Space Race

by Deborah Cadbury

  Everyone at the camp was required to watch a hanging. Twelve prisoners could be hanged at the same time by a man operating a crane. The prisoners had wooden gags in their mouths to stop them screaming. Their hands were tied behind their backs and they were hanged by a length of wire. They were left hanging for days, sometimes dying slowly. Most of the bodies lost their trousers and shoes, and puddles of urine and faeces covered the floor. Since the ropes were long, the bodies swung gently about 5 feet above the floor; if the corpses pushed against each other, they would spin round. Those walking by received bumps from knees and tibia soaked in urine. One day as many as fifty-seven were hanged.

  The Americans were horrified and determined to know who was responsible. The evidence was difficult to obtain, the information confusing. The remaining Germans shifted the blame and admitted nothing. The names of Dr Georg Rickhey and Arthur Rudolph were mentioned, but neither man could be found. Eventually the finger of guilt was pointed at the director of production, Albin Sawatzki, who claimed he had been promoted to this position only a month earlier. On 14 April, he gave a deposition while in American custody. He confessed that there had been public hangings and that in his capacity as overseer he had often kicked workers in order to make them work harder. He blamed the SS administration who set long hours and high production quotas and claimed that he had often complained about the executions. Justice for all the unnamed horrors perpetrated at Mittelwerk was difficult to obtain but the rumour spread that Sawatzki met a violent and untimely end at the hands of American soldiers who supplied their own more definitive judgement.

  Even with the liberation of the camps, it was not quite over for all the prisoners from Dora. Shortly before the Americans arrived, the SS had sent many prisoners who were still fit enough to walk on death marches in order to destroy the evidence. One group left on 5 April; the SS rounded them up and herded them into a wagon train. They travelled for five days, some dying on the way. This was followed by a further day’s march, during which the prisoners dared to hope that the Allies would find them in time. Surely the SS would have killed them by now if that were their plan?

  On 13 April, they reached an isolated barn near Gardelegan, where some thousand prisoners were ordered inside. ‘Straw is scattered all about everywhere,’ wrote Yves Béon, a French survivor of Dora. ‘The door closes behind them, but, for Christ sake, what a smell of gasoline! No need to paint the picture; the prisoners understand everything. The Germans have set up a giant grill. It’s the end.’ The SS threw open the door and flung in burning torches. As some of the prisoners rushed forward on to the flames to protect the others, the SS opened fire on them. The Americans later discovered 1016 bodies.

  As news spread that the Americans had secured Mittelwerk, Major Robert Staver from US Army Ordnance set out to investigate the site. After gathering as much information from the British as possible, he had joined Colonel Holgar Toftoy of US Ordnance in Paris, who was equally anxious to obtain the secrets of the V-2 programme. Colonel Gervais Trichel had asked him to recover one hundred V-2s that could be transported to the testing site at White Sands, New Mexico, for research and test firing. Above all, he wanted to find Wernher von Braun. ‘Get the Germans,’ Toftoy said to Staver, leaving him in no doubt that his mission was a top priority. ‘Find the German scientists who are years ahead of us and can teach us from their success.’ Equipped with a detailed map of the area acquired from British intelligence, Staver was determined to be first at Mittelwerk to see what could be requisitioned.

  Staver avoided the soldiers and the Red Cross who were dealing with the living dead from the infamous factory; he was primarily interested in the machinery. He did see about two hundred bodies piled up, he later admitted, but he was preoccupied with his orders and stopped for nothing. He walked the length of the two miles of tunnels alone and in silence. Laid out before him systematically was the assembly line, the shiny new parts placed in order: nuts and bolts, intricate shapes, bits of unidentifiable metal laid out in rows. The complicated machinery was taking shape, one part interlocking with another then another, until, finally, he saw the massive shell of the mighty V-2, ready for transportation, almost as though invisible hands had assembled it as he had walked the line.

  Staver was impressed, remaining oblivious to the lingering stench and his ominous surroundings until he came upon a cup still warm, left by someone in a hurry to depart. He later learned that many German SS hid in the tunnels for weeks, yet at this stage nothing could affect his exhilaration at his find and the knowledge that he was the first to make such a discovery. He realized that there was enough material here to meet Colonel Toftoy’s request for one hundred V-2s and that it must be crated straight away, ready for transport. He had no intention of sharing anything with British intelligence.

  Staver was disappointed not to find von Braun at the site, but there nonetheless lingered a tantalizing hint of the man’s presence. The extraordinary V-2 was evidence of his scientific brilliance. He was too late, he realized, as he walked around the Villa Frank, now in American hands. Staver saw that it still bore traces of von Braun’s recent occupation. It was impossible to know where the enigmatic von Braun might be.

  And now there was a very real question to be asked. Von Braun and his men appeared to be associated in some way with Mittelwerk factory, which had operated in the most inhumane way using slave labour. After all, this was where his V-2 rockets had been made. Was the man a genius who should be brought to America as instructed, or a war criminal who had inflicted a life of unutterable misery on his fellow men?

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Kill those German swine’

  Oberammergau was a quaint resort town in the Bavarian Alps full of picturesque steep-pitched chalets. Snow lay on the pine-covered upper slopes. The air was like champagne. The deep valleys guarded a profound silence. It was hard to imagine that there was a war raging around them. Yet when Wernher von Braun arrived on 4 April, he found the situation confirmed his worst fears. This was hardly terrain in which to make a last stand and there were no discernible attempts to do so – no marshalling of resources, no attempt at defence. And no sign of Kammler either, but the SS were present in large numbers and von Braun soon learned that they would guard the camp for which the scientists were destined. This was surrounded by barbed wire and they were to be kept as prisoners.

  It was unnerving waiting for Kammler; no one knew quite what his intentions were. Several days passed before von Braun was summoned. Without warning, Kammler had arrived with his Chief of Staff, SS Major Starck. The general kept him waiting and from an adjacent room in the hotel von Braun could hear fragments of their conversation and the sound of wine being poured generously into glasses. The mood was convivial, accompanied by much laughter; the discussion centred on ways of quietly vanishing – of performing the perfect disappearing act on the Allies. Major Starck suggested hiding in a nearby abbey famous for its liqueur. Kammler roared with laughter. Yes, how convenient; one minute a flamboyant Nazi general, the next a faceless monk with only intoxicating liquor to tempt him. He would burn his Nazi uniform and disappear.

  Eventually an SS guard took von Braun to see Kammler and Starck. The two men were unaware that von Braun had overheard them. Kammler was smiling; Major Starck’s pistol was prominently displayed. Kammler was enjoying the role of genial host, his lean features relaxed, but his eyes still wary in spite of the empty wine bottles. He was solicitous, exuding his particular blend of charm with a convincing display of concern for von Braun’s arm. Von Braun provided the reassuring news that his men were still involved in research for the Führer. The general was feeling benign for he had collected yet another important post: to his distinguished list of titles had been added ‘General Commissioner for Turbojet Fighters’. This required him to be away for a while, he explained, but von Braun was not to worry: the SS guards would protect the scientists. While he was away they would be under the wing of SS Major Kummer. They should carry on with the research; victory w
as in sight. ‘Heil Hitlers’ and heel clicking signalled that the interview was over.

  It soon became clear that Kammler really had left the area. Like a thief in the night, he had mysteriously disappeared under cover of darkness. No one could inform von Braun of his whereabouts. The meeting with Kammler had confirmed to von Braun that his team of scientists were indeed in a vulnerable position. They were unarmed, virtually under lock and key and easily controlled. There were too many SS guards about. Even if they could escape, five hundred scientists wandering about the snowy hillsides would be hard to conceal. Von Braun decided to gamble on a plan to outmanoeuvre SS Major Kummer. He hoped to persuade the major to disperse the scientists legitimately – and on his own orders.

  Von Braun enlisted the support of a long-standing colleague from Peenemünde, Dr Ernst Steinhoff. The two men visited Major Kummer together, ostensibly to congratulate him on his new appointment. They expressed their delight that Kummer was looking after them; it was a great blessing. After a while, von Braun apparently began to confide in the major. Even though the Americans would obviously never take the Alpine redoubt, he was worried about the destruction a US bomber might inflict until the new turbojets were in production. Supposing the camp took a direct hit? It could be difficult to explain to General Kammler that all the top scientists were dead. A whole generation would be wiped out. There would be no more V-2s.

  This was clearly not something that had occurred to the major. The room was silent as he pictured the carnage and pondered the immensity of the dilemma. While the two men waited for his reply, as though on cue there came the roar of a pack of US P-47 Thunderbolts strafing the valley, conveniently demonstrating the problem they faced. This made a difference. The major saw their point, but did not see how he could help. Von Braun and Steinhoff were ready with the answer: why not billet the men in the surrounding villages? Then, no matter how intensive a raid might be, the scientists would be in less danger.

  Once again Kummer saw the point but was still unable to help as there was no petrol for the vehicles needed for such an operation. And once again the major was trumped. Steinhoff had the magic recipe for a home-made fuel. The major had a little petrol; the scientists had plenty of rocket fuel, alcohol and liquid oxygen. If these three were combined there would be more than enough fuel for such an undertaking. There was silence again while the major pondered Steinhoff’s suggestion, a long silence that augured defeat for the strategy. Then right on cue the P-47 Thunderbolts came roaring back up the valley, splintering the silence. This time the major was convinced.

  The scientists and engineers now moved freely out of the camp. Rooms were found for everyone in the nearby mountain villages. Von Braun had won a temporary victory, but they still had not shaken off the presence of the SS. Everywhere they faced the dark uniforms, always creating that sting of dread, that fear not easily suppressed. The future was still unknown. Any kind of unpredictable madness could overtake them all.

  As von Braun and his brother Magnus moved into a house in the village of Weilheim, just south of Oberammergau, it was becoming obvious that von Braun’s arm, broken in the car accident, was still not healing. Unless he got professional medical treatment soon, amputation could still not be ruled out. It was clear he could no longer postpone the fifty-mile journey over the mountains to a hospital at Sonthofen. The surgeon there was a man noted for his skill in dealing with the complications caused by climbing accidents, but the prognosis was not good. Von Braun had neglected what was now a serious injury. With great care the plaster was removed and the aching limb and shattered shoulder examined. His arm was rebroken and set again without anaesthetic and he was put in traction. He was to lie completely still. The surgeon promised to look in after a week, when he had the time.

  Von Braun had no option but to wait and hope his arm healed before the advancing enemy arrived. He was unsure just how near they were and did not know that on 16 April the Soviets, who had been massing two and half million troops around Berlin for more than two weeks, had at last attacked and were ready to seize their long-awaited prize. By 24 April, they had encircled the city and there was hand-to-hand fighting in the suburbs. In his memory every Soviet soldier carried images of the rape and devastation of his homeland: the burnt villages, bodies frozen in the snow, the dead and dying on the streets of Leningrad as the besieged citizens slowly starved to death. Now they had arrived in the streets of Berlin and would exact a heavy payment. Some 325,000 Germans were to die, and more than 100,000 women were raped. It is estimated that almost 10,000 committed suicide.

  At the heart of Berlin lay the Reich Chancellery, now reduced to a mere shell of its former grandeur, its polished floors and huge chandeliers ground to dust by the endless bombing. On 20 April, in the bunker beneath it, 50 feet underground where no daylight fell and the sounds of war were muffled, Hitler celebrated his fifty-sixth birthday. A wreck of a man in the early stages of Parkinson’s disease, his hands were shaking, blank eyes reviewing a busy inner world of triumph, unable to accept the inexorable march of the enemy across the glorious Third Reich that he had prophesied would last for a thousand years. He drank champagne with his generals and pondered moving south out of the dark shelter to the sunlight of his Alpine redoubt. His generals were given their orders to mount a counterattack. No one dared tell his Führer that there were few men left to fight, there would be no counterattack, that he was defended now in his sanctuary by sixteen-year-old boys from the Hitler Youth. One by one, leading figures in the Third Reich found an excuse to leave the doomed city.

  The Allies were closing in, tightening the noose, the British and Canadians on a wide front in the north and west, the Soviets wiping out resistance in the east. In the south, the Allied armies were pushing their way up the length of Italy. The US First Army was less than a hundred miles from Berlin at the Elbe in central Germany. To the south-west, the French had crossed the Danube and were driving towards the Bavarian Mountains not far from Oberammergau. German soldiers tired of fighting a losing battle were surrendering in their thousands. For the Allies there was an almost palpable feel of victory in the air.

  Allied intelligence reported the possibility of a redoubt in the mountains of southern Germany, anywhere from Oberammergau to Sonthofen. It was known that German scientists were involved in developing new weapons, possibly even an atomic bomb. Sporadic rumours that German scientists had succeeded in mounting poison-gas or even atomic warheads on to a long-range rocket could not be completely dismissed. If such a weapon were fired into the oncoming armies, the devastation caused could alter the course of the war even at this late stage. The US Seventh Army was directed towards the Bavarian Alps to investigate the redoubt.

  In his bed in hospital, von Braun lay absolutely still, as he had been directed. Overhead, American bombers were mounting an attack. Suddenly, quite helpless and unable to move, he found himself in the thick of war. The bombs fell near the hospital and other patients were moved to the cellar. Von Braun could not leave for his condition would not allow it. He was left alone in the ward, listening to the barrage.

  The days passed slowly. In his narrow hospital bed he longed to know the war news. German radio offered no clues. Had Berlin fallen? At any moment, while he lay immobile, he thought the SS could enter the ward. Losing all track of time, he woke one day from a deep sleep to see the feared dark shape bending over him. Whether it was Soviet, British, American or SS was not clear. A quick, instinctive fear told him it was the end.

  The stranger said that he had orders to take him to a mountain rendezvous. Ignoring questions about who had sent him, the man urged von Braun to accompany him immediately – otherwise he would become a prisoner of the French who were poised to enter Sonthofen. Von Braun protested that he could not travel in his present condition but the soldier was insistent and they set off in an ambulance.

  The mountain roads were full of twists and turns. As they slowly negotiated the convoluted ribbon bends, the bare mountain slopes rising to the high pea
ks gave an impression of a world untouched by war. Finally they arrived in a village, lost in the clouds, seemingly sitting on the very edge of habitable existence. The country below them was spread out in the sun like a map. Then coming towards him von Braun saw with enormous relief General Dornberger, his brother Magnus and several friends from Peenemünde. He soon became aware, too, of the black uniforms of the SD soldiers – the security service of the SS. Even here, in this remote hideaway, it was impossible to get away from the Nazis. His first thought on seeing them was to associate their presence with Kammler, but Dornberger assured him that Kammler was not with them. He had not been seen for a week.

  To avoid the SS, Dornberger had moved the men into a hotel in the isolated village of Oberjoch but he had not been able to rid himself of a detachment of SD troops. He had arrived with a hundred of his own soldiers and was trying not to think about what would happen if the SD decided to follow one of Hitler’s rather more unpleasant directives. The quiet resort village with its steep-pitched houses seemed an unlikely venue for a shoot-out yet the soldiers and the SD detachment outnumbered civilians. Von Braun found it difficult to relax in their presence and Dornberger was edgy, anticipating trouble. Dornberger decided to find out from the SD major in charge what his instructions were.

  Acting on the assumption that a little alcohol would help loosen tongues, he invited the major to his room for a friendly drink. The major was only too happy to accept. Dornberger had provided an exceedingly good wine and, by the third bottle, the major, now the worse for wear, had been gently relieved of his information. What exactly was he doing here, Dornberger wanted to know. The major replied that he was protecting scientists from the French and the Americans. Dornberger expressed his surprise that the major and his thirty men were expected to take on the French and the US battalions. ‘If we fail,’ the major revealed, ‘my orders are to shoot you all.’ ‘And have you considered what the Americans will do to you?’ Dornberger replied. ‘If you shoot a group of innocent civilians you will be hanged as a war criminal, probably immediately.’ The major was not a happy man; he had seen the inevitability of this outcome himself but no other option presented itself. Survival for the major, now in tears, seemed an unobtainable luxury.