The Blue Effect (Cold War) (4 page)

The terrain to the platoon’s front was good, but not perfect. The few buildings of Gomfritz to the northeast were in their line of sight, so Lieutenant Hendricks’ platoon were unable to see the Autobahn as it passed the other side of the village. But Two-Platoon, further to the left, had a clear line of sight and would be able to target any enemy tanks fool enough to charge down the road, or either side of it. However, Hendricks’ platoon did have a view out to their front that was well over four kilometres. They could see as far as the village of Ruckers where the forward elements of the Brigade, 12th Cavalry, had already pulled back too, disentangling themselves from the enemy. To the right, a small wood about a kilometre long restricted their view, but the Third-Platoon had that covered. The Third could also switch their fire east, towards the village of Elm. The high ground of the Ebertsberg, east of Elm, was covered by elements of the 2nd Armoured Battalion. The platoons were also equipped with the M1 Abram’s, a tank the men had confidence in after changing the old M-60 for it. Whatever Soviet forces came at them, they would put up a good fight. This time, it wasn’t a mere cavalry squadron, as powerful as it was, but a full armoured brigade of some 4,000 men.

Hendricks looked over his spot again. They had a good hull-down position, and all his crew knew the location of a further two should they need to pull back. To his right was a second position for his tank, a shallow ditch with a fallen tree perpendicular to it. Once they had fired a couple of rounds from his current berm, he would shift to this new location, covered by other tanks in the platoon as he did so. They, in turn, would conduct a similar manoeuvre while Tango-One-One and Tango-One-Two covered them. There was nothing out in front of them now but the enemy would be here soon. Two Medium Atomic Demolition Munitions, small nuclear devices of one kiloton each, had been detonated between Eichenzell and Neuhof on the valley floor along the Autobahn route. Other areas, north and south, had been treated in the same way, using nuclear landmines, powerful demolitions, to degrade the route the Soviet forces would have to take. Two more had been detonated west of Hutten and Gundhelm, obstructing the entrance to two further valleys. Before detonation, German civilian police and Jaeger troops had evacuated civilians in the local areas. Although many civilians had earlier become refugees, flooding west in front of the wave of Soviet forces behind them and fleeing the battle before they became engulfed in it, a few had decided to remain with their homes. When advised of what was about to happen close to their villages, to a man and a woman, they chose to leave.

Hendricks’ men had felt the earth shake when the devices had exploded, tearing the earth apart, even vibrating the sixty-ton main battle tanks. They had received a warning when the detonations would be initiated, giving them time to ensure their eyes were protected. Even facing away from the location of the blast, night suddenly turned to day. The estimate of casualties had been as few as ten killed and thirty injured at each ground zero. In the immediate vicinity of the blast, the fireball would have expanded to a radius of nearly 100 metres, and a powerful blast out to four times that distance which would easily destroy heavy buildings, and most residential buildings would collapse. Anyone within three quarters of a kilometre from ground zero would be exposed to a high rem radiation dose and, without swift medication; it was likely that the mortality rate would be as high as ninety per cent. More importantly, torn up trees and disturbed earth, deeply rutted, would degrade the route that the Soviets would have to take.

Fallout would also be an issue for the advancing Soviet soldiers. The wind, blowing a steady five to ten kilometres per hour, would take the fallout away from the US troops and towards the enemy. From each ground zero, there would be a cloud moving slowly east, out to about twenty kilometres, where exposure would drop to around one rad per hour. In total, over fifty square kilometres would be affected.

Hendricks mounted his M1 and dropped down into the turret, checked in with his crew, and confirmed there had been no messages from HQ. He laid his map on the rim of the hatch and ran his finger along the stop-line they were defending. Moving his finger further east, he picked out the areas designated as artillery targets, committing them to memory as best he could. A FIST, Fire Support Team Vehicle would be close by, ready to call in fire when needed. M109s, nine kilometres to the rear were ready to support him, and the rest of the battalion, when called upon.

He then picked up his binoculars and scanned those sectors, making sure that, if it were up to him to make the call, he would get it right. The night was drawing in and he had been warned by his battalion commander that the Soviet unit, elements of 8th Guards Army Division, once 12th Cav had pulled right back, might probe their positions during the hours of darkness. Scouts in vehicles and on foot would shortly be sent out ready to interdict any such reconnaissance, replacing the helicopters of the 2nd Attack Helicopter Battalion that would attempt to track the Soviet armours’ progress right up until the last minute. He’d heard reports that the aviation regiment was getting a hard time. The ZSU-23/4s were proving to be an excellent weapon of choice for air defence, taking out three helicopters, two AH1Fs and one OH58C in the last few hours. All he could do now though was wait.

C
hapter 4

2
210, 8 JULY 1984. MINISTERIUM FUR STAATSSICHERHEIT, MFS STATE PRISON, HOHENSCHONHAUSEN, EAST BERLIN.

THE BLUE EFFECT -3 DAYS

Bradley slowly woke up, his senses reeling, nearly causing him to black out again. With pulsing temples and a pounding headache, the black bag over his head and face was stifling. He was curled up on the floor, his knees up, arms cradling them, almost foetal-like. He wriggled his fingers, and then flexed his hands: they were free of restraint. He slowly stretched out his legs, yelping with pain where soldiers wearing heavy military boots had repeatedly kicked him. The sound uttered from his cracked lips was swallowed up instantly and, for a moment, he wasn’t actually sure he’d made a sound. He shifted his body again, spitting a piece of the bag out of his mouth after sucking it in when taking a deep breath. He could feel something behind him and used its soft surface to gain traction and lever his body into a sitting position. This made him feel nauseous and he heaved, retching, his head pounding even harder, white flashes of light, like shooting stars racing away from his eyes. He stopped moving, resting his back against the padded wall.

Once his stomach had settled and he had swallowed back the bitter taste of bile, he reached up to remove the hood, wanting a view of his surroundings. With the coarse material removed, the dark was replaced by yet more darkness: a blackness that ordinary eyesight couldn’t possibly penetrate; a blackness that was suffocating in itself. Bradley’s fingers explored his body, assessing his injuries. They didn’t have to move far before they discovered egg-shaped lumps on various parts of his anatomy, and a particularly large swelling on the side of his head.

He attempted to stand, slapping his hand against the thick, black, ribbed sides of the isolation cell. Beneath his hands were rubber-coated walls, thick soundproof insulation that completely encapsulated the cell, top to bottom, in a waterproof and soundproof shield. He eventually pushed himself upright, his legs trembling as his stomach suddenly heaved again, vile-tasting stomach acids burning his throat and tongue. He retched again. Only greenish brown bile left his mouth and stomach as he slumped back to the floor.

He suddenly had a raging thirst and called out, “I need some water…hello.”

He could barely hear his own voice as he tried to shout louder, the sounds dampened and going nowhere.

“I need water,” he almost whispered.

He ran the last twenty-four hours through his mind. At least, he thought it had been twenty-four hours, or thereabouts.

Once caught, he had been beaten and dragged to one of the trucks on the Autobahn and thrown in the back with two guards and one of their dogs. He was curled up at the front end, next to the cab, coming to terms with his condition and, more importantly, his circumstances. The flap at the rear was pulled down and secured, and what little light there was was now blocked out. The dog and his handler took great delight in tormenting Bradley further. The dog’s sharp teeth gripped his boot, not quite piercing it, but the grip was so firm that it crushed his toes. Then the war-dog would yank at it, twisting its head and shoulders violently in order to drag Bradley closer and rend his foot from his leg.

It eventually stopped as the commotion was annoying the guards, who lit up a cigarette and discussed the war that was in progress. Bradley’s German was fair and he got the gist that the war had well and truly kicked off, and NATO were not holding their ground. He wasn’t sure what to believe.
Are the guards continuing to taunt me in a different manner?
He thought. But they sounded fairly nonchalant, now disinterested in their captive, looking forward to getting back to barracks and catching up with some sleep.

Bradley attempted to register distances, speed, sound, and taking note of when the vehicle turned; more as a distraction than through any expectation of an escape. Within only fifteen minutes, he started to lose track, and his concentration waned. After what he perceived to be an hour, he gave up completely. The journey progressed for what must have been two to three hours. He just lay there numbed. Unknown to Bradley, the route of their journey was deliberate, literally driving round in circles at times, the intention to disorientate their captive.

On arrival at his destination, he was hooded and dragged off the lorry, duck-walked until inside a building and thrown into a small brick or concrete-lined cell, remaining there with a guard for no more than five minutes. Picked up again, he was taken along a corridor before turning left where he was placed on a seat in what felt like, from the confined sounds reflected off the walls, a smallish room, the edge of something hard touching his knee. He couldn’t hear anyone else there, but could sense he was not alone. He was sure someone was standing behind him, and perhaps another of his captors was sitting across from him on the other side of what could be a desk or table.

“Well, Mr Spy.”

Bradley jumped at the sound of a man’s voice coming from the other side of the object in between them. The accent was clearly German, but his English sounded near perfect.

“I shall start by explaining to you how life is going to be for you, going forward. But, first, I need you to fully understand the position in which you now find yourself.”

The voice picked up an object, followed by the sound of a liquid being sipped and swallowed.

“Either you, or your comrade, have killed a member of the
National Volksarmee:
a soldier of the German Democratic Republic who was just doing his duty for his country. A family man, I might add; a good man, protecting his country from intruders such as yourself. He is now dead and leaves a wife and two young children to fend for themselves. No, that is not strictly true: their country will take care of them. So, Mr Spy, you will eventually be charged with murder.”

Bradley could pick out the sound of shuffling papers through the throbbing in his temples. The splitting headache returned and it felt like his skull wanted to burst open.

“You are, at the moment,” continued the voice, “in the custody of the MfS, the
Ministerium fur Staatssicherheit.
You have been caught spying on the German Democratic Republic at a time of war. Because, Mr Spy, we are at war with your country, so you come under my control now. But, I have a dilemma.”

Bradley heard the rasp of material and caught a whiff of stale cigarette smoke. “And,” he said quietly, leaning forward, “I hope you can help me out with this. You are in uniform, I can see that. But, I don’t believe you are a soldier. I think you are one of those spies that hide away in the bowels of the British Government buildings in the occupied portion of our city of Berlin. When ordered, you leave your nests to spread your filth across decent nations like ourselves. So, you see, in my mind you are here, disguised as a soldier, in order to pass back information on our forces and operations to your masters back in the West.”

A door opened behind him and Bradley felt something brush against him; then heard a cup being placed on a hard surface. He could sense a warm vapour, then the smell of hot chocolate assailed his nostrils through the hood. The voice took a sip and made a sound of satisfaction.

“Also, you have killed one of our soldiers. His
Kameraden
waiting outside are very keen to get hold of you. They want to extract revenge. It was only through my intervention that you are actually alive and sitting here in my office.”

The voice took another sip of hot chocolate, and Bradley could hear the sound of smacking lips. He resisted the temptation to point out that they had killed his comrade: Jacko was dead, killed by one of those very men that were standing outside wanting to get to him. He kept quiet.

“So,” the voice carried on, “soon, very soon, I will be asking you some questions. But not just yet. I am in no hurry. I want you to reflect on your situation and come forward willingly with any information that you think may be of use to us.”

Another slurp of hot chocolate.

“Is there anything you would like to inform me of now?”

Bradley went to speak, but nothing came out. He tried again. “24388749, Bradley Reynolds, Sergeant, Royal Corps of Transport,” he finally managed to get out.

“Ah, the classic. Wonderful. We are going to get along just fine, you and I, Herr Bradley.”

Another drink of his chocolate.

“I recognise your cap badge. But I have one slight problem with that statement.” The voice sounded distorted, like he was bent over.
Crash
. An object was slammed down on the on the hard surface in front, and Bradley not only felt the residue of brackish water splash over him but also smelt it.

“We have some very bright people in our organisation. You have some very bright people in yours. Some of them have willingly passed information on to us. For money, I might add. From the information that we have gathered on the British forces, I know this to be a Clansman PRC, and it is no ordinary radio. A PRC-319, I have been informed. A fifty-watt microprocessor-based radio transceiver. And this,” he said, “would allow you to type a message and send the data at high speed to your masters. It is of a type used by spies and Special Forces. Now, what would a driver want with one of these?”

Bradley knew exactly what it was, the radio, along with the small alphanumeric keyboard; he had pushed into the ditch just before he was captured. “I cannot answer that question.”

The blow from behind came out of the blue, and the shock of it was almost as devastating as the blow itself. Bradley’s ears rang, and the painful swellings on the side of his head felt as if someone had thrust a white-hot poker into them.

“You see, Herr Bradley. You lie to me. Next time we speak, I hope you will be more cooperative. Take him out.”

Bradley’s mind raced. He wasn’t sure what to expect. During his training he had been taken through ‘Resistance to Interrogation’. It wasn’t pleasant. But he had no real idea of what was in store for him now. It was not as if there was a political stalemate to rely on. His boss knowing he was missing. A protest made to the Soviets, their WW2 Allies, to secure his release. A few slapped wrists, and he would be back home in a matter of hours. But that wasn’t going to happen: they were at war.

He was manhandled along what appeared to be a well-lit corridor, a light occasionally passing underneath the folds of his hood. His escort said nothing, and he heard no sound other than the slap of his bare feet and the boots of his captors. The guards stopped suddenly, and he was pushed into a narrow room. The door was slammed in his hooded face. Calling the room narrow would be an understatement. The concrete floor was cold on his feet, and his shoulders touched an equally cold wall either side. In fact, he was trapped. He couldn’t move in any direction, couldn’t sit or lie down. It wasn’t long before the cold started to creep up his body, and he flexed his feet and toes as best he could. He was tired, desperate to close his eyes and fall asleep, but his body was already starting to scream in pain, his well-muscled body suffering at being pinned in this one position. He felt sick, but forced it back down. His mind raced, fear gripping him. Yes, they had driven around for two or three hours. But he now knew that they had travelled only a few miles. He was in the ‘Submarine’, the subterranean cell block run by the DDR’s Ministry of State Security, the
Ministerium fur Staatssicherheit
, the MfS, the infamous Stasi. He was at Hohenschonhausen, the MfS prison where they held political prisoners and those caught attempting to escape from the DDR. He had driven past it many times in the past, reminding the Stasi that the West was watching. Now, he found himself on the inside.

His legs felt like jelly and, had he been able to, he would have collapsed, but he couldn’t. Fear welled up inside him, gripping his stomach like a vice; the pounding in his head multiplied ten-fold, and tears welled up in his eyes. His thoughts before he passed out were that he was going to die in this place.

After drifting in and out of consciousness for an unknown number of hours, his body was racked with pain on a level he had never experienced before. He was eventually released. He asked his escort where they were taking him to, could he have some food, some water. But they remained silent. His cramped legs protested painfully, his upper thighs burning from the urine he’d had to release while confined, as he was dragged to the cell he was in now, given a reprieve, if that was what you could call it.

His head snapped round as the grey steel door was pulled open, the sudden blinding light from the corridor stabbing his eyes. Pulled to his feet by two of his captors, the hood reapplied, he was taken out of his padded isolation cell and transported painfully elsewhere to the upper part of the prison block, the new four-storey section built in the late 50s. He knew, from reports received by ex-prisoners who had eventually been released and subsequently escaped across the Berlin Wall that the prison had a traffic-light system. This ensured that prisoners never got to meet, ensuring their isolation at all times.

He was thrust into a small room, pushed down on a lightly padded steel chair, and his hood was yanked off. The door was closed behind him as he placed his hands over his eyes to protect them from the bright light. Once accustomed to the glare, he took stock of the room. He was sitting at a small square table, not much wider than the seat of his chair. This was butted up against a steel-legged desk, topped in a light brown with a set of matching drawers attached each side. Sitting behind the desk, on a much more comfortably upholstered chair with wooden arms, sat an MfS officer, his grey uniform with its distinctive piping. A major.

The major said nothing, but continued to make notes in a small notebook. To the right of the MfS officer, there was a tall, green cabinet and behind him a dark cream, cast-iron radiator. A flimsy set of pale green curtains prevented Bradley seeing what was outside. On the desk was a phone and, alongside, a reel-to-reel tape recorder. Did the voice now have a face?

The major finally looked up from his scribbling. “Herr Bradley, I won’t ask after your health as I’m sure you are not at your best. There was a very good reason why I allowed you to spend some time getting acquainted with our special room.” He opened one of the left-hand desk drawers and extracted a packet of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. Taking a plain cigarette from the packet, he lit it and took a slow, satisfying drag. He picked a loose shred of tobacco from his lips as he held up the Zippo lighter. “I love this lighter. It has a picture of a red London bus on it – so quaint. I bought it the last time I visited your country when I had other duties to perform. So, I know a little about you British.” He took another draw, the tip of the cigarette glowing a bright red, before tapping the ash off onto a saucer on the desk. His chair creaked as he leant back, savouring the smoke as he exhaled.