The Black Effect (Cold War) Read online

  “It’s just about to get worse for them, Barsukov. We move out fast, as soon as it stops, using the air-to-ground attack as cover. Make sure Kokorev is ready.”

  “Will do, sir.” With that, Barsukov dropped back down inside the tank and made his way to the front to chat to his fellow crewman.

  Crump, crump... crump... crump... crump... crump.

  The artillery assault was incessant, and Trusov actually felt sorry for the British soldiers. He knew that many of them were being killed at this exact moment in time. Every time a salvo of shells bracketed their positions, someone was in danger of injury or death.

  Trusov stared at the constant flicker of lights dominating the horizon in front of him, mesmerised by the flashes as the high-explosive shells erupted all along the forward line of enemy troops. This would be the second major push they would make.

  One Guards Tank Army would also be resuming its push west, threatening the southern flank of 1 British Corps and 2 Guards Tank Army menacing the northern flank; the British Army of the Rhine was under enormous pressure. The German Army was holding well in the north, defending their own area of responsibility and providing the covering force for the 1st Netherlands Corps as it moved rapidly east to occupy the positions allocated to them to defend. But, to the south, 1st Belgian Corps was struggling to get into position, due to delays in calling up reserve units and initiating full mobilisation, resulting in a weak point in Northern Army Group’s southern wing. Again, the German forces were obliged to temporarily fill the gap.

  Round after round pummelled the soldiers of Combat Team Alpha, dug in amongst the southern fringes of Braunschweig, and Combat Team Bravo in Wolfenbuttel. A scattering of troops also defended the wooded area that lay in between the two conurbations. 62nd Guards Tank Regiment’s 2S1s fired shell after shell into the trees of the small wood that lay less than three kilometres in front of Trusov’s position. Trunks were splintered and branches were severed; the troops dug in along the edge were suffocated by the sheer ferocity of the torrent that beat down on them. A battalion of eighteen BM-21s had been allocated to fire a full load of 720 rockets at that particular target. Once fired, all 720 of the M-21OF three-metre long rockets would be launched striking their target mercilessly, swamping the entire area with high-explosive fragmentation within twenty seconds of the firing being initiated. When they eventually hit, the entire length of the forest, a kilometre long and to a depth of 200 metres, erupted into a maelstrom of flying splinters of wood and, from the rockets themselves, lethal slivers of metal tore into the ground, trees and flesh alike. Trusov, although safe, held his hand up in front of his face and felt sick at the thought of himself being on the receiving end of such death and destruction. For twenty seconds, the forest and troops dug in along its edge were laced with a lethal cocktail, the onslaught unforgiving. If that wasn’t enough, after two minutes of preparation, the BM-21s moved positions so they weren’t exposed to counter-battery fire, and prepared to fire again. Ten minutes to reload and, twenty minutes later, Trusov witnessed the utter devastation of the wooded area in front of him. Nothing, he thought, nothing could have possibly survived that. But some did survive. Troops still alive in their holes cowered deep into their trenches, struggling to draw breath, the sound ringing in their ears, the sucking noises as they gasped inside their rubber masks, more than one soldier panicking and ripping off his S6 respirator, cursed by their comrades and NCOs alike. Luckily, the attack was not chemical, but many were killed all the same. Not a single soldier who survived left that wood without feeling shaky and sick.

  Wolfenbuttel fared better. Although the rain of shells pounded the buildings into rubble, tore into their quickly prepared positions in the ground around it, the unit was spread over a much wider area. A fully mechanised infantry company, less the platoon defending the forest to the north, along with five Milan firing posts, were still capable of putting up some resistance when the attack they knew was inevitable came. The Soviet High Command had allotted Frog-7, Scud-B and BM-27 missile launchers for the main bombardment on the towns of Braunschweig and Wolfenbuttel. They had only one intention: to smash the covering force once and for all and keep the momentum of the army, of over 1,500,000 men, advancing west.

  Barsukov came up alongside, and Trusov felt the shudder as Kokorev started the tank’s engines. He looked at his tank commander and tapped his watch, holding five fingers in the air. “Five minutes,” he mouthed.

  Trusov nodded in acknowledgement. There would be no radio messages, no waving of flags in the air like they did in the early days, but his unit knew to pull out in exactly five minutes and attack. To the north, Captain Yakovlev’s recce company, two platoons of BMP and one of T-80s, would conduct a feint to the south-east of Braunschweig, distracting the enemy, also acting as 62GTR’s right flank protection. The scout-car company of BRDM-2s would form a screen on the regiment’s left flank, warning the unit of any enemy counter-attack. Lieutenant Colonel Aminev’s third-battalion with its remaining twenty-six T-80s would strike south, under cover of a smokescreen provided by a battery of the regiment’s 2S1s. His unit would try and filter through the wood to the north of Wolfenbuttel. The motorcycle section from the recce company would help guide them through. The motor rifle battalion would head straight for the centre of the wooded area, fighting their way through the battered British forces there, meeting up with 3rd Battalion’s tanks. Once the wood was secured, the infantry would fulfil their role as the regiment’s reserve, and remain there.

  Unknown to the Soviet forces, the British infantry, the remnants of two platoons, one from Combat Team Alpha in the north and a platoon from Combat Team Bravo in the south, were already pulling back to a safe area in the rear. They had done their job – in spite of the fact that they felt like they were retreating taking their casualties with them. But they had left at least fifteen men behind, dead, some unrecognisable after the battering they had received from the Soviet rockets. The soldiers were asking – no – demanding to know where their help was from their own artillery and air force. British artillery had scored some successes in their counter-battery fire missions, but with so many targets out there and the constant need to move to ensure they weren’t targeted themselves, they had little effect in significantly reducing the array of tubes and missiles aimed at their armour and infantry. The air force was in a fight for its own survival. Heavy air and missile attacks on the NATO airfields, along with Spetsnaz sabotage, had disrupted their ability to support their forward troops to any great extent. Protecting reinforcements speeding to the front, preventing their precious airfields from being made unusable and fighting off the Soviet air force that attacked in wave after wave, there was little they could do for their covering force.

  The sudden silence was almost disorientating; the artillery bombardment ceased almost as one. A fug of smoke had manifested itself along an entire ninety-degree front ahead of Trusov’s tank. He caught a whiff of propellant on the breeze, coming from the mass of Soviet artillery that had been firing for the last hour.

  Whoosh, whoosh...whoosh, whoosh.

  Trusov and Barsukov looked up at the sky-blue underbellies of two pairs of Sukhoi SU-25s as they shattered the silence that had lasted for a mere few seconds. The shoulder-mounted trapezoidal and conventional tailplane gave the jet a unique silhouette. Weapons were slung beneath the five hardpoints beneath each wing. Two carried 57mm rocket pods, more death to rain down upon the enemy. In addition, a 30mm cannon, with 250 rounds of ammunition, was located in a compartment beneath the cockpit. Nicknamed Frogfoot by NATO, the single-seat, twin-engined jet aircraft was specifically designed to provide close air support for Soviet ground forces. They would be expected to perform between eight and ten sorties a day. This was the first one of today’s attacks.

  “The bloody Grachs (Rooks) will sort them out if the artillery hasn’t,” crowed Barsukov.

  Trusov didn’t answer, but checked his watch. Thirty seconds to go. He
pointed downwards to Barsukov who then slid into his gunner’s position on the left.

  Pulling on his padded helmet, he now had communications with Kokorev, the driver and his gunner. “Fifteen seconds.”

  “Sir,” Kokorev responded.

  Ten seconds. A ripple of 57mm rockets, smoke trails behind them, left the aircraft pods. Two aircraft targeted the southern edge of Braunschweig; two attacked the northern edge of the forest.

  Kokorev looked up at the barrel of the tank gun above him, just to his right, and pulled on the hatch handle and heaved the driver’s hatch closed.

  Five seconds. Over 100 missiles, fired by the Rooks, struck their targets, laying a carpet of high explosives and shrapnel along the periphery where any remaining British troop would be waiting for the expected enemy advance.

  “Go, go, go,” Trusov yelled into his mouthpiece.

  Kokorev peered through the three vision blocks in front of him, his left hand raising the engine-idle lever and his right foot pushing on the accelerator pedal, the T-80’s 1,000-horsepower gas-turbine engine powered the tank forward. They pulled out from behind the two-storey house they had been secreted behind; their camouflage netting had been removed earlier. T-80s along the entire length of 62nd GTR front appeared from their hiding places and slowly gathered speed.

  As for Trusov’s battalion, Vagin’s third-company was on his left, Ivashin’s company on the right, and Mahayev’s out in front, followed closely by two mine-plough tanks. Earlier, during the hours of darkness, a Soviet reconnaissance patrol had identified a probable minefield. The British had laid a carpet of bar mines between the forest and Braunschweig, hoping to hold the Soviet tanks up while their Milans picked them off from the side. The engineers had just completed their survey when they were bounced by a British fighting patrol. They barely made it back to the Russian lines, losing a third of their small force on the way. Under the cover of a smokescreen, the two mine-plough tanks moved forward rapidly and started to plough a passage, the width of two tanks, through the minefield. The remaining tanks of the battalion would pass through the gap, fanning out either side, the fuel injected onto their manifolds providing additional smoke; much needed cover from the eyes of their NATO enemies.

  “Two-Zero, Two-One. One down, one down!”

  “Two-One, understood. Keep moving.”

  Another T-80 casualty, thought Trusov. He pushed the hatch open and climbed up so his shoulders were well out of the turret, being met by a swirl of smoke, the stench of diesel fumes nearly making him gag. The tank bounced across the open ground ahead, Kokorev heading slightly north-west as instructed. Neither he nor Kokorev could see very much at the moment. The biggest risk was driving into one of their own comrades. Travelling at about twenty-five kilometres an hour, they would step up to forty once they were through the minefield. Although he could see very little, Trusov strained his ears and could pick out the roar of engines ahead as they negotiated the occasional ditch or mound.

  “Slow by five; our boys are just ahead,” he informed his driver.

  Looking down and to the left, past the other side of the yellow-painted auto-loader, he could see Barsukov, rocking from the hip as he moved with the motion of the tank, his eyes up against the IG42-quantum periscope sight, ready to fire on a target that presented itself. Looking down and right, the visual indicator showed that there was a sabot round loaded and ready.

  “Two-Zero, Two-One. Through the minefield. Over.”

  “Two-One, understood.”

  On the internal comms, he called to Kokorev, “Stop, stop, stop.”

  The heavyweight tank came to a halt, rocking on its suspension.

  “Two-Two, Two-Three, stop, stop. Two-One, leave unit as marker; then move two, zero, zero west. Over.”

  “Two-One received, smoke thinning. Out.”

  The turret swung right as Barsukov lined the tank’s gun barrel up with the likely direction of the town of Braunschweig.

  “Two-Three, Two-Zero. One minute, then move through. Two, zero, zero south-west.”

  “Two-zero-zero, south-west.”

  “Two-Two, Two-Zero, wait two, then two, zero, zero north-west.”

  “Two-Zero, Two-Two. Yes. One unit dropping out, mechanical.”

  Shit, thought Trusov. But he couldn’t complain. They had been exceptionally lucky in keeping most of their tanks on the road. He scanned what little he could see ahead; but the smoke was definitely thinning out. He felt a slight southern breeze on his left cheek, indicating the smokescreen would move across the town, but expose his left flank to the forest.

  Boo,boo,boo,boo,boom. Boo,boo,boo,boo,boom.

  A ripple of explosions came from their front left and right flank as Frogfoot ground-attack aircraft laid into the defenders yet again. Any survivors from the previous artillery, missile and air attacks kept their heads well and truly down.

  Good, Trusov thought, that would keep the British gunners’ heads down. He could see more and more clearly in front of him. Although cover was a good thing to have, they also needed to see where they were going and pick out targets that may threaten their advance. He tapped his fingers sequentially on the edge of the turret hatchway, listening intently for any sound of movement. Off to his front right, he could not only hear tanks moving but could also see the shadowy shapes about 100 metres away, heading at speed for the gap through the minefields.

  “Standby, standby,” he called to Kokorev.

  Barsukov heard the call and turned the turret so it was now at a forty-five degree angle to the left, the likely area where he would find a target and where the smokescreen would disappear first. He was nervous, as was his comrade up front in the driver’s seat. Stationary, they would be a sitting target; he would be pleased once they were on the move again.

  Off to the left, Trusov heard the whine of gas-turbine engines as Two-Three started their journey towards the gap they must pass through. He caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his left eye as one of Savva’s tanks sped across their front, not more than twenty metres ahead. He resisted the temptation to order Kokorev forward, knowing there would be a high risk of a collision.

  “Two-Zero, Two-Two. Through.”

  Trusov did not acknowledge; too much radio chatter was unnecessary. The tank company raced west, through the gap; then dispersed to their planned positions, spreading out to make less of a target.

  “Two-Zero, Two-Three. Through, deploying.”

  Savva would be taking his company south-west, covering the battalion’s left flank.

  The turret of Trusov’s command tank moved slightly, Barsukov’s impatience telling.

  “Keep it still,” snapped Trusov. “Kokorev, pull forward slowly.”

  The engine built up power, Kokorev manipulating the accelerator, engine idle and the gear shift on his right, and the tank built up speed. Peering through the vision blocks, he too could see dark shadows ahead as they caught up with Savva’s company and made their way through the minefield. One of Mahayev’s tanks and one of the mine-plough tanks marked the entrance, the commanders in the turrets waving them forward.

  “Go for it,” ordered Trusov.

  Kokorev didn’t need to have the order repeated. He put his foot down, taking the tank up through the gears, the battle tank lurching forwards, ripping up the earth beneath its tracks. Savva’s company cut left as Kokorev manoeuvred his tank out of the gap on the other side. They were followed by the guard tank which quickly overtook them to catch up with its mother unit.

  Trusov was almost blinded as they drove out of the smokescreen into full daylight. The tanks had now stopped generating smoke, ready to use their engines for their true purpose: to power the T-80s into battle. Leaving the rapidly dissolving smokescreen behind them, Trusov’s battalion fanned out. He could see the forest ahead, now occupied by their motor rifle battalion. The battalion had encountered no resistance. In
fact, the biggest challenge was not the British army but negotiating the shattered ground with their BMP-2s. The motor rifle battalion commander, Lachkov, would have been astounded if there had been anyone left alive in this hellhole, to have prevented his men from taking their objective: the western edge of the forest where the River Oker would be a mere 2,000 metres away.

  The T-80 lifted up as a shell exploded less than twenty metres away and rocked back down, Kokorev fighting with the two steering sticks to get it back in control. Trusov ducked as clods of earth pounded the tank and fragments zinged off the turret, and he quickly dropped down into the compartment closing the hatch after him. He peered through the right-hand vision-block and could see columns of earth being thrown into the air as shell after shell peppered the ground around his battalion. It was the British army’s turn to retaliate and hammer the advancing Soviet forces. Reports started to come in from the R-173 radio transceiver. Two-company on the right flank had lost one tank to artillery and a second to a Milan missile.

  Trusov urged Kokorev on. If he could get two-company into the northern edge of the forest, facing the southern outskirts of Braunschweig, one-company on the western edge of the forest on the right flank of the motor rifle battalion, the third tank battalion would be to their far left and three-company in reserve behind, he would be in a good position to support the advance and the crossing of the River Oker. The entire 62nd Guards Tank Regiment of seventy-eight tanks, its motor rifle battalion and its twenty-four remaining BMP-2s would support 248th Guards Motor Rifle Regiment in making a crossing. All of the regiment’s eighty-two BMP-2s and twenty-six T-80s would be joined by the reconnaissance battalion. Heavy amphibious pontoons, such as the GSP ferries, along with PTS and K-61s, were already speeding to the front, ready to force a daytime crossing. A PMP pontoon bridge company would enable the Soviets to put in place a substantial floating bridge to move heavier units across and get to grips with the enemy. Heavy artillery, air-to-ground support from the air force, missiles and rockets had been committed to make this a fast passage.