Two battalions from the 248th were already attacking the high ground of der Elm, with elements pushing around the southern edge. The massive artillery strike that had bombarded the entire front allocated to 10th GTD had shattered NATO forces along it.
Trusov’s battalion pushed forward, two companies up front, one in reserve.
“Two-zero, two-two. Contact, contact.”
A T-80 from the left flank company had come across a fleeing Scimitar which was quickly dispatched by the gunner. Trusov dropped down into the tank. Time to batten down.
Chapter 34
SUPPLINGENBURG, WEST GERMANY. COMBAT TEAM ALPHA. 0430, 5 JULY 1984.
THE RED EFFECT +30 MINUTES.
The silence was unnerving. Through the drumming in his ears and the material of his Noddy suit hood, all Lieutenant Russell could hear were the muffled groans of the wounded. He extracted himself from the dead soldier entangled beneath him and raised his head slowly above the parapet. Black face masks stared back at him as he scanned the line of One-Section’s slit trenches. Behind them, buildings still burned, trails of smoke climbing upwards from numerous areas around their position. Craters pock-marked the landscape as far as the limit of his vision, restricted by the respirator and the explosive smog that hung in the air about them.
Suddenly, he switched into his platoon-leader mode, knowing what he needed to do if he and his men were to survive. He looked for the piece of standard issue ‘No 2 detector paper’ on the front of his NBC suit: it was clear. Had there been dark blue stains plastered all over it then the indication would have been that chemical agents were present. Pulling off his helmet, then his hood, he eased off the black rubber respirator and took a shallow breath. He didn’t start twitching, or feel lethal blisters on his skin or inside his lungs, and he could breathe normally, although he was sucking in a film of dust and cordite. His soldiers, seeing he was still alive, followed suit. His ears rang and a buzzing inside his head continued to interfere with his hearing.
Looking for his SLR rifle, Russell picked it up from the bottom of the trench and was trying to clamber out to check on his platoon. When his boots caught on something. His rubber NBC overboots made it difficult to move his feet in the confined space of the trench. He trod on something soft and recoiled in horror when he realised it was Private Brook’s arm. The soldier’s respirator was missing, torn from his face; his mouth gaping open, blood oozing from his ears, and staring eyes, his chest exposed to the air showing cavernous wounds, one of his legs at an impossible angle, shattered.
“Medic, medic,” the lieutenant shouted at the top of his voice, the sound hollow inside his head. He heard other calls as Combat Team Alpha slowly came to life. He turned as something thumped on his shoulder, his signaller punching his arm to get his attention, pointing at the radio set. He grabbed the headset, putting one of the earphones against the side of his face and heard the call.
“Alpha-one, this is Alpha-zero. Sitrep. Alpha-one, sitrep, over.”
He stuttered a reply, his body physically shaking as he tried to control it and form some words with his dry mouth. “Alpha-zero, Alpha-one. Going to check now, over.”
“Fucking get on with it, Dean. I need to know your strength and casualties, soonest. They’ll be on top of us any minute. We are already getting reports of Soviet recce. Over.”
“Roger, sir, with you in figures two.”
“One minute. Out.”
Shit, the old man was in a foul mood.
“All Alpha-one call signs. Sitrep, over.”
“One-one-bravo. Two minor injuries, patching them up. Equipment operable, over.”
“Roger that.” The two Milan firing posts had survived.
“One-two, two minor injuries, one killed. Equipment A-OK, over.”
“Roger that.”
“One-three, one killed, one seriously wounded, 432 KO’ed, over.”
“Roger that. All call signs, enemy lookout. They are on way. Alpha-one, out.”
The half-section with the Milan out in front of the forward line of the platoon had answered, but not One-one-alpha. Russell finally climbed out and ran across the edge of the trenches at a crouch, suspecting what he would find. One-Section’s commander was dead, as were two soldiers with him; one of them had been flung into the platoon commander’s trench. The 432 ambulance reversed at speed up to the trench, the two medics piling out to deal with any wounded, the CSM with them driving one of the surviving Land Rovers to take any of the lightly wounded to the collection point at the far end of the village.
“What’s your status, sir?”
The CSM was covered in blood, not from any injuries, but from the men he had been helping to the company aid station.
“Three KIA, one serious, some minor wounds, and we’ve lost a 432, Sarn’t Major. How have the other platoons come through it?”
“Three-Platoon have been hit hard, at least half a dozen killed, including Lieutenant Ward.”
They didn’t have time to finish their conversation as the signaller bellowed across, “One-one-bravo, sir. They have movement.”
The CSM touched the young officer’s shoulder. “I’ll report to the OC. You see to your men. They’re going to need you.”
Russell nodded and ran to the radio set. “Alpha-one.”
“Tanks, sir, bloody hundreds of them.”
“Calm down, Corporal Reid, radio procedure. What can you see?”
“Tanks, sir, sorry. One-one-bravo. Tanks, left, right and centre.”
“Alpha-one, with you shortly.” Russell turned to the signaller and his runner, instructing both to follow him. They headed east, at a run, their 58-pattern webbing pouches bouncing as they ran. Keeping low, running along the bottom of the ditch, the shrubbery either side giving them cover, they quickly arrived at the position of the Milan firing point.
“Corporal Reid, I’m sorry, but Corporal Wood has been killed. I want you to go back and take command of the section.”
“Martin...dead?”
“Yes. There’s no time to talk about it now, Corporal. I need you to get back now and organise the section.”
Lance-Corporal Reid nodded, looked at the two men of his half-section then headed back towards the village.
Lieutenant Russell threw himself down beside the corporal in command of the two Milans. “What can you see?”
The corporal was looking through the Milan optical sight. He answered without taking his eye off the targets. “There’s a lot, sir. There’s a company-size group coming left and maybe two or three approaching in between the two villages.”
“Your target?”
“I can take out two, sir. One with each firing point; then we’ll need to move. And bloody sharpish.”
“Take them out. The minute you come under fire, or once you’ve fired your two shots, pull back. Understood?”
“Yes. sir,” the junior NCO responded, relief in his voice.
“Straight to the 432. We’ll probably be pulling out of here. This place is lost.”
“We didn’t hold it for very long, sir.”
“No, we didn’t. But the aim is to delay, and we did that. You two,” he pointed to the two with minor injuries, “make your way back to the 432’s. I’ll leave my runner here. I need to check on the rest of the platoon.”
“Got you, sir.”
The lieutenant left and the corporal again focused on his target. The Milan wire-guided missile he controlled could travel over a kilometre and a half in twelve and a half seconds. He centred on the tank in his sights, the other post doing the same with another, and they launched their rockets. The cover on the missile housing popped off, and the missile flew from the tube mounted on the launcher system, a plume of orange and yellow flame shooting out of the back. The concept of Semi-Automatic Command-To-Line-Of-Sight (SACLOS) meant the operator had only to keep the target in his sights at all times. The missile, trailing a thin wire behind it that was linked to the launcher, homed in on the target, guided by the operator. The conc
entration was immense as the corporal focused on the centre circle on the moving tank. The missiles struck. There was an explosion, but the tank kept on moving.
His assistant took off the now empty tub and was ready to attach a second when the sound of helicopter rotor blades could be heard growing louder and louder as the Hind-D Gunship roared towards them, stopping suddenly at a height of 200 metres, its cockpit rearing up before returning to a level plane as the USPU-24 under-nose turret with its 12.7mm YakB 12.7 machine gun opened up. Firing at a rate of 4,000 rounds per minute, a short burst killed both Milan commanders and the other soldiers, their bodies ripped apart, the Milan posts smashed to pieces, They didn’t see that their deaths would be avenged as a quick-thinking soldier fired a shoulder-launched blowpipe missile, which swept round as the operator, using the small thumb joystick, held it on target. The proximity fuse, sensing the double-stepped tandem cab of the Mi-24 Hind-D, exploded, shattering the cockpit and killing the pilot and weapons operator instantly. The out-of-control heli plummeted to the ground.
Lieutenant Russell, about to reposition the reserve section, bringing them forward for additional support for the Milan team, was handed the microphone and earphones of the radio by his signaller.
“Alpha-one, this is alpha-zero.”
“Alpha-zero, alpha one.” He shouted his response, his hearing still impaired. “We’re pulling out. Get your men in the 432s and head west. Don’t use the roads; head north for cover. There are half a dozen Hinds buzzing around. Acknowledge, over.”
“Alpha-zero, alpha one. Wilco, out.”
He handed the phones back to his signaller. “We’re pulling back. Call all sections and get them back here.”
Chapter 35
WEST OF BURGDORF, WEST GERMANY. 0500, 5 JULY 1984.
THE RED EFFECT +1 HOUR.
Wilf was sitting at the RC-319 radio transceiver, the electronic message unit in his hands. They had just received a burst transmission: the news not good.
“Guys, they’ve gone and done it! The fuckers have come across the border!”
Tag and Badger, at a crouch, moved to the main body of the T-shaped mexe-hide, the stalk of the T.
“Hacker, Hacker, get over here,” called Tag.
Hacker was off stag, getting some kip cocooned in his maggot, his long green sleeping bag.
“What is it, you wanker? It’d better be something good. Is she blonde?”
“The Russkies have attacked. They’ve crossed the border. They’re on their way,” Badger informed Hacker.
Hacker was out of his bag and joined his three comrades, all cramped at the one end of the shelter, within seconds. “Tell me they fucking haven’t.”
In the dim light of the shelter, he could see Wilf nodding his head. “I doubt we have twelve hours, twenty-four at the most. I want a full kit check; then I’ll man the radio and Hacker, you cover the scope. It provides a good view now I’ve cleaned it. Tag, Badger, you get some kip, a full four hours. Then we’ll do the same. I doubt we’ll get much sleep for some time so let’s rest now.”
“I’ll make us a brew first,” offered Tag. “Not sure I can sleep just yet.”
“I can’t believe they’ve gone and done it,” added Hacker.
“Well, they’ll get what they deserve then, won’t they,” chuntered Badger. “They’ll get a bloody good kicking. Then we’ll come up behind them and meet them on the way back.”
“Badger, the one-man army.” Wilf laughed. “OK, brew, kip, then a briefing. Once we know the extent of their penetration, we can decide on our next set of actions. Make mine hot and sweet.”
“Just like your women,” offered Tag as he crawled back down the tunnel to make a brew.
Wilf’s team was one of many corps patrol units scattered around West Germany. Armed to the teeth, a variety of explosives at their disposal and the knowledge of how to use them, they would be a headache for the occupying forces. They would also be the eyes and ears of 1 Br Corps, amongst other assets, providing them with live, up-to-date intelligence that could be used to help Northern Army Group plan the defence of the northern part of Germany.
OUTSKIRTS OF EAST BERLIN. 0500 5 JULY, 1984.
THE RED EFFECT +1 HOUR.
Bradley peered through the image intensifier, the green shimmer showing him yet another military train passing through. Rail traffic had been intense during the past twenty-four hours, some trains stopping on the rail ring waiting for the junctions up ahead and the next train already coming to a halt a few hundred metres back. There was a real possibility of an accident, having so much heavy traffic on the rail network at the same time, ignoring all the usual safety guidelines.
The orbital ring road had also been busy. Columns of armoured vehicles, soft-skinned logistical units, created a constant drone as they headed to either encircle Berlin or move east to add to the ever growing force building up against the NATO forces in West Germany. Bradley had reported Soviet, East German and Polish divisions heading east, a huge tidal wave that could only go in one direction when it burst.
Hearing another train approach, he recognised the shapes: T-62s. He counted a full battalion. T-62s meant these were tank units coming from deep in the Soviet Union, military districts sending their units to support the second strategic echelon or even a third. It slowed to a stop, the last wagon opposite and to his left, an opportune moment for Bradley.
He shook Jacko awake gently. “Going out, keep watch.”
Jacko, lying alongside him in his sleeping bag, grunted a yes in response and Bradley left the hide. He clambered down the bank, checking carefully for soldiers or tank crew in the three goods wagons at the rear of the train. The large doors were shut, the tank crews probably asleep, taking an opportunity to rest up while out of sight of their officers. He crept down the side of the train, looking for clues as to the identity of the unit, something he could send back to HQ. He eventually came across a flatcar with two OT-64s, eight-wheeled armoured personnel carriers. The countries of origin for these were Poland and Czechoslovakia. Bradley suspected he was looking at a Polish unit – Czech forces would move through southern Germany – more evidence that the entire Warsaw Pact was on the move, and not just the Soviet Union.
The train jerked, indicating it would be moving again, and he made his way back to the hide to be met by Jacko handing him a hot, sweet tea. Even in the dim light, he could see Jacko was sprouting a dark beard and his face looked grubby, unwashed and had the look you acquire spending days and nights in a small confined space with minimal sleep.
“Thanks, Jacko. Anything?”
“A burst transmission came through about a minute ago, I’ll leave you to decode. Anything?”
“Yep, Polish tank battalion.”
“This is getting bad.”
Bradley got to the radio set and checked the message.
“Well?”
Bradley’s silence said it all. “They’ve closed off Berlin and launched an attack into West Germany.”
“Oh God...”
“We just do our bit, Jacko. That’s all we can do.”
“We’re in a safer place here than Berlin,” Jacko surmised.
“Afraid not, Jacko. They know we’re across here so they will come a hunting. There will be listening posts out trying to triangulate our position. We’ll move tomorrow. One more transmission; then we’ll move.”
Chapter 36
GRONAU, WEST GERMANY. COMBAT TEAM BRAVO. 0500, 5 JULY 1984.
THE RED EFFECT +1 HOUR.
Lieutenant Wesley-Jones turned as he heard a Land Rover tearing through the copse behind him, coming to a halt behind his Chieftain tank. Major Lewis, the OC of Combat Team Bravo, leapt out of the passenger side and ran towards him, coming round the front of the tank and climbing up on top.
“They’ve done it, Alex. They’ve crossed the IGB.”
“Oh God.” Wesley-Jones groaned. “Are we holding them?”
The OC shook his head. “4 Div’s forward units have taken a hammering.
They’re pulling back all along the front.”
“What about the rest?”
“The Americans in the south and the Germans in the north are already under attack. We have to maintain radio silence. The EW units will be listening for us, no doubt. That’s why I’ve come to tell you in person.”
“Christ, sir, what’s wrong with them? We don’t want a bloody war.”
“I know, I know. They’re going to hit you hard, Alex. Hold as long as you can. I’ve given you full control over the forces this side of the river in our sector. Put up a fight, but don’t lose men unnecessarily.”
“How long have I got?”
“The thoughts are twenty-four hours, but I wouldn’t bank on it. I have to go. Good luck.”
They shook hands and the OC jumped back into his Land Rover and sped off to give other units under his command the good news.
Patsy popped his head out.
“Did you hear that, Corporal Patterson?”
“Yes, sir, we’re fucked.”
“Not yet, we aren’t. You’re in charge here. I need to pull the troop together. They need to be told.”
Patsy dropped back down to share the news with his oppos Mark and Mackey.
Lieutenant Alex Wesley-Jones looked east. “Why? Why? Why?”
The Red Effect (Cold War) Page 28
