The Black Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  Carter keyed the handset of his radio. “Two-Two-Alpha, Two-Two-Delta. Radio check. Over.”

  “Two-two-Delta. Five, five. Over.”

  “Roger. Out. Two-Two-Delta-Alpha. Radio check. Over.”

  “Two-Two-Delta, loud and clear this end. Anything happening, Corp?”

  “Negative on that. Will keep you posted but we expect incoming any minute now. Out. Foxtrot-One, this is Two-Two-Delta. Radio check. Over.”

  There was a delay of about ten seconds before he got a response.

  “Two-Two-Delta. We receive you. Can you hear, bitte?”

  “Ja. With you in zwei minuten. Out.” He smiled to himself. Fluent in German already.

  He checked in with the gun-group before running at a crouch further north, where, with the help of a Royal Engineer digger, they had prepared their defences. He stood by the trench alongside a bespectacled young officer, Leutnant Bieber, who was observing his men adding the last-minute touches to their defensive positions. Further along, he could just make out the rest of the German trenches. Strictly speaking, should Lieutenant Wesley-Jones, who he had come to respect, for an officer that is, be killed, this German officer would be in command. Over my dead body were his personal thoughts.

  “Ah, Korporal. Danke. The...digger, sehr gut.”

  “You’re welcome, mate...ah, sir.”

  His radio crackled and he listened to the message, a hollow feeling in his stomach and it wasn’t from hunger. Radar had picked up the movement of vehicles indicating an attack on their position was likely.

  “There’s movement out there, sir, I suggest you get your men under cover.”

  “Yes, Korporal. My men have nearly finished.”

  They heard the whine of the projectiles as they passed overhead, the detonations shaking the ground as they exploded. Corporal Carter instantly held his breath as another salvo landed fifty metres to their front. Carter peeled his helmet off, picked his respirator from its case and pulled it over his face, tightening the thin green elastic straps as he shouted at the top of his voice. “Gas. Gas. Gas.” He then dropped into the trench close by.

  Bieber had thrown himself to the ground. Most of his men pressed their bodies as close to the bottom of their hole as possible.

  “Get your fucking masks on!” he yelled at the shocked troops. “It might be fucking gas! Masks on... Jezt, now. Schnell.”

  The Leutnant scrambled towards them on his hands and knees, seeking the protection of their defences. He suddenly collapsed as violent spasms racked his body. A bout of violent coughing ensued, the delicate membranes of his lungs stripped by the burning toxins that were now encroaching on his body. Another salvo rocked the area, the entire quarter to their south being bracketed by the blast of at least twenty 152mm rounds. Bieber was engulfed by a fit of coughing, his body desperate to clear the ever increasing flood of fluid and mucus that was slowly filling his lungs, drowning him. He thrashed about, panic setting in as blood rather than air passed out of his lungs, their facility to give him life-saving oxygen now eaten away.

  Carter checked his mask and hood was secure, then climbed out of the trench, crawling over to the stricken soldier. The Leutnant continued to thrash about, arms flailing as Carter, and another German soldier who had joined him, tried to calm him down. The soldier was wide-eyed himself, stricken with fear as he saw the bulging eyes and red foam frothing from his officer’s mouth, yet relieved that he had been spared the misery he was now witnessing. Bieber’s face turned purple then blue as he fought for air. Small fluid-filled blisters formed on his face as the officer’s body gave one final shudder, the last movement before he evacuated his bowels.

  Corporal Carter looked at the soldier who had come to assist him, mask-less and already starting to cough and show signs of the effects of the blister agent. The Soviets had chosen well. The blister gas would not kill all the soldiers. Many who were affected would survive, but be blinded, ill and needing urgent treatment; placing a drain on the already swamped British and German medical resources and the soldiers around them. He moved back to the trench, there was nothing else he could do. Man’s inhumanity to man was well known, but had not been witnessed first-hand by all. These young soldiers had been confronted by hell, and what they had witnessed frightened them. Some felt ashamed that they had, in the past, sneered at their NBC training, joking about it. Complaining about the itchy suits, the ridiculous over boots, the hot suffocating masks. Now they looked at the consequence of getting it wrong.

  Chapter 28

  0400 8 JULY 1984. COMBAT TEAM ALPHA/ROYAL GREEN JACKETS BATTLEGROUP. MARIENAU, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT.

  Colour Sergeant Rose checked his watch again, and once more removed the magazine from his SLR rifle. Checking the rounds were secure and the magazine housing was clean, he clicked it back into place.

  “It’s four in the morning and your SLR is still loaded, Colour.”

  The sergeant laughed. “This bloody waiting is doing my head in. Why haven’t they attacked? Do you think they’re having problems near Gronau, sir? Maybe they’ve been diverted to provide support over there,” he said, pointing west in the direction of the fought-over riverside town.

  Lieutenant Russell thought for a moment. “There’s a pretty heavy artillery barrage in the vicinity of the river. They’re certainly up to something. We have them penned in, but the OC says they’re pushing back hard. Anyway, there’s nothing to stop them coming west towards us. And, beyond that, we’re all that’s in their way.”

  “That’s a sobering thought. It’ll be today then you reckon, sir?”

  They heard a rustle behind them as one of the platoon brought them both a drink. Although the weather was mild, there was always something comforting about cupping a mug of tea in your hands; the sugary scent of hot, sweet tea. They were in the middle of a raging war, yet somehow, for a few moments, Dean felt quite relaxed. He and most of his men had got through one battle. There was no reason why they wouldn’t get through the next.

  “One-One-Alpha, this is Zero-Alpha.”

  The signaler passed the handset to his platoon commander.

  “One-One-Alpha, go ahead. Over.”

  “We have movement east of Gronau, and the airborne are getting restless west of Benstort. Over.”

  “Roger that, sir. Do you have a direction? Over.”

  “Negative. But I suspect they are heading in your direction.”

  “Numbers? Over.”

  “Estimate a battalion-minus. Call sign Zero-Bravo are in contact, Hemmendorf. Zero-Delta will try to support you. Over.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “Hang in there, Dean. We’ll get you some backup as soon as we are able. Out.”

  Dean returned the handset to his signaler and placed his map on the earthen berm in front of him, using a shielded torch as the light was still dim. It was now four-ten.

  “Looks like they are going to press ahead in between Benstort and Hemmendorf. Maybe they intend to use the road for a quick move.”

  “I think you might be right, Colour. It’s a shame we don’t know how many BMDs they will have. Don’t suppose you remember your Soviet order of battle, do you?”

  “Parachuting in...I reckon they will have at least a dozen. We are probably looking at a full battalion heading our way. We’re slightly outnumbered, sir.”

  “I think you’re right, but maybe nearer twenty-plus BMDs. The RAF and the Rapiers took some of their transport aircraft out, but they seem to have been dropping a fair few.”

  “Well, judging by the noise coming from Hemmendorf, the Green Jackets are definitely in contact.”

  “They’re trying to expand the ground they hold. They had a bit of a battering from our Gunners yesterday.”

  “Yes, but Gunners switching to the other side of the river gave the Sovs a breather.”

 
“Too many targets, too few assets.”

  “At least the Jaeger unit will give them a small surprise when they come our way.”

  “It’s lucky they came along, sir. We should have a company if not a battalion defending this piece of ground.”

  “We’re all there is, Colour, at least for the moment. We’ll do all we can.”

  “I’ll call up the troops, sir, make sure they’re ready.”

  Colour Sergeant Rose moved off with the signaler to call up the rest of the platoon, leaving his platoon commander to assess, yet again, the positions of his small unit on the map.

  He had to defend a piece of ground from the base of the Hohenstein on their right to the high ground of Nesselberg-Osterwald on their left. His two Milan FPs were dug in at Clapham, the junction of the road and the railway line, the south-west point of the village. They also had a gun-group plus two men to provide cover. By the bridge over the water feature, designated London Bridge, about 400 metres back, he had a section of six men. He also had a Blowpipe team close by and one other team further back in the village. He knew his men would do what they could, but wasn’t confident that they would provide them with much support. At least they might put the Hind helicopter pilots off their stride, he smiled to himself. He looked across at Voldagsen, Little-town, glad that a twenty-seven ton tank destroyer, a Kanonenjagdpanzer along with a dozen Jaeger were in position. Another dozen Jaeger were to the south.

  Colour Sergeant Rose dropped into the trench, the signaler to the side of him. “HQ, sir.”

  “Zero-Alpha, One-One-Alpha. Over.”

  “There’s heavy movement on both sides of the river. Friendlies are being shelled to the east of Gronau. On the other bank, they look like they’re getting ready to move up.”

  “Roger that, sir. We’ve normally had an arty strike by now. Over.”

  “They’re tricky bastards, Dean. They’re up to something so keep your men on the alert.”

  “Understood, sir. Anymore reinforcements? Over”

  “Not confirmed yet, but we may be getting some reinforcements to you within the next couple of hours. So hold on as best you can. Zero-Alpha. Out.”

  Dean passed the handset to his signaler. “Give everyone a warning. Now.”

  “Sir.”

  The radio operator carried out his order: informing the units of the platoon to be on their guard as something, although he didn’t know what, was imminent.

  In the next trench, Private Daly placed his SLR on the top of the berm to the front, scrambled out, and adjusted a thick piece of turf that had been placed on the door, lying flat across one side of the trench. They had pulled the thick oak farm door out of one of the houses, using it, along with a layer of earth, as overhead protection. Placing turfs of wild grass, they hoped it would help to hide their position form the enemy. A shadow caught his eye, and he looked up and back, towards the west, towards Coppenbrugge. He peered into the sky that was slowly gaining colour as the early dawn started to give way to the early morn.

  He knew almost immediately they were aircraft. They were flying low and could have been helicopters, but were going too fast.

  “Sir, the RAF are coming at last. Them’ll give the Sovs something to think about.”

  One second.

  “Get down!” yelled Russell as he held his breath and fumbled for his respirator, pulling off his helmet at the same time.

  Two seconds.

  He pulled the rubber mask over his face and screamed, “Gas, gas, gas” with what little breath he had left. Quickly checking the straps at the back, the seal around his face, he finally sucked in a deep breath, before pulling his Noddy suit hood over his head.

  Three seconds.

  “Gas...gas...gas,” he yelled again, his voice muffled. He heard mess tins being banged together off to his right, a warning to everyone.

  Four seconds.

  On hearing his platoon commander’s warning, Daly had tried to do two things at once: grab for his respirator and jump down into his hole.

  Five seconds.

  Russell looked up and back as the two aircraft flew over, a trail of white mist coming from canisters beneath their wings.

  Six seconds.

  “Oh God,” he groaned to himself.

  Seven seconds.

  Daly slipped and went down on his backside, frantically pulling at his S6 respirator, ripping his helmet and hood off, dragging his black rubber mask over his head, panicking, breathing rapidly, forgetting all of his drills.

  Eight seconds.

  He’d pulled it too far, the front chin cup sliding over his mouth.

  Nine seconds.

  He finally pulled it back down and tightened the straps.

  Ten seconds.

  Daly shouted, “Gas, gas, gas.” Instinct told him he had to get into his foxhole, but he knew he was in trouble. His nose had started to run and his chest felt uncomfortably tight. As ordered, he had been taking his NAPS tablets, a pre-treatment to increase his body’s defence against low levels of nerve agent, so he should be alright, he thought. Maybe he had missed one or two. What should he do now? He fumbled in his respirator-case, searching for a ComboPen, his eyesight starting to dim and his rubber-gloved hands trembling as he pulled the entire contents out, panic setting in. He was sweating now, drooling at the mouth, and his vision was so bad he could no longer identify the objects laid out in front of him. Feeling nauseous and dizzy, he vomited into his mask, tearing it off before he choked to death, just managing to peel it off as his body stiffened, his muscles cramping, then his muscles jerked in uncontrollable spasms.

  Lieutenant Russell clambered out of his trench and ran over to Daly, knowing exactly what had gone wrong, seeing the twitching soldier, his one leg kicking out uncontrollably. Another of his platoon joined him to help. He spotted the ComboPen lying next to Daly. Picking it up, he peeled off the packaging, removed the cap that protected the needle, knelt on Daly’s leg to keep it as still as possible, and placed the point against Daly’s thigh. He pressed the button on the top and the powerful spring inside ejected the long needle through the soldier’s NBC suit, combat trousers and deep into his muscle. The fluid flooded into his upper leg, and Dean moved into a crouch as he was joined by Rose. Daly urinated and defecated inside his combat trousers, his body heaving as he convulsed violently, unable to breath, then his body twitched irrepressibly, faster and faster, one leg kicking out involuntarily, until he went into a coma and death released him. He died close to the men he had drunk with, fought with and now died next to. One pinprick of Sarin nerve agent was all it had taken to kill yet another British soldier.

  They didn’t hear the sound of the incoming shells through their NBC hoods, but the explosions that erupted behind them were all they needed to encourage them to dive for cover in their prepared holes. A line of explosions erupted along their front, fifty metres away, but they still felt the force of the blast. With his head down, Dean peered at the detector paper stuck to the pocket of his Noddy suit. It was coloured blue. Not that he needed confirmation that they had been hit by a chemical agent after seeing Daly die in such a horrendous manner; the confirmation was there all the same. He was glad that Colour Sergeant Rose had reminded him that, now they were back on the front line, NBC suits should be worn again. That advice had saved many lives that day.

  They spent fifteen minutes hunkered down before the explosions ceased as quickly as they had started. A sharp boom came from the direction of Little-town as a tank-round from the Bundeswehr tank destroyer lifted a BMD mechanised infantry combat vehicle off its tracks, a plume of smoke following the surviving Soviet airborne soldiers as they escaped the inferno inside only to be cut down by machine-gun fire from the Jaeger soldiers.

  “Stand-to, stand-to.”

  Dean doubted many of his men had heard him, but it helped to prepare him for the fight that was coming their way. P
eering through the fogged lenses of his respirator, he pulled his SLR into his shoulder and aimed it in the direction he thought the enemy would appear.

  Brrrrrp, brrrrrrp, brrrrrrp.

  The Gympy was already firing at the advancing Soviet airborne soldiers, hundreds of rounds tearing up the ground in front of them, many of the bullets ripping into their bodies. Thank God the gun team had survived both the chemical and artillery strike. This had to be a local attack. The gas to weaken them, he thought, then the Assault Brigade using its own D-30 122mm artillery, parachuted in the previous day, to prepare the ground for this particular battalion’s attack.

  Boompf. Another BMD suffered from a 90mm round from the Bundeswehr tank destroyer, as it punched through the MICV’s 19mm thick side-turret armour. A plume of earth shot up at Dean’s right side as a BMD tried to target the Gympy that was cutting the advancing soldiers to pieces. A sudden flare shot across the front of his eyes as a Milan missile rocketed towards the vehicle that had just fired its 73mm gun. There was no competition. At 1,000 metres away, the Milan warhead struck. The shaped charge tore a hole in the side of the eight-ton vehicle, stopping it dead. The minute the soldiers lost the covering fire of their armoured support, they went to ground. The closest airborne soldiers were now 200 metres away, and Dean took aim. Although he felt shaky, he steadied his aim, controlled his breathing and squeezed the trigger. The powerful rifle kicked into his shoulder and, less than a second later, the soldier that had been in his sights spun around, a fatal wound taking him out of the fight. More and more cracks and rifle reports could be heard as more of the elements of the platoon defending this area picked off other targets. A deafening explosion close to his right ear indicated his signaler was also joining in the fight.