The Black Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  “Two-Two-Charlie, location? Over.”

  “Two-Two-Charlie, outskirts of town, Dotzummer Strasse. Fucking Hinds. Over.”

  “Roger, Two-Two-Charlie. Hold position as best you can.”

  There was a sudden explosion out front.

  “Two-Two-Alpha. Rapier has just taken out a Hind. Blown the shit out of it.”

  “Calm down. Hold position if able.”

  “Roger.”

  Alex tried to contact the infantry and 438s. From the Strikers he got nothing, but the infantry corporal was able to respond.

  “Two-Two-Alpha. We’re in the shit here, sir. Managed to pull back to the second line. Multiple casualties. If we don’t get out of here soon, we’re fucked.”

  “Hang in there. Standby. Two-Two-Bravo, this is Two-Two-Alpha. Over.”

  Still no response. Alex pushed the turret hatch open, breathing in the fresh air, dragging it into his lungs, a relief after the smell and fumes from the firing of the GPMG and the main gun. He suddenly felt dizzy, exhausted. They had been under attack for nearly an hour now, yet it felt like they had been fighting for a full day. He heard the driver’s hatch open, enabling Mackey to sit up, ease his aching limbs, lift his head out of the fridge. Still no response from his third tank though.

  “Bravo-Zero, this is Two-Two-Alpha. Sitrep. Over.”

  “Go ahead. Over.”

  “Lost contact with Two-Two-Echo call signs and Two-Two-Bravo. Infantry element under severe pressure. Over.”

  “Understood. Help on the way. Just hang in there. Out.”

  Chapter 16

  0330 7 JULY 1984. 62 GUARDS TANK REGIMENT. SOUTH-EAST OF HANOVER, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

  Colonel Trusov, now a full colonel, his new rank confirmed by radio an hour earlier, made his way down a street in the small town of Harsum. His T-80K was camouflaged in the woods behind him, manned by his crew and the MTLB-RkhM-K, one of two, his mobile command post, had gone on ahead, 200 metres to where the regimental headquarters had been set up in a barn. From the south came the sound of small arms fire. The West German Landwehr were doing battle with Soviet NKVD forces, along with elements of the VolksArmee, the East German Army and Grenztruppen, East German border guards, that had been shipped in especially to subdue Hildesheim. It would take at least a regiment, if not two, to take the town, but Trusov didn’t much care so long as the enemy were kept occupied and his men were kept out of it. The follow-on forces would clear the town at a later date, should it prove necessary. He passed a T-80 on his left, backed up in a side street. One of the tracks was laid out to its fullest extent in front, the crew doing their best to make a repair. He approached the men, and two AK-74s were immediately aimed in his direction as they heard him approach.

  “Sorry, sir,” stuttered a sergeant, realising he had pulled a gun on his Regimental Commander.

  “Better you were ready, Sergeant. I may well have been a Western saboteur. Your repairs going well?”

  The Sergeant lowered his weapon and rubbed the back of a blackened hand across his forehead, leaving a smear of oil and grease. “This one will be fixed, sir, but we’ve had to cannibalise another tank for the parts. When will we get some spares, sir?”

  “They’re on their way, Sergeant. When will this one be ready?”

  “About an hour, sir.”

  “Good. We need as many tanks as possible operational. Keep up the good work.”

  “Sir.”

  He left the men to continue with their task and headed towards his HQ. Command had informed him that spares were on the way. He hoped that was the case. His equipment was now starting to feel the strain of being in battle for over forty-eight hours. The repair list was growing rapidly, and he needed as many tanks as possible ready. Although there was a major air battle for air superiority going on above him, NATO forces were still able to interdict some of the Soviet army’s supply lines. And, despite the fact that his regiment was now considered the divisional reserve, he had a suspicion that he and his men would be needed far sooner than anyone expected. Although they had suffered battle losses in material and men, he sensed that this first phase of the war had been easy. Perhaps too easy. In part due to NATO’s strategy of trading ground for time, and the fact that they were still flying and shipping reinforcements from the US and the British mainland. The assault that was planned to go ahead shortly would find a very different approach from the British, and their new Challenger tanks would be a formidable obstacle, not that the Chieftains didn’t pack a heavy punch. Within fifty metres of his destination, he could hear the steady hum of the generators, powering the lights and the communications systems. As he approached his Regimental Headquarters, two sentries, who recognised him as their Regimental Commander, even in the dim early morning light, saluted and waved him through.

  Trusov pushed his way through a layer of blankets that had been suspended from the roof of the open-ended barn. The other end had been closed off in a similar fashion, creating a space inside that could be lit without giving away their location to enemy aircraft that would likely be on reconnaissance missions in the skies above, searching for such targets. The officers and men jumped to attention as they recognised him, and he waved them back down. Lieutenant-Colonel Antakov, the Commander of the 1st Battalion, 62nd Guards Tank Regiment, was standing over a crudely assembled table, a temporary platform supported on wooden crates, perusing the map placed there, familiarising himself with the perceived positions of the enemy and those of his own units.

  “Sir.”

  “Grigory, checking positions or hoping to catch a glimpse of the forthcoming battle?”

  “Both, sir,” Antakov responded, smiling; coming to terms with the fact that this man was now his senior, and his commander.

  Trusov turned as one of the three radios, set up along one of the barn walls, crackled into life as a routine message was passed through. “The next radio transmission I hear that isn’t critical to the success of this regiment’s operational role, I will personally have the man responsible shot. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” all three radio operators responded, knowing that it was not an idle threat.

  “We’ll have bloody NATO rockets down our throats.”

  “Well, sir, it’s going to kick off in ten minutes,” said Lieutenant-Colonel Antakov, checking his watch.

  Before Trusov could answer, the blankets were again pushed apart as three more Lieutenant-Colonels joined them. Oleg Danshov, commander of the third tank battalion, Kirill Mahayev, newly promoted in order to take over command of the second battalion from Trusov, and the commander of the unit’s infantry battalion, Lieutenant-Colonel Pyotr Lachkov.

  “Make yourself useful and sort out some drinks for over here,” called Antakov to one of the junior lieutenants hovering on the fringes, watching over the radio operators in the command post. He in turn despatched a sergeant to fulfil the order. A second lieutenant was checking the latest supply returns, while a captain kept track of the radio log.

  Another radio message came in and the Captain informed his senior officers. “Artillery strike has started, sir.”

  Trusov nodded and checked his watch. It was four in the morning. General Abramov had already informed his senior officers that, on the advice of his new Chief-of-Staff, Colonel Pushkin, he intended to bring the artillery barrage and the assault timings forward from the original time of four-thirty. Using the twilight to provide them with additional cover. Should the current wind speed and direction remain steady, a smokescreen would protect the advancing army from the prying eyes of the enemy, but it would also blind the Soviet tanks who would blunder about in the smoke, disorientated and potentially at the mercy of the NATO tanks and anti-tank missiles. They could just make out the thunder of the explosions in the distance, some ten kilometres away to the west. The defenders would now get thirty minutes of heavy bomba
rdment, a deluge of shells, missiles and rockets shaking them to their very core.

  “It’s started then,” said Mahayev, slightly nervously, having not yet fully adjusted to his promotion and higher level of responsibility. The day before he was junior to the other three battalion commanders; now, he was their equal.

  “Have there been any changes, sir?” asked Danshov.

  “No major changes other than bringing the assault forward. Colonel Pushkin has also convinced the General to hold back the air-assault battalion. He is suggesting we use them when we go for a second push.”

  “A second push? They’ve been running like rabbits. There were times when I thought we wouldn’t be able to keep up with them,” exclaimed Antakov, always the arrogant one. Trusov had already logged that this particular battalion commander was a hothead. Most of the tanks he had lost due to enemy action were as a consequence of his over-confidence. That was a trait that could perhaps be useful at some point in the future. But only when the time called for it, thought Trusov. Antakov was the officer who seemed to resent the change of command the most, believing it was he who should now be commanding the regiment. Trusov suspected that the man had links to someone higher up the military hierarchy, or even a politician. He would have to watch him closely.

  “It’s been deliberate, Grigory,” advised Trusov. “The British make many mistakes, and many of their officers are incompetent. But, they are far from stupid.”

  There was a noise at the entrance as a sergeant, and a private, followed by his sergeant, brought a battered tray in, arrayed with an eclectic mix of mugs and a large plate of sandwiches: thick dark bread with a heavy layer of Leberwurst, no doubt appropriated from the local population.

  “Excellent, excellent, Sergeant Tsvilenev. Someone finally knows how to use their initiative.” Tsvilenev ordered the private put the plate in front of Trusov and the commander helped himself to one slice.

  “They are moving into position, sir,” called a lieutenant manning the divisional radio net.

  “Put it on speaker,” ordered Trusov.

  The speaker, on top of one of the wooden tables, crackled into life.

  “One-Zero, Six-One. All units in position.”

  “Roger, Six-One. Five minutes.”

  Trusov looked at the map, picturing where the 61st Guards Tank Regiment would be forming up. A tank battalion would be moving north-west of Sorsum; the infantry battalion would be preparing to infiltrate Emmerke and provide cover for the battalion as it advanced, using the anti-tank missiles on their BMP-2s to target any British armour that exposed itself. A second battalion would be lying up east of Emmerke, ready to whip around the northern outskirts and go hell for leather south-west. Mine-clearing tanks would lead the way, and bridging units would be quickly brought forward to cross the Rissingbach, avoiding the small marshy area just north-west of Emmerke. The third battalion would be moving into the wooded area south of the high ground, Giessener-berge, ready to respond quickly, when committed to thrusting through a weak point in the enemy’s defences.

  “One-Zero, this is Six-Three. Units in position.”

  “Roger, Six-Three.”

  “They’ll be around Giesen then,” suggested Danshov.

  “Yes,” responded their commander. “A battalion will strike for the gap between Rossing and Barnten. The motor rifle battalion will push north of Rossing to cover the regiment’s left flank with a tank company from the second tank battalion covering the north around by Barnten. The rest of the battalion will support the thrust through the gap. The third tank battalion will come forward when called.”

  “Two hundred tanks. The British are going to piss their pants.”

  “So they might, Kirill. But they have to cross at least three-kilometres of pretty much open ground first.”

  “The arty fire has stopped, sir,” Lachkov informed the Colonel.

  They all checked their watches as one. It was four-thirty.

  But the reprieve for the Royal Hussars and the rest of 7th Armoured Brigade units didn’t last for long. Four SU-25 ground-attack aircraft, with the NATO designation of Frogfoot, weighed down with weapons’ loads of 80mm rockets, flew low above the barn, heading towards the front line. They were soon joined by another four. Overhead, SU-27 Flanker fighters and Mig-31 Foxhound fighters provided cover to protect their charges below. At least thirty Mig-27 Flogger ground-attack aircraft carrying 4,000 kilograms of bombs each weren’t far behind.

  A constant stream of aircraft flew over the barn and the village as the Soviet attack aircraft swooped in to deliver their deadly loads, complete a circuit and either drop the rest of their weapons load or strafe the dug-in defenders with their powerful cannon.

  “16th Aviation Army have promised at least 200 sorties during this first hour.”

  “This has got to work, sir,” Lachkov chimed in.

  They heard a large explosion, high up and to the west. A Frogfoot had just been taken down by a Rapier missile.

  “Let’s hope so, Pyotr, let’s hope so.”

  They chatted through various tactics, how they thought the battle would play out, while the air-to-ground attack and air-to-air battle went on around them. Trusov just listened most of the time, starting to get the measure of these men from a different perspective: one of command.

  The speaker crackled. “One-Zero, Six-One. Moving.”

  “Roger, Six-One.”

  “One-Zero, Six-Three. Call sign Six-One-One advancing.”

  “Roger.”

  “First battalion on the way,” suggested Antakov.

  “About three-kilometres to Escherde,” mused Trusov.

  “One-Zero, call sign Six-One-Four moving.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “One-Zero, call sign Six-One-Two moving. Six-One-Three holding position.”

  Antakov’s hand swept across the map, the other flicking the ash from his evil-smelling cigarette to the floor.

  “That’s their motor rifle battalion heading for Emmerke and the second tank battalion sweeping north of the village.”

  “They’ll need to be bloody quick with their bridging equipment,” suggested Mahayev, his confidence steadily building. “If they get stuck west of Emmerke, they will be wide open to tank fire from Rossing.”

  “The 63rd will cover their flank,” advised Lachkov.

  “One-Zero, Six-Three. Six-Three-Four and Six-Three-One on the move.”

  “There they go.” Danshov smiled. “The foot sloggers will push on Rossing, while the real work is done by the tanks.”

  That brought a laugh from the assembled officers. Even those on the periphery couldn’t help but get caught up in the excitement. The group felt like voyeurs, spying on their comrades who were about to go into battle.

  0430 7 JULY 1984. ROYAL HUSSARS, COMBAT TEAM DELTA. ROSSING, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

  Every troop of the Royal Hussars’ Battlegroup had been on the receiving end of a Soviet strike, whether by artillery, missiles or the bombs and rockets from Soviet aircraft. At least two of the low-flying attackers had been shot down by Rapier missiles, and one had been damaged by a Blowpipe shoulder-launched SAM. British RAF Tornado, Air Defence Versions (ADV) and a dozen West German Luftwaffe Phantoms called in to support, battled with the Soviet Flankers and Foxhound fighters at high altitude. Their preferred target was the Flogger ground-attack aircraft, preventing them from inflicting damage on the defenders dug in to hold back the massed tank attack that was about to ensue. They shot down five fighters and damaged a Foxhound, losing two Phantoms and a Tornado in the process, before breaking off the attack to refuel and rearm. More NATO aircraft were on the way, a maelstrom of activity forming overhead of the British 1st Armoured Division. But the Soviet air force was also sending in a second wave.

  “Delta-Four-Alpha, Delta-Four-Bravo...movement, 2,000 metres, ne
ar high ground west of Giesen. Cannot identify at this time. Over.”

  “Numbers. Over.”

  “Delta-Four-Bravo...ah, maybe three, no four. Large, possibly main battle tanks. Over.”

  “Roger, out to you. Zero-Delta, this is Delta-Four-Alpha. We have sighting at grid Charlie, five, nine, five, Echo, eight, two, nine. Unidentified armour, numbers estimate figures four. Over.”

  “Roger.”

  Earlier Lieutenant Barrett had provided his squadron commander with a situation report on his troop, and he in turn had received feedback on the state of the squadron. His troop had survived intact. Most of the shells and missiles had landed behind him and the aircraft had not spotted his position. The two Challengers he had pushed forward hadn’t been touched. The Soviets had a vast area to bombard and clearly had difficulty in picking out the well-camouflaged British defenders east of the river. Had they spent more time on preparation and completed a more detailed reconnaissance of the defensive positions, the artillery and missile strikes might have been more effective. But urgency seemed to be what the Group of Soviet Forces Germany Commander was advocating, keeping the pressure on NATO, giving them no time to effectively dig in using properly prepared positions.

  The squadron hadn’t got off scot-free. B-troop, covering the northern section of Escherde, had been completely wiped out. Something had given them away and the Soviet air force had all but flattened the village north of the road, completely destroying all three of the Challengers and killing their crews. One of the tanks of the troop south of the road had suffered minor damage and was already racing west down the road that would take them through Heyersum, the location of the squadron HQ, then north-west to cross the river where the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers (REME) would attempt to work their magic. But of the six tanks defending that stretch, they were now down to two. Combat Team Charlie had received a battering, losing three tanks and one damaged while the units west of the river, although receiving the bulk of the arty and air attention, had lost only two tanks between them, one with minor damage. Still, for a tank regiment to lose eight of their fifty-six, plus three damaged and one broken down, without firing a shot was of concern to all.