On a quiet spring morning in 1942, a German staff car rolled onto an otherwise ordinary street in Nazi-occupied Prague. Inside sat one of the Third Reich’s most feared men—so ruthless the Czech people called him “the butcher.” What he didn’t know was that a few yards ahead, a small team waited with weapons hidden beneath their coats. They had trained for months for a single moment, fully aware that once they struck, there would be no turning back.

How did they end up on that street, on that morning, with no escape plan that didn’t involve sacrifice? What happened in the seconds after the car entered the kill zone? And how far would the consequences spread across an occupied nation? Using rare Gestapo and SS reports—compiled with obsessive detail—alongside eyewitness testimony and modern reconstruction methods, we can follow Operation Anthropoid minute by minute: the assassination attempt on Reinhard Heydrich.

To understand why this mattered, you have to understand who Heydrich was. The tall, blond, blue-eyed 38-year-old SS-Obergruppenführer looked like a Nazi archetype—and lived up to it. Brilliant and utterly ruthless, he was a central architect of Nazi terror, linked to the machinery that unleashed mass violence across Central and Eastern Europe. In short: Heydrich was not a good guy.

In September 1941, Heydrich was appointed Reich Protector of Bohemia and Moravia—effectively the head of the occupation in what is now the Czech Republic. He moved quickly, deporting tens of thousands of Jews, tightening rationing, imposing forced labor, and systematically looting the country. His rule was a calculated reign of fear meant to crush resistance through arrests, executions, and collective punishment. To Czech patriots, Heydrich wasn’t just an official—he was the living symbol of their humiliation.

So it is hardly surprising that the exiled Czechoslovak government in Britain identified him as the number one assassination target. Removing Heydrich would be a message to the occupiers, a signal to the resistance, and proof to the Allies that the Czechs were still fighting. Many understood the likely price and volunteered anyway. Among them were two men whose names would become inseparable from this operation.

First was Jozef Gabčík, 29 years old in 1939. After the war began, he fled, fought with the French Foreign Legion, then served with Czechoslovak forces in France, earning decorations including the Croix de Guerre and the Czechoslovak War Cross. He was popular with comrades but known for a sharp temper and blunt, direct speech. He was the kind of man who did not soften his edges to make others comfortable.

His close friend and comrade, Jan Kubiš, was 28 and almost the opposite in demeanor—quiet, steady, soft-spoken. Like Gabčík, he fought with the French Foreign Legion and the Czechoslovak unit in France and also received the Czechoslovak War Cross. Both were committed patriots, prepared to risk everything to strike at the occupation. The question was not willingness, but method.

That method arrived in the form of the Special Operations Executive. Created in June 1940 at Winston Churchill’s order to “set Europe ablaze,” the SOE trained and inserted clandestine agents into occupied territory. Their tasks ranged from intelligence gathering and organizing resistance networks to sabotage—and, when necessary, assassination. It was with the SOE that Gabčík and Kubiš, along with other Czech agents, began preparing in August 1941 for what would become Operation Anthropoid.

At its simplest, the mission was brutally clear: parachute into occupied Czechoslovakia, connect with the resistance, locate Heydrich, kill him, and—if luck allowed—survive to report success. A set of photographs from Portchester House in London, the headquarters of Czech Military Intelligence, captures the mood of those orders. It became a kind of ritual for agents to be photographed against a brick wall at the back of the building after receiving their assignment. On December 18, it was the turn of Warrant Officers Jan Kubiš and Jozef Gabčík.

In the weeks and months that followed, other agents—Adolf Opálka, Josef Valčík, Jaroslav Švarc, Karel Čurda, and others—stood at that same wall for the same photograph. Different missions, same risk, same point of no return. Their paths would cross again in Prague, under pressure that only tightened with time. For now, the training ended and the operation moved from planning to execution.

Eleven days later, accompanied by Colonel Moravec, head of Czech intelligence, Kubiš and Gabčík arrived at an airfield near Tangmere. There they boarded a modified Halifax bomber bound for occupied Czechoslovakia, carrying weapons, explosives, and the weight of a mission that could not be undone. Gabčík’s parting words to Moravec were simple and final: “You can rely on us, Colonel. We shall fulfill our mission as ordered.” By 10:00 p.m., they and six other Czech agents—each assigned separate tasks—were airborne over occupied Europe.

Three and a half hours later, after a close call with German night fighters near Darmstadt, Flight Lieutenant Ron Hockey dropped to roughly 900 feet. At 2:24 a.m., on the signal, Gabčík and Kubiš jumped into the darkness. But the night worked against them: heavy snowfall and poor visibility had thrown the pilot off course. Instead of landing southeast of Plzeň, they came down near the village of Nehvizdy—about 70 miles off target, and only around 12 miles from Prague.

It was a mistake, but not a failure. Within days, they established contact with local resistance networks. Soon they were operating inside Prague itself, moving through the city with help that was both essential and perilous for those who offered it. Families and resistance members provided shelter, supplies, and information—each act of assistance risking execution for themselves and often their relatives.

Support came from multiple safe locations: the Novák family in the Libeň district; Mr. and Mrs. Fafek on Kolínská Street; Josef and Marie Varšoš in the Old Town; resistance leader Jan Zelenka-Hajský on Biskupcova Street; and, most frequently, the second-floor apartment of the Moravec family. There, Marie Moravcová hosted the agents and gathered materials, while her son Vlastimil—known as “Ata”—helped plan the assassination. It was a web of courage held together by secrecy and trust, both of which would later prove fragile.

The hardest question remained: where and how to strike. Since early April, Heydrich had relocated to a manor in the village of Panenské Břežany north of the city. The residence, seized from local Jews, was turned into a high-security compound with guard posts and patrol dogs—an extremely difficult target. His office at Prague Castle was even more fortified, and attacking him there offered minimal chance of success.

Other options were studied and discarded. Derailing his train route to Berlin was considered, as was sniping him with an anti-tank rifle. None of these plans survived scrutiny, either because of feasibility or because the chance of success was too low to justify the cost. But one vulnerability remained: Heydrich’s commute.

The route between his home and his Prague office—roughly 15 miles—took him through northern Prague along main roads into the city. Careful observation showed that Heydrich, whether through arrogance or carelessness, rarely varied his routine and often traveled without an escort. Typically, it was only Heydrich and his driver, SS-Oberscharführer Johannes Klein, in an open-top Mercedes 320. Predictability became the opening.

After months of scouting, the agents selected an ambush location at a sharp right-hand bend where the car would have to slow significantly. Understanding the site today is difficult because the road layout has changed dramatically since 1942. To solve that, investigators can combine wartime aerial imagery with detailed Gestapo diagrams produced immediately after the attack. By virtually rebuilding the 1942 road network, anchoring it to fixed reference points that still exist, and overlaying it on modern satellite imagery, the exact scene comes into focus.

The modern view can be misleading. Today, a two-lane slip road connecting dual carriageways dominates the area, and at a glance it resembles familiar photographs of the aftermath. But the actual 1942 road ran northwest to southeast and then turned sharply toward Prague. The ambush point lay near what is now the Operation Anthropoid memorial—back then a wooded garden area enclosed by iron fencing and stone pillars, with a footpath running alongside.

Several features that mattered in 1942 have vanished from the modern scene. Tram lines cut through the intersection, and a dense network of posts and power cables crossed overhead. Most important of all was the bend itself: a tight right-hand turn that forced any vehicle—especially a convertible Mercedes—to slow to a crawl. It was an ambush site shaped by geometry.

The plan was carefully staged. Gabčík and Kubiš would loiter on the curb near the bend, while a third agent, Adolf Opálka, waited across the street. Josef Valčík stood roughly 100 yards up the road with a small mirror, tasked with signaling when Heydrich’s car came into view. That flash would be the trigger for Gabčík to ready his Sten gun and for Kubiš to prepare a custom-modified grenade.

As the Mercedes entered the curve, Opálka would run across the street, further slowing or interrupting the car’s movement. At almost point-blank range, Gabčík’s Sten and Kubiš’s grenades would finish Heydrich. It was a plan built on timing, confidence, and the assumption that weapons would behave as expected. Then came the morning of May 27, 1942.

Using crime-scene photographs and a reconstruction made immediately after the attack, the day can be followed with striking precision. That morning, Gabčík and Kubiš left the Moravec apartment and picked up two bicycles along the way. They traveled to the ambush site and staged their equipment as planned. Kubiš left his bicycle against a post across the road; Gabčík propped his bicycle farther away beside an attaché case and a spare Sten magazine.

By 8:45 a.m., all four agents had assembled around the intersection. Gabčík wore a raincoat concealing an M2 Sten gun and took his position near the curb. Kubiš stood slightly beyond him in a coat and flat cap, carrying a modified British anti-tank grenade inside a brown leather attaché case. Both men also carried .32 caliber Colt pistols as backups.

Across the road, Adolf Opálka stood in place, and up the road Josef Valčík waited with his mirror. Heydrich normally arrived around 9:20 a.m. as part of his routine commute. But 9:20 passed, then 9:25, then 9:30—still no car. What the agents could not know was that Heydrich was taking his time that morning, enjoying a late breakfast and family time in the garden.

At 10:00 a.m., Heydrich finally joined his waiting driver outside the manor. He climbed into the front passenger seat and they set off for Prague. They passed a series of static police checkpoints but otherwise traveled alone. Thirty-two minutes later—just as the agents were nearing the point of giving up—Valčík spotted the open-top Mercedes approaching along what was then Kirchmayerstraße.

Valčík flashed his mirror down the road, signaling the others. Seconds later, Heydrich’s Mercedes appeared and began slowing to take the sharp right-hand turn toward Prague. The moment the team had trained for was suddenly real. It was now or never.

As the Mercedes entered the bend, it slowed sharply. At the same time, a tram moved into the intersection, traveling in the opposite direction. Opálka seized the timing and ran across the street, forcing the car to brake. In that split second—only feet from Heydrich—Gabčík raised his Sten, pulled the trigger, and nothing happened.

The weapon clicked. And clicked again. It did not fire.

For a fraction of time, the scene froze in mutual shock—Gabčík with a dead weapon, Heydrich facing the man who meant to kill him. Then Heydrich reacted with fury, shouting to his driver. Klein slowed and brought the Mercedes to a near stop, unaware that Kubiš was already moving with the grenade.

Kubiš threw the modified grenade. It struck and detonated near the running board, just forward of the right rear wheel. The blast was enormous—shattering the tram’s windows, ripping into the car’s structure, and sending fragments through Heydrich’s seat into his back. In an instant, the intersection dissolved into panic as tram passengers spilled into the street.

Kubiš turned and ran past Gabčík toward his bicycle, throwing off his cap as he went. He mounted and pedaled hard, firing a single shot over his shoulder. Heydrich and Klein staggered out of the smoking wreck, pistols drawn. Heydrich likely fired once before his Luger jammed, while Gabčík, jolted back into motion by the explosion, abandoned the Sten—later photographed where it fell—and reached for his own pistol.

Gabčík’s planned bicycle escape route was now blocked by the stopped tram and fleeing passengers. With no clean path, he turned left and ran onto a side street—what sources identify as Kirchmayerstraße/Kirchmayerova and adjacent lanes—trying to break line of sight. Witnesses later reported that Heydrich, feeling the full force of his injuries, doubled over on the hood of the car and ordered Klein to pursue. The chase began.

While Kubiš, Opálka, and Valčík scattered in different directions, Gabčík ran for his life. He sprinted uphill along the route the Mercedes had just descended, turning to fire at Klein. Klein paused to return fire, then continued the pursuit. Gabčík turned left again, searching for any escape route as the streets and slopes forced him into decisions made in seconds.

At a junction, uncertain whether to go left or right, Gabčík chose a third option: he burst into a butcher shop located nearby. Investigators later matched a Gestapo photograph from that vantage point to the street layout—brick wall, pillar, doorway, and windows aligning clearly. But inside the shop, Gabčík’s luck collapsed.

The butcher shop was owned by a Nazi sympathizer named František Braun. Braun’s brother worked for the Gestapo, and the owner immediately ran outside shouting, drawing attention. Klein, still in pursuit and approaching the junction, now had a clear lead.

Gabčík quickly discovered the shop had no rear exit. He doubled back—and almost ran directly into Klein, who had taken cover by a pillar outside. A chaotic, close-range firefight erupted.

Gabčík managed to shoot Klein in the left thigh. He then forced his way through the doorway, turned right, and spilled back onto the street leading down toward the original ambush site. He continued downhill, passing back toward the tram tracks and gardens, trying to disappear into the maze of surrounding properties.

At the bottom of the road, he was seen by a witness, Milada Matulová, who was sunbathing in her garden. She later described him as rather short, with staring eyes, holding a revolver pointed ahead, his tie flying as he ran. He stopped briefly at a corner as if unsure where to go, then ran down the hill along the streetcar tracks. Moments later, he vanished among the surrounding gardens—escaped, at least for the moment.

Kubiš also managed to get away, but not cleanly. He cycled roughly a mile south to the suburb of Palmovka, bleeding from wounds to his face, chest, and hand caused by the grenade’s detonation. He left his bloodstained bicycle outside a shoe shop, then staggered about 300 yards to an apartment building where Mrs. Novák lived. She brought him inside immediately.

The bloodstained bicycle outside was a dangerous piece of evidence. Mrs. Novák quickly sent her 14-year-old daughter to retrieve it. The girl did so, facing questions from passersby who assumed she’d been in an accident, but she managed to bring it inside. Kubiš was hidden, wounded, and alive.

Meanwhile, at the intersection, Heydrich remained conscious though seriously wounded. He was loaded into a passing Tatra van carrying floor polish and rushed to Bulovka Hospital. Duty doctor Vladimír Schneider later recalled finding Heydrich stripped to the waist, sitting on an examination table, silent and controlled despite pain. Schneider attempted to probe the wound with swabs; Heydrich did not flinch, though it must have hurt.

At first glance, the wound did not appear fatal. But further examination by a German doctor revealed severe internal damage: a large wound in the lower left back, a collapsed lung, a broken 11th rib, a ruptured diaphragm, and metal fragments lodged in the spleen. Worse still, upholstery material from the car had been driven into the wound by the blast. That contamination would become decisive.

Despite intense pain, Heydrich stayed conscious. He even walked to and from X-ray examinations. He underwent surgery on May 27, including removal of the spleen, and for a time his survival seemed plausible. Yet infection was taking hold.

In Prague, the immediate response was savage. That afternoon, Minister Karl Hermann Frank declared martial law. Cinemas, restaurants, and theaters were ordered closed as security forces flooded the city and effectively sealed it off from outside movement.

Flyers were printed and radio announcements broadcast a stark warning: a civilian state of emergency was in effect immediately. Anyone who sheltered or assisted those involved would be shot—along with their family members. It was collective punishment stated as policy, meant to break resistance through terror.

That first night alone, more than 8,000 personnel conducted a systematic sweep. Authorities arrested 541 people. Several of the agents experienced close calls, including one hiding in a broom cupboard during a search. None of the key operatives were captured that night, but the net tightened in ways that would soon matter.

One discovery raised alarm: a briefcase containing false identity documents found in the home of a resistance member. Among the papers—though with an incorrect first name—was a photograph of Josef Valčík. His face appeared on wanted posters soon after, alongside a reward of 100,000 crowns. At that stage, the Germans still had not fully mapped the network behind the attack, but the hunt was accelerating.

The German investigation moved with speed and precision. Dozens of photographs were taken from every angle. Tram passengers, shopkeepers, and passersby were interviewed. Physical evidence was measured, diagrammed, and analyzed, producing detailed reports intended to reconstruct the event as completely as possible.

By 9:00 a.m. on May 28, in central Prague, the Germans publicly displayed evidence recovered from the scene with meticulous descriptions. Items included a pale beige waterproof silk coat with light buttons, two dark brown suitcases, and a dirty beige velour beret with a labeled store tag. They also exhibited a bicycle with manufacturer details listed down to serial numbers, paint, stripes, handlebars, and saddle condition—turning objects into leads.

Alongside the evidence display was a reward poster offering an enormous sum: 10 million crowns—roughly six million dollars in today’s money—for information leading to the capture of the attackers. Even with the reward and the volume of evidence, no decisive tips emerged. The searches only intensified.

In the days after the attack, over 21,000 German soldiers and local police took part in searches and raids across thousands of homes. The pressure on the resistance became unbearable. Local leader Jan Zelenka-Hajský decided it was safer to consolidate the agents into one secure location rather than scatter them across multiple vulnerable apartments.

He approached the dean of the Prague Orthodox Church for help. The proposed shelter was the crypt of the Church of Saints Cyril and Methodius on Resslova Street, in the heart of the city. Between May 30 and June 1, seven agents—including Jan Kubiš and Jozef Gabčík—moved into the crypt. It was a refuge from which they would never leave.

Above ground, brutality escalated and lives were destroyed. To many, it seemed the assassination attempt had achieved only a wound and unleashed mass suffering on Czech civilians. What almost no one knew—outside a sealed hospital ward—was Heydrich’s real condition.

At Bulovka Hospital, an entire floor had been cleared for the Reich Protector. No unauthorized visitors were allowed, including medical staff outside the restricted team. Although surgery had been performed, Heydrich’s health deteriorated as infection spread—likely driven by horsehair and seat-cushion material forced into the wound.

Despite transfusions and intensive care, the infection turned septic. At 4:30 a.m. on June 4, eight days after the attack, Reinhard Heydrich—the butcher of Prague—died. Operation Anthropoid, at its primary objective, had succeeded.

Four days later, Prague saw a torchlit procession. Heydrich’s body was transported by train to Berlin. His state funeral was elaborate, attended by Hitler and leading Nazi officials.

Heydrich was originally buried beneath an ornate headstone in Berlin’s Invalidenfriedhof cemetery. After the war, occupying forces destroyed the grave. Today, fittingly, the burial place of one of the Second World War’s most brutal figures is largely forgotten—marked only by a small stone plinth.

But the story did not end with Heydrich’s death. The repercussions for everyone involved—agents, resistance helpers, and civilians—would be immense. And the seven men hidden in the church crypt would soon face the final, inevitable consequence of a mission with no return.

Betrayed by a countryman in the days to come, they would make a last stand against overwhelming odds—one of the most extraordinary acts of defiance of the Second World War. That story is the focus of the next chapter.

Thanks for watching. If you enjoy this kind of content, check out the dedicated podcast *World War II: Both Sides of the Wire*, where Professor Matthias Strohn and Jesse Alexander explore major episodes from both Allied and Axis perspectives. A final thank you to Patreon supporters and YouTube members—your support makes work like this possible.