The Third World War: August 1985

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.