The Black Effect (Cold War) (11 page)

“Keep your wits about you,” Carter encouraged. “Once you’ve fired two Milan missiles, pull back to your alternate position. It won’t take them long to zone in on your original position. And, for fuck’s sake, take your time. Don’t be rattled. Better to take a couple of seconds longer and take one of the bastards out. Don’t forget, we’re not here to stay, so be ready to bug out when we get the word. The 432s are right behind you, just south of the village. I may bring the Peak-Turret forward if we need more support. If we have to pull right back, don’t go through the village itself,” he advised. “By the time the Sovs have finished with it, it’ll be a rock pile. OK?”

“Yes, Corp,” they all responded.

“Get to your hole, Will,” he said to his second in command. “I’ll be in the one behind you once I’ve been along the line.”

With that, he got up from his crouch and made his way along the line of the forward firing positions, talking to his men, cracking jokes, pulling them up if their kit needed sorting, confirming their arcs of fire. Once complete, he felt a little more confident now he had exchanged some jokes with his men. Sergeant Thomas had been called back across the river, his task to make sure the rest of the platoon were well dug in. His platoon commander, Lieutenant Chandler, had also paid them a visit before being called to a combat team brief. The Lieutenant in command of the tank troop, Lieutenant Wesley-Jones, was in overall command on this side of the river. He seemed a decent enough bloke for a Rupert; in fact he came across as quite switched on. That made him feel better – although, in reality, he and his crew would be battened down under fifty tons of armour, fighting their own battle to worry too much about a handful of grunts. He was determined to do his best for his men, his mates. Yes, they were his mates. Finch got on his tits at times and Will could dither a bit, but he wouldn’t want to fight alongside any others. He was in command, and he would keep a grip of his section and those attached, get them back safely, or at least die trying.

0340 7 JULY 1984. BRAVO-TROOP (+). GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

Sergeant Andrews and Corporal Simpson were crouched down at the rear of Two-Two-Alpha, Lieutenant Wesley-Jones, their troop commander, whispering last-minute instructions to his two tank commanders. He was kneeling down and, even through the layer of his combat trousers and Noddy suit, could feel the cool ground, cooled as a consequence of a fine dew that had freshly formed during the night. He caught a faint whiff of the ground beneath, but generally it was overpowered by the smell of the Chieftain’s engine as it ticked over, and even, although not too bad at the moment, the smell of his own unwashed body. He had removed his woolen jumper earlier in the day. With the jumper, a combat jacket and the NBC smock, he had found a film of sweat forming on his body every time he moved. It was pretty cool in the early hours of the day, but as dawn broke and the sun rose higher in the sky, so did the temperature, sometimes reaching as high as twenty-four degrees Celsius. His tank was pulled up to the edge of the berm, the OC calling a stand-to. With the trees behind them, a heavily camouflaged turret and main gun, the enemy would struggle to see them until it was probably too late. The small forest they were in front of was less than half a square kilometre, a prominent outcrop on the eastern edge of the German village of Gronau. His tank was at the northern part of the small forest, where he could cover the open fields to their front, as far out as Betheln, a village three kilometres to the north-east. South of Betheln and about a thousand metres closer lay the village of Barfelde, linked to Gronau via a metalled road, Barfelde Strasse. There were four Scorpions, from the regiment’s reconnaissance troop, situated around Barfelde and Gut Dotzum, watching and waiting for the enemy to move. The rest of his troop, Two-Two-Bravo to his left and Two-Two-Charlie to his right, had pulled forward into their berms, and soon their respective tank commanders would be joining them. Further left, the ground to the left of the road was raised slightly, providing a shallow plateau, and close to the western edge of it, two FV438s had dug in. Any enemy armour approaching from the east between Gronau and Betheln, across open ground, could be picked off by the two FV438s and their Swingfire anti-tank missiles. The crew had a foxhole about fifty metres from each vehicle, linked by a control unit, in a position where they could watch any approaching armour. With the Swingfire missile capable of making a ninety-degree turn once launched, the vehicles could be hidden and the crew firing it from a safe location. He was in command of the entire force on this side of the river. It wasn’t large, but they would still hit the enemy hard.

Wesley-Jones spoke. “If I can’t get you on the radio, or even if Squadron can’t get me, they will fire two red flares. That will be our signal to bug out.”

“The Sovs will know that as well, sir.”

“I know, Sarn’t, but staying here and getting cut off once they’ve blown the bridge will be far worse.”

“Flare it is then, sir,” Sergeant Andrews responded with a smile.

“So keep your eyes peeled, both of you. There’ll be all sorts flying around.”

“How long will we have, sir?” asked Corporal Simpson.

“Ten minutes notice. So there will be no drills. Blow your smoke dischargers and head for the bridge in double-quick time.”

“Sir,” they both acknowledged.

“I hope they choose another bloody troop for point next time.”

“I’ll make sure of it, Sarn’t.” The Lieutenant laughed.

“Sir...sir.”

Wesley-Jones looked up to see the silhouette of Corporal Patterson on the engine deck of the Chieftain, leaning over.

“Corporal?”

“We’ve got movement out there, sir.”

Alex was up in a flash and quickly shook hands with his two tank commanders who then sped off to join their own tank crews, ready to take on the inevitable Soviet tank advance. Alex ran round to the side, then the front and climbed up onto the glacis plate, then onto the turret before slotting into his commander’s position.

“Where?”

Patsy handed his troop commander the binoculars and pointed. “About one o’clock, well over 1,000 metres, I would imagine.” He then dropped down into the fighting compartment, grabbed his headset, settling into his seat, face up against the sights of the one-twenty-millimetre gun, and awaited orders.

Alex quickly zoomed in on the area and immediately picked up the shape of moving armour clawing along the road. “Two-Two-Bravo, Two-Two-Charlie. Standby. All Two-Two call signs, standby, standby. Movement, direction Barfelde, 2,000 metres.”

The turret moved to the left by about ten degrees as Patsy tracked the oncoming vehicles. Alex’s crew were on the ball. He couldn’t quite make out the shape, but was sure the lead vehicle was a tank like his, a Chieftain. If the group did a dog-leg off the road, to avoid the mines laid alongside the road, it would more than likely be a Brit unit, probably the remnants of 4th Armoured Division, the final units limping back.

The lead vehicle dropped off the road, closely followed by the rest, and Alex allowed himself a sigh.

“I think they’re ours, but don’t relax just yet.” He spoke into his mike boom in front of his mouth. “It could be a trap, or there are Sovs close behind hoping to be led through our minefields.”

He could hear the roar of the straining engine as the lead Chieftain made its way back up onto the road, the sound distinctive, the vehicles following now coming into view: two Chieftains and three 432s. The last Chieftain in line looked OK, its turret and gun facing backwards over the engine deck, covering the withdrawal. The lead Chieftain, in front of the 432s, sounded and looked very different. The engine was cutting out intermittently, the driver going quickly through the gears in an attempt to keep the fifty-ton monster on the move. The tracks squealed loudly, more than was normal, and the turret appeared frozen at a forty-five-degree angle, the barrel twisted and bent over the rear engine deck.

“These guys have been in the thick of it,” Alex said to himself.

The growling of the engines grew louder as they headed for the bridge, clouds of black smoke now visibly emanating from the engine of the lead tank. The engine screamed louder, fighting against the driver’s efforts to keep it running and the tank moving as he desperately tried to get across the bridge and home. Home being safe across the river amongst a more powerful force, protected.

Alex could still smell the lingering fumes from the lead tank after it had passed, smoke pouring from its engine. He hoped they would make it to Gronau.

“They’re ours,” he called down to his crew. “But standby. We don’t know what’s coming in behind them.”

0350 7 JULY 1984. RECCE-TROOP (-). BARFELDE, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

Lieutenant Baty lowered the binos and rubbed his eyes before raising them again. He felt slightly afraid that, if he took his eye off the ball for only a second, the enemy would be on top of them. He tried his best to discern any distinctive shapes on the edge of the Gronauer Holz Forest, an indication that the enemy were preparing to leap forward and continue their assault west. He was covering an arc from ten o’clock to nearly two o’clock. He had definitely seen some signs of movement and had reported it back up the line. But, for the moment, it was quiet. His Scorpion was in an open-ended barn, stacks of straw bales across the front and the sides hiding his armoured reconnaissance vehicle from the eyes of the enemy, fulfilling their motto: ‘to see without being seen’. His task was not to fight the enemy, although their 76mm gun could pack a punch, but to be the eyes and ears for the regiment, so the Chieftain tanks could deliver a deadly blow to any advancing armour. He knew the enemy were out there somewhere, close on the heels of the battered unit that had just passed through. The term higher command were using was that they w
ere pulling back, to consolidate a better defensive position. In reality, thought Baty, they were on the run.

He shifted in his turret, the NBC suit chafing the skin of his neck, making it itch, no matter how well he pulled up the collar of his shirt beneath it. The inside black charcoal layer always managed to irritate somehow. He was hot, sweaty and tired; the thought of a shower under hot running water a mere dream. They had not experienced any chemical strikes to date, but now was not the time to relax their guard, and orders from on high had stated they were to remain at NBC level Romeo-four.

“
Two-One, this is Two. Orders. Over
.”

“Two-One, send. Over.”

“
Move to grid Yankee, Delta, Two, Charlie, Echo, Five
.”

“Roger, moving now. Out.”

Baty informed his driver, and the engine of the heavily camouflaged Scorpion increased its revs as the driver backed the vehicle out of the barn.

“Stop. Left stick,” he informed the driver up at the front of the vehicle. “Forward. Stop.”

Baty checked the map, shielding the red filtered torch, but the ambient light was improving every minute. He then guided the Scorpion to their next position; higher command no doubt wanting a report on what could be seen from this new location. On instructions from himself, the second Scorpion followed at a safe distance behind. The two vehicles of the recce troop were on the very eastern edge of the village of Barfelde, and they followed the road, Burg Strasse,
as it tracked around to the right until they found themselves on An der Schmau. With houses either side of the street covering their left and right flanks, they remained unseen. The streets were deserted as were most of the houses. Most of the German population had fled west, although they had seen at least one elderly couple who had no intention of leaving their home, even for the Soviet army.

“Right stick, take us through the gap then left. Take us up to the edge.”

The Scorpion spun on its tracks, turning right, in between the two houses, flattening a small picket fence, turned left and stopped after seventy-metres, up against a dense line of thicket and a few small saplings. This would provide good cover while they conducted surveillance of the northern part of the village and the open ground out front. The other Scorpion pulled into a hedgeline, but further south, closer to Schul Strasse. Baty’s troop was responsible for watching the approach roads and ground to Gronau, and reporting back.

“Stop, stop.”

The Scorpion rocked gently on its suspension as it came to a halt. The crew quickly spread an array of foliage across the glacis and turret, completely softening the hard lines of the armoured vehicle. It blended in well with its surroundings. The binos were up to his eyes in seconds, a quick scan left to right to identify any immediate threats. Nothing. Perhaps as the light improved, he would be able to see more. It was three-fifty. In the meantime, they would have to wait.

Chapter 14

03
50 7 JULY 1984. 25TH TANK DIVISION, 20 GUARDS ARMY. HELMSTEDT, EAST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

After arriving at Helmstedt the previous evening, and after a very short rest period, the division was again on the move. The next stage, taking them to the area of Salzgitter, would have to be handled very differently. Although still some way from the battlefield, there was an ever greater risk of NATO airstrikes; deep strikes in order to disrupt the Soviet flow of ammunition and other much needed supplies. But one additional target, reinforcements, would also be on their list. Although, in some cases, the reinforcing units were of an inferior calibre, what they lacked in aggression and expertise, they certainly made up for in sheer numbers. But not the 25th Tank Division. This unit had trained hard and was more than ready to give a good account of itself. Now the division had been split into three independent columns. Each column would march along one of three separate parallel routes, in the region of six to eight kilometres apart. The total width of the march sector taken up by the 25th Tank Division would be in the region of thirty-two kilometres wide. Each of the Division’s regiments, and even down to battalion, would need to be prepared to deploy into a battle formation as soon as ordered. They would halt for up to an hour, every three to four hours. Once they reached Salzgitter, sixty kilometres west, they would be at their departure line; ready to receive orders as to when and where they would be committed to battle.

0350 7 JULY 1984. 8TH GUARDS TANK DIVISION. TORUN, POLAND.

THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

After a journey of nearly fifteen hours, travelling for 400 kilometres, the division came across its first obstacle. The railroad bridge and the road bridge at Torun had been destroyed. NATO bombers had flown in low, keeping well below Soviet radar, and attacked both. Thinking that was it, Soviet engineers immediately began to throw another bridge across, using the infrastructure that was already there as the foundation. But a follow-on attack prevented the reconstruction, killing many of the engineers in the process. The trains started to stack up, there being no route for them to continue their journey. Yes, they could turn back, but the parallel railway lines were already at congestion point with so many units moving reinforcements to the front, along with essential supplies. A local commander, a Polish officer, an engineer, had been charged with finding a solution. Local and Soviet engineers were pooled and tasked with getting this badly needed division across the water. The solution, although difficult, was obvious. They brought together as many ferries as they could lay their hands on, and with pontoons and floatable makeshift platforms, they started the long, drawn-out process of getting the unit across to the other side.