The Black Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  They lay down in the inner edge of the tree line, each facing outwards towards one of the cardinals, their boots touching. Just waiting, watching and listening, ensuring they weren’t being followed by an unseen force.

  “Any suggestions?” asked Wilf, inviting a Chinese Parliament.

  “This is fucking mad, Wilfy. We need to do a bunk now. We couldn’t help him even if we can find him in this bloody lot.”

  “What do the rest of you think?”

  “Badger has a point, but we have to at least try.”

  “I agree with Tag,” added Hacker.

  “You’re outvoted, Badger,” Wilf informed him.

  “Wankers, the lot of you,” Badger grumbled. “But, if we’re going to do it, let’s fucking well get on with it.”

  “We split into pairs,” ordered Wilf. “I’ll take Grumpy.”

  “Don’t you start,” responded Badger, but with his face cracking into a gentle smile. Deep down, he didn’t really believe in his suggestion: leaving a British pilot to fend for himself.

  Wilf got up, followed by the others. “There’s quite a gap between trees, so we go at fifty metres apart. We follow a bearing of three-twenty, but as soon as we get near Route 3, we back off and call it a day. If we’re bumped, RV-one is the eastern edge of the lake, south of Alte Schanze. You all know it. RV-two, southern edge of the smaller lake north-east of Unter-den-Linden. Clear?”

  They all acknowledged.

  “Let’s go.”

  The patrol split up, moving until the pairs were about fifty metres apart. Then, heading on the bearing agreed, they started to make their way through the trees. Within their pairs, they drifted a further ten metres apart from each other, maintaining visual contact at all times, scanning for the enemy, searching for the downed pilot. The diagonal distance of the forest was about four kilometres. It would take them at least an hour to do a reasonable search on their current heading. The sound of two helicopters tearing past, over their heads, caused them to hit the deck, but the sound of the rotor blades soon disappeared as the aircraft headed south. There was no sound of the helicopters stopping or turning back, so they continued their quest to find the downed RAF pilot.

  Wilf saw Tag signalling to get their attention, indicating they should join him. They had been searching for nearly thirty minutes, and even Wilf was beginning to doubt the sense of their decision. He hissed to Badger, and the two SAS troopers made their way to where Tag and Hacker were staring up into the trees.

  “Hacker, Badger. Cover.” The two soldiers moved out to about twenty metres distant and kept watch while Tag and Wilf examined the white parachute canopy, torn and entangled in the branches halfway up the twenty metre tree. Suspended from it, still strapped into his harness, his neck and one of his arms at an impossible angle, was the pilot they had been seeking.

  “It’s no good, Wilf, he hasn’t made it. Shall I shin up and cut him down? Get his dog tags?”

  “No, leave him. The Sovs will find him eventually. Best they find him as is.”

  “What now?”

  “We continue with the original task.”

  Wilf called the team back in and ran through the next set of actions they would need to follow. The original task had been to lay up and monitor armour and troop movements along the E30 autobahn, reporting back to 1 BR Corps to assist them with their intelligence build-up, enabling them to decide troop dispositions to meet the massive force coming towards them. They also helped bring in the two Jaguar SEPECATs. The explosions and roar of jets had ceased, indicating that the British ground-attack aircraft had done their job and were running the Soviet air-defence gauntlet again in an effort to return to their base. The team had been taking it in turns to sleep, two on, two off, keeping as fresh as possible for the next stage of the mission. Although it had been disrupted, as a consequence of the downed pilot, they could still continue with their mission. The team had been tasked with approaching and identifying a tank division headquarters, its likely location picked up by an Electronic Warfare unit west of Hanover. They would eventually need to move south, passing beneath the E30, and locate this headquarters, report back and potentially initiate some sabotage.

  “Shall I call in about the pilot, Wilf?” asked Badger, the patrol’s signals specialist and the team member who carried their Clansman PRC-319 radio, an additional five kilograms on top of his other equipment.

  “No, we can send it as part of a routine message later. I want to get us out of here and back on track.”

  “Route?” asked Hacker.

  “Take us to the E30, but keep this side of the 122. I want to have a look at the junction.”

  “That’s going to be like a bloody hornets’ nest,” proclaimed Badger.

  “I know, but we might as well take a look-see while we’re in the area.”

  “We’ll need to keep tight, guys,” added Tag. “We’re right in the middle of one of GSFG’s main access routes.”

  Nods of heads confirmed that they all understood the risk they were about to undertake.

  Hacker led off again, taking them south; more slowly this time, knowing that the Soviets could be anywhere in the area, and there was always the potential that a much larger force than theirs could come looking for the pilot. After recrossing the Bruchgraben, Hacker steered them along a different hedgerow, bearing south-west, where, after 600 metres, they re-entered the forest, much further to the west. After nearly a kilometre without interruptions, apart from two more helicopters roaring overhead, the sounds had disappeared into the distance. The indication was that they weren’t going to land close by. Hacker brought them to within spitting distance of the E45 off to their right and the E30 to their front. The growl of tanks and the noise of other armoured vehicles could be heard moving east to west, the Soviets building up their forces ready to strike at the heart of northern Germany.

  Wilf was concerned. Had they been drawn out of their hide too soon? They were right in the middle of a vortex, an enemy build-up, and it wouldn’t be long before advanced units started to occupy the very forest they were now in. There was also a danger of NATO artillery strikes on this very position. That frightened him the most, spurring him on to complete this task and get the hell out of here.

  “Take us a little closer,” instructed Wilf. We need to do a damage assessment.”

  “OK.”

  The raised slip road, connecting the E30 with the E45, was directly in front of them. The large intersection, where the two major motorways crossed each other, covered an area of two kilometres by two kilometres and was heavily wooded, providing the team with lots of cover.

  Wilf turned to Tag. “You and Hacker stay here. Badger and I will do a recce.”

  “How long?”

  “Thirty minutes tops.”

  “OK.”

  The two men made their way to the top of the embankment, waited while a convoy of three Ural-375 troop transports drove by, then, ensuring the road was clear, ran across to the trees on the far side.

  “Where to?”

  “Go right,” whispered Wilf.

  Badger led the way. Bearing right through the trees, they came across the loop that allowed northbound traffic to come off the E45, turn in a tight circle, almost driving back on themselves, and get onto the east bound E30. There were four of these loops in total, one at each right angle where the roads crossed.

  “It’s like bloody Spaghetti Junction,” hissed Badger, referring to the M6 junction near Birmingham, his home city.

  Wilf knew exactly what he meant, but didn’t respond. They made their way to the top, lying down along the edge, watching out for enemy traffic on the loop, but it was quiet, the noise of military convoys still to their south. Up and over and they were soon inside a dense copse, taking their time now as they got closer and closer to the intersection of the two motorways. Both their heads snapped to the left as they he
ard an engine revving, followed by the distinctive sound of caterpillar tracks. Hunched over, they moved to the edge of the copse, stepping around and over lumps of reinforced concrete and bits of steel, towards the southern edge of the slip road loop. Far off to the left, a ZSU-23/4, self-propelled anti-aircraft gun was adjusting its position, the crew buttoned down inside for the moment. Ahead was a tangled mess. The entire upper section of the six-lane E45, along with the two slip road feeds, had collapsed on top of the E30. Now it was an entangled mass of chunks of concrete, longer broken sections of reinforced concrete, mixed in with bits of overhead gantries and twisted steel barriers. No one would be using this interchange for some time to come.

  “Now we know why the feeders are so bloody quiet.”

  “Yeah,” responded Wilf. “The Box-heads have done a good job of blowing this lot up.”

  “This’ll slow the buggers down.”

  “We’ve seen nothing north, so they must have built some sort of bypass to the south, to take traffic around it. We can check it out on the way to our lay-up point.”

  “Yes, and radio it in. Tell the RAF boys to get their asses over here.”

  “Do that at our next stop Badger. At the same time we can let them know how effective their strike was and how the Soviets have got round it. Maybe they’ll want another crack at it.”

  “Time to go?”

  “Yeah, come on.”

  They made their way back to where they had left Hacker and Tag. Then the SAS CPU patrolled carefully east through the forest where they had identified a lay-up point, where they could wait until darkness. Once last light was upon them, they could head south and carry out their task of locating the enemy headquarters. In the meantime, sleeping two-on, two-off, they could continue to monitor the steady build up of Soviet forces.

  Chapter 10

  1800 6 JULY 1984. 62 GUARDS TANK REGIMENT. SOUTH-EAST OF HANOVER, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −2 DAYS.

  “I hope you’ve brought some decent vodka with you, sir?”

  The two officers who had just entered the tent stood over Lieutenant Colonel Trusov, Commander of the 2nd Battalion, 62nd Guards Tank Regiment, 10th Guards Tank Division, as he twisted a map around on a small collapsible table, peering at it in the dim light provided by two oil lamps. He had been the only occupant after throwing out the rest of his officers, needing time to reflect on what he needed to do to ensure his unit was ready for any further tasks, although his men, and machines, were badly in need of a rest.

  “I thought it was you that should be offering your divisional commander a welcoming drink, Colonel Trusov.”

  The flimsy foldable chair shot back as Trusov leapt to his feet, seeing not only his regimental commander but also Major-General Abramov, the Commander of the 10th. He saluted quickly. “My apologies, Comrade General, Comrade Colonel.”

  “Sit down, sit down, Trusov.”

  “Sir.” Trusov picked up his chair, pulled additional chairs from the side of the battalion command tent, and offered one each to the two senior officers.

  “You are lucky, Colonel Trusov. I have brought my own vodka on this occasion,” the General responded, smiling.

  “And some glasses,” added Colonel Pushkin.

  Trusov looked at the two senior officers quizzically as Pushkin placed three small shot-size glasses on the map that was laid across the square table. Trusov tried reading his commander’s eyes, looking for a hint as to the purpose of this sudden interruption. But Colonel Pushkin was giving away nothing. Trusov had spoken to his divisional commander often, and had been presented with two awards by him: one for his military skill and a second one for bravery when he spent nine-months on a detachment in Afghanistan. However, today, Major-General Abramov wasn’t giving anything away either. The General, usually of good humour when briefing his officers or soldiers, could switch to a demon when berating a subordinate for incompetence. Then his humour would evaporate rapidly. On this occasion, the General’s expression showed neither humour nor tolerance; it was completely blank. What little light there was from the oil lamps didn’t help, casting dark flickering shadows across the two officers’ faces. The four-metre by four-metre tent was Trusov’s main battalion headquarters’ tent; maps suspended from hooks hanging from the tent sides; the table in the centre and another along one side strewn with maps; ammunition and supply requests ready to be transmitted to Regiment and Division. All his communications were with the MTLBs and his own personal T-80K.

  Pushkin topped up the glasses, pushing one towards the General and one towards Trusov, keeping one for himself. The General picked up his glass, Pushkin his.

  “Well, Colonel Trusov, I would like you to share a toast with us. So pick up your glass,” ordered the General.

  Trusov did as he was ordered.

  “You are no doubt aware that my Chief of Staff, Colonel Rykov, was killed by one of those damn NATO airstrikes.”

  “He was a great soldier, sir.”

  “True, true. Well, meet my new Chief of Staff,” the General informed Trusov, turning to look at Colonel Pushkin.

  Trusov’s eyebrows shot up. He stuttered out a congratulation and raised his glass. “To Colonel Pushkin’s new position.”

  “Za Vas!” they chorused.

  Glasses were slammed down on the table and were quickly refilled by the General. Trusov’s mind was racing. A new regimental commander. God, he would have to train another one all over again. Although pleased for his ex-commander, there was some disappointment. Pushkin had been tolerant of Trusov’s methods and ways, and his occasional insubordination. They could almost be classed as friends. A new commander may not be so accommodating.

  “Congratulations, Comrade Colonel.”

  “Thank you, Comrade Trusov, but the General hasn’t finished.” Pushkin turned to the General, his cue to continue the story.

  “Colonel Trusov, you are to take over command of the 62nd Guards Tank Regiment with immediate effect.”

  Trusov looked stunned. “But—”

  “No buts, Colonel Trusov. Colonel Pushkin assures me that you are more than up to the task. Also, your actions since the start of hostilities with the West have been exemplary, so I am inclined to agree with him.”

  “When, sir?”

  “You are in command of the regiment as of now, Colonel.” The General raised his glass, as did Pushkin, and they in turn congratulated the newly promoted officer.

  “Za Vas!”

  “Right, down to business, young Trusov.” The General pushed the glasses to one side, Pushkin gathering them up and placing them on the canvas-covered ground. Abramov peered at the map, got his bearings, spun it around and stabbed a spot with one of his slim fingers. Most senior Russian officers tended to be on the heavy size, and often dominated their men and officers by their sheer magnitude and presence. Abramov, on the other hand, looked almost underfed. Anyone who misinterpreted that for a weakness would soon find themselves on the receiving end of a guillotine tongue. He exuded enormous power and had quickly earned the respect of both his juniors and seniors.

  “Nordstemmen to the south, Rossing to the north.” He dragged a finger between the two. “I intend that we push right through the centre of these two and across the Leine.”

  “These two bridges,” added Pushkin. “This is where we’ll cross.”

  Trusov studied the area where his ex-commander was indicating.

  Pushkin continued. “The first bridge is north-east of Schulenburg, the second next to the high ground further south.”

  “They’ll be primed ready to blow,” exclaimed Trusov. “They’ll be blown and down before we can get a tank near them.”

  “More than likely,” added the General with a sly smile. “But there is a bigger picture, Colonel. The Tenth and Seventh Guards Tank Divisions have one major task left before we are pulled out of the line and gi
ven time to rest and refit. We have to smash the British division that is defending this sector of the River Leine into submission. Cross that river and destroy this key line of defence, giving no quarter. Our main aim: to destroy as much of their force as possible.”

  Pushkin took over from the General. “The 61st Tank Regiment will target Nordstemmen and the 63rd, Rossing.”

  “But they’ll defend these towns or villages and blow the damn bridges, sir.”

  “Have faith, Trusov,” interposed Abramov. “We will bypass those built-up areas quickly. I don’t intend to have my tanks bogged down and my men tangled up in house-to-house fighting. We will try for those two bridges, but a key focus will be on putting our own bridge across the river right in between Schulenburg and the high ground to the south. There is also a rail bridge further south. We’ll keep an eye on that as well. Our division will conduct a battalion airborne assault to secure that high ground here, Sel Marienburg. I have also been promised some assistance from the Spetsnaz prima donnas.”

  Trusov nodded, running the scenarios through his head.

  “You see now, Pavel.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel. What about my battalion – uh – regiment?”

  “How many tanks do you have, Colonel Pushkin?”

  “Forty-nine, Comrade General.”

  “Hmm, nearly fifty per cent casualties. But your men fought well to get this far.”

  “Many of the tanks need maintenance, sir, and the crews are tired.”

  “I understand that, Colonel Trusov,” said the General as he leant over the table. “All they have to do is make one last effort for the Motherland; then they will be off the line.” He locked eyes with Trusov for a second before sitting back up. “Anyway, the 61st and 63rd will take the brunt. Should we need your regiment, Colonel Trusov, you and your men will be ready.”

  “Yes, Comrade General, my men will not let you down.”