The Black Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  “Makes sense, Wilf,” agreed Hacker.

  “It’s open ground,” thought Wilf out loud.

  “We could go diagonally from here, north-west, to that smaller building opposite the main one. Skirt round the outside into the trees up against the wall, then straight across to it. It’s what, a twenty-metre dash?” estimated Badger.

  “It’s the best option, Wilfy,” agreed Tag.

  “Let’s do it then. Hacker, Badger, you two stay here and cover our exit.” Wilf checked his watch: one-forty. “Give us two hours. If we’re not back by then, scarper. Our emergency rendezvous will be the north-east tip of the quarry we came through. Wait thirty minutes and, if a no-show, then we meet back at the Mexe-hide. Got it?”

  The two SAS troopers staying behind acknowledged. They were slightly disappointed that it wasn’t them that would be doing the full recce, but understood that their patrol leader had to choose someone. Wilf and Tag dropped their packs; then moved west, taking them to the edge of the copse, while Hacker and Badger got into a position where they could watch for the enemy and be ready to cover their two comrades should they have to make a hot exit.

  Wilf placed the imaging device in front of his eyes, the green shimmer showing what lay ahead of them. Left, about twenty metres away, was a two-metre high hedge. It followed the left-hand track, running west then curving sharply to the north. The hedge stopped where the track suddenly veered right, about 100 metres away, and ran north alongside the western edge of the complex, where the main entrance was guarded by Soviet soldiers. Somewhere in between the track and their position, Wilf could make out darker shadows, the image intensifier revealing possible box-body vehicles. To their immediate front left were some abandoned civilian vehicles, rusted and rotting and, to their half right, the first building they needed to head for. Wilf signaled, and Tag slipped behind him as they moved towards the box-bodies, turned right, using them for cover, and, after checking all was clear, sprinted across to the smaller of the two buildings, crouching down, controlling their breathing, listening. The hum of the generators was distinctly louder now, probably two or three in operation, indicative that it may well be a Soviet divisional headquarters. Satisfied they hadn’t been discovered, Wilf led them west, along the southern edge, for ten metres; then took them right, into the gathering of trees alongside the smaller of the two buildings where they could launch their recce of the larger building opposite. Both moved slowly, testing the ground with the tip of their boots before allowing their leg to take their full weight. The noise of the generators, one occasionally emitting a cough and a splutter, went some way to cover any accidental noise they might make. At the edge, Wilf looked to the left, and about fifty metres away, hidden by the civilian vehicles they had passed earlier, was a Soviet Ural-375 box-body, the shadow of the distinctive twin troposcatter dishes on the top, close by a Kamaz-4310, with its power generator running, and carrying the support equipment for the R-423-1 Brig-1. He knew that this was a tropospheric scatter communications system, used as a tactical means of communication between headquarters and higher command. He had questioned in his own mind the likelihood of a divisional headquarters being so close to the front, particularly considering that its regiments were believed to have not yet been deployed. Reinforcements maybe, he thought, or just second echelon divisions getting ready to take over from the first echelon units.

  His thoughts were interrupted as Tag placed a hand on his shoulder and indicated they had company: the Soviet sentry, who had earlier been patrolling up and down the length of what now appeared to be a ramshackle building made of concrete blocks for a low base wall, corrugated sheets for the sides, and topped with metal sheets for the flattish roof.

  The sentry, who still had his AK-74 assault rifle slung over his shoulder, approached the trees and was within a metre of the two hidden men when he stopped by one of the larger trees and proceeded to undo his flies before urinating up against the trunk. Once finished, he buttoned up and moved further along to another tree, on the other side of Wilf and Tag’s position, just over two metres away, where he leant against that trunk and lit himself a cigarette. The sentry was humming a tune to himself as he moved around the tree, so he was out of sight of any of his seniors who could potentially catch him smoking whilst on sentry duty. Wilf and Tag waited it out, hoping the soldier would move soon. Time was not on their side. Just as they thought he was about to leave, he pulled out a canteen from his pocket, unscrewed the top and took a swig. Replacing the cap, putting the canteen back in his pocket, he pulled out his cigarette pack, extracting another and lighting it, leaning against the trunk again before taking a deep drag. Wilf pulled Tag in close, held out his wrist and tapped his watch; then drew his right hand across his own throat. Tag nodded and watched as Wilf lowered his M-16 to the ground; then eased off his webbing, taking his time for fear of making a noise. Then, stealth-like, he crept towards the sentry who had moved to the side of the trunk, peering round, down the length of the building he was meant to be protecting, no doubt looking for a sign of the duty NCO or officer.

  Wilf estimated that the soldier looked to be no older than twenty. He judged the soldier to be a similar height to his own. The double-edged fighting knife was now in his right hand: the Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife, his favourite weapon. He didn’t relish using it, but from his experiences in the Falklands, he knew it was an effective weapon and a relatively silent method of securing a kill. Taking one step at a time, nudging anything aside with his toecap that he felt would make a noise if stepped on, he moved closer and closer. Less than a metre, the soldier humming away to himself, drawing on his cigarette, the red glow lighting up his young face, oblivious to the stalker that was close behind him. A twig cracked, and the sentry pushed himself off the tree, not sure what he had heard, stubbing out his cigarette in panic in case it was that bastard of a sergeant doing his rounds.

  Wilf didn’t hesitate. He sprang forward, clamped his left hand over the sentry’s mouth, crushing his face, pulling the man’s helmeted head tight into the crick of his own neck and shoulder. His right hand pulled back, gripping the commando dagger, and he slammed the blade deep into the soldier’s kidney. He felt the young man tense, desperately trying to open his mouth in response to the terrible shock that resonated through his entire body. Wilf pushed the guard past the soldier’s own webbing and the seven-inch blade bit deep into his body, using the man’s own weight to assist him. As the soldier started to recover from the shock, Wilf withdrew the blade and slammed it in again, before withdrawing it and slicing across the soldier’s throat, sliding it in a saw-like motion to cut through the gristle, severing the trachea. Not once did his hand move from the man’s mouth. The killing was silent, and Tag came forward to help Wilf lower the body quietly and drag the dying man under cover. By the time they had pushed him against the wall of the building, he was dead. They stripped him of any documentation in his possession, perhaps helping to identify the unit; then left him.

  “Nice one, Wilfy, but now we’d better fucking move before he’s missed.”

  Wilf didn’t need any encouragement. He collected his kit and led them both back to the edge. A quick scan showed the area was clear, and they ran, hunched down, across the open concrete ground to the main building. They both felt exposed as they moved south along the side of the building reaching the corner where they could see the communications vehicles spotted earlier. There was no one around. The men who manned it were probably sitting in the box-body or even asleep somewhere. The humming of the generator was masking any noise they might make. Turning the corner, Wilf moved west, looking for an entrance, a window, somewhere that would give them a view inside the building. Very soon, they turned another corner and were creeping north on the other side, some trees providing temporary cover.

  “It’s going to be at the other end, Wilfy.”

  “Yeah, I know, a real pisser. We have to be quick. Any minute they could be looking to change their
sentries.” He checked his watch: two-fifteen. “If they change on the half-hour, we have fifteen minutes.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  This time, Tag took point, and they moved as swiftly as they dared along the full length of the building, slowing down before they reached the north-west corner. On their way, they saw another guard patrolling along the length of a one-metre high wall that ran along the western perimeter, and four more manning the double gate that closed off the entrance. North of the building an array of military vehicles were parked up; spread over a large area, cam-netting draped over them to hide the recognisable shapes from the air. There were box-bodies, a couple of troop carriers and a scattering of MTLBs, a T-64 and two BMP-2s. Engines could be heard starting up, and soldiers were in the process of de-camming one of the BMPs.

  Tag indicated they move back and hissed in Wilf’s ear, “This is a fucking Div HQ all right, and they’re getting ready to move.”

  “It’s not a main though. It’s not big enough.”

  “You’re right, probably a Forward CP.”

  “We need to make it quick. It’s five minutes to the half-hour.”

  The two men backtracked, turned left around the end of the building, watching the communications truck as they moved past it. At the far corner, they halted, and Tag peered around the corner. They would need to stick close to the building for about twenty metres before crossing over to where they had left the dead sentry.

  Tag was about to signal Wilf to move when they heard the shout.

  “Vasily...Vasily.”

  “Fuck, Wilfy, they’re going to discover he’s missing pretty damn soon.”

  A door banged open from the Ural-375. They too had received orders to pack up and move out.

  “We need to move sharpish, Wilf. We’re buggered if we hang around here.”

  “Vasily, ты где?”

  “What’s he shouting, Wilf ?”

  “No idea.”

  “I thought you spoke Russian.”

  “So did I. We’ll make a dash for it. Straight for Badger and Hacker.”

  “Vasily, ты где?”

  Bent over low, the two men sprinted for the location where they had left the two others, time becoming critical now.

  “Vasily. Kто это?”

  “Shit, run!” yelled Wilf. They sprinted, a 100 metre dash to the wrecked box-bodies and another ten would see them in the trees, their boots pounding on the hardened ground as they raced for cover.

  “Kто это?”

  “Kто это?”

  Crack, crack, crack.

  A three-round burst tore up the ground to the side of the running men just before they whipped round behind the trucks, giving them a breather. Within seconds, they were in amongst the trees and in the prone position ready to return fire.

  There were more shouts from the direction of the building, and additional clamour from the direction of the communications vehicle.

  “We go east,” called Wilf. “Badger, Hacker, take out that foxhole and follow us. We’ll wait for you by the track.”

  “Roger.”

  “Go.”

  Badger and Hacker quickly made their way behind the foxhole. One of the soldiers was standing on the edge looking towards the direction of the commotion; the other was inside, his gun at the ready. Badger, using a garrote dragged the choking soldier out of his hole, while Hacker slit the throat of the other. The Soviet conscript soldiers didn’t even hear them coming and died not really knowing what the war was all about in the first place. The two men weaved through the trees and met up with Tag and Wilf. They all followed the edge of the trees to the north before dropping down into a gully running east. Fifty metres found them at the track.

  Wilf called them together. “This gully continues east. After 200 metres, it splits north and south. We go north, get to the outskirts of Lehrte, then run east back to the railway line. Yes?”

  “Sounds like the best option to me,” responded Badger. Hacker and Tag also agreed.

  “OK, let’s go. The minute we get some breathing space, I shall call in.”

  Wilf led the way, leopard crawling his way through the culvert that crossed beneath the road, a few centimetres of rank liquid mud soaking his combats. Once out the other side, they pushed forward, crouching so they were below the lip of the gully. They heard more shots, but the sound faded the further east they went. They tabbed for nearly two hours and, just before daylight, they were able to hide up.

  Once the radio was set up, the aerial extended, Wilf called in. The PRC-319, a fifty-watt microprocessor-based radio transceiver, would pass on the information they had just gathered. Using the electronic message unit, he tapped on the small alphanumeric keys and typed his message for his commander. As it was a burst transmitter, he could send the message data at high speed giving them significant security.

  Chapter 27

  0400 8 JULY 1984. COMBAT TEAM BRAVO (+). GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT.

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

  “Two-Two-Alpha, go ahead. Over.”

  “Heavy movement your east. Incoming likely.”

  “Roger, Bravo-Zero. Out to you. All Two-Two call signs. Standby, standby. Out.”

  Alex called down to Corporal Patterson. “Mask up. Make sure Mackinson and Ellis cover up as well.”

  “Sir,” Patsy shouted back.

  Dropping down, he closed the hatch cover and peered through the scopes, turning the cupola to scan the area. Mackey started the engine again and they were ready for action. He felt sick, knowing what was coming this time. They had finally got to Two-Two-Bravo. The crew had been unable to get out of their Chieftain tank, trapped in a potential coffin. For the Gunner, Lance Corporal Owen, it had literally become his steel coffin. His broken arm, crushed ribs and pierced lungs, after being bodily thrown heavily against the solid breech of the 120mm gun, had left him crippled and effectively drowning in his own blood. His muffled screams of agony had gone unheard by his fellow crewmen as the clamour of sound outside the tank, and the noise resonating through the fighting compartment, left him isolated. When Two-Two-Charlie had finally got to them, they discovered the tank on its side, the top of the turret and the glacis pressed up against the side wall of the berm. Deep gouges had been cut into the Chobham armour, such was the ferocity of the shelling. The track, in short sections, barely hanging together by the odd pin, lay draped over the side of the tank, the drive sprockets and bogie wheels unprotected and vulnerable. Two of them were missing, wrenched off by the powerful explosions. Anything attached to the outside had all but disappeared. Baskets, storage bins and the radio antenna were nowhere to be seen.

  Corporal Simpson immediately called for help and, within an hour, the unit was joined by an armoured recovery vehicle. While Two-Two-Charlie provided cover, they slowly pulled the giant tank away from the side of the berm, allowing the tank troopers to get access to the turret and fighting compartment. Sergeant Andrews, who had smashed his head against the hard metal of the turret, was conscious, but his smashed hand had swollen to treble its normal size, and he was in severe pain. A jab of morphine and he was carried to the tracked Samaritan armoured ambulance where he could get further treatment before being shipped to one of the field hospitals in the rear.

  Trooper Lowe, who had been pinned in the driver’s compartment, was well and was soon spouting off about how he was going to kick some arse when he got back in a driver’s seat. He too was taken to the Samaritan. They removed Lance Corporal Owen’s body, as ceremoniously as they possibly could, manoeuvring him through the second turret hatch, four of them carrying him to the ambulance. Lowe burst into tears when he saw his friend, realising how lucky he had been and wondering why Owen and not he had died.

  The tank was dragged further out; then pulled over onto its remaining track an
d bogie wheels. A Scammel tank transporter had been ordered to assist, so they could recover the Chieftain fully and, perhaps in time, even have it back on the battlefield, although it would be days rather than hours. But they were building up quite a graveyard of battered tanks, so spare parts were becoming easier to find. The barrel, buckled and useless, would have to be completely renewed, as would some of the splintered and shattered vision blocks. Two-Two-Charlie could stay no longer. They had been ordered to move to their new location, but a pair of Scorpions were being sent across the river to act as sentries. The rest of the recce troop, along with a second one, were helping with the battle to keep the Soviet airborne forces out of the town. Lieutenant Baty and his two Scorpions, with their 76mm guns, had already had some successes, knocking out four BMDs. The Soviets were slowly running out of armoured support.

  0400 8 JULY 1984. COMBAT TEAM BRAVO (+), CALL SIGN TWO-TWO-DELTA. GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLACK EFFECT.

  Corporal Carter ran along the line of foxholes, checking on the new section that had recently arrived. He had sent the remnants of his section back into the orchard, about 100 metres behind them, giving them the opportunity of being out of the direct firing line, but available as a quick reaction force should they be needed. He wasn’t so sure of how quickly they could react. They were tired and shocked, and had seen their dead and wounded comrades taken away. Ashley, the youngest member of the section, was just a mass of blood, his body peppered with shrapnel from an AGS’s 30mm grenade. Against orders, they had used their own first field dressing, bandaging him up to try and stem the flow of blood pulsating from numerous rents in his body. He had just stared at his section commander, a slight smile on his pale face; a smile that said, I know you will take care of me, Corporal.

  There was still a second 432 with the Peak Engineering turret. Carter’s plan was to use what was left of his section, along with the 432, to block any flanking attacks. The best way to judge when to use them and where, was by remaining on the front line himself. He wasn’t trying to be heroic by staying; he just needed to orientate the fresh section to their new location: point out where the BMPs might stop to disgorge their troops; where the AGS-17s could set up and suppress them while they assaulted their defences; where the tanks were likely to come from; blind spots; dead ground...all the pointers that could keep these men alive and maybe even hold their position. He assisted the new section commander, Corporal Lawton, in establishing arcs of fire, where best to position his GPMG, where best to place the Milan FPs. Carter’s surviving Milan firing post had volunteered to stay on the line, but his orders had been explicit: he was to pull his unit back unless needed. His platoon commander was with the third section of the platoon, battling with the Soviet airborne troops that were trying to get to the Gronau bridge; adding his leadership to the West German reservists who were doing their best to protect their homes and defeat the enemy trying to take their town, and their country, from them.