The Blue Effect (Cold War) (13 page)

The Bear had kept his promise. Over 1,000, 122mm rockets from 3rd Shock Army’s BM-21 Brigade pounded the British lines from the canal north of Niedernholz to south of Ludersfeld. Lieutenant Thorpe felt thick clumps of earth hammering down onto his head and shoulders, and he had to clear it away from his face if he was to continuing breathing through his claustrophobic mask. The noise was incessant, thump after thump, the ground shaking with the violence of the bombardment.

To the rear of the main force of the RRF troops, four Elbrus surface-to-surface missiles (SSMs), from 12th Guards Tank Division’s SCUD-B missile battalion, struck with deadly force. Preceded by a number of salvos from the divisional artillery group, the thickened VX nerve agent, odourless and tasteless, dispersed by the SSMs, carried out its deadly undertaking. Sergeant Cohen, and the section sent to act as a covering force for the rest of the platoon when it withdrew, were caught unawares prioritising the search for cover rather than NBC protection, paid the price in full. Sergeant Cohen was already slipping into a coma while other members of the section were in various stages, some with chests tightening and losing muscle control, others vomiting and defecating uncontrollably as they edged closer to death. Corporal Prentice, disorientated, his body suffering from myoclonic jerks, had crawled out of his trench only to be killed by a further salvo of 122mm shells.

Lieutenant Thorpe, forcing his body even lower as the Soviet Divisional Artillery Group switched its attention to the forward line of troops, wasn’t to know that more of his men were dying behind him. Masonry clanged off his helmet as the last of the standing houses was demolished, and he prayed that the OP had made it to cover in time. He desperately needed to know the status of his small force, but the din was deafening and his head was pounded constantly by shock wave after shock wave as the Soviets maintained the pressure. Inside, he was worried. Worried for his men, but also worried how close the enemy were. He could hear the occasional whine of shells passing overhead, fired by his own supporting artillery, making life difficult for the motor rifle troops crossing the water to his east. As for his men, the one Milan FP left with them, had been completely destroyed. The OP team had made it back to their positions but their foxhole, with them in it, had been wiped out by a direct hit from a 152mm shell. Three-Section had been all but decimated. Of the gun-group, the gunner and assistant gunner were dead, and the rifle-group had one dead and two wounded, one of which was the young second-in-command, promoted to second-in-command only four weeks before the start of the war.

The firing stopped. Thorpe’s ears hummed, and it took him a few moments to gather his thoughts.

“Stand to! Stand to!” he shouted as he lifted his head above the parapet, the sound muffled through his respirator. He rubbed off the coating of earth and dust and checked the detector-paper patches on his NBC suit: they were clear. He removed his mask.

“Sir! HQ,” called his signaller.

He held the handset close to his mouth and ear. “Alpha-Two. Go ahead. Over.”

“Zero-Alpha. Chemical attack to rear positions. Maintain NBC state. Out.”

Oliver checked the patches again, they were clear. Either the droplets had missed him or they had escaped a chemical attack.

Brrrrp…Brrrrp…Brrrrp.

The Gympy was firing. He quickly got his bearings, glad that at least some of his platoon was on the ball.

“Target!” he yelled across to the next trench.

Lance Corporal Jeffries, standing to his right, opened up with his SLR. “Enemy on foot, west of the 445 road, 300 metres, junction water feature.”

Oliver quickly focussed in on the area, trying to make out the enemy through the spewing debris and soil as the last of the British artillery salvo fell on his adversary. He heard the Gympy gunner bellow at the top of his voice, making himself heard through his rubber mask: “Armour, BMP, 11 o’clock, 300 metres.”

He switched his view, hoping to God a Milan post had survived somewhere and the crew were switched-on.

He saw the streak as the Milan missile sped towards the BMP-2, now weaving from side to side after it had crossed one of the TMM bridges. But it was to no avail as the high-explosive anti-tank (HEAT) round met the armoured vehicle head-on, lifting the turret from the body of the BMP, then toppling sideways as the vehicle careered to a halt. At least two Soviet soldiers made it out of the back, but they were soon gunned down as the rate of fire from the recovering British soldiers increased.

But it wasn’t his Milan that fired.

Between the front line and the second line that were still recovering from the devastating chemical attack, the fifteen men of the mortar-section from the battalion’s Fire-Support Company quickly got into action. One of three mortar sections from the mortar platoon, they went into their well-rehearsed steps, firing rounds directed by the forward observers and the Mortar Fire Controller. It wasn’t much in the scheme of things, but it was their own organic artillery support over which the Battalion and, in this case, the Aviation Company had direct control. Bombs left the three tubes one every four seconds, members of the team acquiring more bombs from the ‘Greenies’, twin plastic containers holding additional rounds. After ten rounds, they switched targets and fired ten more, but then it was time to move. The Soviets also had mortar-locating radar and would soon home in on the small unit.

While they loaded the base plates, tubes and sights onto two Land Rovers and trailers enabling them to move and set up elsewhere on the battlefield, another section would take up the fight, providing a continuous, devastating bombardment on top of the enemy. The Company’s own mortar section was also pounding the enemy in front of A-Company’s lines with high-explosive bombs.

Lieutenant Thorpe checked in with his platoon by radio, ordering fire-missions as he thought fit and at times leaving the decision to his NCOs who were performing well. He scanned the area out to his front, the wide-open fields now being torn apart by mortar bombs. The Milan firing posts, along the entire Company front, were hitting the enemy armour as it attempted to cross the open ground. A killing ground. The water feature to their front, no more than 300 metres away, was a mere couple of metres across and was proving to be no obstacle to the enemy. He looked on, frightened as an ever bigger force made its way onto the other side of the water, and BMP-2 mechanised infantry combat vehicles, carrying Soviet infantry inside, got ever closer. A Milan missile destroyed another BMP, lifting it off the ground, immobilising it. The Milan team shifted position before the Soviet mortars could home in on them.

Oliver ducked his head down as his position was showered with debris, a salvo of 120mm mortar bombs fired by a Soviet Company’s mortar platoon, straddled the line. Artillery was deadly but, unless there was a direct hit, well dug-in soldiers could survive. Mortar bombs, lobbed from the enemy side of the battlefield, could drop straight onto a position and could prove crippling for the defending troops even if they were dug in.

More BMPs headed towards Thorpe and his men. One was stopped in its tracks by one of the surviving L9 bar-mines, the two lines of anti-tank mines laid earlier, lethal for the enemy armour. A burning T-80, with a mine plough attachment, was testament to Soviets last failed attempt to breach the minefield. Although some of the mines had been detonated by a carpet of artillery rockets and shells targeting them, some had still survived.

But the Soviets were better prepared this time. Two UR-77s had been quickly brought to the eastern bank of the water feature, emitting clouds of white smoke as a rocket was blasted from each of the twin launch ramps. The two rockets rose at an angle into the air, a twin high-explosive hose trailing behind it before slowly descending, the rocket bouncing along the ground towards Lieutenant Thorpe’s position before coming to a halt no more than 150 metres away. The second one landed off to the left. The hoses detonated, erupting along a ninety-metre length, a cloud of dust obscuring parts of the battlefield as it cleared a path six metres wide through the minefield. Another rocket was launched from each UR-77 and the process was repeated. The Soviet motor rifle regiment to their front now had four clear paths directly towards the defending British soldiers. They took advantage of it quickly before the British came to terms with it.

Colonel Yermakov was determined not to fail. Even if his divisional commander didn’t take action as a consequence of further failure, he knew that bastard of a political officer would see him relieved of his command and shot for cowardice. His plan was simple: committing a fresh battalion, one motor rifle company would attack left and one would attack right. They still had nearly sixteen BMPs between them. The weaker company, with only six of their armoured vehicles left, was already pouring through the two central gaps created in the British minefield. They were the bait. They would draw the sting from the British Milan’s while, behind them, two companies from his tank battalion, now down to fourteen T-80s, would plough straight through the British lines then head southwest. The chemical attack on the troops to the rear had used a ‘persistent nerve agent’, making the British left-flank next to the canal difficult to defend. Once south of Lauenhagen, Yermakov’s tanks would turn west where, joined by the remaining tank company, they were ordered not to stop until they reached north of Stadthagen. His third tank company, the strongest with eight tanks, would, once past Stadthagen, head north and cut off any British troops late in pulling back. His second motor rifle battalion had already received its orders to form up and follow immediately behind the advance force. He was confident they would swamp the British defences. He gave the final order and the Air Assault Company was on its way.

Clouds of smoke billowed up along the front of the British positions, hiding the Soviet armour as it crossed through the minefields. The menacing shapes suddenly appeared through the swirling smoke, and two of the Company’s Milan teams were quick to respond, hitting both of the lead BMPs, those following having to veer round their stricken comrades.

“Tanks, tanks, sir!” yelled Pritchard.

Coming out of the smoke, two T-80s followed the last of the BMP-2s. There were now two Soviet motor rifle companies flanking left and right and main battle tanks followed BMP-2s coming straight towards Oliver’s position, less than 200 metres away.

They heard the helicopters to the north, but couldn’t see them. Oliver was sure they didn’t belong to the Army Air Corps.

“Alpha-One and Alpha-Three, this is Zero-Alpha. Pull back, pull back. All your call signs pull back. Out to you. Hello Alpha-Two. Over.”

The tank was 100 metres from Oliver’s position and panic was welling up inside.
What the hell are the Milan’s doing?
He screamed inside. Out of the five Milan FPs left with the company, two had been destroyed, one had run out of ammunition, one was on the move, and the fifth one was facing two BMP-2s heading straight for it.

The T-80, less than fifty metres away and spraying the trench with machine-gun fire, suddenly erupted into an inferno as the TOW missile, fired by one of the four Lynx helicopters sent in to cover the withdrawal, slammed into it. Not even its ERA blocks could save it from total destruction. Its sister tank, twenty metres north, met with the same fate as two TOW missiles delivered their justice. The first one, deflected by an ERA block doing its job, only managed to damage some of the optics; the second TOW missile ploughed into the front right track, derailing it, forcing the tank to a halt.

“Hello, Alpha-Two. What is your status? Over.”

“Alpha-Two. Under heavy attack. BMPs and tanks are on our line. Over.”

“Understood. You have a heli-assault to your north. You must hold for five, Oliver. Over.”

“I doubt I have ten men left, sir!”

“Alpha One and Three are pulling back behind you. Give them a chance to set up midway and you can pull back through them.”

“Wilco. Alpha-Two out.”

“Are we pulling back, sir?”

“Not yet, Corporal. Pritchard, I want an update from the sections and tell them to prepare to move in four.”

“Our fallback positions will stop them, sir?”

“Let’s hope so. Well?” He acknowledged his signaller who was trying to gain his attention.

“One-Section down to five, sir, and Three-Section is not responding.”

Oliver turned to Lance Corporal Jeffries as another Soviet tank poked its nose close to their position, another two TOW missiles saving the day. However, this was at a price as a Soviet SA-13 surface-to-air missile blasted one of the Lynx helicopters out of the air as it was shifting position.

“Two minutes and you pull back.”

Brrrrrp, brrrrp, brrrrp
. The Gympy kept on firing as Soviet troops, leaving their damaged vehicles, attempted to get closer to the British lines.

“You know the route. Meet up with One-Section, and I’ll bring Three-Section with me. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Minute and a half. Partridge, Barnes, with me.”

He clambered out of the partly filled trench, his rubber gloves making it difficult to grip onto anything. With his SLR gripped by the carrying handle, he sprinted into the trees, moved south and past a pile of rubble that had once been a house.

They came across the first firing position belonging to Three-Section. It couldn’t really be classed as a firing position. It was more like a conglomeration of craters. Continuing south, twenty metres away, what was once the gun-group was now a churned up mess of body parts and bits of wood and metal from the soldiers’ GPMG and personal weapons. They eventually found the remnants of the section behind the rubble of a house next door. Two soldiers, one of them the section commander, were firing in the direction of the enemy. A third soldier was patching up a badly wounded colleague, the man’s uniform covered in dark patches where blood had run freely from multiple wounds.

“Corporal Fletcher, I’ve been trying to contact you.”