The Black Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  For fifteen minutes, the artillery strike battered the defenders on the eastern banks of the river before switching their interests to those troops watching from the western bank. The sounds and vibrations slowly faded as the guns and rocket launchers adjusted their aim to hit the rest of the defending forces.

  0420 7 JULY 1984. RECCE-TROOP (-). BARFELDE, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

  Rocket after rocket, shell after shell flew over the heads of the two Scorpions in Barfelde. Lieutenant Baty risked poking his head out of the hatch, the tumultuous barrage going on above and behind him. He swallowed and, although in his heart he felt for his fellow soldiers further back, he was thankful that he and his men weren’t on the receiving end. The soldiers on the east and west bank of the River Leine, however, were getting the full attention of the massed Soviet artillery, the intention to smash the British army’s resistance. For now, though, he and his men were safe. Although a worry filtered to the surface of his thoughts. If they weren’t hitting Barfelde, it could mean the Soviets were going to move troops to the immediate area under cover of the shelling, using the L482 road to the south-east, or coming across the open ground from the east. Either direction, he and his second recce unit would be able to see them and report. His gunner, Lance Corporal Alan Reid, called up, “Is it bad, sir?”

  “The lads behind are getting a pasting, I should imagine. Thomas OK?”

  “Needs a piss, but I told him now is not the time.”

  This brought a laugh from them both.

  “No, he needs to stay put. Something is going to happen as soon as the shelling has stopped, if not before.”

  “We’ll be ready, sir.” Reid went back to his gun sight, ready for whatever was to be thrown at them. He had confidence in his troop commander.

  The young officer, on the other hand, was not so sure. He shifted his slim frame as he mulled over the likely options of what could transpire. He patted his respirator case, making sure it was on hand should he need it urgently. He had contemplated ordering his men to mask up as the first salvos had flown overhead, but relented. He needed his vision to be clear and unobstructed if he was to observe the slightest of movements from the vicinity of the forest in front. The explosions were occurring at least two kilometres back, and the wind was from the east, so he was confident that he had made the right call. His watch told him it was four-thirty, as the ordnance continued along its westerly flight above him. Picking up his binos, he scoured the horizon, looking for any sign of enemy activity – any activity for that matter. Once spotted, he could report it back and bring down some of their own artillery and start hitting back. Minute after minute, Soviet missiles and shells arced overhead, impacting on his comrades, the bombardment unrelenting.

  Thump...thump, thump...crump...boom...crump, crump, crump...thump.

  His head started to throb; the heat of the turret’s confined space; the uncomfortable Noddy suit; barely a few hours’ sleep in the last forty-eight hours; the constant drumming behind him. He suddenly felt disorientated and somewhat isolated, wishing he was back home in England, or even back at Regimental HQ, preparing to go to a mess dinner. He knew they were the furthest unit east, the last of the battered 4th Armoured Division in their area, having passed through the village about an hour ago. His ears perked up as he recognised a change in the sound of the barrage: the torrent of missiles and shells were still rolling west, but now across the river, targeting the troops on the west bank, headquarters’ formations and those reserves dug in further back. It continued unabated for another fifteen minutes; then silence. When the silence came, it was eerie, almost disconcerting.

  Baty shook his head and spoke to his crew through the intercom. “Standby, lads. This quiet won’t last for long. All Two-One call signs report. Over.”

  “Two-One-Alpha, all OK.” His second in command was in one of two Scorpions watching the approaches from the village of Gut Dotzum.

  “Two-One-Bravo, all quiet. Out.” The second Scorpion in Gut Dotzum was reporting all quiet.

  “Two-One-Charlie. All OK.” The southern part of Barfelde was quiet as well.

  “Bugger.”

  “What is it, sir?” asked his gunner.

  “Watch your front, enemy movement. 1,500 metres, ten o’clock, Track 2, BMP-2.”

  The turret whirred as Reid slowly turned the turret, moving it gently so as not to cause any sudden movement that could be noticed, the 76mm gun soon aimed in the direction of the Soviet mechanised infantry combat vehicle.

  “All Two-One call signs. Enemy movement 1,500 metres, north-east Barfelde.”

  The BMP-2 had emerged from the western edge of the forest in front of them, creeping forward, sniffing out the territory that lay ahead of it.

  Baty kept his gunner informed of the enemy’s movement. “First BMP-2 moving north-west, second BMP-2 following.”

  “Roger. Ready to fire. First BMP, then the second.”

  “Two more BMPs, moving south-west. Stay with the ones to the north, but hold your fire.”

  “Roger.”

  “Two-One-Charlie. You have two Bravo-Mike-Papa-Twos, 1,500 metres out, heading your location. Over.”

  “Understood. Have visual. Southern sector quiet. Over.”

  “Roger.”

  More vehicles emerged from the forest. A couple of BRDM-2s, an SA-9 to provide air cover, and a T-80 fanning out and picking up speed, heading towards Barfelde.

  “Two-One, this is Two-One-Charlie. Three Bravo-Mike-Papa-Twos and one Tango-Eight-Zero heading north-west towards my location. Over.”

  “Roger. Their start point? Over.”

  “Direction of Eitzum, north-west along Lima, four, eight, two. Over.”

  “Roger, Two-One-Charlie. Standby. Hello Two, this Two-One. Contact to my front. Two, Bravo-Mike-Papa-Two’s and one Tango-Eight-Zero, two, Bravo-Romeo-Delta-Mike-Two’s and One, Sierra-Alpha-Nine, fifteen-hundred metres, advancing my location. Need to move in two-mikes, over.”

  “Two-One, this is Two. Standby for outgoing. Out.” The squadron headquarters had acknowledged his report and had also informed him of the anticipated strike from 1st Division’s artillery assets.

  “Hello Two, this Two-One. Two thousand metres south-east of Two-One-Charlie’s position, three Bravo-Mike-Papa-Twos and one Tango-Eight-Zero.”

  “Two-One, this is Two. Roger that. Out.”

  0425 7 JULY 1984. 40TH RA. SOUTH OF OLDENDORF, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

  The triangular piece of land, bordered by trees and hedgerows, 600 metres east of Oldendorf, was an ideal spot for the one of the batteries of 40th Royal Artillery Regiment to use as a firing base. The eight M109A2s had lined up in two troops of four, ready to complete a fire mission to support the beleaguered troops to their front. M109A2, a Self-propelled Howitzer, was the indirect fire weapon of the artillery regiments of the British army, and for many artillery regiments and brigades of other NATO forces. The twenty-seven-ton SPH, with its 152mm gun, could pack a punch that would go some way to interdicting the Soviet advance that had just kicked off on the eastern side of the River Leine. The crew of six – the vehicle commander, driver, gunner, assistant gunner and two ammunition handlers – were preparing their particular gun ready for combat. This would be the first time they would have fired in anger. To date, 4th Armoured Division had taken the brunt of the Soviet advance. But, today, the Soviet army was going to be hit by fresh troops, fresh artillery, and more of it. They also had a little treat in store for the advancing forces: the M109A2s would be firing the new lethal round, the M483. This dual-purpose round would deliver sixty-four M42 and thirty-two M46 grenades.

  The Corporal sat perched on the metal fold-down seat in the back of the FV105 Sultan artillery command vehicle, his headphones pulled over his beret, listening intently to the message being received. He tapped on the numeric
al keys of the Field Artillery Computer Equipment (FACE) console, entering the setting up data for the gun positions. The Command Post Officer (CPO) was watching over him, clutching the remote enter button. The CPO was also checking that the correct data had been entered, comparing it and the target location against his check map, also confirming their own British unit locations. The meteorological and gun muzzle velocity data had been entered earlier via the punched tape reader. Satisfied the data entered was correct and that he was sure of the target location and the location of friendly forces, the CPO depressed the enter button. The counter-penetration fire mission was now ready. The officer gave the NCO the nod and the Corporal started to transmit.

  “Zulu, this is Romeo, fire mission.”

  “Zulu. Send, over.”

  “Sierra, Zero, Three, Two. Bearing Two-Six-Five, angle of sight one-oh-five. At my command, elevation Three-Eight-Nine mill, three rounds, fire for effect.”

  There was a pause while the gun battery finalised their own procedures.

  “Roger.”

  “Fire.”

  The entire battery of eight M109s opened fire, the chassis’ rocked violently on their tracks and suspension as the barrels jumped upwards, the barrel and breech forced backwards as the shell exited the barrel, a blast of hot gases bursting out from the muzzle brake. The barrels lowered and, inside the turret, the breech was raised, presenting itself to the crew for reloading. One of the crew pushed the shell into the breech; another gunner pushed a red bag charge after it. The breech was secured, the gunner yanked on the lanyard, and the breech rocked back a second time.

  0430 7 JULY 1984. RECCE-TROOP (-). BARFELDE, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

  Two-One and Two-One-Charlie watched the first salvo land directly on top of the rapidly growing force of armoured vehicles advancing towards their respective positions. One Royal Artillery battery was targeting the area directly where elements of a Soviet tank battalion, at least company strength so far, was advancing on a broad front towards Barfelde. A second battery targeted the road between Barfelde and Eitzum, and a third battery pounded the road that led from Eberholzen to Heinum, about two to three kilometres south of Barfelde. Lieutenant Baty watched incredulously as the first rounds struck the advancing T-80s and BMP-2s. Above the targets, the eight dual-purpose, Improved Conventional Munitions descended on their unsuspecting victims. A fraction of a second before they hit the ground, the thin-walled cargo rounds disgorged their sub munitions; the small burster charge ejecting them, scattering the lethal charges over a wide area. A small ribbon unfurled behind each grenade, stabilising their flight as over 700 plummeted towards their targets. Baty watched as some of the grenades struck the tops of the BMPs, the one-kilogram shaped charges detonating, penetrating the thinner top armour.

  At least two of the mechanised infantry combat vehicles ground to a halt as a lethal charge punched through the thin upper layer, causing devastation inside. One went up on its back end as it ground to a halt violently, the driver’s body torn apart by molten metal and shrapnel. Further back, one tank was hit three times; initially protected by its reactive armour, but only to be struck again and again as the next salvo of over 700 grenades arrived, two punching through the areas recently stripped of the reactive armour blocks. Fifteen seconds later, a third swarm of munitions blanketed the battlefield in a lethal rain of death. Soviet soldiers, fleeing their stricken armoured vehicles, ran into a rain of metal shards as those grenades that struck the ground detonated in a lethal shower of hot fragments. The Soviet advance was stopped dead in its tracks. But they would be back. Baty knew it was time to move out. They would travel, at speed, back to Gronau and the relatively safe western bank of the River-Leine. But the Soviet armour would be hot on their tail.

  0450 7 JULY 1984. BRAVO-TROOP (+). GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

  “Is everyone OK?” called Lieutenant Wesley-Jones, his voice muffled by the black respirator.

  “Ellis and me are OK, sir,” Patsy responded.

  “Trooper Mackinson?”

  “Apart from a ringing in my ears, sir, I’m still alive.”

  “Good, good. Standby. They’re bound to be close behind their artillery.” Wesley-Jones released the hatch cover, pushing it up and out of the way as he gingerly climbed up, taking a tentative look over the edge of the hatch. The immediate surrounding area was completely churned up, and he was amazed they had come through relatively unscathed. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the whites of splintered trees and branches, shredded by the myriad of explosions that had gutted the area. The berm, a key part of their defensive location providing them with a defilade position, had, in the main, survived, although to the rear of the tank there were two craters they would have to negotiate when they pulled out. The Chieftain hadn’t come through it completely unscathed though. Numerous scorch marks and gouges covered the glacis, and the left-hand set of smoke dischargers had completely vanished. Further out, the view of the horizon was blocked by a swirling fog of smoke, dust and fume, the air still full of dust and debris as it slowly settled back down to the ground. The turret jerked slightly and the barrel moved a fraction as Patsy checked that the tools of his trade were in working order. Alex checked the detector paper on his Noddy suit. It was clear; no evidence that there were chemical substances in the air. He took a chance, pulled up the front of his respirator and did a quick sniff test before pulling it back down. If his memory served him right, some smelled of garden plants whereas some smelled of almonds. But, he knew that the highly toxic Sarin and VX nerve agents had no smell. The wind was easterly, so any residue would be blowing to the west. But, to be safe, he would keep his gloves on just in case there was a residue on the surface of the tank. He tugged at the NBC hood and pulled his sweat-soaked respirator up over his face and off, taking shallow breaths to start with.

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

  The barrage continued behind him, not letting up on its pounding of the British defenders. He grabbed his bone-dome from inside the turret and settled it on his head, blocking out the sound of the explosions.

  “All Two-Two call signs, radio check. All Two-Two call signs, this is Two-Two-Alpha. Over.”

  “Two-Two-Alpha, this is Two-Two-Charlie. Crew OK, engine deck partially buried, but should be clear to move. Recce element through our location. Over.”

  “Roger. Two-Two-Charlie, out to you. Two-Two-Bravo, this is Two-Two-Alpha, acknowledge. Over.”

  Apart from a slight trace of white noise, the network was silent.

  “Two-Two-Alpha, shall I check them out? Over.”

  “Negative. Watch your front.”

  “Two-Two-Alpha, this Two-Two-Delta.”

  “Send. Over.”

  “Two-Two-Delta. Have casualties, but still operational. Over.”

  “Roger that.”

  Alex was about to contact the Striker teams when...crump, crump, crump. Crump, crump, crump. Small mushroom-shaped clouds erupted along the entire front that was under the protection of the Bravo team, the rapidly expanding clouds of smoke taking the place of the dust, continuing to block out any visibility of what was beyond. Alex’s ears pricked up as he heard the distinctive sound of helicopters, not just to his front but off to the right. An explosion occurred somewhere amongst the smoky barrier, followed by a second somewhere down the road between Barfelde and Gronau.

  The roadside mines have gone off, Alex thought to himself. A vehicle had been coming straight down the road; the other explosion either an armoured vehicle had run into the minefield placed there the previous day or...

  “Stand by, stand by,” he yelled into the intercom. “They’re breaching the minefield! All Two-Two call signs, they’re on their way.”

  “Roger,” responded Two-Two-Charlie.

  Still nothing from Two-Two-Bravo. Alex fea
red the worst.

  “Two-Two-Alpha, Two-Two-Echo. We don’t have a visual, but both units intact.”

  “Roger that. Watch your front. There’s movement in the minefield. Out.”

  Thank God, he thought, the 438s had come through it. They would need them before the day was out.

  Another explosion. He could now see shapes and shadows through the murk that had been created by the Soviet smokescreen. The wind was not blowing in the Red Army’s favour. Although it wasn’t strong, the draughts, influenced by the high ground of the Hildesheimer Forest, running south-east to south-west, twisted the currents of air, now blowing in a northerly direction, pulling the smokescreen apart.

  Alex’s binoculars flicked from left to right and back again as he desperately searched for a sign of the enemy. Boom. Another explosion. They had to be using mine roller attachments, specially fitted to the front of certain tanks, the heavy steel rollers setting off the mines, leaving a clear path for the tanks following on behind. Or maybe it was a mine plough. They were coming through. He estimated where the sound had come from: maybe south of the road, ten degrees left. The road was probably temporarily blocked. Whatever was moving along it would need to be shoved off the road. If they went off the road to bypass it, they would stumble into the minefield either side. He dropped down inside and turned the commander’s cupola ten degrees to the left.

  “Possible target, eleven o’clock.” He rested his head on the brow pad and peered through the binocular sight, ready to get the range of the enemy armour, or engage the enemy should Patsy have a problem. He pushed the rocker switch up, selecting the laser option ready to use the laser rangefinder, the input going directly to the ballistic computer. The turret whined and traversed as Patsy followed his orders, aiming the main gun in the direction given by his commander.