The Black Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  Wesley-Jones spoke. “If I can’t get you on the radio, or even if Squadron can’t get me, they will fire two red flares. That will be our signal to bug out.”

  “The Sovs will know that as well, sir.”

  “I know, Sarn’t, but staying here and getting cut off once they’ve blown the bridge will be far worse.”

  “Flare it is then, sir,” Sergeant Andrews responded with a smile.

  “So keep your eyes peeled, both of you. There’ll be all sorts flying around.”

  “How long will we have, sir?” asked Corporal Simpson.

  “Ten minutes notice. So there will be no drills. Blow your smoke dischargers and head for the bridge in double-quick time.”

  “Sir,” they both acknowledged.

  “I hope they choose another bloody troop for point next time.”

  “I’ll make sure of it, Sarn’t.” The Lieutenant laughed.

  “Sir...sir.”

  Wesley-Jones looked up to see the silhouette of Corporal Patterson on the engine deck of the Chieftain, leaning over.

  “Corporal?”

  “We’ve got movement out there, sir.”

  Alex was up in a flash and quickly shook hands with his two tank commanders who then sped off to join their own tank crews, ready to take on the inevitable Soviet tank advance. Alex ran round to the side, then the front and climbed up onto the glacis plate, then onto the turret before slotting into his commander’s position.

  “Where?”

  Patsy handed his troop commander the binoculars and pointed. “About one o’clock, well over 1,000 metres, I would imagine.” He then dropped down into the fighting compartment, grabbed his headset, settling into his seat, face up against the sights of the one-twenty-millimetre gun, and awaited orders.

  Alex quickly zoomed in on the area and immediately picked up the shape of moving armour clawing along the road. “Two-Two-Bravo, Two-Two-Charlie. Standby. All Two-Two call signs, standby, standby. Movement, direction Barfelde, 2,000 metres.”

  The turret moved to the left by about ten degrees as Patsy tracked the oncoming vehicles. Alex’s crew were on the ball. He couldn’t quite make out the shape, but was sure the lead vehicle was a tank like his, a Chieftain. If the group did a dog-leg off the road, to avoid the mines laid alongside the road, it would more than likely be a Brit unit, probably the remnants of 4th Armoured Division, the final units limping back.

  The lead vehicle dropped off the road, closely followed by the rest, and Alex allowed himself a sigh.

  “I think they’re ours, but don’t relax just yet.” He spoke into his mike boom in front of his mouth. “It could be a trap, or there are Sovs close behind hoping to be led through our minefields.”

  He could hear the roar of the straining engine as the lead Chieftain made its way back up onto the road, the sound distinctive, the vehicles following now coming into view: two Chieftains and three 432s. The last Chieftain in line looked OK, its turret and gun facing backwards over the engine deck, covering the withdrawal. The lead Chieftain, in front of the 432s, sounded and looked very different. The engine was cutting out intermittently, the driver going quickly through the gears in an attempt to keep the fifty-ton monster on the move. The tracks squealed loudly, more than was normal, and the turret appeared frozen at a forty-five-degree angle, the barrel twisted and bent over the rear engine deck.

  “These guys have been in the thick of it,” Alex said to himself.

  The growling of the engines grew louder as they headed for the bridge, clouds of black smoke now visibly emanating from the engine of the lead tank. The engine screamed louder, fighting against the driver’s efforts to keep it running and the tank moving as he desperately tried to get across the bridge and home. Home being safe across the river amongst a more powerful force, protected.

  Alex could still smell the lingering fumes from the lead tank after it had passed, smoke pouring from its engine. He hoped they would make it to Gronau.

  “They’re ours,” he called down to his crew. “But standby. We don’t know what’s coming in behind them.”

  0350 7 JULY 1984. RECCE-TROOP (-). BARFELDE, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

  Lieutenant Baty lowered the binos and rubbed his eyes before raising them again. He felt slightly afraid that, if he took his eye off the ball for only a second, the enemy would be on top of them. He tried his best to discern any distinctive shapes on the edge of the Gronauer Holz Forest, an indication that the enemy were preparing to leap forward and continue their assault west. He was covering an arc from ten o’clock to nearly two o’clock. He had definitely seen some signs of movement and had reported it back up the line. But, for the moment, it was quiet. His Scorpion was in an open-ended barn, stacks of straw bales across the front and the sides hiding his armoured reconnaissance vehicle from the eyes of the enemy, fulfilling their motto: ‘to see without being seen’. His task was not to fight the enemy, although their 76mm gun could pack a punch, but to be the eyes and ears for the regiment, so the Chieftain tanks could deliver a deadly blow to any advancing armour. He knew the enemy were out there somewhere, close on the heels of the battered unit that had just passed through. The term higher command were using was that they were pulling back, to consolidate a better defensive position. In reality, thought Baty, they were on the run.

  He shifted in his turret, the NBC suit chafing the skin of his neck, making it itch, no matter how well he pulled up the collar of his shirt beneath it. The inside black charcoal layer always managed to irritate somehow. He was hot, sweaty and tired; the thought of a shower under hot running water a mere dream. They had not experienced any chemical strikes to date, but now was not the time to relax their guard, and orders from on high had stated they were to remain at NBC level Romeo-four.

  “Two-One, this is Two. Orders. Over.”

  “Two-One, send. Over.”

  “Move to grid Yankee, Delta, Two, Charlie, Echo, Five.”

  “Roger, moving now. Out.”

  Baty informed his driver, and the engine of the heavily camouflaged Scorpion increased its revs as the driver backed the vehicle out of the barn.

  “Stop. Left stick,” he informed the driver up at the front of the vehicle. “Forward. Stop.”

  Baty checked the map, shielding the red filtered torch, but the ambient light was improving every minute. He then guided the Scorpion to their next position; higher command no doubt wanting a report on what could be seen from this new location. On instructions from himself, the second Scorpion followed at a safe distance behind. The two vehicles of the recce troop were on the very eastern edge of the village of Barfelde, and they followed the road, Burg Strasse, as it tracked around to the right until they found themselves on An der Schmau. With houses either side of the street covering their left and right flanks, they remained unseen. The streets were deserted as were most of the houses. Most of the German population had fled west, although they had seen at least one elderly couple who had no intention of leaving their home, even for the Soviet army.

  “Right stick, take us through the gap then left. Take us up to the edge.”

  The Scorpion spun on its tracks, turning right, in between the two houses, flattening a small picket fence, turned left and stopped after seventy-metres, up against a dense line of thicket and a few small saplings. This would provide good cover while they conducted surveillance of the northern part of the village and the open ground out front. The other Scorpion pulled into a hedgeline, but further south, closer to Schul Strasse. Baty’s troop was responsible for watching the approach roads and ground to Gronau, and reporting back.

  “Stop, stop.”

  The Scorpion rocked gently on its suspension as it came to a halt. The crew quickly spread an array of foliage across the glacis and turret, completely softening the hard lines of the armoured vehicle. It blended in well with its surroundings. The bin
os were up to his eyes in seconds, a quick scan left to right to identify any immediate threats. Nothing. Perhaps as the light improved, he would be able to see more. It was three-fifty. In the meantime, they would have to wait.

  Chapter 14

  0350 7 JULY 1984. 25TH TANK DIVISION, 20 GUARDS ARMY. HELMSTEDT, EAST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

  After arriving at Helmstedt the previous evening, and after a very short rest period, the division was again on the move. The next stage, taking them to the area of Salzgitter, would have to be handled very differently. Although still some way from the battlefield, there was an ever greater risk of NATO airstrikes; deep strikes in order to disrupt the Soviet flow of ammunition and other much needed supplies. But one additional target, reinforcements, would also be on their list. Although, in some cases, the reinforcing units were of an inferior calibre, what they lacked in aggression and expertise, they certainly made up for in sheer numbers. But not the 25th Tank Division. This unit had trained hard and was more than ready to give a good account of itself. Now the division had been split into three independent columns. Each column would march along one of three separate parallel routes, in the region of six to eight kilometres apart. The total width of the march sector taken up by the 25th Tank Division would be in the region of thirty-two kilometres wide. Each of the Division’s regiments, and even down to battalion, would need to be prepared to deploy into a battle formation as soon as ordered. They would halt for up to an hour, every three to four hours. Once they reached Salzgitter, sixty kilometres west, they would be at their departure line; ready to receive orders as to when and where they would be committed to battle.

  0350 7 JULY 1984. 8TH GUARDS TANK DIVISION. TORUN, POLAND.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

  After a journey of nearly fifteen hours, travelling for 400 kilometres, the division came across its first obstacle. The railroad bridge and the road bridge at Torun had been destroyed. NATO bombers had flown in low, keeping well below Soviet radar, and attacked both. Thinking that was it, Soviet engineers immediately began to throw another bridge across, using the infrastructure that was already there as the foundation. But a follow-on attack prevented the reconstruction, killing many of the engineers in the process. The trains started to stack up, there being no route for them to continue their journey. Yes, they could turn back, but the parallel railway lines were already at congestion point with so many units moving reinforcements to the front, along with essential supplies. A local commander, a Polish officer, an engineer, had been charged with finding a solution. Local and Soviet engineers were pooled and tasked with getting this badly needed division across the water. The solution, although difficult, was obvious. They brought together as many ferries as they could lay their hands on, and with pontoons and floatable makeshift platforms, they started the long, drawn-out process of getting the unit across to the other side.

  Chapter 15

  0400 7 JULY 1984. BRAVO-TROOP (+). GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

  “All Two-Two call signs. Incoming! Incoming!”

  Alex dropped down into the turret, pulling the hatch down after him. “Gas, gas, gas!” he yelled, pulling his respirator on, followed by the hood of his suit, his rubber neoprene gloves already on. Although the Chieftain tank had an NBC protection system, attached at the rear of the bustle, he knew that any rupture of the fighting compartment would leave them exposed.

  “All covered?” he called to the crew.

  All three responded positively, a slight tremor to their metallic-sounding voices.

  Oh God, thought Alex, it’s finally come.

  0400 7 JULY 1984. BRAVO-TROOP (+), CALL SIGN TWO-TWO-DELTA. GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

  Corporal Carter pulled his body down as low as possible in the confines of the slit trench, two soldiers of his section doing the same. His vision seemed to suddenly turn dark as over 1,000 122mm rockets landed along the full length of the thin line of the Bravo Troop element of the British troops defending this sector of Gronau. The entire stretch of ground appeared to lift up as one as the combined weight of explosives tore into the ground, a dense cloud of dust and debris forming a layer, as if levitating, ten-metres above the ground. No sooner had it levelled at that height than a continuing ripple of explosions maintained it, a screen of debris and shrapnel smashing everything it touched. Those on the other side of the river looked on in awe, seeing nothing but a blanket of death that shielded their eyes from anything they might recognise as landmarks. The enlarged foxhole sheltering the Mortar Forward Controller and Forward Air Controller was hit by two rockets, one after the other, that tore the trench apart, sending chunks of prefabricated panels skyward like misshapen Frisbees; the bodies of the soldiers they had been trying to protect were not far behind them, crashing to the ground, torn apart and unrecognisable. No sooner had the ripple of rocket strikes and explosions started to die off than the crews were already preparing the reload for the next launch, but in the meantime, heavier calibre shells took over the onslaught.

  0400 7 JULY 1984. BRAVO-TROOP (+), CALL SIGN TWO-TWO-BRAVO. GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

  Two-Two-Bravo’s crew pressed their rubber-gloved hands to their ears as shrapnel from the exploding shells gouged their Chieftain tank, spattered it with flying masonry and bricks from as far afield as the village. Other objects that got in the way of the barrage, added to the debris as the shelling pounded the ground around them.

  Clang...ting, ting...clang...clang, clang...clang. Shrapnel eat away at the Chobbam armour, gouging rents into its outer skin, stripping off anything it could find such as the Gympy, aerials and stowage bins. BOOMF! The one side of the tank was lifted completely off the ground, as a 152-millimetre shell exploded right next to it. The track shredded, stripped away from the bogie wheels as if a zip ripped from a garment. The crew as one cried out in fear as a second and third shell ensured the upward momentum of the fifty-ton giant was maintained, flipping it onto its side as if a mere toy.

  Sergeant Andrews smashed his head against the hard metal of the turret, his bone-dome saving him from a more serious injury, but a smashed hand put paid to him operating in a tank again for some time – providing he was able to get out.

  His gunner, Lance Corporal Owen, fared worse. His body was thrown violently against the breach of the 120mm gun, crushing his ribs and piercing his lungs with splinters of the now exposed ivory bone, his gasps for breath suffocated by the frothy blood, flecking the lens of his respirator with pink spots as it slowly engulfed the inside of his mask. A cry of agony was drowned out by the cacophony of sound outside as the tank continued to be buffeted by the barrage. He tried helplessly to move a broken arm to relieve himself of the mask that was preventing him taking the urgent, deep breath his body and mind craved for. Now distraught, he frantically tried to remove his mask, rubbing its surface against the front of the fighting compartment, desperate to dislodge the respirator that was slowly sucking the life out of him. One last attempt failed as his lungs collapsed, and the very mask that was designed and issued to save his life in the event of a chemical attack, killed him.

  The Chieftain, stripped of everything that had been attached to its exterior, the barrel buckled and useless, settled at an uneven angle on its side, the battered gun barrel and the sides of the berm having prevented it from being turned upside down completely.

  Trooper Lowe was pinned horizontally in the driver’s compartment, on his side, in a space that could barely take a small man in normal circumstances, let alone when on its side. Lowe just stared into what little room he had, stunned. The vision blocks that he had depended on for an external view were now chipped and coated with earth, blinding him, having the effect of magnifying the sound of the shells that continued to explode around them. Tears ran down his cheeks; the urge to tackle the itch
beneath his respirator almost as great as the need to escape his current position.