“Now I know why I joined the RCT and not the Tank Corps.”
“Me and you both. Well these Mars-Bars are designed to defeat HESH rounds. They’re made up of two steel plates,” he held one flat hand above the other, “with a layer of explosives in between them, designed to explode when struck, preventing the explosive ‘pat’ from forming.”
“What about Sabot rounds?”
“Not sure, but I think they reduce their effectiveness as well. Taking Dohlengrund?” Bradley asked, running his finger along his map.
“Yes, next left.”
They turned left into Dohlengrund, very much back amongst the East Berlin version of suburbia. The Range Rover shot past Walslebener Platz on the left and a long right-hand bend took them into Beruner Strasse where they swung a left down Shackelster Strasse coming to a T-junction at the end. They found themselves up against a double railway line that ran north to south across the front of their vehicle, the one Bradley had walked across earlier. The embankment was well grassed but, apart from the odd tree, was fairly clear.
Jacko spun the steering wheel hard right and they turned down a hard-packed road, the railway line now on their left. He knew exactly where he was going. Fifty metres and they reached what they were looking for: a sharp bend taking them to an underpass that would get them to the other side of the railway line above them.
Jacko drove carefully through the tunnel, the square concrete walls barely two or three metres apart, his eyes flitting left and right, from wing mirror to wing mirror. Bradley also helped looking through his open passenger window, informing Jacko if he was getting too close. Jacko came to a halt, just before the black nose of the bonnet extended beyond the tunnel. He had deliberately stopped with the driver door as close up against the left wall as he possibly could, enabling Bradley to squeeze through his door and slip out.
Bradley squeezed between the wall and the vehicle. The underpass was damp with condensation and the walls cool to the touch. He made his way out into the open. Once out, his eyes expertly searched the area, stopping his scan at key points looking for tell-tale movement amongst the undergrowth and trees, his peripheral vision also sensitive to any sudden movement. He listened and could hear the roar of a tank; another was being moved off its rail transport and onto the sidings ready to be driven to the barracks of the local tank battalion, its likely final destination. He waited a few more moments, sniffing the air, smelling the diesel fumes, looking for signs of sentries, police, in particular the transport police and their dogs. He feared the dogs more than anything. They were vicious and he had witnessed that even the handlers were wary of them. He thought of the Mojos who guarded the British ammunition and nuclear weapons dumps back in Germany. The dogs were allowed to run loose in the compound during the night, and the next day the guards would go in with padded suits to retrieve them. The dogs were baited during the day. God help any Soviet spy who thought he would take a quick reconnaissance of those places. Bradley suspected the East German guard dogs were as equally aggressive.
To his immediate right, not much more than ten metres from where he stood, was a second double railway line, this one running east to west, in a dip that ran beneath the one they had just driven under. Ahead of him, some twenty metres, the track continued through a second tunnel under another railway line running across front of him, almost parallel with the one behind him. This was the one he was interested in: the spur line where they brought tanks and other equipment when going on or returning from an exercise; or, as now, bringing in new equipment for the first time. Looking left, he gazed over the undulating ground, scattered with trees and scrub, trapped between the two converging lines. Bradley and Jacko were hidden from the prying eyes of the tank crews, and anyone else for that matter.
But they wouldn’t be taking the tunnel to get to the other side of the spur; they would be too exposed. He looked back at the patiently waiting Jacko and signalled the all-clear. Jacko had no issues with the wait; he knew the consequence of rushing ops like these.
Bradley waved Jacko forward and headed left, starting to walk south towards the Ramp and the sound of the tanks some one hundred and fifty metres away. Edging over to the right, he winced as he heard the growl of the Rover engine as Jacko pulled forward out of the tunnel and followed the tour commander’s trail. The growl turned into a steady rumble as the black four-by-four crept after Bradley. Both were nervous. They were in enemy territory, hostile territory; the tank crew would be very protective of their charges. On paper, they were allies; in reality, they were bitter enemies. The basic Soviet soldier, particularly the newest recruits, would know very little about the terms of the joint occupation of Berlin.
Bradley continued to move forward, edging right, getting closer and closer to the spur line itself, knowing that up ahead the scattering of trees disappeared altogether on this side of the line and that they would then be completely exposed. His hand went up in the air and Jacko stopped moving forward, the sound of the engine gently ticking over along with the occasional clang from up ahead the only sounds. He moved towards the spur line and found the spot he was looking for. Here, the line split into two after this point: one continuing south to rejoin the main line, the one nearest them branching off and ending up at the Ramp where the tanks they were interested in were being unloaded.
Bradley peered back through the trees where Jacko was watching out for his signal, and he beckoned him forward. The engine growled and the Rover crawled towards the spur, the cab rocking as Jacko negotiated the rough ground. Bradley walked up onto the slightly raised embankment, checking left and right as he did so. The nearest flatcar was about a hundred metres away, and he couldn’t see any activity at this end so he continued over to the other side. Jacko followed in the vehicle, the chassis and body jolting violently as he surmounted the two sets of railway lines. Both were relieved once the vehicle was across the other side. Jacko steered the vehicle into the copse and turned left.
Bradley moved back to the tour car and looked through the open passenger door window. “Turn her around, Jacko. You’ll have to reverse deeper into the copse from here.”
“What’s our exfil?”
“Back the way we came in. If that’s blocked then we’ll go west. If it’s really bad then we’ll just go across country until we can find a clear road.”
Jacko laughed. “OK.”
Bradley knew why he laughed. The last time they had gone across country at speed, they were chased by a BMP, an MICV (Mechanised Infantry Combat Vehicle). Thirteen tons of armour coming at you at a speed of thirty miles an hour had a huge impact on your bowels. It was definitely a tanner-a-bob, tanner-a-bob. They got away, but how the Range Rover, or its occupants for that matter, survived the battering they would never know.
“Zweiessler Strasse would be good though,” responded Bradley, sharing in Jacko’s humour.
“Let’s get it done then.”
Jacko turned the vehicle around and, with one arm across the back of the passenger seat, one hand on the steering wheel, he followed Bradley as he guided the reversing vehicle through the trees. Bradley guided him around any deep potholes that would not only jar the vehicle but could require additional power to get out, the noise potentially exposing their presence. Now they were in the middle of not a dense copse but with enough trees scattered about to give them some cover, maybe four or five hundred metres square.
Bradley held his hand up and drew the edge of his palm across his throat. Jacko brought the vehicle to a halt and switched off the engine. Bradley returned to the vehicle. Both men remained quiet, listening. Nothing; just the hammering up ahead.