The road now though was swamped with military vehicles – Soviet military vehicles. T-64As raced west, the 18th Independent Reconnaissance Battalion leading the way. There were two platoons of BMPs, mechanised infantry combat vehicles, a tank platoon, a BRDM-2 company, and a BRDM-2 Rkh, a chemical defence recce vehicle. The battalion rattled along the road, clearing a path for the rest of the division following on behind. One lane of the dual carriage on the opposite side was also being used for western flowing military traffic. Very little was moving east. The tail extended as far back as Magdeburg.
The entire division was on the move: three tank regiments, one motor rifle regiment and an air defence regiment thronged the roads. Behind them, engineers, signals, transport, maintenance and chemical defence units. The artillery regiment along with the SSM battalion, the self-propelled artillery and surface-to-surface missiles, had moved forward the previous day, to be in a position to support 10GTD in its assault. The roads were choked, making a perfect target for NATO had the two organisations been at war. But, as yet, they weren’t.
Even further back, but equally as important to the division, there were over 100 POL trucks carrying fuel vital for supplying the armour and infantry in maintaining their advance. Sixty further trucks carried ammunition, equally as important. Across the entire division, over 500 trucks would provide support for the teeth arms, acting as the arteries to feed an ever hungry giant. Two parallel routes had been chosen; more simply weren’t available as the entire Warsaw Pact was starting to move its forces forward: one route crossing the River Elbe to the south of Magdeburg, and the second to the north. All would end up in the forests of Feichtinger Hohenzug and Bartenslebener Forst. Effectively, as 10GTD moved out, 12GTD would move in. They would then wait to be tasked. The division had already received a warning-order, directing the unit to prepare to act as an operational manoeuvre group (OMG) that would track 10GTD’s progress and, when the opportunity presented itself, strike deep into NATO’s rear.
General Turbin, ‘The Bear’, had been ruthless in his relentlessness to get the division in position as soon as possible so that, when his master called upon him and his men to do their duty, they would be ready. One battalion commander had already been sacked for failing to keep to his schedule, with a view to a court-martial at a later date. This spurred the others on, driving their men and vehicles hard. The general wanted his armour, infantry and logistics-tail off the roads before the battle started the following morning. The lead elements of his armoured division had to be in position, rested, armed and refueled. Ready. The soldier, a veteran of World War Two, recognised that it was tactically unsound consolidating his forces so close together. Should NATO resort to tactical nuclear weapons at the start of the war, his division would be decimated. It was an acceptable gamble. Dispersing his troops too far apart was not an option if he was to stick close to the retreating British Army and exploit any gaps made by the 10th, giving the 12th the opportunity to strike deep into the enemy’s rear.
Chapter 26
GRONAU, WEST GERMANY. COMBAT TEAM BRAVO. 1200, 4 JULY 1984.
THE RED EFFECT −16 HOURS.
The engine of the FV4204, a Chieftain armoured recovery vehicle from the LAD section, hummed as the driver pushed it to full power, the dozer blade at the front gouging a three and a half metre furrow to a depth of roughly two metres – the perfect depth to allow a Chieftain to drive into the berm hull down, exposing as little of the tank as possible, in defilade. With the bulk of the hull behind the crest of ground raised as a consequence of the earth piled forward, the main volume of the tank would be behind hard cover, but its turret and main gun would be free to turn and pick out any advancing targets. A screen of trees behind the berm would provide a backdrop to blend in with. The dozer blades were far from perfect, the ARV having to take off a shallow layer at a time with the hydraulics occasionally failing. Lieutenant Wesley-Jones perched on the edge of the turret as he watched the ARV at work. It was actually an ARRV as it had an Atlas crane positioned along one side of the tank. He watched them scraping for a few minutes then picked up his binoculars to look further afield.
The small forest they were in was about five hundred metres by three hundred and was in a prominent position on the eastern edge of the Gronau. Barfelder Strasse ran east to west alongside, running through the centre of the village. As his tank was on the northern edge of the forest, he was able to look across the open fields as far as Betheln, about three kilometres away. Turning his gaze further east, he could see straight down the road, the one that linked this village to the next, almost as far as Barfelde, the outskirts less than two kilometres distant. There were four Scorpions from the regiment’s reconnaissance troop in the vicinity of Barfelde, doing the same as they were: watching and waiting for the enemy to come. When those Scorpions, should they survive, came tearing down the road, he would know that the enemy wasn’t far behind. The recce element might have delayed them for a few minutes, but not much more than that.
The ground to the left of the road was raised slightly, making a very shallow plateau. At the western edge of the plateau, he knew that two FV438s would be digging in, again ably assisted by a Chieftain with a dozer blade. Any enemy armour approaching from the east between Gronau and Betheln across open ground would make an ideal target for the two FV438s and their anti-tank missiles. Derived from a converted FV432, the vehicle mounted a twin launcher for the Swingfire missiles. Twelve more were stowed inside.
Wesley-Jones swung the binos left again, zooming in on the movement around the two vehicles. A light-wheeled tractor, with a rear hydraulic bucket, was digging a foxhole for the crew. The crew of three were no doubt setting up the control unit fifty to a hundred metres away from the 438. This would enable them to completely hide the vehicle. The missiles could be aimed and fired from this remote location, the swingfire missile capable of making a ninety-degree turn once launched. With a range of up to 4,000 metres, the wire-guided missile, providing visibility was good, would be able to pick off the enemy tanks, or BMPs, as soon as they came into view. Their time there would be limited though as, once the firing point was identified, they would attract heavy fire from the advancing enemy and probably artillery. Their task wasn’t to hold ground. They were there to take advantage of the open ground ahead of them to pick off the Soviet armour; to inflict casualties and force them to deploy, delaying their advance west. Then, they would scoot west, heading across the River Leine to set up again in pre-dug-out positions on the other side and start all over again, picking off the enemy as they got closer to the natural barrier that the river provided for the British units digging in on the western bank.
Wesley-Jones looked east again, picturing the advancing units that were likely to come towards them. Intelligence they had to date was telling them that they were up against the10th Guards Tank Division. He knew their tank regiments had the latest T-80s. He was confident his Chieftains could play their part, but wished he had the more modern Challenger that had recently been issued to 7th Armoured Brigade.
He shifted on the edge of the turret so he was able to face south-east, just as Patsy handed him a cup of coffee. He thanked him. It was welcome. Within an hour of the rest of the squadron arriving, followed by the regiment and attached units, his troop had been sent across the bridge to set up in defence of Gronau. Although managing to get a couple of hours’ sleep, he and his crew, along with the rest of the troop, were starting to feel the strain from a lack of sleep and living rough. Thank God for the BV, he thought. At least with the boiling vessel, they could have hot drinks and food. But this position wasn’t a permanent one either. Once they had ensured the enemy paid the price for advancing on Gronau, his troop would also withdraw across the river, the engineers eventually blowing the bridge, forcing the Soviet Army to find other means to cross to the other side. The bulk of Combat Team Bravo would remain on the western bank. Alpha and Charlie Troop, with their three Chieftains each and two sections of the Royal Green Jacket’s platoon tha
t had been attached to the squadron, were digging in on the western bank. The third rifle section of eight men, the driver and a gunner staying with the battle taxi, with its peak engineering turret, positioned deeper into the village, were on the eastern edge of Gronau, on the edge of the village itself. The 432 would wait to be called forward and support with its L37A1 GPMG gun. Lieutenant Christian James, the platoon commander, had also allocated two 66mm LAW anti-tank rockets to the section, for close protection should they find themselves confronted by enemy armour right on top of them. Their primary role was to protect the two Milan firing posts that were covering the approaches to the village. They had been joined by a Sustained-Fire GPMG, along with the platoon HQ vehicle. Again, once they had blunted the enemy attack, if they were able to do so, they would scoot across the river to relative safety.
Wesley-Jones lowered his binoculars and took a long drink from his now cooling mug of coffee. The banshee sound of the ARV disappeared into the distance as it headed back across the river to support the rest of the combat team in preparing their positions. They wouldn’t pull into their berms until the last minute, initially staying well into the treeline, knowing that any attack would be preceded by a heavy artillery bombardment or air strike. To his left was Two-Two-Bravo, and to his right the other member of his troop. When the moment was right, they would shoot forward, settle into their defilade positions and take out any enemy tanks that presented them with a target. They were too small a unit to make a huge impact, but would delay the enemy long enough to allow the units behind to dig in deep.
Spotting movement on the road ahead, he placed his black plastic, half-moon-shaped mug on the top of the turret and picked up his binos again. Roughly 500 metres out, he could see a 432 towing a trailer, followed by two engineers on foot. The engineers were manually placing eleven-kilogram barmines, anti-tank mines, on a conveyor belt that fed them to the trailer. On pallets of seventy-two mines each, the FV432 could carry 144 mines which were automatically armed as they passed along the conveyor. The minelayer was automatically digging a furrow, laying the mines into it at the correct depth and spacing, and filling in the furrow once laid. In just over an hour, a front of over 600 metres could be laid by just this one vehicle. Laying mines either side of the road would protect their flanks, forcing the enemy towards the centre where they could be hit from the flanks. The goal was to lay enough to enforce a killing zone. Main battle tanks, or mechanised infantry combat vehicles such as the BMP-1 or BMP-2, would hit the minefield and be brought to a halt. This would enable the defending forces to finish them off. The Soviet commander’s only option then was to bring forward mine-clearing equipment, making another target for the NATO forces controlling the killing ground. Forward artillery and air observers would also be watching, ready to bring even more destruction down on top of the advancing enemy.
Patsy popped his head out of the turret and pulled himself up onto the edge, his feet dangling over the turret side, resting on the top of the smoke discharger unit.
“OK, Corporal Patterson?”
“Yes, sir. Just wondering what’s happening to our families.” The twenty-five year-old corporal looked worried. His cam-blackened face revealed the odd white vertical streak, and Wesley-Jones wondered if his NCO had been crying. His heart went out to him. Although he wasn’t married and had no children of his own, or none that he knew of, he had picked up an atmosphere of dread amongst some of the ‘Pads’. He smiled inwardly. The nickname for married soldiers who had their own pad, was not meant to be derogatory; just a little jealousy from single soldiers at their comrades living in a flat or house of their own, free of the barrack-block mentality. “It’s Victoria, isn’t it? Your daughter?”
Patsy smiled, pleased his commander had remembered. “Yes. We call her Vicky. My mother-in-law hates us shortening her name. Game on.” He chuckled. “This can’t be for real, can it, sir?”
The lieutenant pondered for a moment, considering how to respond; torn between being a troop commander, yet wanting to share his doubts with a fellow human being. There might be a few military ranks between them, but these were his troop: men he had trained with for over a year now. He had come to know them well, understanding their quirks and sometimes helping with their problems.
“It seems to be the case, Corporal. There was a lot of expected activity as a consequence of the large Soviet roll out for Hammer 84, but the troop movements that are being picked up now contradict those perceived intentions of a peaceful training exercise.”
“Do we know when they’ll come, sir?”
“I don’t honestly know. But, when they do cross, Four Division will hold them for as long as possible.”
“That’s a pretty big force, sir.”
Wesley-Jones looked at his corporal, the number two of his tank. He didn’t think it was right to be anything but honest with him.
“Twenty-four hours tops. They are spread across a front of nearly ninety-kilometres. All they can hope to do is delay them.”
“Surely they can do more than that?” responded Patsy, his voice with a hint of panic in it, realising that they could be possibly be engaging the Soviet tanks as soon as in twenty-four hours.
“They’re not strong enough to hold them back. So, it’s about hitting the enemy hard and then pulling back to fight another day. Then they can become the reserve and come to our rescue.” Wesley-Jones laughed, trying to ease Patsy’s concerns. “They asleep down there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give Trooper Mackinson another hour; then he can take stag while you get some shut-eye.”
“What about you, sir?”
“The OC will be around soon. Once he’s paid us a visit, I’ll grab some sleep.”
GRONAU, WEST GERMANY. ROYAL GREEN JACKETS’ SECTION, COMBAT TEAM BRAVO. 1200 4 JULY 1984.
THE RED EFFECT −16 HOURS.
The platoon sergeant, Bob Thomas, was talking to the section commander, Corporal David Carter, as they watched a light-wheeled tractor using its rear bucket to dig pits for defensive positions to protect the unit setting up. A JCB410, a rough-terrain forklift tractor, dropped a pallet of pre-shaped corrugated sheet metal panels close by. Half-moon-shaped, with interlocking edges, the panels would enable the soldiers of the Royal Green Jackets to quickly build good defensive positions, providing them with some cover from an enemy bombardment. The LWT finished its job and left, it too joining the force that was rapidly building up on the western bank.
“Let’s get this lot organised then, eh, Dave.”
“Yes, Sarg. The sooner I have some cover, the better I’ll feel. And we can finally get a bloody brew going.”
In consultation with the combat team and platoon commander, it had been agreed that they would not occupy the village. It was bound to be targeted by artillery or fighter bombers, and they could end up being at greater risk with buildings collapsing around them. So, they were digging in along the edge. Directly ahead and to the right, they had a clear field of view. Half right was the only problem. Less than five hundred metres away was a conurbation of half a dozen houses, Gut Dotzum. The sergeant was reluctant to put any men in there in case they became isolated and cut off during an attack. The solution had been simple. Two Scimitars would sit there to discourage any enemy forces using the buildings, and to provide early warning of any sneak attack, the enemy using the houses to block the defenders’ view. Two Chieftains dug in on the edge of Wallenstedt, a kilometre to the south, could fire into their exposed flank. Pre-prepared artillery and mortar fire could be called in quickly to target any enemy concentrations on the other side of the small estate. The engineers had also been busy, laying off-route anti-tank mines along the side of the road. The French mine was designed for vehicle ambush, placed at the side of the road with a thin electric ‘breakwire’ laid across the road. Once a vehicle broke the wire, they would be struck by a powerful shaped-charge.
Sergeant Thomas walked along the line of foxholes being padded out with corrugated prefabs. One of t
he Milan firing points was already part finished, the crew of two building overhead cover, camouflaging, so it would be difficult to spot them from the air. The Milan-2s, a second generation anti-tank weapon, the firing post mounted on a tripod, was ready in place in the dugout. Mounted on the side of it was a Milan missile, a second encased missile lying alongside ready for immediate use. When a target came into view, all the operator had to do was keep the aiming mark on the target and the SACLOS guidance system would deliver it onto the target. Its maximum range of 2,000 metres would be more than adequate to deal with the enemy when they broke out into the open. Satisfied that the Gympy SF team, the second Milan firing point and the Mortar Fire Controller were getting on with their work, Thomas went into one of the houses in the vilage behind, climbed to the second storey and made his way into one of the side rooms where L/Cpl Graham was keeping watch over the ground ahead.
“Progressing well down there, Sarg?”
“Should be ready for nightfall. See anything?”
“Not a sausage. A few civvies have just left Goot Dotzy, or whatever it’s called.”
“Gut Dotzum. Your bloody German is lousy, Will.”
“Yeah, I know, Sarg. But I get my food from the canteen, anything else from the Naafi, and I know how to order a beer.”
Smiling at the L/CPL’s simple outlook on life, Sergeant Thomas went to the window where the glass had been knocked and took in the view. Two huge features immediately stood out. Dominating the skyline was Hildesheimer Wald, south-west of Hildesheim. Thirty kilometres long, a forest running north-west to south-east, its maximum height nearly 300 metres, with numerous ridges and winding tracks, a watercourse running along its length, it wouldn’t be an easy feature for the enemy to pass through. To the south-east was a second forest, Sieben Berge. The forest was even higher at over 400 metres and the ground undulated severely. What it did was to create a channel that led right up to Gronau. Although 4th Armoured Division would put up a simple defence using these barriers south of Hildesheim, it would be short-lived.
The Red Effect (Cold War) Page 23