The Blue Effect (Cold War)

by Harvey Black

He ran the last twenty-four hours through his mind. At least, he thought it had been twenty-four hours, or thereabouts.

  Once caught, he had been beaten and dragged to one of the trucks on the Autobahn and thrown in the back with two guards and one of their dogs. He was curled up at the front end, next to the cab, coming to terms with his condition and, more importantly, his circumstances. The flap at the rear was pulled down and secured, and what little light there was was now blocked out. The dog and his handler took great delight in tormenting Bradley further. The dog’s sharp teeth gripped his boot, not quite piercing it, but the grip was so firm that it crushed his toes. Then the war-dog would yank at it, twisting its head and shoulders violently in order to drag Bradley closer and rend his foot from his leg.

  It eventually stopped as the commotion was annoying the guards, who lit up a cigarette and discussed the war that was in progress. Bradley’s German was fair and he got the gist that the war had well and truly kicked off, and NATO were not holding their ground. He wasn’t sure what to believe. Are the guards continuing to taunt me in a different manner? He thought. But they sounded fairly nonchalant, now disinterested in their captive, looking forward to getting back to barracks and catching up with some sleep.

  Bradley attempted to register distances, speed, sound, and taking note of when the vehicle turned; more as a distraction than through any expectation of an escape. Within only fifteen minutes, he started to lose track, and his concentration waned. After what he perceived to be an hour, he gave up completely. The journey progressed for what must have been two to three hours. He just lay there numbed. Unknown to Bradley, the route of their journey was deliberate, literally driving round in circles at times, the intention to disorientate their captive.

  On arrival at his destination, he was hooded and dragged off the lorry, duck-walked until inside a building and thrown into a small brick or concrete-lined cell, remaining there with a guard for no more than five minutes. Picked up again, he was taken along a corridor before turning left where he was placed on a seat in what felt like, from the confined sounds reflected off the walls, a smallish room, the edge of something hard touching his knee. He couldn’t hear anyone else there, but could sense he was not alone. He was sure someone was standing behind him, and perhaps another of his captors was sitting across from him on the other side of what could be a desk or table.

  “Well, Mr Spy.”

  Bradley jumped at the sound of a man’s voice coming from the other side of the object in between them. The accent was clearly German, but his English sounded near perfect.

  “I shall start by explaining to you how life is going to be for you, going forward. But, first, I need you to fully understand the position in which you now find yourself.”

  The voice picked up an object, followed by the sound of a liquid being sipped and swallowed.

  “Either you, or your comrade, have killed a member of the National Volksarmee: a soldier of the German Democratic Republic who was just doing his duty for his country. A family man, I might add; a good man, protecting his country from intruders such as yourself. He is now dead and leaves a wife and two young children to fend for themselves. No, that is not strictly true: their country will take care of them. So, Mr Spy, you will eventually be charged with murder.”

  Bradley could pick out the sound of shuffling papers through the throbbing in his temples. The splitting headache returned and it felt like his skull wanted to burst open.

  “You are, at the moment,” continued the voice, “in the custody of the MfS, the Ministerium fur Staatssicherheit. You have been caught spying on the German Democratic Republic at a time of war. Because, Mr Spy, we are at war with your country, so you come under my control now. But, I have a dilemma.”

  Bradley heard the rasp of material and caught a whiff of stale cigarette smoke. “And,” he said quietly, leaning forward, “I hope you can help me out with this. You are in uniform, I can see that. But, I don’t believe you are a soldier. I think you are one of those spies that hide away in the bowels of the British Government buildings in the occupied portion of our city of Berlin. When ordered, you leave your nests to spread your filth across decent nations like ourselves. So, you see, in my mind you are here, disguised as a soldier, in order to pass back information on our forces and operations to your masters back in the West.”

  A door opened behind him and Bradley felt something brush against him; then heard a cup being placed on a hard surface. He could sense a warm vapour, then the smell of hot chocolate assailed his nostrils through the hood. The voice took a sip and made a sound of satisfaction.

  “Also, you have killed one of our soldiers. His Kameraden waiting outside are very keen to get hold of you. They want to extract revenge. It was only through my intervention that you are actually alive and sitting here in my office.”

  The voice took another sip of hot chocolate, and Bradley could hear the sound of smacking lips. He resisted the temptation to point out that they had killed his comrade: Jacko was dead, killed by one of those very men that were standing outside wanting to get to him. He kept quiet.

  “So,” the voice carried on, “soon, very soon, I will be asking you some questions. But not just yet. I am in no hurry. I want you to reflect on your situation and come forward willingly with any information that you think may be of use to us.”

  Another slurp of hot chocolate.

  “Is there anything you would like to inform me of now?”

  Bradley went to speak, but nothing came out. He tried again. “24388749, Bradley Reynolds, Sergeant, Royal Corps of Transport,” he finally managed to get out.

  “Ah, the classic. Wonderful. We are going to get along just fine, you and I, Herr Bradley.”

  Another drink of his chocolate.

  “I recognise your cap badge. But I have one slight problem with that statement.” The voice sounded distorted, like he was bent over. Crash. An object was slammed down on the on the hard surface in front, and Bradley not only felt the residue of brackish water splash over him but also smelt it.

  “We have some very bright people in our organisation. You have some very bright people in yours. Some of them have willingly passed information on to us. For money, I might add. From the information that we have gathered on the British forces, I know this to be a Clansman PRC, and it is no ordinary radio. A PRC-319, I have been informed. A fifty-watt microprocessor-based radio transceiver. And this,” he said, “would allow you to type a message and send the data at high speed to your masters. It is of a type used by spies and Special Forces. Now, what would a driver want with one of these?”

  Bradley knew exactly what it was, the radio, along with the small alphanumeric keyboard; he had pushed into the ditch just before he was captured. “I cannot answer that question.”

  The blow from behind came out of the blue, and the shock of it was almost as devastating as the blow itself. Bradley’s ears rang, and the painful swellings on the side of his head felt as if someone had thrust a white-hot poker into them.

  “You see, Herr Bradley. You lie to me. Next time we speak, I hope you will be more cooperative. Take him out.”

  Bradley’s mind raced. He wasn’t sure what to expect. During his training he had been taken through ‘Resistance to Interrogation’. It wasn’t pleasant. But he had no real idea of what was in store for him now. It was not as if there was a political stalemate to rely on. His boss knowing he was missing. A protest made to the Soviets, their WW2 Allies, to secure his release. A few slapped wrists, and he would be back home in a matter of hours. But that wasn’t going to happen: they were at war.

  He was manhandled along what appeared to be a well-lit corridor, a light occasionally passing underneath the folds of his hood. His escort said nothing, and he heard no sound other than the slap of his bare feet and the boots of his captors. The guards stopped suddenly, and he was pushed into a narrow room. The door was slammed in his hooded face. Calling the room narrow would be an understatement. The concrete floor was cold on his
feet, and his shoulders touched an equally cold wall either side. In fact, he was trapped. He couldn’t move in any direction, couldn’t sit or lie down. It wasn’t long before the cold started to creep up his body, and he flexed his feet and toes as best he could. He was tired, desperate to close his eyes and fall asleep, but his body was already starting to scream in pain, his well-muscled body suffering at being pinned in this one position. He felt sick, but forced it back down. His mind raced, fear gripping him. Yes, they had driven around for two or three hours. But he now knew that they had travelled only a few miles. He was in the ‘Submarine’, the subterranean cell block run by the DDR’s Ministry of State Security, the Ministerium fur Staatssicherheit, the MfS, the infamous Stasi. He was at Hohenschonhausen, the MfS prison where they held political prisoners and those caught attempting to escape from the DDR. He had driven past it many times in the past, reminding the Stasi that the West was watching. Now, he found himself on the inside.

  His legs felt like jelly and, had he been able to, he would have collapsed, but he couldn’t. Fear welled up inside him, gripping his stomach like a vice; the pounding in his head multiplied ten-fold, and tears welled up in his eyes. His thoughts before he passed out were that he was going to die in this place.

  After drifting in and out of consciousness for an unknown number of hours, his body was racked with pain on a level he had never experienced before. He was eventually released. He asked his escort where they were taking him to, could he have some food, some water. But they remained silent. His cramped legs protested painfully, his upper thighs burning from the urine he’d had to release while confined, as he was dragged to the cell he was in now, given a reprieve, if that was what you could call it.

  His head snapped round as the grey steel door was pulled open, the sudden blinding light from the corridor stabbing his eyes. Pulled to his feet by two of his captors, the hood reapplied, he was taken out of his padded isolation cell and transported painfully elsewhere to the upper part of the prison block, the new four-storey section built in the late 50s. He knew, from reports received by ex-prisoners who had eventually been released and subsequently escaped across the Berlin Wall that the prison had a traffic-light system. This ensured that prisoners never got to meet, ensuring their isolation at all times.

  He was thrust into a small room, pushed down on a lightly padded steel chair, and his hood was yanked off. The door was closed behind him as he placed his hands over his eyes to protect them from the bright light. Once accustomed to the glare, he took stock of the room. He was sitting at a small square table, not much wider than the seat of his chair. This was butted up against a steel-legged desk, topped in a light brown with a set of matching drawers attached each side. Sitting behind the desk, on a much more comfortably upholstered chair with wooden arms, sat an MfS officer, his grey uniform with its distinctive piping. A major.

  The major said nothing, but continued to make notes in a small notebook. To the right of the MfS officer, there was a tall, green cabinet and behind him a dark cream, cast-iron radiator. A flimsy set of pale green curtains prevented Bradley seeing what was outside. On the desk was a phone and, alongside, a reel-to-reel tape recorder. Did the voice now have a face?

  The major finally looked up from his scribbling. “Herr Bradley, I won’t ask after your health as I’m sure you are not at your best. There was a very good reason why I allowed you to spend some time getting acquainted with our special room.” He opened one of the left-hand desk drawers and extracted a packet of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. Taking a plain cigarette from the packet, he lit it and took a slow, satisfying drag. He picked a loose shred of tobacco from his lips as he held up the Zippo lighter. “I love this lighter. It has a picture of a red London bus on it – so quaint. I bought it the last time I visited your country when I had other duties to perform. So, I know a little about you British.” He took another draw, the tip of the cigarette glowing a bright red, before tapping the ash off onto a saucer on the desk. His chair creaked as he leant back, savouring the smoke as he exhaled.

  “I want you to fully understand there are no political games to play here. Your government are not coming to your rescue.” He laughed lightly. “In fact, they have no idea where you are, or if indeed you are still alive. They will have no doubt logged your lack of radio transmissions by now.” He made eye contact with Bradley, who shifted on his seat trying to get as comfortable as possible, pain lancing through his cramped muscles. “So, Herr Bradley, let’s not mess about. Just tell me what I want to know, and I can have you medically treated and get some hot food inside you. Eh?”

  Bradley remained silent, his stomach cramping at the thought of food. He was in constant pain, the hunger and thirst only making matters worse. There was a terrible smell emanating from him, he was sure. His jumper had been removed, but he still wore his No. 2 shirt. It was soiled and slightly damp, as were his green trousers.

  Bradley lifted his head up as he heard a clink. The major was stirring his coffee after adding three teaspoons of sugar.

  “I don’t know how you English can drink tea. It has no bite to it. Would you like a cup of coffee, Herr Bradley? Of course not. You have been trained to keep a stiff upper lip.” He laughed to himself.

  “All I want to know is how many other spies there are in the vicinity of Berlin? And beyond, of course. How many teams do you have out there? Well?”

  Bradley remained silent. He knew that he and Jacko were the only Intelligence acquisition team out on the circuit, but there were at least two operatives from the security section. They had a very different task to perform within the confines of the city of East Berlin itself. Bradley had taken two across, individually, over two days, hidden under a blanket in the back of the Range Rover. It hadn’t been the first time he’d done that. He and his section worked closely with their sister unit, photographing buildings of potential significance, completing Close Target Reconnaissance on their behalf; hunting for installations that the Soviets and East Germans tried to keep hidden.

  Bradley thought back to the day they had discovered a secret hospital in the middle of the forest of Wernsdorf, surrounded by high walls, topped with barbed wire, and with watchtowers at each corner. The response from the occupants had been aggressive. Within minutes, two Ural-375 trucks had appeared, loaded with MfS troops. Before they could surround the Range Rover, Jacko manoeuvred the vehicle between the trees, pursued by soldiers on foot, one of the Ural-375s crashing through the trees behind them. Just as Jacko and Bradley thought they had made it, a UAZ-469, a Soviet jeep, cut across their front. Jacko twisted the steering wheel, driving the vehicle through a gap in the trees, pressed hard on the accelerator and, with a spray of debris from the rear wheels, extracted them from the trap, but it left them with two of the tyres punctured. The two right-hand side wheels bumbled over the ground as the air escaped. But they kept moving until they could hold up somewhere and review their position. Accessing an abandoned forestry compound, they pulled up behind a small hut and waited. Once they believed themselves to be safe, they assessed the damage: two tyres were shredded, and both of the wheels badly damaged. Another team would have to come out and bring replacements.

  “What about a drink?” the major asked as he slid a small glass of water across the desk until it rested in front of Bradley.

  Bradley looked at the glass, and then into the eyes of his interrogator, because that’s what he was, then back to the glass. He had been taught to take food and water at every opportunity. His lips and throat were dry, his tongue swollen. He reached out with shaking hands, one badly bruised and swollen after being stepped on by a studded boot. Gripping the glass as best he could, he lifted it to his lips, the glass rattling against his teeth. He closed his eyes and savoured the tepid water, an elixir. His spirits rose slightly and he replaced the empty glass on the table.

  “See, there is no need for all this unpleasantness. So, tell me about your friends.”

  “24388749, Bradley Reynolds, Sergeant, Royal Co
rps of Transport.”

  Chapter 5

  0100, 9 JULY 1984. CORPS PATROL UNIT (CPU). SOUTHEAST OF PATTENSEN, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLUE EFFECT -2 DAYS

  The Corps Patrol Unit was currently positioned in a deep ditch close to a water feature northwest of Heisede, about a kilometre from the east bank of the River Leine. Wilf had chosen their location due to the patchy water catchment areas surrounding the water feature, an unfriendly area for vehicles, and particularly armoured ones. As a consequence of Wilf’s choice of location, they were damp, and Badger’s gripes about it being gopping were fairly frequent, unsurprisingly.

  The CPU, on receiving new orders from headquarters back at 1 BR Corps, had moved from Lehrte to their current location on the banks of the River Leine, which they now planned to cross. After the aborted reconnaissance of the 12th Guards Tank Division headquarters, their planned return to their Mexe-hide was suspended and they were ordered west. They had moved as far as possible in the early hours of the 8th but, with a heavy Soviet presence and troops crossing the River Leine to reinforce the rapidly growing bridgehead, they had finally been forced to go to ground. That gave the soldiers an opportunity to rest up before moving out again during dusk of the same day. Before the light of day finally died, as they headed towards Sarstedt, they witnessed more of the carnage of the fierce battles that had been fought by the British and West German forces to hold up the pressing Soviet advance. Once they had extracted themselves from the forward headquarters of 12th Guards Tank Division, the team’s next mission was to report on Soviet units crossing the River Leine, looking particularly for reinforcements following on in support of GSFG’s main thrust south of Hanover and Gronau. Following that, a particularly important mission had been assigned to them. It had been a long tab, travelling in the dark for cover but constantly on the alert for enemy forces that were either consolidating in the area or passing through. On occasion, what they took to be campfires of Soviet military units often turned out to be still burning tanks and armoured personnel carriers. Some hulks had been doused and would no doubt be recovered by the Soviet engineers at some point. Up until now, the four SAS soldiers had only seen enemy equipment and soldiers, other than RAF or other NATO countries’ ground-attack aircraft harassing the Soviet forces’ rapid advance. One shock they did encounter though was coming across a burnt-out Challenger tank, with its crew still on board, which brought home to them that they were well and truly behind enemy lines and were becoming more and more isolated from their own forces as every day passed by. The team had considered rummaging through the bodies in order to get hold of their dog tags. But the bodies were so badly burnt, the crew’s clothing practically none existent that, even the hardened soldiers that they were, they couldn’t bring themselves to rummage around the human debris to search for the articles in question. Apart from that, they still had a mission to perform. The Challenger was far from being the only hulk on the battlefield. They came across two more of these latest model British tanks, but the open ground was also strewn with T-80s, BMPs, SA9s, ZSUs and the odd Jeep or box-bodied vehicle. The Soviets had plainly paid a heavy price to take the ground that was now theirs.