by Harvey Black
After hiding the body as best they could, placing his body in the centre of a clump of shrubs, the four soldiers continued with their probe of the headquarters. This particular box-body was of no importance, so they needed to move deeper into the complex. The four soldiers moved slowly and quietly. Their Bergen’s were hidden, to be picked up on the extraction route. The four SAS troopers wore only their belt kit, but still carried a bag of explosives each, to take out any key pieces of equipment they came across.
They passed two further box-bodied vehicles, all on Ural-375 chassis, before coming across the major assembly area they were looking for: Galenberg Park. At the south-eastern edge of Bad Nenndorf, the outskirts in this part of the town was scattered with trees. With the liberal use of camouflage, it made an ideal vehicle park. All vehicles were covered in netting and ranged from UAZ-469 jeeps, UAZ-452s, Gaz-66s and a mix of other utility vehicles – in particular, one with a tropospheric scatter array. There were also a number of armoured command vehicles, such as ACRVs, MTLBs and BMP command vehicles from the four divisions of the army units, plus all the supporting elements that came under the command of a Soviet Army. They weren’t sure where the main area of operations was housed, but they had enough here to make a start. The four men were amazed at the lack of security; such was the confidence of the Soviet Army.
Time was against them though. It was time to split, choose a number of comms vehicles, or other high-value targets, attach the explosives, meet up again, and then disappear as silently as they had arrived.
0115, 11 JULY 1984. ELEMENTS OF THE 3RD REGIMENT ARMY AIR CORPS AND 24TH AIRMOBILE BRIGADE. AREA SOUTHWEST OF BECKEDORF, WEST GERMANY.
THE BLUE EFFECT +7 HOURS
The Lynx Mark 9 quivered as a gust of wind whipped across the rotor blades, jolting the passengers in the rear. The pilot fought with the controls as the wind was funnelled in between the high ground of Buckeberge to his left and the Deister and Suntel to his right. On top of that, he was flying low, almost at treetop height, with only the light of a pale moon to guide him. Flying in a straight line was near impossible but, if he didn’t, he would fly his helicopter into the trees that towered above him to his left as they climbed the slopes of the Buckeberge. Keeping low and close to the treeline may be risky but, if they flew down the centre of the valley, closer to the Autobahn, Soviet troops scattered all around the valley floor would spot them. He had no doubt they would have a mixture of ZSUs, SA-13s, and SA-6s and their associated radars would be intermittently searching for any aircraft that could threaten the soldiers on the ground. At this very moment, on the opposite side of the valley, four Harriers were conducting harassing attacks as a distraction. Behind Zulu-One, three other helicopters had followed their leader along the same route. Zulu-One’s passengers, a team of eight men from 2RRF, had two missions to perform, critical to the success of the forthcoming attack by the NORTHAG forces.
His co-pilot spoke. “Twenty seconds, treble-four.”
“Roger,” the pilot responded.
The countdown was spot on as they flew across the L444, a minor road that ran east west, crossing over the Buckeberge.
“We are five minutes out,” he then informed his passengers.
The craft jerked again, and Captain Farrell quickly regained control as a gust threatened to drive the helicopter into the trees on his left. In the back, the soldiers from 2RRF went through their last-minute checks. Once the Lynx was brought into the hover, they would have less than thirty seconds to debus.
The pilot and co-pilot discussed their position and agreed their location, difficult to do with the ground racing beneath them at over 100 kilometres per hour.
Behind them, the number two helicopter dropped their passengers as close to the L444 as they dared, while numbers three and four banked right, and flew across the E30, picking a gap between the convoys of traffic moving north and south. The crossing was successful, and they both turned back on their original northerly heading. On arrival at the waypoint, both aircraft would fly over the high ground of the Deister. Once on the other side, they would split: Zulu-Three would fly to Kolenfeld whilst Zulu-Four headed for Haste.
Each eight-man team had two missions. Half the team were made up of engineers who carried as many mines as could be carried in their packs. Their task was to mine major routes such as Route 65 between Rinteln and Bad Nenndorf and roads west to east. The other half of the respective team would act as pathfinders, identifying, and later highlighting, the dropping zones for the paratroopers who would be landing later that morning.
Captain Farrell manoeuvred the Lynx into a flare the same time as he pivoted the craft around so he was facing away from the high ground for when he would need to power up and fly back to base. The pilot brought the Lynx into a hover, about a metre off the ground, and the eight men in the passenger section pushed out their heavy Bergen’s that dropped to the grassy earth below with a thud. Once completed, the eight followed them out, forming a circle facing outwards as the Lynx built up power and flew east before banking right and heading back down the valley.
The eight men waited thirty minutes until they were satisfied their landing had gone undiscovered. The two groups quickly conferred as to their location, and both team leaders agreed they were within 100 metres of their chosen landing zone. They metaphorically took their hats off to the pilot and co-pilot who had got them here safely. The two teams, made up of volunteers, split from each other. Lieutenant Forde led his pathfinders north towards Lindhorst while Sergeant Jackson led the three Royal Engineers west. The four engineers moved into the trees, happier once they were under cover. They had only five hours until dawn, so needed to keep out of view and move quickly.
Their packs were heavy. Each man carried Hunting Engineering IMP lightweight anti-tank mines. Sergeant Jackson led, and Corporal Simmonds was tail-end Charlie sandwiching the two sappers in the centre. They kept the spacing tight as the trees cut out what little light there was. Jackson would have welcomed an image intensifier, but the few that were available had been allocated to the pathfinder teams, as their role was considered more critical. They had the lives of hundreds of paratroopers to consider.
The first part of the climb was quite steep as they ascended to 150 metres, and Sergeant Jackson soon had a film of sweat beneath his gear. The heavy packs didn’t help. After an hour, they had reached the roof of the ridge and found the going easier on the way down as they headed west, although the weight of the Bergen’s caused their knees to jar every time a boot was put on the sloping ground. It was either that or losing control of their descent and crashing down to the bottom. Ninety minutes later found them moving along a strip of forested land that led them right up to Hannoversche Strasse, Route 65, their target.
While they had not come across any Soviet forces so far, that was all about to change. A mere 400 metres from the major road and the engineers came across a large farm off to the left, seen through the trees. It seemed fairly quiet and was certainly darkened but, as Jackson led his team closer to it, it became obvious from the silhouettes of camouflaged vehicles that an enemy unit were using it as an arbour, taking advantage of the large barns and, no doubt, the farmhouse. On arrival at the kerbside of the road. A steady flow of logistical vehicles moved left and right.
The men dropped their packs, and Sergeant Jackson and Corporal Simmons crept forward to the very edge of the road, which was tree-lined on both sides for at least a kilometre in each direction. Jackson checked his watch, triggering Simmons to do likewise. It was 0330. They had sixty minutes to prepare for their mission.
Jackson signalled his number two to remain where he was and keep watch while he withdrew back into the trees to start the process of bringing the anti-tank mines forward. Between the three of them, the Bergen’s were brought to the edge of the road, just inside the trees, out of sight of the vehicles trundling east probably on their way to pick up fresh supplies and ammunition having deposited their precious loads at the front, resupplying and rearming the
front-line locations.
The attack on the road would take three forms. First, two anti-tank LAW, off-route mines, a hollow-charge weapon, would be set up opposite each of the two wide lanes. The two each side would be 100 metres apart. At the last minute, during a reasonable gap in the traffic, all four would run across, two from each side, and deposit anti-tank and anti-personnel mines in a staggered formation across the tarmac lanes. And finally, anti-personnel mines would be laid either side of the verge, to thwart any attempt by the Soviet soldiers to pass safely around the danger area. The mines had been painted a colour to match that of the road and it was hoped that with convoy lights and driven by tired soldiers, they would be seen too late for the drivers to react.
The team split up. Corporals Simmons and Perry went west, and Sergeant Jackson, followed by Vaughan, headed east. Each had one of the Bergen’s. Once in position, and during a gap in traffic, they raced across both carriageways and prepared their trap on the northern kerbside, then return and set up on the southern edge of the road. The anti-tank off-route mines would be fired manually. The mines lain across the road would be detonated by the pressure plate being activated, as would those on the verge.
The four men arrived back at their starting point on the southern side, panting, their faces running with sweat. Yet all four were smiling. They were doing what Royal Engineers were good at, apart from building things: getting ready to blow things up. They grabbed a drink of water from their canteens, prepared the last of the mines, watched the vehicle packets pass by, and waited for the appointed hour.
0145, 11 JULY 1984. SAS TROOP, 22 SPECIAL AIR SERVICES REGIMENT. SOUTHWEST OF WUNDSTORF, WEST GERMANY.
THE BLUE EFFECT +8 HOURS
The SAS team of eight men, inserted into the area the previous day, went about the task that had been appointed to them. Troopers one and two kept watch over the Soviet guards that were patrolling the bridge that spanned the water below them. This was a bridge erected by Soviet engineers after the retreating NATO forces had destroyed the original bridge. The majority of significant crossing points across the length and breadth of West Germany had either been destroyed during the retreat or later attacked by NATO ground-attack aircraft to deny the enemy an easy passage. Over wider rivers, the Soviet pontoon bridging system, PMP, had been particularly successful in keeping the advance moving. But, for the higher crossing points with much higher riverbanks, girder bridges had been thrown across by Soviet Engineers. Beneath this structure, under the very noses of the sleepy, casual Soviet sentries, six men from 22 Special Air Service Regiment, were clambering over the supporting structure, laying explosives that would soon remove this facility, denying the enemy the ability to move troops, tanks, ammunition or supplies across. Situated in a prime location where the Soviet army could cross if they needed to pull back, or bring reinforcements forward when needed, it was high up on 1 British Corps’ target list, bringing disruption to the Soviet forces, increasing the chances of the counter-attack being a success.
Trooper three, suspended beneath the bridge by his arms and legs, looked down at the black surface of the Mittellandkanal, the weight of the charges in his bag, over nine kilograms each, pulling him down. He turned his head upwards as he heard the footsteps of the sentry clattering overhead. They had considered removing the sentries to enable them to work faster, but that would have just created an additional problem once their comrades missed them. This way was best. He continued his task, setting up a Charge Demolition Necklace. The No 14 Mark 1s, were wedge-shaped hollow charges and he placed two, one each side of a selected girder, and clipped them together. A third and fourth were placed by the side of the first two. Now, four shaped-charges faced the girder. The five other troopers were going through the same process, placing more of the ‘Hayrick’ charges on selected girders of the Soviet bridge. Trooper four had completed his set of charges, and now started to attach the detonation cord to the housing at the top.
Even working as quickly, and as quietly, as possible, and taking risks at times as they clambered like monkeys in between the supporting girders, it took the six men two hours to finish the job. They were exhausted, but they still had to extract themselves from the bridge, taking the linked detonation cord with them. Just as the six men reached the southern end of the bridge, they froze as the roar of tracked vehicles came out of the blue, the bridge playing its own tune as the armoured vehicles, MTLBs towing T-12 anti-tank guns, rattled across. The SAS troopers looked at the shaking charges, and secretly prayed that they had secured them well.
The column seemed endless as eighteen sets crossed over, led by a BRDM2 and followed by a BRDM1. Eventually, the crossing was completed, and relative silence returned as the troopers lowered themselves to the ground, trailing the det-cord behind them. Troopers One and Two covered their fellow soldiers while they moved through the long grass to the area they had chosen as the firing point. They needn’t have worried about the sentries. Once the convoy had gone, they reverted to type. Two of the four sentries, as agreed amongst themselves, went back to a small hut on the northern end of the bridge and went back to sleep. The sergeant-in-command hadn’t even bothered to leave the building, kicking the two sleeping sentries out when the convoy had turned up. After another ten minutes, the full SAS patrol was reunited and, as agreed, the six grabbed some kip while two kept watch. All they had to do now was wait.
Chapter 32
0330, 11 JULY 1984. SOVIET AIRBORNE REGIMENT. NORTHEAST OF BRAUNSCHWEIG, WEST GERMANY.
THE BLUE EFFECT +9.5 HOURS
The clamshell doors of the IL-76 transport opened slowly; ready to allow the waiting paratroopers to board. The airborne soldiers were in two lines outside, and turned to the left and right on the orders of their officers. On a second order, the two lines of men shuffled forward, the dark interior of the transport aircraft eventually swallowing up the 125 heavily armed paratroopers. These were part of the Soviet Union’s elite, the Vozdushno-Desantnaya Voyska, the Soviet’s air assault force. Behind them, Gaz-66 utility trucks pulled D-30 122mm howitzers, preparing to be dropped as part of a second wave. Further afield, BMD-1s, the paratroopers’ Airborne Mechanised Infantry Combat Vehicles, were either going through a final check or through the last stages of being loaded onto a transport aircraft. The AIMCV, once on the ground, would be the regiment’s primary mobile weapon: a weapon that was not only capable of carrying the troops into battle, but also packing a punch with its 30mm gun when the soldiers came up against their enemy, the soldiers of NATO. The Soviet army were pioneers in the use of heavy platforms for dropping equipment. The majority of the equipment for this airborne regiment had already been placed on-board the aircraft that would deliver them to the drop zone. An aircraft roared down the runway as the first of the troops headed west, to pile on the pressure on the beleaguered British forces.
0400, 11 JULY 1984. WHISKEY COMPANY, 6TH BATTALION, ROYAL REGIMENT OF FUSILIERS (TA), 15TH INFANTRY BRIGADE, 2ND INFANTRY DIVISION. WEST OF MINDEN, WEST GERMANY.
THE BLUE EFFECT +10 HOURS
The air was forced from his lungs as he struck the ground hard, jarring his shoulder badly, the explosion having flung his body violently sideways. His ears buzzed, and he urgently tried to focus his mind as other explosions erupted nearby, showering his helmet with a deluge of earth and debris. Corporal Barker panicked suddenly, scrabbling for his respirator, the warnings from the platoon commander just before they disembarked from the private roll-on/roll-off ferry, seconded to the military, ringing in his ears. Remember, if you get shelled or attacked from the air, it could be a gas attack. Hold your breath and get your respirator on quickly. He yanked it out of the square green case, holding his breath, but letting it out again realising he had been panting and breathing air in and out of his lungs for at least a minute. He pulled it over his face, emitting a cry as he jerked his injured shoulder. The respirator was adjusted until comfortable and he had a good seal. Too late, he thought, too fucking late. But better safe than sorry if the gas is s
till heading my way.
Realising he was still exposed as more rockets landed less than 100 metres away, he scrambled on all fours, throwing himself into the trench head first, his boots kicking his masked comrade in the face.
“For fuck’s sake, Kev,” a muffled voice cried out. “You nearly took my bloody head off then.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’re under fire, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Corporal Kevin Barker peered over the trench, seeing his SLR less than ten metres away. He left his shelter again and quickly retrieved it, dropping back down to the bottom of the trench as two bombs bracketed their position, lifting one end of their defensive position and almost engulfing them in a heap of earth.
“God, Corp, what the hell’s going on? Where’s it coming from? We’re not at the front, for God’s sake!”
“Keep your bloody head down, Parr. It’ll be over soon.”
They stared at each other through the goggle eyes of their gas masks, eyes almost as wide as the lens in the rubber. Two jets, one after the other, flew low overhead, and a furrow appeared along the front of the trench as 30mm-calibre shells tore up the ground.
Corporal Barker heard an unmuffled shriek from someone in severe pain to his left. Pushing his way past Parr, he made his way to the second slit trench, his heart pumping as a second scream, unblocked by the confines of a respirator, let rip. The screams were getting louder and more panicky the closer he got to the source of the sound.