The Third World War (2 page)

The crash tenders had taken up ready positions by the runway which meant that some aircraft must be trying to approach under difficulty. He looked up to see an aircraft quite high to the east making a very steep descent and a few seconds later an American F-15 pilot smacked his fighter down on the runway very fast and very hard on one wheel. As he braked a tyre burst and the F-15 swung off the runway, missing von Marschall’s Tornado shelter by only a few feet before slewing round with a collapsed undercarriage.

The aircraft did not burn and Karl ran over to see if he could help. The pilot was unhurt and climbed out with a cheerful grin as he pulled off his crash helmet.

“Hi—Major Dick Gilchrist. I’m from Bitburg. This bird won’t fly for a while. I want to get back up there again where the action is. Can we get through to Base Ops Bitburg?” Karl nodded.

“What do you guys do here?”

“Counter-air on Tornados so far,” said Karl.

“Great—keep at it. We’re doing fine up top but there are so many MiGs it’s like putting your head in a beehive. I downed three and 1 guess that’s a fair average, but there are so many that someone’s got to turn the tap off on the ground—I guess that’s you guys and the
RAF
ii) that low-level act of yours.”

They were both eager to swap experiences of the first few hours of the battle. As they rode in the crash tender back to Wing operations Karl told him of their attack on Zerbst.

Then it was Gilchrist’s turn, “I was leading the second section out of Bitburg. Our ground briefing gave us the area of build-up to the north and the scramble message was the last thing I heard on the radio. Just white noise, and if you could get a channel free then it was jammed even worse with voices—so we went visual on hand signals. Believe me, brother, we didn’t need ground control—the sky up there is just full of MiGs and F-4s and F-15s. My three went down, just like that”—he mimed it with his hands—”and then something hit my ship hard. The sonofabitch flashed across me slightly low—it was a wide angle shot and I just hit the gun button and he rolled straight over. Back at gunnery school they’d be proud of me, but,” he added ruefully, “not here I guess. As he went down I saw his tail markings and it was a Belgian F-16 with a M iG 23 right on his tail. I guess it was the MiG that shot me up. Anyway my left engine was out and my power controls had gone so that’s what got me in here on such a lousy landing.”

Karl smiled encouragingly as Gilchrist went on. “I felt really bad doing Ivan’s work for him but I had my own troubles-I sure hope that Beige got out all right—but-hell, those F-16s aren’t meant to be this side of the
SAM
belt anyway. If this is the way it’s going to be, and no radio either, you’ve got to stick in your own air space or ride down on the silk.”

It was time for von Marschall to join his squadron for briefing. They wished each other tuck. As the airfield defence alert state was still only Amber he left Gilchrist in the Wing ground-training room. The walls were pasted with aircraft recognition silhouettes. There were some good ones of the F-16; he thought that might be helpful. (146 Air Defence Battery Royal Artillery had deployed its twelve Rapier detachments that night along the Hotenberg ridge and out on to the plain to the east. The task of these detachments was to defend I British Corps Headquarters which had established itself in the village of Nieder Einbecken. Each detachment had a launcher, loaded with four slim, matt-green Rapier anti-aircraft missiles, a target tracker and a complement of four soldiers commanded by a sergeant.

There was no sign of battle—no smoke, no noise other than a muted organ-swell to the east and north. Sergeant Edwards swung his eye across from the four dark-green missiles on the launcher to the camouflaged pile that was the tracker, with Gunner Henry buried in the rubber eye-piece. His gaze turned to the ripening asparagus field below: hadn’t someone called this the season of mist and mellow fruitful…

Alarm! The cry from Henry made him swivel and run to the tracker. He dived into the camouflage as “Target seen!” was bellowed into his ear. With a curse he disentangled his head from the netting and looked out over the plain. There was an aircraft approaching, but far too slow and far too low. Something was wrong.

“It’s not hostile,” called Edwards. A Tornado, trailing a white stream of fuel, was making an erratic course westwards. Uncharitably Edwards swore at the pilot, for he was way outside any safe lane and too close for comfort to the headquarters. As the Tornado scraped over the Hotenberg he suddenly felt apprehensive and with an urgency that suprised him ordered the rest of the detachment to stand to.

Low out of the eastern horizon four silent dots were approaching at high speed. “Targets seen and hostile!” burst from the tracker. In the far distance two flashes appeared from the ground. The left-hand Soviet aircraft disappeared in a ball of brilliant yellow flame but the second missile soared fruitlessly into space.

“In coverage!” yelled Henry. Edwards ordered him on to the centre aircraft of the remaining three and immediately a Rapier left the launcher. The missile curved gracefully towards its target and with tremendous elation the detachment watched a second Fitter scatter itself over the plain in a brilliant burst of fireworks. Simultaneously the port wing of the right-hand Fitter burst apart and the aircraft, spiralling downwards, covered the asparagus field with a sheet of oily flame. Before Edwards could react a second Rapier had left its rails towards the survivor of the sortie but with a thunder of afterburners the Russian pulled sharply to the left, frighteningly close to the detachment, and skimmed at tree-top height along and over the ridge. Their second missile had been wasted.

The action had taken just over two minutes. A quarter of an hour later Edwards was wondering why the four aircraft had not gone for Corps Headquarters when he noticed that, low out of the eastern horizon, four more Fitters were approaching fast.?

This account of an action of an
ATGW
section in a brigade of Guards battle group was given by its commander and only survivor to RJ. McLintock, who has reproduced it in his book Micks in Action: With the Irish Guards in Lower Saxony, Leo Cooper, London 1986:

“... about thirty T-72s and at least twice that number of
BMP
now west of the obstacle, sounds of a large force following them—over,” crackled the headphones into Sergeant Patterson’s half-deafened ears beneath the hood of his sweat-and dirt-stained
NBC
suit. He had been awake for more than forty-eight hours; his last real sleep had been in his quarter near the barracks three nights before. He silently prayed that his wife and baby daughter had got back to England safely and jerked his mind back from nameless fears to the present, to the section of Milan anti-tank guided weapons he commanded in the Irish Guards battle group.

They had deployed and dug for the last two days and this morning the Soviet attack came in. The war that everyone had said could never happen had begun. They had been in position on the edge of the now deserted village all day while Soviet aircraft roared overhead and the sounds of war from the east grew closer, like an approaching thunderstorm. They had watched pitiful, horrifying remnants of the covering force withdrawing— vehicles loaded with wounded grinding back up the main route, always under strafing and bombing. Grim reminders of an overloaded
APC
which had exploded 100 metres to their right now hung on the fence outside the once neat German Gasthaus.

Then came the shelling. For twenty minutes the earth shook and the sky darkened as tons of explosives crashed around Patterson. One direct hit and his brother, cheerful young Sean, with Guardsman Nevin, ceased to exist. Nos. 1 and 4 posts had survived. The men at No. 3 post were alive but wounded, with only three missiles left. With growing disbelief he watched through the dust and smoke the ragged lines of Soviet armour coming across the battered cornfields—fields which in the sunshine that same morning had reminded him so much of the Sligo farm of his youth.

With a black hatred he followed the tanks through his sight—watching and waiting for the command tank. They had been taught to recognize it, with little difficulty, by the way it moved. He picked it up as it passed, and with a muttered prayer fired. He cursed the sweat that ran into his eyes but held the crosswires on his target while he counted… 8—9—10. A huge flash and the T-72 lurched to a halt, smoke billowing. He tore his eye from the sight and saw nearby another tank explode. No. 4 post had scored too.

The next minutes lasted forever—reload—aim in the thickening dust and smoke—fire—down on the belly and crawl with gasping lungs to another position—then reload again—fire. After ten minutes No. 4 post was gone;

then Flynn, his No. 2, was ripped from wrist to shoulder by a splinter.

Only three missiles left now. Patterson looked wearily through the sight and saw a tank halted, its turret facing him. He dropped with Flynn behind the stones in the ruins of a barn. The world blew up and went black…

Hours later he came to, the only member still alive of Number One Section, Milan Platoon, 1 Battalion Irish Guards, 9

The report given below of a battery of M-107 175 mm self-propelled guns in action appeared in the Daily Mail on 8 August 1985. It is based on an account given to the MaiFs reporter by one of the gun detachment.

( The six guns of 1 Medium Battery Royal Artillery were well camouflaged. The Soviet aircraft thundering overhead showed no interest, apparently intent on what lay further west. The silence that followed their passage was uncanny. Over the gun position lay the stillness of expectation—of what, no one knew.

Earlier that morning the Battery had deployed in and around the deserted village and had been immediately called upon for fire by their OP with the covering force. They fired continuously, each gun pumping three or four rounds a minute, every minute. For what had seemed eternity Gunner Wilson’s world had been a bucking gun, the surrounding clouds of dust and smoke and stench of cordite so intense that he could taste it. The concussion and the noise no longer registered on his numb body. He had become an automaton, very tired, more tired he thought than at any time in his life. The war was still only three hours old. Now there was this terrible quiet broken, only by the staccato sound of clipped speech on the gun’s radio.

Telltale signals from the Battery Command Post’s radio must have been picked up by Soviet direction finders and the location of their emitters passed to the artillery. Sixteen kilometres to the east two rocket batteries were loaded and trained. Within two minutes 9 tonnes of high explosive destroyed the silence of Wilson’s village.

Wilson and his friend Mackenzie moved to hump the last of the ammunition. Mackenzie never reached it, as the village burst into flame, smoke and crashing noise around them. A more terrifying concussion followed, then a hot blast carrying flying metal and debris along like feathers threw them to the ground. Driven by the most primitive of instincts Wilson clawed his way between the tracks of the gun and pressed himself to the ground, his eyes shut tight; at least its bulk offered some protection against the inferno outside.

It took him time to realize that there was no noise any more, no guns firing, no shells exploding. Then he became aware of a persistent gurgling animal wail from close by. Slowly he lifted his head and with a shudder saw that the sound must be coming from what was left of Mackenzie, disembowelled by a shell splinter, dying quickly but noisily. Alone with this frightfulness his fear turned into unreasoning panic.

The clang of a hatch and the No. 1’s voice penetrated his loneliness: “Quick, iad, into the gun. We’re moving. We’re not hanging around to cop the next lot.” Hands clasped his wrists and dragged him into the warm, oily belly of the self-propelled gun. With a clatter of tracks they moved on west to a new position to get into action again.9

The following appeared in the German magazine Stern during the second week of August. It was based on a report given by one of the survivors of a tank unit of the Bundeswehr in action:

‘ Unteroffizier Gunther Klaus was standing in the turret of his Leopard II tank, eating his breakfast. He found it unattractive. A hunk of brown bread with some cheese on it, a slice of Blut-wurst and a hard-boiled egg had just been handed up to him by his gunner. A canteen of coffee followed. He did his best to eat.

Half an hour before, at 7 a.m., the order had come from the Kompaniechef to t>e prepared to move at 0800 hours, but to remain meanwhile in positions of observation. These were on the high ground southeast of Wolfenbuttel, and Klaus was a Zugfuhrer, in charge of his own and three other Leopards in 16 Battalion of 3 Panzeraufklarungsregimeni.

There had been reports that a Soviet motorized division, having crossed the border during the night, was moving in their direction. This morning’s first-light helicopter reconnaissance had not confirmed this. All Klause had seen was retiring groups of British and German light vehicles; none had come close enough to be asked for news-Two of his tank commanders were scanning the arc of observation for which his platoon was responsible, and shortly he would take over from one of them.

Just as he was raising the canteen of coffee to his lips, a sharp order came through his radio headphones.

“Prepare to move in ten minutes.”

He acknowledged the order, passed it quickly to his three tank commanders, and ordered his crew to prepare for action. Luckily there was still time to finish his coffee. Ten minutes is a long time in war.

Half an hour later, the position was very different. The whole of his company was advancing, in the usual tactical order, with two platoons moving to the next tactical feature about I kilometre ahead, supported and covered by the other two in fire positions. When the leading platoons were in position they in turn would help the next two forward. No shooting yet—there had been nothing to shoot at—but every tank was ready to fire as the leapfrogging went on.

^Ganz schnetl! VorwartsF came a sharp radio order to him as his four tanks moved carefully forward to the ridge half a kilometre ahead, jinking from side to side as they went so as to provide a difficult target.