There comes a time when a simple, spontaneous decision can have significant, unforeseen consequences. Had Bradley known the outcome of his next decision, he would more than likely have headed back home without any detours. They were both weary, having had perhaps two or three hours’ sleep between them, rubbing tired eyes as they sped along Alt-Biesdorf, looking forward to passing through Checkpoint Charlie, a quick debrief, then home for the three Ss: shit, shave and shower; a fourth S, if they had the energy for sex afterwards.
“Head for Karlshorst, Jacko.”
“What?” Jacko turned to look at his commander in bewilderment. “Why?”
“Just a quick look.”
“I knew something was bugging you. Ever since we saw that bloody train.”
“Just do it, Jacko,” Bradley responded sharply.
Jacko turned off the main route that would have eventually taken them to West Berlin, and headed for the outskirts of the Soviet military camp in Karlshorst. They weaved through the various unnamed roads, lined either side by a patchwork of single- and double-roomed summer homes; somewhere for the wealthier population of this communist capital to escape from their pokey flat in the dull inner city.
“Towards the wall.”
“What are you up to?”
“I want to look over the wall.”
“What about the other side of the barracks? It’s quieter.”
“You can see bugger all from there.”
A two to three-metre wall surrounded the entire Soviet camp; the camp shape an uneven rectangle with two of the sides being over a kilometre long. The patchwork wall was a strange sight. Made up of sections of wall taken from German homes after the end of World War Two, it was a mosaic. Some sections had a window frame or doorway bricked up, some were a mishmash of different brick types and colours, and some sections still had bathroom tiles adhered to their surface. On the opposite side of their current position, the wall was partially hidden by a thin screen of trees, but this side was fairly unprotected. There were many cracks in its poor structure, and it was Bradley’s intention to walk along the wall peering through those cracks to look for…He didn’t know what he was looking for; just something out of the ordinary, something that would satisfy the inkling he had that something wasn’t quite right. He leaned down into the foot well and took a smaller auto-focus camera from a small pack he kept there and cracked the door open…
Everything happened in a flash, yet almost appeared to happen in slow motion.
As he pushed the door open, he heard Jacko shout, “Fuck, look out!”
At the same time that Jacko shouted, a white Lada cut across the front of the Range Rover and a second across the back. They were MFS (Ministerium fur Staatssicherheit), the East German Ministry for State Security. The door was wrenched back sharply on its hinges, pulling Bradley with it. He felt his arms being grabbed along with someone pulling at his jumper, dragging him down as another went to snatch his camera. As he lost his balance and slowly collapsed to the ground, he peered up into the faces of Soviet soldiers, the epaulettes of one identifying him as belonging to a tank unit.
Bradley was dragged along the ground as more and more Russian soldiers joined in the one-sided fray. He struggled frantically to break their grip, desperately trying to push himself back up off the ground. He was off the floor, in a crouch, when a boot swung towards him, striking him in the chest, the crack of his rib audible, a groan escaping his lips as he folded over. As he went down for a second time, wrenching his camera hand free, pulling it underneath him, he caught sight of a different sleeve patch, one that caused his stomach to knot even tighter. The shield-shaped badge didn’t have the shape of a tank beneath a star but had the red Russian star, edged with gold, surrounded by a golden laurel wreath set on a black background with the Russian Cyrillic above it: КГБCCCP: the military section of the KGB, the Third Directorate.
Bradley twisted his head so he could see in the direction of the Range Rover and shouted, “Red Rag! Red Rag!”
Jacko, the driver’s door still locked, was about to leave the vehicle and come to his tour commander’s aid when he heard the call. He hesitated for a moment, never thinking he would ever hear that call — but only for a second, knowing they were in serious trouble. He grabbed the Teleport 9, unlocked the door and pushed it open, now clear of Soviet soldiers after their failed attempt to get in. The soldiers had a better target, their main victim who they were swarming around. He ran — ran for his life. His boots thumped on the hard-packed road as he sped in between the summer houses. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see that two soldiers had seen him and were now running after him. He increased his speed and lengthened his stride, his lungs burning as he forced air in and out of his lungs. He looked again, but they had given up the chase. He turned left, hurdling a low fence, and ran between two of the garden homes, ran round the back and stopped, bent double, his hands on his trembling knees, breath rasping. He held the radio close to his mouth. “This is Three-Zero-Bravo, any…shit!” He realised it was not turned on. He turned the switch and tried again.
“This is Three-Zero-Bravo, any Three-Zero call sign, over.”
Silence…
“This is Three-Zero-Bravo, any Three-Zero call sign in the Karlshorst area, over.”
He was still panting and bent over again, attempting to gain some control over his still laboured breathing. This short-range radio would not reach Section Intelligence Headquarters. His only hope was that the third unit was in the area.
“Any Three-Zero call sign, over.”
Silence…
“Any fucking Three-Zero call sign in the area? We’re in deep shit here, over.”
His radio finally crackled a response. “Three-Zero-Bravo, this is Three-Zero-Charlie. With you in figures five. Sitrep, over.”
The second boot struck Bradley in the stomach making him fold up, pulling his body into a foetal position, desperate to protect the vulnerable parts of his anatomy. He felt a boot striking the side of his head, just above his right eye, making him yelp involuntarily. He pulled his arms and legs in even more tightly, fear now making him retch as the Soviet soldiers continued with their punches and kicks desperately attempting to drag his arms out and get hold of the camera he was protecting beneath him. His biggest fear was not the pummelling he was experiencing, although he was concerned about receiving a major injury, but a fear of being dragged into the Soviet camp, lost to political bargaining. While they fought over his release, he would be at the mercy of the Russian intelligence department. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering. The film was blank, a fresh one he had put in earlier in the day. Routine, so they were ready for any troop movement they came across. Bradley always put the used film canisters in a small pull-string bag beneath his seat. It was safe for the moment. He had clocked at least three KGB uniformed troops amongst the throng of motor rifle and tank troops.
A boot struck his thigh, a numbing pain flowing down his leg before it froze, deadened. They clawed at his arms, desperate to pull them free of his body, releasing the camera he had been holding when they had dragged him from the vehicle. He pulled it in even tighter as another boot struck his chest, the pain unbearable as the boot rode up his broken rib, causing Bradley to move his free hand to the new source of pain. This was the opening the dozen or so attackers had been waiting for. Getting a better grip on his arms, they yanked them out, jolting his right shoulder painfully. They clawed at the camera, eventually pulling it free with a cry of victory, and the babble of guttural voices increased. Looking into their leering faces, the occasional gold-cap toothed smile, Bradley could see other military onlookers. He couldn’t estimate the numbers at the time, but he would learn later that up to twenty Soviet soldiers, including a number of KGB, had been involved in the assault.