Dedicated to the victims and rescuers of 7/7.*
1201 hours. RAF Saxa Vord, Unst, Shetland. Sergeant James Patrick, RAF Regiment, stole a quick glance back up towards the Upper Technical Site and its collection of radomes and aerials, sitting at the summit of Saxa Vord, at 950 feet the highest point on Unst. Being attached to No.91 Signals Unit, which operated the radar station, had not been part of his career plans, only a posting to RAF Benbecula, in the Western Isles, or RAF Mount Kent in the Falkland Islands would be worse. Evidently at some point over the last two years he had annoyed someone responsible for postings.
Sergeant Patrick and four other members of the regiment, all Junior NCOs, were attached to the unit mainly to train the rest of the personnel in the use of firearms and how to guard the station from ground attack. There was also an even smaller unit of RAF Police, four men in total, to provide normal policing functions and to guard the main gate. Both of these units, plus the small number of fire-fighters based at Saxa Vord, came under the command of a Flight Lieutenant who enjoyed the rather quaint title of ‘Sheriff’.
Patrick had been placed in charge of the motley group of cooks, clerks, various types of technician and assorted ‘bottle washers’ who were responsible for manning the inner defence perimeter. The task of manning the outer perimeter and patrolling the Ground Defence Area around the radar station fell to the army platoon that had been sent to reinforce the defences.
With little else to do over the last seven days the guard force had spent its time improving the physical defences of RAF Saxa Vord. Slit trenches and weapons pits had been dug and the Yarnold Sangars had been reinforced with earth excavated from the trenches and pits and sandbags right up to just below the loopholes, as well as on the roof.
[1] Patrick had sent his gunners to clean out the armoury, while it wasn’t exactly the armoury at the regimental depot at Catterick, they had found a couple of extra GPMGs, a small number of 66mm LAW rockets, an 81mm mortar tube and a dozen mortar rounds, and a good reserve of 5.56 and 7.62mm ammunition. Finding someone to man the mortar had not been easy, but he had managed it, not that he thought twelve mortar rounds would make much of a difference.
‘CRUMP!’
Patrick spun round towards the sound of the explosion, he was sure that was what it was. The dull thump was followed by the rattle of small-arms fire; somebody, probably one of the army posts, or patrols, was under fire.
“Stand to! Stand to!” Patrick shouted, jogging back to the guardhouse that served as a Command Post.
The guardhouse itself was a smaller version of the ubiquitous ROTOR bungalow which could be seen at many bunker sites known as a ‘Canberra’. Like its larger sibling it had a sloped roof and a veranda along the front, however these were just for show, the building was actually made out of steel-reinforced-concrete, including a slab under the sloped roof, and the windows all had 1/4 inch steel plate, light tight, shutters to protect them from blast.
[2] Patrick dodged through the steel door before it was slammed shut and bolted behind him. The guardhouse was now secure and it would take a great deal to breach its defences.
“…Charlie One Zero, this is Mike Two Three, SITREP, over…” Patrick heard a corporal say into the handset of a BOWMAN radio.
“You trying to get hold of the Pongoes?” Patrick asked.
“Yes, Sergeant, but they’re not answering.” The JNCO answered.
“Bloody typical.” The sergeant muttered. “Keep trying.”
Patrick picked up a phone and pressed a button.
“Duty Officer.” The voice of Flight Lieutenant Radcliff, who was also the ‘Sherriff’, said from the other end of the phone.
“Boss, this is Sergeant Patrick at the Main Gate. We can hear small arms fire and explosions coming from the direction of the outer perimeter.
“We can’t contact the army to find out what is going on.”
“I’ll stand the rest of the guard force to. Keep trying to contact the army.
“The good news is that Fort Charlotte is sending the QRF to us.” “That’s something at least, Boss, and don’t worry, no Russian is getting past me while I’m still breathing.”
The phone call finished with the next order of business was to make sure that the guardhouse was a secure as it could be. A GPMG had been set up in the building’s armoury, which had been cleared of weapons and ammunition, and the louvered windows slightly opened to allow the muzzle to poke through.
Patrick knelt down to take a look through the window; satisfied that the machine-gun had a good field of fire he stood back up.
“Keep your eyes peeled, lads.” He told the gunner and his number two. “You’re providing cover to the blokes at the main gate.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” The gunner replied, slightly nervous, after all he was really a technician, not a member of the RAF Regiment.
Patrick quickly checked the louvers on the other window in the armoury, which looked out over the veranda, confirming that it was locked tight and could not be opened from the outside. As he turned to leave he got something of a surprise, in a rifle rack by the door were four old L1A1 Self Loading Rifles, which, from the look of them had been sitting there since the first L85A1 had been issued to the station. He slung his own L85A2 over his shoulder and picked up an SLR that was fitted with the SUIT optical sight.
“This might just come in handy he said.” Before continuing his rounds.
1211 hours. West of Katlenburg-Lindau, FRG. Captain Ian Stewart surveyed the ground ahead of his troop through a pair of binoculars. As the Fife and Forfar Yeomanry battle group pulled back towards Beverungen it was the job of the Lovat Scouts Troop to help cover their retreat and warn of any approaching Soviet forces, delaying them when necessary; to help in this task four Strikers of the regiment’s Guided Weapons Troop had been added to the eight Sabres.
“Hello, what’s this?” Stewart muttered as he saw a BTR-80 pull up at a road junction ahead of them.
Six Soviet soldiers jumped out of the APC and started setting up direction markers at a road junction. Leaving them to their task the BTR-80 drove off to the rear.
“Hello Zero, Charlie Two One. I have traffic regulators setting up in front of my loc, over.”
“Roger that, Charlie Two One; deal with them if it is safe enough to do so, over.” “Roger so far.” Stewart replied.
The captain glanced down at the L22A1 carbine stowed next to his seat.
[3] He could dismount some of his men and have them deal with the traffic regulators at close range, but he dismissed that thought almost immediately. Why take the risk of playing infantrymen when he had several 30mm RARDEN cannons and 7.62mm chain-guns at his disposal? He couldn’t help but feel sorry for the traffic regulators, though, stuck out in No Man’s Land, expected to fend for themselves for up to forty-eight hours.
To Captain Stewart, and indeed any NATO soldier who thought about the matter, the system of putting out traffic regulators in front of a planned advance seemed ludicrous. Not only did it effectively signal the route of the planned advance, but also put the lives of the soldiers carrying out the duty at serious risk, as many had already found to their cost. But then Captain Stewart was the product of a military system which expected everybody to be proficient at map reading, rather than treating a map as a secret document.
[4] “All stations, this is Charlie Two One; report any enemy vehicles in your sectors. Over.”
If they were going to use their RARDEN cannons, or chain-guns it was very important to check first that they were not about to announce themselves to any nearby Soviet tanks. The Sabre was not built to survive hits from 125mm projectiles.
“Negative.”
“Nothing here.”
“Not a sausage.” After a few more replies Stewart was sure that there was nothing in the area that could do them any harm.
“Right, Paul, they’re all yours.” He told his gunner.
“Okay, Boss.” The gunner replied. “Firing now!”
The gunner fired a few short-bursts from the co-axial chain-gun, traversing the turret from left to right as he did so, and was soon joined by several other Sabres. The traffic regulators whirled and fell as their bodies were struck by dozens of 7.62mm bullets.
“Target stop!” Stewart said as he surveyed the collection of broken bodies, it was not a pretty sight. “See if you can take down those signs.”
“I’ll do my best, Boss. I’ll need to use the cannon though.”
‘THUMP...THUMP…THUMP!’
‘WHANG…WHANG…WHANG!’
The road signs that the traffic regulators had painstakingly set up toppled over as each one was struck by a 30mm shell.
“Good shooting, Paul.
“All stations, this is Charlie Two One, withdraw to Phase-line Cupar. Report when in position.” Stewart radioed to the other vehicles, while also quickly typing out a contact message to Battle Group H.Q.
*
Lieutenant Colonel Thompson looked at the hand-drawn map that had accompanied Captain Stewart’s message. The O.C of the recce troop had very quickly sketched out the likely Soviet line of advance based on where he had seen of the late unlamented traffic regulators.
“Makes sense, as far as I can see.” He said to the assembled officers and Senior NCOs squeezed into the tent hanging over the rear of the Sultan ACV. “If they want to reach the river they don’t have a lot of choice in how they can do it, and now it looks as if we know which choice they’ve made.”
“They should bunch up nicely when they get to that junction, Boss.” The RSM offered. “Especially if they don’t know where to go.”
“Indeed they should, Mr Wood.” Thompson replied. He turned to the RAF Forward Air Controller and Royal Artillery Forward Observer. “Can you gentlemen come up with something appropriate?”
Both men nodded and said they would request the appropriate air strike and fire mission once the enemy obliged.
1215 hours. RAF Saxa Vord. “Mike Two Three this is Charlie One Zero…under heavy fire…estimate enemy at company strength…Over!” The voice of a very harassed soldier said over the BOWMAN radio, the sounds of gunfire very evident in the background...
Sergeant Patrick snatched the radio handset up from the table.
“Charlie One Zero, this is Mike Two Three, are you holding them at the outer perimeter? Over.”
“Negative, Mike Two Three, we’re holding some of them…believe some have leaked passed us, over.” “Roger that, do your best to hold and we’ll deal with the leakers. Out.” Patrick replied before replacing the handset. He turned to the others. “Okay, lads, look alive we’ve got some unwelcome visitors on the way.”
*
Flight Lieutenant Radcliff looked at his watch; the helicopters carrying the Quick Reaction Force should have arrived by now. Almost on cue a blue, red and white Bristow Helicopters Sikorsky S-92 appeared over a hill heading for the radar station.
The pilot gingerly landed the big helicopter in the largest open space he could find. He kept the engine’s running at near full throttle while the fifteen soldiers the aircraft was carrying as passengers unloaded their equipment, including, to Radcliff’s satisfaction, an L1A1 Browning Heavy Machine Gun.
“Is this it?” Radcliff shouted to the sergeant, who seemed to be the senior man, as the S-92 got airborne again.
“For the moment, Sir.” The NCO, who introduced himself as Sergeant Collins, replied. “The rest of the QRF are being dropped off behind the enemy so they can’t escape.
“The cab will be back with more men once it has flown reinforcements to the blokes at Scasta.”
“I see.
“If you and your men follow me, Sergeant Collins, I’ll show you where I need them.”
*
“Mike Two Three, this is Post Five; we’ve got movement in front of us, looks like the enemy. Engaging, over.” Sergeant Patrick heard the distant high pitched crack of automatic rifle fire as two of his men manning one of the Yarnold Sangars opened fire.
“I see ‘em, Sergeant!” The GPMG gunner yelled.
“Well shoot the buggers then!” Patrick shouted back.
The gunner fired of a long burst, filling the guardhouse with the sound of gunfire and the smell of cordite. Several Soviet soldiers were cut down, while others took shelter amongst the heather and bracken. Evidently they had not been expecting much in the way of resistance once they had gotten past the outer perimeter.
1220 hours. HMAS Voyager, the Solomon Sea. Captain Rogers raised his binoculars to his eyes and studied the convoy his destroyer was protecting; the ships carrying the heavy equipment of the army’s 3 Brigade and the New Zealand battalion group were grouped together for mutual protection. Most prominent was the bulk of the two former BHP
Iron Duke class flat steel product carriers, HMAS
Manoora and HMAS
Kanimbla, followed by the HMNZS
Gallipoli, followed by the smallest of the quartet, HMAS
Tobruk; the two civilian Ro-Ro vessels carrying some of the New Zealand battalion group’s heavy equipment came up the rear, behind the naval vessels.
While the four ships were packed with equipment ranging from M1A1 Abrams down to 81mm mortars, they were not carrying any troops, other than those needed to maintain the equipment while it was in transit. The soldiers themselves, apart from the advance party in Korea, were still sitting in camps around airports in Australia and New Zealand, waiting for the ships to get close enough to their destination to make it worthwhile flying them out.
“That’s quite a sight out there, Sir.” Commander Kate McCune,
Voyager’s Executive Officer, remarked.
“It certainly is, X.” Rogers replied. “This must be the largest ANZAC task group since Korea at least.”
“Excuse me, Sir; we’ve just received some signals traffic. A flight of ‘Backfire’ bombers has been detected taking off from Cam Ranh Bay in Vietnam; they could be heading for the North End, but command felt we should know.”
“Thanks, RO.” Rogers said, taking the message flimsy. “I thought that the Sepos were supposed to have blown that place back to the Stone Age by now.” He continued. “If they stage through an Indonesian airfield they could just about reach us.
“I suppose we’ll get to see just what kind of cover the chair force can provide us with if they do head this way.”
“Hopefully we’ll not spend the next few days swimming, Sir.” McCune commented. “I’m certainly not going to place all my faith in the air force coming to our rescue; they certainly didn’t help the old
Gawler.”
The fate of HMAS
Gawler, recently brought out of reserve and mainly manned by members of the RANR, had been caught in the open sea by Indonesian Su-30s while escorting HMAS
Balikpapan and sunk. The damaged LCH had limped into the naval base at Darwin carrying the only three survivors of the patrol boats crew to survive the sinking and strafing of the
Balikpapan.
The failure of the air force to appear until well after the attack was a sore point in the navy. The fact that
Gawler shot down one of her attackers was of little consolation.
“Well, I haven’t packed my floaties.” Rogers replied. “So we’re definitely not going to be sunk.” He added firmly.
1225 hours. RAAF Tindal, Northern Territory, Australia. Sergeant Chris Roach and his group of artillery reservists were hot and sweaty. They had been ordered to assemble on the concrete pan twenty minutes ago to board a flight that would take them to Korea, or Japan, or wherever the Department of Defence had decided to send them now, however no aircraft had turned up yet, to everybody’s frustration.
Finally after much waiting Roach discerned a largish transport aircraft escorted by two fighters approaching from the south. As they got closer they resolved themselves as an ancient RAAF 707 and a pair of equally old Mirage IIIOs.
“Christ, where did they get those?” Roach wondered under his breath. “From a museum?”
The 707 landed and began to taxi towards where Roach and his men were waiting, while the Mirages climbed back to altitude to continue their patrol.
“Right, grab your stuff, this looks like our ride!” Roach called out to the waiting artillerymen.
“About bloody time.” Someone complained. “I could have walked to Korea by now.”
“Any more of your bellyaching, Cameron and I’ll make you walk to Korea.” Roach said sharply.
Before Roach’s group of reservists could board the aircraft they had to wait for a group of middle aged soldiers wearing older pattern uniforms, older pattern webbing and armed with a mixture of L1A1 SLRs, L2A1 Automatic Rifles and F1 sub-machine-guns.
“What’s this, Dad’s Army?” A corporal wondered.
“Looks like members of the emergency reserve.” Roach replied. “Probably sent them up here to guard stuff.”
Sergeant Roach was indeed correct, taking a leaf out of the British Territorial Army’s Home Service Force the Australian Army was forming the older members of the Army Emergency Reserve into ad hoc companies which would be attached to regular and reserve units for Key Point protection. With full mobilisation of the Army Reserve there was a shortage of equipment and weapons for the AER, hence the issue of older pattern uniforms etc dug up from the dusty depths of army warehouses.
“Time to board, girls, hope you’ve all remembered your passports and boarding cards.” Roach told his men.
1231 hours. RAF Saxa Vord, Unst, Shetland. ‘PING! PING! ZIP! WHANG!’
“Bloody hell, those Ruskies are getting accurate.” Sergeant Patrick complained as he ducked back from the partially closed steel shutters. “Do something about them will you.” He said to the GPMG gunner.
“I’m on it, Sergeant.” The LAC said before opening fire again.
Patrick ducked through to the next-door room and opened the shutters slightly. He spotted some Soviet soldiers setting up what looked like an AGS-30 grenade launcher.
“Can’t be having that.” He muttered.
The grenade launcher was just beyond the effective range of his L85A2, so he picked up the SLR he had found earlier and took careful aim.
‘CRACK!’
To his satisfaction one of the grenade launcher’s crew slumped over, clearly dead. However before he could take another shot the remaining crew swung the weapon round and opened fire on the guardhouse.
“Incoming!” Patrick yelled as he slammed the shutters closed again.
The 30mm grenades slammed into the side of the building, knocking off the stone cladding that alluded to the Scottish vernacular, but doing no appreciable damage to the reinforced concrete underneath. Still, it was only a matter of time before one grenade hit the window shutters, which might be a bit more vulnerable.
Patrick made his way back into the main office, being somewhat surprised to get soaked by a downpour of water coming through the ceiling.
“They must have punctured the water tank, Sergeant.” The LAC manning the radio suggested.
“Evidently.” Patrick replied. “Get me Bravo Three Six.
“Bravo Three Six, this is Mike Two Three, I really need that mortar tube of yours right now. Over.” He said on being handed the radio handset.
“
Just pass on the co-ordinates and we’ll do what we can, Mike Two Three. Over.” Patrick low crawled to the window, this time taking the radio with him. He estimated the grenade launcher’s position and passed it on to the mortar pit.
The first 81mm bomb was correct for range, but too far off to the left, however it did score a direct hit on a group of Spetsnaz about to engage a Yarnold Sanger with RPGs. The second bomb scored a direct hit, however the bomb was old and did not explode, though it hardly mattered as it struck the AGS-30 dead on, smashing it.
“Delta-Hotel, Mike Two Three, target cease-fire. Save your remaining bombs. Over.”
Patrick looked out of the window again. He could see that the surviving Soviet soldiers were now beginning to drift back, covering each other by fire as they did so.
“Looks like we’ve got them on the run.” He commented to the other men present.
The commander of the Soviet force attempting to seize RAF Saxa Vord had decided that the defences were too strong for his men to overcome them before reinforcements arrived and had thus ordered them to pull back and execute the pre-planned withdrawal to the Mainland and Scasta Airport for extraction.
The main objective of Operation NORTHERN LIGHTS had failed, however it did not mean that fighting in Shetland was over.
1232. RAF Lossiemouth, Morayshire. Group Captain Winchester had decided to wait out on the visiting aircraft pan as soon as he had been informed of the aircraft that were about to transit through his station. H.Q Strike Command had made it clear that such was the urgency of their mission all that they would be stopping for would be fuel, though for subsequent sorties he would also be required to re-arm them.
“Look, here they come!” Someone called out, pointing.
Winchester shielded his eyes with his right hand and watched as the two familiar looking green and grey aircraft entered the landing pattern.
“Okay, everybody, this has got to be a quick turnaround.” He told the waiting groundies. “Our colleagues in Shetland need their support ASAP.”
***
[1] The Yarnold Sangar, or bunker, is named after Squadron Leader Jed Yarnold, RAF Regiment. He devised a method of modifying mains sewer pipes to cheap, but effective mini-pillboxes during the reconstruction of RAF Leeming during the 1980s. They have since sprouted in profusion at other RAF Stations, and some army and Royal Navy sites. A unique ‘double-decker’ exists at RAF Scampton’s main gate.
See Jackson, Paul,
Royal Air Force (Second Edition), Shepperton (1995), p.83. See
link.
[2] RAF Saxa Vord originally had a second ‘Canberra’ guardhouse at the entrance to the middle site (see map), but this has since been demolished.
[3] This is the shortened carbine version of the standard L85A2 rifle (see picture). It is used by AAC aircrew and RAC armoured crewmen.
[4] As ex-SAS NCO Ken Connor comments in
‘Ghost Force – The Secret History of the SAS’ (London 1998):
‘They [the regulators]
were dropped off up to forty-eight hours before a move and, if they were lucky, were picked up again afterwards…This laughable system not only indicated the route of the planned advance as effectively as sending a plan to NATO HQ, it also made it very easy to stop dead.’ As Connor also comments:
‘So poor were the Soviet forces’ navigation skills that, without the regulators, the Soviet troops would not have been able to find Western Europe, let alone invade it.’
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