The Blue Effect (Cold War) Page 8

  He peered through his scope, watching for the East German T-72s he had been warned were on their way. He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts, focus on the task ahead, sleep clawing at his eyes. They had been battling since the first day of the battle. Leapfrogging the defending reserve units, they doing the same when it was their turn. But always backwards. They had made some counter-attacks to push the Volksarmee forces onto the back foot, but in the end they’d had to retreat. Hamburg had fallen, their defence of the Kiel Canal in this sector had been broken, and apart from a brief respite during the night whilst the Warsaw Pact forces consolidated their position, they had been fighting for four days solid. This was the start of their fifth. Morale was OK but, after losing Hamburg and Lubeck to the enemy, the company commander had to work hard to keep his men focussed. His company, part of 171st Grenadier Battalion, 17th Panzer Grenadier Brigade, 6th Panzer Grenadier Division, started out with thirteen Leopard 1s. Now the major was down to seven.

  “Contact, 1500 metres. T-72.”

  Before the tank commander could give any more orders, his gunner yelled, “It’s been hit!”

  The T-72 slid at an uncontrollable angle as its track unravelled, leaving the Soviet-made, National Volskarmee commanded tank, stranded.

  “Fire!” There were no fancy orders, just the commander wanting the enemy main battle tank finished off before its Kameraden joined in the fight. The turret was torn sideways as the armoured piercing round smashed into it. A second T-72 oscillated, its armour smouldering before being immersed in flames. A vehicle shot out from a group of trees where it had been hidden. After firing into the side of the T-72, the low silhouetted Kanonenjagdpanzer, a tank destroyer, reversed at speed, desperate to put some distance between it and the advancing East German unit. Three more T-72 tanks appeared in front of the Bundeswehr defenders. Although weighing in at over forty tons, the T-72 profile was incredibly low, uncomfortable for the crew, but this low silhouette made it difficult to see and hard to hit. Smoke puffed out of the barrels of two of the enemy tanks as the Major’s gunner thrust a fresh round into the breech.

  The Kanonenjagdpanzer crashed through the foliage of a low hanging tree as it slipped out of sight and into relative safety. They would move back a few hundred metres and wait to spring a trap all over again.

  The Leopard rocked when the gun fired; the 105mm round seemed to arc towards its target.

  “A hit! Back, back now!”

  The Major was relieved they were up against the T-72M and not the T-64. The East German army had been sold an inferior model of T-72 as opposed to the ones in the Soviet Army. The T-72M had inferior armour and a downgraded weapons system. The Volksarmee were paying the price as a consequence.

  The engine strained as the driver applied power, and the tracks gained traction, pulling the tank further into the trees. A 125mm round from one of the enemy tanks stripped branches from the trees as it ploughed into the foliage alongside the rapidly accelerating tank. Three more T-72s had appeared and Seven-One-Foxtrot was no more. The Major winced when he received the call. His company strength was rapidly diminishing, and for the first time in the war, he had doubts about his and his men’s survivability.

  0735, 9 JULY 1984. 2ND ZEALAND BATTLE GROUP. SOUTHEAST OF RINGSTED, DENMARK.

  THE BLUE EFFECT -2 DAYS

  The Centurion tank trundled forward. It may have been over twenty years old, but it was the core mobile weapon of the 2nd Zealand Battle Group (Reserve). It had settled on the edge of a small copse, and the crew were out within seconds, dragging the camouflage netting over the top, tying one edge to the trees they were alongside. A second tank, one of eight tanks belonging to 2nd Squadron, 5th Battalion of the Guards Hussars Regiment, weaved through the trees, stopping just before the edge of the treeline. The small group of tanks, held back in reserve until now, were finally being redeployed further forward, there being an expectation of a Soviet force landing somewhere along the East Zealand coast in the next few days.

  Although old, the Centurion had proved its worth. During the Yom Kippur War in 1973, in ‘The Valley of Tears’, an Israeli Defence Force Brigade with less than 100 Centurion tanks defeated an assault by 500 Syrian T-55s and T-62s. With their 84mm guns, 2nd Squadron would also be depending on its legendary status. Two battalions of Infantry, the 2nd and the 4th, were digging in further forward but ready to move within two hours’ notice should they need to relocate and isolate any attempt by the Soviets to force a bridgehead on Danish soil.

  The 1st Zealand Battle Group (Reserve), with its tank squadron, two Infantry battalions and artillery battalion, had responsibility for the coast from Koge to Naestved, in the south. The 3rd Zealand Battle Group (Reserve) held the west coast from Naestved to the thin peninsular of Kalundborg, and the 4th Zealand Battle Group (Reserve) was on the southern island based around Nykobing. The three Battle Groups had deployed at the outbreak of the war, the 2nd Battle Group being held in reserve. The 1st Zealand and 2nd Zealand Brigades, much larger formations than the Battle Groups, manned by regular soldiers, were being held more centrally. The 1st Zealand Brigade was being kept close to Copenhagen, the capital of Denmark. Once the landing point, or points, had been identified, these two heavy brigades, with their eighty Centurion tanks between them, along with their mobile infantry battalions, would attempt to stop the Soviet invasion in its tracks.

  2nd Squadron wasn’t destined to finish its preparations to hide because, at that moment, they received an urgent call. A large Soviet airborne force was in the process of landing east of Ringsted, the location of the headquarters of the Allied Land Forces of Zealand. Camouflage netting was quickly dragged off the tanks again and literally thrown on the rear decks. The Centurion’s Rolls Royce Meteor engine was turned over, and the lead tank pulled out from the trees and spun round until it faced the northwest. An M113 pulled up alongside it, and Lieutenant Colonel Jensen jumped out from the back of the APC and ran to the front of the Centurion yelling up to Captain Petersen, the commander of the squadron of eight tanks.

  “You’re to get to Ringsted as fast as possible,” ordered the commander of the 4th Battalion, Gardehusarregimentet, the infantry element of the Battle Group. “It seems a significant force has landed, and the local troops are not holding.”

  “Do we know the size of the force, sir?”

  “Not entirely, but they estimate at least a battalion.”

  “How the hell did we miss them coming in?”

  “It’s not surprising. Command has been leeching aircraft from Zealand to help support the Landjut forces.”

  “So the Soviets are coming through the back door.”

  “You need to move,” ordered the Colonel. “Time isn’t an asset that we have much of.”

  “Let me know when the Infantry moves out, sir. We’ll be pretty vulnerable out there on our own.”

  “I’ve not received any sightings of armour yet, Captain.”

  “It’s not the armour I’m worried about,” responded the captain.

  “We’ll get there as soon as we can.”

  “Right, we’re moving out now, sir.”

  “Good luck.”

  The Colonel stepped back as the Centurion reared up at the front, the driver pressing hard on the accelerator pedal as soon as he received the order to pull out. Petersen estimated they had about twenty-five kilometres to travel. With a top speed of roughly thirty-kilometres per hour, and bearing in mind the undulating ground, they could be on the eastern outskirts of Ringsted in less than two hours.

  They bypassed Tureby then headed northwest along the Slimmingevej, maintaining a steady speed. After a drive of roughly twelve kilometres, Captain Petersen planned on taking a left turn, using the Kogevej that ran parallel to the Vestmotorvejen, a major motorway, to take his small force direct to the town of Ringsted. The last report had the Soviet airborne soldiers on the eastern outskirts of the town. The squadron passed cultivated fields either side of the road and made their way through the occasional small v
illage. Thirty minutes later found the squadron of eight tanks 2,000 metres from the turning. A large forest of pine trees loomed up on the left. Once they left that behind, Petersen knew they should be less than 1500 metres from the turning.

  The tall, straight pines dominated his view, as he looked left at the proud line of trees 300 metres away. Suddenly, a huge explosion sent a pressure wave of heat that whipped past his back and head. He twisted his body around so he was facing to the rear as a streak of light emanated from a ditch in front of him and to his right, as an anti-tank grenade headed for its target. The target of the rocket-propelled grenade quickly became apparent as the Centurion, fifty metres behind his, seemed to surge upwards as the hollow-charge warhead slammed into the side of the main battle tank, slicing through it with ease, killing the crew inside instantly. Beyond that, he could see a second Centurion in flames, a firework display shooting skyward as the ammunition cooked.

  “Put your foot down!” he screamed at his driver. “Gun left,” he ordered his gunner as he gripped the handles of the .50-calibre machine gun. He swung round as the turret started to turn, the tank rapidly increasing speed until it reached its maximum of thirty kilometres per hour. The machine gun vibrated in his hands as he aimed at the likely location of the ditch where he had seen the rocket grenade launch, the rounds curving towards it, now over 1,000 metres away. He watched the spurts of dust from the strikes of the heavy calibre bullets as he played them across the likely enemy location.

  “One-eighty, one-eighty,” the captain called down to his driver as he saw a third Centurion brew up as it attempted to escape the carnage that was ensuing. He needed to provide support while he still had some tanks left. The fifty-ton Centurion slowed then spun on its tracks.

  “Fifteen hundred metres, one o’clock, ditch right of road, HE,” he ordered his gunner as he fired another burst towards the enemy location.

  Something exploded in the road on the southern flank of his squadron as one of his tanks drove over an anti-tank mine laid by the Soviet airborne soldiers as soon as the convoy had passed them.

  “Up,” informed the Loader.

  “Fire.”

  The tank snatched as a round left the barrel. Moments later, the High Explosive shell exploded in close proximity to the ditch he had fired on earlier. He had the satisfaction of seeing a number of soldiers running from the vicinity, two of them with a wounded comrade draped between them. Peterson suddenly realised the danger as they approached the forest, they had passed earlier, now on their right.

  “Left stick, left, left.” He swung the machine gun round to face the potential danger just as a smoking flame streaked alongside the turret, missing him and his tank by mere centimetres. He fired into the trees as the tank bounced across the rough earth, the engine growling as the driver changed down to negotiate the undulating ground. He sprayed the trees but doubted he had hit anything as he rocked back and forth in the turret.

  He shouted into his mike, “All call signs report. Right stick.” The tank slewed to the right as the driver steered the heavy tank round.

  “Forward.” They were now heading south, parallel with the road, but they had at least passed the forest.

  “Juliet-Zero, Juliet-Five. Lost track, immobile but functional.”

  “Juliet-Zero, Juliet-Six. Road, south of forest, 2,000 metres, in position to cover. Over.”

  “Juliet-Zero, Juliet-Seven. 200 metres east of Juliet-Six. Over.”

  “Roger, all call signs, this is Juliet-Zero. Hold position, hold position. Cover Juliet-Five. Coming to you. Out.”

  The turret turned slightly, the gunner keeping track of the likely enemy positions. Peterson looked across at his three burning tanks, and the crippled one stranded still close to the enemy.

  Suddenly he was thrown violently against the side of the turret, the force so great it nearly broke his right arm. He grasped it in agony as he heard the screams below, the tank turning left, out of control, the glacis dipping down into a ditch, the tracks bogged down in the mud at the bottom.

  Captain Peterson scrambled out onto the turret, captivated by the three burning tanks he could see, a column of thick, black, oily smoke poured skyward, yellow and orange flames still flickering around the armoured vehicles. Turning around, he watched, mesmerised as a main battle tank was being hungrily devoured by flame and exploding ordnance from within, jolting the armoured vehicle. He had just lost over half of his squadron. Only the infantry could help them now.

  0915, 9 JULY 1984. MOTOR-SCHUTZ REGIMENT, 8TH MOTOR-SCHUTZ DIVISION, 5TH GERMAN ARMY. AREA OF ALBERSDORF, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLUE EFFECT -2 DAYS.

  Oberst Keller walked alongside Colonel Gachev, commander of the Soviet tank regiment in the local area. T-64s lined the streets. The tank crews had made a poor attempt at camouflaging their main battle tanks. Like everyone else, they were weary. Also, there was an air of over confidence. Before Oberst Keller, from the 8th Motor-Schutz Division, 5th German Army, could make his next move, he needed to ensure that his troops were locked in with the Northern Group of Soviet Forces, particularly the 6th Guards Motor Rifle Division, if they were to advance at the same time and put pressure on the enemy. Whenever Keller spoke aloud, referring to the West German Bundeswehr as the enemy, it left a sour taste in his mouth. On their way to the Soviet regimental headquarters, they passed a hospital. It was clearly overcrowded; overflowing with wounded soldiers, most of them East German, but some of them West German, as well as Soviet motor rifle and tank troops. A number of UAZ 452s, small glass-sided utility vehicles, with a Red Cross sign indicating they were ambulances, along with Gaz-66 vehicles similarly marked, were offloading even more wounded. Space inside the hospital was obviously at a premium as, once triaged, those deemed not severely wounded were left outside on stretchers. But what horrified Oberst Keller more was the queue of German civilians lined up along the pavement, clearly seeking treatment for various injuries as a consequence of being caught up in the fighting. He did a quick mental count: there must be at least 100, he surmised. At least seven had horrific facial and arm injuries, reminiscent of exposure to a blister gas. Evidently, many of the blisters had burst, and now looked red and raw, weeping, the pain they were causing etched in the people’s faces. Others were obviously traumatised, their wounds caused by exploding bombs or a stray large calibre bullet or splinters from a shattered tank shell.

  Oberst Keller stopped. “Do they have some civilian doctors or medical staff that can treat these people?” he said, looking at the Soviet colonel.

  “There are some, but our own soldiers have a priority over these.”

  “Can’t you at least release some nurses to provide them with some minimal care?”

  “No, Comrade Oberst. My orders are to treat as many of our soldiers as possible. I must release some of my medical teams to move forward for the next push.”

  “I understand that, Colonel Gachev, but to spare a few nurses would have little impact on your ambitions.”

  The Soviet officer started to walk off, but was called back.

  “What if I release some of my own medical staff to assist?”

  The regimental commander looked him straight in the eye. “If you have spare resources, Oberst, then I suggest you release them to help our soldiers who have been fighting to free these people from the capitalistic yoke that hangs around their neck.” With that, Gachev stormed off.

  One of the civilians, a woman in her late seventies, a dirty, bloodied bandage wrapped around her face and covering one eye, peered at him with her good one. Recognising that he was speaking German, noting the uniform was different from the Soviet officer, she ascertained that he was with the National Volksarmee.

  “Why are you doing this to us?”

  The officer was caught off guard as the woman clutched at his sleeve, the single eye searching his face.

  A middle-aged man also approached, pointing to a young boy slumped against a low wooden fence. The boy’s upper chest was wrapped with what c
ould only have been white bed sheets, torn into strips to act as a bandage. “He got hit by a stray bullet. We can’t seem to stop the bleeding. Please help us. He will die if you don’t do something.”

  “My daughter was hit by falling masonry,” called out another. “She has a head wound. She keeps passing out. We have nowhere else to go. Have mercy on us. We didn’t ask to be involved in this war.”

  The girl, probably no more than ten years old, was lying on a wooden door, either taken down, or blown down, to be used as a stretcher. Next to her, sitting cross-legged on the tarmac road, her brother stroked her arm.

  Oberst Keller pulled away from the old woman who was now holding both sleeves, pleading for help. He walked ten paces back in the direction he had come from initially, and signalled to the driver of the Jeep that had brought him here. The driver, leaning against the side of the vehicle, quickly stubbed out his cigarette, jumped in the vehicle and drove towards the National Volksarmee Oberst’s position.

  “Get onto the 2nd Battalion,” Oberst said to the radio operator sitting in the back of the vehicle. “I want their medical team here within the hour. Once they arrive, you are to direct them to assist these civilians. They are acting on my orders. No one is to prevent them. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” The man with the wounded child expressed his gratitude, and was quickly joined by others in the line.

  With that, the Oberst left to rejoin the Soviet officer who had stopped about 100 metres down the road. When he was alongside, the Soviet officer barked. “Your Samaritan act will get you into trouble, Oberst.”

  “Had they been Soviet citizens, Herr Colonel, what would you have done?”

  This time it was the German officer who stormed off.

  Chapter 9

  0920, 9 JULY 1984. B SQUADRON, QUEEN’S OWN MERCIAN YEOMANRY. WEST OF REHREN, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLUE EFFECT -2 DAYS

  The Fox eased forward, poking its nose just outside the outskirts of the small village of Lindhorst. The vehicle commander called a halt, and a second armoured reconnaissance car joined him, pulling up alongside on his right. Ashford saw the 30mm RARDEN cannon swing right, the commander of that vehicle keeping a watch to the southeast. Ashford put the rubber cups of the binoculars to his eyes and did a quick search of the foreground, then further out. Above the ticking sound of the armoured car’s Jaguar engine, he could hear a steady staccato of machine-gun fire, interspersed with the single cracks of SLRs and punctuated with the claps of explosions coming from somewhere west of Hanover. He had a good view of the open ground in front of them from here, except for a small wooded area to the north that was blocking his line of sight to the northeast.