CHAPTER 15

The Green Light

“There is no time to lose and the American Army has got to act.”

Colonel Alois Podhajsky

Colonel Rudofsky was a worried man. He sat at his desk inside Hostau Castle slowly smoking a cigarette. His desk was littered with reports on the horses under his care, but at this moment his eyes had a glazed and reflective look and he was staring into space while smoke from his cigarette curled upwards in the still air. Though he attended to his duties assiduously and ingratiated himself with his new American masters through his in-depth knowledge of the precious horses and his excellent administrative skills, he was torn by worry about his family.

Ever since April 29, when Colonel Reed had peremptorily ordered him to accompany the horses to Bavaria and perhaps onwards to the United States, Hubert Rudofsky had been in a state of fair agitation. He was worried about his elderly mother who lived near Hostau and was not in the best of health. He was worried about his young nephew Ulli and sister-in-law in Bischofteinitz,^* twenty-five miles southwest of Pilsen. The Soviets could capture his family while he remained in the custody of the Americans. He also worried about his property.

Rudofsky stubbed out his cigarette and walked over to the window. He smoothed his uniform tunic and stared out, the stud’s stable block roofs visible beyond the wall that enclosed the castle’s formal gardens. A bored-looking American soldier stood beside the gate, his carbine slung over his right shoulder.

Rudofsky turned away from the window, his mind racing. He had been perfectly truthful when he had told Reed that he wanted to stay because he was a Sudeten German. He had been born and raised in the old Kingdom of Bohemia, in that narrow strip of Germanic territory the Nazis called the Sudetenland. He had served the Czechoslovak state honorably before the war, and from 1938 until now had merely done his duty in the German Army. He was no Nazi. He wished only to remain in the land of his birth alongside his kith and kin. With Reed’s intractability obvious and unchallengeable, how could Rudofsky continue to help the Americans but also resolve his internal conflict?

Rudofsky had had no news of his family since the arrival of the Americans. Even more alarmingly, the American advance appeared to have stopped for the time being, and Rudofsky was beginning to believe that the Soviets would sweep up his family while Patton sat and watched. Rudofsky had come to at least one firm decision—when the Americans evacuated the horses and the stud’s staff to Germany, he would not go with them. He was determined to remain in Czechoslovakia, come what may. For now, there was nothing that he could do but bide his time. He settled himself back behind his desk and sighed, before opening a buff folder in front of him and starting work once again.

For General Weisenberger, who on May 4, 1945, was still clinging to the increasingly impossible defense of the German line before Hostau, events were changing rapidly and from within. During the whole time of his command of Wehrkreis XIII, Weisenberger, though his threadbare units had managed to hold the line against minor American incursions, had known that standing at his back was the powerful 11th Panzer Division.¹

The day before, two momentous events had occurred that had further eroded the German will to resist. In Italy, all German forces had surrendered, while in Berlin the Red Army had proven victorious, with the remaining German defense units emerging from bunkers into the ruined city to lay down their arms and go into Soviet captivity. Each day brought news of fresh German surrenders, begging the question: how much longer until the final capitulation?

While Colonel Rudofsky at the recently captured stud was determined to remain on Czechoslovak soil, a large part of the German forces were as equally determined to get back into Germany and save themselves from Soviet captivity by going into American or British captivity instead.

Unknown to Weisenberger, the 11th Panzer’s previous commander, Major General Wend von Wietersheim, had made his decision. Von Wietersheim had remained with the bulk of the division at Taus while the new commander, General von Buttlar-Brandenfels, using the last remaining stocks of gasoline, had taken a combat group sixty miles south to try to prevent an American advance on Linz. On May 2, von Wietersheim had first proposed surrendering the division to the Americans, and his officers had mostly backed him. But the first attempt to parley with the Americans had been rebuffed. A second attempt was made at 0715 hours on May 4 when a German officer arrived at an outpost of the US 359th Infantry Regiment. He was taken to the 90th Infantry Division’s HQ at Cham, Germany, and the surrender worked out. Needless to say, Colonel Hank Reed was heavily involved in working out how such a surrender could be accomplished as fighting continued between his own 2nd Cavalry Group and other XII Corps units against scattered SS opposition. An agreement was reached whereby the thousands of 11th Panzer troops around Taus, along with over 1,000 vehicles, would come into the American lines under white flags on the late afternoon of May 4, after being sent sufficient supplies of US Army gasoline, the same day that all remaining German forces in Bavaria surrendered.²

At Hostau, Captain Tom Stewart received an urgent radio message from Colonel Reed on May 4. He was informed that the bulk of a German Panzer division would be passing by the town that afternoon. Reed warned him against any displays of hostility, regardless of what happened. “Don’t engage them,” was Reed’s emphatic order. Stewart knew what could happen to his little command and the horses if a misunderstanding led to fighting—the 11th Panzer would squash any resistance like a bug in its haste to get to the safety of the US lines.

“A lot of Krauts are going to pass by this town over the next few hours,” said Stewart to his assembled officers. “On no account are we to open fire, regardless of any provocations. I want all NCOs and men made aware of this order from Colonel Reed. Make sure that all checkpoints are manned and alert, but do not, repeat, not engage the German column.”

Inducing an entire German armored division to surrender was a major coup for the Americans and a complete disaster for the German defense. General Weisenberger had first got wind that something was awry at 1700 hours, when it was reported to him that 11th Panzer security detachments had been withdrawn from the exits out of the Bohemian Forest.³ More alarming had been the sudden arrival at his headquarters of an SS captain attached to the 11th. The SS captain, in a voice that betrayed his disgust with the whole affair, informed Weisenberger that von Wietersheim had unofficially reassumed command of the division and was going to surrender it to the Americans.⁴

“Sir, the commanding general is on the line,” said Colonel Bennicke to Weisenberger at 2300 hours. Weisenberger nodded and picked up the telephone receiver. The voice at the other end was cold and curt. No contact had been made with von Wietersheim, despite repeated attempts.

“Effective immediately, you are to assume command of the 11th Panzer Division,” ordered Weisenberger’s superior. “At all costs, you are to prevent its surrender.”⁵

“At your command, Herr General,” barked Weisenberger, his mind racing as to what he could do to stop the surrender.

Weisenberger replaced the receiver and started to issue orders. Some staff cars were quickly assembled in the courtyard beneath his office and a gaggle of officers stood ready to depart. Weisenberger pulled on his greatcoat and cap and quickly joined them. The cars raced off into the darkness, heading towards the 11th’s last reported positions.

Into the early hours of the next morning Weisenberger’s little convoy of staff vehicles drove from place to place, trying to locate the rearguard of the 11th Panzer, but all they found were local defense troops who informed him that the mighty armored division was long gone. Its desertion to the Americans had just torn a huge hole in the German defense line. “The unexpectedly hurried departure of the 11th Panzer Division meant exposure of our southern flank and clearance of the Taus–Pilsen road for the Americans,”⁶ wrote Weisenberger in his official report. The question was: would Patton exploit that hole and roll up the German line?

The one person who was praying for such an outcome was Colonel Rudofsky. The forward movement of Patton’s line would mean the capture of Bischofteinitz and the saving of his family from the Soviets. As General Weisenberger led his convoy of cars through darkened Czechoslovak country lanes on his mission to prevent the surrender, Rudofsky stalked impatiently around the stable blocks at Hostau, which were dimly lit by oil lamps. The Lipizzaners and Arabians slept in their stalls, or shuffled about, occasionally snorting or banging their feet on the floors. He himself couldn’t sleep, and being with the horses calmed him a little. But although the knot of tension that had settled deep in his stomach ever since he had begun the process of saving the horses had loosened a little, it never really left him. The lack of news was agonizing.

The other colonel who shared responsibility for the living heritage of the Spanish Riding School, Alois Podhajsky, was still on the German side of the lines. Since the evacuation of the Lipizzaner stallions to Saint Martin im Mühlkreis, Podhajsky had been totally focused on their welfare, and barely keeping up with the rapidly changing fortunes of the war. His fear that the Soviets might arrive at St. Martin had been slightly offset by news that American forces were advancing into Upper Austria. But then a message had arrived for him that threatened everything that he had worked so assiduously to protect.

The envelope that an orderly handed to Podhajsky was marked “Most Secret,” never a good sign. The letter was a bombshell. Podhajsky, as the ranking Wehrmacht officer in the town, was hereby appointed defense commandant and ordered to take command of the local Volkssturm forces. Further, he was ordered to prepare the town for defense. The town was not to fall to the enemy!⁷ In his hand Podhajsky held the seeds of the destruction of the Spanish Riding School. Should resistance be offered to the enemy, they would most assuredly destroy the town with artillery fire and with it the stallions. But to refuse a direct order would place Podhajsky’s head in a noose. The SS and Nazi Party functionaries were hanging defeatists from lampposts across the remaining length and breadth of German territory for offenses far less serious. If Podhajsky were executed, who would take care of the stallions and their precious heritage? Podhajsky decided upon a clever compromise. It would be better to appear to acquiesce to command’s decision, but to be careful how far he went with preparing the town for defense.

Liaising with the local mayor, Podhajsky ordered him to place his Volkssturm irregulars around the town with orders to prevent any looting that might break out. This order was easy for the mayor to acquiesce to, for he owned the largest butchery business in St. Martin.

For the time being, Podhajsky did not order anti-tank barricades to be erected across the streets as Colonel Rudofsky had done at Hostau. This was in spite of the orders from the local Nazi Party leader, who had received an order to do this from the Kreisleiter, the regional Nazi Party leader. As a compromise, Podhajsky ordered that guards be stationed at checkpoints covering the roads into St. Martin. For the time being, it appeared to be the best solution—keep the diehards busy while leaving the town only lightly defended. However, the local leader warned Podhajsky that the Kreisleiter was on his way to St. Martin, and he was not happy.

A young army lieutenant arrived next, requesting orders for the deployment of his 78-strong signals company. Podhajsky ordered them to remain in a local school on alert until further notice.⁸

Podhajsky returned to his quarters inside Arco Castle. There, he removed his German uniform and put on civilian clothes. He had just settled himself down to rest when the phone rang. The Kreisleiter had arrived at the local Party headquarters in the town, and Podhajsky was to report at once.

Podhajsky, his heart thumping in his chest, grabbed his officer’s greatcoat and put it on over his civilian suit. He was wearing riding boots, and with his cap on he appeared to be properly uniformed. He quickly took out his Luger pistol, checked it, cocked the weapon and leaving the safety off, thrust it deep inside his coat pocket. The Luger was his “ace in the hole” should things go badly for him.

Someone else receiving a very important phone call on the evening of May 4, 1945, was General George S. Patton. Furious at the halt imposed on Third Army by Eisenhower following his early foray into western Czechoslovakia on May 1, there had been a change of heart at Supreme Allied Headquarters. The hole in the German line caused by the sudden surrender of the 11th Panzer Division was just too good an opportunity to let slip.

“Ike has just called,” said General Omar Bradley, Patton’s immediate superior, down a crackly telephone line. “You have a green light for Czechoslovakia, George.” Patton grinned fiercely and gripped the receiver tightly.

“When can you move?” asked Bradley. Patton didn’t hesitate.

“Tomorrow morning,”⁹ he replied resolutely. The Soviet offensive to take Prague and the rest of western Czechoslovakia was scheduled to commence in just three days time. With luck, Patton could beat Stalin to the capital.

At the town of Saint Martin im Mühlkreis, Colonel Podhajsky hastened to his meeting with the regional Kreisleiter. He was nervous and worried. He had not fulfilled his orders as security commandant, and he feared punishment. The sound of artillery fire in the distance had abruptly ended. Had the American advance stalled? Hitler may have been dead for days, but the organs of the Party continued to function with brutal efficiency and the war had still not ended.

At the Party office a nervous and ashen-faced local official, who evidently greatly feared his superior, met him. Suddenly, there came the sounds of jackboots ringing on the floor of the passage outside the office, before the door was thrown open and two hard-looking SS men entered the room, followed by the Kreisleiter, who was still dressed in his brown and gold Party uniform. He slammed his heels together and out shot his right arm. “Heil Hitler!” he bellowed in a rough voice.

The local group leader gave the Nazi salute, while Podhajsky executed a smart military salute, which did little to endear him to the Kreisleiter. The Kreisleiter was well fed compared with the malnourished refugees that crowded the town. His face was red with anger. His head swiveled around and his eyes blazed at the cowering group leader.

“Have the anti-tank barriers not been closed, as I expressly ordered?” yelled the Kreisleiter. His subordinate visibly cringed, but did not reply, struck dumb by terror.

“No,” said Podhajsky, “or else your car would not have been able to get here.”

“Why were my orders not carried out?” demanded the Kreisleiter. His two SS bodyguards glared up at the tall Podhajsky, who stared back, his face a mask. The room was very quiet. At that moment, Podhajsky genuinely feared for his life. He could feel the heavy pistol resting in his pocket. “I was resolved not to die alone,”¹⁰ he recalled.

“When our troops brought the advance of the Americans to a halt,” explained Podhajsky in a level tone, “as indicated by the fact that the sounds of firing ceased, I did not consider that any useful purpose would be served by closing the streets, since this might hinder the freedom of movement of our own soldiers.”

One of the Kreisleiter’s eyebrows rose quizzically. Podhajsky quickly continued.

“But I have had the barriers manned by the Volkssturm and made the necessary arrangements for them to be closed in the shortest possible time when I give the order.”¹¹

The Kreisleiter continued to stare at Podhajsky, like a snake inspecting a piece of prey. But suddenly he broke the spell.

“Then everything is in good order,” he said gruffly, before turning on his heel and stalking from the office followed by his henchmen. He was never to return.

On his way back to the castle, Podhajsky was forced to confront a mob of locals who were attempting to pillage. Order was starting to break down in the town, and Podhajsky faced down the mob with his pistol drawn and a detachment of Volkssturm at his side until it could be dispersed. Podhajsky’s greatest fear was that the locals, who were severely short on food, might yet attempt to slaughter the Lipizzaner stallions.

A few hours after his confrontation with the Party leadership, the sound of gunfire had recommenced, and louder. The Americans were almost into St. Martin. “Change out of your uniforms and then bring them to me,” instructed Colonel Podhajsky to his assembled riders. The Spanish Riding School staff, hitherto wearing the same German Army field-gray as their erstwhile commander, went to the special room that contained civilian clothing and emerged carrying their uniforms in bundles. Podhajsky had them hidden in the castle. American forces had been reported close by, and the echoing of gunfire could be clearly heard from the castle and stable blocks. Podhajsky’s only concern now was the horses. He had ordered all of his men’s weapons gathered before he locked them up. Podhajsky would remain with his staff until the US Army had taken the town.

For a couple of hours the situation was confused as the GIs drove off a smattering of Volkssturm and Wehrmacht who attempted to resist, eventually sweeping into the town proper to round up prisoners and take over the administration. The Spanish Riding School stallions and their human guardians waited in the half-light of the securely locked stables until American infantrymen arrived to investigate the building. As there were no weapons or German soldiers in evidence, just a collection of twenty young and middle-aged Austrian men and sixty-five horses, the GIs gave the place the once over and moved on, leaving the horses’ fates to follow-up troops. But Colonel Podhajsky could breathe a massive sigh of relief—the stallions and his riders had made it through unscathed. And as things would turn out, Arco Castle would soon be utilized as a headquarters for the new American administration in the region. Podhajsky was still concerned, though, about the mares and foals at Hostau. Owing to the chaotic situation and haphazard communication, he was unaware that the stud there was already in American hands, and he resolved to do all he could to save the animals that represented the future of the Spanish Riding School.

In the late afternoon some green-painted staff cars peeled off from the seemingly endless column of American vehicles and men that were passing through St. Martin towards the new front line; the cars, with big white stars painted on their doors, swung in to the castle and disgorged several senior officers. Chief among them was Brigadier General William Collier, XX Corps chief of staff.¹² He established his headquarters in the castle.

Podhajsky quickly presented himself, in the hopes of persuading the Americans of both the importance of the Spanish Riding School stallions and staff at the castle, but also of the necessity of saving the mares and foals at Hostau. But he didn’t get very far. Encountering Collier in the castle’s courtyard, the general and his staff swept past almost without glancing at the tall, thin Austrian dressed in civilian riding clothes, Collier muttering, “How do you do?” in Podhajsky’s direction without waiting for a reply.

But later, some of Podhajsky’s riders reported to him that an American major had visited the stables and was seeking him out. By an amazing stroke of luck, the major was horse mad and remembered Podhajsky from the 1936 Berlin Olympics. “I recognized you from the dressage events,” said the major, pumping Podhajsky’s hand. “How are you getting on, Colonel? Is there anything I can do for your horses?”

“I don’t have many of the best horses,” said Podhajsky, after he had recovered from his shock at this chance encounter.

“What!” the major exclaimed, “how come?”

“The Nazis took them to Czechoslovakia,” said Podhajsky. He fixed the major with a piercing look.

“May I speak to you about something important?”

“Of course,” replied the major.

“There is no time to lose and the American Army has got to act,” said Podhajsky urgently. “The Russians will certainly get these horses and ship them east. And once they get them, they are lost to the world.”¹³

The major was shocked, but he seemed determined to help. By sheer good fortune Podhajsky had found a friend who understood the cultural value of the horses, and was a fan of the Spanish Riding School. He was also a headquarters officer, and carried some weight.

As Podhajsky and the major stood chatting inside the stables, a fresh visitor arrived at the new American headquarters, the short, thick-set Lieutenant General Walton H. “Bulldog” Walker, commander of XX Corps. Walker was one of Patton’s favorites, and, accompanied by General Collier, the major introduced Podhajsky and quickly outlined the problem.

Walker and Collier listened patiently as they slowly strolled down the long line of stalls, each with a Lipizzaner head poking over the gate. After hearing Podhajsky out Walker stopped and began to stroke the long nose of one of the stallions, seeming to consider his words. After a while, he spoke.

“Maybe we should invite General Patton down here for a show, and in that way we can get more stars in back of this than I’ve got.”¹⁴ Walker’s bulldog-like face broke into a grin. Podhajsky was astounded. The great Patton coming here to see a show! They were nowhere near ready for such an important visitor or such an important event. But Podhajsky enthusiastically embraced Walker’s idea, for if anyone had the power to resolve the crisis that faced the Spanish Riding School it was America’s most famous cavalryman.

Colonel Hank Reed’s 2nd Cavalry Group successfully secured the passes through the mountains along the German–Czech border. On May 5, the 90th, 5th, and 1st Infantry Divisions attacked. General Weisenberger’s small defensive units fell to pieces, as he himself had predicted, and the Americans opened routes for an armored assault on Prague. The 1st Division drove on Karlsbad while the 97th Infantry Division headed for Pilsen, hitherto protected by the powerful 11th Panzer. The Soviets protested loudly, but had yet to launch their own assault. General Eisenhower urged caution. Under no circumstances was Patton to enter Prague.

The sudden American push liberated a host of Czech towns from the Germans included Bischofteinitz. Colonel Rudofsky was soon informed that his family was safe, easing his mental anguish a little. But it had not alleviated the question of whether he should leave his homeland or try to stay on, defying Colonel Reed’s order.

Rudofsky shared some of his problems with Dr. Lessing, who was busy ministering to the horses along with Dr. Kroll. When Lessing learned of Rudofsky’s determination to stay after the Americans had left, he was dumbfounded.

“You must be mad,” he said forcefully. “The Czechs hate us Germans. And the partisans are communists and agents of the Russians. They want us out of Czechoslovakia, including Sudeten Germans like you.” Lessing was perfectly right. The countryside around Hostau was lousy with Czech partisans, hard men armed with cast-off German weapons or Soviet gifts, who followed Moscow’s line and desired a postwar communist Czechoslovakia. They favored brutally ejecting the 3 million Germans who lived in their country, regardless of the fact that most families had lived in the region for generations. Ethnically cleansing the Sudetenland of Sudetens was one of their major postwar goals. Colonel Rudofsky was unmoved by Lessing’s arguments, clinging to the belief that once peace had been fully restored, democracy would once again return to Czechoslovakia.

Captain Stewart had also noticed the upsurge in partisan activity in the area since the Germans had been forced back. Reports had been reaching him of illicit visits to the stud by these resistance fighters. For what purpose was as yet unclear. What was obvious to Stewart, Captain Catlett, and First Lieutenant Quinlivan was the necessity to get the horses out of Hostau and into the safety of American-occupied Germany and end the uncertainty surrounding them as soon as possible.

US forces took Pilsen on May 6, 1945. General Bradley called Patton.

“The halt line through Pilsen is mandatory for V and XII Corps, George,” said Bradley, stopping the two main units that made up Patton’s Third Army. “Moreover,” continued Bradley, “you must not—I repeat not—recce to a greater depth than five miles northeast of Pilsen. Ike doesn’t want any international complications at this late date.”¹⁵

“For God’s sake, Brad,” fumed Patton, “it seems to me that a great nation like America should let others worry about complications.”¹⁶ Bradley was unmoved by Patton’s attitude. He must stop. He would never piss in the Danube in Prague after all.¹⁷

^* Now Horšovský Týn.