The Black Effect (Cold War) (10 page)

Chapter 13

0330
7 JULY, 1984. 34TH AIRBORNE ASSAULT BRIGADE. EAST OF HILDESHEIM, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

The soldiers were grouped together in lines, the numbers dependent on which aircraft would pick them up. They were checking and rechecking their weapons and equipment, some nervously. They had trained for this, many times over. Some had even done it for real, fighting the Mujahideen in Afghanistan. Lieutenant-Colonel Averin, the battalion commander checked his watch: sixty minutes to go. It was three thirty in the morning; dawn was slowly breaking, giving him a view of the many clusters of men waiting patiently to be collected. His battalion was one of four, all belonging to the 34th Air Assault Brigade. A second battalion, seven kilometres away, was going through the same level of preparation. Further back from the front line, two more battalions were at this very minute loading up onto a mix of AN-12 Cubs, IL-76 Candids and AN-12 Cocks in preparation for a full assault on the NATO forces dug in along the River Leine. Two company-sized forces would very soon be in the air, two advance forces on their way to secure the landing zones for the rest of the Air Assault Brigade of over 2,500 men.

Averin called out to his men nearby, giving them the sixty-minute warning order, the message passed out to all the platoons waiting. Before they went anywhere though, the army’s artillery divisions would hammer the British positions with a barrage that would feel like a seismic event. He was feeling decidedly impatient. For forty-eight hours, the Soviet army had been pounding the NATO forces, pushing them further and further back; up to eighty kilometres in places. It was being said that it had been relatively easy so far, although the Soviet forces had lost much equipment, and many lives given for the cause of the Motherland. The British had fought well, but had been rolled back. Averin understood that the British Brigades they were up against had no intention of digging in; they were but a covering force, their intention to disrupt and delay the Red Army, trading ground for time, providing the rest of the British forces with a chance of digging in; building up their forces, or at least allowing reinforcements to arrive in theatre, to meet the tidal wave that was approaching. His men were finally going to get the chance to test their metal against the capitalist armies. An opportunity for his battalion to shine. All he and his men had to do now was wait. Thirty-seven Mi-Hook helicopters, along with a flight of Hips, would soon be en route to pick up his battalion, along with their BMDs, mechanised infantry combat vehicles, and fly them the twenty kilometres to their landing zone.

The Air Assault Brigade had two missions. The primary mission was to secure the bridge that crossed the River Leine to the west of the town of Gronau. One parachute battalion would land south-east of Esbeck, and a second south of Oldendorf. The two heliborne assault battalions would strike at Gronau itself; one battalion to the north-west and his to the south-west. The supporting units, such as the artillery battalion of D-30s, anti-tank battery with its 85mm ASU-85s, anti-aircraft battery of SA-9s and hand-held SA-14s, along with engineers, supply and signals, would land in the triangle formed by the villages of Esbeck, Sehide and Eime.
The enemy won’t know what has hit them
, he thought. Two and a half thousand aggressive airborne soldiers bent on taking their objectives and intent on causing the total destruction of the defenders would create havoc behind the enemy’s lines. His was the most important mission, along with his sister battalion: to take the bridge itself. Even if the British managed to destroy it, they would succeed in isolating the troops on the eastern bank and secure the bridge foundations enabling the Soviet engineers to throw a bridge across quickly.

0330 7 JULY 1984. BRAVO-TROOP (+). GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

Lieutenant Wesley-Jones turned, slightly startled as he heard someone clambering up the front of his Chieftain tank. He raised his SMG to his shoulder, peering into the slowly gathering light at the shadowy figure making its way towards the turret hatch where he was sitting. Had he been asleep? He was on stag and should have been alert. No, he hadn’t been asleep even though deep tiredness had been dragging at his eyelids.

He pulled the butt tighter into his shoulder. “Who’s that?”

“Relax, Alex, it’s just me.”

He let out the breath he had been holding, sighed gently and lowered his machine gun. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry, Alex. You don’t know who it may have been,” responded Major Lewis, the Squadron Commander. “Crap challenge though.”

The OC clambered over the turret, careful not to catch the camouflage netting just above him, and lowered himself into the turret hatch next to the Bravo Troop Commander.

“Sorry, sir, still doesn’t seem bloody real.”

“It’s bloody real all right, Alex. Ground radar and the fly-boys are picking up movement out to the front. The Sovs are getting ready for something.”

“Don’t they ever rest?”

The question was rhetorical. Major Lewis didn’t answer.

“What have we got left still to pull back?”

“Just one recce troop and the remnants of a combat team, a couple of Chieftains and three 432s by all accounts. Oh, and some engineers. They’ve been laying a few last minute surprises. They’re about two klicks away in Barfelde and Gut Dotzum. They won’t be there for long.”

“What are their latest reports?”

“Lots of movement. Heavy concentrations of enemy formations in the Hildesheim forest. Our latest air recce showed troop concentrations around Sibesse, Westfeld, Diekholzen, anywhere they can find space. There’s just so damned many of them.”

“Did Four-Div make a dent?”

“Oh, they’ve hurt the enemy all right, but certainly not enough to stop them.”

Alex reflected on the battered units returning from the east. Ambulances had been crossing throughout the day, the wounded being rushed to the rear where they could get better treatment. Not all of the Chieftains had returned; dozens must have been left behind: some completely destroyed, along with their crews; others couldn’t be recovered as they were under the guns of the enemy. Some had been hauled back on tank-transporters in the vain hope that they could be reconstituted and brought back into the fight. That was not all that had passed through the village and across the bridge. Thousands of refugees had thronged the bridge, shuffling by with fearful faces, many carrying or supporting older or infirm friends or members of their family. They had good reason to be scared: the reputation of the Soviet soldier at the end of the Second World War had been passed down by the previous generation. There was a feeling that the Soviet Union wanted its revenge on the West German population, thinking that they had not been punished enough. Let off lightly by the soft Western capitalist countries. Some of the refugees were lucky, having cars or lorries to travel in, many with their entire worldly goods piled so high that the load was in danger of toppling. Their speed though was no faster than the walking pace of the hundreds that walked alongside or around the mechanical means of transport. The army had allowed them to cross until midday, when a local West German unit was tasked with diverting them to a bridge further south. A military bridge had been placed there deliberately to pull the refugees away from Gronau, to allow the retreating British a free passage across the river to relative safety.

0330 7 JULY 1984. BRAVO TROOP (+), CALL SIGN TWO-TWO-DELTA. GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

Lance Corporal William Graham slithered into the foxhole, watching he didn’t catch his helmet on the overhead cover. The Milan team of two men had improved their position over the last twenty-four hours, knowing that, when the enemy came, they would need every scrap of cover they could find as their fighting position would be the only barrier between a potential major injury or even death. A bunker would have been better, but the prefabricated, curved interlocking sections had given the hole some shape, some stability enabling the soldiers to make a relatively safe defensive position. It was deep enough to serve their purpose, the upper edge just below the tops of their shoulders, and wide enough so they could lean back against the opposite wall. They had a good view out of the front, and had quick and easy access to the Milan firing post. The top cover consisted of pieces of a broken pallet, layered with earth and some turf on top to help hide their position. Graham’s feet touched solid ground, and he avoided spilling any of the hot liquid from the still steaming mug of tea he had brought to share with the Milan crew.

“Cheers, Will, you’re playing a blinder there.”

Alan Berry grabbed the black plastic mug, savoured the smell of the hot sweet brew, and took a sip before passing it to his oppo, Rifleman Michael Finch, on the other side of the Milan.

“Here you go, buddy, the Corp’s spoiling us at last.”

“Fuck off, Al, you have the life of Riley.”

“Of course I do. Look at this lovely five-star accommodation for a kick-off.”

The three soldiers laughed quietly.

Corporal Graham rested his elbows on the front edge of the trench and peered into the gloom, although he could now see the landscape slowly taking shape, but still without colour.

Berry propped his elbows alongside. “They’re going to come today, aren’t they?”

“That’s what we’ve been told, mate. I see no reason not to believe them”

The mug was passed back over, and they both took it in turns to take a swig of the now half-full mug before passing it back.

“Take as much as you want, Mike, don’t worry about us,” whispered Berry.

The two continued their conversation.

“You’ve seen some of the units pulling back?” asked Graham.

“Yeah, some of them were in shit state.”

“They’ve taken a bit of a hammering, that’s for sure.”

“Our turn next.”

There was a pause as the rapidly emptying mug did the rounds again.

“You scared, buddy?”

“Yeah, bricking it,” Graham confided.

“Why have they left us alone so far?”

“Dunno, but they’ve been knocking ten bells of shit out of the guys back there,” said Graham, pointing back over his shoulder.

“Probably to wake the fucking REMFs up,” hissed Finch.

This brought another gentle laugh.

“Nah, although they deserve it,” continued Graham. “They’re just hammering our supply lines and reserves. Making sure they aren’t getting through to us.”

They had listened to the whine of large calibre shells flying high overhead as the Soviet artillery pounded 1st British Corps’ rear area. There had been many false alarms as Soviet fast ground-attack aircraft had shot past, but again their targets were NATO forces to the rear; disrupt supplies and reinforcements getting to the front, interdicting the men and equipment badly needed to shore up the defence line being assembled to hold back the Warsaw Pact juggernaut. A huge cheer had gone up when a Tracked Rapier, from across the River Leine, had launched a missile that had torn one of the intruders out of the skies above. The pilot, not having a chance to eject from his stricken plane, went down with his aircraft which exploded in a ball of flame somewhere behind Bravo-Troop’s position. The soldiers watching cheered, but for some reason their hearts weren’t in it. Many had served in Northern Ireland, sniped at by the IRA, losing close friends from a burst of M-60 fire or a sniper’s bullet fired from an antiquated Lee-Enfield. But this was on a different scale. Ambulance vehicles had been crossing the bridge throughout the day. Soon it would be their turn.

“But some are getting through to us, aren’t they?” asked Berry, seeking some reassurance from his NCO.

“Yeah, yeah, of course they are. Where do you think this NAAFI tea comes from?” he suggested, holding up his mug that had made its way back into his hand, but was now empty. Hot, sweet tea was pretty much the only luxury they regularly had, although the occasional hot meal was a welcome relief. Graham peered at the luminous dial of his watch, a gift from his girlfriend, Sarah, given to him on the day he was promoted to Lance Corporal, the first step on a very long ladder. It was a proud day for him, and his family. Now he was second in command of a ten-man infantry section.

It was 0330; they had been on stand-to since three, higher command convinced that an attack would come today. A full scale assault or just a probe? No one really knew. He heard a rustle off to the left, his SLR rifle swinging round in the direction of the noise. The figure of a British soldier loomed out of the gloom, and Corporal David Carter, the section commander, crouched down at the rear of the Milan firing position.

“All right, lads?”

“Fine, Corp, so long as you’ve brought us a brew.”

“Fuck off, Berry.”

“Corporal.”

“Just heard from HQ. They reckon we’re going to be hit within the next hour or so, so keep your bloody wits about you. You, in particular, Finch. Before that though, we’ll see an infantry platoon and a couple of Chieftains making hell for leather towards the bridge, so keep your fingers off that Milan trigger. Understood?”

They all acknowledged, their mouths suddenly dry, even after the drink. Finch couldn’t help but lick his dry lips, a knot building up in his stomach. There was no malice in the Corporal’s voice, just banter in an attempt to keep his men alert, but at ease, not tense. If they felt anything like he did, they would be shitting themselves. But he couldn’t show it, needing to set an example to the small force under his command. If they sensed how he really felt, it would dent their own confidence. He had ten firing positions in total: seven in a line along the edge of the field in front of the small village behind, and three behind those. One he had just left to the north with two men; this Milan firing point; next another foxhole with two soldiers, one being LCPL Graham’s position; then a second Milan Post; then a Gympy team of two, the general-purpose machine gun, the main weapon of the small section; and one more foxhole to the south with the mortar fire controller and forward air controller, although they hadn’t seen much air support. They had been told that the RAF were still trying to gain air superiority, and due to the many airfields being hit by missiles and bombs, and some being attacked by Spetsnaz, squadrons were having to shift position. In the last one he had positioned the sustained-fire GPMG, attached from the support company. The three holes further back, maintaining a defence in depth, would be manned by himself and the rest of the section. Two of those men were in the house further back, but he would pull them out of there shortly. The two Milan firing posts came from the battalion’s anti-tank platoon, from support company. The platoon commander had also given him two LAW 66mm anti-tank rockets, useful for close protection should the Soviet armour get too close. It didn’t seem very much, but he had been reassured when he passed the solid, powerful-looking Chieftain tanks off to his left. If he listened carefully, he would just be able to make out the throbbing engines. Only three tanks though, and a couple of 438s, he thought. He wouldn’t be sorry when they were pulled back across the water, back amongst the rest of the battalion. At least then, he and his men would have a river flowing between them and the Soviet army.