Malicious Compliance: The Car Company That Sabotaged the Nazis

Sometimes, the best resistance looks like obedience. During the Nazi occupation of France, the Citroën automobile factory seemed to be cooperating — manufacturing trucks for the German military like any other commandeered facility. But behind the scenes, the French workers were quietly waging a war of their own. This episode tells the story of how a simple dipstick nearly brought down supply lines… and explores other clever examples of malicious compliance during WWII. Then we chat with Comedian Tristan Miller from his new home in New Zealand! 

In the strange world of wartime obedience, there’s a concept that feels almost like a practical joke, but it’s deadly serious: malicious compliance. That’s when someone follows an order to the letter, knowing full well that it will cause chaos. Imagine being told to paint every floor tile white—and doing exactly that, including the ones marked as exits. Or preparing sandwiches for an army with so much salt that no one can eat them. It’s passive aggression with high stakes. But in wartime, this becomes a subtle and powerful form of resistance.

In today’s story, we’ll eventually explore one of the most brilliant examples of this, carried out by the French automobile company Citroën during the Nazi occupation of France. But first, let’s take a little tour of malicious compliance throughout wartime history. Because this kind of sabotage didn’t always involve explosions. Sometimes, it just involved being very… very helpful.

Let’s go to Poland during World War II. In the small town of Nowy Sącz, the Nazis had taken control of the local rail network. Trains were vital to the Nazi war effort—delivering weapons, troops, and horrifyingly, people to concentration camps. The Germans relied on Poland’s extensive rail system, and they issued strict orders to keep the trains running on time.

And so, the Polish railway workers complied. They did what they were told. They followed all the rules. But somehow, nothing seemed to work quite right. Trains were constantly delayed. Cargo shipments were misplaced. Deliveries missed their marks.

Why? Because the railway workers were deliberately screwing things up… carefully.

They would reroute trains just slightly off course, causing delays of hours or even days. They’d switch out paperwork so that shipments ended up at the wrong destination. And they were masters of claiming “technical difficulties”—everything from broken brakes to faulty switches, all carefully engineered to create bottlenecks.

What made it so effective was that they weren’t breaking the rules. They were following them—just in a way that exposed every flaw in the system.

In one documented case, a supply train was delayed for two full days due to what was described as a “signal failure” near Krakow. The failure? A signal lever had been intentionally set at an incorrect angle, but only by a few degrees. It was enough to confuse incoming engineers and require an inspection, but not enough to be immediately flagged as sabotage.

Across the border in the Netherlands, Dutch civil servants pulled off a different kind of sabotage. When the Nazis demanded that Dutch officials identify Jewish citizens in government registries, many of the clerks… got sloppy. Entire filing systems were “lost” in office relocations. Ink was spilled—accidentally, of course—across critical pages. The names were there, but spelled just wrong enough to make tracking difficult. Officials claimed administrative overload and chronic filing errors. They complied—but their compliance was full of speed bumps.

Even in German-occupied Norway, bureaucratic compliance became a shield for resistance. Clerks dragged their feet, refiled paperwork, and used outdated forms. Permits were delayed. Approvals were bounced from one desk to another. The Nazis couldn’t prove anything was being done wrong—but they also couldn’t get anything done.

In all these cases, the resistance wasn’t armed. It didn’t require explosives or secret radio transmissions. It required knowing how a system works—and helping it fail from the inside.

Now, let’s shift our attention back to France.

When the Nazis invaded France in 1940, the country fell in just six weeks. Paris was occupied. The Vichy regime took power in the south, and the German military took control of factories, railroads, and communication systems. If you were a factory owner, you had two options: collaborate, or resist. Many resisted. And one of the most famous resisters did it from inside a car factory.

The Citroën automobile company was already well-known by the time of the war. Founded in 1919 by André Citroën, the company was famous for engineering innovation. They were the first to mass-produce front-wheel drive cars, and they had a reputation for sleek, modern designs. But by 1940, Citroën was no longer just a car company—it was a Nazi asset. German officers took over the factory and demanded trucks. Lots of trucks.

The man in charge of Citroën at the time was Pierre-Jules Boulanger. Boulanger had been running the company after André Citroën’s death and was known for his quiet, calculating leadership. He didn’t shout. He didn’t make speeches. But he was absolutely determined not to help the Nazis.

Boulanger understood the stakes. His factory was under German supervision. He and his workers were being watched. Any obvious sabotage would result in imprisonment or worse. So he chose a different path.

And this is where the story of Citroën’s malicious compliance begins.

So how do you sabotage a vehicle… without touching the engine, breaking the brakes, or raising any suspicion? Citroën’s engineers had an idea. A brilliant, subtle idea. They changed the oil dipsticks.

That’s right. You know the dipstick—the thin metal rod that shows how much oil is in your engine? Citroën engineers lowered the “full” line on those dipsticks. So when Nazi mechanics checked the oil, they filled it up to that line—thinking it was correct.

But it wasn’t. The engines were running low on oil. Not empty. Not enough to immediately notice. Just enough to slowly, inevitably destroy themselves.

Over time, the trucks began to fail. Engines seized. Vehicles stalled on supply runs. The German army couldn’t figure out why their brand-new Citroën trucks were breaking down. And all the while, the French engineers at the factory just kept nodding along and saying, “We’re doing our best.”

It was a masterclass in quiet sabotage. And it wasn’t the only trick up their sleeve.

Boulanger reportedly hung warning signs around the plant in German—signs that looked helpful but directed German soldiers away from sensitive areas. When the Nazis demanded production updates, the Citroën office delivered fake spreadsheets showing over-inflated numbers. The trucks didn’t exist. The numbers did.

Factory workers created fake breakdowns on the line. They claimed parts were missing. Or they reassembled components just slightly out of alignment. One former employee later recalled that “accidents” on the factory floor were staged so frequently, they had to rotate who got fake-injured just to keep it looking organic.

And yet, no one was arrested. The Gestapo suspected Boulanger, but they couldn’t pin anything on him. He was nearly executed several times, and he spent periods of the occupation in hiding. But he survived.

After the war, Boulanger was hailed as a hero. He helped relaunch Citroën as a postwar brand, and one of his first major projects was the Citroën 2CV—a small, durable car designed to mobilize rural France. It became a symbol of independence and renewal. The car that helped rebuild France had been designed by the same team that, years earlier, quietly wrecked German supply chains.

When people talk about resistance during wartime, they often think of spies and soldiers. But resistance comes in many forms. Sometimes, it comes in the form of a factory manager who says, “Yes, sir,” while quietly tanking your war effort. In the end, it turns out you don’t always need firepower to fight tyranny. Sometimes, all you need is a dipstick. The Internet Says it’s True.

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