Operations Pastorius: Eight Nazi Spies Against America

By George J. Dasch

Operation Pastorius, originally published in 1959 as Eight Spies Against America, recounts the World War II story of the landing by submarine of eight Nazi spies on beaches on Long Island and Florida, equipped with explosives and a large amount of U.S. dollars. Their mission was to disrupt and destroy vital war manufacturing plants located in the Tennessee Valley and elsewhere in the United States. The book's author, and leader of the group that landed in New York, George J. Dasch, provides a first-hand account of his life, the training for the operation in Germany, and his subsequent capture, trial, and years-long, unsuccessful (and somewhat delusional) fight to clear his name.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eumenes Publishing
• Release date: Dec 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781839741241

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

Operation Pastorius

EIGHT SPIES AGAINST AMERICA

BY

GEORGE J. DASCH

ROBERT M. McBRIDE COMPANY NEW YORK

Table of Contents

Contents

Table of Contents 4

Foreword 5

The Landing 6

1 6

2 10

3 15

4 29

5 37

6 46

The Trial 59

1 59

2 70

The Struggle for Freedom 79

1 79

2 95

Publisher’s Note 107

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 108

Foreword

One of the most unexpected and dramatic incidents in World War II was the invasion by submarine of eight Nazi spies on our Long Island and Florida beaches, equipped with explosives and nearly |200,000 of American currency. Thus armed they were intent on destroying the great war plants of our Tennessee Valley and elsewhere. The newspapers of the nation reported this sabotage expedition in screaming headlines; the FBI flew into action.

This was more than a two-day wonder. The story came out gradually, headlined in the press, how on June 13, 1942, a young coastguardsman, patrolling the misty shore long before sunrise, suddenly spotted a shadowy figure and three others in the background intent on burying something in the sand. The boy became alarmed and challenged the figure and rushed off to report the suspicious incident. People throughout the nation read how the FBI and Army had tracked them to New York by finding German cigarette butts in the smoking car of the train in which they traveled. The elusive spies were traced through the restaurants and haunts of the leader of the group; George Dasch, and all four of the saboteurs were finally captured in a big scoop. The quartet that landed in Florida were also seized in an equally clever maneuver.

But what were really the facts? Were these press accounts of the invasion by submarine doctored to hoodwink the Nazi masters and to protect the families?

The Landing

1

AT approximately four o’clock on the morning of June 12th, 1942, the sleepy little town of Amagansett on the misty shore of Long Island was suddenly startled out of its weekend lethargy by a strange and unfamiliar sound. The tiny cluster of dwellings, huddled together against the blankets of drifting fog, started to quake as an eerie mechanical hum vibrated through the night air. Immediately one or two nervous lights popped through a window here and there, but by the time the rays from these had reached their more drowsy companions across the narrow streets and alleyways, the sound, which had strained itself to reach an almost unbearable pitch, cut itself off as abruptly as it had begun. Amagansett, apparently, was once again at peace with the world. If there happened to be an inhabitant who roused himself sufficiently to ponder about the ominous hum, he quickly consoled himself with the comforting knowledge that, just down the shore a bit, the Coast Guard Station was always practicing with motors and ships. Clearly a case of a security check. Though the country was at war, the enemy was far away, the beaches were locked up tight. There was hardly a cause for alarm.

But on the beach something sinister was taking place known only to the German Secret Service. A Nazi submarine, which touched ground well off the shore during the foggy night, moved in under its muffled electric motors to discharge on a rubber raft four men with more than two hundred thousand dollars in their baggage, together with boxes of high explosives and a pair of submachine guns. Three of the men went noiselessly high up on the shore to bury the explosives and change their German marine infantry uniforms to civilian clothes.

Meanwhile, a young coast guardsman materialized out of the syrupy fog on the beach and challenged the fourth man, standing watch near the water, who was the leader of the party. After moments of staccato exchanges with the guard, he pulled out of his pocket a wad of bills—three hundred dollars to be exact—with a peremptory order to keep his mouth shut under penalty of death. Obviously outnumbered and quite alarmed, and notwithstanding the liberal emolument, the guardsman hastened back to report to headquarters that some strange men had landed on the beach nearby, that they were not fishermen and that they had given him a lot of money to keep mum about their presence on the forbidden area.

A little over an hour later the Amagansett station master opened his minuscule booth. Although a Saturday morning like this found him host to few of the regular commuters, a number of people always found it expedient to make the trip to the city. Among these were four men he had never before seen. They were undistinguished, except for possibly one whose high cheekbones gave him a rather gaunt appearance. Also, the clothes on him were wet, as if he had fallen or jumped into water. However, the station master thought little of this last peculiarity—one grew used to the ways of clumsy fishermen who’d cast their lines before the sun was up—and he promptly filled out the four tickets for Jamaica that were requested and paid for by the one who had experienced the early morning dip in the surf.

At 5:25 the first local for New York rumbled in at such a slow pace that, even before it had come to a complete stop, the handful of passengers on the platform had already scrambled aboard. At 5:28 the station master closed his booth and set off for his home through a dawn that was starting to struggle with the clouds of obstinate fog. By the time he had settled himself at his kitchen table and was well into his previous night’s paper, the four undistinguished men were just stepping off the train at Jamaica, a suburb of New York. In short order, they had quickly and efficiently disappeared into the early suburban shopping crowds.

Meanwhile word has been flashed to New York by an officer of the Coast Guard to intercept four suspicious men on the early morning train upon its arrival in New York. Detectives were dispatched hurriedly to the Pennsylvania Station where the train had come in a little earlier. The passengers all having vanished, a thorough search of the coaches was made in an eager search for clues. In the smoking car, they found a mound of cigarette butts which, on close examination, proved to be different from the American variety. And with them was a small fragment of paper, evidently from a cigarette package, bearing German type and markings. The FBI in New York immediately sprang into action and with other clues gleaned from interviews with the conductors of the train and several outside suggestions, broke the case in short order. Eventually, through devious channels recorded in the papers from day to day, they managed by brilliant work filled with mystery and suspense to round up the spies, together with four others who had landed similarly from a submarine on the shores of Florida.

Later that morning it subsequently developed that a pair of tourists, nattily attired in new, crinkly clothes, registered at the Hotel Governor Clinton close by the Pennsylvania Station. One of these, almost noticeable because of an unusually gaunt look, registered as George John Day. At two o’clock Day and his shorter, darker companion met two others for lunch at the Horn & Hardart Cafeteria several blocks from the hotel, just about the moment when the Coast Guard Station on Long Island was still looking for early risers and additional information based on the report turned in by its young recruit.

Later that afternoon in New York, not far from Rockefeller Center, George John Day, the leader of the four men, left his companion on the sidewalk for a moment to peek into Mayer’s coffee house. He was immediately greeted by a number of idlers who had known him well. Boy, George, you sure are a card! they teased. Back from Russia so soon...how can our ally get along without you? Laugh all you want, boys, Day replied, but I’m on my way to Washington. You’ll be reading all about it any day now, he declared. Then, amidst a flurry of huzzahs, he turned about to rejoin his partner outside.

The following evening, the tail end of a slow, uninspired Sunday at FBI headquarters in New York, the agent in charge took a call from a man who identified himself as a Franz Daniel Pastorius, leader of a German sabotage mission that had just been landed by submarine on the Long Island shore. In clipped tones the voice charged him to inform his central office that within several days its owner would materialize in Washington to reveal a startling and vital report. The agent accepted these instructions, and when the brief message had run its course he hung up the phone and shook his head in bored disbelief. When a war was declared, crackpots were bared.

Late that night the usual pinochle game at Mayer’s had just about completed its first round when once again George John Day appeared. This time, though, with everyone immersed in the business at hand, few if any comments were offered. Day fitted himself into the game and stayed with the proceedings until the wee hours of the morning when a state of general exhaustion set in. The group broke up and each member, including Day, waved a weary goodbye to the others before setting out on his own.

Washington, D.C., Wednesday evening, June 17th: George John Dasch, nervously clutching an oversized brief case, is given a room in the Mayflower Hotel. He orders dinner in the main dining room and shortly thereafter retires for the night.

The following morning, 10 a.m.: Col. Cramer’s office in Military Intelligence receives a message from a Mr. Dasch. The Colonel is out, but a note will be left for him to return the call.

10:05 a.m.: Upon the urging of a man named Dasch, an agent is dispatched from FBI headquarters to the Mayflower Hotel to escort him in. The man refers to a telephone call he made to their bureau in New York, insists he has crucial information relative to national security to disclose.

10:50 a.m.: Col. Cramer puts a line through to Dasch, who claims to be a German saboteur landed on the coast of Long Island. He suggests Dasch hasten to his office, but the latter points out that the FBI is already on its way to pick him up, advises Cramer to check with them later for further details.

Late afternoon: The FBI acknowledges George John Dasch’s surrender and proceeds to act on the information he supplies. His erstwhile companion, who is immediately apprehended in New York, provides them with data concerning the rest of the mission. Apparently another group of four was placed ashore, also for purposes of sabotage, at Pontevedro, Florida. Flexing its muscles, the FBI moves swiftly and sets about rounding up all concerned.

June 28th: By the end of the day the last of the invading agents is in air-tight custody. Dasch having been willing, the Affaire Pastorius has ended its fling.

It was a triumphal spy story simply told. The FBI had rounded up eight men, four on Long Island and four in Florida, who had been landed by German submarines in June 1942.

The papers called it brilliant police work, inspired intelligence. An example of FBI vigilance in war. The German attempt to land a sabotage mission on American soil had been defeated. To J. Edgar Hoover, FBI chief went the credit for a job well done.

Was this the real story? Was the world told the truth? Did the FBI do anything to earn the credit it received? Did it apprehend the saboteurs? Did it protect America’s coast from infiltration?

Or had the FBI been caught napping? Had the apprehension been a freak and the FBI’s story a hoax? Has the full and correct story been told yet? What does the world know now in 1959 of that unsuccessful sabotage mission of 1942?

Have you ever heard of George John Dasch? The chances are that the name means nothing to you and, if it does, you probably don’t remember where you heard it.

But perhaps George John Dasch, leader of the frustrated German sabotage mission, was one of the great heroes of World War II. Perhaps this man, who spent his young adult life in this country and unfortunately went back to Germany and was caught in the web of World War II, was as dedicated and devoted to the cause of American victory as those who fought on the battlefields of three continents.

Here is George John Dasch’s story. The story of the landing. The story of its preparation and the story of the intrigue, double-dealing and deceit which has marked his life since that fateful day in 1942.

Is George John Dasch an American war hero? Is he a cowardly German soldier who lacked the courage to attempt his mission? Has the FBI done justice to this man? Has it been honest with itself and the American people?

In the pages to follow, George John Dasch tells sincerely and honestly the dramatic tale of Operation Pastorius—eight spies against America. Read it for yourself and make your own decision. Regardless of your opinion, you will agree that it is American history and should be told.

2

I FIRST fell in love with the United States nearly thirty-nine years ago when a baseball that came sailing out of a field where American Occupation troops were playing knocked me cold. I didn’t duck in time, for the next thing I knew I was on a bed in the American military hospital. When I finally came to I could see the relieved expressions on the faces of the soldiers who had carried me there. Because of my discomfort I was well feted—this included being stuffed with food, a rare treat in the threadbare German economy at the time; needless to say, I bubbled over with the feeling of having found some wonderful new friends. If Americans are like that, I thought, then it’s America for me.

Delighted with the whole experience, I returned home that evening an unusually happy boy. My mother listened to my story, but burdened as she was with the problems of providing for a family of twelve children, I doubt that she understood how firmly the idea of America had taken hold of my heart. Though my father earned excellent wages—as salaries went in Germany—how he and Mother managed to feed and clothe us as well as give us a decent education, and still buy a home—is forever amazing to me. As soon as I could, the moment I turned seventeen, I took a job with a shipping company in Rotterdam where I would longingly watch ships bound for the United States. By June of 1922 my impatience to see more of the world and particularly to get to America exceeded my diligence and I gave up this position. Inquiring around for an opening that required a seaman, I was told, Boy, you can’t work around here. You’re a German. Better go to Hamburg—there’s your port. I decided to follow this advice, even though I lacked money and working papers. Finally I managed to pick up a number of odd jobs on the docks for awhile, and then one day my big opportunity presented itself. Upon learning that the U.S.S. Scholarie was about to set off for Philadelphia, I managed to sneak into its galley coal bin. From there I squirmed my way into the cargo hold, only to discover that the other occupants were a family of large, ill-tempered rats. To make matters worse, I was forced to steal food from the galley in order to stay alive. But the pain of these discomforts seemed to fade away when I reminded myself that after so much waiting I was finally on my way to where I wanted to be.

When I was on the docks at Hamburg one of the crew had told me that it would take the Scholarie about three weeks to reach Philadelphia, but on the sixteenth day out, according to my count, there were signs that we were near land. That night I didn’t go out for anything to eat. Having traveled so far I didn’t want to take any chances. Besides, I wasn’t feeling too well. Sixteen days without sunshine or exercise are not exactly healthful. My stomach felt like a ball of fire and I was terribly thirsty all the time. I couldn’t get enough to drink. One of the pipes running through the storage room was a steam pipe, which made the whole place stuffy, hot, and humid. It’s a wonder I didn’t get hopelessly sick.

It was late the next day when we actually docked. There were all kinds of noises