Betrayed: Secrecy, Lies, and Consequences

by Frederic Martini

  Fred and Betty enjoyed Florida and being near Liz and her kids. Betty loved the warm weather, and Fred could take a small trailer boat out into the bay to fish. The only thing that really bother Fred about their move was the bugs. Fred disliked bugs in general, but he absolutely could not abide the sensation of bugs crawling on his skin. Ants or, worse yet, fleas triggered immediate panic attacks. The sensation dropped him right back into the barracks in Buchenwald, and each time he would rush into the house, his heart pounding and his hands shaking as he tore off his clothing. Fred soon got rid of both the lawn and the garden, replacing them with stones and a no-maintenance xeroscape.

  With Fred doing volunteer work, Betty decided to reenter the workforce, and soon had a good job. Her prior experience landed her a position at Arvida Corporation, a major property development firm. She became the executive assistant for the head of the Sarasota operation. That position kept funds coming in to keep them afloat. But it got harder and harder for Fred to leave the house. He was losing weight, and because he was having problems with his dentures, he contacted the VA dental clinic in St. Petersburg to get an appointment. The VA response, received on 11 November 77, said that, “Final determination of your entitlement to dental care must be delayed pending legal rating action to establish service connection.” They told him to stand by and not have anything done unless he was prepared to pay for it himself. The form sent to the VA record center said: “Vet Alleges POW. Request complete dental rating on all teeth for all periods of service.” Fred was told to expect that processing would take at least 90 days.

  WERNHER VON BRAUN

  Wernher did not particularly enjoy his new position. It was a difficult time for NASA. The 1960s had seen the civil rights movement and the assassination of three prominent figures — President Kennedy, his brother Robert, and Martin Luther King, Jr. — and the US had become involved in a war in Vietnam that was as expensive as it was unpopular. By 1971, space exploration was seen as interesting, but it no longer held the public’s attention as it had during the go-go years of the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo missions.

  With public interest flagging, congressional interest followed suit. Wernher did his best, proposing several grand projects with equally imposing budgets, but none of them went anywhere. Worse yet, after being called to testify before Congress, word spread that he had seemed arrogant and dismissive of committee members’ questions. This further eroded his effectiveness and his reputation, which was already under siege from the press releases and rumors concerning his testimony in the Dora trial. The situation wasn’t helped by the publication of Clarence Lasby’s book, Project Paperclip: German Scientists and the Cold War.

  Professor Lasby, a historian, had begun his research in 1959, and found it to be very difficult to get complete answers to questions about the importation of German specialists and an operation called Project Paperclip. In his research, Lasby met with the director of the then-current iteration of the Paperclip program, but remained unaware that it continued to operate, albeit under another name. All of the records of the JIOA and the dossiers on individuals recruited for Paperclip remained Top Secret, so Lasby had no way of knowing the Nazi histories of von Braun or the other rocket specialists in any detail. He only knew that lots of German specialists had been imported after the war in a highly secretive program of that name. He completed the manuscript in 1969 and submitted it for review and approval. Six months later, approval was granted.

  When the book was published, even though detailed background information was absent, the mere fact that large numbers of former Nazis had been employed by the US government after the war caused a sensation. This wasn’t great publicity for many programs, but it did raise additional questions about Wernher’s past history. Wernher thought it was all too clear that the government no longer valued his services as they had in the past. He didn’t know the reason, but he was getting pointed questions from the press that ten years ago would have been vetted and discouraged. He was stunned when he learned that President Nixon hadn’t included him among the recipients of the National Medal of Science in 1971. How could he have been overlooked?

  After a year and a half of frustration, Wernher decided to leave NASA and go into private industry. He was hired by Fairchild Industries as their Vice President for Engineering and Development, putting him once again in a position to develop, monitor, and coordinate multiple programs underway in the various company subsidiaries. Projects included satellites, drones, and military ground-support aircraft.

  In 1974, he became involved in the formation of the National Space Agency, which was designed to promote public awareness and enthusiasm about space exploration. NASA supported it, with the understanding that the benefits of the space shuttle (sometimes mocked as a bus with wings) would be emphasized. Wernher kept up his frenetic travel schedule, giving lectures and TV appearances in the US and abroad. He continued to be in demand, but there were too many rumors circulating about his past for him to regain the idol status he had enjoyed in the period of 1959-1969. Things slowed down dramatically after mid-1975, when he was diagnosed with colon cancer. After the diagnosis, Wernher gave a reflective interview to the Washington Star in early 1976 where he seemed less concerned about editing his history. In that interview, he mentioned visiting the Mittelwerk and spoke of the hellish conditions there. That part of the interview was not released to the public, however, for fear it would raise questions about the Paperclip project in general. The government was still committed to keeping the program secret, for protecting its image meant protecting Wernher’s.

  With his life expectancy now a matter of months, his supporters at NASA, who either forgave, discounted, or ignored his wartime history, encouraged the Ford administration to award him the Medal of Freedom. That was ruled out in no uncertain terms, as it hardly seemed fitting to give such an appellation to a former Nazi who had worked hard to defeat the US in WWII. They got a warmer reception with their next proposal, which was to include his name among the recipients of the Medal of Science. The proposal posed political problems for the administration, however. After extensive deliberations, a panel of experts had already selected 15 scientists to receive the award. Von Braun’s name wasn’t on the list, and there was concern that adding him through executive decision would circumvent an established policy. The other problem was that those awards were going to be presented by President Carter in early 1978, and nobody expected Wernher to live that long.

  A memo was distributed to cabinet members asking if Wernher should receive the award. There was one abstention and one objection (Bob Hartmann, President Ford’s Chief of Staff, wrote “No medals for repentant Nazis!!”), but the others agreed, and the plan moved ahead. To reduce media coverage and possible controversy, the award was to be presented to him in the hospital by a government official other than President Ford or a cabinet member. The plan was then modified to have the award delivered by the chairman of Fairchild Industries, Dr. Edward G. Uhl, who had hired Wernher when he left NASA. The official announcement released to the press about the award included a one-page biography that omitted his Nazi history entirely. Shortly after receiving his last award, Wernher von Braun died in the hospital on 16 June 1977.173

  How to sum up his life? Wernher was a talented engineer with great organizational and marketing skills. He was also an opportunist who took every step necessary to accommodate his obsession with rocketry. Although he has been called “apolitical,” the term is misleading. Wernher was always very political, but his political views were shaped by the combination of his society and self interest. He changed countries, allegiances, languages, politics, religions, and when expedient, his personal history. He was a German patriot and nationalist during WWII, accepting and endorsing the ethical standards of the Third Reich and working tirelessly to defeat its enemies, and then transformed himself into a defender of freedom for the United States. That transformation, which took him from a stellar career in Germany to an equally stellar career in the US, w
as facilitated and actively promoted by the JIOA and Project Paperclip through secrecy, dissembling, and “alternative facts.”

  Wernher’s wartime activities would not have placed him in the top tier of Nazi war criminals, although other Germans sheltered by Project Paperclip would have qualified for that distinction. Yet his membership in the SS and his involvement in requesting and utilizing slave labor merited judicial review as thorough as that conducted for Speer and other prominent figures in the Third Reich. His actions should have carried consequences. They did not because the JIOA decided that he was essential to the compliance of the German rocket team. His false or misleading answers to questions about his past may actually have worked in his favor. He was already on Toftoy’s wish list, and such blatant historical revisionism was evidence that Wernher would be as eager to follow the orders of the US Army as as he had the orders of the German Army.

  The JIOA could have treated him as a POW while allowing him to pursue his passion for rocketry. Instead, he was coddled and handsomely compensated, his personality quirks tolerated, and his secrets protected. All this was done on the grounds of national security. Whether or not those decisions were necessary, appropriate, and legal, and whether Wernher was a hero, a villain, or something in-between, is still debated by pro- and anti- von Braun groups.

  In the final analysis, Wernher was brilliant but deeply flawed. One thing is certain: for both Wernher von Braun and the JIOA, the end justified the means. Wernher’s lifelong goal may have been space exploration, as he often claimed in the US, but the means involved convincing the Third Reich — and later the US — that he could build them short-range, medium-range, and intercontinental ballistic missiles that would provide military superiority, if not outright world domination. Privately, Wernher may have felt that deaths during the production and use of those weapons were regrettable, but there is no indication that he would have felt any more remorse about raining nuclear fire on the Soviet Union than he felt about the bombardment of London and Antwerp.

  1978-1995

  FRED MARTINI

  In January 1978, the VA reversed their 1947 decision regarding Fred’s dental treatment, and limited coverage to the teeth he had lost overseas, not those lost to pyorrhea and complications after his return to the US. It was yet another blow from the VA and another strain on Fred’s finances.

  Since moving to Florida, Fred’s blood pressure continued to climb despite medication. Increasingly powerful drugs were used, but their effectiveness declined quickly. He found it too painful to stand and walk, and by 1979, he was in a wheelchair. His primary physician, Dr. Mike Holsworth, had Fred check into Manatee Memorial Hospital in October for an arteriogram. Severe blockages were found in the major arteries supplying his legs, and he was scheduled for bilateral aortofemoral grafts to replace the clogged sections of those arteries. There were complications during the surgery, and when his kidneys failed, he was put on dialysis.

  Meanwhile, the furor resulting from the gradual release of information about Nazi war crimes and Project Paperclip led the Justice Department to create the Office of Special Investigations (OSI) in 1979. Its stated goal was to track down and prosecute any Nazi war criminals living in the US. Fred wished them luck but was sorry that Eli Rosenbaum, the chief investigator, hadn’t started investigating decades earlier.

  In January 1980, still hospitalized, Fred had a stroke that left his speech impaired and his right side paralyzed. The report from the attending physician reviewed a longstanding history of hypertension and noted that despite treatment his blood pressure had been consistently above 200/100. In the ICU after the stroke, he was very disoriented. Thinking he was back in Buchenwald, he tried to keep the staff away, telling them in German to leave him alone.

  When he got out of the ICU and back into a regular ward, Fred regained his equilibrium. Over the next six months, he gradually regaining his speech. With physical therapy, he became able to stand and walk for short distances, although every step was painful. He knew his health was failing, and he worried about what would happen to Betty if he died. Fred’s blood pressure at the time was ranging between 160/70 and 190/90 despite multiple anti-hypertensive prescriptions. The VA denied his application for Housebound Aid and Assistance, with the rejection letter including the smug statement that, “In addition you are not entitled to any other benefit based on the application you filed.” Betty was furious. “It’s not fair!” she said, a phrase she had used often over their decades together. Fred’s response was the same as always — “Betty, life doesn’t have to be fair.”

  As Vietnam veterans returned and reintegrated with life at home, the issue of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) became of general interest. By that time, much more was known about the long-term consequences of combat, stress, severe physical abuse and malnutrition. The diagnostic criteria for PTSD included: (a) persistent remembering (“reliving”) the original experiences through intrusive flashbacks, vivid memories, recurring dreams, or extreme distress when exposed to circumstances even remotely similar to the original stresses, (b) difficulty in falling and staying asleep, (c) irritability and outbursts of anger, (d) difficulty in concentrating, and (e) extreme nervousness and exaggerated response to sudden stimuli.

  Dr. Hallsworth (an internist) and Dr. Berkes (a nephrologist) explained to Fred and Betty that malnutrition and vitamin deficiency often resulted in peripheral neuropathy and kidney damage, and that combination causes chronic hypertension. The signs were there in his VA health record, but in 1945, the correlations were not understood. They assured him that he had grounds to have his VA disability rating elevated and his pension increased. In the final analysis, all of his problems were service-related.

  With their assistance, Fred applied to the VA in March 1980 to get his 10% pension increased. In his application, Fred stated:

  I am only allowed to leave my home to make visits to the Doctors Office for appointments. I have great difficulty walking due to the painful condition of my feet. I went when my country called. Now I am being ignored about the condition I am in due to my time as a prisoner of war.

  His application was accompanied by medical records documenting chronic hypertension, chronic renal insufficiency, interstitial nephritis, and arteriosclerosis, and medical opinions from an internist, a nephrologist, and a surgeon that his chronic hypertension and renal insufficiency were attributable to the abuse and malnutrition during the war, and to the severe PTSD that continued to affect him since his liberation. He was, in their opinion, totally and permanently disabled.

  The VA remained obstinate:

  We have given careful and sympathetic consideration to your claim for service connection for your kidney condition and hypertension with renal failure. A review of your service medical records does not show any findings of nephritis or hypertension with renal failure during your military service or within one year from the date of separation. Therefore, service connection must be denied.

  Fred might be disabled, but he was still mad and still stubborn as a mule. So he filed two appeals in 1981 — both were denied. The primary reason given for these denials was that a “service connection for a foot condition was previously denied as no organic foot condition was found in the evidence of record.” That seemed a rather odd justification, given that the neurological basis for Fred’s “organic foot condition” was not understood at the time of his separation physical.

  In May 1982, a Memorial Day insert to his local paper ran an article about Fred and about his time in Buchenwald. The article was seen by John Chalot, another Buchenwald airman, who was living only 10 miles from Fred and Betty. John contacted Fred, and the two started corresponding and talking on the phone about their problems with the VA. Fred’s network started to expand in late 1984, with the arrival of a letter that said:

  Dear Fellow Kriegie,

  This letter is to advise you what has been accomplished mostly by our fellow Canadians, in making the KLB Club more active.

  In August 1983, I a
nd three other Americans, along with 10 Canadians attended the Canadian POW convention in Hamilton. The other Americans were Roy Allen, Myles King, and T. C. Richie. A meeting was held and it was decided to exert more effort to organize the KLB Club.

  At that time, the core group had been able to locate 42 other Buchenwald airmen. They started by contacting bomber group associations and local POW and VFW chapters to publicize the reactivation of the KLB Club. Like John and Fred, Buchenwald veterans had sometimes lived within a few miles of one another for decades, totally unaware that there were others nearby whose medical illnesses were also being dismissed by the VA as not being service-related.

  Fred started corresponding with Art Kinnis, who was leading the push to create an active group. The KLB Club had very basic goals. First, they wanted to locate all of the surviving Buchenwald airmen, and second, they wanted the US government to acknowledge that they were neither hallucinating nor lying about their wartime experiences.

  Fred began thinking about the medals and awards that he had burned so many years before. If they had been available, perhaps the VA doctors would have been less skeptical. So he wrote to the Army to get replacements, including copies of his discharge papers and the testimonial letters. Fred soon had the American Defense Service Medal, the Purple Heart with two oak leaf clusters, the Air Medal with oak leaf cluster, the WWII Victory Medal, the European African Middle Eastern Campaign Medal with 2 bronze service stars, the American Defense Service Medal, the Expert Marksman ribbon, and the Good Conduct Medal (Fred and his son had a good chuckle about that one).