The Third World War: August 1985

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.