HOSTAU, CZECHOSLOVAKIA,
APRIL 28, MORNING
The morning after his safe return, Stewart was mounted up again—this time in a jeep, in command of a hastily assembled task force of about seventy men from the 42nd Squadron of the 2nd Cavalry. Accompanied by two tanks and two assault guns, they were headed over the border into Czechoslovakia, though only the officers knew their precise mission. The rest of the soldiers had been told only that their objective was to take control of a specific location—nothing about the horses hidden there. During their negotiations, the Germans had promised Stewart that their troops would not defend the stud farm but had not guaranteed them safe passage. The Americans would have to fight off any resistance encountered on the way there. As Stewart ventured across the border into Czechoslovakia, he and his men were on high alert.
The cavalrymen of the 2nd had no way to predict the strength of the German forces in this unconquered area that lay to the east. For weeks, they had been hearing about the “last redoubt,” where the Germans were rumored to be gathered in strength to dig in and fight to the end. For over a week, the entire Third Army had been champing at the bit, prepared to advance into Czechoslovakia and crush whatever was left of the opposition, if given the order. But for now, that mighty army remained behind them. On April 28, as the small task force headed out, they were supremely aware that they were operating behind enemy lines with little reinforcement. Unknown to Stewart and his men, the German Seventh Army, quartered in nearby Klattau, near Pilsen—about sixty miles to the east of the American location—was so low on fuel that they were mostly immobilized, unable to move their armor en masse. Instead, they were concentrating their energy on putting up mined roadblocks, increasing the danger that the Americans could be hit by lethal sniper fire.
REED HAD DIVIDED THE TASK FORCE into three parts. The men of Troop A, commanded by Stewart, would approach Hostau from the north, crossing through the town of Weissensulz. Meanwhile, Troop F had set off due east toward Hostau, following the more direct route that Stewart had ridden on horseback. A third group—the men of Troop C—were also in the vicinity, under orders to look for a large group of POWs reported to be in the area.
Stewart’s convoy of tanks, armored cars, assault guns, and jeeps proceeded slowly, on constant lookout for resistance. Small bands of roving Germans were scattered throughout the area. Some were fight-to-the-death SS snipers. But many were defectors looking to steal gas and provisions so they could flee to Germany in advance of the Russians. One thing was certain: Anyone Stewart’s men came across out here would not be a friendly face.
Shortly after they crossed the border into Czechoslovakia, they faced a brief flurry of gunfire. Returning fire with their machine guns, they quickly subdued the inferior force. Stewart had a funny feeling that the same officers who had given their word to him the day before were now shooting at him; he was not surprised when he found Colonel Trost, the man who had signed his letter of safe passage just a day before, among the wounded. The opposition quelled, Stewart and his men continued slowly toward Hostau.
IN THE MEANTIME, AT HOSTAU, Hubert Rudofsky could hear the American tanks approaching. From time to time, a sparse scattering of gunfire echoed in the distance. People on the farm were milling around anxiously—some grenades had exploded in the pastures, spooking the horses though doing no damage. General Schulze, whose arrival the previous day had thrown the farm into turmoil, seemed to have little control over his ill-assorted troops: nervous-looking boys too young to be in uniform who scurried around with no apparent purpose. Rudofsky, afraid of the pandemonium that would take hold at any sign of approaching American troops, stood watch in front of the stables. He scanned the horizon, hoping that Lessing would return soon.
It was then that Rudofsky saw General Schulze, clearly agitated, hurrying toward his large Mercedes. Behind him trailed anxious-looking lackeys loaded down with suitcases. Rudofsky watched with relief as Schulze climbed into his chauffeur-driven car while his servants piled the luggage into the trunk. A moment later, the Mercedes careened out the farm’s front gates. Soon after, the general’s ragged militia with their horse-drawn artillery started filing out of town. The teenage Volkssturm fighters looked giddy, relieved that they would not have to fight. Just then, Rudofsky saw Lessing and Indigo tearing over the crest of the hill. Arriving at the stud farm a moment later, the veterinarian recounted breathlessly that American tanks were just a few miles away. By then, the general was already gone, leaving nothing but a plume of dust behind him.
Rudofsky’s thoughts strayed to his family in Bischofteinitz, eight miles to the east and still firmly under Nazi control. In the past few days, the Hitler Youth and Volkssturm militia had started throwing up roadblocks all around the town, preparing to mount a final defense. One of the barriers was on the bridge directly across from his brother’s house—from its windows, the family could see militia members hiding behind the castle walls and between tombstones in the cemetery. Just last week, Rudofsky had seen his nephew camped behind a bunker with a gun in hand. Ulli, a slight towheaded boy with a bright face, was by now a few days shy of ten. Rudofsky had taken the gun from his nephew’s hands and told him, “This is no business for you.” He hoped that the boy had the sense to keep himself out of trouble.
Honor-bound to remain with the horses, Rudofsky pushed his personal concerns out of his mind as he waited for the Americans to arrive. He knew nothing of the approaching enemy except what he’d heard over clandestine radio broadcasts. These unknown men would soon hold the horses’ destiny in their hands—and Rudofsky had no way of knowing what they would choose to do with them. The weight of his responsibility hung heavily upon him. Hubert Rudofsky, Austrian by birth, would go down in history as the man who gave away the emperor’s horses. He had chosen to put their safety first. Only time would tell if he had made the right decision.
Down in the stables, the horses could almost certainly hear the distant rumble of approaching tanks, but they would have had no way of knowing that today would mark yet another turning point in their lives. Madera, Witez, Favory Slavonia, the Lipizzaner stallion from Croatia—every horse living at Hostau had come from somewhere else. The atmosphere in the stable was restless; the horses could sense tension and fear in the air.
Hastily, Rudofsky pulled down the portrait of Hitler and hid anything with a Nazi insignia. Together, he and Lessing hung white bedsheets out the windows. Grasping another white sheet between them, they strode out the farm’s front gates and started up the road that swung through the center of town, heading to meet their conquerors.
THE MEN OF F TROOP were retracing Stewart and Lessing’s path through the woods, the most direct route to Hostau. In command of one platoon was one of Reed’s most reliable men, Captain William Donald “Quin” Quinlivan, a career soldier in the old horse cavalry who had enlisted at seventeen after running away from home and lying about his age. A strong leader, he was eventually promoted into the officer corps. As the streaks of dawn barely illuminated a heavy gray sky, Quinlivan headed out toward Hostau, knowing full well that the woods would give sharpshooters ample places to hide. Stewart and Lessing had passed through the woods unscathed, but on horseback, they had been able to travel quietly. The captain’s noisy motorized procession made his men easy targets. Quinlivan had a soft core and a tough demeanor—he adored all animals, but he knew how to ride herd on his men. Before they had set off, Quinlivan had overheard some grumbling about their mission; everyone knew the war was almost over and nobody wanted to get himself killed now, with an end finally in sight.
Quinlivan also had his own concerns, but he kept them to himself. As they rattled along under the low morning sky, he was thinking about his family back home. He had grown up in a devout Catholic family in the rough-and-tumble Mississippi River town of East Dubuque, Illinois, otherwise known as “Sin City.” His mother, Madonna, already had one gold star hanging in her window. Her oldest son, Quinlivan’s big brother Bert, had been killed in a training mission over Nova Scotia in 1940. Quinlivan didn’t want his mother ever to receive another telegram from the War Department. He hated to think how she would feel if she found out she’d lost him over some damn fool mission to rescue a bunch of horses.
As their vehicles rumbled through the forest, Lieutenant Quinlivan stayed on high alert, snapping to attention at the slightest movement or sound. He peered through the trees that lined the road, aware how easy it would be for enemy soldiers to hide in the dense foliage. But the forest around them remained dark and still. Soon, they were blinking in bright sunlight as they emerged from the woods. They passed through several small villages, their whitewashed facades brightened by flowers blooming in window boxes. Not a soul was on the streets. After traveling a few miles, the troop crested a hill. Spread out below them was the village of Hostau. Quinlivan could see its most visible feature, the Church of St. James, its onion-shaped spire pointing up toward the heavens. Adjacent to the village was the horse farm with its rows of white stables and neatly fenced pastures. Groups of white horses were scattered across the fields, some with coal-black foals at their side. At the sound of the approaching troops, they spun and tore off at a gallop, seeming to float upon the wind. Quinlivan sucked in his breath with appreciation. Cautiously, if not quietly, F Troop proceeded down the hill.
WHILE QUINLIVAN’S MEN WERE arriving in Hostau, Stewart and Troop A were still en route. After an initial burst of resistance, the task force had proceeded unhindered. But now they sat at a village crossroads, poring over their maps. This village was not Weissensulz, the one they were expecting from their maps. Forced to double back after an apparent wrong turn, Stewart’s A Troop would not make it to Hostau for several more hours.
QUINLIVAN AND F TROOP were already rolling up to the edge of town. It was here that they came upon two Germans in full dress uniform: a tall man with round spectacles and a proud, guarded face—Hubert Rudofsky—and a slim veterinary officer—Rudolf Lessing. Between them, they held a white bedsheet.
A moment later, the Americans drove through the gates that led into the horse farm. Hubert Rudofsky gave the order: The German flag came down. The Stars and Stripes shimmied up the flagpole and began to flutter in the wind. Hubert Rudofsky and Rudolf Lessing surrendered their hand-wrought ceremonial swords.
Hitler’s secret super stud farm was under American rule.