CHAPTER 7

Duty

“I am here first and foremost for the horses. And it is my duty to do everything possible to save them.”

Captain Dr. Rudolf Lessing

Tom Stewart and Rudolf Lessing had begun walking through the Bohemian Forest late on the evening of April 26, 1945, their breath pluming in the chill air, their path lit by a bright moon that emerged from time to time from behind scudding clouds.¹ The road was a ribbon of moonlight in the dark forest.² Stewart felt very exposed, his right hand often falling to his only protection, a holstered World War I .38 cal. revolver on his belt, referred to by his men as Stewart’s “Assault Gun.”³ He glanced at his companion. Lessing wore his field-gray officer’s uniform and cap, a Luger pistol in a brown leather holster at his waist, his black jackboots crunching along the hilly path. Stewart didn’t know why, but he thought he could trust this particular German. The affable Lessing had a quiet dignity about him that others soon noticed. He had certainly impressed Colonel Reed, and Reed’s judgment was always sound. Dr. Lessing was keen to get on as quickly as possible, Colonel Reed’s twenty-four-hour deadline for Stewart’s safe return at the forefront of his mind.

Stewart looked about him as he trudged on. The forest on each side of the path was of dense Norway spruce. It brought to mind Grimm’s fairy tales, which had sent him scurrying beneath the blankets in fear as a young child. God alone knew what might be hiding in those trees waiting to ambush them. Every rustle of a branch, creak of a trunk or the sudden bolting of some nocturnal animal set his heart racing. Nine months of combat had honed his senses to a razor point. Normally any sound this close to the enemy lines would have sent him diving for cover, thumbing off the safety to his carbine as he did so. But now his fate was in the hands of this German officer whom he’d only just met. Until an hour ago they had been dread enemies.

Stewart tried not to think of what might happen should they run into an SS patrol—waving a piece of paper in the faces of the Third Reich’s most loyal and brutal troops would probably not save them both from a bullet in the back of the head. Stewart continued along the path. Add some snow, he thought, and I could be back in the Ardennes. He shivered a little at the thought. The 2nd Cavalry Group had had a rough time of it during the Battle of the Bulge, and Stewart’s outfit had suffered badly along with everyone else.

After a few miles Lessing suddenly stopped, raising his hand to Stewart. He began looking around the immediate vicinity, seemingly searching for something. Stewart tensed and waited, his hand hovering over his holster, until Lessing whispered for him to come closer. Lessing pointed behind a thick tree.

“Transport, Captain,” he said in a fierce whisper, smiling. Stewart relaxed a little. It was a gray-painted army motorcycle propped against the tree.⁴ The two men climbed aboard, Stewart riding pillion. Lessing kicked the bike to life, the noise of the engine sounding loud enough to wake the dead in the silent forest, but before Stewart could complain they were off, bouncing along the muddy track, the bike’s blackout-screened headlamp throwing out a feeble light that barely illuminated the trees that rushed past on either side.

After a while there came the sound of an airplane overhead, the drone audible above the motorcycle’s engines. Lessing pulled up abruptly and switched off the ignition and cut the headlamp.

“That isn’t necessary,” whispered Stewart over Lessing’s shoulder, “it is only your old ‘Bedcheck Charlie’—we’ve long since stopped paying attention to it.”⁵ Stewart was referring to a German light aircraft which had been droning harmlessly over the American positions every night for some days. But Lessing was not convinced.

“You are mistaken,” said Lessing, “it is one of yours and they will strike at anything.”⁶ Lessing’s fear was common enough among German troops in the last weeks of the war, as Allied fighter-bombers prowled the skies over enemy lines virtually with impunity, shooting up trains, convoys, individual vehicles and troop concentrations. The Germans had come to fear and loathe the “Jabos” that dealt death from above.

Stewart decided not to argue with Lessing, and they waited until the plane’s engine disappeared into the distance before Lessing kicked the bike back into life.

Lessing and Stewart rode quickly to the forester’s hut. The forester greeted them both warmly and, lighting their way with an old lantern, led them round to the barn where Stewart could make out two horses standing in the gloom. The smell was reassuring: the comforting odors of hay, horse and polished leather tackle.⁷

“We go now, Captain,” said Lessing urgently, as he led out a large chestnut thoroughbred and quickly mounted up. He indicated to Stewart that he should take the other horse. Stewart would ride a rare jet-black Lipizzaner stallion, broad-chested and standing around fifteen hands. “As I approached to check the cinch [the girth for a Western-style saddle], he became very unruly,” recalled Stewart, “as if auditioning for Leigh’s mustang. There in the lantern light, my companion remained silent. I resolved to mount without a stirrup, hold leather, and if tossed, try to land in the hay.” He needn’t have worried. “Once mounted, he became as quiet as a lady’s palfrey. I later learned that he put on the wild act for any new rider.”⁸

Once Stewart was mounted, the American could feel how responsive and well trained the animal was. “I have never ridden a horse more responsive to leg pressure and the lifting of one’s body weight. The bridle was almost unnecessary.”⁹

“He is a special horse, Captain,” said Lessing quietly as he reined in beside him. “He was the favorite of King Peter of Yugoslavia.”¹⁰ Stewart grinned and then trotted after Lessing. For the first time since arriving in Europe he felt like a proper cavalryman. And to be riding a royal horse, no less, well, that was just the limit.

As they made their way steadily through the forest, Stewart realized that he had never felt this connected to a horse before—it was as if the animal was reading his mind, such were its delicate and careful movements. The road ahead was dark, with a steep tree-covered embankment on one side and a black sheer drop on the other. “The forest was so thick through there you felt like you were riding through two walls of darkness,”¹¹ recalled Stewart.

Suddenly, blocking the road was an abatis, a barrier made of sharpened stakes that would have looked more at home on a medieval battlefield than in a quiet Czech country lane in April 1945. “I rode up and observed that it was not more than three feet high on the side next to the cliff and only some six to eight feet wide,”¹² wrote Stewart. However, the Germans often booby-trapped such obstacles with mines or stick grenades. Stewart reined in the Lipizzaner stallion and stared at the barrier. He knew he was going to jump—it was just instinctive after so much hard riding across Tennessee in his youth. He had to do this. “Backing off, with head up and hands low in my best imitation of the cavalry school’s forward seat, I committed us to the barrier…”¹³ Stewart’s mouth was beside one of the Lipizzaner’s large ears, one gloved hand resting on the animal’s black neck.

“We’re going to do this, boy,” Stewart whispered in his warm Southern drawl, the horse’s ears flicking back as he spoke. “You ready?” Stewart patted the Lipizzaner’s neck before touching his heels to the horse’s belly. The stallion, his breath pluming from his big nostrils like a steam engine in the chilly night air, took off like a rocket, charging down the distance to the abatis. Stewart barely heard Rudolf Lessing shout out a warning. “He doesn’t jump!”¹⁴ yelled the German, before Stewart and the stallion were airborne, sailing over the wickedly sharp stakes to land with Olympic precision on the other side.

“He did jump, though,” recalled Stewart, “and with a stretch of at least three feet to spare.”¹⁵ Dr. Lessing sat on his big chestnut Arab shaking his head. It was true what they said—all Americans were cowboys at heart.

After Stewart had jumped, the more cautious Lessing worked his way around the abatis over the high ground on their left, before they both set off once more for Hostau.¹⁶

Stewart glanced at the luminous face of his watch. It was 2am on April 27, 1945. Dr. Lessing reined in his horse and pointed along the road, which sloped down and through open fields towards a cluster of two- and three-storey buildings and a tall church spire in the moonlight. The moonlight reflected off the sloping roofs of the houses, giving the whole place the look of a large model, somewhat unreal and as quiet as the grave.

“Hostau,” whispered the German veterinarian. Stewart stiffened in his saddle and nodded.¹⁷ He involuntarily touched his breast pocket where the “official” letter of introduction from Colonel Reed was safely stowed. It was showtime. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and urged his mount into a trot as he followed Lessing towards the unknown.

At the first checkpoint before entering Hostau, Dr. Lessing reined in his horse, handed the German sentry his identity papers and explained his business. The sentry was hardly able to tear his eyes off the American officer sitting astride the beautiful black stallion; much to Lessing’s amusement, Stewart rode “Western-style,” with the reins in one hand just like a cowboy. The sentry checked Lessing’s credentials by torchlight and then gave him the road.

As Stewart rode on he could clearly see General Schulz’s defensive preparations around the town. The moonlight illuminated German soldiers in slit trenches dug behind barbed-wire entanglements or sandbagged machine-gun nests, the muzzles of fast-firing MG42s poking threateningly out, with the occasional glow of a cigarette breaking the monochrome of the night. Stewart’s military eye took careful note of the scattered defenses and he was relieved not to see any tanks or self-propelled guns.

Passing through the town, the two men rode up the steep main street towards the stud opposite the castle. As Stewart approached, his first impression was of ordered stable blocks and paddocks, and huge numbers of horses grazing under the moonlight. It was eerily quiet when the two men rode up to Lessing’s quarters and stiffly dismounted. The door opened and out stepped a German officer—Stewart reacted instinctively when he saw the black MP40 machine pistol that the German cradled in his hands, reaching for his holstered .38.¹⁸ But before Stewart could draw his revolver, the German offered his hand.

“This is my colleague, Dr. Kroll,” explained Lessing quickly.

Gustav Kroll nodded and shook Stewart’s hand, his face a mask of concern. He had abandoned trying to find Lessing and had returned to Hostau some time earlier. Lessing took Kroll aside and the two men talked hurriedly in urgent whispers. Then Lessing’s pretty young wife appeared. Speaking in German, she told her husband that he must go immediately to see Colonel Rudofsky. Everything at Hostau had changed.

After hearing about the arrival of General Schulz from Kroll, Lessing was understandably worried. It looked as though the plan to rescue the horses could be in peril because of Schulz’s presence. “I’m sorry, Captain, but you must remain in my quarters until I have spoken to my senior commanders,” Lessing said to Stewart. “My wife will hide you.” He spoke again to his wife in German, and the young woman quickly ushered Stewart into the darkened house.¹⁹ Lessing would decide later if it were safe to bring an American officer before Schulz.

When he met with Colonel Rudofsky, the stud commander told Lessing that Schulz intended to defend the town from the enemy, to the death if necessary. Lessing knew about the earlier defense preparations, but until the arrival of Schulz he had not believed that they would actually be used in anger. Surely they were for show—another pointless propaganda exercise to instill belief in the people? Lessing rounded on Rudofsky and in no uncertain words told him that Schulz’s plan was total madness. The troops were too few in number or quality and they lacked sufficient heavy support weapons or armor. Any defense would mean the end of most of the horses as well. He also told Rudofsky that Colonel Reed had offered to help save the horses. Rudofsky, a blank look of resignation across his face, threw up his arms in frustration. Events were moving beyond his immediate control.

“My hands are tied, Lessing,” he responded angrily. “If I try to negotiate with the Americans, or let on that one of them is here, then all three of us risk being shot for treason.”²⁰ Lessing pressed him further. Rudofsky finished by suggesting that Lessing tell Schulz everything himself. They could only hope that the general would listen to reason.

Lessing returned to his quarters and informed Stewart that things were not looking good. There was every chance that Stewart would end up as a prisoner-of-war rather than as US Army “plenipotentiary.” Lessing’s wife was deeply alarmed for her husband’s safety, and as he made to leave to meet Schulz, she kissed him passionately and held on to him for a few moments, unsure whether she would see him alive again. Lessing knew that Schulz was well within his rights to have him shot for treason or handed over to the Gestapo as a traitor to the Reich. But Lessing’s duty to the horses that he had so assiduously cared for was uppermost in his mind. He had to change their fate, and he wouldn’t rest until he had done so. He was also equally determined to ensure that his family would not fall into the hands of the Soviets. In this regard, he would have the backing of every German at the stud.

When Captain Lessing stepped into General Schulz’s office in the castle his worst fears were confirmed. The general was almost hopping mad. He shouted and railed at Lessing, calling him a traitor several times and threatening to have him hanged or shot for opening negotiations with the Americans. He lectured him on obedience and discipline. Lessing stood rooted to the spot, a mounting fury growing inside of him, until he could contain himself no longer. In an extraordinary breach of military protocol, Lessing also exploded in anger.

“Obedience, Herr General, discipline?” yelled Lessing, his uniform spattered with mud, his face grimy from his long and difficult mission. The outburst cut Schulz off mid-flow, the general open-mouthed at the younger officer’s audacity.

“I cherish those things!” roared Lessing. “But I am here first and foremost for the horses. And it is my duty to do everything possible to save them.” Hardly pausing for breath, Lessing continued to rail at Schulz. “It is no longer a question of winning the war—if we were going to do that we should have done it four years ago. Now it’s too late!”²¹ Lessing’s treasonable words reverberated off the office’s walls. In the outer office several staff officers stood listening to the exchange through the closed door, casting alarmed glances at one another. Lessing’s blood was up and his tired eyes burned with a fury he himself hadn’t thought he possessed. He almost dared Schulz to pronounce judgment upon him. Lessing felt almost purged—the Nazi propaganda and lies had been hard for an intelligent person to stand, and he had finally given full vent to his frustrations.

When he finished, the atmosphere in the office was one of ominous and dread silence. Lessing stood rooted to the spot, blood pumping in his ears, waiting for Schulz to do something. Instead of screaming for the captain’s immediate arrest, the general simply stared back at him, his gaze blank and confused. He had probably never been spoken to in such a manner before. Perhaps he feared that others of his staff shared Lessing’s unorthodox opinions about the future course of the war, or that the men that he was intent on pitching into an unwinnable battle in defense of Hostau were also flirting with disobedience, even mutiny. Schulz sank slowly down into his desk chair and said nothing. Lessing, slightly out of breath, stared at him, his hands clenched into fists by his sides.

After a pause that seemed to last for several minutes, Schulz spoke again, this time in a low and exhausted voice. “Well… maybe you’re right,” he said slowly. But some of his old spirit quickly returned. “But only the corps commander can decide this,” he muttered. “I have to bring it before him.”²² And once again that would mean Lessing doing all the work.

The meeting over, Dr. Lessing glanced at his watch, grimaced and muttered an oath beneath his breath. Wehrkreis XIII Headquarters was at Schloss Gibacht, the ancient castle of Prince Windisch-Grätz, located just outside the town of Kladrau,^* twenty-four miles from Hostau.²³ Lessing realized that he was in danger of not fulfilling Colonel Reed’s deadline for the return of Stewart. Fortunately, Dr. Kroll bravely volunteered to take a stallion and ride to the US lines and explain the situation personally to Reed. After completing this mission, Kroll planned to ride back to the forester’s hut and wait for Lessing and Stewart.

In the meantime, Lessing briefed Stewart about the situation and told him to remain in hiding. Stewart would spend hours in a back room in Lessing’s quarters, drinking coffee and wondering whether he was less of a plenipotentiary than a prisoner-of-war. Lessing marched outside to where Kroll had procured transport for his mission. He mounted an army motorcycle combination and set off, determined to make the commanding general at Schloss Gibacht see sense.

^* Now Kladruby.