The Last Alliance

Editor’s Note
Dear readers, in an age of division, stories like this one cut through the noise. Sourced from eyewitness timelines, Stephen Harding’s definitive book The Last Battle, and verified archives, the Battle of Castle Itter reminds us that ordinary decency can rewrite history’s darkest scripts. This high-buzz tale of unlikely allies in the Austrian Alps had all the tension, mystery, and ethical depth we seek. Let’s dive in.

The Castle Under Siege
May 5, 1945. Dawn breaks over the jagged peaks of the Austrian Tyrol. Perched on a 666-meter hill above the village of Itter, Schloss Itter stands like a medieval sentinel—its stone towers and battlements now scarred by barbed wire and floodlights installed by its Nazi captors. Inside, high-value French prisoners pace anxiously. Outside, a force of 100 to 150 die-hard Waffen-SS troops from the 17th SS Panzergrenadier Division “Götz von Berlichingen” advances through the pines, determined to execute every last hostage before the Reich collapses.

This is no ordinary prison. Schloss Itter began life as a 19th-century luxury hotel before the SS seized it in 1943, turning it into an Evakuierungslager—a special holding site under Dachau’s administration. The geopolitical backdrop was grim: Austria had been annexed in the 1938 Anschluss, and by spring 1945 the Western Allies were racing eastward while fanatical SS units ignored surrender orders. Hitler had committed suicide on April 30. Berlin had fallen. Yet pockets of resistance lingered in the Alps, fueled by ideological zeal and fear of reprisal.

The prisoners inside represented the intellectual and political core of pre-war France—men and women whose survival would shape the Fourth Republic. Among them: former prime ministers Édouard Daladier and Paul Reynaud (bitter political rivals who had blamed each other for France’s 1940 collapse), generals Maurice Gamelin and Maxime Weygand (the men who commanded France’s doomed armies), trade union leader Léon Jouhaux, right-wing figure François de La Rocque (ironically a secret British intelligence asset), tennis champion Jean Borotra, Michel Clemenceau (son of the World War I “Tiger”), and Marie-Agnès Cailliau, elder sister of Charles de Gaulle. Wives and secretaries had voluntarily joined some of the men. Conditions were relatively humane—library access, courtyard walks—but the threat was existential. The SS viewed them as valuable bargaining chips… or targets for liquidation.

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The VIP Prisoners of the Reich

General Anthony McAuliffe and French Dignitaries following The Battle for Castle Itter (May 5, 1945) : r/wwiipics

By early May, the castle’s SS-Totenkopf guards sensed the end. Commandant Sebastian Wimmer fled on May 4 after news of Dachau’s last commander’s suspicious death. The remaining guards melted away, leaving the prisoners in control of a small arsenal of abandoned weapons. But they were trapped. SS patrols roamed the surrounding forests, and white flags in nearby villages drew execution squads.

Two prisoners volunteered as messengers. Yugoslav handyman Zvonimir Čučković biked toward Innsbruck on May 3 and reached American lines. A second, Czech cook Andreas Krobot, pedaled to Wörgl on May 4. There he found Major Josef “Sepp” Gangl—a 34-year-old decorated Wehrmacht officer who had fought from France to Russia to Normandy and the Bulge, only to grow disillusioned with the Nazi cause. Gangl had already defected to the Austrian resistance, protecting civilians from SS reprisals in Wörgl. He promised help but knew his handful of loyal men could not storm the castle alone.

Defectors in the Alps
Gangl drove under a white flag to Kufstein, eight kilometers away, where he encountered Lieutenant John C. “Jack” Lee Jr. of the U.S. 23rd Tank Battalion, 12th Armored Division. Lee—a battle-hardened 27-year-old from Norwich, New York, commanding a Sherman tank nicknamed Besotten Jenny—listened to the extraordinary plea. Without waiting for full approval from superiors (who controlled the 36th Infantry Division sector), Lee volunteered. He gathered 14 American soldiers, requisitioned extra support, and linked with Gangl’s small Wehrmacht detachment plus Austrian resistance fighter Rupert Hagleitner.

They reached the castle at dusk on May 4 after clearing a minor SS roadblock. The French prisoners were relieved—but also underwhelmed by the tiny rescue force. Paul Reynaud later recalled Lee as “crude in both looks and manners,” adding dryly, “If Lee is a reflection of America’s policies, Europe is in for a hard time.” Yet actions spoke louder. Lee positioned Besotten Jenny at the main gate. SS-Hauptsturmführer Kurt-Siegfried Schrader—an injured Waffen-SS officer who had befriended the prisoners during his local convalescence—defected fully, bringing his family inside for safety and organizing the defense.

That night, probing SS attacks tested the perimeter. Gangl radioed for reinforcements; only two more Wehrmacht soldiers and teenage resistance fighter Hans Waltl arrived. The defenders totaled roughly 20-30: Americans, defected Germans, Austrians, and the armed French VIPs themselves.

The Tank That Led the Charge

The Battle for Schloss Itter | The Unravel

A Desperate Day of Defiance
Dawn on May 5 brought the full assault. Machine-gun fire and 88mm anti-aircraft shells—repurposed as anti-tank guns—raked the castle walls. Besotten Jenny answered with its 75mm cannon, buying precious time. But an 88mm round struck the Sherman’s fuel tanks. It erupted in flames. The crew escaped, but the defenders lost their heaviest weapon.

Inside the keep, political enemies set aside decades of rivalry. Daladier, Reynaud, Gamelin, Weygand, de La Rocque, Jouhaux, and even the septuagenarian Clemenceau manned windows with rifles and submachine guns. Jean Borotra—once France’s tennis star—fought with the same agility that had won him Wimbledon. Ammunition dwindled. Brickwork crumbled; Schrader’s wife was wounded.

The SS pressed closer. From a courtyard position, Reynaud fired exposed. Gangl sprinted across open ground to pull him to safety. A sniper’s bullet struck Gangl in the head. He died instantly—the only defender killed in action. Historian Stephen Harding later noted the stakes: “If the SS had managed to get into the castle and kill the French VIPs, the history of post-war France would have been radically different.”

With the radio destroyed and phone lines cut, Borotra volunteered for the ultimate risk. He vaulted the castle wall, dodged SS patrols through the village, and reached the approaching American relief column led by Major John Kramers of the 142nd Infantry Regiment. Dressed in a borrowed U.S. uniform, Borotra guided the tanks and infantry back.

The Sacrifice That Sealed the Alliance

Around 4 p.m., the relief force arrived—tanks, infantry, and overwhelming firepower. The SS scattered. Roughly 100 were captured; the rest fled into the mountains. The castle, its walls pockmarked and one tank still smoldering, stood intact. The prisoners were safe.

Echoes in a Post-War World
In the days that followed, the French were evacuated to Paris by May 10. Lee was promoted to captain and awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. Gangl was buried with honors in Wörgl; today a street bears his name, and he is remembered as an Austrian national hero. Schrader faced brief imprisonment for his earlier Nazi affiliation but was released early in recognition of his actions.

The battle remains the only documented instance in World War II where American and German troops fought shoulder-to-shoulder against other Germans. (A separate horse-rescue operation, “Operation Cowboy,” is sometimes cited as a second case of limited cooperation.) Myths persist—some early accounts inflated German defender deaths—but consensus from Harding’s research and primary sources confirms one fatality: Josef Gangl. Numbers of attackers vary slightly (100-200), yet the core narrative holds: individual initiative triumphed over ideology.

Reflection
Jack Lee reflected years later, in a 1973 interview shortly before his death: “Well, it was just the damnedest thing.” In the chaos of war’s final hours, survival proved stronger than old hatreds. Former enemies trusted one another because the alternative—letting evil win—was unthinkable.

Today, as polarization tests societies worldwide, Castle Itter whispers a quiet truth: the most extraordinary alliances are born not from politics, but from simple human decency in the face of evil. The French leaders inside went on to shape modern Europe. Gangl’s street in Wörgl still honors a man who chose conscience over country. And somewhere in the Tyrolean Alps, the stones of Schloss Itter stand as silent witnesses.

If this story of improbable courage moved you, subscribe to Visionary Void for more investigative deep dives into history’s hidden chapters. Share this newsletter with fellow history lovers and spark the conversation: What other untold WWII tales deserve the spotlight? Drop your thoughts in the comments—we read every one.

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