16.
THE PLAN
HOSTAU, CZECHOSLOVAKIA,
APRIL 26, 1945
Rudolf Lessing hurried toward Rudofsky’s office, where he had been summoned to see his commander. The call could mean anything—a horse with colic, a malpositioned foal, or any one of the countless problems that cropped up in the course of an average day. When Lessing entered Rudofsky’s office, the commander’s face was grave, and he held a letter in his hand.
Lessing listened thoughtfully as Rudofsky revealed the secret purpose of Hölters’s recent visit to Hostau; the colonel had urged him to consider evacuating the horses, but Rudofsky had been reluctant, believing that they would be safer staying put. But he had reconsidered. Hölters had seemed adamant that fleeing would be safer, and after much agonizing reflection, Rudofsky had decided he was right.
Rudofsky waved the letter toward Lessing. Just now a messenger had brought a note from Hölters promising an escape route for the horses. There were only two caveats: The plan was secret—and dangerous.
“An escape route?” Lessing asked. “But how? When?” He was thinking about the broodmares, some nearly ready to foal, others with tiny offspring at their side.
But the urgency on Rudofsky’s face was unmistakable. They needed to take immediate action. Lessing was to ride horseback into the thick forest that ran along both sides of the German-Czechoslovakian border and locate a forester’s house where he would make contact with Colonel Hölters. To avoid raising suspicion, Rudofsky would remain on the farm. Lessing should take along a groom riding a second horse in case he needed to bring back a negotiator. They could trust no one. A wrong word or action, no matter how innocent, could lead to the most serious consequences.
His head spinning with a million unanswered questions, Lessing nodded curtly in agreement and left immediately for the stables.
In the close quarters of the stall, he spoke softly to his Thoroughbred, Indigo, as he hoisted the saddle on the horse’s back and tightened the girth. Indigo—so named because his coat was so black it appeared almost blue—had started out life as a racehorse, and back in more peaceful times, he had been a frequent winner. These days, he had a far humbler task: carrying the veterinarian to house calls at neighboring farms. Today, Lessing would trust Indigo to carry him up a mountain path deep into the forest—likely the most important ride of his life.
Lessing and the groom set off at a brisk trot. Lessing rode as if in a hurry, his straight back inclined forward, his heels sunk down. Indigo stretched his nose out, his long strides quickly covering ground. Alongside him, in sharp contrast to his pitch-black companion, was a white Yugoslavian Lipizzaner stallion whose snow-white mane floated from his powerful arched crest and high-set tail billowed behind him like clean sheets on a line.
LESSING RIDING INDIGO.
As a veterinarian, Lessing often crossed the rolling countryside on horseback. The farm at Hostau, over fifteen hundred acres of pasture, all told, had several ancillary stations, and when Lessing wasn’t caring for the horses of Hostau, he took calls for private owners. He had clocked many miles in the saddle on these lands, and he was at ease in the fields and country lanes. But Lessing knew that this ride was different. He was taking a great risk that might end badly. Trying not to think about his wife and daughters, who lived with him in an apartment on the farm and did not know anything unusual was afoot, he willed himself to keep his wits about him.
As they got closer to the edge of the forest, Lessing’s anxiety started to abate. Taking action felt better than the previous weeks of uncertainty and waiting. They reached the forest’s edge and entered its shaded pathways. Dark-coated Indigo was swallowed up in the black shadows, while the Lipizzaner at his side glowed like a pale moon. At last, the pair came to the designated forester’s lodge deep in the woods. They approached cautiously, unsure what they would find there.
The forester was at home. Lessing inquired as to the whereabouts of the German colonel, but the man explained that Colonel Hölters had departed, and furthermore, he believed that he might be in American captivity. The forester offered the use of his stables and his motorcycle should Lessing wish to proceed in his search, but warned the veterinarian that he might run into American patrols if he ventured much farther. Unprepared for this news, Lessing pondered his options. Perhaps the smartest choice was to turn around. But Rudofsky had told him to make contact with Colonel Hölters. If he returned to Hostau, then what? They had no backup plan.
Lessing decided to leave the horses with the groom in the safety of the forester’s stable and proceed on the borrowed motorcycle. It was late afternoon, and getting cold. Deep in the forest, the shadows gathered fast. The sound of the motorcycle’s engine battered his ears like gunfire.
“HANDS UP!” AMERICAN SOLDIERS toting machine guns suddenly blocked his path.
Lessing cut the motor and froze. He searched his mind for English words, but his tongue was heavy, his mind blank. The American soldiers stared at him, guns pointed directly at his chest. Lessing raised his hands over his head. Haltingly, expecting them to doubt him, he explained that he was a veterinarian from a nearby horse-breeding farm, but the GIs seemed unsurprised to find him there. Fear and wild thoughts started banging around his brain. He knew nothing of Americans except that they were enemies, and now he was their prisoner.
The sentries signaled to him to proceed up the road on foot. A little ahead, they came to a waiting American jeep and told Lessing to climb aboard. Now he learned his destination: He was being taken to speak to their commander at regimental headquarters.
As the jeep rattled up the road, Lessing tried to remind himself that he was doing this for the sake of the horses. He wasn’t sure what it might mean for him—a prison camp? Worse? They covered the short distance to 2nd Cavalry headquarters in no time. Before he had time to reflect upon his situation, he was standing face-to-face with an American colonel. Lessing made a split-second decision. Even though he had not been expecting to meet American soldiers, why not press the horses’ case to his captors? He figured he had nothing to lose.
SO FAR, THE PLAN had worked. Here before Reed stood a young German veterinary officer. The man was good-looking and built like a rider, with a slender torso and long, thin legs. He was several inches taller than Reed, and over a decade younger, and clearly terrified. Fortunately, the German was able to communicate in English. Reed listened as the man carefully chose his words, explaining about the nearby remount depot and the valuable horses hidden there.
Wanting to set the young officer at ease, Reed quickly explained that he was aware of the horses in Hostau and understood they were in immediate danger. Lessing was surprised to learn that the Americans already knew about the horses, but he didn’t let on. Instead, he pretended that he had come to the Americans with the express purpose of asking for their help. He could only hope that his action would meet with Rudofsky’s approval.
“The horses are in danger,” Lessing said. “That is why I’ve come.”
Reed assured the young officer that he had a plan: The German staff of the stud farm needed to transport the horses over the border. From there, the Americans would ensure their safety.
Perhaps Reed could see the crushing disappointment in the eyes of the veterinarian. Lessing was keenly aware that he did not have permission from Rudofsky to open a negotiation with the Americans, yet here was an opportunity that could not be missed. Hesitant but determined, Lessing began to slowly explain why Reed’s proposal would never work. It was foaling season on the farm. Many of the mares had recently given birth or were just about to. They couldn’t travel that distance on such short notice; the mares and foals could never walk that far, and they didn’t have enough men or trucks, not to mention gasoline, to ship the horses—besides, there were so many horses at Hostau, several hundred, most of them snow-white in color. How could they possibly escape without notice? Lessing tried to be both calm and forceful as he explained what needed to be done. The American army needed to occupy Hostau.
Lessing hastened to explain that he was certain that his commander, Colonel Rudofsky, would agree to surrender the depot. The veterinarian sounded more confident than he felt. Rudofsky had made no such promise.
“Regardless of what you decide,” Lessing finished, “I do not have the authority to make this decision. Give me an American officer. The officer should come with me and speak with my superior.” Lessing mentioned the two horses in the forester’s lodge and said that the American officer could ride back with him easily.
Reed gave no sign of what he was thinking, but he knew something that Lessing did not. Commanding officer though he was, Reed did not have permission to take his troops across the border to Czechoslovakia. In February, at the Yalta Conference, Roosevelt and Churchill had agreed with Stalin that everything east of the border with Germany proper would henceforth be under Russian control. As of April 21, a restraining line had been drawn along the border of Czechoslovakia. American troops were forbidden from advancing past this line in force. The continuing cold, the muddy roads, and the snow in the mountains hampered movement, but the 2nd Cavalry, along with the 90th Infantry, stood ready to enter Czechoslovakia as soon as they received orders. However, for the time being, they had advanced as close to the border as they were allowed to go. The horses might be tantalizingly close, but at the same time, they were heartbreakingly out of reach.
Reed considered his options. Could he risk lives and manpower on a crazy mission to save a group of horses? Putting men at risk was never an easy decision. But abandoning the horses just didn’t feel right to him. He could not easily forget the cavalry lesson instilled into him for over twenty years: Horses should always be treated well.
He ticked through a mental list of what would be needed—men and firepower to be assembled on a moment’s notice. The 2nd never stayed in one place for long; in a matter of days or even hours, he’d be getting orders to move on to another assignment. If he sent an officer to negotiate, the man would have to sneak across the border right under the noses of the enemy, and if he got caught, he’d have to keep what he was up to a secret—perhaps even under torture. Sober minds could certainly call Reed deluded or foolish for even contemplating this maneuver.
The more Reed thought about it, the more he realized there was just one man in the army who might be crazy enough to agree to a scheme like this: the man who had said of the cavalryman, “You must be: a horse master; a scholar; a high minded gentleman; a cold blooded hero; a hot blooded savage. At one and the same time, you must be a wise man and a fool.” The man who might be just enough of a wise man and a fool to agree to this plan was Hank’s old polo buddy and mentor: the commander in chief of the Third Army, General George S. Patton.