The Last Battle (19 page)

As pleasant as it was, Schrader’s Tyrolean idyll couldn’t last. Germany’s horrendous casualty rates in the last months of the war meant that virtually any soldier who could fog a mirror and hold a weapon would be put into the front line. In March 1945 Schrader—despite being far from recovered and still needing a cane—was declared fit for duty and assigned as the adjutant in SS-Feldersatz Brigade 502. Though officially a replacement unit intended to provide trained infantry troops to field units, the brigade was put directly into the line to help prevent the American capture of the Ludendorff Bridge over the Rhine River at Remagen. The German defense failed, and Schrader barely escaped capture. What remained of Feldersatz Brigade 502 was withdrawn to Nabburg, some fifty miles east of Nürnberg. There Schrader received orders assigning him to a unit near Budapest, Hungary, but when he reached Vienna in mid-April, the local Waffen-SS commander told him that Budapest had already fallen to the advancing Russians. He was ordered to instead present himself for duty at the SS-Führungshauptamt, the operational headquarters of the SS, which had moved from Berlin to Bad Tölz, Bavaria, just thirty-four miles northwest of Itter. But again enemy action forced a change in plan. The train
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Schrader boarded in Vienna on April 24 was attacked by Royal Air Force fighter-bombers near the city of Melk, Austria, destroying the engine and forcing all the passengers to seek shelter in the nearby woods. The British aircraft returned repeatedly to strafe the train’s occupants in what Schrader called a “rabbit hunt”; when the attackers eventually departed, a replacement locomotive appeared, several undamaged rail cars were attached, and Schrader’s trip west continued.

That journey ultimately took the train to the major railway junction at Wörgl, and Schrader, in no hurry to get to Bad Tölz and hoping for a chance to see his family at Itter, took the opportunity to go in search of an officer he thought might be able to change his orders. That man was none other than Lieutenant Colonel Giehl, commander of both the mountain troops’ NCO school and the newly constituted battle group that bore his name, with whom Schrader had become acquainted during his convalescence in Wörgl. The Waffen-SS officer was in luck; Giehl told him it was no longer possible to get to Bad Tölz, because American forces had already taken Munich and were moving rapidly south. Instead, on April 28 Giehl added Schrader to the battle group staff as a supply and logistics officer.

While pleased to again be stationed close to his family, Schrader had no intention of participating in Germany’s obviously terminal war effort. For several days after joining Giehl’s staff the twenty-nine-year-old Waffen-SS officer carefully sounded out the battle group’s other staffers on their feelings about continuing the fight. It must have been a very delicate investigation indeed, for the wrong word to the wrong person could well have put Schrader in front of a firing squad. Moreover, the officers Schrader cautiously approached—all of whom were Wehrmacht—would certainly have had their own serious misgivings about sharing their true beliefs with a highly decorated member of the Waffen-SS, the same organization whose troops were even then hauling “defeatists” out of their homes and shooting them or hanging them from lampposts simply for displaying white flags.

Perhaps it was a genuine desire to end the war without further bloodshed and destruction, or possibly it was a less honorable (though no less understandable) wish to simply survive the conflict: for whatever reason, Schrader and several of his Wehrmacht colleagues on the battle group staff overcame their mutual suspicion and decided to trust one another. Then, having revealed themselves to be in favor of immediate peace instead of continued war, the officers went to Giehl and convinced him that further combat was pointless. On May 2 the battle-group commander ordered his troops to stop fighting and surrender to the advancing Americans as the opportunity arose; he also told his staff officers to make their way home as best they could. Knowing that roving bands of Waffen-SS troops and Gestapo men were summarily executing as deserters any soldiers caught on the road without orders officially releasing them from duty, Schrader asked Giehl for a signed discharge statement. Written hurriedly on a sheet of scrap paper, the document read:

CONFIRMATION

SS Captain Schrader from the Reserves reported for duty on April 28, 1945, to serve his country. As he is of no use in battle due to his injury, he was released from my staff to return to his hometown, Itter.

In lack of an official seal, signed

Giehl,

Lieutenant colonel and commander
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While the document was something less than a full discharge—to protect himself should Schrader be arrested, Giehl wrote that he’d “released” the Waffen-SS officer from duty because of his injuries rather than discharging him from the military altogether—it was well phrased. And it worked: though stopped several times between Wörgl and Itter by Waffen-SS troops and Gestapo men manning hastily erected roadblocks, Schrader was not detained. He made it safely home and put away his uniform, assuming his war was over.

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suicide in the early hours of May 2 was apparently the trigger for “Wastl” Wimmer’s ultimate departure from Schloss Itter, the castle’s commandant was also unnerved by an event that occurred the following day. Zvonko Čučković, whom Wimmer had assumed he’d browbeaten and bullied into cringing obedience, had disappeared without a trace. The SS-TV officer was convinced—rightly, as it happened—that the Croat handyman had left the castle and gone in search of Allied troops he intended to guide back in order to rescue the French prisoners.

Čučković’s flight on May 3 was the result of rare agreement between Paul Reynaud and Édouard Daladier. The news pouring from the clandestine radio hidden in Reynaud’s room clearly indicated that American forces were advancing into Tyrol, with Innsbruck as their initial objective. Knowing that the breakdown of German military discipline in the area would only increase the vulnerability of themselves and their fellow honor prisoners, the two decided that someone should leave the castle and go in search of the closest Allied unit. Čučković seemed the ideal choice, in that the Croat often left the castle to do errands for Wimmer. Indeed, for several days Zvonko had been biking back and forth the two miles between Schloss Itter and the farmhouse in Mühltal
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in which the Wimmers were apparently intending to hide out, working to install electric lights. When the elderly Frenchmen approached Čučković with their plan, he readily agreed. Christiane Mabire wrote a letter in English explaining the prisoners’ plight, which Čučković was to present to the first Americans he encountered. All that remained was to find a plausible reason for the Croat handyman to leave the castle.

Ironically, Wimmer himself provided the reason. Just before noon on May 3 Čučković was in the schlosshof’s garage when the commandant walked in and asked him if he had enough parts to finish installing the electric bedside lamps in the farmhouse.

“Sir,” Čučković replied, “I have enough material.”

“Good, you will accompany Sergeant Euba on foot this afternoon and ensure that there is electricity in those two lamps.”

Understandably concerned that the presence of one of the castle’s guards would prevent his escape, Čučković responded that he could accomplish his task more quickly if he were allowed to bike to Mühltal by himself. After peering intently at the Croat for a few moments, Wimmer turned and walked off. Not knowing whether he’d somehow given himself away, Čučković remained rooted to the spot, trying to decide what to do next. Before he reached a decision, Wimmer returned with a bicycle.

“I’ve put your tools in the basket,” the commandant said. “Let’s go.”

Čučković pushed the bike to the front gate, which Wimmer unlocked and pulled open. Glancing at his watch, the Croat noted that it was one thirty, just as Wimmer said, “Be quick about it.”

“I will be, Captain,” Čučković replied and started pedaling up the schlossweg, the short access road, toward Itter village. As he passed the small St. Joseph’s Church, the Catholic handyman muttered a quick prayer: “Dear Lord, please help me get to the Americans today.”
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Čučković headed northeast out of the village and covered the distance to Mühltal in less than twenty-five minutes—and kept right on going. He intended to make first for Wörgl and then turn southwest on the road along the south bank of the Inn River. He calculated that he could travel the thirty-five miles to Innsbruck in less than three hours, passing through Kundl, Jenbach, Schwaz, and Hall. What he hadn’t counted on was the presence along his route of so many armed German soldiers. The main road between Wörgl and Mühltal was busy with troop trucks and kübelwagens carrying men of Battle Group Forster east to take up blocking positions near Söll, and when Čučković reached Wörgl, he noted scores of Waffen-SS troops going door to door, apparently searching for deserters. The Croat managed to cycle through the town without being stopped, but, as he turned onto the road leading to Kundl, some four miles on, a commanding voice shouted “Halt!”

Čučković stopped instantly and looked around. A squad of men of the Grossdeutschland division had emplaced four MG-42 machine guns to cover the road junction, and one of the soldiers was walking forward, his machine pistol pointed straight at the handyman. Mindful that the letter in his pocket—written in English and asking American forces to rush to Schloss Itter—could condemn him to a quick death if discovered by the Wehrmacht troops, Čučković put on his most ingratiating smile and bowed his head slightly as the soldier approached.

“Who are you, and where are going?” the man barked.

“Sir, I am on the way to Kundl,” Čučković replied carefully.

“What do you want there?”

“Sir, Captain Wimmer at Schloss Itter ordered me to install some electric lights,” the Croat said. “He told me it was very important that I do the work and return quickly.”

The mention of Wimmer’s name and rank seemed to ease the soldier’s suspicion, and, after a quick look at the tools in the bicycle’s basket, he waved his hand dismissively and grunted, “On your way, then.”

Čučković remounted and pedaled on. Just west of Kundl he was forced to the side of the road as two Tiger tanks rumbled by, headed east toward Wörgl. The men in the commander’s hatches were wearing black Waffen-SS tunics, and daubed on the turret sides in white paint were the slogans “Loyal to the Führer!” and “People to Their Weapons!” The tankers stared at Čučković but didn’t stop, and, as soon as they passed, the Croat resumed his journey west. He’d gone only a few miles when a Waffen-SS trooper guarding a small bridge near Jenbach halted him. Čučković gave him a variation of the story he’d earlier told the Grossdeutschland soldiers, this time saying Wimmer had ordered him to Schwaz to do some unspecified electrical work. The tale was apparently just as convincing, for the SS man allowed him to pass. A few hundred meters along the road the Croat stopped to rest, and he noticed a military truck coming toward him from the west. The vehicle roared past and then stopped briefly to pick up the soldier on the bridge. Seconds after the truck moved on, a huge explosion demolished the span. The unexpected detonation startled Čučković, who jumped back on his bike and set off quickly down the road, exhorting himself, “Forward, Zvonko, you’re in no man’s land!”

Zvonko was indeed between the lines and passed through Schwaz and Hall without seeing anyone; the only movement in either town was the fluttering of white and red-white-red (Austrian) flags from upper-floor windows. Čučković could hear occasional gunshots in the distance and was shocked by the sight of a dead civilian lying in the road as he reached the outskirts of Innsbruck. Pedaling toward the center of the city, he rounded a corner and was suddenly confronted by more tanks. Skidding to a halt he fully expected to be riddled by gunfire but then realized that the vehicles all bore large white stars. Čučković’s long, lonely ride was over: he’d found the U.S. Army.

The Croat had literally run into the lead elements of Major General Anthony C. McAuliffe’s 103rd Infantry Division. The famed paratrooper
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and his men were completing their largely unopposed capture of Innsbruck, and the roadblock Čučković encountered marked the most easterly edge of the American line. A soldier wearing a brassard and with “MP” lettered in white on his helmet walked up to the Croat and spoke to him. Gesturing to indicate that he spoke no English, Čučković handed the man the letter written by Christiane Mabire. The soldier scanned it quickly and then motioned the Croat to follow him.

The MP led Čučković to Innsbruck’s town hall, which had been turned into the division’s makeshift headquarters. The building was crowded, and the MP called out to a civilian wearing a colored armband. The two spoke for a moment; then the civilian turned and, in German, asked Čučković where he was from.