The Black Effect (Cold War) (4 page)

He weaved in and out of the trees, trying to spoil their aim, using the trunks for cover, the occasional bullet splintering a tree or chopping off small branches, twigs and leaves showering the escaping soldier. Faster and faster, arms pumping, his breath rasping, lactic acid burning his muscles as he tried desperately to outrun his pursuers.

The firing stopped. The noise of the dogs yelping and barking increased once they got the scent of blood as the soldiers of the
Volksarmee
established the condition of the escapee they had just shot. Leaving a couple of soldiers to watch over the dead body, they continued the chase, fresh dogs having been brought forward from the autobahn, the dogs jumping forwards, dragging their handlers in the direction of fresh quarry. They headed off after their prey, knowing Bradley would be tiring.

He was tired. Only a deep sense of fear kept his legs moving, almost robotic-like, occasionally stumbling drunkenly as his thighs got tighter and tighter. All but sprinting, he was brought to a sudden halt as he stormed straight into an irrigation ditch, throwing his left shoulder hard against the far side ditch, a wall of stacked earth, the water up to his waist. A rank smell assailed his nostrils. His mind worked feverishly as the howls of the dogs got closer and louder. The radio. He needed to ditch the Clansman radio. He clawed his way out of the ditch, slipped off the scoot pack and pushed it, including the radio within, down into the repugnant quagmire he had just left. He turned a sharp right and headed along the ditch, avoiding the clearing to the north, wanting to get back amongst the trees further to the east, now he was beyond the clearing that had prevented them going in that direction earlier. His boots squelched as he ran, his trousers slapping against his legs, the howl of the dogs urging him on. He would run until he collapsed, abject terror now keeping him going. Deep down inside, he felt despair slowly rising to the surface, knowing the German
Volksarmee
,
Volkspolitzei
and the MFS, the military state police, the dreaded Stasi, would be setting up control points on every road or lane in the surrounding area, despatching more and more search teams to close in on him, pinning him down into a smaller and tighter area.

Whop, whop, whop, whop
.

A helicopter reared up in front of him as it came to the hover, the downdraught bringing Bradley to a halt as he shielded his face, a powerful searchlight beam blinding him, shifting to keep the runner in its glare.

Thump!
A heavy weight struck him between the shoulder blades as the forty-five kilogram Alsatian war dog ploughed into the back of Bradley, knocking him to the ground. The dog immediately bit into his victim’s back, gripping clothing and flesh between its large teeth, twisting and dragging the body towards him. Bradley let out an involuntary scream as the dog’s jaws shifted position, biting deeper into his back. A second dog joined in the fray, grasping the arm Bradley was about to use to help get himself up; gripping the limb between its teeth, grinding its powerful jaws together in a chewing motion, crushing Bradley’s arm with such force, that the radius and ulna actually touched. The noise of the helicopter failed to drown out the growls of the wild animals and his own screams. Bradley grabbed his pistol with his free arm, pointed it in the direction of one of the dogs, his eyes still blinded by the searchlight above, and pulled the trigger. He heard a satisfying yelp as the dog dropped, the bullet having passed through the top of its shoulder blades, and he felt the pressure released from his arm. He didn’t hear the soldier or see the boot swinging towards his head, but felt the pain as it struck his temple. Shooting stars and bright lights were the last things he saw as he passed into unconsciousness.

C
hapter 5

0
420 6 JULY 1984. 25TH TANK DIVISION, 20 GUARDS ARMY. MICHENDORF, EAST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −2 DAYS.

The divisional columns had completed the first stage of their long-distance march, and had settled down for a long halt, if that was what you could call it. Some units had arrived late afternoon, early evening; others had driven into their final rest area at just after ten. But there was no immediate respite for the various packets: wheeled, trailer-loads and tracked vehicles. The wheeled packet was dispersed into various hides around the Potsdammer Wald, part of a large forested area fifteen-kilometres south of Potsdam, that surrounded Michendorf. They were then ordered to check their equipment, refuel their vehicles and complete any servicing requirements. Then, and only then, were the troops provided with their first hot meal in twenty-four hours.

The 300-plus T-64s, transported by semi-trailers, were split across a much wider area, but the areas had good access to the road network as, once rested, they would be back on the road. Stavka were screaming for reinforcements to be in place on time to support the war effort to the west. The pressure was on for the army to achieve what it had promised. A third area had been allocated to tracked vehicles, such as the BMP-2s from the tank regiments, and the tracked surface-to-air missile carriers that were also deploying to protect the convoys from any possible air attack. The self-propelled guns of the artillery regiment and the engineer vehicles, GSPs, K-61s and PTSs, joined them. The largest group of all, the wheeled element of the division, had been allotted a sizeable forested area surrounding Beelitz. The road network was considered to be good, and the trucks would not be held up when it started all over again in the morning.

That time had come and the officers and NCOs, particularly the
Praporshchik
, the warrant officers, drove the men mercilessly to ensure they would be ready. Their next 150 kilometre march would see them in the area of Helmstedt, getting into more dangerous territory, where they would be closer to the enemy and any deep interdiction strikes. Even when in Helmstedt, they would still have nearly seventy-kilometres until they reached Salzgitter. The final deployment area, where the Stavka deemed they would deploy before being committed to the battle.

0430 6 JULY 1984. 8TH GUARDS TANK DIVISION. KUZNICA, POLAND.

THE BLACK EFFECT −2 DAYS.

To say the activity at Kuznica, Poland, was hectic would be an understatement. Here, after a journey of some 900 kilometres, the trains carrying the division had to stop. Here, they were in the process of switching from the Soviet gauge to the European gauge. The process of switching the undercarriages was time-consuming and would take at least two hours per train. For some of the routes, this change was not required. On one route, L’vov, Krakow, Katowice, Wroclaw to East Germany, for example, a wide-gauge track already existed. The first steam train, puffing clouds of black smoke and white steam pulled out of the sidings, a long journey ahead of them. The next stop for the thirty-six trains transporting the division west was the railroad bridge over the Vistula, another 400 kilometres away.

Chapt
er 6

0430
6 JULY 1984. 11TH ARMOURED CAVALRY REGIMENT. FULDA-GAP, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −2 DAYS.

The M2-Bradley, armoured infantry fighting vehicle, from the 11th ACR changed position again, the Commander on edge and feeling exposed as they watched over the engineers working on the bridge where it crossed the River Fulda, west of the town itself. The turret swivelled and the 25mm Bushmaster chain gun covered the arc that had been allocated to its crew.

The three engineers lifted the eighty-kilogram Medium Atomic Demolition Munition, a MADM, carried in a heavy backpack, off the back of a Gamma Goat, a six-by-six, amphibious wheeled vehicle. This particular type of weapon was a W-45, a multi-purpose nuclear warhead developed in the early 1960s. With its nuclear fission core, called the ‘Robin primary’, it would generate a half a kiloton yield, equivalent to 500 tons of TNT. German Jaeger, reserve units, had been rounding up German civilians throughout the night, forcing them out of their homes, urging them to move west to safety. Not only was the Soviet army practically on their doorstep, but once this particular bomb exploded, there would be little left of their homes for up to a radius of quarter of a kilometre.

They set it up next to one edge of the bridge, in the centre of the span, and the lieutenant in command set the cypher for the code-decoder component, linked to the firing unit. When it exploded, it would devastate the bridge, tearing it apart and preventing its use by the Soviet armour that was fighting its way to the banks of the River Fulda. It wouldn’t delay them for long, such was the capability of the bridging equipment and engineering units of the Soviet army, but it would at least delay the enemy that little bit longer.

0700 6 JULY 1984. THE BLACK HORSE REGIMENT, 11TH ARMOURED CAVALRY REGIMENT. SOUTH-WEST OF FULDA TOWN, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −2 DAYS.

Private First-Class Larry Poole applied a touch of power to the tracks and edged the sixty-seven ton M1-Abrams forward, the 105mm barrel pointing in between a few saplings along the edge of the railway line running north to south in front of them.

“Stop,” called Staff Sergeant Kyle Lewis, the commander of the tank and the second in command of the platoon. “That’ll do it, Poole. Shut her down.”

The engine was turned off and SSGT Lewis checked his arc of fire. A-platoon, Anvil, was situated along the western side of the railway line, on the north-eastern edge of the village Kerzell. Only three tanks now; one had been destroyed during the initial attack by the Soviet forces that pushed their way into West Germany and were now at the very outskirts of the town of Fulda and in places further north, crossing the River Fulda to continue their advance west. They had pushed the US forces, the 11th Cavalry Regiment, the Black Horse Regiment, twenty-five kilometres back and were now on the doorstep of the Fulda Gap ready to push the final 100 kilometres that would take them directly to the German city of Frankfurt. If the Soviet army got in amongst the slowly consolidating US reserve forces arriving into theatre, were able to attack and destroy ammunition and supply dumps, and destroy the airfields being used by the US and West German air forces, the entire war would take a turn for the worst for US V Corps and split CENTAG, separating it from NORTHAG and cutting off the 2nd German Corps from its Army command.

Lewis called down an order to his crew, and the gunner, Corporal Emery, and loader, PFC Peeger, clambered out and started to unpack the camouflage netting to spread over their tank and protect it from the prying eyes of the Soviet air force.

Lewis rubbed his eyes and ran his hands across his stubbled chin. “The guys could do with a coffee. See what you can do, Larry.”

His pale-faced driver joined him on the turret. “Sure, Staff Sergeant, we’re all ready for one, I think.”

Lewis looked at his driver, his face even paler than usual, with sunken eyes and faint black circles starting to form beneath. “It will do us all good. But don’t stray too far. Take it in turns if you need a piss, but be ready to get back in double-quick time. We don’t know when Popov will be here, but they won’t be far away.”

“Sure, Staff Sergeant.”

Poole clambered across the tank to acquire the makings of a brew, and Lewis picked up his binos from the turret and surveyed the area ahead. He could hear the thumps and claps of explosions coming from the east. They had been almost pulverised in the initial onslaught. His squadron had suffered badly, his platoon getting off lightly, losing only one tank. The other two platoons had lost two tanks each; one from each platoon had been destroyed by a mixture of artillery fire and Hind-D attack helicopters, and the remaining two were mobile, but incapable of firing their main weapons. At this very moment, the two M1-Abrams were racing back to be repaired so they would be able to get back into the fight. He heard a rustle of netting being pulled up behind him.

“Sorry, Staff Sergeant, can you pull this over?”

Lewis grabbed the netting, pulled it up over his head; then Corporal Emery grabbed it and pulled it down the front of the turret, the other crewman placing long, thin poles beneath to push the netting up and out, disguising the shape of the tank. Once the next fight started, if they had time, it would be secured again so as not to interfere with the tank’s ability to fight.

“Once you’ve finished,” he shouted to them, “both of you grab two hours’ kip. Poole and I will keep watch.”

“Cheers, Staff Sergeant. I’m knackered,” responded Emery.

Lewis rubbed his eyes again; then ran his finger round his neck between his skin and uniform, topped with his MOPP suit. The Mission Oriented Protective Posture suit would protect him, and his crew, from the toxic environment of a chemical or nuclear attack. They were currently on MOPP level 2: suit and boots were to be worn, and their gloves and mask carried at all times. Although it would provide him with protection against a chemical attack, the downside was that he was hot, dirty, smelly and uncomfortable. He and his crew were close to exhaustion.

After the massive artillery bombardment conducted by the Soviet artillery guns, missile and rocket launchers, which lasted over an hour, they had withdrawn in a swirl of dust and smoke, shocked and shaken, leaving behind a burning M1-Abrams with their friends inside. They hadn’t fired a single shot, and Lewis had had to lambaste his crew and drive them hard to get them back into being an effective unit. They had driven backwards almost blindly, passing through Second Squadron who would hold the ground while they withdrew. They then passed through Third Squadron, and only then could the platoon, along with the rest of the troop, reorientate themselves, pull themselves together, identify which units were missing, and dig in to take their turn to slow the advancing Soviet army that was attempting to brush them aside as if they didn’t exist.

After the other two squadrons had pulled back through their positions, it was their turn to be on the front line again. This time though, due to the Soviet advance losing some of its way, and even though the Abraham’s 105mm guns had a hard time punching through the armour of the enemy’s T-64Bs, they had scored their first hit, the crew elated. Then they again withdrew; Soviet artillery tracking their escape, helicopters hunting them down. The Vulcans, self-propelled air defence vehicles, did their best to retaliate, but half a dozen were taken out by the swarm of Hind-Ds that came out of nowhere, often attacking both them and the tanks from behind. The crew had another success, taking out a T-64B and a BMP-1 Mechanised Infantry Combat Vehicle. Once the battle had moved into the undulating area, deeper into the forests, the Soviet BMP-1 MICVs were finding it difficult to use their AT-3 Sagger anti-tank missiles, which were situated just above the 73mm gun. The confines of the terrain often meant that distances were too short, or the wires trailing behind got caught and snapped, leaving the missile to go out of control. This constant fire, move, fire, move and fire had continued up until nine in the evening, when they finally got a respite from Soviet ground-attack aircraft and artillery. But their work was far from finished: refuelling, rearming, minor repairs and maintenance. On top of that, there was sentry duty, always on the alert for a Soviet sneak attack. They knew that at least one bridge had been destroyed. When they felt, as well as heard, the nuclear explosion that devastated the bridge near Fulda and the infrastructure around it, it gave them a feeling of satisfaction that they had deprived the enemy of an easy crossing. They weren’t able to see the iconic plume of smoke and gases, but they certainly saw the flash light up the sky and felt its destructive power.

Lewis peered through his binos, lines of netting and plastic foliage obscuring his vision at times, and he scanned the ground ahead. The other side of the railway line were the built-up areas about five kilometres south of the town of Fulda. In front were Eichenzell and Loschenrod; immediately south of their position, Hattenhof; south-east, a slab of forest; north and north-west, the large forest of Kerzeller Lass-Wald; and further south of Hattenhof, about four kilometres from Kerzell, more forested areas.

The problem for the Soviets, he knew, was not only the dense forest and undulating ground, but heights of up to 500 metres, impassable by heavy main battle tanks, or even MICVs for that matter. Their troop was covering the approach to Kerzell. One platoon to the south, on the other side of the L3430, were providing a watch over the Bundestrasse 40 that continued east into the E-45, an ideal route to bring Soviet armour quickly west, his platoon to the north. A third platoon was actually astride Bundestrasse 40 itself and a fourth platoon was in reserve. Two hours ago, a battered cavalry squadron had withdrawn to the rear and the 3rd Armoured Cavalry Squadron, holding the line, was being hit again and again as it fought desperately and bravely to hold the enemy back.

Lewis turned his head as he heard the familiar sound of M1-Abrams moving in the distance.

“Is that 68th Regiment, Staff Sergeant?” asked Poole as he clambered alongside his tank commander, handing him a mug of strong black coffee.

“I reckon. Thanks. The boys got some chow?”

“No, they were too tired to eat.”

“Ow.”

“It’s a bit hot.”

“Bugger off.”

“They’ll make a big difference though, won’t they? A full battalion of these babies, I mean,” Poole said, patting the sides of the armoured turret.

“Oh, they’ll make a difference all right. Blocking the forward part of the Gap will give 3rd Armoured and 8th Mech Division a chance to get into position.”

“They hit us and we pull back again?”

Lewis turned and looked at his driver. “Not this time, Larry. It’s now time to start digging our feet in. Frankfurt’s about 100 klicks from here.”

“That’s still a long way.”

“At twenty-five kilometres a day, providing they can maintain the momentum, they could be at the city in four days.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, shit. So, we’ve got to hold them.”

“Quite right, Troop,” added the voice of Lieutenant Jefferson, the platoon commander, as he clambered onto the tank.

“Coffee sir?” asked Poole. “It’s a fresh brew.”

“Just had one, thanks, Poole.”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, Staff Sergeant, I’ll take stag at the front of the tank.” With that, the driver slid down the glacis and dropped off the front, turned the corner and rested his back against the tracks of the M1, checking his service pistol was loaded and handy. He should have the tank’s only M16, but he would get it once the platoon commander had gone.

“Your track up to scratch, Troop?”

“Of course it is, LT, you know me well enough by now.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just asking. Make sure your guys are on the ball. The squadron commander reckons they will be here by tonight, if not sooner. I suggest you keep your crew inside the track. There’s going to be a lot of shit coming our way.”

Lewis studied his platoon-commander. His face still had the appearance of being soft-skinned, that even dabs of cammo paint could not hide. But the puppy fat seemed to have disappeared overnight. Their first taste of battle, and twenty-four hours effectively on the run, had transformed the boy into an officer in command of a platoon of tanks and their crews.

“Good point, LT, I’ll call them in shortly. Seems 1st Battalion are getting into position.”

“They’ve had a platoon here since this morning. The rest are manoeuvring into position now.”

“They’ll make a difference.”

“If they, with our help, can screen the Fulda Gap, it will give the 3rd and 8th a good chance to prepare their positions.”

The sound of armoured vehicles moving drew their attention towards the activity behind them and they twisted around to take a look.

“That will be the 533rd MI battalion.”

“Think they’ll be much use, LT?”

An MLQ34 TACJAM of the 533rd Military Intelligence Battalion made its way north, heading for higher ground where it could jam the enemy’s communications. A trailer with a generator onboard was being towed behind, to handle the high electrical demand of the jamming equipment soon to be put to use.

“Hey, Staff Sergeant, I’ll take whatever they’ve got. At worst case, they can pull a gun.”

Lewis laughed. Maybe the youngster had a sense of humour after all.

0730 6 JULY 1984. EAST OF THE FRANKFURT AREA, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −2 DAYS.

The military policeman, standing next to his VW 181 Jeep, waved the M1 Abrams of the 1st Battalion, 64th Armoured Regiment, 3rd (US) Armoured Division, the Spearhead Division, past him. The majority of the division had gone this way the previous day. This battalion was following up the rear ensuring the security of the lengthy logistical tail that was growing ever bigger and ever longer as the battle raged further east, and more and more troops and supplies came from the US and Great Britain. He and the rest of
2 Kompanie, Feldjagerbataillon 70
were helping to facilitate the movement of thousands of American troops now piling into Europe.