The Red Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  The major took off the vu-foil, his hands creating ghostly shadow puppets on the wall and he replaced it with a new one. He lined it up so it was square onto the wall; then adjusted the projector head up and down with the wheel attached until it was in near perfect focus.

  Major Archer tapped the wall again. A list stared back at them. “To summarise, we’re looking at about 800,000 Soviet troops, that we know off, that are going to mobilise for this exercise. The Soviet Red Banner Fleet in the Baltic and their marines and the Soviet Groups of Forces in East Germany, Czechoslovakia and Poland. The most ominous force of all is based in Hungary. They will conduct a parallel manoeuvre called Danube 84.” The tall, slim, dark-haired Intelligence Corps major frowned. “It’s huge, sir. We’ve not seen anything this big before.”

  “Do you have the list of unit upgrades?” asked Colonel Stevens.

  “Yes, sir. It’s slide five, Bill.”

  Bill Castle did the honours again and a new list glowed on the wall.

  “2 Guards Tank Army have received three independent tank regiments. Along with those, there is one tank battalion for each of its motor rifle divisions. That gives 2 Guards Tank Army some 1,200 tanks in total.”

  “And we expect them to target northern Germany, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Bill Castle. “Hamburg, Bremen and Bremerhaven.”

  “That’s right, sir,” Archer concurred. He continued, “3 Shock Army, who undoubtedly will be targeting the area defended by 1 Br Corps, have now been converted to a full tank army, and consist exclusively of armoured divisions: four in total, giving them in the region of 1,300 tanks.”

  Castle turned towards the SO 1. “Makes our 800 tanks seem pretty paltry, sir.”

  “And not all of those are in theatre, Bill.”

  Archer continued, “20 Guards Army have increased in size from three motor rifle divisions to two tank and two motor rifle. That gives them over 700 tanks.”

  “Should it kick off for real, their airborne forces will also give us a headache,” added Bill.

  “Yes,” Archer agreed, tapping the wall again, this time over the map of East Germany, west of Berlin. “One division in Rathenow and one in Cottbus, south-east Germany. In total, half a million spearhead troops in East Germany, plus the rest, along with Polish, East German, Hungarian and Czech Warsaw Pact forces. We need to monitor closely what’s going on in the rest of the Warsaw Pact, sir. Don’t want to be an advocate of despair, but this is not a time to be blasé.”

  “Have Brixmis and the Berlin section been tasked, Bill?”

  “Yes, sir, along with the RAF. Corridor flights will continue naturally, and 92 Intelligence Company will be paying particular attention to troop movements.”

  “JARIC?”

  The Joint Air Reconnaissance Intelligence Centre, based at RAF Brampton near Huntington in Cambridgeshire, was an imagery analysis intelligence centre. Manned by the Army Intelligence Corps, RAF Intelligence and Defence Intelligence personnel, they were there to exploit available imagery from the assets in the air and on the ground.

  “Yes, sir, they’ve been tasked. Satellite photography and high-altitude flights are going to be a key means of intelligence gathering during this exercise.”

  “We need to see their analysis in a timely manner, Colin. I need to keep BAOR up to speed on what transpires.”

  “It’ll be sorted, sir. Will you be briefing NORTHAG as well?”

  Stevens stood up and peered round one of the blinds and looked out onto the huge barracks area, reflecting on what he had just heard. “Yes, the Germans, Dutch and Belgians don’t have the assets that we have. They’ll need to be kept informed.”

  “A full NORTHAG meeting?” asked Colin.

  “That is my intention, but they seem pretty laid-back about it all.”

  “Elections, budgets, unemployment; we can never compete, sir.” Bill laughed.

  “Next steps, sir?” asked Major Archer.

  The SO 1 strode quickly from his position looking out of the window. “Colin, I want you to put together an intelligence group to track this exercise. I want to pool all the intelligence we can get and keep command updated. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir. When?”

  “Immediately. I have a bad feeling about this. Make sure you get input from 18 Int, JARIC, the military missions, Berlin Section, military attachés...the full works, Colin.”

  “Will do, sir. I’ll get things moving as soon as possible.”

  “Now, Colin, today.”

  Chapter 11

  14/20TH KINGS HUSSARS, BERGEN-HOHNE. 4 APRIL 1984. THE RED EFFECT −3 MONTHS.

  “This is an alert, this is an alert. This is an Active Edge exercise alert. All military personnel report to their units immediately.”

  “Oh fuck.” William patted the top of the standard square, yew-coloured, military-issue bedside table blindly, eventually finding his watch and pulling it close to his face, peering at it in the dark through one sleepy eye.

  “This is an alert, this is an alert. This is an Active Edge exercise alert. All military personnel report to their units immediately.”

  The sound that came from outside the block of military flats grew louder as its messenger passed directly beneath the third-floor window of the block of flats.

  “What’s a matter, what are doing? I’m trying to sleep. Vicky will be awake any time soon,” his wife muttered as she pulled the sheet and coarse blankets over her head to shut out the noise of her husband fumbling around.

  “This is an alert, this is an alert. This is an Active Edge exercise alert. All military personnel report to their units immediately.”

  The disruptive-patterned, green, short-wheel-based Land Rover, a flashing blue light at the end of a metal stalk attached to the side of the Royal Military Police (RMP) vehicle, drove slowly through the married quarters on the outskirts of Bergen-Hohne, in the northern part of West Germany, the tinny sounding tannoy attached to the front of the Land Rover shouting out its message.

  “It’s a bloody alert!”

  His wife wrapped her arm around his waist as he sat up. She hugged him and pulled herself in close. “Do you have to go?” she said sleepily.

  “Of course I bloody do. I wish they’d waited until my hangover was clear.”

  Pulling himself free of his wife’s grip, he placed both feet on the thin bedroom carpet and heaved his body out of the bed. He would have preferred to shower to help wake him up, clear his head, but there wasn’t enough time. His squadron commander was probably already on his way. Keen as mustard, he muttered under his breath. He stumbled out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him, his wife already drifting back to sleep. He looked at his watch and hissed, “Oh...three...bloody ten in the morning. Wankers.”

  He headed for the spare room and flicked on the light, screwing up his eyes as he was immediately blinded by the sixty-watt bulb. He eased one eye open slowly then the other as his eyesight adjusted to the sharp pins being stuck into them. He pulled on a fresh pair of boxer shorts then a T-shirt, followed by a green woollen shirt, more like a rough blanket, freshly pressed and starched the previous day. He grabbed his combat trousers, a disruptive pattern of green, brown and black, from out of the wardrobe, pulled them on before collapsing on the single bed, and dragged on a pair of thick, green socks. He would rather have worn his coveralls, but the army were increasingly insistent that tankies wore full combats, particularly on exercise. Although he was meant to wear his black, ‘combat high’ boots, he chose to wear his NI patrol boots. They were designed for tours in Northern Ireland and he had worn them while patrolling in Belfast. They were much lighter, designed to make it easier for soldiers to ‘hard target’, sprint between points of cover, making themselves a much harder target around the streets of Andy Town and the Falls Road. His troop commander, Lieutenant Wesley-Jones, usually turned a blind eye. William always carried his heavy duty boots with him though, just in case. Anyway, this might be for real, he thought, the mere flicker of a smil
e as he started to wake up, his senses and his sense of humour slowly coming to life. He tied off his boots and bloused the bottoms of his combats with green-coated elastic bands, an S-hook at each end.

  He stood up, stamped his feet, then bent down and finally adjusted the bloused legs of his combat trousers until he was satisfied. He grabbed his combat jacket and pulled it on, buttoning it up before slinging his 58-pattern webbing over his shoulder, not wanting to wear it until the last minute. All he needed was his SMG (sub-machine gun) from the armoury and he would be ready.

  He walked past the bedroom door and shouted bye, but his wife was already in a deep sleep, returning to her dream about Jason Donavan. He went through the main door of the flat, picking up his car keys from the small shelf just inside the door as he left, and headed down the stone steps, exiting two levels down. He shivered slightly. When it was summer in Germany, the weather could be extremely hot, often in excess of thirty degrees Celsius, but in the winter it was just the opposite. He headed for his pride and joy: a brand new Nissan Cherry estate car. Small, but it was his. A great tax-free perk. Now all he had to do was keep enough money in his Sparkasse bank account to stump up the monthly payments to pay for it. Four years to pay didn’t seem long at the time; now though, it seemed endless.

  He looked around, seeing other soldiers doing the same as him: heading for their cars. He unlocked the door, threw his kit over to the passenger seat, slipped into the driver’s seat and quickly started the car. It started first time and he roared off leaving the block of flats. Close behind, other drivers and vehicles followed him, all heading to their respective barracks to report in for the Active Edge mobilisation.

  On arrival at his destination, after a ten-minute drive, the barracks was a hive of activity. Royal Military Police, as well as the usual camp guard, were there to greet him. Showing his ID card, he was quickly waved through. He was soon at the entrance to the long line of vehicle sheds that housed the regiment’s Chieftain tanks, troopers milling around getting their respective charges ready for action.

  Corporal William Patterson, ‘Patsy’ to his friends, parked up and headed for the armoury to draw his personal weapon, the compact SMG, before reporting in. Weapon collected, he headed to his unit

  “Morning, sir.” Patsy saluted his troop commander.

  “Morning, Corporal Patterson.” The lieutenant returned the salute.

  “The Sovs on their way then, sir?”

  “If they waited for you, Corporal Patterson, they’d die of boredom. We’re still waiting for Trooper Mackie, but Corporal Ellis is prepping so go and give him a hand.”

  “Sir. Sir, is it a command post exercise or are we going out into the field?”

  “You’ll be living it rough for forty-eight hours so make sure you’ve got all your kit.”

  “Sir.” Patsy set off down the length of the tank sheds, one each side, most of the tanks still inside their dimly lit tank bays waiting to be warmed up and driven out. He headed for the furthest bay on the left, the one containing the tank belonging to Bravo-troop, Two-squadron, 14/20th Kings Hussars.

  “Morning, Patsy, made it in, then?”

  He looked up seeing his junior, and friend, looking down from the turret of the Chieftain tank that towered above him.

  “Hi, Mark. They could’ve picked a better day for this shit.”

  “Or we could have drunk less last night, you mean.” His friend laughed looking down.

  Patsy climbed up onto the splashboard of the Chieftain Mark 5 tank and joined Mark Ellis on top of the turret.

  “Is the BV on?”

  “Of course. I need a brew before I can do anything. Need some pills too. Bloody head’s pounding. Have you got any?”

  Patsy went through his combat jacket’s four pockets until he found what he was looking for. Extracting a packet of aspirin, he threw them over to his oppo. “Here, try these.”

  “Thanks, mate, I owe you.”

  The Chieftain Mark 5/3C, the ‘C’ denoting they were equipped with the new Clansmen radio system, had a crew of four. The tank commander, Lieutenant Wesley-Jones, a closet Welshman, or so the crew thought as he didn’t have the usual plum accent and there was the occasional Cardiff twang, was also the troop commander, in charge of the troop’s three Chieftains; the gunner, Patsy, the loader, Lance Corporal Mark Ellis; and the driver, Trooper ‘Mackey’, Mackinson.

  Mark crunched on two of the tablets, pulling a face at their bitter taste.

  “You’re meant to swallow them with water, you prat.”

  “Now you tell me.” He pulled out his water bottle and took a swig. “Shall I make a brew then?”

  “Might as well. It’ll be at least a half-hour before we pull out.”

  They were soon joined by the fourth member of their crew: Mackey the driver. At five foot seven, he was just the right size for the cramped space allocated to the driver. They were also joined by their troop commander. “Glad you could join us, Trooper Mackinson.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Well, let’s get her wound up then. We’re deploying, and our troop has the pleasure of leading the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” responded Patsy, second-in-command of the tank. “There’s a brew on, sir, if you want one before we move off?”

  “Sounds just the job, Corporal.” The lieutenant opened the top of his water bottle holder and took the three-quarter moon-shaped, black mug off the top, handing it to Patsy who in turn handed it to Mackey.

  “So, that’s two NATOs, Mackey.”

  “Yes, Corp,” and he climbed onto then into the tank where the BV, Boiling Vessel, was positioned to carry out his order to make three teas, with milk and two sugars, picking up Ellis’s mug on the way.

  After a five-minute brew and a last-minute check of the tank, they were given the order to move out.

  Mackey slid into his seat, situated centrally in the front of the hull, batteries and ammunition charge bins either side of him. He started the genny, the generating unit engine, needed to start the tank’s main L60 engine, the two switchboards in front of him. He adjusted his seat position until he was comfortable, although he was reclined so much he was practically lying down. He started the engine, the hacking cough turning into a throaty roar, plumes of white exhaust engulfing the rear of the tank, the noise of the multi-fuel, two-stroke engine, slowly accompanied by the rest of the thirteen tanks of the squadron, as they followed suit. Mackey pulled his headset on over the top of his beret and, above him, the tank commander pulled on his bone dome. They were now able to communicate. Mackey repositioned his seat so he was sitting up, the driver’s hatch not yet closed down. He toed the gear shift of the armoured giant, ready now to drive out of the tank bay.

  The tinny sound of Lieutenant Wesley-Jones sounded in his earpiece. “Forward, slow.”

  Mackey increased the revs, the engine roaring as it pulled the fifty-five-ton giant forward, clouds of white smoke spewing out behind it. There was enough light to enable him to see Patsy guiding him at the front, his view restricted at the best of times and, in the early hours of the morning and the tight space he had to manoeuvre out of, an additional pair of eyes was a necessity.

  “Forward, forward,” ordered his commander sitting in the turret above, the lieutenant’s view improving with every foot of movement of the now squealing tank tracks. The tank slowly inched its way forward, easing its way out of the tank shed; the first one.

  “Right stick.”

  In a low-ratio gear, Mackey pulled on the stick to his right, increased the pressure of his foot on the accelerator at the same time, and the heavy tank slewed around to the right until it pointed in the direction that would take them out of the barracks.

  “Stop.”

  The tank commander looked about him. The way forward was clear, and the other two tanks in his troop were also manoeuvring ready to follow.

  “Forward, slow.”

  Mackey depressed the accelerator again, grabbed the left and right stick, and the Chieftain lu
rched forwards, the rattling, squealing tracks propelling it between the tank bays either side, a hive of activity as the rest of the regiment prepared to move out. There was an ever increasing cacophony of sound as more and more of the British battle tanks started up.

  Mackey kept the Chieftain at a steady walking pace, making slight adjustments to keep the tank on target, the clatter of the tracks settling down to a steady rhythm as they headed for the main road.

  The tank commander acknowledged Patsy as he climbed back up onto the tank, his task of guiding it out of the bay now finished, dropping into his position in the turret. If the commander looked down, he would see Patsy settling into the gunner’s seat. Behind Patsy were charge bins and, beneath him in the floor, HESH (High Explosive Squash Head) rounds were stored. All the explosive ordnance, for greater survivability, was stowed below the turret ring. Looking down and forward, the commander would see Mackey his driver who also had charge bins either side of him. Below sat Patsy and, to the right, Mark Ellis settled into position as the loader for the 120mm rifled tank gun. Wesley-Jones sat down on his two-piece seat, using the handle to his left to adjust its position, and twisted his bone dome until comfortable while he waited for the rest of the troop to catch up. A Land Rover, with a blue flashing light on a stalk at the side, pulled out in front of them, their escort to the exercise area. Wesley-Jones heaved himself up off his seat until his shoulders were above the turret and, looking back, he could see the other two tanks of his troop lined up behind him. He ordered the tank forward and Mackey steered the tank onto the road.

  “Zero-Bravo, Two-One-Bravo, on road over.”

  “Roger.”

  “All Two-Bravo call signs, we’re heading for the range, but no deployment. Acknowledge, over.”

  “Two-Two-Bravo, roger.”

  “Two-Three-Bravo, roger.”

  “All bravo call signs, Two-One-Bravo, out.”

  Wesley-Jones switched to the internal tannoy. “No deployment, we’re heading for the ranges. Back in by tonight.”

  Ellis punched the air. “Fucking magic.”