Harvey Black
Purgatory
To my sister and brother-in-law, Shirley and Paul
CHAPTER 1
The squadron of British Challenger 2 tanks were lined up on the eastern edge of the forest, hull down in berms recently prepared by the Royal Engineers. Out to their front, they had a pretty clear view out to some three or four kilometres, a perfect killing ground for when the enemy tanks eventually turned up. The border in this area was over fifty kilometres away, but the Soviets had crossed that three days previously, and had already been seen passing Sums’ka oblast, using the T1705 as one of their main axes.
Major Warren reacquainted himself with the key landmarks, not that there were many, the flat open fields providing very few points that could be used. But, on the other hand, it made it ideal tank country: both for fast movement across the open ground and for the tanks with their 120mm guns, waiting to take them out. It was 0330, and the entire regiment was on stand-to, not just as a matter of routine, but because they knew that today they would have to fight.
Although negotiations were frantically being progressed, it hadn’t stopped the Russians from crossing the Ukrainian border in force. The southern stretch of the eastern Ukrainian border, from Velyka Pysarivka in the north to Novoazovs’k in the south, bordering the Sea of Azov, jutted out, like a bulge, into the western border of Russia. The Russian Army commander had decided to pinch out the bulge by thrusting southwest through the area of Velyka Pysarivka and northwest through Novoazovs’k with a further attack from the Crimean Peninsular. The continuing escalation between Russia and NATO, allied with Ukraine, had instigated the movement of Western troops to secure Ukraine’s neutrality. In the south, US forces bolstered the Ukrainian army. A British, German, Dutch and Polish force strengthened the north. One British brigade was lined up with the Russian main northern axis of attack. Although the Russian Army was pushing against the entire Ukrainian front, pinching out the bulge was a major objective.
The Major’s radio crackled.
“Zero-Bravo, this is One-One-Bravo. Incoming. Out.”
Major Warren dropped down into the tank, sealing the hatch in the process.
“All call signs, this is Zero-Bravo. Incoming. Batten down. Good luck. Out.”
Seconds later, the first artillery shells hit the British lines. Along the two-kilometre brigade front, 152mm shells exploded, the Russian 2S19s keeping up a rate of fire of eight rounds per minute. The bombardment increased as the 203mm shells from the 2S7s added to the barrage. Within a matter of minutes, hundreds of Russian artillery pieces were delivering a devastating barrage against the British defenders.
The side of Zero-Bravo’s Challenger lifted fifteen-centimetres into the air as a projectile exploded close by, the squadron commander’s tank reverberating from the force of the blast. After thirty minutes, the bombardment suddenly stopped, the silence almost as disconcerting as the barrage itself — almost.
“All call signs, this is Zero-Bravo. Report. Over.”
“Zero-Bravo, this is One-Zero. One-Two intact, lost contact with One-One. Over.”
“Roger that. Out to you.”
“Zero-Bravo, Two-Zero—”
Before 2nd Troop could continue to report, Regimental Headquarters interrupted. “All call signs. One-One-Bravo. Incoming aircraft. One minute. Out.”
“All call signs, Zero-Bravo. Air to ground attack imminent. Out.”
Before Warren had finished putting the handset down, the air around them became violent again as, first, Sukhoi Pak FA aircraft released precision-guided bombs which were followed by the older Frogfoot ground-attack aircraft. Again, the British lines were battered. The Russians didn’t have it all their own way as the gunners pounded the Soviet artillery with counter-battery fire and surface-to-air missiles swept some of the attacking aircraft out of the sky. High up in the air, British Typhoons clashed with Soviet air superiority fighters, there to protect the vulnerable ground-attack aircraft below them. Silence fell over the squadron again, and Major Warren thrust his shoulders out of the turret, calling to his tank troops to stand by. His binoculars soon showed him the mass of Russian T-90 tanks powering across the open ground. Columns of earth shot up amongst the fifty-ton tanks as British artillery zoned in on the advancing tank regiment. The T-90s’ 125mm smoothbore guns moved from side to side as the tank commanders and gunners searched for targets, knowing that British Challengers would be waiting for them. Out of his squadron of twelve tanks, Major Warren knew that at least two were lost, or unable to communicate, but he could still pack a punch with those that were left. Mechanised Infantry Combat Vehicles could be seen dispersed amongst the advancing Russian force, and he dropped back down inside his tank and gave orders for his squadron to open fire as targets presented themselves. His gunner fired, the Charm 3, with its depleted uranium, armoured piercing round, left the barrel at over 1,500 metres per second, striking the Russian tank just over one second later, bringing the armoured vehicle to a halt, killing the crew, smoke billowing around it as the vehicle caught fire, fuelled by the exploding ammunition within the fighting compartment. Finding a second target, he ordered his gunner to fire again. Although a direct hit, the T-90 kept coming. They shifted to a second berm before the Russian tank commanders zoned in on their location, from where they took out two more tanks, the squadron accounting for thirteen T-90s and twelve Russian BMP3s. The Russian commander ordered his attacking forces to withdraw. The British clearly needed more softening up before he had another bash at punching through their lines.
The British squadron shifted again, keeping the Soviets guessing as to their locations, knowing it would start all over again once the Russian commanders issued the appropriate orders.
CHAPTER 2
Three generations of a family died today. Charlie and his wife, Elsie, hurried as best they could as the warning sirens wailed throughout the city of Birmingham. A brilliant white light blocked their view of any objects or colour around them. Charlie’s cataract-covered eyes blinked out, as if a switch had been flicked turning his world, and his wife’s, into darkness. Even before his thoughts turned to how he and his wife were to get home, blinded, the rapidly inflating fireball, expanding out to a thousand metres in a matter of seconds, engulfed them, vaporising clothing, flesh and bone. The lives of the two lone-surviving grandparents of the Watson family had just been snuffed out.
Two kilometres further out from Ground Zero, Charlie’s son, Craig, laden down with bags of food and other essential supplies, part of the stocks he was reluctantly building up to survive the Armageddon he was sceptical would ever happen, pushed his way through the shop doorway of the Tanning Studio, clashing with others fighting to get under cover as they were all bathed in the blinding white light of the detonation 500 metres above their heads. He crashed down onto the floor in a tangle of arms and legs, his shopping bags spewing their contents, which were crushed by pounding feet as others followed him in. It mattered not as the blast wave and searing heat struck the three-storey building on Church Street. The glass frontage erupted, showering the occupants with bullet-like shards of strengthened glass, piercing their bodies with hundreds of splinters. They had little time to register the shock, or the pain, as the concrete and brick structure above and around them was blasted into oblivion, disintegrating around them, the larger surviving chunks crashing down onto their fragile bodies, smashing skulls and limbs, killing all.