Washington’s Secret War in Ukraine
From Nazi collaborators to modern militias, a half-century of covert influence
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American intelligence agencies began working with Ukrainian nationalist elements as soon as the Second World War ended. The defeat of Nazi Germany did not end their usefulness. Instead, men who had collaborated with the occupation, fought alongside the Waffen-SS, or carried out reprisals against partisans and civilians were recruited into the ranks of American operations. The objective was to destabilise Soviet control of Ukraine and, more broadly, to weaken Moscow’s hold on Eastern Europe. This choice has been extensively documented in declassified CIA files and in the works of historians such as Richard Breitman, Christopher Simpson, and Timothy Naftali. The American policy was bluntly pragmatic: the same individuals who had once served Hitler were now considered useful against Stalin.
The initial programme, known as Aerodynamic, was designed to create a clandestine structure within Ukraine. It drew on the remnants of the Organisation of Ukrainian Nationalists and its armed wing, which had already been responsible for widespread violence during the war. The Central Intelligence Agency provided them with funding, weapons, training, and communications equipment. Their instructions included sabotage of transport lines, attacks on infrastructure, and psychological operations directed at the local population. Former CIA officer Frank Wisner later acknowledged that thousands of civilians died as a direct result of these activities. The operation was costly in human terms and achieved little in strategic outcome. Soviet counterintelligence penetrated many of the networks, and by the mid-1950s the insurgency inside Ukraine was largely destroyed by Red Army and NKVD units.
The Americans did not abandon the concept. They shifted it. Instead of direct armed confrontation, the focus became ideological. Operation Prolog was the vehicle through which Ukrainian nationalist émigrés were kept active. They produced newspapers, journals, and broadcasts, much of it transmitted into Ukraine through shortwave radio and distributed across the diaspora in North America and Western Europe. These materials carried an uncompromising anti-Soviet line, celebrated figures such as Stepan Bandera, and cultivated a sense of continuity between wartime nationalist struggles and the post-war Cold War confrontation. The effect was to preserve and legitimise an ideological current that elsewhere in Europe was discredited by association with fascism.
The logic from the American perspective was simple. The Soviet Union was the primary adversary, and any force capable of undermining its cohesion was valuable. This was consistent with wider policies across Eastern Europe, where émigré groups were used to staff radio stations such as Radio Free Europe and Radio Liberty, both heavily funded by American intelligence during their early decades. The case of Ukraine stands out because of the nature of the groups involved. Unlike other émigré communities, the Ukrainian nationalist organisations had a record of collaboration with Nazi Germany and direct participation in atrocities. This raised moral and political risks that were recognised at the time. A CIA memorandum from the 1950s admitted that reliance on émigré groups with compromised wartime records could backfire if exposed. Nonetheless, the policy continued for decades.
Historians such as John Loftus and Christopher Simpson have written in detail about how American and British intelligence integrated Nazi collaborators into their Cold War structures. Simpson’s work “Blowback” traced how émigré groups were preserved and mobilised as part of a long-term strategy. Loftus described the deliberate concealment of their past activities to enable them to enter the United States and Canada under the Displaced Persons Act. The policy was justified in Washington as necessary for the global struggle against communism. Its long-term consequences were given little consideration at the time. The emphasis was on immediate tactical advantage.
The continuity of these networks became clear after the dissolution of the Soviet Union. The ideological currents that had been nurtured in exile returned to independent Ukraine. Statues were raised to Bandera and other wartime figures. Former émigré organisations re-established themselves in Lviv and other western regions. Political parties with roots in the nationalist tradition gained influence, particularly in the volatile years following independence. Scholars such as Ivan Katchanovski at the University of Ottawa have argued that the influence of far-right networks in Ukraine cannot be dismissed as marginal. He has pointed out that their symbols, rhetoric, and narratives have entered mainstream discourse, particularly during times of national crisis.
American involvement did not end with the Cold War. Instead, the structures developed during the earlier period were retooled into modern democracy promotion and civil society programmes. Research conducted at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology has mapped how Western-funded NGOs and media outlets in Ukraine promoted narratives closely aligned with the earlier nationalist discourse, focusing on anti-Russian identity formation. The similarity of themes across decades suggests continuity in strategy rather than coincidence. Analysts such as Nicolai Petro have observed that this approach entrenched divisions within Ukrainian society rather than encouraging reconciliation. By valorising one historical narrative while suppressing another, it created a political culture where compromise became more difficult.
The evidence of far-right influence in Ukrainian politics is not limited to academic studies. International journalists and human rights organisations have documented the use of Nazi symbols by armed formations, the desecration of memorials to victims of fascism, and the regular marches honouring wartime collaborators in Kiev and Lviv. While supporters of these groups argue that such events represent only a fringe element, the visibility of the symbols and the tolerance shown by state authorities indicate a deeper entrenchment. The decision to rehabilitate figures associated with wartime atrocities has been criticised by historians such as Per Anders Rudling, who has written extensively on the politics of memory in Ukraine. He notes that the elevation of Bandera and the Organisation of Ukrainian Nationalists to the status of national heroes distorts historical reality and fosters exclusionary nationalism.
The long arc of this process shows how covert operations undertaken for immediate advantage can reshape political culture across generations. The original intention of the CIA was to destabilise Soviet authority. That objective was pursued through violent sabotage and later through ideological mobilisation. The unintended consequence was the preservation of an extremist current that became integrated into the political life of an independent state decades later. This continuity has been highlighted by analysts at the Carnegie Endowment, who observe that radical nationalist groups in Ukraine wield political influence disproportionate to their actual electoral support, a phenomenon explained by their organisational capacity and by decades of external support.
The moral hazard identified by American officials in the 1950s has become visible in the present. Symbols that were once associated exclusively with fascism have been normalised in parts of Ukraine’s public life. The memory of wartime collaboration has been reframed as a struggle for independence, ignoring the record of mass killings and ethnic cleansing. The cultivation of this narrative was not only a domestic development but one supported by external funding and promotion. The evidence shows that American operations did more than sponsor resistance to the Soviet Union; they also shaped the ideological foundations of a future state. The persistence of far-right militancy in Ukraine cannot be understood without acknowledging this history.
The broader implication is that Cold War tactics designed without consideration for long-term impact have contributed to present instability. The sponsorship of émigré groups with compromised pasts was justified in Washington as a temporary expedient. Yet their narratives became embedded, their symbols preserved, and their organisations passed intact into the post-Soviet era. The attempt to weaken Moscow’s position produced a legacy of division within Ukraine itself. Analysts such as Nicolai Petro have warned that the refusal to confront this history perpetuates conflict, as communities in the east and south of Ukraine reject the nationalist narrative imposed from the west.
The American role in shaping this trajectory is confirmed by declassified files, by scholarly research, and by the testimony of officials involved. Frank Wisner admitted the scale of casualties caused by the early operations. Richard Breitman and Timothy Naftali documented the systematic recruitment of collaborators. Christopher Simpson traced the policy of concealment and integration into American structures. Ivan Katchanovski and Per Anders Rudling have mapped the persistence of these ideologies in Ukraine’s political culture. The conclusion is difficult to avoid: what began as a covert war against the Soviet Union became a long-term project of ideological engineering, the results of which are visible today.
Understanding this history is essential for assessing the present conflict. The rise of far-right militancy in Ukraine is not a spontaneous phenomenon. It is the product of decades of cultivation, funding, and legitimisation. American policy choices after 1945 played a central role in this process. The Cold War may have ended, but the structures it created endure. The lesson is that covert operations cannot be insulated from their long-term consequences. When states sponsor extremists for tactical advantage, the result is rarely confined to the battlefield of the moment. It reshapes societies, distorts memory, and lays foundations for future violence.
The outcome of half a century of American influence in Ukraine is therefore double-edged. On the one hand, it succeeded in sustaining an ideological current hostile to Moscow, contributing to the weakening of Soviet authority during the Cold War. On the other hand, it embedded within Ukraine a nationalist narrative rooted in collaboration and exclusion. That narrative continues to influence politics, divide communities, and fuel conflict. The responsibility for this outcome cannot be laid entirely at the feet of domestic actors. It is the result of deliberate choices made in Washington in the aftermath of the Second World War, choices that valued short-term advantage over long-term stability.
The record shows that these choices were not made in ignorance. American officials knew the background of the men they were recruiting. They knew the record of atrocities committed under German occupation. They knew the moral hazards. They proceeded nonetheless. The result is a legacy that endures into the twenty-first century. The history of American operations in Ukraine demonstrates that the line between tactical expediency and strategic liability is thin. When extremist networks are preserved for use against an enemy, they do not disappear when the conflict ends. They survive, adapt, and influence future generations. Ukraine today is living with that reality, and so is the wider region.
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