On a rainy, cold Monday, April 2, the day after Easter, the 30th Regiment was preparing to move by motorized vehicles about twenty miles to a new assembly area, but Phil was not with his men. He had suddenly disappeared. Those who knew where he was going could be counted on the fingers of one hand. On fear of court-martial, they could tell no one about his upcoming mission.[1]

Just before dinner, Phil was outside his company CP smoking a cigarette with his executive officer, Lieutenant Abraham Fitterman. Suddenly, a Jeep raced up and skidded to a halt. In the passenger seat was a man Phil didn’t recognize, wearing a major’s insignia on his impeccably clean and pressed uniform.

Phil and Abe looked suspiciously at each other as they popped to attention and saluted. The officer hopped out of the Jeep, stood, saluted back, and barked, “At ease. I’m Major Hugh A. Scott, Division G-2.[2] I’m looking for Lieutenant Larimore.”

“That would be me, sir,” Phil replied.

Major Scott shook Phil’s hand and gestured to step away from the Jeep for a private conversation. After hearing what the major had to say, Phil hopped in the back seat of the Jeep with Major Scott and raced away, ending up at the Battalion CP, which had taken up residence in a nicely appointed German villa.

Phil followed the rapidly walking major into the manor and up the stairs to the command room, where Colonel McGarr was on the telephone. After finishing his conversation, he dismissed all men except for me, Major Scott, and his two valets.

“I’m going to have dinner brought up for us, if that’s okay,” McGarr said. It was not a request, and the two young officers nodded. As the valets set the table, McGarr handed Phil a cigar and poured tumblers of scotch all around. As they lit up, he asked, “Any idea why you’re here, Lieutenant?”

Phil glanced dubiously at the major, who sat stone-faced, and then back at the colonel. “No, sir.”

McGarr took a sip of his scotch and leaned back. “Damnedest thing. Cobra tells me he has it on good authority that there are rumors of a bunch of highbrow horses just across the border in Czechoslovakia that need to be saved. But we need confirmation, which means we need an equestrian to find out if it’s true.”

“Cobra?” Phil asked.

“O’Daniel’s code name.”

“And the general wants me to go there?”

“Cobra has sent his G-2 to explain this to us.” He nodded at Major Scott, but three men entered before he could start, each carrying a tray of food. The officers sat at the table and were served dinner.

As they enjoyed their hot meal, Major Scott began his story. “There’s an Army intelligence unit working near the German-Czech border, about ninety miles east of Nuremberg, interrogating German POWs. They learned about a large stud farm, formerly owned by the Czech royal family but confiscated by the Nazis, near a tiny Bohemian village called Hostau, about ten miles east of the German border as the crow flies. Intelligence says Hitler and his underlings have gathered what may be the finest collection of mounts in the world. Apparently, it’s some experiment to purify the breeds the same way he wants to purify the races.”

Phil’s interest peaked. “Which breeds?”

The major pulled a small notebook out of his chest pocket. “Says here they have Arabians, Andalusians, Friesians, Anglo-Kabardas—don’t exactly know what those are.”

“Those are all considered royal breeds, horses preferred by and bred for kings and queens,” Phil explained. “They’ve all been used as warhorses throughout history across Europe. Amazing creatures.”

The major looked back at his notes. “He also spoke about the farm having Thoroughbreds stolen from the capitals of Europe, including several famous racehorses that won Europe’s top sweepstakes.”

“Must be quite a farm,” Phil said.

“It’s even better than you think, Lieutenant. They’ve also gathered Lipizzaners.”

“The dancing white horses of Austria!” Phil exclaimed. “I saw them perform when I was a kid, and I’ve seen pictures of them at the Spanish Riding School in Vienna. The best classical dressage mounts in the world. Ever see that famous painting of Napoleon crossing the Alps? That one shows him leading his troops from the back of a prancing Lipizzaner stallion.”[3]

The major nodded, looked down at his notebook, and continued. “Intelligence reports that as far back as 1939, Hitler put out orders for his men to capture every single Lipizzaner they could find. Adolf Hitler coveted the Lipizzaner for its white coat and its perceived racial purity. The super race he planned needed splendid stallions beneath them. They’ve netted about 250 of the horses, which may represent most of the suitable breeding stock in the world.”

Phil softly whistled. “What do you need me to do?”[4]

TO BE CONTINUED

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[1] Larimore, At First Light, 222.

[2] A G-2 is an intelligence officer or section of a major command above brigade level.

[3] Phil was referring to a masterpiece painting by French painter Jacques-Louis David called “Napoleon Crossing the Alps,” commemorating the crossing that French emperor Napoleon Bonaparte conducted through the Great St. Bernard Pass in May 1800. In reality, he rode a mule over the crest of the Alps, which would hardly be impressive for an emperor looking to enhance his image and legacy.

[4] Larimore, Ibid, 222-225

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