CHAPTER 16

Day of Days

“The people are poor peasants, and they can accommodate only a very limited number of horses on their modest estates.”

Captain Dr. Gustav Kroll

Colonel Alois Podhajsky, resplendent in his dark brown frock coat, white riding breeches, tall black boots, and bicorn hat, urged his mount Neapolitano Africa towards where General George S. Patton stood on a raised viewing dais alongside a host of American dignitaries. The metal fittings on the Lipizzaner stallion’s double reins jangled in the hushed quiet of Arco Castle’s small and plain riding hall, resembling more a large covered shed. The loudspeakers through which tinny music had blared during the performance of the eight Lipizzaner stallions and their riders had ceased. Beside Patton sat US Undersecretary-of-War Robert Patterson, dressed in a civilian suit and fedora hat, and four generals and four colonels from Third Army, XX Corps, and its constituent infantry and armored divisions.¹

The performance had been a slightly surreal experience for both sides. Podhajsky and his men had worked flat out to prepare the castle for the performance. The stallions and their riders had first gathered in a courtyard outside the riding hall, a space that was usually crammed full of refugees and locals bartering and trading. Now it had been cleared and scrubbed clean, with American soldiers guarding all the entrances.²

Sitting astride their stallions, the horses beautifully harnessed in gold-trimmed double bridles, and the riders resplendent in their traditional uniforms, the performers made quite an impression on General Patton and his guests. They “presented an unusual picture,” wrote Podhajsky, “pushing the prosaic world of everyday into the background and evoking the picture of a dream stretching hundreds of years into the past.”³

At 11.00am, Patton and his guests had arrived at the castle from Frankfurt. Patton, tall and imperious, had stalked past the line of horses and riders, whom he saluted, and then into the hall where a raised platform had been prepared for him and his guests.

“I must admit that a certain nervousness filled us all,” wrote Podhajsky. “We had to present a type of art bound up with tradition, and, like the ballet, built not on sensation but triumphing in the harmony of movement and music, to these foreigners from distant lands who up to yesterday were our enemies…”⁴

Podhajsky and his men had seen their liberator Patton up close for the first time, and the colonel had watched Patton’s face for some sign that he was interested in the spectacle and perhaps even appreciative of this most ancient and noble form of dressage. The signs initially had not been good. Patton, wearing a polished helmet liner adorned with four silver stars, had frankly looked rather bored by the whole thing, only appearing to warm to the performance during the finale, when Podhajsky had performed alone, mounted upon Africa, making a perfect display that awed the audience and drew rapturous applause from around the hall. Then Podhajsky had trotted towards Patton, removed his bicorn hat and doffed it towards the general with a flourish. Patton saluted. Colonel Podhajsky had just made the most important performance of his life—not in the great ornate marble riding hall in the Hofburg Palace in Vienna, but in a small Austrian village just liberated from tyranny, in a hall so shabby that swatches of freshly cut foliage had been used to camouflage holes in its walls. The question in Podhajsky’s mind was simple enough: had he impressed Patton into believing that the Spanish Riding School was worth saving?

General Patton’s day had got off to a rather disappointing start, which perhaps contributed to his somewhat depressed mood on his arrival at Arco Castle for the performance. He had received a telephone call just after 0400 hours on May 7 from his superior, General Omar Bradley, just as he was preparing to fly south to St. Martin.

“Ike just called me, George,” said Bradley, without fanfare. “The Germans have surrendered.” It did not come as a shock to Patton, for the news had been expected. German forces had been progressively surrendering in separate agreements with the Western Allies for several days. On May 4, German troops in North West Germany, Denmark, and the Netherlands had surrendered to the British 21st Army Group under Field Marshal Montgomery. That same day, the Americans had taken the surrender of all remaining German forces in Bavaria. On May 5, Czechoslovak nationalists had triggered a general uprising in German-occupied Prague, and Marshal Stalin had brought forward to May 6 his operation to invest the city, launching a massive offensive that would sweep through western Czechoslovakia up to Patton’s front lines.

General Alfred Jodl, second-in-command of the German Army, had signed the unconditional German surrender at Eisenhower’s Reims headquarters at 0241 hours on the morning of May 7, and a ceasefire was due to come into effect at 2301 Central European Time on May 8, 1945, to be celebrated as “Victory in Europe Day.”

Patton was not flavor of the month at SHAEF anyway, with Eisenhower believing that the Third Army commander, through some earlier mistakes—particularly the Hammelburg Raid to rescue American prisoners of war and his handling of the American press over the raid’s failure, as well as the discovery of the German gold reserves stashed in a salt mine at Merkers—had become something of a liability. Eisenhower had political ambitions, and close association with Patton was damaging.⁵ Many, including Eisenhower, considered Patton to have become increasingly reckless and arrogant as the war neared its conclusion.⁶ As for Patton, he had his sights set on a high command position in the Pacific, where the war continued against the Japanese.

For now, these worries and ambitions were of another world as Colonel Podhajsky, still mounted stiff-backed astride Africa, prepared to plead his case before the commanding presence of the most famous American general of World War II. The real show was now about to begin.

Dr. Gustav Kroll had arrived back at Hostau Stud on May 7 after a difficult two days away. Colonel Reed, who had returned to check on the horses and Captain Stewart’s command from his new headquarters in the Skoda Castle at Zinkovy, had finally been able to begin to make preparations to move the horses to safety in Germany.

Reed faced several very difficult problems, and it would take all the ingenuity and skill of Stewart’s little task force as well as Colonel Rudofsky and his staff to help resolve them.

“The main problem is the mares,” said Reed to Rudofsky during a meeting he called to try to decide on some options for the move. “We need to work out how we can move them without inducing labor.” Many of the Lipizzaner brood mares were heavily with foal, and were incapable of walking far. Any disturbances could result in them foaling, and if this was on the move the dangers to the mares and the newborns were massive. Reed had decided that the best way to move these delicate animals was on the back of trucks, but the 2nd Cavalry did not have sufficient spare and they were not designed for carrying horses.

“Quin,” said Reed, turning to First Lieutenant Bill Quinlivan, who since April 28 had been responsible for security at the stud with his single platoon of men from the 42nd Squadron’s Troop A. “I’m putting you in charge of moving the mares that are with foal,” continued Reed. “I want ideas as to how we can increase our transport capacity, and most importantly, how the trucks can be outfitted as horse transports.”

Quinlivan nodded seriously—it was a problem that would require all of his ingenuity to solve.

“The rest of the horses will have to march out,” said Reed. “Obviously, we’ll need to break them down into manageable groups.” He delegated responsibilities to various other officers at the meeting, along with the German veterinarians Lessing and Kroll.

“As well as vehicles protecting the horses on the march, we are going to need riders with the herds,” continued Reed. “I want a list of every man in your command who can ride,” said Reed to Captain Stewart. It was not going to be easy. Most of the officers were fair horsemen, but among the enlisted men there were only a handful of cowboys or men used to riding.

“The shortfall in experienced riders from our own outfit will have to be made up with enemy personnel,” said Reed. The Cossacks under Prince Amassov immediately volunteered. They had proven to be excellent workers since the stud had been liberated, keen to ingratiate themselves with the Americans and keener still to leave with them when the time came to evacuate Hostau. They were highly skilled horsemen and a valuable addition to the operation, and would provide between fourteen and sixteen riders to aid the short-handed Americans. Rudofsky’s German staff would also ride out on some of the stallions as well as a few of the Polish workers who had been sent to Hostau from the great stud at Debica and some German infantry officers from the Hostau garrison. But even with help, the number of riders would be pitifully small to help control hundreds of highly strung horses moving across a land full of partisans, mines, displaced refugees and former concentration camp prisoners, not to mention desperate and heavily armed SS trying to avoid capture. The stallions and mares would also have to be widely separated during the march to prevent trouble. Colonel Rudofsky had noted that many of his staff had disappeared since the German surrender, and though he had a few former Volkssturm and Hitler Youth representatives assisting his remaining men in running the stud, they “were not to be made over night into trained nurses.”⁷

In return for helping the Americans, Reed agreed to allow the Germans and Cossacks to bring their families and personal belongings out with the horse caravan, adding more problems to an already overburdened operation. The Cossacks were ecstatic.

The big question facing Reed and the others was where to take the horses to? The whole country was in an uproar, and Germany was no better, with its cities and towns heavily damaged by aerial bombing and street fighting, the food situation precarious and millions of civilians and German soldiers wandering around or being processed into massive open-air prison camps.

After consultations with both higher command and Colonel Rudofsky, a decision had been reached. The horses would initially be sent to Kötzting and Furth im Wald, small and picturesque Bavarian towns forty miles away, almost directly south of Hostau and just over the German border.

Reed had sent Dr. Kroll to Kötzting and Furth im Wald to inspect the available horse facilities, their condition, forage and pasture. Kroll had returned with mixed news after a very complex two-day mission.

“The stables and cowsheds that I viewed are inadequate for the animals that we have here,” said Kroll, still dressed in German Army uniform, but unarmed and wearing a white armband. He had carried a signed pass from Reed to show to American patrols and had been driven to the towns in a jeep with a GI driver and an armed escort.

The facilities at Kötzting consisted of small stables widely distributed around farms outside the town, as well as some dirty and ramshackle cowsheds that could also be pressed into service.

“The region is very poor, Colonel,” reported Kroll. “The people are poor peasants, and they can accommodate only a very limited number of horses on their modest estates.”⁸ But notwithstanding his insistence that the stabling was “inadequate,” through patient and often very tedious work Kroll had managed to find hosts for all of the horses at Hostau. He had driven from village to village and town to town over the two days, viewing facilities and negotiating with their owners. Compiling a huge list of locales, it was worked out that two mares could go to one place, three to another, five to another and so on until the hundreds of horses at Hostau were allocated shelter. But the facilities were a far cry from those of a military stud farm like Hostau or Piber. Colonel Rudofsky looked positively alarmed as he listened to Kroll deliver his report. Purebred horses like the Lipizzaners and Arabians would be unused to such deprived conditions, and the threat to their health and wellbeing was obvious. It would also mean that the two German veterinarians would have to shuttle constantly by jeep around dozens of properties to care for their charges, a completely unsatisfactory system.

“What about the available pasture?” asked Reed.

“In my opinion, it could only support more than five hundred horses for a few weeks at most, Colonel,” replied Kroll gloomily. The young veterinarian ran through several other drawbacks to the sites.

“It will have to do,” said Reed, bringing the meeting to a close. He would seek a more long-term solution for the horses later, but for now getting them out of Czechoslovakia alive was his only priority. The news that the Soviets had launched their Prague offensive the day before had invigorated Reed and the Americans—they fully expected the Red Army to smash its way through the remaining German divisions and start advancing on the Bavarian border very soon.

Alois Podhajsky held his reins in one hand and his cap in the other as he spoke in good English to General Patton and his high-ranking guests in the shabby riding hall at Arco Castle. Behind him, his seven riders were drawn up in a line, their Lipizzaner stallions occasionally snuffling at their bits or tossing their heads.

“Honorable Mr. Secretary and General,” Podhajsky began, nodding in turn to Under-Secretary-of-War Patterson and to Patton. “I thank you for the honor you have done the Spanish Riding School. This ancient Austrian institution is now the oldest riding school in the world, and has managed to survive wars and revolutions throughout the centuries, and by good fortune, has lived also through the recent years of upheaval.”⁹ Podhajsky paused for effect, feeling Patton’s steady blue eyes watching him intently from beneath the brim of his helmet.

“The great American nation which has been singled out to save European culture from destruction, will certainly interest itself also in this ancient academy, which with its riders and horses presents, as it were, a piece of living baroque, so I’m sure I shall not plead in vain in asking you, General, for your special protection for the Spanish Riding School.”¹⁰ He had said it—Podhajsky had asked for Patton’s formal help in saving the school from destruction. He sat still in the saddle and watched as Patton bent and spoke to Patterson in hushed tones before he straightened up again and faced Podhajsky. Patton prepared to reply. The moment of truth had arrived. Three hundred and eighty seven years of history hung precariously in the balance.

“We’ve been receiving reports of unauthorized visits to the stud by Czechs and Russians,” announced Colonel Reed to his gathered officers. The Germans were excluded from this particular meeting.

“I think that we have to face the fact that we’ve a rat in the house,” continued Reed, his face serious. Somebody had been secretly negotiating with Soviet agents, who had crossed into the American lines in company with communist partisans. The visits to the stud were becoming more frequent. Reed was concerned the Czechoslovaks might try to seize the horses themselves, perhaps with Russian help.

Colonel Rudofsky later denied that he was the officer who negotiated behind Reed’s back with the communists, writing in 1981: “When and if any Russian spies visited Hostau, I know nothing of it.”¹¹ Reed didn’t believe him and named “a certain Czech-born Lieutenant Colonel” as the culprit.¹² Regardless of Russian and Czechoslovak overtures, Reed saw the illicit activities as a further warning to move the horses to Germany and out of the reach of the communists. As for Colonel Rudofsky, though he was not particularly popular with the Americans, they still needed him, in spite of his suspected extra-curricular activities.

“I hereby place the Spanish Riding School under the official protection of the American Army in order to restore it to a newly risen Austria,”¹³ declared General Patton proudly in the riding hall at Arco Castle. For a few seconds Colonel Podhajsky had trouble taking in Patton’s words—it was so much more than he had expected. The Americans had offered a solid guarantee.

As for Patton, he had mixed feelings about the Spanish Riding School. As he watched the performance it had struck him “as rather strange that, in the midst of a world war, some twenty young and middle-aged men in great physical condition… had spent their entire time teaching a group of horses to wiggle their butts and raise their feet in consonance with certain signals from the heels and reins.” But, he conceded, who was he to judge? “It is probably wrong to permit any highly developed art, no matter how fatuous, to perish from the earth—and which arts are fatuous depends on the point of view. To me the high-schooling of horses is certainly more interesting than either painting or music.”¹⁴

Colonel Podhajsky urged that Patton take immediate steps to secure the brood mares at Hostau, about which he had heard nothing for weeks.

“You see, General, the Russians are going to claim those horses as war booty,” said Podhajsky, his face dour. “They’ll say they are German property.”

“Just let ’em try it!” roared Patton. “Colonel, from now on you and all of your horses are under the protection of the American Army. And the American Army is going into Czechoslovakia and get those horses!”¹⁵

Patton knew full well that Colonel Reed’s 2nd Cavalry Group had already taken the stud at Hostau and had matters in hand a week earlier. The arrival of Reed’s own assessment of the dangers then facing the stud and the value of the horses caused Patton to issue the necessary authorization for the colonel to begin the evacuation when ready.¹⁶ Reed set a provisional departure date—May 12, 1945.

A jeep containing First Lieutenant Quinlivan and three men pulled up outside the main gate to a German Army artillery training school a few miles from Hostau. The chain-link gates stood open, the sentries long since departed. Paper from buildings blew across the abandoned parade square while the odd open window swung in the breeze. A few German steel helmets and bits of equipment lay scattered on the ground. Behind Quinlivan was a big six-by-six truck piled up with jerrycans of gasoline and more of his men, including a couple of vehicle mechanics.

Quinlivan’s mission was to find more transport to help with the movement of the horses from Hostau. He had been informed that the artillery school had vehicles, but no fuel. The Americans drove around until they found what they were looking for. Parked in a neat row behind the abandoned barrack blocks was a collection of gray-painted German Army trucks—they were open-topped flatbeds with low wooden sides and a tailgate at the rear. The Americans stopped and piled out of their vehicles to inspect the trucks. Within minutes Quinlivan had selected the best runners, and his men set about refueling their tanks with the jerrycans that they had brought along, while the mechanics checked under the hoods.

A few hours later and Quinlivan’s convoy, now considerably bigger, and led by the American vehicles, started to make its way back to Hostau, each German truck driven by a GI, his carbine or M3 sub-machine gun (known as the “Grease Gun”) on the bench seat beside him. Now it was just the matter of converting the trucks, American and German, into ersatz horse carriers.

At Hostau a new aroma started to overtake the odors of horses, hay, and dung. The pleasant smell of freshly sawn timber was everywhere during the few frantic days Quinlivan had to convert almost thirty trucks. All day long there came the sounds of sawing and hammering, as lengths of timber were hastily knocked up into sides for German and American trucks, and, most importantly, ramps up which the horses could be led on to the vehicles. The construction of ramps was the most time-consuming task of all, and as Colonel Reed’s May 12 departure date rapidly approached, Quinlivan realized that he would not be finished in time. Reed would have to delay by a few days—something that he did not even want to contemplate.

As Quinlivan’s truck conversion team worked day and night, the other Americans and Germans had other tasks to attend to. The horses still required their usual exercise and daily care, but Rudofsky, Lessing, and Kroll also oversaw the organization of the horses into their evacuation groups, which would number between thirty and eighty horses each. Prince Amassov and his Cossacks continued to prove their worth, while Captain Stewart’s men assisted the stud’s staff in sorting out a small mountain of food, supplies and harness that would also be coming with them. Pretty much everything that was not nailed down at the stud was to be loaded on to trucks and taken to Germany. Nothing was to be left for the Russians or Czechoslovaks. The great detailed inventory that Colonel Reed had ordered Rudofsky to prepare on April 29 listed every single article. Soon the courtyard in front of the stud resembled one gigantic yard sale.

“Sir, we got reports of tanks moving towards our position from the east,” said the signals clerk to Captain Stewart. It was May 11, 1945, and feverish preparations were still ongoing for moving the stud and its precious horses, but it was looking increasingly unlikely that things would be ready by tomorrow, when they were supposed to leave.

Stewart radioed around his security points for any further information. Tanks had been heard in the distance. No information had been received from headquarters concerning American armor moving through his position, so Stewart ordered his command to action stations. Colonel Reed was immediately informed and drove out with Stewart to where the reports had originated.¹⁷

As soon as the American officers debarked from their jeep on the edge of Hostau they could hear the heavy engines of tanks in the distance. Both men considered whether they could be German. Though it had been four days since the German capitulation, fighting had continued beyond that date against the Soviets. The SS was still in evidence here and there. They couldn’t be British—Field Marshal Montgomery was operating far in the north of Germany. Reed and Stewart knew that the American front line ran ten miles southeast of Pilsen, then through Horsice, Zinkovy and to the 42nd’s command post at Nepomuk. The closest front-line location to Hostau was Horsice, roughly forty road miles east.¹⁸ But the front line was not a solid barrier—instead it was porous and full of gaps that American units had yet to fill or properly watch.

The tank engine sounds grew louder, accompanied by the strange clanking and grinding sounds made by their caterpillar tracks. Whatever they were, they were bigger vehicles than the two M24 Chaffee tanks that Stewart still retained to help protect the town. And they were definitely not Shermans, whose engine note was familiar to all American soldiers.

The road was overlooked by machine guns nestled inside hastily erected sandbagged positions, with an M8 armored car sitting further back in cover, its puny 37mm gun pointing towards the approaching threat.

Reed and Stewart took cover behind one of the positions and waited. A bazooka team crouched, their long green tube pointing east. Whatever was coming, it would shortly appear from around a bend on the tree-lined road a few hundred yards away. Stewart cocked the M1 carbine in his hands and glanced at Reed. His commander looked cool and unruffled as ever, but his right hand had fallen to his pistol holster and was slowly unclipping the flap.