The Black Effect (Cold War) (22 page)

Wilf estimated that the soldier looked to be no older than twenty. He judged the soldier to be a similar height to his own. The double-edged fighting knife was now in his right hand: the Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife, his favourite weapon. He didn’t relish using it, but from his experiences in the Falklands, he knew it was an effective weapon and a relatively silent method of securing a kill. Taking one step at a time, nudging anything aside with his toecap that he felt would make a noise if stepped on, he moved closer and closer. Less than a metre, the soldier humming away to himself, drawing on his cigarette, the red glow lighting up his young face, oblivious to the stalker that was close behind him. A twig cracked, and the sentry pushed himself off the tree, not sure what he had heard, stubbing out his cigarette in panic in case it was that bastard of a sergeant doing his rounds.

Wilf didn’t hesitate. He sprang forward, clamped his left hand over the sentry’s mouth, crushing his face, pulling the man’s helmeted head tight into the crick of his own neck and shoulder. His right hand pulled back, gripping the commando dagger, and he slammed the blade deep into the soldier’s kidney. He felt the young man tense, desperately trying to open his mouth in response to the terrible shock that resonated through his entire body. Wilf pushed the guard past the soldier’s own webbing and the seven-inch blade bit deep into his body, using the man’s own weight to assist him. As the soldier started to recover from the shock, Wilf withdrew the blade and slammed it in again, before withdrawing it and slicing across the soldier’s throat, sliding it in a saw-like motion to cut through the gristle, severing the trachea. Not once did his hand move from the man’s mouth. The killing was silent, and Tag came forward to help Wilf lower the body quietly and drag the dying man under cover. By the time they had pushed him against the wall of the building, he was dead. They stripped him of any documentation in his possession, perhaps helping to identify the unit; then left him.

“Nice one, Wilfy, but now we’d better fucking move before he’s missed.”

Wilf didn’t need any encouragement. He collected his kit and led them both back to the edge. A quick scan showed the area was clear, and they ran, hunched down, across the open concrete ground to the main building. They both felt exposed as they moved south along the side of the building reaching the corner where they could see the communications vehicles spotted earlier. There was no one around. The men who manned it were probably sitting in the box-body or even asleep somewhere. The humming of the generator was masking any noise they might make. Turning the corner, Wilf moved west, looking for an entrance, a window, somewhere that would give them a view inside the building. Very soon, they turned another corner and were creeping north on the other side, some trees providing temporary cover.

“It’s going to be at the other end, Wilfy.”

“Yeah, I know, a real pisser. We have to be quick. Any minute they could be looking to change their sentries.” He checked his watch: two-fifteen. “If they change on the half-hour, we have fifteen minutes.”

“Let’s go then.”

This time, Tag took point, and they moved as swiftly as they dared along the full length of the building, slowing down before they reached the north-west corner. On their way, they saw another guard patrolling along the length of a one-metre high wall that ran along the western perimeter, and four more manning the double gate that closed off the entrance. North of the building an array of military vehicles were parked up; spread over a large area, cam-netting draped over them to hide the recognisable shapes from the air. There were box-bodies, a couple of troop carriers and a scattering of MTLBs, a T-64 and two BMP-2s. Engines could be heard starting up, and soldiers were in the process of de-camming one of the BMPs.

Tag indicated they move back and hissed in Wilf’s ear, “This is a fucking Div HQ all right, and they’re getting ready to move.”

“It’s not a main though. It’s not big enough.”

“You’re right, probably a Forward CP.”

“We need to make it quick. It’s five minutes to the half-hour.”

The two men backtracked, turned left around the end of the building, watching the communications truck as they moved past it. At the far corner, they halted, and Tag peered around the corner. They would need to stick close to the building for about twenty metres before crossing over to where they had left the dead sentry.

Tag was about to signal Wilf to move when they heard the shout.

“
Vasily
...
Vasily
.”

“Fuck, Wilfy, they’re going to discover he’s missing pretty damn soon.”

A door banged open from the Ural-375. They too had received orders to pack up and move out.

“We need to move sharpish, Wilf. We’re buggered if we hang around here.”

“
Vasily
,
ты где
?”

“What’s he shouting, Wilf ?”

“No idea.”

“I thought you spoke Russian.”

“So did I. We’ll make a dash for it. Straight for Badger and Hacker.”

“
Vasily
,
ты где
?”

Bent over low, the two men sprinted for the location where they had left the two others, time becoming critical now.

“
Vasily
.
Kто это
?”

“Shit, run!” yelled Wilf. They sprinted, a 100 metre dash to the wrecked box-bodies and another ten would see them in the trees, their boots pounding on the hardened ground as they raced for cover.

“
Kто это
?”

“
Kто это
?”

Crack, crack, crack.

A three-round burst tore up the ground to the side of the running men just before they whipped round behind the trucks, giving them a breather. Within seconds, they were in amongst the trees and in the prone position ready to return fire.

There were more shouts from the direction of the building, and additional clamour from the direction of the communications vehicle.

“We go east,” called Wilf. “Badger, Hacker, take out that foxhole and follow us. We’ll wait for you by the track.”

“Roger.”

“Go.”

Badger and Hacker quickly made their way behind the foxhole. One of the soldiers was standing on the edge looking towards the direction of the commotion; the other was inside, his gun at the ready. Badger, using a garrote dragged the choking soldier out of his hole, while Hacker slit the throat of the other. The Soviet conscript soldiers didn’t even hear them coming and died not really knowing what the war was all about in the first place. The two men weaved through the trees and met up with Tag and Wilf. They all followed the edge of the trees to the north before dropping down into a gully running east. Fifty metres found them at the track.

Wilf called them together. “This gully continues east. After 200 metres, it splits north and south. We go north, get to the outskirts of Lehrte, then run east back to the railway line. Yes?”

“Sounds like the best option to me,” responded Badger. Hacker and Tag also agreed.

“OK, let’s go. The minute we get some breathing space, I shall call in.”

Wilf led the way, leopard crawling his way through the culvert that crossed beneath the road, a few centimetres of rank liquid mud soaking his combats. Once out the other side, they pushed forward, crouching so they were below the lip of the gully. They heard more shots, but the sound faded the further east they went. They tabbed for nearly two hours and, just before daylight, they were able to hide up.

Once the radio was set up, the aerial extended, Wilf called in. The PRC-319, a fifty-watt microprocessor-based radio transceiver, would pass on the information they had just gathered. Using the electronic message unit, he tapped on the small alphanumeric keys and typed his message for his commander. As it was a burst transmitter, he could send the message data at high speed giving them significant security.

C
hapter 27

0
400 8 JULY 1984. COMBAT TEAM BRAVO (+). GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT.

“
Two-Two-Alpha, this is Bravo-Zero. Over.
”

“Two-Two-Alpha, go ahead. Over.”

“Heavy movement your east. Incoming likely
.”

“Roger, Bravo-Zero. Out to you. All Two-Two call signs. Standby, standby. Out.”

Alex called down to Corporal Patterson. “Mask up. Make sure Mackinson and Ellis cover up as well.”

“Sir,” Patsy shouted back.

Dropping down, he closed the hatch cover and peered through the scopes, turning the cupola to scan the area. Mackey started the engine again and they were ready for action. He felt sick, knowing what was coming this time. They had finally got to Two-Two-Bravo. The crew had been unable to get out of their Chieftain tank, trapped in a potential coffin. For the Gunner, Lance Corporal Owen, it had literally become his steel coffin. His broken arm, crushed ribs and pierced lungs, after being bodily thrown heavily against the solid breech of the 120mm gun, had left him crippled and effectively drowning in his own blood. His muffled screams of agony had gone unheard by his fellow crewmen as the clamour of sound outside the tank, and the noise resonating through the fighting compartment, left him isolated. When Two-Two-Charlie had finally got to them, they discovered the tank on its side, the top of the turret and the glacis pressed up against the side wall of the berm. Deep gouges had been cut into the Chobham armour, such was the ferocity of the shelling. The track, in short sections, barely hanging together by the odd pin, lay draped over the side of the tank, the drive sprockets and bogie wheels unprotected and vulnerable. Two of them were missing, wrenched off by the powerful explosions. Anything attached to the outside had all but disappeared. Baskets, storage bins and the radio antenna were nowhere to be seen.

Corporal Simpson immediately called for help and, within an hour, the unit was joined by an armoured recovery vehicle. While Two-Two-Charlie provided cover, they slowly pulled the giant tank away from the side of the berm, allowing the tank troopers to get access to the turret and fighting compartment. Sergeant Andrews, who had smashed his head against the hard metal of the turret, was conscious, but his smashed hand had swollen to treble its normal size, and he was in severe pain. A jab of morphine and he was carried to the tracked Samaritan armoured ambulance where he could get further treatment before being shipped to one of the field hospitals in the rear.

Trooper Lowe, who had been pinned in the driver’s compartment, was well and was soon spouting off about how he was going to kick some arse when he got back in a driver’s seat. He too was taken to the Samaritan. They removed Lance Corporal Owen’s body, as ceremoniously as they possibly could, manoeuvring him through the second turret hatch, four of them carrying him to the ambulance. Lowe burst into tears when he saw his friend, realising how lucky he had been and wondering why Owen and not he had died.

The tank was dragged further out; then pulled over onto its remaining track and bogie wheels. A Scammel tank transporter had been ordered to assist, so they could recover the Chieftain fully and, perhaps in time, even have it back on the battlefield, although it would be days rather than hours. But they were building up quite a graveyard of battered tanks, so spare parts were becoming easier to find. The barrel, buckled and useless, would have to be completely renewed, as would some of the splintered and shattered vision blocks. Two-Two-Charlie could stay no longer. They had been ordered to move to their new location, but a pair of Scorpions were being sent across the river to act as sentries. The rest of the recce troop, along with a second one, were helping with the battle to keep the Soviet airborne forces out of the town. Lieutenant Baty and his two Scorpions, with their 76mm guns, had already had some successes, knocking out four BMDs. The Soviets were slowly running out of armoured support.

0400 8 JULY 1984. COMBAT TEAM BRAVO (+), CALL SIGN TWO-TWO-DELTA. GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT.

Corporal Carter ran along the line of foxholes, checking on the new section that had recently arrived. He had sent the remnants of his section back into the orchard, about 100 metres behind them, giving them the opportunity of being out of the direct firing line, but available as a quick reaction force should they be needed. He wasn’t so sure of how quickly they could react. They were tired and shocked, and had seen their dead and wounded comrades taken away. Ashley, the youngest member of the section, was just a mass of blood, his body peppered with shrapnel from an AGS’s 30mm grenade. Against orders, they had used their own first field dressing, bandaging him up to try and stem the flow of blood pulsating from numerous rents in his body. He had just stared at his section commander, a slight smile on his pale face; a smile that said, I know you will take care of me, Corporal.

There was still a second 432 with the Peak Engineering turret. Carter’s plan was to use what was left of his section, along with the 432, to block any flanking attacks. The best way to judge when to use them and where, was by remaining on the front line himself. He wasn’t trying to be heroic by staying; he just needed to orientate the fresh section to their new location: point out where the BMPs might stop to disgorge their troops; where the AGS-17s could set up and suppress them while they assaulted their defences; where the tanks were likely to come from; blind spots; dead ground...all the pointers that could keep these men alive and maybe even hold their position. He assisted the new section commander, Corporal Lawton, in establishing arcs of fire, where best to position his GPMG, where best to place the Milan FPs. Carter’s surviving Milan firing post had volunteered to stay on the line, but his orders had been explicit: he was to pull his unit back unless needed. His platoon commander was with the third section of the platoon, battling with the Soviet airborne troops that were trying to get to the Gronau bridge; adding his leadership to the West German reservists who were doing their best to protect their homes and defeat the enemy trying to take their town, and their country, from them.

Carter keyed the handset of his radio. “Two-Two-Alpha, Two-Two-Delta. Radio check. Over.”

“Two-two-Delta. Five, five. Over.”

“Roger. Out. Two-Two-Delta-Alpha. Radio check. Over.”

“Two-Two-Delta, loud and clear this end. Anything happening, Corp?”

“Negative on that. Will keep you posted but we expect incoming any minute now. Out. Foxtrot-One, this is Two-Two-Delta. Radio check. Over.”

There was a delay of about ten seconds before he got a response.

“Two-Two-Delta. We receive you. Can you hear, bitte?”

“
Ja.
With you in
zwei minuten.
Out.” He smiled to himself. Fluent in German already.

He checked in with the gun-group before running at a crouch further north, where, with the help of a Royal Engineer digger, they had prepared their defences. He stood by the trench alongside a bespectacled young officer, Leutnant Bieber, who was observing his men adding the last-minute touches to their defensive positions. Further along, he could just make out the rest of the German trenches. Strictly speaking, should Lieutenant Wesley-Jones, who he had come to respect, for an officer that is, be killed, this German officer would be in command.
Over my dead body
were his personal thoughts.

“Ah, Korporal
. Danke
. The...digger,
sehr gut
.”

“You’re welcome, mate...ah, sir.”

His radio crackled and he listened to the message, a hollow feeling in his stomach and it wasn’t from hunger. Radar had picked up the movement of vehicles indicating an attack on their position was likely.

“There’s movement out there, sir, I suggest you get your men under cover.”

“Yes, Korporal. My men have nearly finished.”

They heard the whine of the projectiles as they passed overhead, the detonations shaking the ground as they exploded. Corporal Carter instantly held his breath as another salvo landed fifty metres to their front. Carter peeled his helmet off, picked his respirator from its case and pulled it over his face, tightening the thin green elastic straps as he shouted at the top of his voice. “Gas. Gas. Gas.” He then dropped into the trench close by.

Bieber had thrown himself to the ground. Most of his men pressed their bodies as close to the bottom of their hole as possible.

“Get your fucking masks on!” he yelled at the shocked troops. “It might be fucking gas! Masks on...
Jezt
, now.
Schnell
.”

The Leutnant scrambled towards them on his hands and knees, seeking the protection of their defences. He suddenly collapsed as violent spasms racked his body. A bout of violent coughing ensued, the delicate membranes of his lungs stripped by the burning toxins that were now encroaching on his body. Another salvo rocked the area, the entire quarter to their south being bracketed by the blast of at least twenty 152mm rounds. Bieber was engulfed by a fit of coughing, his body desperate to clear the ever increasing flood of fluid and mucus that was slowly filling his lungs, drowning him. He thrashed about, panic setting in as blood rather than air passed out of his lungs, their facility to give him life-saving oxygen now eaten away.

Carter checked his mask and hood was secure, then climbed out of the trench, crawling over to the stricken soldier. The Leutnant continued to thrash about, arms flailing as Carter, and another German soldier who had joined him, tried to calm him down. The soldier was wide-eyed himself, stricken with fear as he saw the bulging eyes and red foam frothing from his officer’s mouth, yet relieved that he had been spared the misery he was now witnessing. Bieber’s face turned purple then blue as he fought for air. Small fluid-filled blisters formed on his face as the officer’s body gave one final shudder, the last movement before he evacuated his bowels.

Corporal Carter looked at the soldier who had come to assist him, mask-less and already starting to cough and show signs of the effects of the blister agent. The Soviets had chosen well. The blister gas would not kill all the soldiers. Many who were affected would survive, but be blinded, ill and needing urgent treatment; placing a drain on the already swamped British and German medical resources and the soldiers around them. He moved back to the trench, there was nothing else he could do. Man’s inhumanity to man was well known, but had not been witnessed first-hand by all. These young soldiers had been confronted by hell, and what they had witnessed frightened them. Some felt ashamed that they had, in the past, sneered at their NBC training, joking about it. Complaining about the itchy suits, the ridiculous over boots, the hot suffocating masks. Now they looked at the consequence of getting it wrong.