical know-how and administrative 
expertise because developers at Peenem?nde made hundreds of changes of to the 
design of the V-2 over the course of 1944.  Not all of the missile?s technical bugs had 
been worked out before mass production began at Mittelwerk, and during the spring 
and summer of 1944, developers struggled to solve a number of problems that still 
plagued the complete assemblies.  Nevertheless, 1944 proved to be an extraordinarily 
creative year in the missile program.  Even late into the year, Peenem?nde specialists 
systematically and painstakingly made great efforts to improve the performance of 
the missile.  Developers had to work extremely hard to overcome the lingering 
difficulties in missile technology, but at the same time, they also aggressively sought 
to improve the value of the V-2 as a weapon.  This improvement effort took place on 
two fronts.  In the first place, engineers and scientists continually honed and modified 
the missile?s design in order to lower its fuel consumption and improve its range, 
accuracy, and destructive power, all while attempting to curb its massive 
consumption of raw materials.  On the other hand, they also attempted to increase its 
operational flexibility, designing different methods of deployment that ran from the 
practical to the preposterous.  Even though Kammler continually urged the 
374
development specialists to make advancements with the V-2, particularly its range, by 
and large, they needed no coercion from the SS, OKH, or OKW to press on with 
improvements in the missile itself or the equipment associated with it.  Given the 
broad range of attempts to advance the technology, it is fair to say that Peenem?nders 
took the initiative themselves in order to continue its development and utility as a 
weapon system.
The spring through autumn of 1944 was a period of intense testing of parts 
and assemblies manufactured by subsidiary firms as well as mass-produced missiles 
coming out of Mittelwerk.  Launch problems had mostly been solved by the spring of 
1944, but missiles continued to go awry or break up in flight.  Guide-beam receptors, 
turbopumps, electrical systems, valves, fittings, tail assemblies, and steering 
machinery all went through extensive testing and modification.  Most often, these 
parts were not tested independently of other instruments, but rather in actual launch 
tests.
36
  The intense testing continued from late 1944 and into 1945.  Test engineers at 
Peenem?nde carried out over sixty launch tests between the end of August and 
December 1944.  They furiously continued their efforts to make improvements in 
instrumentation, guidance capabilities, and examined the missile?s performance using 
alternate fuels.
37
  Between December 1944 and January 1945, missile specialists were 
making design changes as many as three times per day.
38
  Tinkering with the missile 
was an ongoing process.  Although the V-2 was seeing heavy military use by that 
point in the war, in the Peenem?nders? view, it was far from a perfected weapon.  All 
36
 See collection of test reports, April to June 1944, FE 695.  
37
 See collection of test reports, August to December 1944, FE 723, NASM.
38
 Bauanweisungen f?r A-4 Ger?t 12/W, Dez. ?44 ? Jan. ?45, GD638.0.018, DM.
375
of these changes began to pile up, and by the end of the war, Peenem?nde engineers 
had made approximately 65,000 modifications to the V-2?s design.
39
However, the missile was an incredibly complex and revolutionary piece of 
technology.  It did not lend itself to easy transfer from experimental production to 
serial production because the experimental designs were far too complicated for mass 
production purposes.  Moreover, alterations were not easily incorporated into work on 
the assembly line.  The process for making changes in design details was 
phenomenally confused in late 1943 and well into 1944, and there were no coherent 
processes for making modifications either in subsidiary firms or in general assembly.  
Development workers, many of whom were unfamiliar with the demands inherent in 
switching from experimental production to mass production, who labored under great 
pressure, and who were also eager to complete the work, were contacting subsidiary 
firms and ordering changes to parts without informing production engineers.
40
Changes ordered by developers were coming at such a pace that many subsidiary 
firms had trouble meeting orders for new parts.  Worse, when new parts from 
subsidiary firms arrived at Mittelwerk, they were sometimes incompatible with each 
other or the larger assemblies because of failed coordination between the three 
groups, causing no small amount of problems between developers and their 
colleagues in production.
41
  Making matters worse was the fact that throughout early 
and mid-1944, efforts to design simplified parts were often unsuccessful because, 
according to one explanation, the development workers had unique skills that 
39
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 224.
40
 Lindenberg to Riedel III, 5/14/44, FE 732, NASM.
41
 Friederich to Neuhaus, 8/1/44, FE 694/a, NASM.
376
employees of subsidiary firms had a great deal of trouble matching.
42
  The effort to 
manufacture the V-2 was becoming chaotic.
Von Braun thrust himself squarely into this fray in an effort to coordinate the 
frenetic development activity with mass production, a task that became more 
complicated with every change made to the missile?s design. He worked hard to 
increase efficiency in development, in the manufacture of new batch runs, and in the 
delivery of the proper materials to various factories as well as the Mittelwerk.  Von 
Braun also traveled to many subsidiary firms to examine production, harangued other 
engineers about the best way to go about making changes in production drawings, and 
tried to improve and standardize the ways in which developers, engineers in 
subsidiary firms, and production people communicated.
43
  He expressly forbade 
development people from making changes in parts without first making 
corresponding changes in production drawings and sending them to his office for 
approval before they went to the subsidiary firms.
44
  If parts producers failed to keep 
up with the necessary changes, Storch and von Braun interceded forcefully to bring 
them back into line and remained involved until they were sure that the firm could 
42
 Dannenberg OHI, NASM.  According to Dannenberg, the reason for this lay in the unique skills that 
many Peenem?nders possessed.  During the research and development stages, technical specialists
used a number of tricks that they had learned over their time at Peenem?nde in order to develop 
something completely new.  These informal tricks could were not easily transferred to the impersonal 
production drawings.  This was in fact a fundamental problem with the Peenem?nders, who in many 
ways were akin to master craftsmen in that they tinkered and experimented on parts built in their 
particular area and that they were intimately familiar with.  Such an approach causes fundamental 
problems in a mass production environment. 
43
 Part of the effort at standardization were forms, developed by von Braun?s office, that proposed 
changes in parts that were manufactured at subsidiary firms.  The part to be changed would be assigned 
a particular cataloging number and the priority grade of the part would be indicated on the form.  In 
addition, the new form also had a box in which the firm, work group, and engineer who proposed the 
changes would be indicated, providing a measure of accountability for the work in addition to 
facilitating communication between the correct people.  Finally, a part of the form would provide a 
space for a detailed explanation of the reason for the change, the importance of the change, and when it 
could be ready for production.  See a large set of these forms in FE 732, NASM. 
44
 Von Braun circular, 7/10/44, FE 694/a, NASM.  Von Braun to Steinhoff, 8/15/44, FE 694/a, NASM.
377
make deliveries in a timely fashion.
45
   He also directly intervened on a number of 
occasions in order to quickly cut through bureaucratic Gordian knots and sent his 
representatives to problematic firms in order to assure compliance with his directives.  
For example, the Heinkel factory in Tyrol manufactured specialized housings for the 
missile?s internal assembly.  Most, it turned out, were very poorly constructed.  Von 
Braun wrote a stern letter to the factory, complaining that ?The output of your firm is 
simply not useable.?  To clear up this problem, von Braun informed Heinkel?s plant 
manager that he was sending a deputy to the factory and ordered the manager to 
support his representative?s efforts ?with all means possible.?
46
  He meant to bring 
this problem under control as quickly as possible and had no qualms about stepping 
on the toes of others to do it.  For whatever reason, von Braun continued to exert all 
of his influence, even after his arrest, in the service of the missile program.
Von Braun?s arrest, while no doubt forcing him to speak and act carefully, did 
little to dampen his enthusiasm for his work.  The development chief used his 
authority to directly and effectively intervene in important parts production issues.  
He proved his mettle by deploying his considerable administrative muscle to sort out 
the myriad of problems that were caused both by an immature weapon system that 
was rushed into mass production as well as an unwieldy administrative system that 
was not ready to handle the burdens that came with such a rash move.  His and 
others? efforts to coordinate the activities of the developers with those who 
manufactured the missile paid off handsomely by September 1944.  
45
 Huzel to Friederich, 7/11/44, FE 694/a, NASM.
46
 Von Braun to B?derich, 4/1/44, FE 732, NASM.
378
In that month, Mittelwerk began churning out missiles at the rate of 600 to 
700 per month through March 1945.
47
  The developers? activity, however, did not 
center merely on ensuring that the missile functioned at a basic standard of 
performance.  Because of their unique expertise, Peenem?nde specialists were also 
central figures in the process of training the first cadres of missile troops who would 
conduct operations against Allied targets.  Peenem?nders wrote the specific handling 
and transportation instructions for the new troops and responded to inquiries from 
members of the military involved with support and supply activities for the missile 
battalions.
48
  When asked by operations officers about night launches, for example, 
the engineers quickly conducted experimental shots at night to see if lights used by 
artillerymen could substitute for natural light.  The results were good, and the test 
engineers recommended outfitting the launch batteries with lights for ?round the clock 
operations.
49
  Moreover, Peenem?nders were a part of the teams of ?Technical 
Stormtroops? that operated with the batteries during early firing operations.  
Dornberger first ordered these into effect in July, writing that V-1 operations, which 
began in June, showed that the troops firing the cruise missiles were not prepared to 
deal with technical difficulties as they came up at the front.  In order to avoid this 
problem with V-2 operations, Dornberger ordered that ?as many expert engineers as 
possible? were to be sent to the firing positions.  He specified that the engineers sent 
to the launch sites should be thoroughly familiar with the missile, especially with its 
on-board electronics and steering, engine operation, and ground support equipment.  
47
  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 213.
48
 Vorl?ufige Transportvorschrift f?r das Ger?t A4, December 1943, GD639.4.8, DM.  Beantwortung 
der Fragebogen f?r: Feldspeicherpersonal, FR-Gefechtstaffel, Treibstoffkolonne, 1/12/44, RH8/v.1265, 
BA/MA.
49
 Arbeiten am Ger?t A4 bei Nacht, 1/19/44, RH8/v.1265, BA/MA.
379
They should also, according to Dornberger, have a ?can do? attitude.
50
  His 
specifications meant that Peenem?nde engineers were ideally suited to this task, and 
Dornberger meant to draw specialists from Usedom, the Ordnance Division, and 
Mittelwerk.  By the middle of August, he was beginning to assemble a list of both 
civilian and military personnel from Peenem?nde and Mittelwerk who were to serve 
with the launch battalions.
51
  Peenem?nde personnel went on to work successfully in 
their tasks of training and accompanying the launching troops throughout 1944 and 
1945.
52
Moreover, in the course of their work, Peenem?nders also suggested changes 
that went beyond establishing a minimally reliable level of functionality and actually 
improved upon the finished product.  They did not merely allow themselves to be 
carried along by the inertia of their project, nor did they need orders to motivate their 
work.  Rather, they drove the work forward in a way that they hoped would offer a 
solution to Germany?s worsening military bind.  Though V-2 operations began in 
earnest in September 1944, the Peenem?nde engineers never stopped tinkering with 
the missile.  Even after it flew reliably, the missile?s designers worked its 
performance problems exhaustively through late 1944 and into 1945.  Much of the 
work in this period pushed the theoretical and practical boundaries of rocket 
engineering forward.  Some of the ideas were quite fanciful, but the Peenem?nders? 
imagination, creativity, and work ethic was on full display between the summer of 
1944 and the winter of 1945.
50
 Dornberger, ?Technische Stosstrupps,? 7/21/44, RH8/v.1960, BA/MA.
51
 Magnus von Braun to Wa Pruf 10, 8/10/44, RH8/v.1960, BA/MA.  
52
 Heinz Krause Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, Nr. 588; Leonhard Specht Statement, Gericht Rep. 299, 
Nr. 588, HStaD-ZA Kalkum. 
380
Individual engineers and their teams worked on specific packages of problems 
based on their areas of expertise.  This led not only to a strong familiarity with the 
issues involved, but also helped make the mechanical difficulties into a very personal 
problem for the engineers.  Because engineers at the base became so thoroughly 
familiar with the design and operation of particular sections of the weapon, they were 
often able to come up with a variety of ways in which to improve the missile?s 
performance.  Moreover, except for general inquiries regarding the range and power 
of the missile, the direction of research on the V-2 in this period was not dictated by 
regime authorities.  Instead, specialists at Peenem?nde took the initiative and guided 
the research in directions that they felt were militarily the most appropriate.  
Peenem?nde administrators had long encouraged them to think flexibly about 
problems and improvements and to bring any potential solutions to their superiors.  
This they did, and those who contributed often and in key areas were handsomely 
rewarded.  This, of course, meant that senior administrators such as von Braun, who 
already found himself inundated with work, had even more tasks to tasks to perform 
and projects to guide.  Senior level Peenem?nders remained fully prepared to dedicate 
themselves to the war effort.  The missile specialists beneath them were also ready to 
do their part, and many came forward with a number imaginative advancements.
There can be no doubt that developing technology with clear military 
applications was important to the employees at Peenem?nde.  Many of experiments 
carried out by them in the last twelve months of the war indicate a strong proclivity
for producing a more militarily effective weapon with which to help win the war.  
Such a goal was of course directly in line with the regime?s aims.  In May 1944, 
381
Hitler inquired to Speer about the possibility of increasing the explosive effect of the 
missile by using liquid nitrogen in the warhead.
53
  Though there is no evidence that 
this question trickled down to the shop floor at Peenem?nde, they did conduct 
important experiments ? again, with little prodding from regime authorities ? in order 
to seek the same increase in explosive capability.  For example, between January and 
December 1944, engineers at Peenem?nde and the Heidelager test range carried out a 
number of different experimental detonations of the missile with hollow charges 
mounted outside the engine block.  The tests showed that it was possible to exploit 
the liquid oxygen and fuel that was unconsumed after engine cut-off to increase the 
effect of the detonation.  They accomplished this using a shaped charge with a hollow 
cavity that directed the explosion into the engine and ignited the highly flammable 
leftover fuels.  Engineers completed the testing and reported their findings to 
Kammler, Dornberger, and Army Ordnance in December.
54
  Though these test results 
and others like them arrived too late in the war to see their implementation in mass 
production, they are indicative of the Peenem?nders? self-mobilization in armaments 
development during the closing year of the war.
One way to understand the quality and amount of inventive work that went on 
in this period is to examine the issue of patenting in Peenem?nde.  It serves as a key 
indicator of the specialists? willingness and efforts to advance the technology.  In the 
first place, the effort to earn new patents on their technology reflected the 
Peenem?nders? ongoing desire to maintain their professional ideals, even very late in 
the war.  Secondly, patent applications filed at Peenem?nde help elucidate the 
53
 Speer Desk Calendar, T-73, roll 192, NARA.
54
 Hoffe, ?Sonderlaborierung im A4-Ger?t mit hohlladungen (Sprengversuch),? 12/17/45, GD 
633.20.11, DM.
382
underlying technological concerns of the development engineers and also illustrate 
rapid technological development that took place in the last years of the war.  Not only 
the patent awards, but also the applications themselves, were an important way for 
engineers at Peenem?nde to show their dedication and hard work done in the name of 
missile development.  This was to become a key issue as civilians at the base grew 
increasingly concerned about the status of their draft exemptions in the face of 
increased conscription into the Army and Volksturm militia.  Patenting activity, then, 
served a number of goals at once.
Technology policy in National Socialist Germany, ideologically reactionary in 
so many ways, was ruled by a rather modern and liberal patent system.  The Reich 
Patent Code, promulgated in 1936, borrowed extensively from liberal models that 
favored individual inventors over corporate interests.  The new law, based on a few 
obscure passages in Mein Kampf, eliminated the idea that corporations, with their 
excellent resources and deep pockets, were the fountainheads of invention.  Rather, 
the patent law recognized individuals as the origin of every idea worthy of a patent.  
The law, refined and sharpened in 1942, also forced corporations to grant appropriate 
compensation, calculated by the state, to individuals whose ideas were put to use.  
The results were a remarkable success, and for a brief period, the number of patents 
filed in Germany outstripped those filed in the far more populous United States.
55
55
 Kees Gispen, Poems in Steel: National Socialism and the Politics of Inventing from Weimar to Bonn
(New York: Berghahn Books, 2002), 177-250.  Nazi rhetoric about the value of inventors and 
technology helped garner support among engineers and technicians in the interwar period.  After the 
war, this law, stripped of its racist hogwash, was the model for the Federal Republic?s Patent Law of 
1957.  Gispen correctly points out that in this case, the regime left ?a positive legacy ? in the politics 
of inventing,? 8. 
383
The Peenem?nders took full advantage of this modern, progressive 
arrangement.  Between 1939 and 1945, Peenem?nders filed at least 124 patent 
applications with the Reich Patent Office (Reichspatentamt ? RPA).  However, of this 
number, only sixteen applications emerged between1939 and 1941.  After 1941, this 
number spiked dramatically, receding only in 1945.  The increase in applications was 
geometric.  In 1942, thirteen applications from Peenem?nde appeared in the RPA.  In 
1943, this rose to twenty-six, then again to fifty-four in 1944.  In 1945, with the 
abandonment of Peenem?nde and final defeat of Nazi Germany, the number of 
applications dropped to a mere five.
56
These numbers reflect several factors.  First, it must be said that the state of 
missile technology before 1939 was quite primitive.  Though some advances had 
been made, especially by the Army?s researchers, it is probably the case that the 
technology was not yet fully patentable because of its immaturity.  However, by the 
end of 1941, the specialists at Peenem?nde had developed the basic technology that 
would be key to the success of their endeavor.  The most fundamental problems of 
missile development in guidance, propulsion, and aerodynamics had been solved.
57
Even so, the number of patent applications did not rise sharply until 1943.  By the end 
of that year, as more instruments and parts began to show success, the likelihood that 
they could be patented increased.
The huge technical and scientific strides made between 1937 and 1941, and 
the relative paucity of patent applications in this period (twenty-one), indicates that 
56
 These numbers are culled from the patent applications found in the Deutsches Museum?s 
Peenem?nde Archive Reports, largely a collection of scientific and technical documents that, until this 
point, was of greater use for scientists and engineers than historians.  This series holds the most 
complete collection of purely technical documents that are available.
57
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 73-109.
384
technical maturity, though important, was not a central factor in the increased number 
of applications in the second half of the war.  Another critical factor can be found in 
the rewards that inventors at Peenem?nde received for successful patent submissions 
or, at least, the applicability of their inventions to missile technology.  The 
Peenem?nders collected handsome monetary compensation if their work was 
patented or used on the V-2.  Shortly after July 1942, when the Reich government 
clarified the patent code to emphasize the rewards due to individual inventors, 
military patent evaluators developed a calculus for remunerating their inventors, 
which were sometimes small groups or teams of people.  They evaluated the position 
of each individual in the team according to technical training, management position, 
and key contributions to come up with a performance assessment for individuals 
involved in the invention.  Secondly, they assigned the patented invention or process 
a value based on its applicability to the work at hand.  More important were the final 
two factors in the calculus.  Evaluators divided the usefulness of the invention into 
categories ranging from ?pure military application? through ?equal military and other 
applications? to ?predominantly for other applications.?  The final table categorized 
the invention or process with values ranging from ?crucial military importance? to 
?little military importance.?  The greater the military application and the military 
importance of an invention, the higher numerical value it was assigned.  Evaluators 
then multiplied all of these numbers together in order to come up with the proper 
remuneration for the inventor.
58
  This method of evaluation put a premium on the 
military value of technology and encouraged individuals to continue to think 
58
 Formel f?r die Berechnung der Verg?tung (f?r Wehrmacht u. Werhmacht-?hnliche Betriebe), 
GD634.14.45, DM.
385
creatively about how to improve the state of the Wehrmacht?s own technology.  In an 
operation like that at Peenem?nde, busy scientists and engineers stood to profit 
handsomely from such a system.  
Profit was not always a primary concern for all Peenem?nders, however.  On 
some occasions, they sought only recognition of their accomplishments and the 
professional satisfaction of a patent award.  In May 1943, for example, the RPA 
awarded propulsion specialists Karl Neubauer and Friederich Wilhelm D?rre with a 
patent for their work the cooling jacket for the missile?s combustion chamber.  D?rre 
made it clear that he did not wish to receive remuneration for the use of his patented 
ideas, only to be named as inventor on the officially issued patent.  In the end, Riedel 
III insisted that both men receive at least RM150 for their valuable work.
59
  Other 
Peenem?nders were similarly motivated by such professional technical 
considerations.  However, their work was informed by the ever-present necessity of 
easing the transition to mass production and simplifying assembly, which 
simultaneously increased the pace at which functional missiles could be turned out at 
Mittelwerk.  Konrad Dannenberg, in his application, also for improvements in the 
cooling jacket, explained that his improvement would ease manufacturing problems 
by simplifying the combustion chamber?s design.  ?In this way,? he wrote, ?the 
means of cooling with only a single [alcohol] intake will make production easier.  
This applies for the assembly of the entire engine block.  Furthermore, fewer 
possibilities for disturbances exist because of looseness at weldings and couplings.  
59
 Neubauer and D?rre Patentanmeldung, ?Raketenofenk?hlung,? 5/1/43, GD624.193.3, DM.
386
With this, a higher degree of operational reliability can be counted on.?
60
  Simplified 
manufacturing and improved technical performance were obvious concerns for men 
like Dannenberg.  Professional motivation then, with the extra incentive provided by 
monetary rewards, was enough for most Peenem?nders.
However, nearly all missile specialists kept in mind the purpose of their work 
and mobilized their skills in an effort to increase the destructiveness of the missile 
while improving its flight characteristics.  A typical example is the prodigious Konrad 
Dannenberg?s patent application for a ?Process to Hinder Explosions.?
61
  Dannenberg 
reasoned that when missiles re-entered the atmosphere, the volatile fuels remaining in 
the tank would explode because of heat friction.  His solution was to drain the 
remaining liquid oxygen into the fuel tank.  The liquid oxygen/fuel mixture would 
then gel and remain in the confines of the tank.  Dannenberg argued that his idea 
improved flight stability by moving the inbound missile?s center of gravity toward the 
rear while decreasing the hyper-volatility of the propellants.  Importantly, he also held 
that this was a valuable advance because the fuel, while more stable, still increased 
the punch offered by remaining fuel upon impact detonation.
62
  Von Braun and 
Eberhard Rees were thrilled with the idea and after determining how they could 
60
 Dannenberg Patent Application, ?Raketenofen-K?hlung,? 8/16/44, GD624.193.2, DM.  Alcohol 
burned at a lower temperature than the gasses in the combustion chamber, so a film of alcohol fuel 
along the wall of the combustion chamber would provide an insulating layer against the heat and 
prevent burn-throughs of the combustion chamber.
61
 Dannenberg?s background is a common one among the Peenem?nders.  Born in 1912 just south of 
Leipzig, his interest in rocketry first emerged after he saw Max Valier speak and witnessed a 
demonstration of Opel?s rocket cars in Hanover.  He completed the work toward his diploma-engineer 
degree at the Technical University of Hanover in 1936, was drafted into the reserves in 1939, then 
served in France before being assigned as a civilian reservist with the VKN.  Dannenberg was never a 
Nazi party member, but given his background, almost certainly sympathized with them and was at 
least a fellow traveler.  Dannenberg OHI, NASM.  
62
 Dannenberg Patent Application, ?Verfahren zur Verhindern von Explosionen,? 7/8/44, 
GD634.11.12, DM.
387
incorporate Dannenberg?s ideas, forwarded the application to the RPA.
63
  Dannenberg 
was eventually notified that his process would be put to use and that he could expect 
compensation for it as soon as the patent was granted.
64
  In addition to concerns about 
upholding engineering?s professional standards, then, military considerations and the 
effort to help bring about victory were also of paramount importance for development 
engineers in the project.  They were not only interested in spaceflight, nor were 
changes of this sort insisted upon by regime officials.  Rather, Peenem?nde engineers 
took the initiative and made improvements in the missile?s destructive capability 
themselves, enhancing the military effectiveness of the weapon.
These military concerns resulted in a number of interesting and forward-
thinking experiments, but also led the Peenem?nde developers into technical flights 
of fancy that, given the state of missile technology and availability of resources in 
1944/?45, were impossible to fulfill.  One relatively simple theoretical concept they 
embarked on was experimenting with putting wings on an A-4 missile to expand its 
range, an idea first given attention in 1939.  They eventually shelved the idea for this 
missile, code-named the A-9, because of cost and priority problems.  Responding to 
pressure from military authorities in the middle of 1944, the Peenem?nders revived 
the project and re-christened it the A-4b.  By September and October, the 
Peenem?nders had developed test missiles and were preparing launch experiments, 
which they carried out with very limited success in December and early January 
63
 Von Braun and Rees to RPA, 9/21/44, GD634.11.12, DM.
64
 Schilling and Rees to Dannenberger, 12/15/44, GD634.11.12, DM.  Because of its submission so late 
in the war, the RPA never made a decision on Dannenberg?s application.
388
1945.  The project ended shortly thereafter.
65
  Military necessity partly drove this 
work, as Allied forces steadily regained ground in Western Europe throughout the 
summer, forcing the operational missile batteries to launch from greater and greater 
ranges.  However, Wernher Dahm, a test engineer in the projects office at 
Peenem?nde, also pointed to a concern that had long plagued the Peenem?nders, but 
became particularly acute at the end of 1944.  In an interview given decades after the 
war, he admitted that the motivation for reviving the A-9 was to show that the 
Peenem?nders were in fact attempting to make dramatic advancements in the 
missile?s range.  However, this was done in order to show that as a group, missile 
developers were too important to be conscripted into the Volksturm or Wehrmacht.  
According to Dahm, local authorities around Peenem?nde had been clamoring in late 
1944 to draft the specialists on Usedom and employees at the base were becoming 
increasingly concerned about just such an event.
66
  This is an entirely plausible 
argument and probably true, but must also be seen in the larger context of the near 
manic pace of development and design taking place at Peenem?nde in the second half 
of 1944.
Other projects reflect the strong motivation of the Peenem?nde specialists to 
create powerful weapons in the service of the Nazi state.  Perhaps the second most 
important development project after the V-2 was the Wasserfall anti-aircraft missile, 
which had its origins in plans begun in 1941.  The crash status of the ballistic missile 
project, however, meant that most of Peenem?nde?s resources were not dedicated to 
Wasserfall until the second half of the war.  The Allied bombing campaign and slow 
65
 Heinz-Dieter H?lsken, Die V-Waffen: Entstehung, Propaganda, Kriegseinsatz (Stuttgart: Deutsche-
Verlags Anstalt, 1984), 135-145, 200.  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 251.
66
 Dahm OHI, NASM.
389
but steady seizure of air superiority made Air Ministry officials increasingly 
desperate to develop a weapon to reverse Germany?s losses in the air.  Despite major 
efforts by engineers at Peenem?nde East and West, the project faltered because of 
extremely complex problems of fuel supply, guidance, and control.
67
  As a long-term 
project, it made sense, but in a nation so desperately short of supplies, manpower, and 
time, there was no way for Wasserfall to be completed in short order.  However, the 
regime?s paralyzing fascination with war-winning technology had deeply entrenched 
the project into the bureaucracy, and the specialists? dedication to its success meant 
that the project would continue despite its short-term uselessness.  
Peenem?nde developers also carried out smaller scale, but equally important 
tasks in the last eighteen months of the war.  Guidance, steering, and fuel injection 
improvements for the V-2 all steadily emerged over the course of late 1944.
68
  In 
addition, by the end of November, fuel was in drastically short supply across the 
Reich, a dearth possibly made even worse by the early preparations for the Ardennes 
offensive in the West. Development engineers made a number of pro-active efforts to 
get around these shortages.  In one case, engineers Tschinkel and R?ssler came up 
with a process for using lignin as a dilutant in fuel.  Lignin was a cheap and abundant 
by-product of the cellulose industry that, through various chemical processes, was 
fully soluble and burned fairly efficiently.
69
  Their idea was never utilized on the V-2, 
but even so, it was a clear attempt to mitigate fuel shortages and make a substantial 
impact on Germany?s precarious supply problem, especially regarding the missile?s 
67
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 230-237.
68
 Ibid., 251-252.
69
 Tschinkel and R?ssler Patentanmeldung, 11/7/44, GD624.624.4, DM.  The two engineers never 
heard back from the RPA about whether or not they would be awarded a patent.
390
demands.  In addition, the problems created by fuel shortages mandated that a 
standard fuel combination be used for all new missile projects.  By this point, 
Peenem?nde engineers were with directly or indirectly involved with four different 
anti-aircraft missile projects: Wasserfall, Rheintochter (Rhine Maiden ? a solid fuel 
missile developed and manufactured by Rheinmetall-Borsig), Schmetterling 
(Butterfly ? designed by Henschel), and Enzian (a wooden, unmanned, rocket 
powered interceptor).  All of these used different types or combinations of fuel.  
Peenem?nde engineers conferred about this problem and after a number of 
experiments, came up with a single mixture of fuel that would be used for all missile 
projects, thereby rationalizing and standardizing future supply needs.
70
  Smaller 
projects of this sort are reflective of a willingness by the Peenem?nders to continue 
their hard work by improvising, adapting to changing circumstances, and overcoming 
difficulties imposed by the war?s increasingly bleak circumstance. They did not fold 
in the face of military adversity.     
Other projects were less technically mundane as well as a reflection of the 
professional commitment, technological desperation, and military fantasy exhibited 
by Peenem?nde engineers in the war?s last year.  One proposal, written jointly by 
Peenem?nde development engineers and Luftwaffe officials, called for the rapid 
deployment of the V-2 using the Messerschmitt Me-323 ?Gigant? transport plane, 
which had six engines and a carrying capacity of twelve tons.  First circulated in 
March 1944, this proposal argued that it was impossible to set up forward launch 
areas because it took too long for the support equipment to get to the location, deploy, 
and launch.  Rapid deployment to these areas was for all intents and purposes 
70
 Von Braun and Riedel to Halder, 11/18/44, GD624.623.14, DM.
391
impossible.  Air lift to specific locations would solve this problem, and the proposal 
included technical requirements, manpower needs, and equipment quantities for large 
operations.
71
This plan had virtually no grounding in reality.  To be sure, the Me-323 could 
carry the missile, but to have all of its support equipment come with even one V-2 
required a small fleet of transport aircraft.  The number of planes required for the 
movement of an entire battery of V-2s was an astounding 123.
72
  By March 1944, 
only about seventy Me-323s were ready for operation, with the underwhelming 
number of six to eight new planes per month being added to the fleet.  Not only that, 
but air transport to forward areas in the middle of 1944 would have been a suicide 
mission.  Allied warplanes were rapidly gaining control of the skies and could operate 
almost unmolested over much of Western Europe.  Even if the lift capacity for a 
battery of V-2s existed, any mission of this sort would have rendered the transport 
fleet completely impotent because of Allied air superiority.    
Worse however, were other missile projects that ranged from the far-sighted 
to the preposterous.
73
  The embodiment of both was the idea for a submarine 
launched ballistic missile, known first as ?Project Swimming Vest? [Projekt 
Schwimmweste] and then as ?Test Stand XII.?  As early as 1942, the Kriegsmarine 
71
 Vorschlag f?r einen Schnelleinsatz des Sonderger?tes mit Luftransport der Me323 ?Gigant,? 3/1/44, 
GD639.4.6, DM.
72
 Ibid.
73
 One important project that was envisioned as early as 1936, but shelved in 1942, was the A-10 
intercontinental ballistic missile.  This was a two-stage missile with a range that would enable it to 
reach New York.  It was beset by a number of scientific and technical problems and remained on the 
drawing board until 1942, when it was set aside.  According to Peenem?nde design engineer Wernher 
Dahm, ?It might have worked in the long run, but the technology was not available to make it a really 
useful project.?   Dahm OHI, NASM.  Though it was not a part of the spasm of desperate ideas in the 
closing stages of the war, it is indicative of the Peenem?nders? willingness and ability to think about 
developing increasingly complex weaponry.
392
had taken an interest in installing missiles on its ships and submarines.  Its 
Commander in Chief, Admiral Karl Doenitz, met with von Braun in August of that 
year to discuss the use of missiles as anti-ship weapons.  Despite the major 
complications inherent in ship-to-ship missile operations, von Braun was interested 
and promised to consult Dornberger about it.
74
  Dornberger also thought that the idea 
had merit and proposed that Peenem?nde developers work with Kriegsmarine 
engineers to study what would be needed to develop such a weapon as long as no 
resources were diverted from the V-2 effort, which, as of that point, had not 
experienced a successful launch.
75
  Very little came of it, as the Peenem?nders were 
far to busy with the V-2 to dedicate any of their resources to such a difficult problem.  
Kriegsmarine officials brought the idea up again in 1943, and there were a few 
meetings to discuss technical details, but no concrete plans were laid for 
development.
76
However, in June 1944, less than two weeks after the Allied invasion at 
Normandy, a Peenem?nde engineer named Sachsenberg approached Riedel III with 
technical drawings and the outline of a plan for an underwater launch canister to be 
used in conjunction with U-boat operations.  The concept was based around the idea 
that the United States might reconsider its participation in the war if V-2s began 
falling on New York City.  The missile canister would displace approximately 500 
tons when fully loaded and would be towed behind a U-boat.  Once at its launch 
destination, the carrier could be erected into vertical position by flooding its ballast 
tanks, which would extend the bow of the carrier above the surface of the water.  
74
 Von Braun, Niedershcrift uber die Besprechung in Kiel, 8/28/42, RH8/1960, BA/MA.
75
 Dornberger to Goetze, 9/21/42, RH8/v.1960, BA/MA.
76
 Von Braun to Loewe, 5/29/43; OKM to Dornberger, 6/17/43, RH8/v.1254, BA/MA.
393
From that position, the doors of the carrier would be opened, the missile prepared for 
launch, and fired.  One U-boat could supposedly tow three launch canisters at a speed 
of approximately twelve miles per hour.
77
In retrospect, the idea was utterly absurd on its face.  The technical difficulties 
of towing the canisters, erecting them, and launching the missile were enormous.  
However, in an atmosphere in which German officials and armaments specialists 
increasingly cast about for solutions to get them out of their predicament, it seemed to 
have merit.  Peenem?nde developers embraced the idea and in September, reported 
the results of preliminary experiments to the division heads of EMW.
78
  In December, 
Peenem?nde developers met with representatives of Vulkan Docks in Stettin, which 
was contracted to build a prototype, in order to hammer out the difficulties inherent in 
such a project.  Everyone involved, including many important Peenem?nders such as 
Hans H?ter, Riedel III, and Kurt Debus, took the project very seriously and attempted 
to solve many pressing technical questions at the meeting.  The project was conducted 
in utter secrecy (at this point, the revealing code name ?Schwimmweste? was 
changed to ?Test Stand XII?).  Even other engineers inside Peenem?nde were not to 
be told of the work if they were not involved in it.
79
  Test engineers expected to have 
the prototype vehicle available to them by March 1945 and requested that the 
building contracts be handled expeditiously.
80
  Though the submarine launched 
ballistic missile would go on to become one of the twentieth century?s most fearsome 
weapons systems, in 1944-?45, the idea of a delivery platform like ?Schwimmweste? 
77
 Sachsenberg, Aktennotiz ?ber eine Besprechung mit herrn Direktor Diplom. Ing. Riedel, 6/15/44, 
RH8/v.1276, BA/MA.
78
 Vorversuche f?r Projekt Schwimmweste, 9/11/44,  RH8/v.1276, BA/MA.
79
 Niederschrift ?ber die Besprechung vom 9.12.44 bei Wa Pruf (BuM) 10, RH8/v.1276, BA/MA.
80
 Aktenvermerk ?ber die Besprechung am 25.1.45 in K., RH8/v.1307, BA/MA.
394
was ridiculous in its strategic concept, technical demands, and tactical applications.  It 
was a reflection of the utter desperation with which Peenem?nde developers carried 
out their work in the last year of the war.
Missile designers at Peenem?nde did not just satisfy their own professional 
standards with their work, nor did they work merely to meet demands of the state or 
Nazi Party, as many of them might argue.  Rather, they strove to push the technology 
to its performance and destructive limits.  The Nazi regime had long benefited from 
the Peenem?nders? ability to direct their own development activities, and this 
approach continued to pay dividends in the closing months of the war.  The missile 
specialists? mobilized nearly all of their efforts in support of the regime.  Some began 
to feel an increased disillusionment with the idea of a victorious finish to the war ? on 
a report underlining the importance of missiles for breaking allied air superiority and 
?therefore the achievement of final victory,? von Braun sarcastically scrawled, ?Final 
victory, well, well!? ? but this did not dampen their enthusiasm.
81
  The Peenem?nders 
absolutely buried themselves in their work, making major theoretical and practical 
strides in the field of missile technology.  For this, they were amply compensated in a 
number of ways.
Von Braun had a long track record of looking after people who bent all of 
their effort toward the success of the German missile program.  This was no different 
after his arrest.  In addition to the compensation due to employees whose inventions 
were used at Peenem?nde, other rewards were available as well.  For example, in 
early April, the technical director attempted, though Heinz Kunze, to procure extra 
food rations for those ?intellectually creative workers? in armaments industries.  The 
81
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 247.
395
group from Peenem?nde that he recommended included engineers, scientists, 
technicians and secretaries, all of whom ?performed a great service in the area of 
development and serial production ? They have worked long hours, day and night, 
Sundays and holidays, foregoing free time and have exhibited exemplary lives in their 
private activities.?
82
  Also, he informed Kunze that he would be sending a new list of 
personnel to be rewarded with these extra rations every six months.  Kunze promptly 
informed von Braun that this ration program had been cancelled, but von Braun?s 
note to Kunze underlined the extraordinarily hard work that Peenem?nde specialists 
had been putting in as well as the von Braun?s own efforts to reward them for their 
activities.
83
Intellectually creative, hard-working Peenem?nders received other forms of 
rewards as well.  In late 1944, many developers at Peenem?nde began receiving 
official, non-remunerative rewards in addition to the money that was their due if their 
ideas were to be patented.  Some individuals won prizes for technical improvements 
that they made on the missile.  Technician Bruno Helm, for example, received a prize 
for improvements he made in sealing missile combustion chambers.
84
  Promotions, 
titles, and medals were all distributed in the closing months at Peenem?nde.  
Engineers Dannenberg, Hackh, Heimburg, Tessmann, and Martin were awarded the 
title of Oberingenieure, and all of the ?authority of leadership that comes with this 
title,? by von Braun and Storch in October 1944.
85
  Administrators at Peenem?nde 
recommended many of their employees for the War Service Cross, either first or 
82
 Von Braun to Kunze, 4/5/44, FE 732, NASM.
83
 Kunze to Von Braun, 4/21/44, FE 732, NASM.
84
 Bruno Helm Basic Personnel Record, RG 165, Entry 179, Box 703, File ?Boston,? NARA. 
85
 Von Braun and Storch to Dannenberg, Hackh, Heimburg, Tessmann, and Martin, 10/15/44, 
RH8/v.1941.
396
second class, in the same period.  Friederich Duerre, an engineer who also helped 
with security measures at the base, was recommended for this award because he ?has 
fully proven his worth? in teaching counter-intelligence measures to employees of 
EMW.  Richard Lochman, in charge of organizing transportation at Peenem?nde, was 
recommended for the same award because of his hard work and skill in carrying out 
his duties.
86
  None of these rewards were the result of political cronyism on the part 
of management or employees.  Rather, they reflected the hard work and long hours 
put in by Peenem?nde specialists to push forward their project and do all they could 
to contribute to their nation?s efforts in the war.
Finally, throughout all of their activities over 1944 and 1945, the senior 
Peenem?nders and most rank and file employees were well aware of the results of 
their work.  According to Dieter Huzel, the first reports of V-2 operations came to 
Peenem?nde by newspaper in September 1944.  He recalls an electric atmosphere in 
von Braun?s office, writing that 
The news had arrived there also, and the room was 
rapidly filling as staff engineers drifted in.  A dozen 
excited conversations were going at once.  Von Braun 
cut in on the enthusiasm with a sober dose of reality.  
This was not the final payoff ? far from it.  The V-2 
was not fully developed.  Many specific problems 
remained to be overcome, despite the exaggerated 
propaganda of the Hitler government.
87
Foreign press reports about the V-2 campaign emerged steadily late 1944.  These 
reports arrived at Peenem?nde, ostensibly for intelligence reasons, in order to 
measure the results of the attacks.  They included photos showing buildings reduced 
86
 Storch to Rees, 12/26/44, RH8/v.1941.
87
 Huzel, Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 119.
397
to rubble and massive craters left in urban areas.
88
  Perhaps understandably, few 
Peenem?nders, who by this point fully felt the impact of the war on their nation and 
families in other parts of Germany, had little remorse for the victims of their 
weapons.  Auguste-Elfriede Friede, one of Von Braun?s secretaries, recalled after the 
war that ?We worked from the standpoint that war is war, and when their bombs 
stopped falling on the populations of Hamburg, Cologne, and other areas, things 
would change.?
89
  This hard-headed attitude was partially a result of the steadily 
increasing brutality of the war, combined with the Peenem?nders? own nationalist and 
patriotic feelings.  Unlike many, the Peenem?nders had a way to reply to the bombing 
of German cities, and felt no obligation to reign in their efforts to maximize this 
response.  To the extent that they did reflect on their work, they did so in the context 
of a war in which neither side granted any quarter.  Virtually no one felt guilty about 
their work or the use of the missile against civilian targets in England and elsewhere.    
Norbert Frei has shown that the virtually unimpeded destruction through air 
attacks in this period produced a siege mentality that penetrated far into the 
consciousness of individual Germans.  This state of mind brought German citizens 
closer together through both shared physical and psychological stress.  Citizens in 
Berlin, Schweinfurt, Essen, Dresden, and Peenem?nde could all relate to each other 
based on the shared suffering that they experienced.  Frei shows convincingly that 
88
 See collected foreign news reports, FE 688, NASM.
89
 August-Elfriede Friede statement, Peenem?nde: Schatten eines Mythos.  Huzel remembered being 
stunned at the magnitude of destruction on a trip from Peenem?nde to Bavaria.  He wrote that ?In the 
isolation of Peenem?nde, I had not realized the extent of damage from Allied air attack.  Practically 
every city or town of any size I passed through showed the marks of heavy bombings, particularly in 
the immediate vicinity of railroad stations and along the tracks.?  Huzel, Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 
118.  
398
this reinforced the idea of a ?national community? throughout the country.
90
  The 
Peenem?nders were not immune to this feeling.  In his memoir, Huzel recalled the 
?universal expression of Kameraderie which these declining days had so brought 
about.?
91
  Indeed, the true meaning of the Volksgemeinschaft was made abundantly 
clear in the last years of the war, when class barriers utterly vanished in the rubble of 
Germany?s bombed-out cities.  Despite this destruction, Germans proved ever more 
willing to invest even more in the regime and offer up their services to the nation in 
its time of need.  Hans Mommsen has demonstrated that the Nazi party boosted its 
prestige among the population by stepping up its involvement in the welfare sector, 
bolstered its reputation by arranging obligatory meetings, rallies, and marches, and 
increased its strength by taking over the functions of much of the civil administration.  
It cast all of this work in revived notions of the so-called Kampfzeit, the period 
leading up to Hitler?s appointment as Germany?s Chancellor.  The Nazi Party, in 
reality the cause of Germany?s destruction, successfully cast itself as the nation?s only 
means of salvation.  Mommsen argues that ?The experiences of the Kampfzeit were 
repeatedly referred to in order demonstrate that through heroic exertion the imminent 
crisis could be overcome, and for this the party was indispensable.?
92
  Such ideas 
buttressed the German nation?s dedication to the party, which provided the only 
sources of aid to its beleaguered population, and helped ensure that they would 
provide it with their best efforts even as collapse became imminent.  
90
 Norbert Frei, ?Peoples? Community and War: Hitler?s Popular Support,? in Hans Mommsen, ed., 
The Third Reich Between Image and Reality: New Perspectives on German History (Oxford: Berg, 
2001), 59-75.
91
 Huzel, Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 168.
92
 Hans Mommsen, ?The Dissolution of the Third Reich: Crisis Management and Collapse, 1943-
1945,? GHI Bulletin 27 (Fall 2000), http://www.ghi-dc.org/bulletin27F00/b27mommsen.html, 3.
399
The actions of those at Peenem?nde are stark evidence of both this siege 
mentality and the utter dedication to the nation and regime in its most desperate hour.  
The desire to throw back Germany?s enemies could only be accomplished by ?heroic? 
action.  The technical projects embarked upon by the Peenem?nde engineers were 
prosecuted with phenomenal effort under increasingly inadequate conditions.  Of 
course, not every engineer was inspired to work frantically in the last year of the Nazi 
regime and there were gray areas of motivation, but for the most part, the profound 
dedication to success that the project as a whole brought forth from the Peenem?nders 
in its early years merged with a fortress mentality to elicit continued dedication to its 
goals.  Indeed, as the regime became even more desperate, its goals and those of the 
Peenem?nders became even more deeply enmeshed.  For their part, the Peenem?nde 
specialists continued to push the technical limits of missile development even as time 
and resources dwindled away.    
The Last Months of the German Missile Program
By January 1945, an untenable war situation had become unwinnable.  On the 
Eastern Front, Soviet Armies pushed across Poland and were advancing on Germany 
proper.  In the West, Germany?s last, desperate gamble in the Ardennes had been 
crushed by American forces, and the path across the frontier lay open.  The war was 
irrevocably lost, and the outlook for the Peenem?nde missile base, hard on the Baltic 
and not far from the Russian lines of advance, was hopeless.  Evacuations began in 
early February, and by early March, the formerly bustling and dynamic missile 
development center was a ghost town.  The final collapse of the program was not far 
behind.
400
The staff at Peenem?nde had been shrinking throughout 1944.  In August, the 
German staff at the base had been reduced to 4262, while a total of 379 forced 
Eastern workers and prisoners of war remained at Peenem?nde.
93
  That number was 
further reduced as Storch responded to Kammler?s demands for reallocated personnel 
by ruthlessly cutting employees loose either for military service or for work 
elsewhere.  He calculated that 342 employees could be given up at Peenem?nde 
without limiting current development activities.  Storch also reported that another 
seventy-eight could be sent east for ?East Wall Operations? [Ostwalleinsatz].  
Twenty-one employees, according to Storch, had volunteered for duties at the Front, 
and another thirty-four were being prepared to serve as members of Dornberger?s 
?Technical Stormtroops.?  Storch finally argued that as more projects neared 
completion, the base at Peenem?nde could give up even more people for other 
activities.
94
  By October, however, development administrators were beginning to feel 
the sting of these losses.  Von Braun wrote to Army Brigadier General Josef 
Rossmann, Commander of the Ordnance Office responsible for missile development, 
to complain that the base?s ability to keep up its output was declining ?as we give up 
workers for the war or they are replaced by women.?  Most personnel were being 
assigned to missile batteries, but the use of the batteries also depended on the 
completion of proper ground facilities, a task for which those who were leaving were 
needed.  Though most employees were already working at least twelve hour days, 
93
  Storch to Kammler, 8/21/44, RH8/v.1960, BA/MA.  Of this number of employees, about half were 
salaried employees, that is, engineers, mathematicians, physicists, technicians, and clerical help.  The 
balance was made up of hourly workers such as joiners, welders, electricians, and mechanics.  618 of 
the 4262 were women, mostly clerical staff.  Of the 379 forced laborers, 126 were Eastern workers and 
253 were prisoners of war.  According to Storch, there were no concentration camp prisoners engaged 
in missile work at Peenem?nde. 
94
 Storch, ?Berufsaufteilung der zur Abgabe vorgeschlagenene Arbeitskr?fte,? 8/23/44, RH8/v.1960, 
BA/MA.
401
Peenem?nde?s forfeiture of personnel, argued von Braun, was delaying the 
development of the equipment while the backlog of missile troops awaiting outfitting 
grew.
95
  The development pressure at Peenem?nde, made worse by the Allied 
advances on both fronts, was only increasing as personnel departed Usedom for other 
projects or operations across the rapidly shrinking Reich.
Von Braun?s complaint to Ordnance was probably based also on his desire to 
keep the program?s experts together and relatively safe.  They had forged strong 
bonds of friendship and professional camaraderie in the course of their work on the 
base, and without question, he felt a great deal of loyalty and responsibility for their 
care.  For example, by January 1945, von Braun was pushing Storch on the 
?unfortunate question? of a ?separation allowance? (Trennungsentsch?digung), which 
he first raised with the company director in December.  He argued that employees 
who, by dint of their work on the missile project, had been separated from their 
families, should receive an extra allowance for the difficulties of this separation and 
urged Storch to take up the matter.
96
  Moreover, in a separate notice to Storch written 
on the same day, von Braun requested that the director consider transferring funds 
from a social insurance program for VKN members into a general insurance fund for 
all employees.  He envisioned paying out this money as other sources of support 
dwindled in the face of constant air raids.
97
  Von Braun clearly felt a sense of 
responsibility for those under him who had worked so hard in previous years to bring 
his life-long dream to fruition.  Understandably, he was willing to do what he could to 
make sure that they remained safe in the last months of the war.
95
 Von Braun to OKH Wa Pr?f (BuM) 10, 10/6/44, RH8/v.1960, BA/MA.
96
 Von Braun to Storch, ?Trennungsentsch?digung,? 1/13/45, RH8/v.1941, BA/MA.
97
 Von Braun to Storch, ?Monatsbericht Dezember 1944,? 1/13/45, RH8/v.1941, BA/MA.
402
During these last frantic days at Peenem?nde, rumors and fears of the Soviet 
Army were rampant and confusion about the situation grew.  As streams of German 
refugees from the East marched past Usedom, military employees were made to carry 
guns, and the prospect of civilian participation in the Volksturm became a reality.
98
The fear of espionage increased as the Soviets steadily advanced in the East, and 
administrators began laying plans for destroying technical documents and even 
sensitive testing equipment.
99
  At the end of the month, when Soviet tanks were 
rumored to be in the area, Rossmann issued a set of orders outlining procedures over 
the next few days.  He ordered that launch tests be completed as quickly as possible, 
and that when evacuation did occur, all unimportant documents were to be burned.  
The rest he ordered taken to their evacuation location.  All missiles not ready for 
launch tests in the next few days were to be relocated, as were key components and 
equipment.
100
  The next day, however, he indicated that ?The situation has calmed.  It 
was only a few tanks that appeared ?  The situation in Pomerania has not been 
upset.?  He went on to order that the launch experiments and static tests would 
continue to go forward until the instruments ?were totally serviceable and will fulfill 
their purposes without any trouble.?  All employees at Peenem?nde were to remain in 
place.
101
98
 Huzel, FromPeenem?nde to Canaveral, 133.
99
 Vorbereitung zur schnellen Vernichtung geheimen Aktenmaterials, 1/23/45, RH8/v.1941, BA/MA.  
Officials at the base had been concerned about important documents falling into enemy hands since 
September 1944.  Peenem?nde administrators began to worry about surprise attacks by both Soviet and 
Western Allied forces.  See Huzel circular, ?Sicherstellung von geheimen Aktenmaterial,? 9/25/44, FE 
734, NASM; Storch, ?Sicherstellung von geheimen Aktenmaterial,? 10/3/44, RH8/v.1294, BA/MA.  
Secrecy remained a key consideration, even at the end of the program?s existence.  
100
 Rossmann order, 1/30/45, RH8/v.1941, BA/MA.
101
 Rossmann order, 1/31/45, RH8/v.1941, BA/MA.
403
Work at Peenem?nde continued in its last desperate days.  Von Braun, who no 
doubt saw the writing on the wall at this point, continued to push the tasks of those 
associated with continued development and was unafraid to use his connection to 
Kammler to do so.  In January, the firm Gema Blucherwerk in Leignitz (Legnica) in 
Poland was conducting work on the guidance system for the V-2.  When the Soviet 
advance forced the firm to abandon Leignitz, von Braun arranged for its workers to 
come to Peenem?nde to continue their experiments.  However, managers at Gema 
Leignitz informed him that a Dr. Rottgart of Telefunken, in his position as Chairman 
of the Development Committee for Radio Measurement, had forbidden further work 
in this area.  Von Braun requested to Kammler that he intervene directly with Rottgart 
in order to force him to allow the experiments to continue on Usedom.
102
  The 
engineer, who had pinned his professional existence on the success of the V-2 and in 
so doing, hitched his wagon to the Nazi star, was not yet ready to give up the ghost.  
Certainly, he still felt concerned in the wake of his arrest to at least give the 
impression of loyalty to the end, while at the same time showing evidence of 
disillusionment with the war.  However, in a situation in which other individuals 
intervened to slow the process of the work and in which von Braun might have 
simply washed his hands of this particular event in light of the situation, he still 
directly intervened by asking Kammler to ensure that the experiments would go on.  
Here, von Braun was offered a choice between continued maximum effort or 
allowing the program to decline, with no penalty for the latter.  That he chose the 
former only points to his continued allegiance to its central tenet of hard work in the 
service of the Nazi state.      
102
 Von Braun to Kammler, 1/31/45, RH8/v.1265, BA/MA.
404
That same day, however, Kammler ordered the final evacuation of the base.   
Preparations were hastily begun, and within two weeks, employees, equipment, and
instruments began moving south, to be relocated in the area around Mittelwerk.
103
Most of the personnel made the dangerous journey either by truck or train, while 
much heavy equipment went by boat.
104
  By March, the last of the transports left 
Usedom to join what came to be known as the Central Construction Development 
Cooperative, (Entwicklungsgemeinschaft Mittelbau), made up of thirty firms (with 
approximately 7000 total employees) such as Henschel, Dornier, Ruhr Steel, and 
others.
105
  About 400 people remained behind at Peenem?nde because they refused to 
leave their homes.
106
  For many of those who left the base, it would be the last time 
they would ever see it.
After the evacuation, a strange atmosphere of G?tterd?mmerung hung over 
Peenem?nde.  In the face of utter collapse, the few remaining specialists did their best 
to enjoy the benefits of life at the base in its last bleak days.  According to Huzel, 
alcohol reappeared in relative abundance, local cinemas still showed films, and the 
trains, most empty, stil operated.  ?One of the flak units which included in its 
personnel a number of women telephone operators sponsored a few dances,? Huzel 
recalled.  ?These usually ended early since the port wine was sweet and easy to take.?  
For Huzel personally, who took strolls along the beach and watched the waves while 
103
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 258-259.
104
 According to U.S. authorities, about seventy percent of the equipment reached the town of Barby on 
the Elbe River, where it was to be transported by rail to the Harz.  However, destruction of railroad 
tracks along the route meant that it was impossible to ship most of it to its final destination.  Much of 
the stock was either in L?beck or Barby when the war ended.  Intelligence Report, File ?V-2 (A-4) 
Miissile (Germany, WWII), Intelligence Interrogations,? NASM.
105
 Huzel, Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 139. Von Braun, Antrag auf Genehmigung und Einstufung eines 
Bauvorhabens der Entwicklungsgemeinschaft Mittelbau, 3/6/45, RH8/v.852, BA/MA.
106
 U.S. Army Intelligence Report, File ?V-2 (A-4) Miissile (Germany, WWII), Intelligence 
Interrogations,? NASM.
405
listening for the sounds of launch tests that never came, it was as if ?The uneasy 
stillness of a death watch had settled over Peenem?nde.?
107
The newly relocated EMW set up its headquarters in the town of Bleicherode, 
not far from Mittelwerk.  Those Peenem?nders who arrived safely set themselves to 
work trying to organize themselves in their new accommodations.  Efforts to restart 
the program began, and its administrators expected to have operations fully reset by 
July.
108
  Rossmann wrote to Dornberger that a crash program for improvement in the 
V-2 was in development.
109
  In March, his staff reckoned that these modifications 
could be brought on line by September 1945, and laid development plans stretching 
six months into the future.
110
  Engineers busied themselves with other tasks as well.  
The Taifun anti-aircraft missile, a small, unguided weapon initiated by Luftwaffe 
Lieutenant Klaus Scheufelen and developed at Peenem?nde, received much of their 
attention during this period.  This desperation project began in the late summer of 
1944, and by March 1945, Peenem?nde engineers, now in Bleicherode, sought to 
clarify what development problems remained and how they could give Mittelwerk the 
help necessary to quickly bring it into production.  However, the test stands built to 
launch the seventy missiles delivered had not been completed.  Two, constructed by 
concentration camp prisoners, of course, were nearing completion, while two more 
were still in the planning stages and would be located somewhere in the vicinity of 
Mittelwerk.  In addition, EMW managers agreed to subordinate a number of 
107
 Huzel, Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 142.
108
 ?Investigation of Rocket Research, Elektromechanische Werke GmbH,? C.I.O.S. (Combined 
Intelligence Objectives Subcommittee) Report, Allied Operational and Occupational Headquarters, 
WWII, Entry 13D ? General Staff, G-2 Division, Box 93, RG 331, NARA.
109
 Rossmann to Dornberger, 2/27/45, RH8/v.1307, BA/MA.
110
 Schneider, Niederschrift ?ber die Entwicklungsvorbesprechen bei B.z.b.V. Heer am 20. und 21. 
M?rz 1945; Graphische Darstellung der Entwicklungsvorhaben gem?ss Entwicklungsbesprechung von 
21. u. 21.3.45, RH8/v.1307, BA/MA.
406
engineers to a test engineer from the Luftwaffe in order to streamline the 
development process as much as possible.
111
  Von Braun had little faith in Taifun, but 
the industrious work of others continued to advance this desperate and relatively 
primitive project, which never had any hope of breaking the ?terror bombing.?
112
In early March, von Braun drafted a seven page proposal for laying out the 
development and production areas in Sperrgebiet Mittelbau for the V-1, V-2, 
Schmetterling, and Wasserfall missiles.  The outlook was bleak.  Because of security 
considerations, continued testing for the V-2 and Wasserfall could no longer be 
conducted.  The area around Bleicherode was filling with refugees, who occupied not 
only possible factory spaces, but also accommodations needed to house factory 
workers.  Von Braun concluded that while some expansion of the underground 
facilities was possible, time constraints did not make this a viable option.  Rather, he 
held that above ground construction of machine shops, testing facilities, barracks, and 
assembly plants was absolutely necessary.  Von Braun argued that ?All working and 
living space not already requisitioned? must be augmented by new construction, 
suggesting also that more space might be made available if they occupied buildings 
being used by refugees from the East and employees of other factories in the area.
113
It is worth mentioning again that all new construction would be carried out by 
concentration camp prisoners.  Huzel, who joined von Braun at Bleicherode in March 
and received personal instructions from the Technical Director to help reestablish 
111
 Aktenvermerk ?ber Taifun ? Besprechung am 24.3.45 bei den Elektromechanischen Werken 
GmbH, RH8/v.1941, BA/MA.  Present at this meeting were a number of middle and upper level 
engineers, including Konrad Dannenberg, Hans H?ter, and Klaus Scheufelen, as well as Storch, 
Dornberger, von Braun, and Sawatzki. 
112
 Von Braun dismissed the Taifun in early December ?44, telling his shop managers to treat it as 
?filler work.?  Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 255. 
113
 Von Braun, Antrag auf Genehmigung und Einstufung eines Bauvorhabens der 
Entwicklungsgemeinschaft Mittelbau, 3/6/45, RH8/v.852, BA/MA.
407
plant operations, recalled that ?even in the face of such hopelessness, I observed, von 
Braun?s agile mind continued to function and to plan ahead.?
114
Analysis of von Braun?s motives can be nothing more than pure speculation.  
Though it is possible that he may have merely been, as Neufeld has argued, ?putting 
on a show for the ever-watchful SS,? it should be considered equally plausible that, 
despite his misgivings, von Braun was caught up in the self-same institutional inertia 
that he himself helped create.  With the majority of the German population, including 
the engineers engaged in missile work, whipped into a final spasm of xenophobia by 
the regime, why should von Braun be expected to be a lone rational voice who 
understood that resistance was no longer practical?  To be sure, the engineer was 
most certainly not caught up in the Nazis? calls to fight to the death for Germany.  
Nevertheless, he had long since totally imbued himself with Peenem?nde?s mission of 
service to the state, and his deep paternal interest in the program was not so easily
cast aside, especially by one who dedicated his entire professional life to it.  The 
narrowed sense of responsibility engendered by the years at Peenem?nde had cut off 
any option but to forge ahead as best as possible.  As Huzel put it, ?We had no 
sensible choice but to continue working.?
115
  Von Braun, who helped establish this 
narrowed professional vision, was a victim of it as well.
In Dora-Mittelbau, the worsening war situation had an even more dramatic 
effect.  In January 1945, thousands of evacuees from Auschwitz, Gross-Rosen, and 
other camps in the East began arriving, worsening a food situation that was tenuous at 
114
Huzel, Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 147. 
115
 Ibid., 133.  
408
best.
116
  The population of prisoners in the entire complex of camps skyrocketed from 
approximately 27,000 in November 1944 to over 40,000 in March 1945.
117
  The food 
supply, already stretched to the breaking point just to feed the German population, 
could not handle the strain of the added prisoners, and deaths due to starvation soared.  
Between the end of December and the beginning of March, over 5300 people in the 
complex perished, 1090 of whom, or just under twenty percent, lived in Dora.
118
Among this number are the prisoners who died because of mass hangings that took 
place in March under the orders of the new camp commandant, Richard Baer.  The 
executions, 162 in all, took place inside Mittelwerk, and the bodies were left dangling 
for twenty-four hours so that all employees of the factory could view them.
119
Despite these horrific circumstances, the factory continued to turn out missiles, with
at least 362 V-2s emerging from the tunnels in March.
120
  In the fifteen months since 
August 1943, the missile program?s administrators, along with their partners in the 
Armaments Ministry and SS, expanded the tunnel complex under Kohnstein, 
relocated and installed a huge factory, and pumped out 5789 V-2 missiles.  It is a feat 
that boggles the mind both for its technological accomplishment and the horrific 
brutality with which it was achieved.
116
 See transport lists on Roll 18, RG 04.006M, Nazi Concentration Camp Records; Roll 161, 
196.A.0342 National Archives Captured German Records Collection, both at USHMM.
117
 Manfred Bornemann and Martin Broszat, ?Das KL Dora-Mittelbau,? Studien zur Geschichte der 
Konzentrationslager, Schriftenreihe der Vierteljahreshefte f?r Zeitgeschichte, 21 (Stuttgart: Deutsche 
Verlags-Anstalt, 1970), 191-194. 
118
 Wincenty Hein, ?Lagerst?rke in KL Dora,? U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al., roll 1, M-1079, NARA. 
119
 Erich Ball Testimony, U.S.A vs. Kurt Andrae, et al., roll 1, M-1079, NARA.  Baer arrived from 
Auschwitz on February 1 to replace F?rschner, who assumed command at Kaufering.  Jens-Christian 
Wagner, Produktion des Todes: Das KZ Mittelbau-Dora (G?ttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 2001), 200.
120
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 263.  According to Neufeld, documentation exists only for 
missiles shipped up to March 18. 
409
At the beginning of April, Kammler ordered that nearly 500 people in the 
missile program evacuate Bleicherode to Oberammergau, in Bavaria.  Allied armies 
had collapsed the western front and were streaming into Germany.  The core of the 
Peenem?nde group, including von Braun, Dornberger, and many others, proceeded 
south by car and train.  A U.S. intelligence report filed shortly after the war and based 
on interviews with former Peenem?nders points out the profound impact that years of 
Nazi propaganda about Germany?s final victory had on these engineers and their 
lasting faith in the Nazi regime.  Investigators explained that when the Peenem?nders 
arrived in Bavaria, ?It was thought by some that they would enjoy somewhat of a 
vacation until the Wehrmacht drove the Allies back across the German border, at 
which time the research people would return to their work.?
121
  This conclusion, 
along with Kammler?s orders to evacuate both Peenem?nde and Bleicherode, 
destroys claims voiced loudly after the war by the Peenem?nders that they knew that 
the war was over and that they did everything they could to avoid the Russians and 
give themselves up to the Americans.  It is more accurate to say that some still held 
on to a shred of hope that the regime would survive and that they could resume their 
work in short order.  Even in the face of total collapse, some Peenem?nders still held 
on to their belief, born of years of Nazi propagandizing, in a final, miraculous victory.   
This intelligence also forces a reevaluation of another act during the last 
weeks of the war.  In early April, Dieter Huzel and Bernhard Tessmann, both long 
time Peenem?nders, buried Peenem?nde?s most important documents in a mine 
northwest of Mittelwerk.  Huzel and others? plausible claim is that they did this so 
that they could use it as a bargaining chip in their dealings with the Allies at the end 
121
 C.I.O.S. Report, ?Investigation of Rocket Research,? Box 93, Entry 13D, RG 331, NARA.
410
of the war.  However, in light of the U.S. intelligence report indicating that some 
engineers were still convinced of the Wehrmacht?s ability to hurl the Allies back 
across the Rhine, their view of the inevitability of Allied takeover, trumpeted after the 
war?s conclusion, must come into question.  It is perhaps equally plausible that yet 
another reason to keep the documents at arm?s length from the Americans and British 
was based on the chance that Germany might still be victorious.  In any case, Huzel 
put himself in grave danger by carrying out this task.  He spent an anxious number of 
days dodging Allied soldiers and airplanes in his quest to hide the documents, retrieve 
his wife from Berlin, and then drive to southern Bavaria to reunite with his 
colleagues.
122
The Peenem?nders had meanwhile spread themselves out in the hotels and 
resorts outside of Oberammergau.  They did no work and merely waited for the war 
to end and to surrender to the Allies.
123
  On May 2, Magnus von Braun, at the bidding 
of Dornberger and his older brother, rode his bicycle down the mountain and 
surrendered himself and the rest of the 500 missile specialists on the mountainside to 
the U.S. Army.
124
  The German missile program, with its modest roots the Weimar 
rocket societies, its meteoric rise under Army supervision, its culmination at the 
122
 Huzel remembers that road blocks were set up all over Germany.  However, even at this late date, 
secrecy provided the Peenem?nders with the privilege of passing them by with no trouble.  
Everywhere little units were setting up road blocks, defense establishments, vain efforts to hold back 
the inevitable,? he wrote.  ?Always our ?Secret Material? pass got us through.  Destination: Classified, 
it proclaimed.? Huzel, Peenem?nde to Canaveral, 168.  On his adventures across Germany, see 148-
180.
123
 During this time, aerodynamicist Hermann Steuding, a Nazi Party member and troubled with the 
prospect of having his skills put to use either by the western Allies or the Soviet Union, disappeared 
and was rumored to have committed suicide.   Frederick Ordway and Mitchell Sharpe, The Rocket 
Team: From the V-2 to the Saturn Moon Rocket (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1982), 268.    
124
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 265.
411
world?s most advanced missile research facility, and its descent into barbarism, had 
finally come to an end.  
****
The closing months of the war brought about the slow end of the formative 
period in the lives of the Peenem?nders.  The years at Peenem?nde were marked by 
close friendships, deep professional satisfaction, and a life free of most wartime 
difficulties.  All of this was cast through a prism of Nazi ideology and state secrecy.  
Employees of the Peenem?nde missile base had a deep connection with their work 
and each other.  In the last months of the war, they continued to work as long and as 
hard as they could, a result of the lasting devotion to the tasks in front of them that 
was instilled by Peenem?nde?s institutional culture.  In taking the initiative to 
perform such tasks, the Peenem?nders were in effect making a clear statement of their 
personal and political loyalties.  The technical work, sometimes brilliant, sometimes 
outrageous, was a key indicator of such loyalties.  The surrender of the leading 
technical experts to the United States signified the end of the missile base?s existence, 
but its work, as well as its culture, would be perpetuated in the years afterward by 
those Germans who came to the United States.  It was a system and a culture that 
worked, both technically and politically, and it has a legacy that stretches into the 
twenty-first century.    
Conclusion
Engineering Consent at Peenem?nde
A screaming comes across the sky.  It has 
happened before, but there is nothing to 
compare it to now.
Thomas Pynchon, Gravity?s Rainbow
1
In the summer of 1945, when the former Peenem?nders were awaiting transfer 
to the United States, a team of interrogators from the U.S. Third Army was assigned 
to screen the specialists for potential security risks before their departure.  In short 
order, they discovered that these people could not be evaluated as individuals, as 
single experts who might be considered reliable from a political standpoint.  Rather, 
they were ?a closely knit research enterprise, firmly controlled and carefully chosen 
by Dr. Dornberger and Professor von Braun.?  Army investigators also noted the pull 
of National Socialist ideology, made clear in the Peenem?nders? conversations about 
Germany?s victimization at the hands of Communist hordes in the East and the 
service that their nation performed for the West.  In the end, however, the report 
noted something even larger and more influential on the Peenem?nders? outlook: 
The cohesion of the group and their persistence in ideas 
ranging from German patriotism to Nation-Socialism 
[sic] is explained by a number of factors.  The lived a 
secluded life on the island of Usedom in which they 
were not excessively bothered by the party.  They were 
an Army concern, a closed corporation, carefully 
supervised by the Abwehr in matters of choice of 
personnel and security.  They were enthusiastic 
technicians with the mission, according to Goebbels, of 
saving Germany.  As a team they were granted all the 
financial support, materials, and personnel they 
1
 Thomas Pynchon, Gravity?s Rainbow (New York: Viking Press, 1973), 1.
413
required, within the means of the German war machine.  
Continuance of the work depended on continued 
conduct of the war.  At a time when the generals were 
dissatisfied with the party rule to the extent of 
attempting to overthrow it, Peenem?nde was out of 
touch and sympathy with such developments ? not for 
love of the party necessarily but because their work and 
the war were one.
2
The Peenem?nders were hardly the apolitical technocrats that they claimed so loudly 
to be.
The U.S. Army investigators had discovered something that would be largely 
forgotten or ignored by chroniclers of the German liquid fueled missile program in 
the years after the war.  The post-war apologetics and denials offered by the 
Peenem?nders focused on a supposed distaste for both the regime and the purpose of 
their work.  In the narrative established by this effort, the missile specialists cast 
themselves as apolitical technocrats, unhappy with the war and forced by the regime 
to use slave labor.  According to the Peenem?nders, the only group engaged in 
oppressing the concentration camp slaves was the SS, while they themselves made 
every effort to ease the prisoners? suffering.  The truth is something else entirely.    
The ideas underpinning the Army?s insightful intelligence report came about 
because of the specialists? socialization into the secret world of the Peenem?nde 
missile base.  Half-military facility and half technological Shangri-la, Peenem?nde 
created a cultural environment in which the needs of the regime and the needs of the 
missile specialists were inseparably intertwined.  The Army?s construction of the base 
carved a space in which its employees and their families could live and work, but also 
in which their activities could be closely regulated.  The idea was to create a closely-
2
 Osborne to Army Chief of Staff, G-2, USFET, Appendix A, Walter Jessel, Special Screening Report, 
10/29/45, RG 260, OMGUS/FIAT, Box 8, folder 47.94, NARA.  
414
knit community out of which a revolutionary weapon might spring.  To design such a 
weapon required the deep commitment of a huge group of civilian laborers made up 
of engineers, scientists, technicians, craftsmen, secretaries, and assistants.  Through a 
complex combination of secrecy, regulation, professionalism, and reward, the system 
came to function so that individuals subject to its rules adhered to them and 
reproduced them automatically.  The result was a group of specialists who all came to 
instinctively identify with the goals of their work.  The deeply self-interested 
Peenem?nde employees became the model of a compliant citizenry in which 
employees led a pleasant life while conducting interesting work and enjoying each 
other?s company.  This led them to do their level best to protect the regime that made 
their situation possible.  That their fortuitous state of affairs was brought about by a 
genocidal regime that engulfed the continent in a catastrophic war made the 
circumstances of their acquiescence all the more insidious.
The dynamism of the German ballistic missile program stemmed from the 
active identification of the specialists themselves with the objectives of their work.  
The Peenem?nders understood that they could rely on the best efforts of their 
colleagues, even those that they did not know, because none of them doubted the 
value of what they were doing.  This in turn promoted trust and understanding, 
enabling them to rely on each other to carry out their tasks to the best of their abilities 
and bring about the final achievement of their objective, even when they had no 
personal or consistent supervision.  A large institution like Peenem?nde, with its 
sizeable population, would not have seen the success it did if dissent seeped into the 
fabric of the work.  To be sure, the size and complexity of the facility opened up 
415
numerous opportunities for dissent, which might have been registered by such
nondescript actions as bureaucratic inefficiency, work slowdowns, or unwillingness 
to put in overtime ? a constant demand, given wartime pressure.  That virtually none 
of this took place among the missile development specialists is a testament to their 
profound dedication to their tasks and belief in the work.
Every facet of the Peenem?nders? world was suffused with National Socialist 
ideological messages and thoroughly imbued with deep secrecy.  This proved to be a 
poisonous combination.  Secrecy was not the single overriding factor in decisions 
made at Peenem?nde, but it did provide a framework for those decisions.  It must be 
taken at least as an important factor in the complex cultural dynamic at the base, and 
its influence in other historical circumstances must be investigated as well.  
Historians of the Nazi period have long ignored secrecy as an influencing factor in the 
behavior of historical actors.  Too often, they have not paused to consider the 
important meaning of the bold ?Geheime Reichssache!? or ?Streng Geheim!? stamps 
on important documents, the solemn oaths of secrecy given by individuals or groups, 
or the omnipresence of police and guard posts dotting the landscape.  Nor have 
historians considered concepts that they represent.  Objects such as stamps and signed 
declarations, along with the myriad of other secrecy regulations and activities, were in 
fact daily indicators of inclusion in a strictly limited club that only a small group of 
professional elites had entrance to.  Activities conducted within this community were 
expected to stay there, and outside influences were explicitly cut off.  At the same 
time, the stamps were also projections of state power into the daily world of the 
Peenem?nders, reminding them of both the importance of their work and the presence 
416
(or lack thereof) of state coercion.  All of this resulted in an important dynamic that 
both offered the Peenem?nders a sense of elitism while also narrowing their political, 
moral, and ethical choices and restricting contravening views.  
Indeed, with the rise of the national security state in the post 9-11 world, 
historians are in a position to make an important contribution to an understanding of 
both the beneficial and destructive effects that secrecy has on groups and individuals.  
It is a powerful social and cultural phenomenon that exercises a potent influence over 
those it affects.  Historians? failure to address it as such leaves a deficit in our 
understanding of society and culture generally.  The broader effects of secrecy are not 
necessarily unique to Nazi Germany and have parallels in contemporary events, 
making an understanding of the phenomenon all the more important.
3
Of course, secrecy is a complex phenomenon.  Its presence does not 
necessarily equate with moral depravity or the formation of ill-informed assumptions.  
3
 For example, in order to publicly justify the case for going to war in the Middle East in 2002, the 
Bush Administration used a CIA intelligence estimate that Saddam Hussein?s Baathist regime in Iraq 
possessed weapons of mass destruction.  The Senate Select Committee on intelligence later found that 
estimate to be fundamentally wrong, that the analysts had left unchallenged an institutional belief that 
Iraq had illicit weapons of mass destruction.  It accused the analysts and intelligence chiefs of 
succumbing to erroneous assumptions because of what it called ?group think,? which it argued was a 
result of the utter secrecy in which the estimate was prepared.  The Committee blamed intelligence 
officials who ?did not encourage analysts to challenge their assumptions, fully consider alternative 
arguments, accurately characterize the intelligence reporting, or counsel analysts who lost their 
objectivity.?  The absence of outside analysis and opinion crippled the findings in the intelligence 
estimate from the start.  See ?Panel Condemns Iraq Prewar Intelligence,? Washington Post, July 10, 
2004, 1.  ?Senators Assail C.I.A. Judgements on Iraq?s Arms as Deeply Flawed,? New York Times, 
July 10, 2204, 1.  Also troubling is the evidence and allegations in 2004 of the torture of detainees held 
at Abu Ghraib Prison, the Guantanamo Bay detention center, and elsewhere.  Though as of this 
writing, the full outlines of the abuse are not clear, it is apparent that the disturbing events that took 
place inside these facilities did so within a culture of secrecy and neglect.  The secrecy around these 
prisons helped create a universe that operated under fundamentally different norms than the outside 
world and restricted the important corrective function allowed by full and open access.  In both cases, 
secrecy set up a barrier between the outside world and the secret world, a world within which the 
activities performed are meant to stay and in which false assumptions and bad logic can fester and 
reproduce.  These cases call for a deeper understanding of how secrecy interacts with other socio-
cultural issues and functions to both empower and corrupt.  See ?New Papers Suggest Detainee Abuse 
was Widespread,? Washington Post, December 22, 2004, 1. 
417
A comparison with the other ?big research? undertaking of World War II, the 
Manhattan Project, specifically the Los Alamos research laboratory, is highly 
instructive for many different reasons, one of which is that it offers the chance to 
examine the physicists? relationship with secrecy.  The base at Los Alamos was a 
military facility under the overall control of Brigadier General Leslie Groves, but 
staffed with civilian experts who were managed by J. Robert Oppenheimer.  The 
administration of the Manhattan Engineering District centralized its atomic bomb 
researchers on top of an isolated, dusty, windswept mesa at Los Alamos in early 
1943.  Its remote location made for excellent security and easy monitoring of 
individuals coming and going from the base.  Moreover, it contributed to the sense 
that it was an isolated cloister (J. Robert Oppenheimer once referred to it as a 
?monk?s colony?) that was populated by like-minded physicists and engineers who 
were dedicated to the goal of producing an atomic bomb.
4
  Upon arriving at Los 
Alamos, all new employees received a series of lectures that indoctrinated them into 
security measures and briefed them in on present state of the work.  As at 
Peenem?nde, the secrecy around the project and the chance to be let in on it was a 
source of excitement.  Physicist L.D.P. King clearly recalled the great anticipation of 
?going to a secret new place.?
5
  Karan McKibben, whose father worked at the 
laboratory, wrote that ?The number of fences behind which our fathers disappeared 
every work day added an aura of intrigue to their already mysterious work in sundry, 
4
 Peter Bacon Hales, Atomic Spaces: Living on the Manhattan Project (Chicago: University of Illinois 
Press, 1997), 42.
5
 L.D.P. King, ?The Development of Nuclear Explosives and Frontier Days at Los Alamos,? in John 
Allred, ed., Behind Tall Fences: Stories and Experiences about Los Alamos at its Beginning (Los 
Alamos: Los Alamos Historical Society, 1996), 62, 64.  King arrived at Los Alamos in 1943.
418
odd shaped buildings.?
6
  As at Peenem?nde, secrecy created an element of elitism, 
privilege, and value of the work among those who were privy to the activities at Los 
Alamos.
In the laboratories, Los Alamos physicists found great professional 
satisfaction coupled with extraordinary military pressure.  The work, so advanced as 
to be alien to outsiders, was conducted in an atmosphere of informality and 
collegiality that one might come to expect from a small community of super-elite 
specialists.  The language used to express it was utterly foreign to all but the small 
community of atomic physicists.
7
  Social life was also deeply fulfilling.  Many 
laboratory employees took up hiking, skiing, and other recreational activities.  Most 
employees held dinner parties and weekend events, while dances, plays, and skits 
were popular.
8
Such events served to draw the Los Alamos scientists even closer 
together.  All the while, the employees of the laboratory never forgot that they were 
there to construct a weapon that, as opposed to the V-2, was so destructive both 
physically and psychologically that its application would crush the will of its enemies 
to continue.  Fifty years after the conclusion of hostilities, the physicist L.D.P. King 
expressed his thoughts on life and work at Los Alamos in terms that might just as 
easily have been repeated by a missile engineer at Peenem?nde.
I would like to say that to have been able to work at the 
Laboratory during those early, vital, and important 
years was indeed a memorable experience.  The 
excitement of a small frontier community plus the 
excitement of working on a new frontier of science and 
technology cannot often be combined.  Where else 
6
 Karan McKibben, ?Behind Tall Fences,? in Allred, ibid., 179.
7
 Hales, Atomic Spaces, dubs it ?speaking in tongues.?  See 243-272.
8
 Arthur Wahl, ?Los Alamos, 1943,? in Allred, Behind Tall Fences, 173.  Wahl was a radiochemist at 
Los Alamos.
419
could one have had so many technical developments in 
so short a time; where else could one culminate the 
efforts and singleness of purpose of so many famous 
men but here in those momentous years of 1943, ?44, 
and ?45?
9
Where else but half way around the globe on an island on Germany?s Baltic coast?
The cultural parallels between Los Alamos and Peenem?nde are in some ways 
striking.  What, then, is to be made of the Peenem?nders? decisions to offer the Nazi 
regime their full support, seek out the SS to provide slave labor for their production 
work, directly or indirectly participate in the abuse and murder of concentration camp 
prisoners, and work with a furious desperation to reverse the tide of the war in its last 
few months, especially in light of the close parallels between the two institutions?  In 
the first place, Germany?s unique historical circumstances in the interwar years were 
of fundamental importance.  Hitler promised and delivered Germany?s rebirth, and 
weapons engineers, who came of age in the conservatively charged atmosphere of the 
technical universities, owed him a great deal.  The Peenem?nders in particular were 
deeply in the Nazis? debt.  Moreover, missile specialists on Usedom proved to be 
intensely self-interested.  Like those at Los Alamos, their work kept them off of the 
front lines and safely tucked away in a comfortable community that for a long time 
managed to avoid the deprivations of war.  They were paid well and received both 
professional and official adulation.  Continued efforts to fulfill the program?s goals 
meant the maintenance of this situation, something nearly all Peenem?nders were 
loath to give up.  
Even so, these factors still do not fully explain their descent into moral 
abomination and the belief that slave labor was the proper course to fulfill the 
9
 L.D.P. King, ?The Development of Nuclear Explosives,? in Allred, Behind Tall Fences, 67.
420
program?s objectives.  Of more immediate and direct importance was the 
pervasiveness of National Socialist ideology and rhetoric in which their work was 
framed.  Years of public adulation of Hitler and the Nazis appearing in print and on 
the radio, numerous speeches about Germany?s victimization at the hands of nations 
east and west, and never-ending grandiloquence about the international conspiracy 
that forced war upon Germany created a hyper-nationalist, xenophobic atmosphere 
that was intensified by the increasing violence of the war.  Even if they were not 
dedicated Nazis, the Peenem?nders came to see these bromides as unshakeable truths.  
Like many Germans, they internalized these feelings and turned them into action to 
defend their nation.  The fact that all of this took place in the framework of deepest 
secrecy made for an even more poisoned environment by reinforcing received 
assumptions, limiting conceivable alternatives, and even making possible acts that 
might be expected to never see the light of day.  In short, it ensured that there would 
be no opportunity to carve out a counter or dissenting discourse.  The toxic 
atmosphere that these two factors ushered in, coupled with the real benefits of 
working where they did, is of fundamental importance in explaining how it was that 
employees at Peenem?nde came to embrace slave labor specifically and the Nazi 
regime generally.
As Michael Neufeld first pointed out, the rise of National Socialism was an 
important component in the development of this most radical weapon, supplying the 
materials, bureaucracy, and finances to push the work forward in the context of 
aggressive rearmament and then global war.  Battles over priority of the weapon
system and conflicts over controlling it aside, the Nazi regime provided important 
421
human resources and raw materials necessary to carry out the work.
10
  However, the 
will to actually complete their tasks was supplied by the Peenem?nders themselves.  
It was a will that stemmed from a deep identification with the work and with each 
other.  Without it, such a complex technological system as a ballistic missile could 
not have been invented in so short a time.  ?Self-mobilization,? a term first supplied 
by Karl-Heinz Ludwig, is an apt description of what the Peenem?nders engaged in 
daily while developing the missile.  Throughout their time on Usedom, they worked 
furiously to complete their Herculean task, not, as they would claim later, primarily 
because they feared for their lives or wished to explore space, but because they were 
so profoundly and prosaically self-interested.  Employment on Usedom gave them 
comfortable accommodations, stimulating work, excellent pay, professional 
satisfaction, and a vibrant social life.  Peenem?nders consciously understood that they 
owed the good circumstances of their lives to their skills and to a Nazi state that 
valued what they could do for it.  In turn, they felt an internal compulsion to work as 
hard as they could on behalf of the regime that sponsored their work.  
In addition, Ludwig found among engineers in Nazi Germany both strong 
ideological and practical reasons for supporting Hitler and the regime.  The same is 
true in the more specific case of the Peenem?nders.  The institutional practices that 
employees found at the base connected them to the nation and the regime in novel 
ways.  The Peenem?nders had a clear vision of what was best for both themselves and 
the nation.  This vision and that of the Nazis mutually reinforced each other, and the 
Peenem?nders engaged in very little systematic reflection about the direction that 
10
 Michael Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich: Peenem?nde and the Coming of the Ballistic Missile 
Era(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995).
422
National Socialism was taking them.  For them, crucial political issues turned on the 
quality of social and cultural conditions that made up their lives.  Their perceived role 
in the nation as well as the duty assigned to them by the regime encouraged varying 
degrees of affinity that were nonetheless long lasting.
11
  Some were at least 
sympathetic to Nazism while others were outright supporters, but ideology was only 
one factor among many in play at the facility.  Technological fascination, 
nationalism, money, and careerism all joined with ideological considerations to play 
key roles in building a compliant community of consent at Peenem?nde. 
After the war, in late 1945 and early 1946, the U.S. Army transferred 120 
former Peenem?nders, representing the core of the group that previously worked on 
Usedom, to Fort Bliss Texas, where it assigned the group to assist in V-2 experiments 
that were to take place in White Sands, New Mexico and help with Project Hermes, 
the United States? own missile program.
12
  The former Peenem?nders distanced 
themselves as much as possible from the Nazi regime, telling anyone who asked that 
they only wanted to build rockets to explore space and were forced by the Nazi party 
11
  Indeed, support for the Nazis is no longer to be understood as the result of dislocation, crisis, and 
collapse.  Historians now acknowledge the broad popularity of the Nazis and the strength of the 
relationship between average Germans and the regime.  See Alf L?dtke, Eigen-Sinn: Fabrikalltag, 
Arbeitererfahrungen und Politik vom Kaiserriech bis in den Faschimsus (Hamburg: Ergebnisse 
Verlag, 1993); Donna Harsch, German Social Democracy and the Rise of Nazism (Chapel Hill, NC: 
University of North Carolina Press, 1993) shows that the Nazis were more successful than other parties 
because they mobilized the idea of a new, forward-looking national identity that was not associated 
with the defeats and losses in the past.   
12
 Frederick Ordway III and Mitchell Sharpe, The Rocket Team: From the V-2 to the Saturn Moon 
Rocket (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1982), 310-317.  Von Braun commented on their time at Fort 
Bliss and White Sands, ?Frankly, we were disappointed with what we found in this country during the 
first year or so.  At Peenem?nde, we had been coddled.  Here they were counting pennies.?  Ordway 
and Sharpe, 352.  The Soviet Union also took part in the intellectual plundering of the German missile 
program, but the specialists who found themselves launching the V-2 at a site outside of Stalingrad 
were never fully integrated in the Soviet missile establishment in the way that the Peenem?nders who 
came to the U.S. were.  They were headed by Helmut Gr?ttrup, who, along with von Braun and others, 
was arrested by the Gestapo in 1944.  Ordway and Sharpe, 318-343; Irmgard Gr?ttrup, Rocket Wife
(London: Andre Deutsch, 1959).    
423
and SS to build missiles using slave labor.  The U.S. Army helped them in their 
obfuscation burying their records as best they could.
13
  The only high-ranking 
individual to be brought before a war crimes tribunal was Georg Rickhey, 
Mittelwerk?s General Director.  He convinced the court in 1947 that he was also a 
pawn in the machinations of the SS and did everything he could to help the prisoners.  
The court found him not guilty and released him.
14
  After this brief and mild 
embarrassment for the Army, the worst of the incidents were behind the missile 
specialists until Rudolph came under investigation in the early 1980s.  Throughout 
the Cold War, the former Peenem?nders carefully cultivated an image that distanced 
themselves from their Nazi past and played up their dedication to the United States? 
space program that was engaged so heavily in the space race with the Soviet Union.
In 1950, the group found itself transferred to Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville, 
Alabama.  Here, they re-established the system of ?everything under one roof? that 
had worked so well for them at Peenem?nde.
15
  This style of organization, which had 
proven highly efficient in the war years, also maintained the cohesion of the 
Peenem?nde group.  Only after they were organized in this way and given the proper 
resources did the U.S. rocket and missile program truly blossom.  For instance, 
Dornberger?s ?Everything under one roof? concept proved pivotal in the development 
of the Redstone and Jupiter missiles.
16
  Shortly after, the Army transferred the group 
over to NASA when that organization was created in 1958.  In the following years, 
13
 Linda Hunt, Secret Agenda: The United States Government, Nazi Scientists, and Project Paperclip, 
1945 to 1990 (New York: St. Martin?s Press, 1991), 41-77.  Hunt sees a Pentagon conspiracy to bring 
Nazis to the United States, but it closer to the truth is that it was a combination of technical expedience 
and Cold War politics that brought the Peenem?nders to the United States. 
14
 See the record of the trial, ?United States vs. Kurt Andrae, et al.,? M-1079, RG 226, NARA.
15
 Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich, 271.
16
 See Ordway and Sharpe, The Rocket Team, 363-387.  A Redstone rocket carried John Glen into 
space. 
424
they would come to dominate the U.S. space establishment.  Von Braun went on to 
become the Director of the Marshall Space Center in Huntsville, Arthur Rudolph was 
the Project Manager of the Saturn V rocket program, and Kurt Debus, the Director of 
Testing at Peenem?nde, became the first Director of the Kennedy Space Center in 
Florida.  The group?s enthusiastic pursuit of space exploration contributed to the 
strengthening of the narrative that they had no love for National Socialism and 
pursued the work they did at Peenem?nde for purely humanitarian and scientific 
purposes.  It was buttressed by a raft of books and articles that celebrated their 
achievements, but ignored the dark side of their records.  Despite some necessary 
corrections, this style of work continues to proliferate.
17
  In any case, their group 
cohesion was an essential part of the successful Apollo missions to the moon and also 
the growing proliferation of more and more advanced inter-continental ballistic 
missiles in the Cold War.  Through all of their assignments, nearly all of the 
Peenem?nders kept in close touch and spoke warmly of their days on the Baltic 
coast.
18
  Most of the remaining specialists have retired to Huntsville and still 
correspond with each other.
The persistence of the Peenem?nders? group cohesion and identification is 
further evidence of the profoundly formative impact that living and working on 
Usedom had on their lives.  The Peenem?nde missile research facility melded a group 
of individuals into a community of shared condition, discourse, and belief.  The 
17
 See Ordway and Sharpe, The Rocket Team, Thomas Franklin (pseudonym for Hugh McInnish), An 
American in Exile: The Story of Arthur Rudolph (Huntsville AL: Christopher Kaylor, 1987), Marsha 
Freeman, How We Got to the Moon: The Story of the German Space Pioneers (Washington DC: 21
st
Century Science Associates, 1994), Guido de Maesseneer, Peenem?nde:  The Extraordinary Story of 
Hitler?s Secret Weapons V-1 and V-2 (Vancouver: AJ Publishing, 2001).
18
 Konrad Dannenberg, personal correspondence with author, May 27, 2003.
425
dynamic nature of the project developed out of the initiative that the program?s 
personnel brought to their work, and they would come to define what it meant to be a 
professional missile developer ? the proverbial rocket scientist.  All of this was 
founded upon a single idea, and within this group, no one questioned the base?s 
central mission of producing missiles for the purposes of defending the Nazi state.  
This axiom became so powerful during the war that it pushed aside all other 
considerations and made it possible for the missile specialists to thoroughly enmesh 
themselves in the structures and practices of the National Socialist regime.  Though 
bureaucratic battles took place over control of the program, the demands of the 
technology as well as the shared goals between the Peenem?nders and more radical 
elements in the regime ensured that cooperation, not competition ruled the day.  This 
was what they themselves interpreted as the appropriate behavior of their 
organization.  In the end, this interpretation led not only to one of the twentieth 
century?s most impressive technological achievements, it also resulted in one of its 
most heinous crimes.  Indeed, in order to continue to enhance our understanding of 
the hold that National Socialism had over many Germans like the Peenem?nders and 
others, historians must continue to examine the fluid, but important combination of 
nationalist sentiment, political ideology, cultural practices, and collective identities.
Bibliography
A note on sources
This dissertation is based primarily on documents found in archival 
collections in Germany and the United States, but is also relies heavily on oral 
histories, memoirs, and autobiographies completed by participants in the German 
liquid fueled missile program.  In the United States, the majority of documents are to 
be found in the Fort Eustis (FE) Collection in the archives of the Smithsonian Air and 
Space Museum (NASM).  This collection holds sixty-four reels of the technical and 
administrative correspondence produced at Peenem?nde during the war.  In addition, 
the Air and Space Museum archives contains transcripts of numerous oral history 
interviews carried out by Michael Neufeld and others.  The interviews with the 
Peenem?nders cover everything from technical development to personal anecdotes.  
The National Archives and Records Administration in College Park, Maryland 
(NARA) holds a much smaller, though still significant, collection of documents 
pertaining to Peenem?nde and Dora-Mittelbau.  Of particular importance is the record 
of the U.S. Army Trial of Dora defendants, U.S.A. vs. Kurt Andrae, et al., located in 
the Captured German Documents Collection.  Moreover, records relating to Project 
Paperclip are located in numerous record groups in the archive.  Researchers should 
consult with archivists and finding aids to gain a complete picture of this large, but 
scattered group of documents.
The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum (USHMM) archive in 
Washington, D.C. contains several document collections that include videotaped or 
427
transcribed testimony given by former Dora prisoners.  In addition, important 
documents such as transport lists and correspondence about slave labor reside in the 
museum?s archive.  I also consulted videotaped Holocaust survivor testimonies held 
at the Fortunoff Video Archive at Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut.  
Huntsville, Alabama, the current home of many surviving Peenem?nders, has 
two archives that focus on the post-war period, but can still offer a contributions to a 
study of Peenem?nde in the war period.  The Willy Ley Collection at the University 
of Alabama, Huntsville (UAH) holds the videotaped oral histories of former 
Peenem?nders that were conducted in the early 1980s by UAH sociologist Donald 
Tarter.  The Space and Rocket Center holds most of the Wernher von Braun papers.  
The collection is limited for researchers of the Peenem?nde period, but it is possible 
to find some key documents.
In Germany, perhaps the most important collection of documents can be found 
at the Bundesarchiv/Milit?rarchiv (BA/MA) in Freiburg.  Many of the original 
documents that can be found in the FE collection at NASM are located at the 
BA/MA, but more importantly, a large proportion of the documents missing from the 
FE microfilm can be found here.  The collection at BA/MA is smaller than that at 
NASM, but no study of Peenem?nde is complete without examining these records. 
For this study, the most important files in Freiburg are those located in the records of 
the OKH/Heereswaffenamt (RH8), but the records of the Reichsminister der Luftfahrt
(RL1) are also helpful.  A smallish amount of interesting candid photos are also 
available in the records in RH8.  
428
In Berlin, the Bundesarchiv-Lichterfelde (BAL) proved surprisingly 
important.  Many key documents pertaining to the administration of Dora are located 
in NS-4 (Konzentrationslager) and NS-4-Anhang (Konzentrationslager, u.a. 
Mittelwerk GmbH).  Even more importantly, BAL contains the corporate records of 
the Mittelwerk GmbH and its umbrella firm, R?stungskontor GmbH.  These valuable 
records were recently transferred from the Bundesarchiv Koblenz can be found in 
R121 (Industriebeteiligungsgesellschaft).  Researchers should request this collection 
ahead of time, as the records are located in the off-site storage facility at Dahlwitz-
Hoppegarten.
Though it is a museum rather than an archive, the Historisches- Technisches 
Informationszentrum Peenem?nde (HTIZP) holds a wealth of information that was 
central to this study.  There are certainly few documents in the collection that cannot 
be found elsewhere.  Nevertheless, the archive, closed to the public, houses some 
documents and artifacts, such as Festzeitschriften and other pieces, that may not be 
kept by a large state or federal archives.  Moreover, curators at HTIZP have gathered 
dozens of videotaped interviews of former Peenem?nders and made them available to 
me.  These videotapes proved to be of surpassing importance, given the reluctance of 
Peenem?nders to hold interviews with those they do not know well.  They, along with 
a collection of rare photographs, are the treasure of the HTIZP collection.
The records of the 1967 West German trial of three Dora defendants were also 
important.  Those in the dock were SS men at Dora, and a large number of civilian 
engineers were examined by both sides.  Many of them had moved from Peenem?nde 
to Dora.  This trial was conducted by West German prosecutors, but an East German 
429
attorney participated in this effort as well.  For this reason, records of the trial can be 
found a two locations.  The primary repository of the trial record is the Nordrhein-
Westf?lisches Hauptstadtsarchiv D?sseldorf, Zweigarchiv Schloss Kalkum (HStaD-
ZA Kalkum).  However, many trial documents and a great deal of fascinating 
correspondence from the East German attorney are held by the Bundesbeauftragte f?r 
die Unterlagen des Staatsicherheitsdienstes der ehemaligen Deutschen 
Demokratischen Republik (BStU), or more simply, the Stasi Archive.  In the late 
1950s and early 1960s, the Stasi also attempted to discredit FRG President Heinrich 
L?bke, who directed construction at Peenem?nde during the war.  They were 
unsuccessful in this effort (they eventually engaged in an amateurish effort to 
manufacture counterfeit documents to make the point), but in the attempt, uncovered 
a wealth of information about forced labor at Peenem?nde.  Documents relating to 
this topic are scattered across numerous files.        
Finally, the Deutsches Museum in Munich holds a large and expansive 
collection of technical documents pertaining to V-2, Wasserfall, and other ballistic 
missile development at Peenem?nde, filed under German Document (GD) numbers.  
A substantial part of this collection is made up of correspondence pertaining to 
patenting and the effort to expand the capabilities of ballistic missiles.  Most 
important for study, however, was the mammoth collection of original photographs 
held by the Deutsches Museum.  The photos depict everything from trial missile 
launches and buildings on the base to small instruments and technical parts.  They 
make an important contribution to an understanding of the flavor of life at 
Peenem?nde.
430
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