CHAPTER 18

The Grand Drive

“Only Bill Quinlivan stood there like a rock in the surf.”

German Captain Dr. Rudolf Lessing

First Lieutenant Quinlivan, mounted on Lotnik, turned in his saddle and glanced briefly at the sergeant whose head and shoulders were sticking out of the M8 armored car’s turret. The sergeant’s eyes were locked on the officer, waiting for a signal. Then Quinlivan turned back to the trio of Czechoslovak partisans who were blocking the route into Germany, raised his right hand again and extended another finger.

“Two!” he bellowed, his horse restless. Behind him were sounds of confusion, as now two groups of horses and riders had become entangled with the truck convoy loaded with mares and foals in a growing bottleneck on the road in front of the border crossing. More horses would be lost if this unplanned delay continued for much longer.

The partisan leader still held his PPsH machine gun in his hands, but his eyes and face had lost their previously defiant expression—this American officer clearly meant business. The partisan licked his lips nervously and glanced at the M8, and at the muzzle of the gun that was trained perfectly on the barrier and his men, then back at Quinlivan astride Lotnik. Inside the M8 the sergeant in command, who also acted as gun loader, had rammed a high explosive shell into the breech. Suddenly, his mind made up, the partisan leader barked an order to his men and the barrier was hauled up, the partisans standing with surly expressions on their faces, giving the Americans and their “friends” the road.

Quinlivan didn’t hesitate, but ordered the parties to begin crossing into Germany immediately. The trucks started up, and spewing plumes of blue exhaust smoke they lurched on to the bridge, the horses in back moving with the motions of the trucks as they drove. Next came the two groups of horses that were walking. A barely controlled mass of Lipizzaner stallions, mixed up with the black or bay Arabians and Thoroughbreds plunged across the bridge, hooves thundering on the stone roadway. American, German, Polish, Cossack, and Ukrainian outriders struggled to prevent more runaways, sometimes turning out quickly to fetch back loose horses. Unlikely American cowboys in olive-drab uniforms and M1 helmets kicked their mounts along, their carbines slung across their backs, while field-gray-clad Germans in peaked field caps worked to separate the herds into orderly groups, helped by Polish grooms in riding breeches, roll-neck sweaters and driving caps. Adding a certain rustic romance to the scene were the Cossacks on their tough ponies, which contrasted strongly with the aristocratic lines of the Lipizzaners and Arabians, working hard in kaftans and fur caps, weaving their mounts between the American vehicles that guarded the caravan’s long flanks. It was, by any account, one of the strangest spectacles of the war.

And then suddenly they were all inside Germany. Dr. Lessing, riding at the head of the great caravan, spoke for all of them, regardless of nationality, when he later described how it felt: “We really felt in our hearts that we were saved. Actually saved. Now we knew that nothing could happen to us.”

It was perhaps appropriate that the person who had kick-started the rescue of the horses at Hostau should have been there when the horses drove or walked into Germany and freedom. Unfortunately Captain Ferdinand Sperl, the intelligence officer whose polite discussion with Colonel Holters had led to so many adventures, had little chance to welcome Stewart’s great procession into Kötzting. Sperl was running a massive prisoner-of-war discharge center, processing nearly 10,000 members of the recently surrendered 11th Panzer Division.¹

For days and days, columns of German soldiers, most loaded down with rucksacks, bedrolls and mess tins, shuffled along the roads around Kötzting, or sat under guard in fields. Each morning, another five hundred would be processed through large wooden cowsheds that had been hastily converted to document, medically examine, and discharge the German soldiers. It was already clear to Dr. Lessing and other officers that trying to keep the horses in an area that was completely overcrowded with former German soldiers and refugees from the east was not going to be a long-term solution. Although Dr. Kroll’s plan had swung into action, and the horses were distributed in penny packets to farms and estates, the level of disorder and crime in the area meant that the priceless horses were not out of danger quite yet. The Lipizzaner mares and foals were mostly kept together, in the largest spaces that Kroll had commandeered.

In the meantime, Colonel Podhajsky had been flown from St. Martin in Upper Austria on May 15 to Colonel Reed’s new headquarters at the huge Skoda Estate at Zinkovy, Czechoslovakia.² He had been invited to accompany Reed into Germany the next day to help select which of the Lipizzaners belonged to the Spanish Riding School and assist with their transfer to St. Martin.

Colonel Reed received Podhajsky with great warmth and invited him to dine with him and some of his officers at the Skoda Castle. The two colonels discussed the Olympics and the US Army’s cavalry school, and how Podhajsky’s name had been familiar to Reed before the war. Reed also explained to Podhajsky how his regiment had taken measures to secure the safety of the horses at Hostau on Patton’s orders, and that he had had the horses evacuated to Bavaria. It was an enormous relief to Podhajsky. Reed now invited Podhajsky to inspect the horses and sort out which animals should be returned to Austria.³

It was a long drive from Zinkovy to Kötzting, and Podhajsky made it seated in the back of Colonel Reed’s jeep.⁴ Reed sat in the front passenger seat beside his regular driver Sergeant O’Leary. Both Americans were well armed: the war may have been over, but the region was still alive with partisans, bandits, ex-Russian and Polish prisoners-of-war, concentration camp and slave labor camp survivors, refugees and tens of thousands of German troops, including disgruntled SS.

As Reed’s jeep roared through Czechoslovak towns and villages at high speed, the occupants could see which way the political winds were blowing in this part of Europe. Large homemade banners adorned many public buildings or were festively hung from buildings across roads. But the words written upon them were anything but festive. “We Greet the Red Army” was the commonest declaration. Podhajsky stared and was reminded of his trips through this country in the preceding years to visit Hostau, when he had gauged the barely concealed hostility of the Czechoslovak people to their German occupiers. Now civilians turned in the streets as the American jeep trundled through and stared at Reed and O’Leary, dressed in their steel helmets and olive-drab uniforms. It was not a friendly look. Colonel Reed emitted a short and humorless laugh and turned to speak to Podhajsky in the back of the jeep after seeing yet another pro-Soviet banner.

“The inhabitants of this country don’t love us much, and can hardly wait for the Russians to arrive,” shouted Reed over the sound of the engine and the wind. “Now you will understand why I had the horses brought to Bavaria as quickly as possible.”⁵

When Colonel Podhajsky alighted from Reed’s jeep at Kötzting, Captain Lessing was on hand to greet the two men. Lessing, now that Colonel Rudofsky had deserted the horses, had been appointed commandant of the stud. Perhaps it was the new responsibility, or exhaustion, or a combination of both, but Dr. Lessing was far from pleased to see Podhajsky. Only a year before, during one of Podhajsky’s visits to Hostau, he had been entertained in Lessing’s quarters, and the two men had got on well. Now, though, Dr. Lessing’s demeanor was considerably chillier.

“I intend to leave Europe and accompany the horses to America,” stated Lessing. Podhajsky was privately somewhat shocked and appalled by what he saw as Lessing’s personal ambition intertwining itself with the fate of the horses. But Lessing’s next suggestion truly horrified Podhajsky.

“In my opinion, Colonel” said Lessing to Reed, “the horses should be transferred from here to the Army Remount sections at Bergstetten and Mansbach. The pasture hereabouts will not last a fortnight.”⁶ Gestütsweg Mansbach was a famous horse-raising stud that had been taken over by the Wehrmacht in 1933. It had a capacity to stable eight hundred horses and was located near Munich.

Podhajsky strongly objected to Lessing’s plan, arguing that the Austrian horses in the collection should be taken to St. Martin and thence back to the Piber Stud where Lipizzaner mares had been originally stabled before Gustav Rau’s interference. Moving them further into Germany was, in his opinion, unnecessary. It would become increasingly difficult to extract them from American control, dooming the Spanish Riding School to oblivion. But Dr. Lessing was not persuaded.

“Austria is much too small to retain the Lipizzaner stud,” he said to Reed and Podhajsky. “The entire stud should be sent to America where these noble horses can be preserved for posterity.” Podhajsky’s face flushed at Lessing’s suggestion.

“I must object most strongly,” protested Podhajsky to Colonel Reed. “The Austrian Republic appreciates the cultural importance of the Spanish Riding School, as well as the generous help of General Patton, sufficiently to look after the Lipizzaner stud herself.”⁷

What Lessing and Podhajsky did not realize was that Patton had already decided to return the Spanish Riding School’s mares to Austria. Colonel Reed explained this to Lessing and Podhajsky, much to the latter’s evident relief, though Podhajsky was also worried. He had almost seventy stallions at Arco Castle, and absolutely no room for hundreds of mares and foals.

“The Lipizzaners will be taken in trucks to Upper Austria,” declared Reed. “And you get to make the arrangements,” he added, tapping Dr. Lessing on the chest with one index finger.

Not all of the Lipizzaners belonged to the Spanish Riding School. Mixed up with the horses at Kötzting were Italian and Yugoslavian Lipizzaners. Podhajsky undertook a careful inspection, with Colonel Reed joining him, picking out horses that had been branded with a crown with a capital “P” above, indicating Piber-born animals.⁸

For some of Reed’s men, though they were technically cavalrymen, flesh-and-blood horses remained a complete mystery to them. One such was Sergeant Vito Spadafino, a Technician Fourth Grade and usually the radio operator in an M8 armored car. His 3rd Squad from 3rd Platoon, Troop A, had been detached to guard the Lipizzaners and other horses.⁹ As Colonel Reed walked through one of the stables with Podhajsky and Lessing, Sergeant Spadafino followed behind, a Thompson sub-machine gun slung over one shoulder. While the German and American officers chatted, Spadafino glanced into the stalls. He knew nothing about horses, but one thing about the mares did strike him.

“Gosh, they look like they’re pregnant, sir,” muttered Spadafino to Reed. Reed stopped and turned.

“Sergeant, where do you come from?” he inquired.

“The Bronx, sir,” said Spadafino.

A broad smile creased Reed’s face. “Well,” he said, “where I come from we say they are in foal.”¹⁰

In all, there were 219 Lipizzaner mares, including several still in foal. Some had already foaled at Hostau, but because of Gustav Rau’s Nazi breeding program, their bloodlines and purity were in doubt. Podhajsky appeared pleased with the condition of the horses, and he could not fault the diligent work of Colonel Rudofsky and Captains Lessing and Kroll.¹¹ Of one thing Colonel Podhajsky was sure—the future of the Spanish Riding School was assured, just as long as the horses could be returned to Austria safely. How he was going to find room for so many horses weighed heavily upon his mind as he drove back to the Skoda Castle and prepared to fly back to St. Martin.

At the airfield, as Podhajsky was about to board the large green-painted C-47 Skytrain that would take him back to Austria, he grasped Colonel Reed’s hand and shook it vigorously. He thanked the American for all that he had done for the Spanish Riding School. Reed shook his head and raised his other hand to cut Podhajsky off mid-sentence.

“I have only acted as a fellow rider should,” said Reed, “and I am convinced that you would have done the same if the positions had been reversed.”¹² Podhajsky nodded solemnly at Reed’s generous statement before he took his seat inside the plane. The American colonel was quite right—the love of horses transcended even love of nation. He settled his body back against the C-47’s fuselage, feeling the metal vibrate as the two engines started up with a deafening roar. Without Reed and the other Americans, the Spanish Riding School would have been scattered to the wind.

Lieutenant Colonel Hubert Rudofsky was not quite done with the horses. He had returned to the largely deserted Hostau Stud only to find that the few remaining staff had managed to find and stable some of the stallions that had unhorsed their riders and bolted during the movement towards the German border. On the morning of May 16 the sounds of truck engines was heard driving through the village towards the stud.

Thinking that the Red Army was finally moving into Hostau, Rudofsky was surprised when three American six-by-sixes roared up the hill to the stud and ground to a halt at the gates. A young officer and a handful of GIs in steel helmets and web equipment jumped down from the trucks.

“There are still various things that we could not take yesterday,” explained the officer to Rudofsky. Some boxes and bales of equipment and supplies were still neatly stacked in one of the stable blocks, and these were now loaded in quick time aboard the trucks. The Americans were certainly being thorough, leaving behind nothing for the new owners.

“Have any horses returned?” asked the officer. Rudofsky showed him the few stallions that had been gathered up, and the Americans loaded them aboard the trucks, led by a proud and haughty Polish Anglo-Arab. Then, the young officer strode over to where Rudofsky stood watching the horses standing in their ersatz horse transporters, their heads hooked over the high wooden sides.

“Colonel,” he said, saluting respectfully. Then the young officer turned and boarded the leading truck. Within a few minutes all was quiet again, as the sound of the convoy faded into the distance. The Americans had done with Hostau. Rudofsky gazed about him one last time, then headed for his quarters inside the castle. He would pack and go home. His job at Hostau was over too. He was also the only one left who could explain what had happened to the horses.

As Rudofsky walked over to the castle two Czechoslovak policemen appeared. They were dressed in long dark-blue greatcoats and service caps and wore armbands in the old Czechoslovak national colors as a sign that they were no longer serving their German conquerors, but rather the new regime that was gradually establishing its authority over the region.

“Lieutenant Colonel Hubert Rudofsky?” demanded one of the policemen, his tone cold.

“Yes,” replied Rudofsky, his voice level. “What can I do for you?”

“You are the commandant of the Hostoun stud?” asked the policeman, using the Czechoslovak name for Hostau.

“I was,” replied Rudofsky proudly.

The policeman unclipped his brown leather holster and took out his pistol, pointing it at Rudofsky’s stomach.

“By order of the Republic of Czechoslovakia, you are under arrest.”

The dilemma that faced Colonel Podhajsky was a serious one. Finding suitable stabling for hundreds more horses at St. Martin appeared to be impossible. All available accommodations at Arco Castle were full of refugees, and every stall not housing Spanish Riding School stallions was filled with surviving horses from the Hungarian stud. But Podhajsky refused to be defeated. He toured the local area, determined to find some space. At the Stallion Depot at Stadl-Paura, near Lambach, he managed to free up six boxes for stallions. That wasn’t enough. But then he heard about Reichersberg Airfield, just two-and-a-half-miles from Arco Castle and almost twenty miles from Passau on the German border.

Reichersberg had been a Luftwaffe base, but had been put out of action permanently by a low-level bombing and strafing attack by American P-51 Mustangs on April 16, 1945. The grass runways and dispersal areas were littered with shot-up and abandoned German fighters and bombers. Due to aviation fuel shortages towards the end of the war, with most aircraft grounded, the Luftwaffe had used part of the airfield to instead stable draft horses employed to haul military supply wagons. Podhajsky approached Brigadier General Collier at XX Corps with a proposal to move on to the airfield, and Collier gave his permission.¹³

Podhajsky wasted no time. He managed to procure a Kübelwagen field car and with one of his grooms acting as driver, motored out to the airfield. The premises appeared ideal—small hangars that could be easily converted to hold the horses, a barracks block where Podhajsky’s staff could live, and abundant green fields for exercising the horses or putting them out to pasture. But there was one major problem. Former Polish POWs and displaced persons who, in Podhajsky’s words, “terrorized the local neighborhood” had taken over the old German base. The moment the Poles spotted the German Army vehicle and its German-speaking occupants, they became extremely hostile, swearing at Podhajsky and threatening to do unspeakable things to his person should he not quit the airfield immediately. Unarmed and dressed in civilian clothing, Podhajsky was in no position to argue, and ordered his driver to take him back to the castle. He went straight to General Collier and explained his predicament.

The next day Colonel Podhajsky returned to the airfield, only this time with an escort. Following behind Podhajsky’s field car was a jeep containing an American lieutenant colonel from Collier’s staff and a couple of military policemen. The Poles came out and resumed arguing and threatening, but the American officer quickly got on the radio and half an hour later a truck full of military police drove through the airfield’s gates, followed by a couple of empty trucks, the heavily armed policemen quickly forming a cordon around the barracks area where the Poles lived. In no uncertain terms, the Poles were ordered to leave. Faced with so many armed Americans, the Poles did as they were told and boarded the trucks that the Americans had brought with them, and they were driven away for repatriation to their homeland.¹⁴

The American colonel strolled over to Podhajsky and smiled as the last truck left.

“All yours, Colonel,” he said, saluted and then boarded his jeep. Podhajsky now had an airfield to convert into a horse center.

Immediate steps were taken to change the layout of the hangar interiors, Podhajsky’s men constructing wooden stalls for the horses. These were lined with fresh straw from Podhajsky’s limited supply. Fresh water was available from a stream nearby, and the barracks were cleaned and tidied up for use by the grooms and riders.¹⁵ Podhajsky had been told that he would be informed when the first shipment of horses from Kötzting was expected to arrive, so he could have everything ready. But as with so much to do with the Spanish Riding School during this turbulent time, expecting the unexpected had become the norm.

“The distance to Reichersberg Airfield is about sixty miles,” First Lieutenant Quinlivan told Lessing and Kroll, as they decided how to move the Spanish Riding School’s horses from Kötzting. “The question is how to get them there intact.”

It was a serious problem, for while some horses had been driven from Hostau to Kötzting in trucks, those that had walked were exhausted and needed plenty of time to recover.

“They will have to go in the trucks,” said Dr. Lessing. The trucks that Quinlivan had “liberated” from the German artillery training school and converted into rudimentary horse carriers would be pressed into service once more. A few more Opel Blitzes were gathered from the surrendered 11th Panzer Division and quickly converted with timber, enabling each to carry several horses. Others would be used to convey the grooms and their kit. In total, Quinlivan and Lessing gathered together forty trucks. The question of drivers and grooms was a problem. Quinlivan visited the POW transit camp and recruited dozens of German prisoners for the task. Still in uniform, these Germans were distributed as drivers while others, mostly unwillingly, would act as grooms. A small escort of jeeps from 3rd Platoon, Troop A, would protect and guide the convoy on its final journey.

For the Thoroughbreds and Arabians at Kötzting and Furth im Wald, their destiny lay at an old German Army stud at Mansbach, 200 miles northwest of Kötzting. The Spanish Riding School horses were finally separated from the mass of animals that Gustav Rau had forced together at Hostau, and were following their own fresh path to their homeland.

Darkness had long since fallen at Reichersberg Airfield on May 22, 1945. All was quiet after another hectic day for Colonel Podhajsky and his men. Preparations for the arrival of the mares and foals from Kötzting continued from dawn to dusk, as buildings were carefully converted and stores put in place. There was much to do, and little time, though General Collier had assured Podhajsky that he would receive plenty of notice of the arrival of the convoy.

Podhajsky was exhausted. He glanced at his watch. It was a little before midnight. He yawned and stretched. He was for his bed. But as he strode across the grass before one of the aircraft hangers towards his simple quarters inside the old barrack block a sound cut the stillness of the night. Podhajsky stopped and listened. It sounded like engines. As he stared into the inky black of the night, he suddenly made out lights twinkling in the distance on the far side of the airfield. They were unmistakable—headlights! And then another pair and another pair joined the first until the whole horizon became an ever-lengthening string of headlights, accompanied by a deep rumbling from dozens of engines growing louder by the minute. Others of his staff joined Podhajsky to witness the amazing spectacle. They stood silent and spellbound as the line of twinkling, flickering, moving lights snaked their way towards the airfield’s entrance.¹⁶ As the long line of vehicles drew closer, Podhajsky could make out white blobs standing in the rear of the trucks, long white heads bobbing up and down with the motion, or hooking over the sides, ears twitching all around in excited confusion. Podhajsky’s heartbeat increased and he took a few tentative steps forward without even realizing. They were coming… at long last, they were coming! The Spanish Riding School was coming home. The bright headlights seemed to herald hope, cutting through the darkness of the previous years of uncertainty, conflict and suffering.

At that moment, standing on an airfield in Upper Austria, Alois Podhajsky knew that the Spanish Riding School was finally safe and reunited. The horses’ white coats, like white doves, seemed almost symbolic of a new dawn… of peace, and hope for a better future.