The Red Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  MAGDEBURG-COCHSTEDT AIRFIELD, EAST GERMANY. 7TH GUARDS AIRBORNE DIVISION. 0400, 5 JULY 1984.

  THE RED EFFECT.

  The airborne officers were crammed into one of the airfield buildings, commandeered by the divisional commander, at Cochstedt Airport, situated thirty-kilometres south-west of the city of Magdeburg. The officers, dressed in their distinctive coveralls and blue and white horizontally striped shirt, talked about the upcoming operation. From regimental commanders to battalion commanders, artillery and supporting units, over forty officers were in attendance. They knew something big was going on. Fighter bombers had left for targets unknown, and supersonic fighters circled the airport in pairs, a combat air patrol to protect the airfields and everything that was around it. Tracked SA-4 Ganefs, their two large missiles pointing skyward, covered the perimeter of the base, along with SA-6 Gainfuls, ZSU-23/4s and SA-9s, providing an umbrella that would allow the men below to prepare for the battle they were, at the moment, unaware of.

  They were suddenly brought to attention as their commander entered the room. General Zimyatov, commander of 7th Guards Airborne Division, climbed up onto a platform that had been erected especially for the briefing so he could see all of his officers present. He was immensely proud of his unit and his men. The unit had been awarded the ‘Red Banner’ of the airborne troops in 1971 and 1972, and later the ‘Order of the Red Banner’. He cast his eyes over his officers present. He had handpicked them all. A deep, badly repaired scar ran along the top of his right eye then up into his hairline, the consequence of a piece of jagged shrapnel scoring his face after being ambushed by the Mujahideen in Afghanistan. He made eye-contact with his two most senior officers, Colonel Vydina, commander of the 247th Caucasian Cossacks Air Assault Regiment and Colonel Viktor Boykov, commander of the 108th Guards Cossacks Air Assault Regiment, Kuban. The 108th had been awarded the ‘Order of the Red Star’. The unit distinguished itself during Operation Danube to suppress the Prague Spring uprising. They conducted a number of dangerous and difficult missions, and many of the soldiers received awards: over 100 issued to the regiment. General Zimyatov was a young lieutenant at the time, and was the recipient of one of those awards himself. Now, he commanded the entire division.

  He quickly cast his eye over the rest of the assembled officers from the artillery regiment, independent guards’ battalion, air defence battery, engineers and others. The room was silent, waiting expectantly to be told what was in store for them.

  “Our brave forces have finally had to succumb to the threats to our motherland by the West and have made a pre-emptive strike against the enemy.”

  There was a sudden buzz amongst the assembled men. They had expected it, and were now being told it was for real. The general held his hand up for silence. They quickly obeyed.

  “10GTD is already pushing towards Hanover, with 7GTD to the north. We are advancing on all fronts, from the Baltic in the north and as far down south as Austria. You may be wondering why we have not been involved in the attack from the start. Yes, we have airborne and Spetsnaz units playing a role in helping the foot sloggers make headway.” He got the laugh he expected he would. They were the elite, after all. “Their job is to smash the enemy’s covering force and advance deep into the covering force area. Our task is to go beyond that. 12th Guards Tank Division has been assigned as an operational manoeuvre group. The minute 10GTD breaks the British line, opens a gap, the 12th will flood through it. That is where we come in. Once we know where that break is, we will strike – probably in an area south-west of Hanover, securing bridges and other important ground. Colonel Vydina and his men will be parachuted in. AN-12s, AN-22s and AN-124s have already been assigned to us. Colonel Boykov, yours will be a heliborne assault. All aircraft have been assigned. We have been given the highest priority. STAVKA see this as an opportunity to split the NATO forces, isolating the two army groups, giving us access to the coasts. There will be no questions at this stage, but I want all unit commanders to stay behind so we can run through our likely target areas. They will in turn brief the rest of you. Dismissed.”

  Chapter 30

  BRUGGEN, WEST GERMANY. 0400, 5 JULY, 1984.

  THE RED EFFECT.

  The men shuffled about in the back of the Volkswagen van as it drove down Hoch Strasse on the northern outskirts of Bruggen. The location they would attack had been agreed. It wasn’t a suicide mission, but they knew they would be lucky to get away alive. They had already passed a number of Bundespolizei, the West German police, patrolling the area. Security had been stepped up during the last thirty-six hours, with extra police patrols. The West German Home Defence Brigades were also more active. Their target was special: 3rd Base Ammunition Depot, a large arsenal that stored special munitions, nuclear munitions, for use in the event of a war. That very war was about to start.

  The eight Spetsnaz operators were fully armed with the latest weapons, supplied by the Soviet Union through the diplomatic mail, aided by one of the many ‘sleepers’ planted in the West. The additional six men had joined the group the previous night. The weapons had been stored in a secret bunker hidden in the West for years. The sleeper, funded with money from the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravieniye (GRU), the foreign military intelligence arm of the Soviet armed forces, would stay at home, ready to receive them once they had successfully completed their mission or, if they failed, to help hide them until they could mount a second attack.

  Cropped Hair, who was driving the green van, turned to Dark Hair. “There’s a van behind us.”

  “Been there long?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Dark Hair leant forward and looked in the wing mirror to see a white van about fifty-metres back. “Keep an eye on it.”

  As the driver took another look, he exclaimed. “There’s two now!”

  Focusing on the vehicle behind, he didn’t see the armoured car that pulled out in front of them. The front of the VW was immediately crushed as it ploughed into the steel sides, Cropped Hair’s legs smashed and pinned by the bulkhead of the front of the vehicle. Dark Hair, who was leaning forward at the time, careered through the front windshield, his face torn to shreds as he past through, his skull crushed as it met with the now unmoving armoured vehicle they had collided with. Before the men in the back could untangle themselves, an explosive device, attached to the doors by the special squad that had been following behind, ripped off the double door, killing two of the operatives in the back. One of the others, firing at his unseen enemy, instigated a torrent of incoming fire. The van was bullet-riddled; the soldiers, Spetsnaz, in the back were killed almost instantly.

  Two of the men who had been lying on the ground at the side of the white van stood up, as did the rest of the squad. They lowered their SMG machine guns but remained at the ready as the others moved forwards.

  The Intelligence Corps captain turned to his sergeant. “Bugger, it would have been good to have got at least one of them.”

  “The Sleeper is still under surveillance, sir. He’ll know something is up soon enough, so I suggest we pick him up now.”

  “You’re right, Sergeant. See to it.”

  The sergeant left to make contact with others in the security unit, members of the Intelligence Corps Section, responsible for counter-intelligence in this area. Other members of the team moved forward to confirm that the Spetsnaz cell had indeed been wiped out. One moved forward with a Geiger counter, checking if the vehicle contained one of the deadly SADMs (Special Atomic Demolition Munition), but they weren’t to find one. That was to have been used by the Spetsnaz on their next operation, had they survived this one. A major threat to a British force’s base in the rear had been eliminated. However, across the vast expanse of Western Europe, other Spetsnaz units were more successful.

  Chapter 31

  COMBAT TEAM ALPHA, SUPPLINGENBURG, WEST GERMANY. 0400, 5 JULY 1984.

  THE RED EFFECT.

  Lieutenant Dean Russell had called stand-to at just before four in the morning;
his men, some rubbing the sleep from their eyes, propped their SLRs on top of the foxholes that had been dug out the previous day. It had been hard work as no bucket loaders had been available, the engineers being used to assist the units further back, helping them dig more permanent positions. Combat Team Alpha wouldn’t be hanging around. All they had to do was blunt the attack, force the Soviet units to move from line of march and deploy. Report what they saw then pull back, leapfrogging their comrades behind before digging in for the next round. There had been groans from the men at having to dig so deep, but the platoon commander and platoon sergeant had been relentless in the pursuit of their soldiers, urging them on to dig deep, build solid berms in front, and camouflage their positions well. There was still radio silence, but runners had informed the lieutenant that all his men were in position. Will it be today? he thought.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Sergeant Rose as he dropped down into the slit trench.

  “Bloody hell, sir, if you’d dug any deeper you’d have struck oil.”

  “Maybe I can sell it after this blows over.” Russell laughed.

  “Twenty minutes?”

  “Yes, then release one in three to get some breakfast inside them.”

  “In the meantime, how about some of this?” The sergeant pulled out a flask of freshly brewed tea, hot and sweet.

  “You’re a lifesaver, Sergeant Rose.” Russell unclipped the black mug from his water bottle and handed it to the sergeant, and the NCO topped up two cups until a cough either side prompted him to look over to the other slit trenches.

  “Bring your bloody mugs over, one of you.”

  Corporal Martin Wood, the commander of One-Section sent one of his men to gather mugs. The contents of the flask would be stretched extremely thinly, but at least the boys would get a hot drink inside them. The ones close by, anyway. The corporal had two men forward on the left, about fifty metres away in a group of four trees. They would provide cover for two Milan firing posts. The rest of his section were in a line forward of the hedgeline. The gun group with the Gympy were in a slit trench on the far right, a gunner plus two, and, on the left, himself plus the driver he had called forward from the 432 and one other. One soldier was with the lieutenant; the tenth soldier would join them on his return from an errand. The lieutenant, in his trench, had his own runner and a signaler, plus one. The runner was also out, passing on some last-minute messages for his platoon commander. Two-Section covered a hedgeline to the north, perpendicular to One Section’s main position, running west. Two Section covered a further two Milan firing posts. Armour that tried to flank Combat Team Alpha would have Milan missiles to contend with.

  They shared their unexpected bounty, sipping on the hot sweet liquid as if it were a champagne cocktail, Lieutenant Russell scanning the horizon with his binoculars. He wasn’t necessarily watching for the enemy, although that was always a consideration, but for the reconnaissance CVR(T)s out there. They were the furthest edge of the FLOT. The forward line of own troops, they would be watching and waiting for the enemy, should they come.

  Russell still wasn’t certain, but hoped it was just hot air on both sides of the fence, and eventually someone would back down. He couldn’t see much; there still wasn’t enough light. All he could hope for was to pick out movement: the dark shadows of small or large armoured vehicles racing towards them. Friend or enemy.

  “Which way then, sir?”

  “What?”

  “Which way do you think they’ll come?”

  He looked at his sergeant’s blackened face, barely able to pick out much more than a silhouette, an arm rising and falling as he sipped his drink. There was no chance of a second mug from the flask as a consequence of it being drained, filling all the other mugs that had suddenly presented themselves.

  The lieutenant thought for a moment. He had tried to put his mind inside the head of an enemy commander. What would he do if he had a tank regiment at his disposal?

  “Straight between here and Supplingen to the south.”

  “Suicide?”

  The young officer gave a small chortle. “I can understand why you’d think that, Sergeant Rose. Come down the centre and they get hit from both flanks. Mines across their path, although we don’t have that many. But what other options do they have?” He pointed his arm to his right and slightly back, in the direction of where Combat Team Delta were deployed. “There’s the huge stretch of high ground of the der Elm Forest to the south-west of here. They would probably target that with motor rifle troops.” He remained silent for a few moments before continuing. “To be honest, I haven’t got a clue. Just know that when they hit us, it’s going to be bloody hard.”

  A pair of boots dropped down into the trench, followed by the body of Infantryman Stewart Barker, the platoon runner, knocking Sergeant Rose aside as he stumbled in. Before the sergeant could chastise him for being so clumsy, they heard the Clansman radio crackle in the headphones of the signaller’s radio set.

  The signaller held one earpiece to his ear, leaving the other one exposed so his platoon commander and sergeant could hear it.

  “All call signs, this is Zero-Alpha. We have movement on the Inner German Border. Contact likely. Acknowledge, over.”

  The signaller pressed the mike switch. “Zero-alpha, zero-one, roger, out.”

  They were listening in to the other platoons reporting in when Sergeant Rose screamed, “Gas, gas, gas. Gas, gas, gas.” The call was taken up by the rest of the section

  Lieutenant Russell held his breath; dropped his SLR rifle on the edge of the slit trench; ripped off his helmet; fumbled with the green respirator sack, the rubber NBC gloves making it awkward; yanked out his rubber S6 respirator; and, pulling the elasticated straps away from the back, tucked his chin into the mouthpiece area, pulling the top and sides up over his head. Checking the seal, tightening all six of the straps to the rear, he shouted, “Gas! Gas! Gas!” expelling the air to clear his mask of any contaminants that may have got inside. Tugging the green hood of his Noddy suit over his head and pulling the drawstring tight, replacing his helmet, his nuclear, biological and chemical immediate actions were complete.

  He picked up his rifle and look ahead. With the picture that confronted him, he could see why his platoon sergeant had made the call. The horizon beyond the town of Helmstedt was lit up like a fiery dawn mixed in with a multi-coloured aurora borealis, the flashes constant. “Take cover!” He screamed. “Take cover!” The sound was muffled through the mouthpiece of the respirator.

  One last quick look round; one last check on the soldiers of his platoon that he could see; then he scrunched down. Pulling his head low, he waited. Having no experience of what was to come, he assumed it would be worst-case. He’d read about it in books, listened to lectures at Sandhurst, but knew deep down that no amount of preparation could prepare him for what was to come.

  The two R-17 missiles struck first. One dispersed its forty-two submunitions over an area half a kilometre square, along the edge of the village. Each 122mm submunition exploded violently, thousands of fragments from each one ripping into buildings, shattering windows and smashing down doors. The Company HQ Bedford lorry and one of the Land Rovers, cammed up against the side of one of the larger village buildings, were completely shredded. Little differentiation could be seen between the shredded cam-netting and the vehicles themselves; the destruction permanent. Three-Platoon took the brunt of the strike, the platoon lieutenant, his signaller and runner unrecognisable as three of the cluster munitions straddled the foxholes they were in, dug along the periphery to protect the southern end of the village and the right flank of Combat Team Alpha. The Milan firing post was completely destroyed along with its two crew and the two soldiers watching over them. Not only did they have to overcome the swathe of shrapnel, with a kill and injury radius of over twenty metres, but they took a direct hit from the missile body itself. Others were crying out, screaming for a medic, the FV432 ambulance prevented from going to their aid, the Compan
y Sergeant Major knowing it was far from over.

  The second missile went off target, hitting somewhere between the two villages, peppering the open ground with numerous craters two to three-metres wide.

  Combat Team Bravo, deployed in Supplingen to the south, was not so lucky. Both R-17 missiles struck, wiping out a third of the platoon guarding the northern flank of the village. These two strikes alone gave an indication of the proposed strategy of the first echelon of the Soviet attack: immobilise the two edges of the village and drive straight through the centre.

  Lieutenant Russell compressed his body as far down into the slit trench as he possibly could and then some more as the first of the BM-27 rockets rained down across the front of their position. His ears rang as rocket after rocket exploded around them. He felt a weight crash down on the front edge of the trench, a lacerated arm, the sleeve of the shirt and combat jacket ripped off, the NBC suit covering the body was in tatters. Dean’s helmet rattled as it was peppered with clods of earth and debris. He grabbed the arm and pulled the form down into the trench, covering the soldier as best he could with his own body. The hedgeline was torn apart behind them as three 122mm rockets shredded the shrubbery, splitting the trees and sending lethal splinters of wood whistling over the top of the cowering infantry.