Michael Dobbs - Saboteurs

Kappe was a loud, bombastic man—he talked like someone “trying to sell you a washing machine,” in the opinion of the aristocratic Lahousen— with a grandiose vision of establishing a large network of saboteurs to cripple American industry. The core of this network would be German-Americans like himself who came back to the Fatherland prior to the outbreak of World War II full of enthusiasm for the “New Germany.” Many of these returning exiles were former Bund members disillusioned with their prospects in Depression-era America who nevertheless spoke good English and had an intimate knowledge of American ways.

The problem was how to infiltrate members of Kappe’s network back into America. The obvious method was by submarine—but the German navy was very reluctant to allow its precious U-boats to be used for transporting saboteurs. The head of the U-boat fleet, Admiral Karl Dönitz, was opposed to such operations as both a security risk and an unnecessary distraction. He wanted to focus his resources on a single overriding goal: cutting Britain’s economic lifeline to the United States, an objective that seemed quite feasible in the spring of 1942. His U-boats were already sinking American and British ships faster than the enemy could build replacements. They were enjoying particular success along America’s Atlantic seaboard, where resort cities like Miami were resisting blackout restrictions for fear they might be bad for tourism. The German U-boat captains were able to pick off targets neatly silhouetted against the brightly lit coastline.

Under pressure from Kappe’s Nazi Party patrons and the Luftwaffe, Dönitz eventually backed down. But he set two conditions for his cooperation. 12First, he insisted that “only high-class” agents be selected for the operation. Second, he demanded that any information of value gathered by the agents be shared with the German navy, and particularly the U-boat fleet. The Abwehr agreed to the conditions.

By the time Canaris saw Hitler on April 16, the navy had already agreed in principle to a sabotage operation against the United States, primarily targeting the light metal industry. 13Eleven German-American recruits, personally selected by Kappe, had reported for training the previous week at the Abwehr sabotage school outside the Prussian town of Brandenburg. Operation Pastorius was almost ready to be launched, pending the Führer’s final approval.

UNLIKE ROOSEVELT, who delegated considerable responsibility to his generals, Hitler was an inveterate micromanager. He meddled in every aspect of the war, summoning even low-ranking military officers to his hideaways around Germany for “conferences” that often lasted for hours. When they arrived, the officers were obliged to wait patiently while the Führer decided when to see them, or whether to see them at all. The experience was a little like attending an imperial court. Sometimes, Hitler would send his courtiers away without an audience; other times, he would hector them for hours, treating them to bizarre diatribes on everything ranging from vegetarianism to reminiscences of growing up in Austria to the correct way to drive a car.

In addition to the Abwehr chiefs, Hitler had sent for a large number of military and naval officers, including Grand Admiral Erich Raeder, to discuss the problems posed by America’s entry into the war. 14As usual, the intelligence chiefs did not know whether they would get to see the Führer until the last moment. When they were finally granted an audience, Lahousen submitted “a brief report” about the planned sabotage operation. In his typically sententious manner, Hitler replied that “the greatest activity will be necessary in America,” a remark interpreted by Canaris and Lahousen as an order to proceed with Operation Pastorius. 15

The British and American commentators who speculated that Canaris was the most likely leader of the opposition to Hitler were half right: although the Abwehr chief stopped well short of open rebellion, he tolerated dissident views among those around him, making him a kind of intellectual patron for German officers troubled by the dictator’s excesses. The son of conservative German industrialists, Canaris had initially welcomed Hitler’s rise to power, but secretly turned against him once he understood the extent of the catastrophe that had befallen Germany and Europe. Eventually, Canaris would pay for his dual loyalties with his life: he was executed along with dozens of other real and suspected opponents of the Führer after the failed assassination attempt against Hitler in July 1944 at the Wolf’s Lair.

For the moment, the admiral preferred to express his opposition to Hitler through irony and ambiguity. After Lahousen said he doubted the feasibility of the sabotage operation so enthusiastically endorsed by Hitler, Canaris remarked quietly, “Well, we will lose [a few] good Nazis then.” 16

The tone of his voice suggested this would hardly be a major tragedy.

A CHANCE TO REHABILITATE yourself, they had told him. A chance to fulfill your obligations to the Fatherland.

He had been ordered to report in uniform to the army post in Brandenburg, a slow two-hour train ride from Berlin’s Zoo station. 1Stations with names like Wannsee and Potsdam glided past his window as the train chugged westward, packed with soldiers returning home for a few days’ furlough with their families as a respite from the hell of the Russian front. From the train, the Prussian countryside seemed reassuringly permanent and serene, almost undisturbed by two and a half years of war, a collage of sparkling lakes, village churches with high steeples, children riding their bicycles down wooded lanes.

He took a streetcar from the station to the military garrison, whose old brick barracks dated back to the time of Kaiser Wilhelm. The regimental clerk took him to a storeroom, handed him a set of civilian clothes to put in his knapsack, and told him to take the Quenz Lake tramway to the end of the line. The farm was a ten-minute walk from the tram stop, along a road bordered by a drainage canal on one side and vegetable gardens on the other. The lakeside estate was impossible to miss, the clerk had insisted. There were no other farms in the vicinity.

He got off the streetcar as instructed, and walked up a country lane to a brick gatepost, beyond which he could see a two-story farmhouse at the end of a driveway lined by chestnut trees. Signs posted along the high metal fence warned intruders to “Keep out under penalty of severe punishment by the Law.” 2

As he wandered up the driveway, he caught glimpses of the lake shimmering through the woods. 3It was early spring: the chestnuts were not yet in bloom, but shoots of light green had appeared on the trees. Patches of snow still lay on the ground. To his left, he could see a converted two-story barn with a high sloping roof, along with some stables and outbuildings. The main farmhouse, fifty yards from the lake, was neat and well maintained, reflecting the Prussian virtues of thrift, hard work, and order.

Several men were lounging on the porch of the brick building as he approached. He felt a little out of place. They were all in civilian clothes, while he was still in uniform. 4

“You must be Burger,” said one of the men, a wiry fellow with a thin face and a streak of gray running through his dark hair, as he extended his hand. “My name is Davis. George John Davis.”

A housekeeper showed him to a room, on the ground floor of the farmhouse, which he would share with one of the other men. After changing into the clothes the army clerk had given him in Brandenburg, he went outside to join his new companions. The man who had introduced himself as Davis suggested they take a walk around the estate.