User blog:Heatedpete/The white cliffs

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 perked 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."