The Third World War: August 1985

CHAPTER 1: August Dawn — The First Blows

“Black Horse One Zero, Black Horse One Zero, this is Shovel Six. Confirming Charlie One’s sighting as follows: large armored formation passed through inter-German border Zero Three Zero Five Zulu approximate brigade in size. Composed of Papa Tango 76s, Bravo Tango Romeo 62s, and Tango 72s. Inform Black Horse Six that Shovel is engaging. Out.”

Captain Jack Langtry, Troop Commander, Troop L, 3 Squadron in 11 Armored Cavalry Regiment was speaking into his microphone early on the morning of 4 August 1985 as he stood on hill 402 at Wildech, looking across the border zone over the hills rolling toward East German Eisenach. In the dawn light he saw scores of armored vehicles moving rapidly toward him on both sides of the autobahn. Langtry knew what this was: the advanced guard of an attacking Soviet formation. It could not be anything else.

The 11th Cavalry formed the main strength of the V US Corps covering force, whose job was to give the Corps maximum time in a delaying action. To the north was Kassel, out of the Corps area. To the south the Fulda Gap opened up, dangerously close to the border only 15 kilometers away.

Langtry’s fifteen Shillelagh-firing Sheridan light tanks were in hull defilade along the high ground overlooking the autobahn that ran from the border to Bad Hersfeld, directly behind him. His three platoons had practised engaging an enemy on this same route many times. Today it was for real. He gripped his microphone and heard his voice give the command, “Shovel, this is Six. Engage at will. Out.” Almost before his hand relaxed on the mike switch he heard the roar of Shillelagh missiles leaving fifteen tubes, guided on their way to targets silhouetted in the sad gray August morning.

The Black Horse Regiment were once again carrying the cudgel for their country as they had in the Philippines, Mexico, Europe and Vietnam.

Beside Langtry, Trooper Earl Waite suddenly exclaimed, “Man! Look at that!” Nine of the fifteen missiles had found their targets in sudden shattering fountains of red fireballs and flames.

The Sheridans were already moving to their alternate firing positions when hill 402 seemed to crumble with the impact of Soviet artillery fire. Waite was killed instantly and two other members of the TAC CP were wounded. Langtry, unhurt, quickly moved the command party to an observation post 500 meters further west near Spitzhiitte.

The Soviet armored formation, after pausing for a moment, was now oriented in his general direction and a unit could be seen breaking off in an attempt to outflank L Troop. Langtry knew that this would run into the seventeen XM-1s of the Squadron Tank Company. That was their misfortune. He saw one of 2 Platoon’s Sheridans fly apart when hit by a Soviet anti-tank missile and said aloud, “Why the hell did he have to silhouette himself on the skyline? Haven’t I been harping about tactical driving for eighteen months now?” He then heard the telltale wop, wop, wop of helicopters over the din of battle as the twenty-one TOW carrying ATGW Cobras of the Black Horse Regiment began a hide-and-seek battle with the T-72s swinging off the autobahn in the direction of Heiringen.

Somehow, Langtry felt completely detached from the surrounding battle. He gave his orders as though this was only another field training exercise. His little tactical Command Post functioned exactly as it had so many times before when practising for the battle they all hoped would never come.

“Shovel, this is Six. Execute Alpha 3.” This was the command to fall back to the next delaying position, the high ground overlooking Lauterbach.

The first platoon was soon on the move and already halfway to their next position as the second began to disengage. Langtry waved his arm and the three M-113s of the TAC CP started to move. As the first vehicle crossed the bridge over the Lauter, there was a tremendous flash. The bridge disappeared. Langtry felt himself thrown into the air, hitting the ground with a searing pain in his left shoulder. Two of his three command vehicles were on fire and the third rushing down the track on the other side of the stream in search of cover. Langtry sat up and muttered audibly, “Oh God. I hope the XO takes command in a hurry or the troop will be SOL.” He felt himself passing out. It was 0447Z, 4 August 1985.9 “

Taken from Black Horse and Red Star: American Cavalry at War by John S. Cleghorn, Col.US Army (retd), Houghton Mifflin, Boston 1986.

“It was not yet three a.m. on Sunday 4 August and still dark when the commander of C Squadron of 8 Royal Tank Regiment in 1 Br Corps covering force in the Central Region received over his radio the order to stand-to. The daily routine time for stand-to was just before first light. This was clearly something special.

The line of the low crest 1,000 metres away to the east was dimly visible against a sky beginning to grow paler. He stood in the turret of his tank glued to the radio, heedless of the ordered bustle about him as the fourteen other tanks of the Squadron, with their supporting vehicles, started up to move out into daylight dispersion.

He took the mug of coffee handed up to him but did not want to eat. It was impossible in this time of waiting not to speculate on what might lie ahead. He did manage to remember, however, his promise to make sure that the TV newsmen were alerted if anything special turned up.

The voice from Headquarters came in again. “Enemy reported on the move,” it said. “Stand by at three zero minutes’ notice for Bravo.”

All his tanks and other radio outstations would have heard that transmission; there was nothing for him to add.

“Bravo” was the move to the Regiment’s emergency deployment position, 1,000 metres over the crest, almost on the Demarcation Line. Most of them knew it already from cautious reconnaissance on foot, with the tanks left back out of sight to avoid the frontier incident Division was so frightened of.

In less than ten minutes the voice came up again. “Move out now,” it said. There was a note of urgency in it.

The light was growing as he promptly gave the word to move, on the internal radio channel, with the order to load, prepare for action and be on the alert.

The tanks lurched once again into life.

His own was approaching the crest, bumping over stumpy ground, once forest, now felled to open a field of fire, as his Commander’s voice came up on the radio again.

“Enemy closer than we thought,” it said. “Expect early contact. Report first sighting immediately.”

His tank topped the crest on the last words, and there opened up before him the most frightening sight he had ever seen. The open ground below, stretching to a faintly seen line of trees about 2 kilometres away, was swarming with menacing black shapes coming fast towards him. They were tanks, moving in rough line-abreast about 200 metres apart, less than 1,000 metres off and closing the range quickly. Another line was following behind and a third just coming out of the trees. The world seemed full of Soviet tanks.

“You might have told me,” he said into the microphone: “Am engaging now. Out!”

He gave quick orders to the Squadron and to his own gunner, but already a sudden huge flash seen through his periscope head, followed at once by a great black cloud of smoke with a heart of flame, like a volcano in eruption, showed where a forward anti-tank missile launcher from somewhere behind him to the left had found its first target.

In the same moment he was stunned and deafened by a thunderous blow, as from some titanic hammer, outside the tank low down to the right, and was thrown hard against the side of the cupola as the tank slewed round and shuddered to a violent halt. At the same time a gigantic clang, which seemed to rend his skull, told of a solid shot skidding off the sloping front plate without penetrating. The tank’s main armament, its gun, was useless now.

The thing to do was to get the crew out, all three of them miraculously still alive, before the next projectile brewed them up.

In a daze, trembling like a leaf, he found himself on the ground, not quite knowing how he had got there, crouching for shelter in a shallow ditch. Roaring aircraft filled the sky low overhead, hurtling by at lightning speed with rockets crashing as they passed. Tanks he knew as Soviet T-72s came charging by in what seemed endless streams, the ground shaking under them and the air throbbing with the shrill clamour of their tracks. Squat BMP armoured infantry-carriers followed, guns blazing to their flanks. Flames were soaring into the sky with rich black clouds of smoke from burning tanks with their ammunition exploding in them. He could see no sign of any of his Squadron. His own tank crew had vanished. This was the war they had expected, not knowing really what to expect. For him, unhurt but alone, helpless and desolate, it already seemed as good as over.”

Taken from an article ‘Sketches of the Eighth at War’ in The Royal Armoured Corps Journal, Autumn 1986.

The following impression of operations of the German and US Air Forces with Tornado and F-15 aircraft, on the first day of the invasion, is taken from Parameters, journal of the US Army War College, Fort Carlisle, Fall 1986.

“The first wave of German Tornados was back at base at Norvenich; only one was missing. It was 0930 on 4 August. The second wave from the same wing of the GAF should now be well over East Germany, attacking three Warsaw Pact airfields, while the first wave prepared for a further counter-air mission.

Oberleutnant Karl von Marschall was both exhilarated and relieved that their first mission of the war had gone so well. He was taking a breather at the entrance to the hardened aircrew bunker while his Tornado was being re-armed and refuelled. He had led eight of them in attacks at first light, his target the East German airfield of Zerbst. He could not say for sure how effective it had been because it was done before full light at 60 metres with the target shrouded in dawn mist. But his navigator, who played a key part in the run-up to the target and co-ordinated release of fire-suppression and denial weapons, had caught a glimpse of the airfield through the mist and was bubbling with confidence about the accuracy of the attack. They had gone at high subsonic speed hugging the ground at 60 metres over the Harz mountains.

Von Marschall felt that perhaps it was as well that the outward part of this first mission had been flown blind and automated, as they had so often practised under simulated conditions. The second mission flying the same sort of profile in clear conditions and full daylight might be finding it a bit hair-raising as they rushed very low over trees and houses they could actually see. He felt that having done it once blind, and with all the stimulus and excitement that battle brought, he could now face it in clear conditions with confidence, and he was eager to get off the ground and lead another attack. On the way home they had seen plenty of MiGs above them as they skimmed the trees but none of the Soviet fighters had been able to bring their guns or missiles to bear on the fast flying Tornados skimming the ground below. On this first evidence it certainly looked as if the ultra-low-level mode of operation was going to pay off in the penetration of heavy air defences. No doubt things would get tougher as the enemy got the measure of them — but so far very good.

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 I 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 in 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 MiG 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 luck. 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.”

Taken from A Civilian in a Short, Hot War, reminiscences by A. E. Arnold, Chatto and Windus, London 1986.

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 R. J. 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 for ever — 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.”

The report given below of a battery of M-l 07 175 mm self-propelled guns in action appeared in the Daily Mail on 8 August 1985. It is based on an account given to the Mail’s 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 a 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.

Tell-tale 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, lad, 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.”

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 Blutwurst 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 be prepared to move at 0800 hours, but to remain meanwhile in positions of observation. These were on the high ground south-east of Wolfenbiittel, and Klaus was a Zugfuhrer, in charge of his own and three other Leopards in 16 Battalion of 3 Panzeraufkldrungsregiment.

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 Klaus 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 1 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 schnell! Vorwdrts!” 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.

Suddenly the world was full of express trains shrieking past. Enemy armour-piercing shot! He fired his smoke protective shells at once and changed direction, telling his platoon to conform, to seek the cover of a small copse ahead to the left. The sky appeared to fill with huge predatory helicopters bearing strange markings and, worse, with rockets issuing from their undercarriages. The Leopard next to him stopped, smoke pouring from it. One crewman scrambled out, another got to the turret and fell back, a shattered trunk. Of all absurdities, there occurred to Klaus at this very moment a phrase which had been hammered home to him and his classmates at the Panzerausbildungsschule so often and so emphatically. “The great thing about the Leopard tank, which makes it superior to all other Allied, as well as Soviet, tanks, is its agility. It gives you protection through speed.”

“Speed up,” he yelled through the inter-com to his driver, “and jink for your life!”

Far from speeding up, the tank slithered to a halt as a shuddering jar smashed it sideways. Klaus glanced down into the turret. It seemed to be full of blood and roughly butchered meat. There was an ugly smell of burning.

“Protection through speed, eh?” thought Klaus. “Was fur Quatsch ist das!” What rubbish! He jumped to the ground and ran. A moment later the whole Leopard exploded in a shambles of twisted metal, equipment, human wreckage and the indescribable mess of war.”

Accounts such as these show how powerful was the impact of the thunderbolt which came down in the early morning of 4 August on NATO ground forces in the Central Region of Allied Command Europe, and the fury in the air. It was so violent as to leave on most of those who first had to meet it a very deep feeling of shock. Its effect was stunning. Some of the ground troops who came through the first day unscathed were by the evening as dazed and disorientated as the survivors of a savage traffic accident.

Very few of the men now engulfed in the volcanic eruption of ground action on a modern battlefield had ever before been exposed to anything remotely like it. The thunderous clamour, the monstrous explosions, the sheets and floods and fountains of flame and the billowing clouds of thick black smoke around them, the confusion, the bewilderment, the sickening reek of blood and high explosives, the raw uncertainty and, more than anything else, the hideous, unmanning noise — all combined to produce an almost overpowering urge to panic flight. To men in forward units the enemy seemed everywhere. Their roaring aircraft filled the sky, ripping the earth with raking cannon fire. Their tanks came on in clanging black hordes, spouting flames and thunder. The fighting vehicles of their infantry surged into and between the forward positions of the Allied defence like clattering swarms of fire-breathing dragons. It looked as though nothing could stop the oncoming waves. There seemed to be no hope, no refuge anywhere.

Panic here and there was only to be expected. Some lately recalled reservists — and even long-service regulars — found this sudden exposure to gigantic stress more than they could bear. Occasionally, under the swift contagion of uncertainty and fear, NATO units simply broke and melted away — but not often. Men adjust quite quickly, even to the appalling conditions of the battlefield, particularly where there is a job to be done which they know how to do and for which they have the right tools, and above all when they do it under competent direction in the company of their friends. The first day was a nightmare — but it was far from a total disaster.

But why was all this happening? What had brought it about? How had the course of events developed to this point — and what was now to follow?