The Black Effect (Cold War) (21 page)

Chapte
r 26

2010 7
JULY 1984. CORPS PATROL UNIT. SOUTH-EAST OF LEHRTE, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −8 HOURS.

Wilf signalled for Tag to come forward, while Hacker and Badger watched their tail.

“If we go west now, follow these hedge lines, it should take us to Erich Segen. According to the map, there are just a few buildings scattered about. There, we can cross the 443 and the railway line before we push north. I want to follow the railway line for a while, see what traffic is about. Make sense?”

“Sounds good to me,” agreed Tag.

“Fetch the other two.”

Tag went back, briefed the other two, then brought them forward to Wilf’s position. Tag took point and, in the evening gloom, guided the patrol west, the patrol constantly on the alert for Soviet forces, Soviet rear security and even locals, particularly dogs that might give away their position. They had spent the entire night tabbing fifteen-kilometres to circuit the large town of Lehrte, which was now about three kilometres to their north-west. Travelling east, they kept well north of the outskirts. On their route, they crossed under the E8/A2 autobahn where they had reported back to HQ the heavy movement of troops; in particular, lots of heavy artillery. There, they found cover and waited out the daylight hours until it was safe to move again. In the meantime, they fed back their sightings to 1 BR Corps headquarters. Now they were on the move again. It was eight-ten pm, 7 July. The going was OK, so long as they stuck close to the hedges. Moving too far off brought them into rutted fields where the soil stuck to their boots making their tab difficult. There was just enough light to enable them to see where they were going, but not too bright that they stood out for all to see. Occasionally they would stop for ten minutes, and Wilf would scan the area with his image intensifier, enabling him, looking through a green haze, to spot any suspicious movement. The enemy would know they were there, or at least they would suspect that special forces would be snooping around and reporting back, but they hadn’t come across any excessive security or patrolling. The Soviets seemed to have one purpose in mind: to push west as quickly as possible. The CPU had to be careful at major crossroads or bridges, or at least the ones still standing, as these always appeared to be guarded well, often with a platoon, at least. Wilf suspected that there were other bridges, military ones, built by Soviet engineers to keep the flow of military traffic moving, particularly supplies needed by the army that must be using them up at a rapid rate. When Wilf stopped, he also checked his sat nav as well as the map. It was important they knew where they were at all times, particularly if a planned air or arty strike was in the offing. He shifted his equipment into a more comfortable position and signalled they move. Although they weren’t carrying their heavy forty-kilogram Bergens, they still had a lot of supplies of food, water, ammunition and explosives with them. Once this mission was over, they would return to the Mexe-hide, rest up, and restock before their next task. After about three-kilometres and two hours of tabbing, they could hear the rumble of traffic on the road that was about 300 metres ahead. Tag signaled, and the CPU formed a circle.

Tag whispered to the three men. “The buildings are about 200 metres to our north and the road about 300 to our west. I reckon it’s too risky crossing here, so I suggest we move a kilometre south to the small copse that straddles the road. We can cross there.”

“Makes sense, Tag. Badger, you take point, then me, Tag, and, Hacker, you’ve got tail-end-charlie. Let’s go.”

Badger led them south, his C7 carbine, with its C79 optical sight, following the movement of his eyes, ready to react, knowing they were very close to the enemy at this moment in time. They were a close team and instinctively knew what to do, how to react. Badger would watch their front, to the south, but keeping an eye towards the road; Wilf would watch their left arc; Tag the right arc, where he could hear a steady drone of traffic; and Hacker, with his beloved M-16 A2 with an under slung M203 grenade launcher, would cover their backs. Wilf felt surprisingly secure, and judged that, should it come to a firefight, they would give their best.

After thirty minutes, Badger brought them to a halt at the edge of a small copse, no more than 400 metres long and less than 150 metres across. He guided them inside, and it was quite eerie to suddenly be in an enclosed area, the light they had been moving by, now blocked out. The copse smelt musty, but with a lingering tang of diesel fumes that had drifted in from the road. Badger knew what he was doing and led them south for a further twenty-metres before moving west towards the road. They formed a circle again and Badger went forward to recce the road. They knew this was going to be a difficult task; the volume of traffic sounded quite heavy.

Badger came back, collected the team and, with two facing away from the road, Wilf and Badger watched the traffic pass by. The rattle of caterpillar tracks got closer and closer, and were soon revealed to be SA-6 surface-to-air missile launchers, six at a time, with radar vehicles, box-body control vehicles, and the occasional MTLB interspersed between them. Just as Wilf was preparing the order to cross, the rattle of tracks grew louder again as a battery of 2S-5s passed them, heading south towards Sehnde.
Convoy lights only, getting ready for a big push
, thought Wilf.
No point in radioing in just yet
.

1 BR Corps was expecting another attack in the morning. As a stay-behind force, it was their task to seek out the Divisional Headquarters and guide the bombers, or artillery, onto the target. As a Corps Patrol Unit, CPU, it was their mission to report directly to the Commander of 1 Br Corps. As members of the 21st Special Air Service Regiment, patrolling behind enemy lines, keeping the British army abreast of what was occurring to their front, was their primary task.

The minute there was a break in the flow of traffic, which lasted for only forty-five seconds, they crossed. A short stretch found them on the western edge of the wooded area, and the unit quickly crossed over the railway line that ran south to north. They turned north, using dead ground to shield themselves from any prying eyes. Their objective was an opencast mining site which, during hours of darkness, should be unoccupied. The team would use it in the hope of avoiding contact with the Soviet military. Wilf felt sure that if they avoided the larger forests and farms, particularly those with large barn complexes, they should be OK. They arrived at the quarry and made their way to the northern edge, and Wilf and Badger scanned the route that lay in front of them; Wilf with his image intensifier, Badger with standard binos.

“We haven’t got a fucking inch of cover out there, Wilf. A fucking ant couldn’t get across there without being spotted,” growled Badger.

“You’re right, Badger, it’s not looking good. Let’s have a look at the map.”

They both crouched down close to a pile of discarded rubble, probably from the quarry, and Badger surveyed the map with his red-filtered torch.

“Let’s go east. There’s nothing on the map, but that track we crossed going north looked pretty well covered. Further up I reckon it will bear off to the left and feed the other quarry complex further north. There should be cover, trees and the like, along the track.”

“I’m with you on that. I figure it’s our best option. I’ll fetch the boys.”

Wilf checked his watch: eleven-thirty. They were OK for time.

Once the team were together again, they headed east. At the far end of the mine buildings, they found the track less than fifty-metres away. They followed it north for 200 metres, where, as Badger predicted, it bore off to the left and proceeded to take them north-west towards the other quarry complex that was their main target. Based on the information they had received from 1 BR Corps, and intelligence from an Electronics Warfare unit, that was where the enemy divisional HQ was supposed to be.

The track had plenty of cover so, against all normal standard operating procedures, they followed along the edge of it. After 700 metres, they came to where the track split, one snaking west then north, leading to the western boundary of what they believed to be a processing plant for the quarry, the second heading off north-east, probably passing the plant to the east. But in the centre of the two tracks, for the next 300 metres, was a thick copse that widened the further north it went, its boundary touching the edge of the two tracks either side as they pulled further apart.

The patrol now slowed right down, placing their steps carefully, taking their time, nearly an hour to move the next 300 metres. But it paid off. At the far end, at the southern edge of the plant, they could see, and hear, the generators that powered the electrics and the radios for a possible headquarters. Wilf spent an hour studying the complex, getting his bearings. The green mist of his image intensifier gave him a view of a guard patrolling along the outside of a large shed that was close to 100 metres long, a smaller one opposite. The large shed was close to the track to the west, no more than fifty metres away from it. Probably had an entrance to the plant at the northern end, guessed Wilf. The guard’s AK was slung over his shoulder, and he seemed completely relaxed. The building was certainly big enough to house the elements of a Soviet divisional headquarters, although there was a distinct lack of vehicles and security forces. He was surprised they had been able to get so close, so easily.

They heard a cough off to their right, and Wilf despatched Tag and Hacker to check it out. They returned within ten minutes.

Tag whispered in Wilf’s ear, “Two men, foxhole.”

“How’s their security?”

“Crap. Both are having a fag.”

Wilf pulled the team together into a huddle. “We need to know what’s in that bloody shed.”

“If we do a circuit, we’re likely to bump into another foxhole, or some other guards. They probably have the complex ringed by a defence company. Let’s go straight for it,” suggested Tag.

“Makes sense, Wilf,” agreed Hacker.

“It’s open ground,” thought Wilf out loud.

“We could go diagonally from here, north-west, to that smaller building opposite the main one. Skirt round the outside into the trees up against the wall, then straight across to it. It’s what, a twenty-metre dash?” estimated Badger.

“It’s the best option, Wilfy,” agreed Tag.

“Let’s do it then. Hacker, Badger, you two stay here and cover our exit.” Wilf checked his watch: one-forty. “Give us two hours. If we’re not back by then, scarper. Our emergency rendezvous will be the north-east tip of the quarry we came through. Wait thirty minutes and, if a no-show, then we meet back at the Mexe-hide. Got it?”

The two SAS troopers staying behind acknowledged. They were slightly disappointed that it wasn’t them that would be doing the full recce, but understood that their patrol leader had to choose someone. Wilf and Tag dropped their packs; then moved west, taking them to the edge of the copse, while Hacker and Badger got into a position where they could watch for the enemy and be ready to cover their two comrades should they have to make a hot exit.

Wilf placed the imaging device in front of his eyes, the green shimmer showing what lay ahead of them. Left, about twenty metres away, was a two-metre high hedge. It followed the left-hand track, running west then curving sharply to the north. The hedge stopped where the track suddenly veered right, about 100 metres away, and ran north alongside the western edge of the complex, where the main entrance was guarded by Soviet soldiers. Somewhere in between the track and their position, Wilf could make out darker shadows, the image intensifier revealing possible box-body vehicles. To their immediate front left were some abandoned civilian vehicles, rusted and rotting and, to their half right, the first building they needed to head for. Wilf signaled, and Tag slipped behind him as they moved towards the box-bodies, turned right, using them for cover, and, after checking all was clear, sprinted across to the smaller of the two buildings, crouching down, controlling their breathing, listening. The hum of the generators was distinctly louder now, probably two or three in operation, indicative that it may well be a Soviet divisional headquarters. Satisfied they hadn’t been discovered, Wilf led them west, along the southern edge, for ten metres; then took them right, into the gathering of trees alongside the smaller of the two buildings where they could launch their recce of the larger building opposite. Both moved slowly, testing the ground with the tip of their boots before allowing their leg to take their full weight. The noise of the generators, one occasionally emitting a cough and a splutter, went some way to cover any accidental noise they might make. At the edge, Wilf looked to the left, and about fifty metres away, hidden by the civilian vehicles they had passed earlier, was a Soviet Ural-375 box-body, the shadow of the distinctive twin troposcatter dishes on the top, close by a Kamaz-4310, with its power generator running, and carrying the support equipment for the R-423-1 Brig-1. He knew that this was a tropospheric scatter communications system, used as a tactical means of communication between headquarters and higher command. He had questioned in his own mind the likelihood of a divisional headquarters being so close to the front, particularly considering that its regiments were believed to have not yet been deployed.
Reinforcements maybe
, he thought,
or just second echelon divisions getting ready to take over from the first echelon units.

His thoughts were interrupted as Tag placed a hand on his shoulder and indicated they had company: the Soviet sentry, who had earlier been patrolling up and down the length of what now appeared to be a ramshackle building made of concrete blocks for a low base wall, corrugated sheets for the sides, and topped with metal sheets for the flattish roof.

The sentry, who still had his AK-74 assault rifle slung over his shoulder, approached the trees and was within a metre of the two hidden men when he stopped by one of the larger trees and proceeded to undo his flies before urinating up against the trunk. Once finished, he buttoned up and moved further along to another tree, on the other side of Wilf and Tag’s position, just over two metres away, where he leant against that trunk and lit himself a cigarette. The sentry was humming a tune to himself as he moved around the tree, so he was out of sight of any of his seniors who could potentially catch him smoking whilst on sentry duty. Wilf and Tag waited it out, hoping the soldier would move soon. Time was not on their side. Just as they thought he was about to leave, he pulled out a canteen from his pocket, unscrewed the top and took a swig. Replacing the cap, putting the canteen back in his pocket, he pulled out his cigarette pack, extracting another and lighting it, leaning against the trunk again before taking a deep drag. Wilf pulled Tag in close, held out his wrist and tapped his watch; then drew his right hand across his own throat. Tag nodded and watched as Wilf lowered his M-16 to the ground; then eased off his webbing, taking his time for fear of making a noise. Then, stealth-like, he crept towards the sentry who had moved to the side of the trunk, peering round, down the length of the building he was meant to be protecting, no doubt looking for a sign of the duty NCO or officer.