Operation Paperclip: How America rewarded Nazis and the story behind the foundation of NASA

As the ashes of World War II settled, the United States embarked on a covert mission—Operation Paperclip—a morally challenged yet strategically calculated move that blurred the lines between ambition and evil. Beneath the banner of the Cold War, the U.S. recruited approximately 1,600 Nazi scientists, engineers, and technicians—many of whom had been deeply complicit in Hitler’s war machine and crimes against humanity. 

While their expertise propelled America’s space race and defense capabilities, the program stands as one of the most damning examples of the USA’s postwar hypocrisy and betrayal. Adding to this betrayal, German Jewish refugees, who had fled Nazi persecution, were forced and exploited to assist the very men responsible for their suffering. 

War Criminals

The mission that became Operation Paperclip began with Allied troops uncovering a collection of German scientific research. Among these discoveries was the Osenberg List, recovered from a toilet at Bonn University — a catalog of scientists and engineers employed by the Nazi regime. Initially known as Operation Overcast, the program soon morphed into Operation Paperclip, named after the paper clips attached to the files of high-priority scientists. 

Many of these men, like Wernher von Braun, were directly involved in Nazi atrocities, but their records were conveniently sanitized by U.S. intelligence agencies, eager to defeat the Soviet Union in the postwar arms race.  

Allegedly, President Harry Truman had forbidden the recruitment of Nazi Party members or active supporters, but this mandate was ignored. Officials from the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), which later evolved into the CIA, and the Joint Intelligence Objectives Agency (JIOA) ensured that compromising evidence was erased. 

These scientists were shielded from not only accountability but also rebranded as “War Department Special Employees,” enjoying cozy jobs and government support while the world’s attention focused on the Nuremberg trials, where mighty Allies held proceedings against the surviving high-ranking officials of the defeated Nazis.

Wernher von Braun

One of the operation’s most infamous figures, Wernher von Braun, had played a key role in the development of the V-2 rocket, a weapon responsible for devastating London and other Allied cities. 

As director of the Peenemünde Army Research Center, von Braun oversaw a facility that relied on forced labor from concentration camp prisoners which was whitewashed from his new biography as he transitioned into a hero of American science. Von Braun personally visited the Buchenwald concentration camp to select slaves to work for him, but this dark legacy was removed from public view as he became the mastermind behind NASA’s Saturn V rocket and the Apollo moon landings.

Arthur Rudolph, another V-2 engineer, was integral to developing the Saturn V, while Hubertus Strughold contributed to space medicines. Instead of facing justice, they received accolades and government positions. 

Exploiting Refugees

In an even darker twist, German Jews who had escaped Nazi persecution were forced to not only enroll in the US Army but were also compelled to assist these Nazis. The communication barrier was a hindrance, therefore, these Army officers were employed to act as translators, aides, or clerks for the very men whose actions had forced them to flee their homeland. 

This grotesque arrangement shows the cold calculation of U.S. intelligence: refugees, victims of genocide, were now employed to ease the transition of their oppressors into American citizens. In some cases, Jewish scholars who had lost family members in concentration camps found themselves taking orders from Nazis, forced to facilitate the very research that had contributed to the Holocaust. 

America’s betrayal

Operation Paperclip was not just about acquiring scientific talent — it was also an effort to erase history. The Pentagon, CIA, and Army intelligence systematically rewrote the personal histories of Nazi scientists to present them as apolitical experts. Until the 1970s, the secrecy persisted. PR efforts were employed to portray these men as pioneers of the American space program. 

While other deserving Nazi leaders were being sentenced to death at Nuremberg, many of the regime’s key technocrats were living comfortably in Fort Bliss, Texas, and White Sands, New Mexico.  

The creation of NASA in 1958 marked the success of Paperclip, with many of its recruits becoming foundational figures in America’s space exploration efforts. Wernher von Braun, once a Nazi SS officer, was celebrated as the architect of the Apollo missions, his connection to slave labor camps conveniently ignored. Similarly, Kurt Debus, who had worked on Hitler’s V-2 rockets, became the first director of Kennedy Space Center, overseeing the launch of Apollo 11.  

Instead of facing judgment, these Nazis were rewarded with careers, accolades, and called American heroes. 

The very nation that proclaims itself the bastion of freedom and democracy shamelessly engaged in selective morality. The U.S. didn’t just turn a blind eye, it rolled out the red carpet for war criminals. 

The United States, which harbored Nazi war criminals in the name of progress, now lectures India on human rights with a straight face.