27 September 1987, 1400 Zulu
GDR Western Border

Man’s vision of hell manifests itself in many guises. Whether terror, despair, or utter hopelessness, its definition remains very personal in nature. For 2nd battalion commander Major Petr Nikolayevich Yakolev, the descent into his personal abyss coincided with his posting to the 79th Guards Tank Division.

Yakolev restlessly shifts his position, narrowly avoiding the sharp protrusions in his T-80’s copula. Wiping the sweat from the back of his neck, a quick smile plays across his ruddy face as he glimpses the striking cobalt sky. Jarred by the uneven road, Yakolev’s momentary escape quickly evaporates in the starkness of this reality.

A lifelong military career supporting the Soviet Union has done nothing to temper his foreboding. After much posturing and many recriminations the Soviet high command has ordered the GSFG into action. As part of the 8th Guards Army, his division is now swiftly moving forward. Tasked with penetrating through the Fulda Gap, they are going to strike and strike hard against the Americans.

What would his father and grandfather think of his glorious endeavor on behalf of the Motherland? His father proudly rode a T-34 in battle during the Great Patriotic War against the Fascists, while his grandfather literally rode into battle as part of cavalry unit against the Whites during the Russian Civil War. Regrettably, Yakolev is fairly certain that what passes today for nationalism will not stand the same test of time.

Holding the lead position ahead on the serpentine track, tank 206 violently lurches to the right smashing against the stone berm. Yakolev quickly spins the radio frequency dial to the company net, and mashes his hand against the transmit button, “Yasin, report, have you lost your mind?”

Nothing but static fills Yakolev’s headset. Up ahead the second tank in line slams into the rear of the first as the BMP-2 immediately to his front nose dives to a halt. What is happening? Apprehension grips him as he tries to grasp the rapidly unfolding situation. Keying the intercom, he orders, “Driver, swing left and advance along the shoulder.”

As his tank passes the stalled vehicle, the first explosion rocks his tank. Disoriented and gasping for air, Yakolev slips inside the tank clanging the hatch shut overhead. The relief is short-lived as he feels his tank slipping down the embankment. As he reaches for the intercom a second explosion slams him back in the cupola.

Unaware of how long he has been unconscious, Yakolev struggles to clear the cobwebs. He presses his face against the turret vision block as a blanket of smoke singes his eyes. He blindly reaches for the ventilator switch as a scene of utter carnage fills his view. The burning vehicles are still in road column order. Why has no one deployed for action?

Yakolev dials the secure radio set from channel to channel failing to raise any of his regiment’s other battalions. His tank’s electronics are trashed; sparks dance across the breaker panel. Strange, the indicator light verifies that the radio is still transmitting. Maybe no one is listening, or worse yet, can listen.

Glancing to his right, he can just make out his gunner slumped forward against the tank’s weapon controls. Yakolev checks his commander’s repeater panel. The main gun is still set to safe. We never even got off a shot.

Standard operating procedures call for hand signals whenever electronic communications are impossible. Throwing back the hatch, Yakolev climbs up in the cupola. Now he must visually contact the survivors. They are waiting for his signal – they must be.

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Author: James M. Day