The Red Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  Lieutenant Russell pressed his hands over his ears, his S6 respirator expanding and contracting as his rapid breathing sucked in air through the canister at the side. He was screaming inside his head, his eyes almost as wide as the oval lenses he was peering through, but seeing nothing. His ears hurt and he felt mucus oozing from his nose. Nausea plucked at his stomach but he bit it back, the bitter taste of bile on his tongue burning his throat. The noise, the shock waves, battered his body and senses as another round of shells straddled the village, but further back.

  Suddenly, it was as if the entire sector was engulfed in a huge suffocating weight, a tremendous pressure wave followed by an intense heat, with a constant stream of debris, branches of trees, pieces of brick, masonry and other items one could only guess at.

  Lieutenant Russell sucked hard, fighting for air that was no longer there, panic setting in as he couldn’t breathe no matter how hard he tried, resisting the drive to wrench his mask free and expose his lungs and skin to any nerve or blister agents that might be present. The pressure suddenly dissipating, he collapsed into the bottom of the trench, depleted. The level of noise rose higher and higher as more and more Soviet artillery joined in the bombardment of the NATO front line. The sounds of civilians screaming, wounded or dying in their beds, went unheard as the explosions reached a crescendo before stopping almost as quickly as they had started.

  Thirty minutes of hell and the men of Combat Team Alpha felt that that was exactly where they were.

  Chapter 32

  SOUTH-EAST OF LUNEBURG, WEST GERMANY. 0415, 5 JULY 1984.

  THE RED EFFECT +15 MINUTES.

  The fifty-five-ton Leopard 2’s V-12 engine growled as the driver accelerated, the tank almost flying as it leapt over a brow of a hillock it had just crossed, the suspension squashed as it supported the machine’s weight, pushing back upwards. The commander gripped onto the turret for his life, his body flung from side to side. The loader was also topside with his commander, gripping onto the MG-3 7.62mm air-defence machine gun, using it to keep himself from being tossed out. Speed was of the essence. A small heliborne landing was threatening an engineer unit desperately trying to blow a bridge as the Russian forces battered them from the east. Their task was still to protect the Stecknitz Canal, south-east of the large town of Luneburg, but a troop had been dispatched to reinforce their kameraden who were in dire straits. Part of the 9th Panzer Brigade of the 1st Panzer Division, 1 German Corps’ covering force, their job had just started.

  The lieutenant gritted his teeth, nearly biting his tongue as he was suddenly thrown violently sideways. But there would be no stopping, no slowing down. They had to get to grips with the enemy, slow them down, stop them, kill them before they could take an inch of German soil.

  WEST OF RASDORF, NEAR THE FULDA GAP, WEST GERMANY. 0415, 5 JULY 1984.

  THE RED EFFECT +15 MINUTES.

  Private First Class Larry Poole closed his eyes, tensed his body as the trees above and around them were torn apart. The shock waves from the shells that missed, rocked the tank from side to side, even the throbbing of the tank’s gas turbine engine couldn’t be felt or heard. Staff Sergeant Kyle Lewis, the tank commander, stared through the visors, but dust was all he could see. Buttoned down, all he and his crew could do was sit out the storm of the Russian artillery barrage and wait until it ceased.

  “Aaahh!” Larry Poole screamed as the front of the thirty-five-ton tank was lifted off the ground, slamming back down as a 150-millimetre shell exploded directly in front of them.

  Clang...clang.

  Straddled by two more smaller-calibre rounds, shrapnel struck at the tank’s armour, letting the crew know it wanted them and was going to do its level best to get them.

  SSGT Lewis looked up at the inner top of the turret, praying that the armour would hold out. They had said it would; they had said it would be safe. His men were in their full NBC kit, in case the M-1 was punctured and any gas found its way in, killing them all. It wasn’t meant to be like this, he thought. They drive towards us and our superior tanks pick them off until they’ve had enough. It wasn’t meant to be like this.

  Chapter 33

  LAPPWALD, NORTH-EAST OF HELMSTEDT, WEST GERMANY. 62ND GUARDS TANK REGIMENT/10 GUARDS TANK DIVISION/3 SHOCK ARMY. 0410, 5 JULY 1984.

  THE RED EFFECT +10 MINUTES.

  The thunderous roar built up behind them, streaks of light continued to pass overhead, hundreds of Soviet soldiers looking up into the sky, the view reminiscent of the Quadrantid meteor show in January and the Lyrid shower in April. Those were beautiful to watch, but caused no one any harm. The ones passing now were far more menacing. The repercussions from the artillery shells and rockets could be heard bracketing the British forces, less than six kilometres away to the west.

  Crump, crump, crump, crump.

  Shell after shell hit the front line of the NATO troops, pinning them down, numbing their senses, smashing their defences.

  The Soviet radio nets were alive with chatter, units moving positions, preparations being made to advance and attack. Colonel Trusov received his orders to move out. He ordered Kokorev to move the T-80 forward slowly, the commander of the BMP-1 recce vehicle ahead acknowledging the order as well, leading the way. The colonel issued an order to his three companies, to take up their stage two positions, and the forest reverberated with the sound of slowly accelerating gas-turbine engines as the T-80 main battle tanks started their journey west. The battalion command vehicle’s engine whined as Kokorev placed it into the first of its five gears and increased power. The tracks gripped the earth, laying a continuous metallic carpet for the six dual rubber-tyre road wheels to pass over.

  Trusov ducked involuntarily as more flashes of light shot overhead, heading to batter the NATO defences even further as his battalion crept forward. He looked over the rear of the tank and could make out the dark shapes of the lead tanks of One Company who were following. After about 100 metres, he commanded Kokorev to pull off to the left and then stop. As agreed earlier, the lead tank of the company following, commanded by Major Mahayev, moved up, the officer acknowledging his battalion commander with a wave as he passed, the tank’s engine growling as it picked up speed, the recognisable rattle of tracks added to as the rest of the company’s ten tanks continued forward. Following behind was an MTLB-RkhM-K, one of his two battalion command vehicles, that would assist him in keeping in touch with both the regiment and division. Following on, about 500 metres behind, would be his battalion transport and supply sections, carrying the fuel, ammunition and food supplies they would need to keep the battle momentum going. A maintenance section was available to help repair broken down tanks and recover those that had suffered serious damage. And, amongst all of those, UAZ-452 ambulances should the worst happen. Even though he felt supremely confident about his equipment and his men, Trusov knew that casualties were inevitable before the day was out.

  Ahead of them, on the left and right, the second battalion would have started to move forward, getting into position, ready to break out into the open where they could protect Trusov’s flanks as he thrust down the centre, pushing deep into the defences of the British Army’s covering force – and, if needed, to come to his aid. Further to the south, two of the 248th Guards Motor Rifle Regiment’s mechanised infantry battalions would be pressing forward.

  Trusov ordered the driver forward, following on after the company ahead, the ground now rutted and churned by the heavy battle tanks as they worked their way through to the edge of the forest. The tank picked up speed and, within minutes, they were out of the confines of the forest, the slowly lightening sky revealing more and more of the terrain around them. At the hard shoulder of the autobahn, part of the recce company kept watch over the gap in the barriers that would be used to pass through. Soldiers from the regiment’s engineer company had sneaked forwards earlier to deal with any barriers making sure the crossing was passable for the tanks.

  They rattled over the tarmac road of the dual carriageway,
the rear of a tank from the lead company just disappearing over the other side and back into the trees. Across the road, into the forest again for a few moments, then out into the open. Now, without any doubt, they were interlopers on West German territory. The plan was simple, or so Trusov and Pushkin hoped. One Company would head for the bare piece of high ground, Bruchteich, at 140 metres in height, and park up in line acting as a covering force to overwatch the rest of the battalion as it advanced. Two Company would track left through the trees and Three Company to the right.

  They broke out into the open. Kokorev increased speed, the engine growling as they made the 600-metre dash, the heavy tank starting to dip and bounce as its torsion-bar suspension matched the undulating ground. The engine then screamed as Kokorev changed down, the tank rearing up and making easy meat of the slope ahead.

  “Forward, forward, forward,” guided Trusov, head still out of the turret. In front, two platoons of T-80s were lined up, in a hull-down position at the far side of the shallow hill, to the left and, behind them, the remaining troop of three in reserve. Kokorev slowed the tank to a crawl.

  “Alongside, alongside,” he called to Kokorev.

  “Stop.”

  The tank rocked to a halt next to the command tank of the company commander, the major looking at the scene ahead through his binoculars. The rest of his forward unit had been ordered to button down. Hatches closed, ready to fight.

  Trusov got his first glimpse of the ground they would have to cross: open fields. Ideal tank country, but also an ideal tank killing zone. Dawn was finally showing its face, its hue leeching into the countryside. Vivid flashes of red and yellow erupted along the line of British troops dug in to protect the two villages and the routes around them, adding to the colour.

  Trusov checked his watch. Two and Three Company would be in position now, awaiting his order to move. He shifted higher in the turret to get a better view, bringing his binoculars up to his eyes to zoom in.

  Crump, crump, crump, crump.

  Clouds of white and grey smoke, like puffs of cotton wool, but yanked at the edges, spiking outwards, burst into life; some with yellow-orange hot cores at the centre, the expanding gases forcing lethal shrapnel in all directions. Suddenly the entire area flared up, swamped with a staccato of hundreds of small explosions, rippling across the entire front, enveloping the village on the right, Supplingenburg, in a blanket of death, blotting it completely from view. The BM-21s had struck, eighteen delivering over 700 122mm rockets onto the target.

  Crump...crump, crump...crump.

  More artillery bombarded the area, pounding the soldiers incessantly. No let up as the regiment’s 2S1s joined in, followed by the 12th Guards Tank Division artillery group. The Division, as the second echelon of 3rd Shock Army, was patiently waiting for its turn to join in the battle but, in the meantime, its artillery assets didn’t stand idle.

  Crump...crump, crump, crump...crump.

  Whoosh! Whoosh!

  Two low-flying aircraft shot by above their heads, at treetop height, their engines spouting flames as the afterburners kicked in, the pilots banking left, then right, taking them around the higher ground of der Elm, their target NATO troops further to the rear; attacking the rear of the covering force or even the main force, hoping to disrupt defence preparations, or interdict reinforcements on the move.

  Whoosh! Whoosh!

  Another two Sukhoi Su-25 ‘Frogfoot’ close-support aircraft shot past, their deadly loads carried on the five hard-points beneath each wing.

  Crump, crump...crump...crump...crump, crump, crump.

  The barrage continued without let-up, cleaving into the British defences, punching through the armour of some the 432s, shredding soft-skinned vehicles, destroying some of the well placed minefields, killing civilians as well as soldiers.

  Crump, crump.

  Trusov was mesmerised, the crackling radio bringing him back to earth.

  “Two-zero, this is Two-three over.”

  “Two-three, go ahead, over.”

  “TMMs and mine ploughs with us, over.”

  He looked at his watch, for probably the tenth time in the last twenty minutes. The barrage had been going for over ten minutes; it was time for them to pull out; to get close to the enemy before the barrage ceased.

  “Understood. Two-three, Two-two, move in five minutes. Acknowledge, over.”

  “Two-zero, Two-two, understood, over.”

  “Two-zero, Two-three, ready, over.”

  “Two-three, keep the engineers back until called forward. Two-zero, out.”

  There was nothing else he could do now but check in with his commander.

  “Six-two-zero, Two-zero over. Six-two-zero, Two-zero, over.”

  “Two-zero, Six-two-zero. Go ahead, Pavel.”

  “Six-two-zero. In position. Confirm two-zero ready, over.”

  “Two-zero. They’re right behind you. Air defence has moved up with you. You know what you have to do.”

  “Understood. Two-zero, out.”

  There was nothing else he could do now, but wait. Looking left, he could see the odd light in Emmerstedt, a small conurbation north-west of Helmstedt, the population waking up to the thunderous uproar that was coming from the west as the shells continued to strike the British lines. Supplingenburg was about four kilometres half right, Supplingen about five kilometres straight ahead. They would strike south-west first, before turning west, advancing at speed straight between the two villages, heading flat out for Konigslutter, pushing deep into the NATO-covering force area, keeping the momentum of the division on track.

  Senior Sergeant Barsukov popped his head out of the turret hatchway, tapping his watch.

  “Tell Sergeant Kokorev to wind her up.”

  “Two-two, Two-three, this is Two-zero. Move out, acknowledge the order, over.”

  “Two-two, advancing now.”

  “Two-three, moving now.”

  “Two-one, Two-zero. One minute. Standby.”

  “Two-one, acknowledged.”

  More shells pounded the enemy lines, the rate of fire slowing, the Soviet artillery crew starting to run out of steam.

  Time seemed to grind to a halt as Trusov kept checking the large hand on his luminous watch. It edged ever closer.

  “Two-one, go!”

  The tanks ahead had been ready, and the engines roared, rearing up at the front as they were powered forward, down the other side of the slope as fast as they could safely go. Trusov’s tank tore after them, keeping fifty metres behind the rearmost platoon. Although hedgerows often restricted their view, he occasionally picked out the two companies, one either side, slightly ahead. He rocked in the turret hatchway, bracing his waist against the edge, but flexing his body as the tank dipped on its suspension as it negotiated the dips, bumps and furrows of the farmer’s fields, crashing through hedges without stopping; weaving around any object that was seen as too tough a barrier to cross. They were racing across the partially open ground at fifty-kilometres an hour, using speed as protection, but also racing to get close to the enemy before the barrage ended; the sound growing louder and louder above the tank’s roaring engine, and the crunch as they yet again smashed through another hedgerow.

  “Two-one, Two-zero. Stop, stop, stop.”

  Kokorev, expecting the command, slowed his commander’s tank down, but lined them next to One Company’s command tank.

  “Two-three, Two-zero. Initiate ‘springboard’ now.”

  “Two-zero. On it.”

  The four TMMs and two mine plough tanks raced forward to their allotted positions, two SZU-23/4s sticking close, to provide air cover, their four 23mm guns facing skyward, ready to blast any low-flying aircraft out of the sky. Further back, behind them, two SA-9s, four 9M31 surface-to-air missiles each, capable of reaching up to 4,000 metres; even further back, the army level SA-4s would cover up to an altitude of over 20,000 metres.

  Trusov tapped the turret impatiently, willing the TMMs to move quickly and lay their ten-metre
folded scissor-bridge, to cross the narrow waterway that lay across their path, used by the farmers to irrigate their fields. Major Mahayev had repositioned his company, a platoon covering the right, their turrets swinging their main tank guns left and right as the gunners sniffed out potential targets, and three on the left. The third platoon held back in reserve. His company would be the last to cross.

  Trusov checked his watch. Five minutes and the barrage would cease. Come on, come on, he whispered under his breath.

  “Two-zero. Recce have found a fordable stretch. They’re crossing now, over.”

  “Two-zero. Acknowledged.”

  “Two-zero, Six-two-zero.”

  “Six-two-zero, go ahead, over.”

  “One-zero will be up to your location soon, Pavel. You need to move out before they stick a barrel where it will hurt.”

  “Standby.” He switched to the battalion net. “Two-three. Tell me you’re moving, over.”

  “Two-zero. Engineers done, remaining recce crossing. We move in two minutes.”

  “Understood. Six-two-zero. We move in two.”

  “Good. Burn some fuel when you’re across. Out.”

  Trusov couldn’t help but smile. He imagined Division would be on Pushkin’s back every five minutes. Three-Company confirmed they were crossing, as did Two further to the left. One-Company followed on behind them, clanking over the double-span TMM bridge, mine plough tanks following on behind, then the ZSUs followed by the SA-9s.

  They were poised now, poised to attack and defeat the enemy. One-Battalion had split, one company moving south-east of the burning village of Supplingen, ready to keep the NATO forces occupied and pinned down; another company to the north-east of Supplingenburg, ready to carry out the same task. The third company, along with a mechanised infantry company from 248th GMRR, remained in reserve. They were also joined by BMPs carrying the man-portable surface-to-air missile SA-7 and the AGS-17, automatic grenade launcher.