17.
DRESSED UP AS A PLENIPOTENTIARY
42ND SQUADRON HEADQUARTERS,
ESLARN, BAVARIA, NEAR THE
CZECHOSLOVAKIAN BORDER, APRIL 26, 1945
Colonel Reed knew that there was little time to waste—at this point, only a matter of miles separated them from the rapidly advancing Russian front. If this mission was going to succeed at all, it had to happen fast, before somebody besides Patton got wind of it and had the good sense to tell them to knock it off.
Reed needed the right man to accompany Rudolf Lessing back to Hostau. The veterinarian said that he needed a field-grade officer, a major or higher. Well, there was no way Reed could agree to that. It was far too dangerous to send an officer of that rank on this fool’s mission. The German had cut through the woods to get there, and they’d need to send someone back the same way. Reed needed somebody who could ride horseback, someone smart and with enough panache to make himself believable as an emissary, somebody whom he trusted. And he knew just the man for the job: Tennessee-born Tom Stewart. Captain Stewart was never one to run off at the mouth; he could understand some German, so he wouldn’t be completely lost; and as a senator’s son, he had a composed, confident air. Most important, Stewart had grown up around horses in his native Tennessee and could undertake a cross-country ride without difficulty.
TOM STEWART HAD BEEN planning to see something miraculous that day. He and some of the fellows were going to pay a visit to a local village, Konnersreuth, where people claimed that a Bavarian woman showed the miracle of stigmata—marks on her body that mirrored those where Jesus was hung on the cross: on the soles of the feet, palms, and forehead. The woman, Therese Neumann, had been cured of partial paralysis while in her twenties. Now she wore bloody bandages on her hands, head, and feet from wounds that supposedly never healed, and was said to subsist entirely without water or food, consuming only the consecrated host at Mass once a week. Konnersreuth was near their headquarters, not far from the Czechoslovakian border. Some of the men were curious to see her—Stewart was not Catholic, but he was the grandson of a Methodist minister, and he had always been devout.
Tom Stewart had been setting up camp, dismantling camp, and moving on almost every day for months on end. His face was battle-weary, his uniform frayed, his combat boots scuffed from miles of trails. Although he was outwardly reserved, beneath Stewart’s calm demeanor and dutiful behavior lurked a deep well of suppressed emotion. One harrowing day while the 2nd was fighting across France, Stewart received an urgent order to relocate his men, since a dive-bombing raid was imminent. One of the soldiers refused to comply, insisting that leaving their secure spot behind the hedgerows would not be safe. While the rest of the men hurried to follow his order, Stewart ran back to demand that the recalcitrant soldier get a move on. At that exact moment, a dive-bomber unleashed its fiery payload. In a flash of searing fire, all five men who had willingly followed Stewart’s orders were killed on the spot—only he and the noncompliant soldier survived. Stewart had struggled since then to make sense of what had happened. So far, he’d come up short. He was a brave soldier, and he served without hesitation or question, but because of that day, he had retreated deeper into himself. As they prepared to visit the miraculous peasant of Konnersreuth, Stewart, understandably, was looking for some kind of blessing or sign.
But Stewart never got the chance to visit the woman marked by stigmata. Instead, he was ordered to return to 42nd Squadron headquarters at once. The fellows would have to go without him.
Colonel Hargis, commander of the 42nd, was waiting for him with a glum expression. “Colonel Reed wants to borrow you for a special mission,” he said. Accustomed to following orders, Stewart did not ask what kind of task he was wanted for. Ignoring Hargis’s bleakness, he hurried off to report to Reed.
Stewart arrived just in time to see Hank Reed and a sergeant getting out of the vehicle that held the colonel’s radio. Stewart didn’t know at the time that Reed had just received a message from Patton, commander of the Third Army. Reed told Stewart to go inside, that he would join him shortly.
Inside headquarters stood several American officers, including Sperl, whose bravery that morning with the capture of Walter Hölters had started the whole chain of events. With them was a young German officer who was introduced as Rudolf Lessing. The German spoke passable English with a clipped accent. His manner was polite and formal, but he was clearly ill at ease. When Stewart arrived, the German was talking about a place called Hostau, explaining to the Americans that most of the staff there were prisoners of war—primarily Yugoslavs and Poles—who were planning to flee to France in advance of the Russian Army. Dropped into the middle of the conversation, Stewart wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but Reed soon came back inside and brought him up to date. Just on the other side of the border was a collection of horses like no other in the world, and their lives were in danger. Reed had decided to see if he could help evacuate the horses to a safer location. This German officer was an emissary from the stud farm who had come to try to negotiate terms. Stewart was going to ride with Lessing behind enemy lines—and when Colonel Reed said “ride,” he meant on horseback. The object was to negotiate the peaceful surrender of the horse depot.
After three years in the cavalry, Stewart was an old hand, but this was the most improbable mission he’d ever encountered. Far from being flattered at the thought of being chosen, Stewart, in his typical self-effacing way, figured he’d been picked because everybody else was too important to risk. He thought of his buddies en route to see the blessed peasant of Konnersreuth, half-wishing he could go with them.
Before Stewart had much chance to think it over, his CO launched into a quick lesson in how to negotiate with a German general. At the same time, he set Sperl to work penning copies of notes in German and English, explaining that Captain Tom Stewart was an emissary from Colonel Reed.
“Be careful,” Reed cautioned. “If you give any sign that you understand German, the results may be fatal.” Reed knew that the Germans might speak freely in front of Stewart, giving out secret information in the belief that he didn’t understand. If the Germans realized that he had learned something confidential, they would take him prisoner—or perhaps execute him on the spot.
Stewart nodded. He understood the risk.
When Sperl handed him the notes, Stewart scanned the text and immediately objected. “The note says ‘emissary,’ ” he said. “Doesn’t that make me sound too much like a spy?”
Sperl and the others burst out laughing. “Well…?” Sperl said. “Sneaking across enemy lines on horseback to negotiate with the enemy? What else would you call it?”
Stewart shrugged. They had a point. All joking aside, he knew that this was a dangerous mission. Stewart still remembered when Jim Pitman had volunteered to travel blindfolded to a German-held château to negotiate with the enemy. Pitman never backed down from anything. Seven months had passed since that fatal morning in Lunéville, but the guys still thought about him every day. Stewart wasn’t the first person asked to take a risk out here—every man stepped up when his time came.
Stewart scanned Lessing’s guarded Teutonic face, looking for a sign that he could trust the man. But the German was reserved, correct, and silent. No sign was forthcoming. Stewart would have to take this one on faith.
In addition to the three pass notes, Ferdinand Sperl typed up another fake document in the highest-sounding German he could muster. Lacking proper stationery, Sperl tore a page out of the front of a book, neatly trimmed its ragged edge, and rolled it into his manual typewriter. The letter designated Tom Stewart as a plenipotentiary, an officer of sufficient rank to accept the surrender of the station. To this document, someone added the flourish of General Patton’s forged signature.
When all was ready, Reed made a firm pronouncement. “Captain Stewart must be returned safely behind American lines within twenty-four hours.”
Lessing nodded his assent.
“If he fails to return by the deadline, American troops will advance on Hostau, guns blazing.”
All three men understood what this meant. In a firefight for Hostau, the horses would be the losers.
The moment the preparations were completed, the two men returned to the 42nd Squadron, bivouacked a few miles away, where they would prepare for their departure. As Reed bade them goodbye, he didn’t say much, but Stewart could read his commander’s expression. This mission mattered to him—he wanted to save the horses. All over Europe, there were men whose express job was to protect cultural artifacts and recover stolen art. At the highest level, the American military was aware that even in the darkest times, care must be taken to protect irreplaceable cultural treasures. But the horses, equally beloved, equally treasured, infinitely precious because they were living things, did not have the same official protection afforded to museum pieces. Reed knew that no edict from the U.S. government would ever officially sanction his actions. He understood that saving these irreplaceable beasts was a choice he had to make, and a choice that came with exposing his soldiers to risk. In short, Hank Reed was trusting his gut.
By the time Stewart and Lessing arrived back at headquarters, the barracks was abuzz with the news: Captain Stewart was going to meet with a German general! His buddies pitched in, trying to help him get outfitted for this completely unexpected development. Someone produced a jacket—a bit too big, but it would have to do—and someone else handed him an overseas cap. Lessing was dressed to ride in his high black boots. Stewart would have to make do with his combat boots. Ready to leave in officer’s disguise, his plenipotentiary document stowed safely on his person, he was stopped by the commander of the 42nd Squadron, Colonel Hargis.
“You don’t have to go,” Hargis said in a serious tone, no doubt thinking it was foolhardy for a senator’s son to be undertaking such a dangerous mission. Not the most encouraging words to embark with. Stewart had already given his promise to Hank Reed, and he was not a man to back out on his word.
It was already nearing dusk when Stewart set off with Rudolf Lessing, armed only with his rudimentary knowledge of German, his impromptu documents, his pluck, and Lessing’s sworn oath that Captain Stewart would be returned unharmed to regimental headquarters no later than noon the following day.
Stewart and Lessing walked a short distance to retrieve the forester’s motorcycle and rode tandem up the road. By then it was dark, and to avoid drawing attention, they illuminated their path with only a pinpoint light. Soon they heard an airplane rumbling overhead. Lessing cut the motor and turned off the light.
“Don’t worry, that’s one of ours, Bed Check Charlie,” Stewart said. “You can pay him no mind.”
“That won’t stop him from shooting,” Lessing said.
Stewart chuckled. That was true indeed.
In the forester’s stable, Tom Stewart got his first look at the Lipizzaner stallion he would be riding. He had a well-formed head with a concave profile and a proud gleam in his soft, dark eyes. Stewart approached quietly, placing his hand gently on the animal’s shoulder while murmuring a greeting. The stallion turned his head and gazed quizzically at the stranger. Lessing explained that this horse was born at the royal Yugoslavian stud farm and once was King Peter’s favorite mount.
The groom had long since headed back to Hostau on foot. Lessing watched as Stewart checked the bridle and then tightened the girth. Stewart gathered the reins in one hand, put his left hand on the horse’s powerful crest, and, standing on the horse’s left side, put a foot in the stirrup, preparing to swing up into the saddle, each step in the correct manner of a practiced horseman. But once Stewart put his weight in the stirrup, the stallion became antsy, jigging in place. If the horse bolted when he was only half-mounted, Stewart was in danger of getting entangled and dragged. Lessing said nothing but watched with concern. The horse always tested new riders, and the German wondered if this cowboy was up to the task. To Lessing’s relief, Stewart decided to forgo using the stirrup; he grabbed a handful of the stallion’s mane and vaulted neatly onto the horse’s back. Once settled in the saddle, he leaned over to give the stallion a pat on the neck, grinned at Lessing and winked, and the two set off.
Lessing was in a hurry. It was already dark, and the pair had more than fifteen kilometers to cover. Rudofsky would be wondering where he was, and already the clock was ticking on Stewart’s deadline to return to the Americans.
The trail was narrow and threaded through mountainous forests. During daylight, it had not seemed menacing, but now it was difficult to see what lay before them. A ribbon of moonlight snaking through the trees helped illuminate their path, but the way was still shadowy and rife with potential traps. The Bohemian Forest had been a wild area for centuries, populated only by hearty dwellers who made their living from glassblowing, lace-making, and forestry. There was always the possibility of wild lynx lurking in the dark shadows. And more frightening than predatory animals, men with guns might be peering at them from hideouts among the trees. But for now, they heard nothing but the rustling of pine needles and the horses’ hoofbeats.
Before they had gone far, Stewart’s horse tripped on a hidden log, head and neck plunging as he struggled to maintain equilibrium. Lessing watched in horror as Stewart lost his balance at the sudden movement and toppled onto the ground. If the American or his horse had been injured, it would likely mean the end of their mission. But to his relief, Tom Stewart grinned, shrugged, and clambered right back onto the stately Lipizzaner’s back, none the worse for wear. Soon they were on their way again. Stewart appeared relaxed in the saddle and held the reins in one hand, western-style. Lessing still watched him warily, wondering if the American was adept enough to handle this nighttime ride on such a high-strung animal.
Eventually, they reached a barricade of brush across the road. On one side was a steep hill of rock; on the other side, a drop-off. Stewart asked if the barrier was mined, and when Lessing said no, Stewart walked his horse right up to it, looked it over, and then circled back around. Suddenly, he whizzed past Lessing at a brisk canter, heading straight for the barrier, up and forward in his stirrups in a well-trained jumping position.
“That horse doesn’t jump,” Lessing called out. But Stewart was already airborne, maintaining his erect and balanced forward seat. Rudolf shrugged, then proceeded to dismount and lead Indigo around the barrier on a narrow path that Stewart hadn’t noticed.
“So that’s how you were supposed to do it,” Stewart said, evidently much amused.
The rest of the ride proceeded uneventfully. By the time they reached Hostau, it was two o’clock in the morning. The small town’s streets were eerily silent. Lessing took Stewart straight to his own apartment, but when he arrived, he found the farm’s other veterinarian, Wolfgang Kroll, on vigil outside his door, a machine gun slung across his lap.
Tom Stewart, staring at the gun-toting soldier, could not have been more isolated at that moment—more than ten miles deep into Czechoslovakia, he may well have been farther east than any free American soldier that night. But Stewart was even more alone than he knew. What Reed had not shared with the young captain before sending him off on this nighttime journey was the substance of the message he had received from Patton on the jeep’s radio just as Stewart and Lessing were arriving to speak to him. Reed did not share the whole of what Patton had said with anyone—he kept that burden to himself. The general had told Reed to go ahead, but had added that if Reed acted on this decision to risk the lives of men to rescue horses, he was on his own.
Should the mission fail—if his men were lost, captured, or killed—Reed should say that the confused cavalrymen got lost behind enemy lines. Reed should know for certain that if the mission went awry, Patton would take no public responsibility for the decision.
Now Tom Stewart, alone and miles behind enemy lines, was listening to the rapid-fire discussion between the two German veterinarians with increasing alarm. During Lessing’s brief absence, much had changed—and an edict had been issued. Bringing an American to the farm would be regarded as an act of treason.