CHAPTER 11

Liberators and Saviors

“Not a single shot was fired at us.”

First Lieutenant William Quinlivan

Colonel Rudofsky ran out from one of the stable blocks, where he had been conducting an inspection, at the sound of gunfire in the distance. It was different to the stray artillery rounds that had fallen on the stud two days before, badly frightening the horses and the Volkssturm defenders. This sound was different—flat bangs followed closely by the crump of explosions. Rudofsky, with some of his staff and grooms, stood in the courtyard, straining their ears and looking all about. More dull detonations followed.

“Panzers, Colonel,” piped up one of the grooms, who had spent some time at the front. To the trained ear, the sound of tank guns was quite different from that of artillery. But where was it coming from? Were they American or Soviet tanks?

“There,” said Rudofsky, pointing northwest as the firing started up again. “Its coming from the direction of Weissensulz.” It was unmistakable. It had to be the Americans.

General Schulz appeared beside Rudofsky looking pale and agitated. He had hurried across the road from his headquarters inside the castle. The two officers briefly discussed the situation, Rudofsky noting that the general was even more blunt than usual.

“Where is Lessing?” Schulz demanded. Rudofsky shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. The young veterinarian and now plenipotentiary must arrive soon with news of the outcome of his intense negotiations. Regardless, Rudofsky knew that he must make certain preparations for the imminent arrival of the Americans.

“Excuse me, General, but I have matters to attend to,” said Rudofsky, who saluted, before stalking off towards his office closely followed by some senior members of his staff.

A few minutes later Rudofsky was informed that some of the defense force units were leaving. He emerged from his castle office to see Schulz’s Mercedes drive past, headed south. The general was sat in the rear, his face a mask. The car’s luggage rack was piled high with leather suitcases and baggage. So the gallant general had decided not to submit to surrender, at least not yet. Some of his troops did likewise and started pulling out of their prepared positions and filing into the countryside, undoubtedly aware that they lacked the weapons to take on American tanks. The stud at least was soon free of armed soldiers; the only military men left behind being Rudofsky and some of his grooms.

Suddenly, Rudofsky spied Dr. Lessing, weaving his way against the tide of soldiers who were hurrying away from the stud and the town’s castle. He cantered over and reined in his horse beside Rudofsky before sliding exhaustedly from the saddle.

“Colonel,” he said, saluting formally with one gloved hand. “I wish to report that American Panzers are about five kilometers away.”

Rudofsky nodded curtly. He was happy with the confirmation. It made up his mind. He quickly briefed Lessing on the local situation and the departure of Schulz.

“We have preparations to make, Captain, and very little time,” announced Rudofsky, once again all business.

Just fifteen miles southeast of where Rudofsky and Lessing were discussing how to surrender the stud, the balance of one of the most powerful remaining German units on the Western Front was crawling slowly up muddy country roads towards the town of Taus. The 11th Panzer Division had been ordered forward to join the reconnaissance battlegroup that General von Buttlar-Brandenfels had dispatched a few days before. The division’s orders were simple: block the American advance on the city of Pilsen.¹ Enough fuel had been organized to move the 10,500 men and thousands of vehicles into position, including its handful of serviceable Panther tanks, 45-ton behemoths whose wide tracks and wheels rattled and clanged eerily, petrol engines growling like angry big cats.

First Lieutenant Bill Quinlivan’s head and shoulders were outside of his M8 armored car, which was following fifty yards behind the small detachment of two Chaffee tanks from Company F that were the vanguard of his single platoon’s lonely advance to the stud. He had been separated from Troop A since beginning the advance that day, following Captain Stewart’s more cross-country route. With Quinlivan was the rest of his platoon, divided into an Armored Car section and a Scout section. The Armored Car section, totaling Quinlivan and eleven enlisted men, consisted of two more M8 Greyhounds, their little turrets scanning all around. The Scout section, consisting of six jeeps and seventeen men, was the most vulnerable. Three mounted 60mm mortars, while the other three packed .30 cal. medium machine guns. With the ten men crewing the tanks, Quinlivan’s force was only thirty-nine strong—not exactly much of an army.

The countryside was eerily quiet, but Quinlivan was taking no chances. The terrain favored the defender perfectly. Rolling fields undulated away into small valleys and hollows and the road system passed through open areas before abruptly plunging into dark stands of fir trees. The only advantage for the Americans was the fact that the Germans lacked the necessary firepower and manpower to defend the country properly.

Communicating with the tanks through his headset, Quinlivan kept their speed down. He feared driving into an ambush. In fact, every fiber of his body was stiff and alert. Every few minutes he would raise his field glasses to his eyes and scan the rolling countryside ahead. Away from the still-wintry fields, the patches of forest and undergrowth—perfect positions to conceal German tanks or anti-tank guns—were difficult to penetrate with his field glasses. It was still raining, which reduced visibility considerably. He could almost feel hostile eyes watching his vehicles, perhaps even at this moment levering a shell into the breech of some hidden anti-tank gun and lining up a hapless victim. His column was a sitting duck on the narrow and rain-slicked road. The tanks covered both sides of the road with their turrets; black exhaust fumes pluming in the chill air.

Quinlivan’s column passed nervously through a couple of small one-horse villages, slowing to a virtual crawl as machine guns and carbines were aimed at empty windows and down narrow alleyways between the solidly built German-style houses and barns. The danger here was from buried Teller mines—big dinner plate-sized explosives capable of crippling any Allied vehicle—and of course from handheld Panzerfaust rocket-propelled grenades. Hardly a civilian was seen. Any inhabitants had either fled into the woods or were hiding in their cellars or attics, waiting for the Americans to pass by. “There was no resistance,” reported Quinlivan. “Not a single shot was fired at us.”²

Quinlivan consulted his map. According to his present position, his unit was now close to Hostau and the horse stud but the terrain and trees obscured his line of sight. He quickly communicated this information over the radio net, warning his men to stay alert and ready for anything.

Suddenly, the tanks up ahead stopped and Quinlivan quickly drew the trailing column to a halt. The lead tank’s commander reported a town ahead, below the crest of the hill on which the Americans sat. Quinlivan’s M8 hastened forward to investigate. He raised his binoculars. It was unmistakable from the description he had been given and the map references—the tall church spire atop the hill, the white castle buildings beyond, the streets of colorful two- and three-storey houses that crowded the hillside.

“That’s it, boys,” said Quinlivan through his intercom. “Objective Three-Oh-Six.” Quinlivan glanced at his watch: it was 1910 hours. But where in the hell were Major Andrews, Captain Stewart, and Captain Catlett with the rest of Troop A? They should have rendezvoused with him by now.

Getting on the radio, Quinlivan soon discovered that Troop A had been held up by resistance at Weissensulz but was scheduled to arrive very soon.³ In the meantime, he was the ranking officer on the spot.

“Left stick, left stick,” came a crackling warning in Quinlivan’s headset from the lead tank commander to his partner Chaffee, “you got troops on the ground.” Quinlivan swung his binoculars round. Sure enough, a group of field-gray figures, some riding in horse-drawn carts, could be made out on the opposite side of Hostau moving up a road or across fields. It looked as though the German garrison, or at least a big part of it, was running away.⁴ The left Chaffee immediately turned to face the enemy, being joined shortly after by the lead tank, their big Cadillac engines growling and throbbing as they moved into a firing position, tracks gouging up clumps of earth and grass beside the road.

The tank squad commander sought immediate permission to open fire. Quinlivan decided that he would instead test the defenses and ordered fire to be opened upon some empty fields behind the town. Shooting at fleeing men was not his style. Sending a few shots over Hostau should reveal any German artillery or tanks that would naturally return fire at the targets silhouetted on the ridgeline.

“Roger… firing now,” came the tank commander’s clipped and businesslike voice in Quinlivan’s headset as he acknowledged the order and gave the gunners their instructions. Inside each tank a 75mm high explosive round was rammed into the open gun breech.

“Clear!” yelled the loaders, as the gunners took careful aim through their periscopes.

“Fire!” ordered each tank commander.

“On the way!” yelled the gunners, depressing their triggers, the breeches slamming back inside the turrets, rocking the tanks on their springs as the shells arched away towards Hostau.

Colonel Rudofsky reached up and took down the portrait of Adolf Hitler that hung on his office wall. He looked at the face of the man he had loyally served for so many years. Even now, it was difficult to break the bond to this man. Rudofsky, like all other Wehrmacht soldiers, had taken an oath of loyalty, not to Germany, but to the person of Adolf Hitler. An oath that stood until death, he reminded himself grimly. There was a knock at his office door.

“What shall we do about the flags, Colonel?” enquired a groom.

Large Nazi swastika flags flew proudly from poles outside some of the stud buildings. It would send the wrong message to their conquerors.

“Lower them and bring them to my office,” he replied firmly. “Also, have white sheets hung from some of the upper windows of the buildings.” It was important that the Americans understand that the stud was not a threat. The flag flying in the village remained up for the time being.

“Jawohl, Herr Oberst!” The man dashed off to comply with his orders. Rudofsky’s eyes fell once more on the large photograph of Hitler that he held in his hands. Quickly, he jerked open the top drawer of the filing cabinet beside his desk and stuffed the photo inside, slamming it with a bang. It was the horses that counted, and only the horses. That was what Rudofsky had been sent here for in the first place. Politics did not concern him any longer.

As he slammed the filing cabinet shut, a loud detonation went off close by, rattling the glass in his office windows. It was followed by several more in quick succession. Within seconds he received an alarming report—American tanks were firing on Hostau.

“Dismounted enemy at 640180. Tanks fire… Patrol now investigating,”⁵ was the terse message received at 1730 hours from First Lieutenant Quinlivan by Task Force commander Major Andrews, who was moving forward with Captain Catlett’s Troop A from the battle at Weissensulz.⁶ A glance at Andrews’ tactical map indicated that Quinlivan was engaging the enemy near the town of Hostau. Andrews was conscious that Quinlivan’s little command was out on its own and that he needed to get Troop A through to support Quinlivan’s single platoon as soon as possible, particularly now that firing was being reported close to the main objective. The task force hurried forward, covering the last few kilometers without incident.

One or two of the tank rounds that Quinlivan had ordered fired fell a little short of the German troop concentration, landing close to some houses at the rear of Hostau, damaging them.⁷

“Rounds complete,” reported the officer commanding the section of two Chaffee tanks supporting Quinlivan’s recon platoon, his transmission crackling with static in the damp air.

“Stand by,” replied Quinlivan over the radio. He raised his field glasses to his eyes once again. Dust was still pluming into the air from the explosions beyond the town. German troops, on foot and in horse-drawn carts, continued to hastily depart from the other side of Hostau, but nary a hostile round was aimed at the American force atop the ridge. But still Quinlivan waited for a couple of minutes, trying to gauge the risks.⁸ Another sweep of the objective revealed no apparent German intention to resist the American advance.

A few minutes later, Stewart and Catlett, along with Andrews and the other three platoons from Troop A arrived, linking up with Quinlivan’s little outfit. Catlett took field command and proceeded to lead the unit down towards Hostau and the final prize.

Colonel Rudofsky, still immaculate in his uniform in spite of chaotic scenes at the stud following the American tank fire, the loud detonations in the vicinity of Hostau upsetting both the horses and the staff, walked briskly along the narrow country road that led from Hostau towards where the American tanks had been seen, his jackboots shining like black glass. Marching next to him was the rather more bedraggled figure of Captain Lessing, his field-gray uniform still splattered with dried mud from his hours spent in the saddle. Between the two German officers they carried an incongruous white bed sheet as a rather ersatz parley flag. Both men still wore their service pistols in holsters on their belts. They didn’t speak, they just marched along the mostly empty country road hoping that they were doing the right thing and that everything would turn out exactly as Lessing had negotiated with Colonel Reed. The sounds of firing had abruptly stopped. The Americans should not be far away now.

“Column halt!” ordered Captain Catlett over the radio net. Two German officers were walking up the country road towards the head of the American column carrying what looked like a white sheet between them. The American vehicles shuddered to a halt and stood idling, engines rumbling. Weapons were pointed towards the two enemy officers.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” muttered Catlett, jumping down from his vehicle and pulling out his Colt .45 automatic.

“Cover me,” he ordered his men. Rudofsky and Lessing had also halted to nervously await events. For a moment the two Germans and the American officer stared at each other, unsure of how to proceed. Then Captain Stewart arrived from further back in the column. The time had arrived for Rudofsky to surrender.

“It looks like the goddamn fourth of July!” exclaimed one of the astonished troopers inside Lieutenant Quinlivan’s M8 as the little column of American tanks, armored cars and jeeps ground slowly through Hostau’s main street towards the small plaza outside the entrance to St. Jakobus’ Church. Along both sides of the road were locals and released prisoners-of-war, many of the latter overcome with joy.⁹ American, British, Polish, and French prisoners, along with several other nationalities, crowded around the US vehicles, their uniforms tatty and outdated and their faces thin and strained from years of rationed POW diets. They whooped and hollered and reached up to shake the hands of the passing Troop A GIs, some even jumping onto the jeeps to catch a ride with the smiling and laughing Americans. From the windows of the buildings that lined the steep hill up to the church fluttered white linen sheets, pressed into service as makeshift surrender flags. The Sudeten Germans and Czechs treated the Americans more as liberators and saviors than as conquerors.¹⁰ Some of the former POWs were singing—it was a raucous and unexpected reception, and the joy on both sides was infectious. But just as Catlett and his men had started to relax and be swept along by the outpouring of joy and goodwill, the lead American vehicle suddenly spotted German soldiers. Weapons were rapidly unslung and made ready for use.

The sight that greeted Catlett before the church was altogether more surreal than their overwhelming welcome. Drawn up in ranks several men deep was at least a battalion of Wehrmacht soldiers, the part of the garrison that had not run away. They slammed to attention as the American vehicles clattered to a halt and some of the troopers dismounted, carbines and Tommy guns at the ready.¹¹ Stacked neatly before each platoon of Germans were their rifles and machine pistols, while off to the side Prince Amassov and his Cossacks sat impassively atop their horses, haughtily surveying the strange scene.

Colonel Rudofsky and Captain Lessing took their places before the German forces, standing in front of a flagpole from which a large Nazi flag fluttered in the light breeze. Captain Catlett, accompanied by task force commander Major Andrews, Captain Stewart and a couple of his platoon leaders, approached the formal gathering, conscious that their scruffy combat uniforms and dirty faces contrasted sharply with the solemn dignity of the occasion. The released prisoners and townspeople hushed and waited.

Rudofsky and Lessing brought their heels together and gave sharp military salutes, as did the other German officers.¹² As Troop A had taken Hostau, Captain Catlett would have the honor of accepting the German surrender, rather than Major Andrews.

“Lieutenant Colonel Rudofsky, as senior officer and commander of the German Army Remount Stud Hostau, presents his compliments, Captain,” announced Dr. Lessing in loud and clear English, “and requests that you accept the surrender of the stud and the remaining garrison of Hostau town.”

“I do,” said Catlett, saluting.¹³ He looked at the tall Rudofsky, who was still immaculate in his uniform, though his eyes looked tired and troubled. Lessing muttered something to Rudofsky, who reached down and unbuckled his leather holster, extracted his Luger pistol, reversed it and handed it butt first to Catlett. Lessing followed suit. Catlett handed the pistols to some American officers standing behind him, then saluted the two German officers, who also saluted. Then Catlett glanced up at the Nazi flag and back at Lessing, who understood what he wanted.

Lessing barked an order and two German soldiers stepped forward smartly and slowly hauled down the flag. Rudofsky and Lessing stood rigidly at attention and saluted once again as the flag was lowered. It was unhooked from the rope, neatly folded and handed to Rudofsky, who held the flag with both hands and then carefully handed it to Catlett. The American officer turned to his own men and asked for the flag that they had brought with them for this express purpose. It was quickly attached to the rope and winched up into position.

“Ten hut!” shouted one of the top sergeants, and the Americans all stiffened to attention and saluted as Old Glory unfurled into the breeze. For a few seconds all eyes, American, German, Czech, Russian, British, French, Polish, and Serbian, settled on the Stars and Stripes before the watchers erupted once again into tumultuous and hysterical joy.¹⁴

Catlett and Andrews knew that controlling the situation was critical. Catlett quickly gathered his platoon commanders together. His orders were simple. He detailed one squad to keep the Germans under guard until somewhere could be found to secure them, and to take over the German weapons. His other platoons were ordered to establish outposts on all roads into Hostau. An all-round system of observation posts would be established, though because of manpower shortages, they would be very thinly held.¹⁵

“I want machine guns dismounted from some of the vehicles to cover the OPs,” ordered Catlett. The tanks and M8s would be dispersed through the town to reinforce and cover these security points. “I don’t want anyone getting in or out of this place without us knowing about it,” said Catlett seriously. Major Andrews approved all these measures. Catlett, following regulations, also ordered the dismounted troopers to start digging prone shelters to protect against aerial or artillery attack.¹⁶

One issue was the large number of German prisoners who had been taken.

“Put fifty of the Peewees in the castle’s cellars,” ordered Major Andrews. The rest of the Germans were divided up into groups and locked in the cellars of six local homes and kept under armed guard. Andrews and his second-in-command Captain Stewart were concerned that the German soldiers might yet decide to resist, particularly if other German forces in the area made a concerted attack on the town. They outnumbered the Americans by at least three-to-one. The Germans’ weapons were collected together and stored at another location, also under a strong guard. It amounted to a fair arsenal of rifles, machine guns and pistols.

“Come on, lets take a look at the horses, Bill,” suggested Captain Stewart to Lieutenant Quinlivan. With all outposts now set and manned, the German POWs securely under lock and key, and American control over Hostau complete, Major Andrews and Stewart had decided to proceed with the final part of the mission—properly securing the horse stud and examining its contents. Andrews could only spare a handful of men for this task, for nearly every man from Troop A was manning the perimeter or on guard duty in the town, but every available officer and man who could be spared entered the stud’s main yard opposite the castle.

Spread out behind the stud and beyond the castle there were paddocks and fields that were full of horses. The animals were grazing contentedly and barely lifted their heads to greet their saviors. Colonel Rudofsky and Captains Lessing and Kroll accompanied the Americans. Rudofsky and Lessing had been released by Catlett to return to the administration of the stud shortly after Hostau had been liberated, rather than imprisoned as POWs. The Americans needed them to continue at their posts.

The Americans, weapons in hand, warily scanned the yard and its several large buildings. Some German Army grooms and prisoners stood staring at them, a frozen tableau of men at work, some leaning on pitchforks where they had been moving hay, others with wire brushes for scrubbing the floors, one or two carrying buckets of water. The stable blocks were tall and very long sturdy brick and stone buildings with high set windows and large double doors to allow the horses to be moved about. Captain Stewart wandered over to the door of one block and felt instantly at home as the smell of horses greeted him. Inside, in the gloom, horses’ heads turned to look at him from behind the bars of their stalls. Though considerably less luxurious than the stable blocks at the Piber Stud in Austria where the mares were usually housed, the blocks were immaculate and well-maintained, with the white horses well provisioned and groomed.

When Colonel Reed was informed of the capture of the stud he was ecstatic. He made an immediate report to Third Army headquarters through XII Corps, outlining to Patton the apparent value of the herd, and requested instructions as to its disposal. For the time being, Reed would have to wait for a reply from Patton as events elsewhere overtook those at Hostau. For Reed, his priority was to visit the stud in person and, as Third Army had put it, “use my own initiative.”¹⁷