The Blue Effect (Cold War)

by Harvey Black

  3RTR continued to fight its way towards Springe, bowling over unit after unit, taking the local military commanders completely by surprise. The Soviet airwaves were awash with panic, calls for help and assistance. Over-reporting the strength of the enemy to compensate for their failures, the unit commanders added to the confusion that was overloading their divisional headquarters who in turn passed their concerns and confusion to army headquarters and so on. Although the Soviet army had modernised somewhat, they were still generally dependent, on set-piece manoeuvres; only the OMGs having a longer leash. But, for the follow-on forces from the 20th Guards Army and the Military Districts, the leash was much tighter. With the map covered in flashes where small actions were being fought, arrows showing large movements of enemy troops, circles where parachutists, heliborne landings and acts of sabotage had been reported, Stavka were at a loss. Many of the actions reported were out of date as the British forces had long gone, but back in the depths of the concrete bunkers, the maps of the commander of the Group of Soviet Forces Germany, looked more like a mosaic. As a consequence, reinforcements were diverted, but often to the wrong locations, supplies were delayed or redirected, and the picture grew more ambiguous.

  Having spilt up, a squadron from 3RTR led 2RGJ through the gap between the high ground of Eichberg and Shecken, the retreating Soviets leaving a trail of dust as they ran. An ambush took out one of the accompanying Scimitars and two of their Chieftains, but an attack by B-Company, 2RGJ, cleared the way. On arrival at the crossroads south of Behrensen, the 3RTR squadron sped north to link up with its regiment. Here at Behrensen, HQ, Support-Company and C-Company went about the business of digging in, while B-Company headed east to Coppenbrugge and A-Company south to Bisperode. The remaining two reconnaissance tanks were despatched east and west of their location, very much searching for a needle in a haystack.

  Two-Platoon started their preparations to defend the small village, and the Milan teams were deployed along with the 438s. The OC stood next to Dean’s 432.

  “Dean, I’m making some changes. If you take a look at our position.” The OC scraped some patterns in the soil. “Three-Platoon will be with us first thing in the morning, whether they’re ready or not. We need more men.”

  Dean looked around at the high ground each side of them and the vast open space of farmed fields to their south. “Makes sense, sir. A battalion would be better though.”

  “I know, Dean, but we don’t have a battalion. If 20th Armoured Brigade are released, they will take over and push south and east.”

  “What’s the trigger for their release, sir?”

  “Success, Dean, success. A bit of a catch-22. They are in position just in case the counter-attack is a failure, which I understand. Yet, if they were in the fight now, we’d have a much better chance. Anyway.” The OC scraped some more lines in the dust patch. “Losing that Scimitar has left us blind, so I’m changing your platoon’s role.” He tapped the two extended oval markings either side the long stretch that represented the road. “I’ve already contacted the recce, and they will hold for you. I want one of your sections with each Scimitar, and they are to pass along the entire length of the high ground. Once they are opposite Route 425, they can hold. The recce boys can then complete some roving patrols. The same thing the other side. Here.” He tapped the crossroads to the south. “This is where I want you, and one of your sections. That way, you will have some control over the sections that will be either side of your position. But you are not to hold. It’s not a defensive position. I just need a warning of any enemy movement. Clear?”

  “Clear, sir.”

  “You’d better get moving.”

  “Sir.”

  Within fifteen minutes, One-Section, under the command of Corporal Reid, his rank now substantive, were heading back the way they had come, before turning south, weaving along the centre track on the high ground, following behind the Scimitar leading. Colour Sergeant Rose was with him. Corporal Stubbings, his most experienced Junior NCO, with Two-Section, headed north along the 588. The NCO sighed with relief when he met up with the second Scimitar, Sergeant Kirby in command, who led them east to climb the Krullbrink.

  Dean’s command 432, along with Three-Section, commanded by Acting-Corporal Cole, set off for the crossroads. Dean’s vehicle led, and they were soon travelling in excess of forty kilometres per hour. It was a good metalled road; potted with trees either side, but not too many that would obscure their view. The road weaved gently; then angled left and right. He sniffed the air: it felt fresh. To his right, yellow fields that had once perhaps been wheat or cornfields; on his left, green root vegetables, maybe cabbages or potatoes. They were approaching a large farm on the right, and Dean ordered his driver to slow down. He was looking at the tracks that had torn up the ground north of the farm. Used as a lager for armoured vehicles at some point, he thought. It was his last thought as the high explosive anti-tank warhead of the 9M124 Kobra missile struck his 432. At hypersonic speed, twenty-five times the speed of sound, the jet of molten metal penetrated the front of Dean’s vehicle, the spall stripping the flesh from his legs, his driver dead as the battle taxi swerved off the road, only to be hit a second time by a kinetic penetrator shot from a second T-80, fired from off the road. This struck the 432 on its slabbed side, knocking it over, the pressure wave and deadly particle spray inside killing the men within and blowing the rear door open. The same fate met Three-Section.

  Some elements of 20th Guards Army were very much functional and ready for a fight.

  Chapter 36

  1200, 11 JULY 1984. 12TH GUARDS TANK DIVISION, 3 SHOCK ARMY. WEST OF MINDEN, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLUE EFFECT +18 HOURS

  The Bear, Major General Turbin, commander of the 12th Guards Tank Division, leant on the collapsible wooden table in front of him, his head hanging between his shoulders. He lifted his head as an explosion shook the foundations of the house he had occupied as his temporary headquarters. In anticipation of a quick push west, his main headquarters had been set-up on the west bank of the river, and he had just been informed that it had been hit hard, and the majority of his senior staff had been either killed or captured. Why didn’t I foresee this?

  He swept the maps off the table in rage, his anger building up. Why had higher command authorised this when the British still had a powerful force available, and 20th Guards Army were still whining over a glass of vodka?

  The door to the room put aside for him creaked as it was opened.

  “Get out!”

  The deputy commander and political officer, Colonel Yolkin, continued on into the room. “Headquarters are wanting an update, Comrade General. They are insisting that we counter the British attack and push west. We have special forces creating opportunities for us.”

  “There will be no counter-attack, Comrade Colonel.”

  “You have your orders, Comrade General.”

  “The last set of orders were pointless. We launched our attack too soon. So why should these later ones be any better?”

  “Then I will…have to relieve you of command, Comrade General,” the political officer blurted out, his voice shaky.

  The general lifted his hands off the table and raised his body to its full height, still facing away from the colonel. “And you will lead my men to victory? What will you use? Political speeches?”

  “I’m sorry, Comrade General, but I must ask you to step down. I shall report your behaviour to my superiors.”

  Yolkin turned and headed for the door at the same time the Bear turned to face him. “Colonel Yolkin.”

  The man turned back round to face his commander and felt his body jerk at the same time the Makarov pistol, held out in front of the Bear, barked twice.

  “You’ll be reporting to no one.”

  Chapter 37

  1300, 11 JULY 1984. 4TH BATTALION, 67TH ARMOURED REGIMENT, 3RD BRIGADE, 3RD ARMOURED DIVISION, US V CORPS. STOP-LINE COLORADO, AREA OF STEINAU AN DER STRASSE, WEST GERMANY.

  TH
E BLUE EFFECT +19 HOURS

  With only three tanks left in his platoon, leaving two behind on Stop-Line Dallas, Lieutenant Dardenne waited for the enemy to appear for a second time that day. He knew that, if they could blunt the next attack, a counter-attack would be launched, and he and his men would get some desperately needed respite.

  “Tango-One-One. Standby for outgoing. Out.”

  Artillery at last. Artillery, he knew, with its immense destructive power, was one of the key assets in the forthcoming battle. His history studies had informed him that, during World War 2, artillery fire was responsible for nearly seventy per cent of casualties. He prayed that, in this more modern war, they would inflict a similar level of casualties on the Soviet forces. The gunners would not be able see their target. They would have to rely on mathematical calculations, using computers, to hit enemy targets many kilometres away. The forward observer team to his left was under his protection. As an armoured company, his unit had one M981. Its crew consisted of a lieutenant, a non-commissioned officer, and two soldiers. They would be advising the company commander on fire support issues.

  The fire direction centre command post, the M577 FDC, located nearby, was a hive of activity. Numerous platoons of US M109s, in staggered lines, waited for orders from the brains of the artillery. To ensure they didn’t become an easy target themselves, the howitzers were scattered over a wide area. Weather and meteorological data was fed into the complex systems of the FDC. SP4 Gorman tapped the keys of the consul as he stared at the red numerals lighting up as he fed in the required information.

  The ground out to 2,000 metres in front of Dardenne’s platoon seemed to boil; a cauldron of hot explosives and splinters engulfed the Soviet advanced unit. But there was more to come.

  The pilot, after receiving his orders via radio, banked left; coming out of the circuit he and his wingman had just flown. The two aircraft had been loitering for ten minutes, waiting for confirmation from base via the ground forces below that their targets were approaching the killing ground. North of the two aircraft, another pair of tank busters also manoeuvred, ready to follow in behind their fellow pilots. On receiving instructions from the lead plane, the four Warthog A-10As flew east, keeping no more than 300 metres above the ground. Flying at a steady speed of 480 kilometres per hour, they would be on target in less than four minutes. The four aircraft had left their base twenty minutes earlier; a base that consisted of a dozen soft-skinned vehicles and part of a German Autobahn as a runway. Their original airfield at Spangdahlem was undergoing repairs after yet another attack by Soviet bombers, missiles from Soviet SCUD-B launchers, and an attack by Spetsnaz sleepers. The SCUD missile had been the most disruptive, one landing directly on the airbase, dispersing a lethal nerve agent. The chemical agent used was a persistent agent, and the base required extensive decontamination before it would be fully functional again. Other aircraft, flown over from RAF Bentwaters and RAF Alconbury in Great Britain, were also getting in position to attack. Despite the tactical nuclear strike, one on the 8th Guards Army and one on the 3rd German Army, NVA, the Soviets were determined to strike for the heart of Frankfurt: disrupt the US army’s supply lines, destroy its stockpiles of ammunition, and overrun bases and airfields. The commander of US V Corps was about to hit back. After being hit hard by artillery bombardments and air strikes, forces on the ground had pulled back a further five kilometres, Colorado their latest defence line. The Soviet commanders, sensing victory, had lunged at the retreating enemy. Pushing forward a full tank regiment of over eighty T-64 tanks. Although finding the terrain difficult to negotiate, the damage caused by the numerous nuclear ADMS, used to break up the ground they would have to cross, they had succeeded in pulling together a spearhead that drove right through the centre of the defending forces around Schluchtern.

  The US command had been patient. Resisting demands to throw in reinforcements earlier, conscious that hundreds of soldiers on the ground were dying, they had kept their nerve. But now was the time to release their surprise. Four tactical fighter squadrons were launched: two from tactical fighter wings stationed in Great Britain, and two squadrons from West Germany. There was also the additional and unexpected support from a US navy carrier that was in the process of launching yet another strike.

  The ground raced beneath Major Tuckey as he flew his aircraft, at times below 200 metres, at speed towards the enemy. Behind him, three others were strung out. He just caught a glimpse of US forces below, getting into position again after their withdrawal; digging in ready to hold the Soviet breakthrough. Behind them was a fresh, fully armed US armoured brigade, one of three forming up after arriving from the US, waiting their turn to hit the enemy, payback for all their buddies that had been lost since the start of the war.

  “Two minutes,” came the warning over his headset. The American big guns, M107s, M110s, M109s, with their 175mm and 155mm shells pounded the Soviet force’s rear area, destroying some of the surface-to-air missile launchers. Other ground-attack aircraft had launched ARM missiles, the explosive packages seeking out the Soviet SAM missile radars. Fighter aircraft were providing a CAP overhead and a small mixed force, fighters and bombers, had secretly penetrated deep into the Soviet lines to pop up and provide the Soviet fighters with an alternative distraction.

  “One minute,” Major Tuckey informed the flight he was leading.

  He dropped his speed, the other three as practised doing the same. They then climbed up to 1,200 metres, enabling them to have a better view of the battlefield and the targets they sought. Their main armament was best suited to a slant range of 1,200 metres with the A-10 in a thirty-degree dive.

  There, he said to himself as he spotted a line of tanks moving at speed west. But he had another target in his sights first. He saw the four barrels of the ZSU-23/4 swing towards him as he depressed the trigger. His A-10 shook as a 23mm round clipped his cockpit, but the titanium-armoured shell, the ‘Bathtub’, protected him and his aircraft.

  The GAU-8/A Avenger Gatling-type cannon fixed beneath was at speed in less than a second and, within one second, it had fired fifty, 30mm depleted-uranium armour-piercing rounds, sixty per cent of them hitting the ZSU Shilka along with its comrade fifty metres behind. The furthest was immediately disabled; the second, the closest, was torn apart.

  Tuckey banked right, jinking occasionally, then banked left as a line of three T-64s came into view, a trail of dust thrown up behind each one as they travelled at speed. Once in his sights, they received a long burst. A full second, now the gun was at full speed, resulted in seventy rounds targeting the three main battle tanks. Thirty-two of them struck home, the majority punching through the thinner top armour. Major Tuckey didn’t see the end result as he pulled into a steep climb, banking hard left, seeking out more tanks or tracked ground-to-air weapons systems. The three others were doing the same with only two minutes left on target. Suddenly, one of their party pulled out, limping back to base. A huge chunk of the left wing had disappeared, the fuel tank had been punctured, and the main body had been peppered with 23mm shells from a third Shilka. The self-sealing fuel tank, protected by fire-retardant foam, had done its job and, using one of the triple-redundancy flight systems, the pilot would get back in one piece. The remaining three picked their targets, each one knowing where the other was looking, and launched their second weapons system. Major Tuckey fired his first Maverick anti-tank missile. Two seconds later, it connected with a T-64 on the left top of its fighting compartment, a ring of flame and smoke ejecting from the turret ring as it lifted the turret two metres into the air, the crew dead, the tank finished as a weapon of war. This time, he banked right, pulling up and round, setting his position for one last attack. A huge flash pricked his eye as an SA-6 SAM missile, followed by an SA-9 missile, struck an A-10 so accurately and with such force that with all its armour and fail-safe systems it was literally destroyed in mid-air. He cursed under his breath, came in again at 1,200 metres, and let rip with the 30mm cannon, catching two BMP-1s swerving
left and right, doing whatever they could to avoid the airborne tank busters above them. Further back, eight more of the tank busters were on the way, lined up for a further attack. And behind them, two more squadrons. Once the devastation of the tank regiment was complete, the Soviets would have to face a second major counter attack.

  Chapter 38

  1900, 11 JULY 1984. COMBAT TEAM BRAVO, 14/20TH KING’S HUSSARS, 22ND ARMOURED BRIGADE, 1ST ARMOURED DIVISION. HASTE, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLUE EFFECT +1 DAY

  Having lost five in the last thirteen hours, what were left of the tanks of Combat Team Bravo had dispersed along the edge of the wooded area east of Haste. It was late in the day, and they were low on fuel and ammunition. Fuel bowsers had been promised, but ground-attack aircraft had hit them as the Soviet air force sought revenge for the counter-attack that came out of the blue, catching the Soviet forces completely off guard. But, until they received a resupply, it would be madness to go any further forward. They had also been promised that the US 2nd Brigade and 7th Armoured Brigade were on their way to bolster the attack that would continue the next day.

  “Sir, sir.”

  “What? What?” answered Alex as he jolted his body upwards, having fallen asleep slumped over the turret hatch. “Corporal Patterson…what’s up?”

  “Thought you might feel better for a tea, sir.”

  Captain Alex Wesley-Jones rubbed his eyes, took the hot, sweet drink and felt its positive effect within a matter of moments. His body felt drained. If he didn’t know better, he would have considered himself to be suffering from a severe dose of flu.