The Blue Effect (Cold War) (26 page)

Even working as quickly, and as quietly, as possible, and taking risks at times as they clambered like monkeys in between the supporting girders, it took the six men two hours to finish the job. They were exhausted, but they still had to extract themselves from the bridge, taking the linked detonation cord with them. Just as the six men reached the southern end of the bridge, they froze as the roar of tracked vehicles came out of the blue, the bridge playing its own tune as the armoured vehicles, MTLBs towing T-12 anti-tank guns, rattled across. The SAS troopers looked at the shaking charges, and secretly prayed that they had secured them well.

The column seemed endless as eighteen sets crossed over, led by a BRDM2 and followed by a BRDM1. Eventually, the crossing was completed, and relative silence returned as the troopers lowered themselves to the ground, trailing the det-cord behind them. Troopers One and Two covered their fellow soldiers while they moved through the long grass to the area they had chosen as the firing point. They needn’t have worried about the sentries. Once the convoy had gone, they reverted to type. Two of the four sentries, as agreed amongst themselves, went back to a small hut on the northern end of the bridge and went back to sleep. The sergeant-in-command hadn’t even bothered to leave the building, kicking the two sleeping sentries out when the convoy had turned up. After another ten minutes, the full SAS patrol was reunited and, as agreed, the six grabbed some kip while two kept watch. All they had to do now was wait.

C
hapter 32

0
330, 11 JULY 1984. SOVIET AIRBORNE REGIMENT. NORTHEAST OF BRAUNSCHWEIG, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLUE EFFECT +9.5 HOURS

The clamshell doors of the IL-76 transport opened slowly; ready to allow the waiting paratroopers to board. The airborne soldiers were in two lines outside, and turned to the left and right on the orders of their officers. On a second order, the two lines of men shuffled forward, the dark interior of the transport aircraft eventually swallowing up the 125 heavily armed paratroopers. These were part of the Soviet Union’s elite, the
Vozdushno-Desantnaya Voyska
, the Soviet’s air assault force. Behind them, Gaz-66 utility trucks pulled D-30 122mm howitzers, preparing to be dropped as part of a second wave. Further afield, BMD-1s, the paratroopers’ Airborne Mechanised Infantry Combat Vehicles, were either going through a final check or through the last stages of being loaded onto a transport aircraft. The AIMCV, once on the ground, would be the regiment’s primary mobile weapon: a weapon that was not only capable of carrying the troops into battle, but also packing a punch with its 30mm gun when the soldiers came up against their enemy, the soldiers of NATO. The Soviet army were pioneers in the use of heavy platforms for dropping equipment. The majority of the equipment for this airborne regiment had already been placed on-board the aircraft that would deliver them to the drop zone. An aircraft roared down the runway as the first of the troops headed west, to pile on the pressure on the beleaguered British forces.

0400, 11 JULY 1984. WHISKEY COMPANY, 6TH BATTALION, ROYAL REGIMENT OF FUSILIERS (TA), 15TH INFANTRY BRIGADE, 2ND INFANTRY DIVISION. WEST OF MINDEN, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLUE EFFECT +10 HOURS

The air was forced from his lungs as he struck the ground hard, jarring his shoulder badly, the explosion having flung his body violently sideways. His ears buzzed, and he urgently tried to focus his mind as other explosions erupted nearby, showering his helmet with a deluge of earth and debris. Corporal Barker panicked suddenly, scrabbling for his respirator, the warnings from the platoon commander just before they disembarked from the private roll-on/roll-off ferry, seconded to the military, ringing in his ears.
Remember, if you get shelled or attacked from the air, it could be a gas attack. Hold your breath and get your respirator on quickly.
He yanked it out of the square green case, holding his breath, but letting it out again realising he had been panting and breathing air in and out of his lungs for at least a minute. He pulled it over his face, emitting a cry as he jerked his injured shoulder. The respirator was adjusted until comfortable and he had a good seal.
Too late,
he thought,
too fucking late. But better safe than sorry if the gas is still heading my way
.

Realising he was still exposed as more rockets landed less than 100 metres away, he scrambled on all fours, throwing himself into the trench head first, his boots kicking his masked comrade in the face.

“For fuck’s sake, Kev,” a muffled voice cried out. “You nearly took my bloody head off then.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’re under fire, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Corporal Kevin Barker peered over the trench, seeing his SLR less than ten metres away. He left his shelter again and quickly retrieved it, dropping back down to the bottom of the trench as two bombs bracketed their position, lifting one end of their defensive position and almost engulfing them in a heap of earth.

“God, Corp, what the hell’s going on? Where’s it coming from? We’re not at the front, for God’s sake!”

“Keep your bloody head down, Parr. It’ll be over soon.”

They stared at each other through the goggle eyes of their gas masks, eyes almost as wide as the lens in the rubber. Two jets, one after the other, flew low overhead, and a furrow appeared along the front of the trench as 30mm-calibre shells tore up the ground.

Corporal Barker heard an unmuffled shriek from someone in severe pain to his left. Pushing his way past Parr, he made his way to the second slit trench, his heart pumping as a second scream, unblocked by the confines of a respirator, let rip. The screams were getting louder and more panicky the closer he got to the source of the sound.

“It’s Powell, Corp, he’s a mess,” shouted Miller through his mask.

Barker saw the infantryman slumped on the firing step, mask off, his face white even through his cam cream, rivulets of sweat leaving streaks down his blackened face. Another green-smocked soldier tore at Powell’s NBC suit, cutting it away as best he could.

Barker knelt down. “Easy, easy. Slow down, Dan. Cut it straight down the front, and we can peel it apart.”

The soldier calmed down and complied, and after making a jagged cut down the centre of the front of the chemical smock, they could get to his combat jacket.

Corporal Barker could see quite clearly that the dark pattern on the combat jacket beneath was not only the disruptive pattern of his camouflage jacket but also a large black patch that covered the entire front of the casualty’s chest.

Powell’s body started to jerk violently, blood ejecting from his mouth, spraying them all in a frothy pink cloud. He screamed as they lay him down. Someone was yelling for a medic for a second and third time. The call went unheard above the din of rockets and bombs that continued to rain down around them.

“Get on the radio, Woody, but keep your bloody head down. It’s not over yet.”

Lance Corporal Woods, the section second-in-command, keyed the radio and called for assistance. It would be some time before they got help. The medical resources of the Company, and Battalion for that matter were sorely stretched as the casualty rate mounted. Whiskey Company, 6th Battalion Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, 6RRF, was receiving their first taste of battle. It was unpleasant and bitter. The soldiers would have to do the best they could in the meantime.

Once they had cleared Powell’s jacket and cut away his shirt, the extent of his injury became apparent. A large fragment from a 30mm shell, from the cannon of a Soviet Frogfoot, a ground-attack aircraft, had plunged straight through his upper left chest, leaving a five-centimetre hole at the front and a mangled mess at the rear. One lung had more than likely been severely lacerated; the second, punctured in places, was far from adequate to do its job. Powell’s gasps got louder and more violent as Dan placed a first-aid dressing on the wound covering the ragged bloody hole. Corporal Barker pushed a bandage beneath the casualty’s upper back, Powell spitting blood as he panted trying to get the oxygen his body demanded. He cried out as Corporal Barker lifted the bandage at the front, placing a piece of plastic carrier bag, he had used to wrap some food in to keep it dry, over the wound. It was far from perfect, but it might at least seal the sucking wound until they could get him some more professional help. The bandage was placed back on the wound, and ties were passed under the soldier’s body until they were in a position so it could be secured tightly.

Powell’s cry of pain was suddenly very loud, the silence around them ominous now that the Soviet ground-attack aircraft had fled, one shot down by a Rapier missile, a second and third destroyed by German and British Phantoms. The rest had bolted for home, back to their base, where they could refuel, rearm and come back to hammer the British again.

Corporal Barker peeled his S-6 respirator off his head and face and called out for his radio operator. “Get onto platoon again. We need a bloody medic here now!”

He took one last look at Powell, before he left to check on the rest of his section. Powell’s breathing was becoming more laboured. He didn’t hold out much hope.

“Corp, platoon for you.”

He grabbed the handset. “Whiskey-Two, this is Whiskey-Two-Two. Over.”

“Whiskey-Two. Sitrep. Over
.
”

“One man badly injured. Powell. The rest shaken, but OK. Over.”

“Roger Whiskey-Two-Two. Stretcher party on way to you. We have reports of slow-moving aircraft heading our direction. Over.”

“Do we know what they are, sir? Over.”

“Negative. Keep your heads down and I’ll keep you posted. Oh, and, Corporal Barker, check all your firing positions. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Out.”

Barker handed the handset back. “Ripper, pass the word: slow-moving aircraft heading our way. Make sure the lads keep their heads down and get their NBC kit sorted in case we need it. We had a lucky break last time.”

“Apart from Powell.”

“I know. But we ain’t finished yet, so get on with it.”

“Will do, Corp.”

It suddenly dawned on him that he was no longer just a part-time NCO; someone who went away for the occasional weekend to practise soldierly skills and have a laugh and a joke with his mates. He was in charge. In charge of these men, and they were looking to him to lead the way. The responsibility thrust upon him suddenly felt heavy on his shoulders. He shook himself metaphorically and moved back down the trench just as the stretcher party turned up to take Powell away. Eight of them now left.

“Corp, Corp, its HQ again.”

“Whiskey-Two, this is Whiskey-Two-Two. Over.”

Before his platoon commander could respond, he saw the reason for the call. White fluttering packages were falling from either side of a large aircraft. He could now hear the drone of their engines. Three of the large transport planes were coming directly for him, a trail of parachutes leaving the three troop carriers as they lumbered closer and closer.

“Stand to! Stand to! Soviet airborne. Stand to!” Barker yelled.

“Whiskey-Two. You’ve got company, over
.
”

“I see them, sir.”

“Hold your fire until your men have a clear target, understood?”

“Roger, sir.”

“Good luck. Whiskey-Two out
.
”

“Stand to, stand to!” Barker yelled again, more out of a need to do something than giving any clear orders.

He darted along the firing points, checking on his men. As he stuffed his respirator back into its bag, he doubted it would be needed now with Soviet paratroopers about to descend.

“Get ready. Check your arcs. Hold your fire.”

He, along with the rest of his men, watched as the three aircraft passed overhead, paratroopers still leaving. Further back, Soviet airborne soldiers were swaying from their parachute harnesses, the canopies above billowing, catching the flow of air, slowing them down, lowering them to the earth and into battle.

Barker laid his SLR on top of the sandbags that lined the front of the trench. There hadn’t been time to sort out top cover. The priority had been to provide one for the gun-group and the attached Milan FP.

He zeroed in on the nearest paratrooper, probably 500 metres away, and seconds away from hitting the deck. But the closer the planes travelled towards them, the closer the enemy, tumbling out of their transports, would land near to the British positions. “Standby, standby. Gun-group, only when I give the order.”

The first of the enemy hit the deck. Some of them fired a few rounds, but knew they were too far away to have much of an impact. But, as more of the Soviet airborne troops, those that had jumped later in the stick, started to land, the closer they were to the soldiers waiting for them.

“Corp.”

Barker grabbed the handset from Ripper.

“Go ahead.”

“Whiskey-Two. Outgoing. Out
.
”

“Mortar fire on its way,” he hollered to his men.

Crump…crump…crump.

Crump…crump…crump.

Small mushroom clouds erupted amongst the Soviet soldiers, killing several as they tried to shake off their harnesses. Others threw themselves to the ground with their parachutes still attached to their bodies, but too late for some as bomb after bomb tore into the assembling paratroopers. Parachutes fluttered 300 metres away as more of the enemy airborne touched down.

“Gun-group, controlled bursts, 300 metres, open fire.”

The Lance Corporal in command of the gun-group didn’t need telling twice. He had been holding back Jenkins, the gunner, who was gripping the GPMG so hard his knuckles were white. But now, released, he pulled the trigger, the belt of 7.62mm rounds flying through the assistant gunner’s fingers as he guided the belt into the breech mechanism. Firing controlled bursts of roughly five to ten rounds, every fifth round a tracer, bullets thudded into the ground close to the nearest Soviet paratroopers, particles of dirt propelled up in front of them. A slight adjustment of his aim and Jenkins was on target: the enemy started to fall as round after round tore into their ranks. More and more parachutes fluttered to the ground: 200 metres, 150 metres, and 100 metres.

“Rifle-group, 100 metres, ten rounds, rapid fire!”

The SLR rifles cracked as 7.62mm bullets were launched at the enemy. The thuds as they penetrated flesh and bone of those nearest could almost be heard as they hit the soldiers, piercing their fragile bodies. One airborne soldier literally had his arm ripped from his shoulder, only sinews and his uniform keeping it attached. Another was hit in the hip; the bullet deflected vertically, travelling almost the full length of his body, exiting at his shoulder blade. Both men went down and didn’t get up again.

Some returned fire with their AKS-74 assault rifles, and bullets zipped past Corporal Barker and his men. Barker snapped off two rounds himself before checking on his men.

“Fire at will, fire at will,” ordered Barker.

A billowing white cloud of a parachute suddenly impeded his view as a paratrooper landed less than fifty metres away. He fired off a shot into the mass, hoping to hit the hidden enemy. Luck was with his adversary that day: the round winging overhead as the soldier dropped to the ground. The airborne warrior recovered quickly, pushing the parachute silk aside, releasing the harness, and firing off a burst that flew over the heads of the dug in soldiers.

Crack
. A shot from Ripper hit the soldier full on in the chest as he raised his body to return fire again, knocking him back, his AKS dropping from his grip. He was still alive when he slumped to the floor. But, without treatment, he would be dead within the hour.