CHAPTER 5

Operation Sauerkraut

“It would be a great shame if these unique animals fell into the hands of the Bolsheviks.”

Lieutenant Colonel Walter Holters

“Got your chopper, soldier?” Captain Ferdinand Sperl asked his driver, as he climbed into the passenger seat of “Chez Stubby,” his battered and worn jeep, on April 26, 1945.

“You bet, Cap’n,” replied the grinning IPW 10 noncom, pointing to the Thompson sub-machine gun that was tucked in beside his seat.

“Right… let’s move out,” ordered Sperl. Operation Sauerkraut was a go. Sperl, his driver and a couple of his men in the back of the jeep would take the surrender of Dienststelle Ost deep in the Bohemian Forest at dusk.

Squeezed in with Sperl’s men and their weapons was Lieutenant Colonel Holters, bundled up against the cold in his Luftwaffe greatcoat and cap. The first part of Sauerkraut was a reconnaissance mission to the hunting lodge at Dianahof where the valuable intelligence trove was buried. If Sperl was happy with what he found at Dianahof, phase two would entail the safe removal of the documents and the German personnel to the American lines.

The jeep bumped its way along mountainous roads and tracks, Holters helping to direct the driver. The Americans were twitchy, constantly scanning the dark forest, alert to movement and well aware that they had already passed behind the German lines.

“Here we go,” said Sperl, turning to speak to his men and Holters in the back of the jeep. “Stay sharp,” he added, his hands tightening around the stock of his M1. The driver slowed to a crawl as a German sentry post appeared, barring the road ahead. Two Luftwaffe soldiers unslung their rifles and stared at the American jeep that had appeared unexpectedly around a corner in the forest road. Colonel Holters jumped down from the jeep waving his arms and engaged them in heated discussion for a few seconds. Eventually, the NCO in charge of the checkpoint slung his rifle, saluted and ordered the other man to stand aside. Holters jogged back over to the jeep and struggled aboard.

“Okay,” said Sperl slowly, “let’s move out.” The driver gunned the engine and the jeep passed slowly through the checkpoint, the two sentries staring at the Americans as they passed. The jeep powered on, its engine noisy in the eerie forest, every man aboard the vehicle aware of how vulnerable they were to enemy fire should they drive into an ambush.

Sperl knew that the really unknown factor in this operation to save the horses was not so much the regular German Army; rather it was the Waffen-SS. The army was still dangerous and some officers and men were clearly still spoiling for a fight with the Americans, but many were either going through the motions of following increasingly desperate orders or actively looking to surrender. But the Waffen-SS, as political soldiers, had their fates ultimately tied to the survival of the Nazi regime, and remained fanatical even in the face of defeat.

And with the added problem of a heavily armed Kampfgruppe from the army’s 11th Panzer Division firmly ensconced at Taus, only a dozen miles from Hostau, the chances of Sperl running into elements of either unit was high. By taking secondary roads and trails to Dianahof, Sperl at least avoided any confrontation with the handful of army battalions and Volkssturm that were entrenched in positions—at mercifully large intervals—to cover the main roads.¹

Lieutenant Colonel Hubert Rudofsky got slowly to his feet, brushing dust and dirt from his previously immaculate uniform. The shelling of the stud at Hostau had stopped as abruptly as it had begun. A cloud of smoke and dust drifted lazily across the grounds from the impacts, but no more shells appeared to be coming. Reports arrived that the horses were all okay—by a miracle the shells had landed in unoccupied fields close by or in the grounds of the castle.

Rudofsky was alarmed to see that the sudden barrage had considerably shaken the Volkssturm and Hitler Youth representatives who had been working on the stud’s defenses. They were running around, shouting and behaving in a generally unmilitary fashion. Everyone waited tensely, but no more shells arrived.

Who had been firing? It must have been the Americans, as they were thought to be the closest. But why target Hostau? Probably ranging shots or strays, thought Rudofsky hopefully. As the firing was not concentrated, it clearly did not herald an attack. But it gave everyone at Hostau pause for thought. If those shells had landed on the stables or amid the horses out to pasture, the consequences would have been horrific. Normality slowly returned to the stud, but the artillery fire unsettled Rudofsky. It didn’t appear to bode well for the future.

The hunting lodge at Dianahof was impressive—a three-storey white building set atop a 1,800-foot-high wooded mountain ridge. It had belonged to Count Coudenhove-Kalergi before being requisitioned by the mysterious Colonel Holters and his men.

Captain Sperl’s jeep came to a halt before the grand entrance and everyone jumped down stiffly, carrying their weapons. Drawn up beside the entrance drive was a collection of German air force trucks and a Kübelwagen field car, their gas tanks dry. Several German officers and men came out of the house and stood eyeing the steel-helmeted and heavily armed Americans with suspicion.

Holters motioned for Sperl and his men to follow him inside. Their boots rang loudly on the entrance hall floor as they trooped into what had once been the Count’s long dining room. Holters motioned that the Americans should sit at the large dining table, around which already sat many of Holter’s personnel, including some female clerks. Several large candelabra burned brightly down the middle of the polished table, giving the rather gloomy room a warm and inviting glow as Holters laid out Colonel Reed’s surrender terms to his staff. There was an animated discussion among the Germans before Holters turned to Sperl.

“Captain, as soldiers we have all taken an oath to the Führer,” said Holters, standing at one end of the long table, the flickering of the candles glinting off the decorations pinned to his left breast pocket. “We cannot surrender without resistance.”

“I understand, Colonel,” replied Sperl slowly. Holters and some of the other German officers desired to have an “honorable” end to their wartime service. After all, many still had family in Germany within reach of the Gestapo, which still functioned. Sperl discussed the matter at some length, in the process forming a novel plan.

“So, it is agreed,” recapped Sperl in German. “I shall return to the American lines, gather more of my men, vehicles and fuel, and return here. I shall then ‘attack’ the lodge. After a suitable display of gunfire, you can surrender. If anyone comes looking, they will find evidence of a battle having taken place. The records and German personnel will then be evacuated as agreed.”² In the meantime, Sperl demanded that Holters order his men to excavate the buried crates and stack them outside the lodge ready for collection when he returned with the task force at dawn the next day. He had no intention of lingering for a moment longer than he had to. Colonel Holters nodded solemnly. All those around the table appeared to be in agreement.

Minutes later, as the Germans formed work parties for the excavation of the crates, Sperl’s jeep roared away from the lodge and disappeared into the forest.

“Jesus Christ!” Sperl exclaimed, as incoming rounds pinged off the side of his jeep. He was on his second trip to the hunting lodge, bringing with him a small task force for the purpose of retrieving the crates and personnel. Behind him on the winding mountain road German bullets stitched across the dirt or thumped against the armor of two M24 Chaffee tanks that the 42nd’s CO Lieutenant Colonel Hargis had detached to assist Sperl’s return mission to Dianahof. Sperl, shouldering his M1 as his driver hit the gas, loosed off a volley into the trees, but he couldn’t see any enemy. Behind him, the machine guns on the tanks and two M8 armored cars joined in, hosing the woods with indiscriminate fire.

The little task force, a couple of trucks and some more jeeps huddled in among the armor, did not stop but pushed on to the lodge, quickly leaving the German firing behind. They had been lucky—the enemy fire had been wild and inaccurate and none of the Americans had been hurt.

A mile or so later and Sperl’s jeep led the column through a now-deserted sentry point and pulled up outside the lodge. Sperl immediately jumped down from his jeep and rushed over to where Colonel Holters and some of his men were standing with anxious expressions on their faces.

“You heard the firing, Colonel?” said Sperl. Holters nodded, noticing the bullet scars on the American vehicles.

“We must be quick, Captain,” replied Holters, his eyes nervously scanning the surrounding woods. Enemy forces could be closing on the lodge as they spoke—following the American task force’s route. Holters glanced again down the line of olive-drab American vehicles, each emblazoned with a large white star on either side, some bearing dents or holes from bullets, and he worried even more. It was a puny force considering that German Panzers and SS troops were suspected to be in the area.

“Get those crates loaded!” yelled Sperl, pointing at the large pile of mud-encrusted wooden boxes, his carbine slung over his right shoulder, setting both his men and the Germans to the task. Working together at a feverish pace, the GIs and Luftwaffe men heaved and shouldered the heavy wooden crates into the American six-by-sixes, as the GIs called their large six-wheeled trucks. Others fueled Holters’ Kübelwagen and some Opel Blitz trucks using US jerrycans brought up for this express purpose.

Sperl glanced nervously at his watch.

“Come on, let’s move it!” he shouted, as he scanned the dark green forest that surrounded the house. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, the last crates were loaded and a sergeant ran over and saluted.

“Loading complete, sir,” he said, rather breathlessly. In total, there were twelve truckloads of documents, representing an enormous cache of material.³

“Right, let’s roll!” replied Sperl, clapping him on the back as he turned to find Colonel Holters.

“Please load your people on the German truck, Colonel,” he said, pointing to the Opel Blitz. “You and the other officers can come in the jeeps and in your field car.” Holters needed no encouragement—he was as eager to be away from Dianahof as Sperl and the GIs were.

Now all that remained was the “surrender.” Sperl directed one tank, the trucks, jeeps and one armored car to start back down the mountain road towards the American lines while Sperl’s jeep, with Holters seated once more in the back, pulled a safe distance away from the lodge. A Chaffee tank suddenly fired several 75mm high explosive rounds at the empty building, its windows imploding as the shells tore large holes in its formerly immaculate façade. Fires started to break out inside the lodge as the furniture and fittings caught alight. The tank ceased firing and the one remaining M8 Greyhound opened up, its 37mm cannon and machine guns thumping away to give the impression to any listening Germans of an exchange of fire between the American task force and Holters’ unit. Honor satisfied, Sperl’s jeep and the American armor headed for home as the hunting lodge smoldered behind them, a tall column of black smoke rising above the forest canopy. As his jeep thundered along the mountain road Sperl radioed ahead to Colonel Reed, telling him that the mission was a success and the prisoners were in the bag.⁴

The ultimate authority who would decide the fate of the horses and men at Hostau was not Colonel Hank Reed. Instead, the responsibility lay with the commander of the US Third Army, 60-year-old General George S. Patton.

Fortunately for Reed, his commanding general was depressed. He was depressed because it looked like the Germans were beaten and the war was going to end very soon. Patton loved war and he dreaded the peace to come. He was a man of immense energy and dash who had first tasted action in 1916 against Pancho Villa in Mexico. By late April 1945 the Third Army found itself sliding down the German–Czech border, forbidden by Eisenhower from advancing on the great prize of Prague. It looked like the Third Army’s war, rather than ending with the triumphant liberation of the Czech capital, would instead involve trundling despondently into the foothills of the Alps gathering up demoralized German prisoners, while the Red Army snatched all of the laurels of victory. Patton wrote: “There is nothing of interest happening… The war is sort of dragging its end out to a non-spectacular termination… I feel lower than whale tracks on the bottom of the ocean.”

So when one of Third Army’s most daring and competent cavalry colonels radioed through a request for permission to rescue world-famous horses and Allied POWs beyond the American front line, Patton took notice. It was just the kind of mission he loved, but, being a realist, he would have to be careful to make sure that the operation was handled diplomatically.

Colonel Reed waited nervously for Patton’s reply to trickle down through the long chain of command via Third Army then XII Corps and finally 2nd Cavalry Group, pacing up and down smoking cigarettes inside his farmhouse headquarters at Vohenstrauss, girding himself for a refusal. It seemed only logical, what with the Third Army’s changed mission and the deal with the Soviets concerning the postwar occupation of Czechoslovakia.

“Radio message, sir,” said a voice at his elbow, instantly breaking his reverie. Reed turned and found a young headquarters corporal waiting just inside the door, a pensive expression on his face. Reed followed him straight through to the radio room, where the operator was hastily writing down a message on his signal pad.

“Well?” asked Reed, bracing himself.

“Message reads: ‘Get them. Make it fast. You will have new mission’,”⁵ read the clerk carefully.

“God damn!” exclaimed Reed ecstatically, “we’re in business. Send the acknowledgment.”

It was no secret in Third Army that General Patton loathed communists. His loathing for the Soviets had been considerably heightened as early as December 1943, when Free Polish leader General Anders had briefed him about the 1940 Katyn Massacre, in which the NKVD had shot thousands of Polish officers and intellectuals and then tried to blame the crime on the Germans. “If I ever marched my corps of two divisions in between the Russians and the Germans,” Patton had declared at the time, “I’d attack in both directions!”⁶ Later, in 1945, at an important dinner, Patton had given voice to these feelings again. “At dinner I stated that in my opinion Germany was so completely blacked out that so far as military resistance was concerned they were not a menace and that what we had to look out for was Russia. This caused a considerable furor.”⁷ Preventing the world’s most famous and valuable horses from falling into Stalin’s hands was an aim entirely in keeping with Patton’s anti-communist and anti-Soviet views.

The window of opportunity for sorting out the problem at Hostau would be measured in only a few hours, judging by the last part of Patton’s message about having a new mission. An “eyes and ears” outfit like the 2nd Cavalry Group could expect to be in the vanguard once Patton moved again.

It was not an official order from Patton, but rather “off the record.” There were no further details and it was clear that Colonel Reed had some latitude of action. Patton would look the other way while Reed acted. It would be up to Reed to decide in what form the mission would be framed. If Reed was successful and the horses and POWs were brought into Allied lines Patton could take his share of the credit. And, importantly for Patton, if it went wrong his comment would be that some dumb cavalry colonel had “gotten lost in Western Czechoslovakia.” There would be no official blessing from Patton.⁸

Reed was delighted—he was out on a limb but he felt that saving the horses was far more important than his own reputation. As he was to say later, “We were so tired of death and destruction; we wanted to do something beautiful.”⁹ Saving the beautiful horses at Hostau would be a very special end to his regiment’s nine months of unremitting slaughter and destruction across the breadth of Western Europe.

Reed could now consider making firm plans. It was more than a little daunting. Risking his men’s necks this late in the war was to be avoided if at all possible. It was imperative that he found some solution that would minimize the danger to his young, war-weary troopers but still bring in the big prize.

After Captain Sperl, following the successful completion of Operation Sauerkraut, had delivered Colonel Holters intact to Reed’s headquarters, the German immediately volunteered to help. He drafted a short note and handed it to his orderly, telling him to take it to Colonel Rudofsky at the stud, and to wait for a reply. Reed and Sperl stood outside the farmhouse and watched as the German orderly, suddenly no longer a prisoner, mounted a borrowed bicycle and cycled off in the direction of Hostau. It seemed an incongruous beginning to such an important operation. For now, Reed could do nothing but await the outcome of his opening gambit.

Colonel Rudofsky glanced briefly at the note of which he had just taken delivery, then called Captains Lessing and Kroll, the two veterinary officers, to his castle office for a meeting.

The three officers sat around Rudofsky’s desk, a black-and-white photograph of Adolf Hitler, his eyes looking down balefully at the men, hanging on the wall behind the colonel’s chair. Rudofsky explained whence the note originated and then read it aloud to the two veterinarians.

“I send you these lines with the request immediately to send one of your officers, authorized by me, here to discuss the transfer of the horses to Bavaria as fast as possible.” Rudofsky paused and Lessing and Kroll exchanged glances, Kroll raising one eyebrow but saying nothing. Rudofsky cleared his throat and continued. “It would be a great shame if these unique animals fell into the hands of the Bolsheviks,” he read. “I have the opportunity to safely escort you and the horses through the lines. This matter needs, however, your immediate response. Nobody should learn anything about this except you, because the threat of betrayal is everywhere. Signed Lieutenant Colonel Holters, etc, etc.”¹⁰ Rudofsky finished reading and leaned back in his creaking wooden chair, adjusting his steel-rimmed Himmler-style glasses. He and Holters had chatted on many occasions, and the Luftwaffe officer had shown great concern for the fate of the horses. His last conversation with Holters before they had parted still rang uncomfortably in the loyal stud commander’s ears:

“Vienna has already fallen to the Ivans, Rudofsky,” Holters had said passionately, using the German Army slang term for Soviet soldiers. “The Red Army is just outside Pilsen, less than 60 kilometers away. For God’s sake, Hubert, they will be here before you know it! You must make contact with the Americans. They are not far—just over the border to Bavaria. Perhaps you can deliver the horses to them. It’s your only hope.”¹¹

“I’m not in the treason business, Holters!” Rudofsky had snapped back at the time, horrified by the idea of voluntarily surrendering to the enemy, but Holters’ comments about the Soviets had nonetheless unsettled him. Holters had continued to press his point, casting a gesture towards a paddock where several white Lipizzaner mares were standing quietly or grazing contentedly, black foals nuzzling at their teats for milk or prancing around playing, all long legs and awkward, jerky movements.

“You know that I’ve spent most of the war in the east,” Holters had said, his face flushed with anger and frustration. “The Bolshevik swine care nothing for horses. When they arrive here they will slaughter them on the spot and fry them up as steaks to feed their hungry troops!”¹² Rudofsky had tugged at his stiff uniform collar, which suddenly felt too tight.

“You are in the greatest danger, and you must act now to save them!” Holters had pleaded angrily, his eyes flashing beneath the visor of his air force cap. With this angry exchange Rudofsky and Holters had parted company for good.

After Holters had left the stud, Rudofsky, seriously upset by the glimpse of the grim possible future that Holters had forced him to confront, had contacted his headquarters in besieged Berlin asking for instructions. It was the natural response to the unfolding crisis—Rudofsky wanted clarification from higher command, to shift the responsibility for deciding the fate of the horses and its people to someone else. He had sent a request by radio directly to Veterinary Corps General Dr. Curt Schulze,¹³ who commanded all veterinary and stud services in the German armed forces, at the Bendlerblock, the army high command building in central Berlin where Count von Stauffenberg’s plot to topple the Nazis had come apart in July 1944. The reply had been brought into Rudofsky’s office by the signals clerk, handwritten on a flimsy, and placed before him. There was only one stark sentence: “Stay put, at all costs!”

“Is this it?” Rudofsky had asked.

“Yes, Colonel. That is the complete transmission.”

“Dismissed,” Rudofsky had muttered under his breath, the clerk quietly withdrawing from the office. Rudofsky had been even more upset by the order from Berlin than by Holters’ words. To suggest that the stud do nothing when faced by imminent enemy envelopment appeared to signal that either Berlin failed to understand the parlous nature of the situation at Hostau, or else it no longer cared.

“Well, meine herren, I’d like to hear your thoughts on Colonel Holters’ ‘offer’,” said Rudofsky, brought back to reality by Holters’ new message offering salvation in Bavaria, addressing his two veterinarians Lessing and Kroll. “He’s been a frequent visitor here as you well know.”

“If it’s a genuine offer, I think we are duty bound to reply,” said Lessing immediately.

“He’s right about the Ivans,” interjected Kroll. “They could be here any day. God help us all then.”

“I can’t see any harm in at least doing what the note suggests and finding out more, can you, sir?” said Lessing.

Rudofsky nodded slowly. “I agree. Our first priority is the safety of the horses. That was what we were all sent here for. But do not forget: there are stallions that have to be led. And what do I do with the mares?” The crisis that was unfolding at the Hostau Stud was happening at just about the worst possible time in that it was foaling season. Half of the mares were heavily pregnant, the others already with foal, the silky black coats of the youngsters in marked contrast to their gray-white mothers. A move now would put their young lives at risk. Rudofsky went on: “It is a matter of impossibility to simply march with these horses from one day to the other thirty kilometers with them. And quite apart from that, I have been commanded to stay with the stud on this spot.”¹⁴

But Lessing and Kroll were both relieved by Rudofsky’s changed attitude. For weeks now they had been watching German troops preparing the area around the town for defense, planting mines and setting roadblocks, while roving patrols of soldiers had increased as the numbers of refugees shuffling past the stud had also multiplied. The refugees brought with them horrific stories of what the Red Army was doing to the towns and villages that it conquered. It appeared that the horrors visited on the town of Nemmersdorf were being repeated a hundredfold in the east. Unnervingly, stories also now abounded of the Soviets shooting German prisoners on the spot, and it seemed certain that if the Red Army took

Hostau, the horses, and the men who cared for them, would probably all suffer horribly together. It was deeply unsettling, but Lessing and Kroll had tried to put all thoughts of the imminent arrival of the Soviets to the backs of their minds and instead concentrate on ministering to the horses. But Lessing often found his mind wandering to his wife and young daughter who lived in his quarters at the stud. He felt sick, panicky and helpless when he considered them. Rudofsky and many of the other soldiers at the stud shared this deeply private panic.

Rudofsky was torn. Holters’ note made no mention of the Americans, which was one thing. But an officer like Rudofsky, no matter how panicked he might have felt on the inside, was not inclined to question his orders, however ridiculous or ill-conceived they might have been. He had taken an oath of loyalty to Hitler, and though he was no Nazi, Rudofsky had no intention of breaking his word.

“Lessing,” said Rudofsky with new-found determination in his voice, “I want you to go. The note says that our officer is to proceed through the forest to a hut marked on this attached map.” Rudofsky opened out a German military map that Holters had sent with his orderly, the route clearly marked with a red wax crayon. “A forester at the hut will then guide you to the Dienststelle Ost HQ. Take one of the grooms with you.”

Lessing nodded. So Rudofsky was seeing sense. When headquarters had told Rudofsky to sit tight, it had been clear to Lessing and Kroll that their commanding officer had not been happy. This sudden communication from Holters, coupled with the recent artillery fire, had spurred him to action.

One thing that surprised Lessing was that Rudofsky had chosen him to go and meet with Holters. He couldn’t help thinking that this was more a job for his adventurous young friend Dr. Kroll—but that was probably why the colonel had asked him instead: perhaps he wanted a calmer and more mature officer to undertake such an important mission.

“Be ready to leave in an hour,” added Rudofsky.

Lessing nodded and stood. There was much to prepare for the journey. His stomach danced in nervous anticipation of the unknown.