The Blue Effect (Cold War) (11 page)

“All Delta-Three call signs. Place your shots, place your shots. Delta-Three-One, standby to come forward. Over.”

“Delta-Three-One, roger. Ready to move.”

Zero-Delta, this is Delta-Three-Zero. Fire Mission. Over.”

“Send. Over.”

“X-Ray-One, X-Ray-One. Enemy in treeline. Over.”

“Roger that. Standby for ranging shot. Out.”

“Standby for outgoing,” Reynolds shouted to his platoon.

Zip…zip
. Two rounds passed his face, so close he felt the draught on his skin.

“Get your bloody head down, sir, or you’ll lose it,” yelled Sergeant Mason.

Reynolds placed his helmet back on and called back. “I’m going to check on Three-Two. Keep me posted.”

“Run low, sir, run low.”

Reynolds nodded then shuffled back before getting up and sprinting north, his runner and radio operator close behind, dropping down the bank and passing behind the rifle-group and Milan FP, checking in on them as he passed. One soldier had a minor shrapnel wound, but all five soldiers were returning fire at the enemy. The Milan team waited patiently.

He ran round to the front of the concrete tunnel mouth and dropped down next to Two-Section. A medic was patching up the two wounded soldiers. Private Bailey lay still; a combat jacket had been thrown over his face. The cause of his death was obvious: the mangled lower part of his body, one leg missing, a bloody stump for the other, death would have come very quickly. The blood loss had been quick, his punctured abdomen adding to the steady loss of his life-giving fluids.

Corporal Walker, his wide eyes staring through his mask, looked at his platoon commander, almost pleading with him to help. But Reynolds was pleased with what he saw. The NCO had placed his men well, and they were returning fire, following his orders whenever he spotted a target. Once this was over,
if they get through it,
thought Oliver, the NCO would be the better for it.

Brrrrrp…brrrrp…brrrrp.
The Gympy put rounds down on the enemy, and there was no sign of an assault yet. Two-Section was hurt, but OK. Three-One wasn’t needed, just yet.

“You’re doing a good job, Corporal Walker. Your section can remove their masks. If you see the Sovs putting their NBC kit on then get them back on quick.”

The NCO peeled the mask off, and a deep breath of fresh air filled his lungs. “That feels better, sir.”

“Good. I’m going back to Three-Three. Let me know the minute there’s any change here. You’re doing well. Just keep some steady fire going, but watch your ammunition. OK?”

“OK, sir.”

“Sir, outgoing,” informed his radio operator Simmons.

The mortar bomb travelled overhead, and they watched the trees part and splinter as the detonation tore a small section of the treeline apart.

The handset was quickly passed to Reynolds. “Zero-Delta, Delta-Three-Zero. Fire for effect, fire for effect. Over.”

“On way. Out.”

They only had to wait a mere five seconds before six more explosions erupted along the treeline as all three of the mortar sections opened fire. Then another six bombs battered the Soviet airborne troops who were on the verge of putting in an assault on the defenders. The Soviet mortar teams weren’t left out either. A mortar-locating battery, using a Mark-1 mortar-locating radar, Cymbeline, had identified their location and long-range artillery was already pounding them into submission.

Corporal Walker smiled for the first time since the attack had started. “We’re not on our own then, sir.”

“No, we’re not, Corporal, we’re not.”

More explosions burst deeper into the trees, pounding the airborne troops mercilessly.

“Zero-Delta, Delta-Three-Zero. On target. Adjust fifty metres right. Acknowledge. Over.”

“Zero-Delta. Understood. Out.”

“That should keep them quiet for a while. Keep me posted.”

“Sir.”

Reynolds and his small entourage returned by the same route, rejoining Three-Section.

“Just in time, sir,” informed Sergeant Mason. “We have some definite movement out there. Once we stop the bombing, I reckon they’ll come for us.”

Reynolds turned to his signaller. “Warn the platoon and let Company HQ know.”

He lifted the binoculars that were slung around his neck and surveyed the ground in front of him. It was suddenly quiet as the friendly mortar fire ceased. “What did you see?”

“It was Corporal Marsh; swears he saw a vehicle. He just had a glimpse, so it could be nothing.”

Before they could debate the ifs and buts any further, the entire line of the Rodenberger Aue was engulfed in a hail of fiery, searing blasts and burning shrapnel. 122mm shells, fired by an artillery battery of the advance elements of a Regiment from 12th GTD or from the Soviet Airborne’s D-30s, ripped up the meagre defences of Three-Platoon. 120mm mortar bombs were also lobbed onto the British troops from one of the surviving Soviet units. Even with decent foxholes or trenches, survival of the bombardment would have been difficult but, with shell-scrapes, they were at the mercy of the shelling.

“Gas, gas, gas,” Reynolds yelled, hoping his men would follow suit all along the line as he refitted his respirator just in case.

“Delta-Three-Zero, Zero-Delta.
Major push to our north. Bundeswehr report major assault coming in. Expect strong push your sector. Over.”

“Roger that, sir. Under heavy shelling.”

Crump…crump…crump.
Clouds of smoke enveloped the already battered, thin British line.

“Smoke, smoke.” Yelled a soldier.

“Wait, Delta-Three-Zero.”
There was a pause on the airwaves.
“It’s a big push. The line north of you has been penetrated. You have friendlies coming to you. They will cover your withdrawal. We’ve been ordered back. Soon as they arrive, pull back to Purple-One. Acknowledge. Over.”

Reynolds shouted into the handset, his voice drowned out by three explosions that bracketed the tunnel mouth, killing the Milan team and wounding two of the rifle-group below him. “Make it soon, sir, there won’t be any of us left otherwise.”

“Understood. Out.”

“All Delta-Three call signs. Prepare to pull out. Three-One. Stay in situ and cover.”

“Look, sir!” yelled Corporal Marsh, pointing at the BMDs, three of them powering through the smoke. The first one fired its 73mm gun, hitting nothing but causing the British soldiers to duck. The general-purpose machine gun rattled as the gunner poured a steady stream of bullets along the column of armour, but to no avail.

“Three-Three. Pull out, pull out now. Three-One, standby, standby.”

“Grenade!” shouted Sergeant Mason as he threw a grenade towards the advancing enemy, the front BMD of the column now level with their line. The grenade exploded directly in front, but with no effect as the infantry combat vehicle maintained its speed.

“Watch for—”

Lieutenant Reynolds was unable to complete his warning as a round from a PKT, a coaxial machine gun mounted on the second vehicle, struck him square in the chest and he staggered sideways, Sergeant Mason catching him before he hit the ground. The staring eyes told the story, and the sergeant left him, calling to his men to pull back. There weren’t many of Three-Section to hear the order. The rifle-group, bar one man, had been wiped out. Lance Corporal Marsh fell as he was covering his gun-group’s withdrawal. Reynolds’ radio operator was was giving the platoon commander’s runner a fireman’s lift, moving as quickly as he could for cover amongst the few trees that lined the embankment alongside the canal. The two soldiers from Two-Section, sent to guard the canal earlier, provided what cover they could, their SLRs barking as they each emptied a twenty-round magazine. Sergeant Mason ran with the gun-group, throwing themselves down on the grassy bank, and firing at whatever target they could see.

Airborne infantry were following the armour on foot, the last of the vehicles an ASU-85 self-propelled anti-tank gun. Mason saw two of the Soviets go down; then felt something pluck at his sleeve as the third BMD in the line had circled back, its coax PKT firing wildly as the vehicle bounced along the rough ground in between the hard-packed track and the embankment. He froze. In his head, it was all over. They had the enemy to their right and airborne armour to their left. He plucked a grenade from his webbing and was about to throw it when the BMD lifted at least two metres off the ground, the front dipping, the back flipping over, then skidding to a halt less than ten metres from their position. The ASU-85 fired at a target Sergeant Mason couldn’t see, but it too erupted in a blaze, some of its crew screaming as they tried to escape the flames that were rapidly devouring them. A West German Marder, its distinctive zigzag pattern side-skirts, rocked to a halt in front of the stricken BMD destroyed earlier, its 20mm cannon pumping round after round towards the now retreating enemy. A second Marder moved along the track until level with the tunnel head, and six soldiers, sitting back to back in the troop compartment at the rear, dismounted. They were joined by a third, and Mason could see a Leopard 2, a Bundeswehr main battle tank, further back.

A Bundeswehr soldier, an Oberleutnant, a senior lieutenant, came running over to him at a crouch. “Where is your officer?”

“Dead, sir,” yelled Mason as he peeled off his mask, his voice almost drowned out as a Marder fired a burst from its auto cannon.

“You get your men away. Now. You have
fünf Minuten
. Then we go.”

“Have you seen the rest of my platoon?”

“There are some men back by the treeline to the rear. You have two vehicles. The enemy destroyed two. Now go.”

With that, the German officer went to rejoin his men who were in a pitch battle with the Soviet troops. Mason called to the soldiers around him and led them west along the embankment. Once they could see the clearing and the two surviving Saxons, he took them west and rejoined the battered remains of the platoon. Before he did a check on the status of his surviving unit, he got onto HQ.

“Zero-Delta, this is Delta-Three-Zero-Alpha. Over.”

“This is Zero-Delta. Good to hear from you. No time for a sitrep. Move your platoon immediately. Get them to Purple-One. Acknowledge. Over.”

“Delta-Three-Zero-Alpha. Delta-Three to move to Purple-One. Over.”

“Where is Delta-Three-Zero?”

“Down, sir.”

“Roger. Move now. Out.”

Ch
apter 11

10
40, 9 JULY 1984. 5TH BATTALION, ROYAL ANGLIAN REGIMENT (TA), 49TH INFANTRY BRIGADE, 2ND INFANTRY DIVISION. NORTHEAST OF RINTELN, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLUE EFFECT -2 DAYS

“I want your platoon on the eastern edge of the quarry.” Major Dawson said, referring to the track that led to a large quarry that ran along the southern side of the E8 Autobahn, four kilometres northeast of Rinteln. “That way, you can cover a full 180-degree front. Two-Platoon will straddle the road north of you so; with you on the high ground, you can give them some cover. It’s not high, but at 200 metres, you’ll get a good view of any enemy approaching.”

“Are we getting any mines, sir?” asked Lieutenant Gibson, commander of One-Platoon. “We need something to slow them down.”

“Yes. Well, very soon anyway. There’s a detachment of engineers joining us. You’ll have Three-Platoon to your south. They’ll cover your right flank.”

“And the rest of the battalion, sir?”

The major turned and pointed. “Two-Company will cover from Bad Eilsen in the north to the forested high ground over there,” he replied, indicating the high ground of Wesergebirge. “Three-Company are in reserve, covering our backs. Four-Company have been assigned as part of the Brigade reserve.”

Gibson looked towards the tracks that ran up to the top and skirted the quarry and asked, “Do you think these will these make it, sir?” He pointed at the Saxon armoured personnel carriers. “It looks pretty rough, maybe better suited to tracked vehicles.”

Major Dawson followed Gibson’s gaze. “You should make it. Just ensure you stick to the tracks. If you get bogged down, there’ll be no one to get you out.”

Gibson laughed. “Added incentive then, sir.”

“I doubt there’s much cover up there, Michael, so make sure your men dig in well. We have to have a presence up there. When you extract, you need to move quickly.” The major ran his finger along the map that was secured in a canvas case with a clear plastic front. “Looking at this, the southern slope of the quarry is out of the question. It’s too steep to get the vehicles down. It’s the same for the northern slope. You could get your platoon down, but without your vehicles. Anyway, that could take you straight into the arms of the Soviets. They’ll more than likely use the road as their main axis of attack. So, you have to race back across the top, back along the route you’ll use to get into position.”

“We’ll be pretty exposed to any air attack, sir.”

“That’s why speed is of the essence.”

“Our RV?”

“We have to avoid Rinteln. So keep between the northern edge of the Autobahn and the high ground to the south. Three-Company will cover our withdrawal and our RV is Todenmann. That’s where we’ll have set up all over again. Oh, nearly forgot, you’ll be joined by a section from the anti-tank platoon, with two Milan FPs.”

They both turned as they heard the roar of diesel engines as four Saxon armoured personnel carriers of Two-Platoon passed them and swung off to the left onto the L442 and passed beneath the six-lane motorway above. Both officers’ heads jerked upwards as two Spartan CVRTs came to a halt on the southern part of the Autobahn, directly above the platoon, as the last of the Saxons passed beneath. British soldiers quickly debussed and moved into position. A third Spartan, carrying more Royal Engineers, although invisible from the ground below, could be heard racing past their comrades, heading towards the far end of the flyover.

The Royal Engineers had two tasks: The first was to lay mines further along the motorway directly in front of Two-Platoon. The intention was to bring the enemy to an abrupt halt, giving the soldiers from the 5th Battalion, Royal Anglians, an opportunity to open fire on a disrupted enemy force. It wouldn’t hold the enemy up for long as they would quickly attempt to outflank the defending force, calling in artillery and air strikes to dislodge them. The second task was to make life even more difficult for the enemy by blowing up the raised section of the Autobahn, forcing the Soviet army to bypass it, slowing down their advance. Any Soviet forces backing up as a consequence of this man-made traffic jam would then come to the attention of the NATO air forces and a battery of FH-70s, setting up further to the west to support the Royal Anglians.

The Territorial Army units, assigned to reinforce the British Army of the Rhine, and this particular battalion assigned to 2st Infantry Division, were being rushed to the front to help plug the gaps and slow the Warsaw Pact down, giving the retreating British Divisions some respite so they could recover, refuel, rearm and prepare themselves to be thrown back into the fight.

The 2nd Infantry Division, with the 15th (North-East) Brigade and the 49th (East) Brigade, along with additional Territorial Army battalions, were about to take the brunt of the massed army steamrollering towards them. Although well trained, they were not soldiers by profession. Only a week ago, their full-time profession was that of a clerk, bricklayer, accountant, hospital porter or a selection of many other trades and skills that provided them and their families with a living. Yes, they had all completed their annual two weeks of training for a small financial bounty, some of the exercises actually being held in Germany. The majority had also turned up regularly at the fortnightly weekend training sessions held at the various drill halls around the country, or weekends away on field training. But this was different; this was for real. Now they were full-time soldiers, about to come up against an aggressive, driven force of men and machines that had one purpose in mind: to crush them, destroy them, then pass through and continue with their relentless drive towards the English Channel.

“Who’s covering them, sir?” Gibson said, pointing to the engineers already unloading some of the equipment they would need to use in order to prepare the flyover for destruction.

“They’ll have to look after themselves, I’m afraid,” the Company Commander responded with a smile. “I believe they’ve been bolstered to ensure they can protect each other. Anyway, the Soviets will need to get past us first.”

They heard the roar of engines again. This time, it was Three-Platoon who passed them, to turn right and set up south of the quarry. They would drive southeast down Hamelner Strasse, turn left and dig in south of the quarry, protecting One-Platoon’s right flank.

The lead vehicle pulled over. The large wheels locked and slid over the loose grit, and Lieutenant Shaw dismounted.

“Any change, sir? Hi, Mike,” asked the officer, saluting, at the same time acknowledging his fellow platoon commander.

“No, Peter. As we discussed, we have no indication of their forward units. But get into position quickly. We’ve no idea how far away the Soviets are, or our friendly forces for that matter.”

“Will do, sir. Good luck. You too, Mike.”

“And you,” responded both Lieutenant Gibson and Major Dawson.

The lieutenant climbed back into the Saxon armoured vehicle and sped off, closely followed by the rest of his platoon.

“Sir, sir, you’re wanted,” called Company Sergeant Major Webb, who had been keeping radio watch in the FFR Land Rover, waving the handset in the OC’s direction.

“You had better be off as well, Michael. I’ll come and check on your positions once I’ve established some fire support for us.”

“Sir.” With that, Lieutenant Gibson also went to rejoin his unit, First-Platoon, and climbed into the Saxon parked close by, joining his platoon sergeant, informing them where they were headed for. Gibson indicated for the driver to pull off and pointed in the direction he wanted him to take. “Through there. Don’t stop. The gate looks flimsy enough.”

The driver accelerated, and the powerful engine drove the ten-ton armoured personnel carrier forward, the prominent front of the vehicle making short work of the wooden gate that was designed to control access to the quarry.

“Make it fast. No stopping.”

Once through, the driver, following the platoon commander’s orders, turned right, following a narrow track through the trees. After five minutes, they left the thin covering of trees and were out in the open, rough scrub-covered ground either side of them. They looped back, almost to where they had started, before turning right and heading east along the escarpment, a stepped slope dropping down where large excavators had slowly extracted the minerals they sought from the quarry. They tracked along the rim. At one point, the wheels were centimetres from the edge, chunks of earth and rock dropping down disturbed by the armoured vehicles. The driver nudged the vehicle over, keeping as far to the right as possible. The track slowly led them northeast until they arrived at the far end of the quarry.

Lieutenant Gibson ordered a halt, and he and the sergeant surveyed the ground in front of them.

“Corporal Fletcher.”

“Sir.”

“Place your section over there,” the Lieutenant ordered, pointing in the direction of the south-eastern edge of the slope. “Have your gun-group facing east, but have a couple of men watching south. You should be able to see Two-Platoon digging in below you any time soon.”

“What about the vehicles, sir?”

Gibson turned towards his sergeant. “What do you think, Sarn’t Newman?”

“Keep them within twenty metres, sir. That way, they can use the Gympy on top and make a quick getaway when needed.”

“Agreed. Keep them near the track. When we move, it’ll have to be quick. You sort them out. I’ll deal with the rest.”

“Roger that, sir.”

The two men separated just as another Saxon troop carrier turned up, carrying a Milan team with two Milan firing points.

Lieutenant Gibson took control of the remaining two sections, positioning one on the left flank with the Milan’s overlooking the Autobahn further down. The third section looked east, watching over the K-74 below. He wasn’t entirely happy. There were at least 100 metres between each section. He prayed silently that the enemy wouldn’t be coming this way.