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Operation Cornflakes: How the Allies Scammed the Nazi Postal Service

On February 5, 1945, with World War II in its last desperate months, a German train made its way to the city of Linz. Suddenly, Allied planes swooped in, dropping bombs and derailing it. As the train’s cargo—mail bound for several northern Austrian towns—scattered over the area, a second wave of bombers flew in with a strange payload.

Eight mail bags hit the ground around the train with a thud. Inside each bag were 800 propaganda letters, all addressed to homes and businesses along the train’s route and appropriately stamped. When the train was discovered, German postal workers recovered the bags and delivered the letters without being any wiser about their contents or origins.

Operation Cornflakes had begun.

Propaganda was a favorite tool of the Office of Strategic Services during the war, but the usual method of distributing it, airdropped leaflets, had major drawbacks. Huge numbers of leaflets had to be produced to increase the chances that those who were supposed to see them actually would. Even with enough materials, heavy winds, rain, or Nazi knowledge of a planned drop could result in diversion or destruction of the leaflets before they reached their audience. There had to be a way to remove the variables and the risk from the operation and hand the propaganda right to the Germans.

Going Postal

Eventually, they hit upon the idea of using the German postal service itself as a distribution system. They’d make their materials look like legitimate German mail, leave it around bombed trains, and let the enemy collect and deliver it. The German government would wind up bringing the Allies' propaganda right to its own citizens every day. What’s more, the plan had the added benefit of straining the already overworked and chaotic German communications and transportation sectors.

Operation Cornflakes (named so because the subversive mail was usually delivered just as its targets sat down for breakfast) had many advantages over simple airdrops, but required a lot of legwork to get off the ground. The inner workings of the German mail system had to be learned, so POWs who had been postal workers were interrogated about everything from postal cancellation markings to the ways mail bags were supposed to be packed and sealed. Spies and sympathizers gathered samples of stamps, postal cancellations, mail sacks, and envelopes while OSS staff pulled names and addresses from German telephone directories.

Every aspect of the German postal system, down to the smallest details, were replicated, with some small changes. While most of the envelopes were franked with a regular stamp, some went out bearing subliminal insults. Forgers manipulated the standard stamp with Adolf Hitler’s face to show the Fuhrer’s exposed skull. Other stamps had their country tag on the bottom changed from “Deutsches Reich” (German Empire) to “Futsches Reich” (Ruined Empire). Update added : 3/6/12 - Some featured both changes. These subliminally insulting stamps were stuffed inside the envelopes with other propaganda and, in some cases, maybe even used as postage on the letters (This latter use isn't as well documented as the former. See discussion in the comments below).

Once they knew the ins and outs, OSS operatives scattered throughout Europe began preparing materials. A group in Rome prepared envelopes with more than two million names and addresses at a rate of 15,000 envelopes a week. Groups in Switzerland and England, meanwhile, printed propaganda newspapers and letters and forged stamps. Swiss neutrality posed a serious problem for the OSS office there. With the German Army on its border, Switzerland did not want to face retribution for unwittingly hosting Allied agents, so the government constantly tried to track down and deport operatives there.

Special Delivery

When all the materials were prepared, the loaded mailbags were turned over to the 15th Army Air Force, which was tasked with delivery. Special bombs were designed to hold the bags and were equipped with a detonator linked to a control in the cockpit. With the push of a button, the pilots could launch the mailbags at a height that wouldn’t damage them, and then keep the bomb canister on the plane to prevent the Germans from finding evidence of the drop.

Among the propaganda that arrived in German homes during the operation were Das Neue Deutschland, an OSS-produced newspaper that claimed to be the voice of a growing opposition party within Germany. There were also letters supposedly written by Nazi regional party leader Erich Koch discussing Hitler’s poor health and generals who either wanted to surrender or take the Fuhrer out while he was weakened, creating doubt in the minds of civilians about the strength and unity of the government. Another letter, allegedly from the Verein Einsamer Kriegerfrauen ("Association of Lonely War Women”), was sent to German soldiers to give them the impression that it had become common for the women left at home to engage in promiscuous casual sex while they were gone, weakening their morale.

Most of the fake mail bore return addresses for legitimate businesses, like the Wiener Giro-und Kassenverein, a central securities deposit. This address eventually blew the operation’s cover when an OSS operative writing out the addresses misspelled the name as “Cassenverein.” After German police recovered Allied mailbags from one of the train bombings and took it to a post office, one of the postal clerks noticed the misspelling. The same mistake turned up on several envelopes and the postal workers grew suspicious. They opened the envelopes and discovered the propaganda. Operation Cornflakes was shut down because of a typo.

Over the course of the operation, 20 loads of fake mail were dropped for a total of 320 mailbags and more than 96,000 pieces of propaganda mail. For all the mail that made it into German homes, though, no one is sure if Cornflakes had any significant effect, at least psychologically. The Allies attempted to evaluate the damage their psyops did to enemy morale by surveying German deserters and POWs, but the results were murky. At least 10,000 of the men questioned said they were directly affected by OSS propaganda at some point during the war. For the rest of the soldiers, demoralization was cumulative and affected not just by propaganda, but injuries, battle fatigue, deaths of fellow soldiers, and other conditions, and Cornflakes’ effects just couldn’t be pinpointed. From a strategic standpoint, however, Cornflakes was a clear success, putting extra work on the German postal system and delaying mail, and forcing the German government to divert resources to repairing damaged trains and rail routes.

Most of the forged stamps, envelopes and their contents were destroyed during war, either by the post office after the fraud was discovered or by the mail’s recipients, who simply threw it away. A few items did survive, though, and are highly valued collectors items. To please the keepers of the purse strings, the OSS collected some of the propaganda material and forgeries it had created and compiled them into booklets to gift to members of the Congressional Oversight Committee. Several of these scrapbooks made it out to the public and have sold for as high as $5000. A number of forged German stamps entered the public marketplace when President Franklin Roosevelt’s stamp collection was sold at auction after his death and continue to circulate. Many of these items, especially the Hitler skull stamps, are so sought after by collectors that some people have started to produce and sell forgeries of the forgeries.

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Art
5 Things You Might Not Know About Ansel Adams

You probably know Ansel Adams—who was born on February 20, 1902—as the man who helped promote the National Park Service through his magnificent photographs. But there was a lot more to the shutterbug than his iconic, black-and-white vistas. Here are five lesser-known facts about the celebrated photographer.

1. AN EARTHQUAKE LED TO HIS DISTINCTIVE NOSE.

Adams was a four-year-old tot when the 1906 San Francisco earthquake struck his hometown. Although the boy managed to escape injury during the quake itself, an aftershock threw him face-first into a garden wall, breaking his nose. According to a 1979 interview with TIME, Adams said that doctors told his parents that it would be best to fix the nose when the boy matured. He joked, "But of course I never did mature, so I still have the nose." The nose became Adams' most striking physical feature. His buddy Cedric Wright liked to refer to Adams' honker as his "earthquake nose.

2. HE ALMOST BECAME A PIANIST.

Adams was an energetic, inattentive student, and that trait coupled with a possible case of dyslexia earned him the heave-ho from private schools. It was clear, however, that he was a sharp boy—when motivated.

When Adams was just 12 years old, he taught himself to play the piano and read music, and he quickly showed a great aptitude for it. For nearly a dozen years, Adams focused intensely on his piano training. He was still playful—he would end performances by jumping up and sitting on his piano—but he took his musical education seriously. Adams ultimately devoted over a decade to his study, but he eventually came to the realization that his hands simply weren't big enough for him to become a professional concert pianist. He decided to leave the keys for the camera after meeting photographer Paul Strand, much to his family's dismay.

3. HE HELPED CREATE A NATIONAL PARK.

If you've ever enjoyed Kings Canyon National Park in California, tip your cap to Adams. In the 1930s Adams took a series of photographs that eventually became the book Sierra Nevada: The John Muir Trail. When Adams sent a copy to Secretary of the Interior Harold Ickes, the cabinet member showed it to Franklin Roosevelt. The photographs so delighted FDR that he wouldn't give the book back to Ickes. Adams sent Ickes a replacement copy, and FDR kept his with him in the White House.

After a few years, Ickes, Adams, and the Sierra Club successfully convinced Roosevelt to make Kings Canyon a national park in 1940. Roosevelt's designation specifically provided that the park be left totally undeveloped and roadless, so the only way FDR himself would ever experience it was through Adams' lenses.

4. HE WELCOMED COMMERCIAL ASSIGNMENTS.

While many of his contemporary fine art photographers shunned commercial assignments as crass or materialistic, Adams went out of his way to find paying gigs. If a company needed a camera for hire, Adams would generally show up, and as a result, he had some unlikely clients. According to The Ansel Adams Gallery, he snapped shots for everyone from IBM to AT&T to women's colleges to a dried fruit company. All of this commercial print work dismayed Adams's mentor Alfred Stieglitz and even worried Adams when he couldn't find time to work on his own projects. It did, however, keep the lights on.

5. HE AND GEORGIA O'KEEFFE WERE FRIENDS.

Adams and legendary painter O'Keeffe were pals and occasional traveling buddies who found common ground despite their very different artistic approaches. They met through their mutual friend/mentor Stieglitz—who eventually became O'Keeffe's husband—and became friends who traveled throughout the Southwest together during the 1930s. O'Keeffe would paint while Adams took photographs.

These journeys together led to some of the artists' best-known work, like Adams' portrait of O'Keeffe and a wrangler named Orville Cox, and while both artists revered nature and the American Southwest, Adams considered O'Keeffe the master when it came to capturing the area. 

“The Southwest is O’Keeffe’s land,” he wrote. “No one else has extracted from it such a style and color, or has revealed the essential forms so beautifully as she has in her paintings.”

The two remained close throughout their lives. Adams would visit O'Keeffe's ranch, and the two wrote to each other until Adams' death in 1984.

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presidents
George Washington’s Incredible Hair Routine

America's Founding Fathers had some truly defining locks, but we tend to think of those well-coiffed white curls—with their black ribbon hair ties and perfectly-managed frizz—as being wigs. Not so in the case of the main man himself, George Washington.

As Robert Krulwich reported at National Geographic, a 2010 biography on our first president—Washington: A Life, by Ron Chernow—reveals that the man “never wore a wig.” In fact, his signature style was simply the result of an elaborately constructed coiffure that far surpasses most morning hair routines, and even some “fancy” hair routines.

The style Washington was sporting was actually a tough look for his day. In the late 18th century, such a hairdo would have been worn by military men.

While the hair itself was all real, the color was not. Washington’s true hue was a reddish brown color, which he powdered in a fashion that’s truly delightful to imagine. George would (likely) don a powdering robe, dip a puff made of silk strips into his powder of choice (there are a few options for what he might have used), bend his head over, and shake the puff out over his scalp in a big cloud.

To achieve the actual ‘do, Washington kept his hair long and would then pull it back into a tight braid or simply tie it at the back. This helped to showcase the forehead, which was very in vogue at the time. On occasion, he—or an attendant—would bunch the slack into a black silk bag at the nape of the neck, perhaps to help protect his clothing from the powder. Then he would fluff the hair on each side of his head to make “wings” and secure the look with pomade or good old natural oils.

To get a better sense of the play-by-play, check out the awesome illustrations by Wendy MacNaughton that accompany Krulwich’s post.

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