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The white cliffs

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Setting

Imagine your worst nightmare...then add the feelings of Britain in 1940...then replace the Germans with Russians...and add helicopters.

This is the setting for my new blog, a story about an invasion of the United Kingdom by Russian forces. The US, despite being so strong in presence, has been rooted out of Europe by the Russian bear. Poland was the first to fall, then Germany, Austria and Switzerland. The US Army took refuge in France, and, helped by the French, British, Spanish and remnants of the German army, they set about turning the French-German border into an impregnable wall. But, every wall has a weakness, and before the wall was sealed the Russians pounced, carving a path between the British and Americans to the north, and the French and Germans to the south. The Spanish forces, in the eye of the storm, were not heard from again.

Now the Russians stand at the gates of the UK, with only the English Channel between them. It stopped the Spanish, Napolean, and Hitler, but would the mighty Russians change all this?

Chapter One - Red stained beach

Private Fist Class Kray looked over the top of the trench, peering out into the fog. The British summer was making a mess of the plans to fortify the South coast, with fog and rain limiting vision, and the cold messing with the finely tuned weapons and tools. Right now, the Russians could be hiding out there waiting for the right moment for the attack to begin. And nowhere was more exposed than the Isle of Wight. The Americans had turned this place into a modern Corregidor, with pillboxes, coastal guns and trench networks all facing outwards, towards France. Naval forces were stationed in Portsmouth, and smaller PT Boats in Cowes harbour. The Americans knew that the entrance to Southampton, and the route to London, was controlled by the guns on Wight, and the combat, which they knew was coming, would be bloody and unrelenting.

"God damn this weather. How the hell can we fight Ivan when we can't even see?"

"Quit your whining Private Whaites. Just keep looking down that M60's barrel and you'll be fine." replied Martins, the squad sergeant. Kray himself was manning a dual .50 cal M312, with enough ammunition per gun to wreck a small Corvette. Checking the bolt cover, the ammunition tray and the feed mechanism once again, the young American knew he was ready. But would the rest of his mates, the ones that he would have to trust in combat, be ready themselves. None of them had seen combat in Europe, let alone fired their weapon in anger. Just a few more days, then we'll get transferred out, thought Kray. Just a few more days.


Technician Corporal Thames took another sip of tea from his mug. The cold weather was seeping into the Needles lighthouse, as was a bit of rain. Thames didn't mind. he'd grown up in the rain-filled Highlands, and no amount of rain was going to ruin his day. Taking another sip, the noisy spatter of rain against the lighthouse was replaced by another, more menacing sound. The radar set, Thames' pride and joy, was reporting something, something big.

"Aw shit!" shouted Thames, rushing over to the set. The blip, about 3 miles out, wasn't like anything Thames had seen. And it wasn't friendly. Reaching for the field telephone, Thames barely heard the low whine of the shells before it was too late. In the blink of an eye, the Needles lighthouse disappeared, and the call never got through.


Kray heard the explosion first, his ears perking up like a cats'. Diving into his protective bunker, Kray pulled back the bolts on his MGs, running another set of pre-combat checks. A low whine began to fill the air, forcing Kray to look up, into the eyes of the Russian navy.

"Fuck."

The first shell tore through the observation post to Kray's right, throwing concrete and steel rods left and right. The second shell landed in front of Kray's bunker, detonating a series of mines and showering the bunker in dirt. Shells then began falling rapidly, Kray couldn't see where they fell, as smoke and dirt filled his bunker. One 5-inch HE from a destroyer slammed into the trench connecting Kray to the rest of the network. The door was blown inwards, clattering against the ammunition store behind the gunner.

Kray tried desperately to reach the bunker's radio, to warn the artillery inland of the Russian barrage. "All units, this is BK3. Russian navy has been spotted off position Delta. Requesting barrage from all guns, spread 50 metres each way."

"No copy BK3, we need accurate co-ordinates of fire." Kray scrambled for the Army issue map of the coastline.

"OK. Enemy cruisers at 779443, requesting barrage from 105 mike-mikes on designated targets, over."

"That's a solid BK3, ranging rounds incoming." The ranging rounds screamed inwards, smashing into the central cruiser, sending a geyser of flame and smoke upwards into the sky.

"Rounds on target. Recommend barrage of 50 rounds, spread 50 metres left-right, over."

"Rounds inco-" Another Russian shell slammed into the ground, barely a couple of metres from Kray's bunker. The shockwave smashed the radio into the floor, cutting off Kray's bunker. The already covered sea was now swarming with new life, as Russian PBLs and landing craft approached the shore. The time for action had come.

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