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W czasach Zimnej Wojny Polska była całkowicie uzależniona od ZSRR pod względem militarnym. Mimo istnienia w kraju przemysłu obronnego, technologicznie i ideowo korzystał on z zasobów naszego wschodniego wielkiego brata. Niestety wraz z upadkiem Bloku Wschodniego, zostaliśmy nie tylko odcięci od źródeł sprzętu ze wschodu, ale również nie mieliśmy jeszcze sojuszników na zachodzie, którzy mogliby dostarczyć nam nowe uzbrojenie. Olbrzymi rozwój techniki wojskowej na przełomie lat 80-tych i 90-tych sprawił, że wiele państw zaczęło modernizować swoje siły zbrojne. Dotyczyło to również Polski. Wśród wielu projektów zbrojeniowych jakie wówczas rozpoczęto był również program budowy nowego czołgu podstawowego. Z braku możliwości pozyskania dobrego sprzętu w innym kraju, trzeba było zaprojektować go samodzielnie. Tak rozpoczęła się historia polskiego czołgu podstawowego PT-91 Twardy.

Geneza

Po zakończeniu II wojny światowej polski przemysł obronny został odbudowany z myślą o zaopatrzeniu w uzbrojenie olbrzymiej armii, jaką miało być Ludowe Wojsko Polskie. Oddziały działające w myśl zasady – najpierw ilość, potem jakość, miały być wyposażone w duże ilości średniej klasy sprzętu. Zwłaszcza dotyczyło to czołgów. Początkowo rozpoczęto w Polsce licencyjną budowę czołgów T-34/85. Zaprojektowane podczas II wojny światowej wozy były już jednak zupełnie przestarzałe, w związku z czym zakupiono w ZSRR w latach 50-tych licencję na produkcję czołgów T-55. Pojazdy te powstały krótko po wojnie i były pierwszymi porządnymi czołgami podstawowymi produkowanymi w Rosji.

Pierwsze T-72 w Polsce podczas manewrów

W kolejnych latach wozy te wielokrotnie modernizowano i rozwijano, ale w latach 70-tych były to już zabiegi “ratujące trupa”. Rozwój uzbrojenia w tym czasie był tak szybki, że zaprojektowane na przełomie lat 40-tych i 50-tych pojazdy straciły swoje walory bojowe. Chcąc poprawić stan wojsk pancerny, Rosjanie zaprojektowali dwa nowe czołgi podstawowe – T-62 i T-64. Był one jednak modelami przejściowymi, przed docelowym czołgiem, który miał trafić do eksploatacji w latach 70-tych. W 1971 roku rozpoczęto w ZSRR prace nad nowym pojazdem, z zamiarem zastąpienia nim wszystkich starszych konstrukcji. Prace nad czołgiem były rozwinięciem prowadzonych już od kilku lat prób i eksperymentów. Nowy wóz otrzymał oznaczenie T-72 i trafił do produkcji w połowie lat 70-tych.

T-72 wzbudził spore zainteresowanie wywiadów państw zachodnich, które szybko zaczęły obawiać się nowego czołgu. W tym czasie były ku temu powody, ponieważ podstawowe czołgi NATO – amerykańskie M60, niemieckie Leopardy 1, francuskie AMX-30 czy też brytyjskie Chieftainy miały już swoje lata i pod wieloma względami ustępowały nowym konstrukcjom z ZSRR. W obawie przed radziecką przewagą, rozpoczęto w wielu krajach prace nad następcami wysłużonych czołgów. Doprowadziły one w późniejszym czasie do powstania takich pojazdów jak amerykański M1 Abrams, niemiecki Leopard 2, brytyjski Challenger I albo francuski Leclerc.

Równolegle nowy radziecki czołg zaczął trafiać do jednostek nie tylko w ZSRR, ale również innych państwach Układu Warszawskiego. Do Polski pierwsze T-72 trafiły w 1978 roku. Na początku lat 80-tych po licznych staraniach i negocjacjach Polska kupiła licencję na produkcję eksportowej wersji T-72, oznaczonej T-72M. Produkcja ruszyła na przełomie 1981 i 1982 roku. W 1985 roku na mocy postanowień umowy licencyjnej Polska otrzymała plany unowocześnionej wersji wozu, oznaczonej T-72M1. W tej wersji produkcję czołgu kontynuowano i ostatecznie zakończono powstaniem 1610 egzemplarzy. Część z nich trafiła do Wojska Polskiego, a reszta na eksport.

Polskie T-72 podczas manewrów

Podczas produkcji zakłady Bumar-Łabędy w których wytwarzano czołgi wprowadzały wiele własnych modyfikacji i usprawnień technicznych, ale wpływały one jedynie na mechaniczne możliwości pojazdu i polonizację konstrukcji, a nie na jego walory bojowe. Czołgi te oznaczano jako projekt T-72 Jaguar, chociaż nazwa ta nie była i nie jest stosowana oficjalnie.

W połowie lat 80-tych zaczęto sobie jednak zdawać sprawę z wad radzieckiej konstrukcji. Dowodem na to były prowadzone w ZSRR prace nad następcami T-72 budzącego niegdyś postrach zachodu. Uznano więc, że należy albo pozyskać licencję na nowe wersje czołgu, albo samodzielnie zmodyfikować posiadane pojazdy.

Początkową władze w Warszawie chciały zakupić kolejną licencję na znacznie ulepszoną wersję T-72, oznaczoną jako T-72S (była to eksportowa, nieco zubożona wersja znacznie unowocześnionego czołgu T-72B). Przedłużające się rozmowy sprawiły, że zaczęto rozważać samodzielne zmodyfikowanie posiadanych czołgów. Był to dobry krok, ponieważ zakup licencji okazał się niemożliwy.

W 1986 roku zrodziła się idea głębokiej modernizacji T-72, nazwanej T-72 Wilk.

T-72 Wilk

Prace nad polską wersją T-72 ruszyły w Ośrodku Badawczo-Rozwojowym Urządzeń Mechanicznych OBRUM w Gliwicach krótko po rozpoczęciu produkcji licencyjnych pojazdów. Czołg miał otrzymać nowy system kierowania ogniem – DRAWA (wywodzący się z SKO Merida, stosowanego w polskiej modyfikacji T-55 o nazwie T-55AM Merida), nieco zmodernizowany silnik W46-6 o większej mocy oraz pancerz reaktywny.

Jeden z pierwszych wyprodukowanych PT-91

Ponadto Wilk miał otrzymać bardzo dużo drobnych poprawek konstrukcyjnych oraz lepsze wyposażenie niż bazowy T-72M1. Prace nad czołgiem trwały przez całą drugą połowę lat 80-tych i zbiegły się z przemianami politycznymi w kraju, które po pierwsze doprowadziły do załamania się współpracy z innymi państwami Układu Warszawskiego, oraz do zmiany sytuacji geoplitycznej Polski

Nowa rzeczywistość, nowe potrzeby

Upadek komunizmu w Polsce sprawił, że nasz kraj został całkiem sam na arenie międzynarodowej. Brak wsparcia i opieki ze strony ZSRR oraz brak przyjaciół na zachodzie sprawiły, że należało samemu zadbać o własne bezpieczeństwo. Na początku lat 90-tych nie było pewne, czy Polska będzie mogła kiedykolwiek dołączyć do NATO, także przemysł obronny stanął na rozdrożu, z jednej strony mając post-radziecki sprzęt wojskowy, a z drugiej cień szansy na wejście w struktury NATO, a więc zupełnie inne standardy uzbrojenia.

Brak szans na pozyskanie nowego czołgu podstawowego wymusił szybkie prace nad zbudowaniem własnego czołgu w kraju, przy użyciu posiadanego doświadczenia i technologii. Uznano, że najlepszym rozwiązaniem będzie kontynuowanie prac nad ulepszeniem T-72, tak aby stworzyć podstawę do zbudowania nowego czołgu.

Jeden z pierwszych wyprodukowanych PT-91

Zamysł był prosty. Najpierw planowano zmodernizować wszystkie T-72 do nowego standardu, a następnie zaprojektować czołg przejściowy, który miał zawierać elementy techniczne nowego wozu, ale wywodziłby się z T-72. Dopiero w kolejnym etapie planowano zaprojektowanie zupełnie nowego czołgu od podstaw.

Prace ruszyły na przełomie 1991 i 1992 roku. W ich wyniku powstał czołg o nazwie T-72 Hard. Nowy pojazd miał mieć nieco zmienioną konstrukcję wieży, lepszy silnik, nowy system kierowania ogniem i podobnie jak Wilk, pancerz reaktywny. W toku prac wprowadzono tak wiele poprawek, że postanowiono zrezygnować z dotychczasowej nazwy T-72.

Nowy czołg otrzymał nazwę PT-91 Twardy. Pierwszy prototyp był gotowy w 1992 roku, a publicznie zaprezentowano go we wrześniu 1993 roku na Salonie Przemysłu Obronnego w Kielcach.

PT-91 Twardy

PT-91 Twardy

Zaprezentowany w Kielcach czołg wzbudził spore zainteresowanie mediów i specjalistów nie tylko w kraju, ale także poza Polską. Głównie dlatego, że powstał szybko i miał bardzo ciekawe parametry. Pod każdym względem Twardy górował nad T-72M1 z którego się wywodził.

Pancerz i ochrona

PT-91 otrzymał znacznie lepszy pancerz. Chociaż bazowe opancerzenie jest identyczne jak w T-72M1, dodanie pancerza reaktywnego znacząco podniosło poziom ochrony. Przednia płyta pancerza ma mieszaną konstrukcję z płyt pancernych i wkładek kompozytowych o łącznej grubości 230 mm. Ze względu na nachylenie pod kątem 21 stopni, efektywna grubość pancerza wynosi około 630 mm! Pancerz boczny i tylny mają po około 80 mm. Wieża ma nieco zmienioną konstrukcję w porównaniu do poprzednika. W najgrubszym miejscu chroni ją 280 mm pancerz.

Wieża PT-91 podczas remontu w zakładach Bumar-Łabędy

Dodatkowo całość pokryta jest kostkami pancerza reaktywnego ERAWA, którego twórcą jest prof. dr inż. Adam Wiśniewski z WITU (Wojskowy Instytut Techniki Uzbrojenia). Ogólnie wyróżnia się dwa rodzaje pancerza ERAWA – ERAWA 1 i ERAWA 2. Różnią się od siebie ilością materiału wybuchowego i wielkością kostek.

Pancerz reaktywny – pancerz składający się z kostek materiału wybuchowego, odpornego na wysokie temperatury, trafienie bronią lekką oraz odłamki. Kostki te eksplodują w momencie trafienia przez pocisk, niwelując jego siłę przebicia. Chociaż zastosowanie tego typu opancerzenia znacząco podnosi poziom ochrony pojazdu, ma on wiele wad. Przede wszystkim jest to jednorazowa ochrona – po eksplozji po kostce zostaje puste miejsce odkrywające bazowy pancerz pojazdu. Ponadto podczas eksplozji, odłamki pocisku i kostki mogą ranić znajdujących się w pobliżu żołnierzy.

Pancerz ERAWA 1 zmniejsza prawdopodobieństwo przebicia pancerza pociskiem kumulacyjnym o około 50%, a ERAWA 2 o 70-80%. W przypadku pocisków rdzeniowych oba pancerze zmniejszają możliwość przebicia o 30-40%. Dodatkowo każdą kość pokryto 4 mm warstwą wykładziny absorbującej fale elektromagnetyczne. Dzięki temu czołg jest nieco trudniejszy do wykrycia przez przyrządy obserwacyjne.

Aby zwiększyć poziom ochrony czołgu, wyposażono go w system SSC-1 Obra, który wykrywa opromieniowanie wiązką laserową. Dzięki temu załoga wie, kiedy jest namierzana przez inny czołg. Czujniki systemu są w stanie wykryć opromieniowanie z odległości 6000 metrów.

PT-91 Twardy

Dodatkowo PT-91 posiada wyrzutnie granatów dymnych i wytwornice dymu. Jak przystało na współczesny czołg, Twardy posiada pełen system ochrony ABC, przed skutkami użycia broni masowego rażenia. Ponadto przedział silnikowy i załogi chronione są systemem przeciwpożarowym.

Dodatkowym atutem czołgu jest jego niska sylwetka odziedziczona po T-72. Małe rozmiary Twardego widać zwłaszcza w zestawieniu do pojazdów zachodnich. Z drugiej strony wpływa to jednak niekorzystanie na wygodę eksploatacji czołgu, ponieważ załoga, chociaż mała, jest ściśnięta w wozie.

Uzbrojenie

PT-91 Twardy zachował uzbrojenie swojego poprzednika. Oznacza to, że wyposażony jest w gładkolufową armatę 2A46 “Rapira-3″ kalibru 125 mm. Ponadto na wyposażeniu czołgu znajdują się karabin maszynowy PKT sprzężony z armatą oraz ciężki karabin maszynowy NSW na wieży, służący do niszczenia nisko latających samolotów i śmigłowców.

Armata wyposażona jest w automat ładujący, dzięki czemu załoga liczy tylko 3 żołnierzy. Jednostka ognia liczy 42 naboje różnego rodzaju. Szybkostrzelność armaty wynosi 7-10 strzałów na minutę, a w przypadku awaryjnego ładowania ręcznego 2-3 strzałów.

PT-91Ex Twardy

W Twardym wykorzystywane są przede wszystkim 3 rodzaje pocisków – podkalibrowe z rdzeniem z węglików spiekanych lub z wolframu z odrzucanym sabotem (APFSDS), przeciwpancerne kumulacyjne (HEAT) i odłamkowo-burzące (HE). Pociski podkalibrowe mają przebijalność około 290-340 mm na dystansie 2000 metrów w zależności od typu pocisku. Pociski typu HEAT mają przebijalność około 440 mm.

Zasięg skutecznego ognia wynosi około 4 km w przypadku pocisków przeciwpancernych, 5 km w przypadku pocisków odłamkowych i 9,6 km w przypadku ognia pośredniego.

Czołg wyposażony jest w system kierowania ogniem SKO 1M Drawa lub SKO 1T Drawa T ( w zależności od serii produkcyjnej).

Napęd

Jedną z głównych zmian wprowadzonych w Twardym oprócz opancerzenia była zmiana silnika. T-72M1 wyposażony był w silnik W-46-6, natomiast polski czołg otrzymał 12-cylindrowy silnik wysokoprężny Wola S-12U. Wywodzi się on z konstrukcji radzieckiej, ale różni się od niego licznymi elementami.

PT-91Ex Twardy

Silnik ma wzmocniony wał korbowy, inne tłoki i lepszy system smarowania. Dzięki temu zwiększono jego moc do 850 KM. Może być zasilany nie tylko standardowym paliwem, ale również benzyną lotniczą, naftą itp.. Zużycie paliwa utrzymuje się na poziomie około 480 l/100 km w terenie, lub 330 l/100 km na drogach.

Prędkość maksymalna czołgu wynosi 60 km/h po drogach i około 50 km/h w terenie. W praktyce czołgi jeżdżą jednak wolniej, ponieważ tak wysokie prędkości nie są potrzebne w normalnej eksploatacji.

Dane taktyczno-techniczne

W poniższej tabeli zestawiono dane PT-91 w porównaniu do PT-91M, T-72M1 i Leoparda 2A4

PT-91 Twardy PT-91M Malaj T-72M1 Leopard 2A4 Masa 45,9 t 49,2 t 41,5 t 55 t Wymiary

Długość – 10 m

Szerokość – 3,7 m

Wysokość – 2,1 m

Długość – 10 m

Szerokość – 3,7 m

Wysokość – 2,1 m

Długość – 9,5 m

Szerokość – 3,5 m

Wysokość – 2,1 m

Długość – 9,6 m

Szerokość – 3,7 m

Wysokość – 2,5 m

Załoga 3 3 3 4 Uzbrojenie

Armata 2A46 kal. 125 mm

WKM NSW kal. 12,7 mm

KM PKT kal. 7,62 mm

Armata 2A46 kal. 125 mm

WKM NSW kal. 12,7 mm

KM PKT kal. 7,62 mm

Armata 2A46MS kal. 125 mm

WKM M2HB kal. 12,7 mm

KM MAG kal. 7,62 mm

Armata Rheinmetall kal. 120 mm

2x KM MG-3 kal. 7,62 mm

Silnik Wola S-12U Wola S-1000R W-46-6 MTU MB 873 Ka-501 Moc silnika 850 KM 1000 KM 780 KM 1500 KM Prędkość

Drogowa – do 60 km/h

W terenie – 35-45 km/h

Drogowa – do 65 km/h

W terenie – 40-50 km/h

Drogowa – do 60 km/h

W terenie – 35-45 km/h

Drogowa – do 68 km km/h

W terenie – brak danych

Zasięg 560 km 700 km 530 km 550 km

Lepsze ujęcie “kociaków” – od lewej Leopard 2A4, Leopard 2A5 i PT-91 Twardy (fot. chor. Rafał Mniedło)

Wersje i modyfikacje

Na podstawie podwozia czołgu PT-91 zaprojektowano wiele specjalistycznych pojazdów wojskowych oraz prototypów. Można je podzielić na kilka grup: pojazdy specjalistyczne, modernizacje PT-91, wersje rozwojowe i prototypy. Tylko część z tych pojazdów trafiła do produkcji seryjnej.

Warianty i modernizacje PT-91

PT-91 – bazowa wersja czołgu, produkowana od podstaw od 1994 roku na potrzeby Wojska Polskiego.

PT-91M – oraz PT-91MA1 – pierwsze warianty modernizacyjne czołgu. Zmiany w konstrukcji wprowadzono na etapie produkcji czołgów dla Wojska Polskiego. Nie należy mylić tego czołgu z PT-91M Malaj/Pendekar.

PT-91A – kolejna modyfikacja czołgu przygotowana jako oferta eksportowa. Pojazd posiadał wiele elementów produkcji zachodniej oraz nowy, mocniejszy silnik S-1000 o mocy 1000 KM.

PT-91M Pendekar/Malaj – głęboko zmodernizowany czołg PT-91 na zamówienie Malezji. Czołg posiada francuski system kierowania ogniem Savan, silnik S-1000R o mocy 1000 KM oraz zmodyfikowaną armatę 125 mm o nazwie 125MS produkowaną przez słowacką firmę Konstrukta Defence. Czołg jest szybszy od polskich PT-91 o około 5 km/h. Zbudowano 48 pojazdów tego typu.

PT-91M Malaj podczas prób

PT-91Ex – kolejna modyfikacja czołgu zaprezentowana w 2007 roku jako oferta eksportowa. Czołg korzysta z wielu rozwiązań zaprojektowanych dla Malezyjskiego pojazdu. Czołg ten prezentowano również jako potencjalny wariant modernizacyjny polskich Twardych.

PT-91P – czołg, przygotowany w odpowiedzi na Peruwiański przetarg na nowe czołgi. Był to tak naprawdę standardowy PT-91, ale wyposażony w najnowsze wersje radiostacji i systemu kierowania ogniem DRAWA. Powstał jeden egzemplarz, który wziął udział w testach w Peru. Mimo pozytywnych wyników i dobrej relacji cena-jakość, przegrał z ofertą z Chin i czołgiem MBT2000. Ostatecznie jednak chińskie czołgi nie trafiły do Peru a przetarg anulowano.

T-72M1Z – specyficzny wariant PT-91 będący tak naprawdę czołgiem T-72M1 doprowadzonym do standardu PT-91. Czołg ma nieco inną konstrukcję wieży.

PT-72U – lub PT-91U albo PT-91EU. Najnowszy wariant modernizacyjny Twardego zaprezentowany w 2011 roku. Czołg ten można określić jako pojazd przystosowany do działania w ramach konfliktu asymetrycznego oraz w terenie zurbanizowanym. Na wieży czołgu zamontowano zdalnie sterowane stanowisko strzeleckie Kobuz, pancerz prętowy oraz zmodyfikowane przyrządy obserwacyjne. Wariant ten można uznać za pakiet modernizacyjny dla PT-91 pokazujący jego możliwości modernizacyjne.

Pojazdy zbudowane na podwoziu PT-91

WZT-3M – wóz zabezpieczenia technicznego zbudowany na podwoziu PT-91. Pojazd posiada zbliżoną konstrukcję do WZT-3, ale różni się wykorzystanym podwoziem bazowym.

WZT-4 – wóz zabezpieczenia technicznego przygotowany na zamówienie Malezji. Posiada ten sam silnik co PT-91M Malaj oraz liczne drobne ulepszenia.

WZT-3M

MID – pojazd inżynieryjny zbudowany na podwoziu i podzespołach PT-91. Zbudowano kilkanaście egzemplarzy.

MID

PMC-90 – oraz PMC Laguna. Pomocniczy most czołgowy zbudowany na podwoziu PT-91.

PZA Loara – samobieżny przeciwlotniczy zestaw artyleryjski. Prototypowy pojazd zbudowany pod koniec lat 90-tych. Wyprodukowano kilka prototypów, które trafiły do jednostek w 2005 roku. Ze względu na koszty, prace wstrzymano, mimo, iż pojazd ten prezentował bardzo dobre możliwości.

Eksploatacja

Pierwsze PT-91 trafiły do oddziałów Wojska Polskiego w styczniu 1995 roku. Było to 10 pojazdów serii próbnej. Czołgi trafiły do 34. Brygady Kawalerii Pancernej w Żaganiu. W marcu tego samego roku dostarczono 10 kolejnych wozów. Po przeprowadzeniu licznych testów i prób rozpoczęto produkcję nieco zmodyfikowanej wersji czołgu, w której wprowadzono kilka poprawek na podstawie wniosków z testów.

Produkcję PT-91 w zakładach ZM Bumar zakończono w 2002 roku powstaniem 233 wozów. Ze względu na ciągłe modyfikacje i poprawki powstało bardzo dużo różnych wersji czołgu. Zmiany nie były duże, ale w nomenklaturze można spotkać dosyć długą listę wariantów. Z czasem w ramach remontów eksploatacyjnych większość wozów przywrócono do jednego standardu.

PT-91 Twardy w zakładach Bumar-Łabędy

Produkcję czołgów w poszczególnych latach przedstawia poniższa tabela:

Rok Ilość wyprodukowanych czołgów 1994-1996 58 1997 58 1998 7 1999 33 2000 50 2001 20 2002 7

W 2003 roku Bumar podpisał umowę na dostawę 48 nowych czołgów dla Malezji. Produkowano je w latach 2007-2009.

W Wojsku Polskim czołgi PT-91 znalazły się na wyposażeniu różnych jednostek pancernych, równolegle z T-72M1, a później również Leopardami 2A4 i 2A5. Obecnie wraz z procesem wprowadzania do eksploatacji kupionych w Niemczech Leopardów, czołgi T-72M1 są wycofywane a ich miejsce w jednostkach zajmują właśnie Twarde.

PT-91 Twardy w zakładach Bumar-Łabędy

Podczas licznych testów porównawczych polska konstrukcja była bardzo dobrze oceniania na tle innych modernizacji T-72 tworzonych w państwach byłego Układu Warszawskiego. Ze względu na stopień modernizacji uznaje się, że Twardy jest czołgiem Generacji II+.

Generacje czołgów – po zakończeniu II wojny światowej nastąpił skokowy rozwój broni pancernej na całym świecie. W związku z tym zaczęto wprowadzać podział na generacje czołgów. Generacja I to pierwsze czołgi podstawowe budowane na świecie do około lat 60-tych. Charakteryzują się uzbrojeniem w postaci armat 90 mm lub 105 mm oraz standardowym pancerzem stalowym. Od przełomu lat 60-tych i 70-tych wprowadzano wozy Generacji II, wozy te otrzymały już pierwsze wersje pancerzy kompozytowych, oraz znacznie cięższe uzbrojenie w postaci armat 120 i 125 mm. Czołgi, które powstały w odpowiedzi na pojazdy skonstruowane w latach 70-tych i 80-tych nazywa się czołgami Generacji III. Wyróżnia je znacznie grubszy pancerz i większa ilość systemów elektronicznych pomagających w walce. Obecnie w USA i Rosji prowadzone są powolne prace nad stworzeniem czołgów Generacji IV. Jest jednak mało prawdopodobne, aby pojazdy te szybko znalazły się w eksploatacji.

PT-91 nie brały udziału w działaniach bojowych, a ich eksploatacja w Wojsku Polskim jest raczej nudna. Znacznie ciekawiej wygląda historia rozwoju broni pancernej w Polsce w związku z eksploatacją Twardych.

Jeden z ostatnich wyprodukowanych PT-91M

Twardy vs. czołg dla Wojska Polskiego

Wprowadzenie do eksploatacji Twardych w latach 90-tych rozpoczęło nowy etap w rozwoju broni pancernej w naszym kraju. Polska konstrukcja nie tylko była lepsza od radzieckich, ale również pokazywała możliwości polskiego przemysłu obronnego. Sukces ten rozbudził nie tylko ambicje, ale i marzenia Wojska Polskiego.

W kolejnych latach na bazie doświadczeń z PT-91 zaczęto snuć coraz więcej teorii na temat przyszłości Polskich Wojsk Pancernych. Zakładano, że na podstawie Twardego powstanie nowy czołg o nazwie PT-94 i PT-97. Pojazdy te miały być ulepszonymi wersjami Twardego, pozbawionymi wszystkich wad pierwotnej konstrukcji.

Model nowego MBT przygotowany w ramach prac nad projektem Goryl w latach 90-tych

Kolejnym pomysłem na wykorzystanie Twardego miało być zaprojektowanie w pierwszej połowie lat 90-tych (notabene równolegle z produkcją i ulepszaniem PT-91) nowego czołgu o kryptonimie Goryl. Pojazd ten miał być zaprojektowany zupełnie od podstaw. Ze względu na olbrzymie koszty program ten zarzucono, chociaż w kolejnych latach wielokrotnie do niego powracano.

Pozyskanie w 2002 roku czołgów Leopard 2A4 z nadwyżek Bundeswehry kompletnie wywróciło sytuację. Nowy-stary czołg z Niemiec chociaż powstał w podobnym okresie co PT-91, jest od niego pod wieloma względami lepszy. Wnioski płynące z eksploatacji ex-niemieckich czołgów tylko bardziej umacniały opinię o niedostatkach Twardego. W związku z tym Narodziła się wówczas opinia o potrzebie “leopardyzacji wojsk pancernych”. Efektem tego było pozyskanie w 2014 roku kolejnej partii Leopardów, tym razem w wariancie 2A5.

PT-91 Twardy

Równolegle zaczęto wycofywać z eksploatacji starsze T-72M1 i praktycznie zaniechano plany dalszego rozwijania Twardego. Mimo braku możliwości pozyskania kolejnej partii Leopardów, wszelkie prace nad PT-91 są po prostu nieopłacalne, ponieważ czołgi te osiągnęły swoje pewne granice modernizacyjne. Tym samym czołgi PT-91 Twardy stają się powoli pojazdami drugiej kategorii. Perspektywa modernizacji Leopardów do standardu Leopard 2PL (2A4PL i 2A5PL) jeszcze bardziej zniechęca do zajmowania się polskim czołgiem podstawowym.

Podsumowanie

Wprowadzenie do eksploatacji czołgów PT-91 było wielkim sukcesem polskiego przemysłu obronnego. Na tle innych państw byłego bloku wschodniego, które również eksperymentowały z własnymi modyfikacjami T-72, polska konstrukcja wypada znakomicie, głównie dlatego, że trafiła do produkcji seryjnej oraz została wyeksportowana.

Czołg ten w swoim czasie prezentował bardzo dobre możliwości bojowe i mógł być znakomitym towarem eksportowym. Niestety jego cena była zbyt wysoka aby mógł zainteresować posiadaczy starszych T-72, a możliwości polskiego przemysłu były za małe, aby wyprodukować dużą ilość czołgów. Gdyby produkcja była większa i Twarde zastąpiłyby wszystkie nasze T-72 sytuacja mogłaby wyglądać lepiej.

PT-91M Malaj

Obecnie czołgi te ustępują jednak nowym konstrukcjom wprowadzanym na wyposażenie Sił Zbrojnych Federacji Rosyjskiej. Ewentualna modernizacja wozów chociaż bardzo przydatna, nie podniosłaby znacząco ich walorów bojowych, a wiązałaby się z olbrzymimi kosztami. W związku z tym bardziej prawdopodobne jest opracowanie zupełnie nowego czołgu podstawowego albo zakup wozu poza Polską. Ta ostatnia opcja chociaż ekonomicznie byłaby lepsza, byłaby również katastrofą dla polskiego przemysłu obronnego, chyba, że nowe pojazdy produkowano by w Polsce na licencji.

Można jednak śmiało powiedzieć, że PT-91 Twardy jest dobrą i wartościową dla Wojska Polskiego konstrukcja, która znacząco wpłynęła na rozwój broni pancernej w Polsce. Czy przełoży się to w przyszłości na budowę nowego czołgu podstawowego w naszym kraju? Ciężko powiedzieć.

When a killer enacts his twisted fantasy, he hungers for it again. The pattern is nearly always the same for serial offenders; they kill once, hoping it will satisfy the innate need that gnaws and eats away at them. Following their first kill, there is a release; or a feeling of euphoria.

Many killers think that this kill will be their last, that they have conquered the incessant need that drove them to do such a horrible thing.

The sad truth of the matter is that it is almost never the end. Usually there's a gap... it could be hours, days, weeks, months, or even years... but eventually, they will kill again. The less experienced and less intelligent will usually have less control; and will therefore kill sooner. They won't wait, won't look for safer opportunities, and they will make mistakes.

Which leaves a question that has no sound answer; who do you fear more? The monster with no control of his actions? The killer who has no control of his psychosis, who could lash out at any given time and beat an innocent man or woman to a pulp simply for looking at them the wrong way?

Or is it the monster that kills carefully and selectively? Stalking, watching and carefully waiting as he plans and transcends his morbid fantasy to fruition. The latter requires an incredible amount of control, intelligence, and for lack of a better, less flattering word... cunning. Months of preparation coupled with the ability of self control makes these cases seemingly less common.

However, our killer was most certainly the latter. Every action he took displayed an incredible amount of planning. From stalking the families by learning their routines, their names, their habits... to waiting until the power went out, an ideal time to attack when the response time was so weak. He knew when to strike, how to strike, and where to strike.

Premeditation was taken to an unfathomable level in this case.

Following the second murder spree, there was only one thing that did not make sense to me. Why? It may sound ridiculous to find meaning in such senseless acts of brutality, but meaning is always there; regardless of whether you look for it or not. Perhaps the killer was using Annie and Billy's families as vehicles for what he wished he could do to his own. Maybe he related to them, saw some of himself in them, and that's why he left them live. I searched for hours and hours, day after day just trying to make sense of why a young girl was left alive the first time, and a young man the second.

The next winter, I got my answer.

[Transcript of Interview with Responding Officer James [omitted]. ]

Officer: I'm sorry about this James, I know you've got plenty going on. I just want to go over your report and make sure we haven't missed a thing.

James [coughs]: Of course, [omitted], I understand.

Officer: Please, start from the beginning.

James: We received a call from a concerned friend of the family. He had not seen the [name omitted]s in three days, which was incredibly unusual given how close they were. He had rang their doorbell, called, and received no response. We followed this up by checking with the mother and father's place of work. Neither had been in in three days, and the children had not been to school.

James: We thought they could have took off for an impromptu vacation, but dispatch sent over myself and my partner to check it out regardless. We checked all the doors, and eventually found one near the laundry room that was unlocked. We entered the household... and the smell... it was unbearable...

Officer: Were you aware of the previous cases of Billy [name omitted] and Annie [name omitted] at the time?

James: No... I wasn't. It hadn't been covered much in the news... storms tend to take control of the media for a few days. Besides, it was quite a while ago...

Officer: Okay. Continue.

James: We entered the laundry room and nearly gagged from the stench of rot. At this point, we knew the best case scenario would be the death of a family pet. My partner exited the household and went outside to vomit... I nearly did myself, but I needed to find out what the source of that putrid smell was...

James: We entered the kitchen, and the bodies were tied to chairs in a circle.... well, more of a square. Each was beaten brutally... but the wounds were only to their face. It was as if this sick fuck beat each of their faces in to the point of no recognition, then moved on to the next. Their eyes, ears and lips were missing. And the flies, oh God the flies... I don't even know how they got inside, but they covered the bodies...

James: They family surrounded something in the middle that I at first thought was a small animal. Once I approached, I nearly broke down right there. The boy was lying on his back, and like the others, his eyes, ears, and lips had been ripped or torn from his skull. His arms and legs were broken to the point where they formed right angles, facing away from his body, each one pointing to a member of his family.

Officer: I know this is hard, but do you remember which way each limb pointed?

James: I don't think I'll ever be able to forget anything about this. I see it every night.

James: The boy's left arm was pointing to his mother, his right to his father. His left leg was pointing to his sister, and his right to his brother. The girl and boy were twins, I've heard. Only five years old. But I couldn't have told you that that night.

James: I don't understand how there wasn't any blood. The kitchen was spotless, not a thing on the floor besides those boardgames stacked in some weird order in the corner...

Officer: M.E. reported this morning that it's likely he laid a towel down beforehand. Your report states that there was a specific boardgame laid out on the kitchen table. Can you elaborate on that?

James: It was a game of Scrabble. It looked so ridiculous and out of place... a game that I have played with my family countless times before.... so harmless, so innocent.... Smack in the middle of a room of absolute chaos.

Officer: And for the record, what did the pieces of the board say?

James: The board was empty except for one entry, right across the middle. It spelled one thing.

Officer: And that was?

James: THEYLOST.

Officer: Thanks again, James. That's all for now.

Following Annie's story, there was little to go on. The man who broke into the house used gloves, and the only time he made physical contact with anything in that room was when he moved Annie's chair to the center of his carnage. We interviewed neighbors, scanned local databases for previous break-ins... nothing. Our best guess at the time was that he suffered some sort of childhood abuse, as evidenced by the board games. But we had no evidence, no suspects, and only one witness. According to Annie, the man had a deep voice that was somewhat raspy, as if he was a smoker.

We might as well have told everyone in the Northeast to be on the lookout for a possible smoker with mommy and daddy issues.

This is of course, until it happened again.

Since this man killed four people, we assumed it would only be a matter of time before he acted again. What we didn't bet on, however, was his patience.

Two years later, we had a very bad winter. One particularly large storm had led to nearly two feet of snow, school and business closings, and of course, power outages.

I was not the responding officer this time. I was at home, shoveling our driveway and throwing logs on the fire when I received a call from the station.

Three dead, one boy left alive. He was seventeen years old. Since I was the responding officer to the first scene, I was brought into listen to the tape in order to determine if this was a related case. Here is a transcription of the audio.

[Transcript of surviving victim Billy (full name omitted)]

Officer: Billy, would you like a glass of water before we begin?

Billy: [Grunts in response].

Officer: I know this is tough, but we need your help in catching the man who did this to your family.

Billy: [Coughs] I heard this happened before, and you didn't catch him. What makes you think you will now?

Officer: That's why we need your help.

Billy: So you know nothing.

Officer: [Sighs] We have a pattern. We need you to help us fill in the blanks.

Billy: My family is dead, and you have a pattern? Look, I get what you need to do. Let's just get this over with.

Officer: Thank you, it takes a lot of strength to go through this, I understand [unintelligible].

Billy: What?

Officer: Start from the beginning, please. Where were you before the man broke in?

Billy: [Takes a deep breath, then exhales] I was in the basement, using our new computer. Just surfing the web and talking to a few friends. In my house, every floorboard makes a noise, so you know when people are moving around and where they are going. My dad is a heavy walker... well, he was a heavy walker.... he was in his office. He had missed work while we were on vacation, so he had a lot of stuff to catch up on.

Officer: Your father was an attorney, correct?

Billy: Yep.

Officer: Okay. And your sister, Eliza? Where was she?

Billy: She was in her room, talking to Mom about her report card. Little snot got all As, Mom was going to take her out to buy a new dress or something.

Officer: Just to be clear, your father's office and your sister's room are both on the third floor? And you were in the basement, which you would refer to as your first floor, correct?

Billy: Yeah, that's right. I guess we really have two floors with a basement. But there's an exit down there, so we always called it the first floor.

Officer: And that's where the man knocked.

Billy: Yeah... I was sitting at my computer when I heard it. I thought it was weird, because people usually just knock on the front door. I thought maybe, since there was no power for the doorbell, nobody could hear them knock at the front...

Billy [takes a deep breath again before he continues]: There were three short knocks, one after the other. I got up and opened the door without even looking in the peephole. And there he was. He was wearing this black ski mask, with dark jeans and a big hoody. I thought the mask was weird, but since it was so damn cold outside I honestly wasn't that concerned.

Officer: Did he speak to you?

Billy: Yeah... he said he was from the power company, [name omitted]. He flashed a badge at me really quick, and I saw [name omitted]'s logo. He had this deep voice, but it sounded like he had a cold or something. He coughed a few times. He wanted to speak to Mom or Dad, so I led him up the stairs and called upstairs to them. I can't believe I was so stupid...

Officer: There was no way you could have known.

Billy: [Yelling] I should have been more careful.

Officer: Billy, if you hadn't let him in, he would have found a way in. What happened next?

Billy: The minute I yelled up to them, he grabbed both my hands and held them behind my back. I tried to fight him, but he roped them together quick. When I yelled louder, my Mom and Dad came running down the stairs. By then, he already had a knife to my neck.

Billy: My dad tried to rush him. He had served on the National Guard during Vietnam. No real combat action, but he wasn't a weak man. The guy just side stepped him and pressed the knife harder. That's how I got this. [Billy appears to motion to his neck, where there was a large cut]. Once my dad saw the blood, he stopped trying to fight.

Officer: Then he made you sit down.

Billy: He told my dad to tie us all to our kitchen chairs. He said since my dad was such a tough guy, he should know how to tie a good knot. He stood and watched him each time to make sure he tied our legs and arms right.

Billy: Once we were all tied up, it got really weird... we kept our board games in the room over. We had played a few already while the power had been out. Best way to pass the time. He walked over to them, and just stood there for a minute saying nothing. Then he turned to us and said, "Who wants to play some cards?"

Billy: My dad asked him what the fuck he was talking about. My mom begged him to let us go. He just stood there smiling... until my dad started to yell and shake his chair. It fell to the floor, and... he didn't like that. It felt like it took him two seconds to walk over to him, pull out a gun that we hadn't seen, and shoot him in the head.

Officer: Jesus...

Billy: My mom was screaming and crying at this point. He walked over to her and said "Don't you want to play some cards, Barbara?"

Officer: He knew her name?

Billy: Uhhh... I guess so. I hadn't thought of that.

Officer: That helps a lot Billy. More than you know. What happened next?

Billy: She begged him to stop... to please let us go... I could barely understand what she was saying, she was just crying and choking out words. The man hit her, in the face, with his fucking pistol. That fucking coward... hitting a woman tied to a chair. She only cried louder, though. He shot her in the head too. I wanted to rip his fucking head off and piss on it.

Billy: But he turned to Eliza this time. Poor, poor Eliza. She was only 10 years old... he asked her to play a game of Go Fish.

Billy: They played for a couple of minutes, until they got towards the end. They each had one card left, and she asked him if he had any sevens. She didn't, so she had to draw a card. But she was crying and nervous, so when she picked it up, it flipped on its face. It was a King of Spades. This made the man happy... he turned his card around, with this sick fucking grin on his face... and said, "Do you have any Kings?"

Billy: [Breaks down, clearly struggling with words at this point] And then he kicked her chair back, and shot her in the face.

Officer: Did he ask you to play next?

Billy: [Sniffing, angrily trying to brush back tears] I won. And he let me go. He moved my chair to the center, he opened the front door, and he left.

Officer: Billy… I have one more question. The games…

Billy: They were like that when we got home. I thought my Mom had rearranged them while I was at school…

---Tape Ends----

The door handles were checked for fingerprints, but again, no luck. We did find out that he wore a size twelve shoe, based on the dirt mark left on the chair by his boot. We also found out that he knew the victim's names, which means he either knew them from beforehand, or he had stalked them like prey. More to follow.

Reddit

I am a policeman in the Northeastern United States. I can only tell you this much. In fact, my shroud of anonymity is the only thing that allows me to post a story of an ongoing investigation. Ongoing. That's a funny term we use in law enforcement, to refer to a case that, as of yet, has no answer. Since most of the Northeast is now without power once again, I felt you all needed to know what could happen.

This all began about ten years ago, when a massive tropical storm devastated our usually serene state. Folks in my area were without power for several days, much like they are today.

When a tropical storm or hurricane hits an area, the aftermath is usually chaotic, in a word. The power almost always goes out, and emergency vehicles and officers alike are usually required to direct traffic, clear debris from the road, or assist in search and rescue missions. There is little time and even less resources to respond to criminal complaints. This is why there are often curfews put into place; looting and stealing are commonplace when there is no electrical alarm systems; and police response is drastically decayed. It can take officers hours to reach areas in which the roads are cut off by fallen trees.

On that late summer night when the first home invasion came over the airwaves, it was no different. Major roads were blocked in nearly every corner of our sleepy suburban town, and at the time, I was helping to clear some brush from the highway when a voice crackled over the dispatch.

"[name omitted] We have a report of a breakin at [address omitted] Drive. The call was made from a cell phone, but it only lasted about fifteen seconds. This one really creeped me out, try to get there as soon as you can. Suspect may be armed."

I tried not to groan over the radio in response. Fifteen second call, likely it could have been a prank. And that house was about a twenty minute drive from where I was, on a good day.

"You got it dispatch. [name omitted] heading over to the scene now."

I hopped in my car and began the long tedious drive over to the house in question. It was still raining and incredibly windy, though the storm had officially passed a day before. The lack of lights on the streets gave the entire ride an incredibly ominous feel. Shadows would jump out, only to recede beneath my approaching headlights. Several times I had to get out of the car to move large branches covering the road. It was the scene to a perfect horror movie: dumb cop gets out of his car on a dark, empty road, and is jumped by a man who leaps out of the darkness. I began to see things dart in and out of the woods every time I got out of the car. Just animals, I told my frazzled nerves. They're just as scared as you are. Eventually, I just drove over entire limbs in my haste and apprehension.

Dispatch rang again when I was a couple minutes away.

"Car [name ommitted] we still have not heard back from that caller. Tried calling the number, but it appears to be turned off. Could be a prank, but keep your wits about you all the same."

I sighed, and replied.

"Okay dispatch, pulling into the driveway now."

On the outside, the house appeared the same as every other on its block. The lights were out, windows closed, and there were tree branches all over the front yard. I grabbed my flashlight, and hastily stepped out of the car when I noticed one thing out of place.

The back door was open.

I pulled out my weapon, and slowly crepy into the backyard, shining my light at the ground in front of me. I wanted to see where I was going, but I didn't want to alert a burglar to my presence before I could apprehend him.

I shined my light quickly inside the open door, to reveal an empty family room. Everything, again, appeared as normal. There was a candle in the center of the room that give the room an eerie, flicking light that reflected off the wood floors and walls. The furniture was up on cement blocks, with blankets underneath to prevent damaging the floor. They were prepared for the flood warnings.

Once inside, I had too many angles to consider. I needed a hint of movement that would give way a location of the victims or suspect.

"This is the police" I shouted. "Is anyone here?"

I heard a muffled cry come from the next room. I carefully made my way over the debris that had blown in through the open doorway. The floor was slick and wet from the rain, and I was careful not to slip and find myself on the floor.

The muffled cry turned to loud sobs, and the sound of a chair scraping against the floor.

I rounded the corner, and the scene I saw is one that will never leave me.

Sitting in the center of a room, tied tightly to a chair by some white rope, with duct tape over her mouth, was a young girl about thirteen years old. She wore a white shirt that was covered with blood, and she was crying helplessly as she looked into my eyes.

Surrounding her on four sides, were I later found out were her family.

Her father had sat behind her, and he had sustained a gunshot to the chest. He was laying on his side, as if his chair had been kicked over.

Her mother laid in front of her, she did not have a chair tied to her. She sustained a gun shot wound to the chest.

Two little boys were also tied to chairs on her left and right. They had multiple gunshot wounds to their chest, head, and stomach.

I gasped, struggling for air. I was used to writing traffic tickets. Catching folks speeding, chasing kids out of closed parks, occasionally busting a local dealer. Our town was picture perfect suburbia. Never, never, had I seen anything so twisted. A little girl's family murdered and laid around her like some sick sacrifice, or like the pieces to a puzzle. And she sat in the middle.

I ran over to her, removed the tape, and asked the girl if the person who did this was still around.

She shook her head, and struggled through tears to speak "He left about twenty minutes ago."

I collapsed, and radioed dispatch for backup.

Now, I won't attempt to describe the horror that happened that night in my own words. I was there when they interviewed the little girl who saw it all. I have the audio tape of it as well. For the sake of privacy, we will refer to her as Annie. Regardless, around the station we always called her Victim #1.

August 10th, three days following the massacre at [omitted] Drive.

Officer: Annie, I know this has got to be more difficult than I can begin to imagine. But to catch the guy who did this to your family, we need to know as much as possible. Try and tell us what happened.

[Annie is clearly sniffling as she attempts to compose herself. When she does speak, it is with a ragged and tired voice, interrupted by hiccups and silent sobs.]

Annie: It was around 7:00, and we were all sitting around the kitchen table eating dinner. The power went out, so Mommy had to make us some sandwhiches before the cold cuts went bad and soggy. Daddy was talking about how he wanted to build a fire to keep us all warm, but Mom didn't think the logs outside would be dry enough. Daddy went to go outside to check, when there was a knock at the door. He opened it and talked for a minute, then turned around to tell us something. But when he did, there was a big red spot in the center of his shirt. It got bigger and bigger, and he fell to the ground. Mommy screamed, and I ran. I ran down the stairs and hid under the bed.

Officer: You're doing so well, Annie. Is that when you called the police?

[Annie must have nodded at this point, because the officer responds.]

Officer: Okay sweetheart. What happened next?

Annie: He must have known I ran away. After a minute, a man's voice called downstairs. He said "Oh Annieeeee. Come back upstairs unless you want Mommy to be missing an ear."

Officer: [gulps loudly] What did his voice sound like?

Annie: I dunno. Deep, I guess. Also... it was weird...

Officer: What was weird?

Annie: He sounded happy.

Annie: I came upstairs, and Mommy was tying my brothers to chairs. Daddy was in his own chair but he wasn't moving. I asked her why she was doing that, and she cried and told me to do what the man says. I sat down in the chair, and she tied me up too. Once she was done tying us all up, the man entered the room.

Officer: Okay, Annie. This part is very important. I need you to be a big girl and tell me everything you remember about that man.

Annie: [Sniffling loudly] He had a black mask on. Like the ones mom and dad made us wear whenever we went skiing. You could only see his eyes and lips. He was wearing dark blue jeans and a black tshirt. I thought it was weird he didn't have a jacket in the storm. When Mommy turned and asked him what he wanted, he shot her.

Officer: I'm proud of you Annie. Do you need a break, or do you want to keep going?

Annie: He pulled out a box from our stack of games in the living room. It was Connect 4, one of my favorites. He asked my little brother if he wanted to play a game. He cried and said no, that he just wanted his mommy and daddy back. The man slapped him across the face and shot him in the chest.

Annie: He moved on to my next brother, setting up the game in front of him as he asked again, "Do you want to play?" My older brother stopped crying and said okay, he'll play. I could see how happy this made the man, and he quickly set up the pieces on the kitchen table.

Annie: They played for ten minutes, neither of them saying a word as I just sat there and cried. The man told me to shut up a few times, he said that I just needed to wait my turn... At the end of the game, my brother lost. The man had gotten four of his red chips in a row, and he was very happy. He stood up from the table, and looked at me when he pulled out his gun. He was so calm about it, it scared me so much. Then he shot him. He took the gun and shot my last brother.

Annie: I asked him why, why, why, why. I cried and beat my hands against the chair but it didn't work. He walked towards me with the box and set it down in front of me. He asked me if I wanted to play.

Annie: I won. I got four black pieces in a row. After that, he put me in the center of the room, and he walked out. Just.... left. He took the game with him though. I sat there screaming, crying, trying to get Mommy and Daddy and my brothers to wake up. But the next thing I know the officer came in the house and found me. He said they were dead.

----Tape Ends-----

Annie's family was not the only one targeted by the man... and this wasn't the only storm he worked in. Please, stay safe everyone. Lock up your doors and close all windows. Don't answer the door for anyone until you see proper identification. It is believed this man posed as an electrician in order to gain entry to some of these households. I will post the other families' stories in the next few days.

Reddit

I work in an office building. It’s not much different than most, eight floors of corporate extravagance located in the heart of a bustling New Jersey office park. There’s eight floors in my particular building, shared by three different companies. For some strange reason I have never been quite able to figure out, there are no stairs. At least, there are none that I have ever seen. However, it’s never really caused any problems besides a lack of good exercise.

One late evening I was leaving the office around 7:00. Nearly everyone had already headed home for the weekend, but I had a conference call with coworkers in a different time zone, requiring me to stay later. Once it was wrapped up, I gingerly slammed the phone down on the receiver, packed my things and headed for the elevator. My mind was on other things. Deadlines, relationships, what I was having for dinner… I stepped in and quickly punched the floor button without thinking, and accidently tapped the ‘B’ button. I cursed aloud and selected ‘1’, then checked myself out in the mirror as the elevator descended.

Only seconds later the beep of the elevator informed me that we were making one quick stop. I looked at the screen. Third floor. Home to a big time investment bank filled with high powered business men and women. As the doors opened up, a woman stepped in. The name on her ID badge read ‘Sara’, and she was beautiful. Only a few inches over five feet, she had long, midnight black hair and dark eyes, coupled with an olive skin color that suggested Italian heritages. She was wearing the usual business attire, tight-ish black pants and a button down shirt. In my unlimited bravado, I smiled awkwardly and stepped to the side as she walked in.

She quickly glanced over at the buttons and furrowed her brow when she noticed both ‘1’ and ‘B’ were selected. As the doors closed, I smiled and said “It’s Friday, I’m clearly not thinking.” She smiled at me shyly and giggled right before the elevator dropped like a bad habit.

In a matter of seconds, the beep, beep, beep of the elevator informed me that we had skipped right past the first floor, and with a thud, landed in the basement. Luckily, the drop had only been three floors, and I was alright. I turned to Sara and noticed she had fallen over, but she gingerly got to her feet and dusted off the dirt from the floor.

I looked at the buttons and groaned when I noticed, next to the ‘B’ button lit up all in red, was a printed out sign that said ‘Basement out of order.’ I quickly leaned forward and punched the ‘Call’ button in the hopes of contacting someone to get us out, but I was only greeted by static. I turned to Sara and shrugged right before the elevator doors swung open.

The site that greeted us was, at first, a little eerie, but nothing too out of the ordinary for a basement. It wasn’t finished, and there was a constant drip of running water landing on the cold, solid floor. Directly in front of the doors was a long hallway, that stretched down for what seemed to be fifty to sixty feet, and each side was lined with solid metal doors.

After a few seconds of punching the call button and cursing my stupidity, I turned to Sara

“Maybe we should see if anyone is in these rooms, and has a key or something?”

First, she hesitated, then quickly reconsidered and appeared embarrassed for looking scared. “Oh, yeah sure, there’s got to be somebody in one of these rooms. “

“HELLO??” she shouted.

Almost in response, a voice cackled from a previously unseen loudspeaker. “In five minutes, the building will be closed for the weekend. Please make your way to the exits.” After this, a noise sounding quite like air being released from the vents permeated throughout the basement, then stopped.

After pausing for a minute, I cursed again and shook my head. “What is this place, a mall?”

Sara giggled again and shook her head in agreement as we stepped out of the elevator doors. Immediately, the doors slammed shut behind us and the beep, beep, beep signaled that the elevator was on its way back up. I stared stupidly in disbelief for what must have been an entire minute, before Sara tapped my shoulder lightly and suggested we see who’s down here.

We walked down the hall as a light bulb flickered over our head, revealing miniature windows placed on each door. I peeked into one and noticed that a TV was blaring an old black and white movie. Plopped right in front of the TV in a wooden chair, was a man facing away from us. He was wearing old fashioned overalls, the type you would normally see on a farm, with a straw hat perched on the top of head. Shrugging my shoulders and finally sensing a little bit of luck, I swung open the door and Sara followed me inside.

“Hey man, we just got stuck down here and the elevator ditched us. You wouldn’t know if there were any stairs down here, would you?”

The man sat unmoving as the television played a slow song. Recognizing the tune as one of my favorites, Velvet Underground’s ‘Heroin’ I started to speak as Sara gasped aloud.

In the movie, or whatever it was, was a man in an all-black jumpsuit standing over a woman lying on the ground. In his hand, he had a long sharp Bowie knife, the type you would normally take on camping trips. The man and the woman were looking at each other, directly into one another’s eyes, as the man repeatedly stabbed her in the stomach with the knife. She let out a sickly choking sound each time it entered her stomach, but she seemed to still be alive despite the incredible amount of blood surrounding them. Then, as the man continued to stab the woman, he looked up at the camera.

The first thing that jumped out at me was his eyes. They appeared normal on first glance, but that was because they were largely hidden by an old fashioned bowler cap. His eyes looked as though someone had taken his pupils and cut them up eight different ways. Like a fly’s. Then, I noticed his hands were not that of any normal human being. They were dark, veined, caked with blood and curved into long nails that closely resembled claws. With a grin, the creature opened his mouth and let out a sickening screech as the television abruptly turned off.

Snapping back into reality, I shouted loudly at the man in the chair. “What in the hell is wrong with you man!? Why would you watch that?” Sara was crying quietly behind me as the man let out a dry cackle and started to turn around.

Only, he didn’t really turn around. At least, not in any normal way I had ever seen. His entire torso shifted around on his body. From his hips up to his head, his body faced me, while his legs remained forward.

His face was hideous. Wrinkled and scarred, he had cold white eyes that seemed to burn a hole directly through my own when I looked at him. He opened his mouth to reveal a toothless grin, and where his teeth should have been were worms that were growing out of his gums and falling to the floor with a sickening wop, wop. The man started to stand up, his legs still facing forward as he shuffled closer and closer to us. Paralyzed in fear, Sara and I slowly started to back up as we bumped against the door handle and tried to push it open.

Locked.

The man was now inches from my face, and I could smell his heavy, rotten breath on my skin as he rasped breath after breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the long, sharp Bowie knife we had seen in the movie. His grin was horrifying, the worms seemed to be growing out of the decay in his gums as he moved the knife forward, his eyes never leaving mine.

Suddenly, the television flicked back on. The man smiled again and slowly started to shuffle back towards his seat, his torso still facing us as the rhythmic beat of Heroin pounded through the speakers. I looked towards the screen to see both the man and woman on the screen were, impossibly, staring right at us. The man sat down, and turned his torso to face the screen as I heard a click, which inspired me to roughly kick open the door.

Sara and I bolted down the hallway. In each door’s miniature windows, we could see the television screens showing different horror scenes as we ran bye. In one, a woman was hanging from the top of a building. In another, a man was tied to the train tracks as the locomotive passed over him, ripping him to shreds. As we reached the end of the hallway, we looked up and saw the red ‘FIRE EXIT’ illuminated. I kicked down the door and grabbed Sara, pushing her up the stairs as we hurried out of that dark corridor of Hell. When we opened the door again, we found ourselves in an empty main lobby.

Sara grabbed me and hugged me, crying uncontrollably as we sat there in silence and utter disbelief. Finally, we decided to make our way to the door. Right before it shut, I heard a voice come on over the loudspeaker.

“You’reeeeeeee my herooooooooooiiiiiiinnnnn”. It was followed by that same horrible screech as I held Sara and slammed the door shut.

Reddit

There are frays in this vast, empty hole of nothingness we call home. Fissures, cracks, and fault lines where evil drips down into a well that escapes the judgement of good men and sound minds. A man much smarter than myself once wrote of such terrors with elegant, marvelous simplicity; "So it goes".

For years, I was in the Peace Corps, and for the majority of that time I was stationed in Uganda. Every day, every night, and every minute was filled with horrors so unreal that they would befit only the pages of a horror novel. Children with hollowed bellies stalked our every move, desparate for food, or medicine, or care for their ailing family members. Most of the time, I would be lucky if I saw those same kids the next day.

Slavery and forced labour are prohibited by the Ugandan constitution, but those laws are not enforced. Child labour is quite common throughout the region. The lucky ones work on Tobacco farms, where their worst fear is devestating health hazards caused by working in those fields. The ones who work as servants are often subject to sexual abuse, and many are simply sold into slavery.

But this isn't a story of the horrors of Uganda, some of which I am sure many of you are aware.

This is a story about the night of June 3rd, 1998.

It was hot. Africa in the dead of summer is exactly how it sounds; sticky, sweaty, and dangerous. My group and I had staked out an area with a few makeshift buildings, one of which was being used as our hospital. We allowed some children to stay with us at night, especially those who had lost their parents or family. The rate of abduction was high in Uganda, and the military often patrolled the countryside looking for new soldiers to join their ranks. There was no escaping them once they arrived, they usually just shot the children who ran away.

That morning, we had buried a young boy in the soft soil beside our camp. He was eight years old, and he had always asked us to call him Joey, though I'll never know why. He had been inflicted with malaria, a disease all too common to the poverty stricken region. If the disease is given time to progress, the protists from the mosquito bite will eventually travel to the liver, where it will mature and reproduce. Once malaria reached that stage, there was little we could do.

I had developed a fairly strong relationship with the young kid. It's funny, I had expected there to be vast differences between a child in Uganda and a child in the U.S., but he reminded me so much of my little brother back. He was strong, brave, and unwilling to accept defeat. I would sit by his bed and help him to improve his English, one word at a time. He had dreams of traveling, of leaving this horrible hell hole. His laugher was infectious, even in his last days.

One of the ways we passed the time was bye reading aloud. It was a painstaking process, as I would often have to pause and explain to him the defition of each unfamiliar word. I only had one book with me, a favorite that I had stuffed into my travel case at the last minute. The Natural, by Bernard Malamud. Joey wanted to be a baseball player.

My job for the night was to patrol the camp and warn our group leaders if the military was approaching. It was a risky job, being caught out in the open by Ugandan military is not something I would wish for the faint of heart. However, soldiers would never fire on an American, or really anyone who was light of skin.

The death of a Peace Corps member would almost certainly result in retalliation from the international community, and they were not willing to draw any more attention to themselves than they already had.

So, I patrolled. I circled the camp every half hour, scanning the distance to look for the dirt clouds that came in the wake of the military's trucks. My mind was admittedly on other things.

That night, as I scanned the distance patiently, I heard a giggle and a loud THWAP in the distance behind me. Frightened, I snapped out of my daze and turned so sharply I nearly fell over.

In the distance and across the field, I could make out a small shape. It was too small to be an adult, so I assumed another child had come to our camp in need of help. Everyone was asleep, so I strode across the field with a quickened pace, nervous that my makeshift Swahili would not be enough to interpret the child's needs.

As I got closer, the child called out to me in the dark.

"I lost my ball."

With that, he turned away from me and ran in the opposite direction. I followed him, knowing full well that he was left out here alone all night he would be dead by morning, one way or another.

We ran for what seemed to be a mile. Me behind this kid, wheezing and coughing as he jetted ahead of me. I called out several times, in English and Swahili, attempting to explain who I was and that I could help him. Just as I was about to reach the point of worrying about my own safety, he stopped.

He stood infront of a large hill, a pleateau of sorts, and looked down. As I walked up beside him, ready to collapse, I followed his line of sight down below.

About two miles in the distance was a scene of absolute anarchy. Military trucks lined the 'road' of a small village, and they were pulling children out of their homes. I stood there, mouth agape as I watched children cry and parents scream. No gunshots were being fired, which would explain why we hadn't heard what was happening. Women were simply beaten to the ground if they tried to interfere with the soldiers who were taking their sons. I had heard of this barbarism time and time again, but I had never seen it with my own eyes.

My boy standing beside me let out a deep sigh, and turned to face me. It was Joey.

"Time to go." He said so quietly and meekly, with a sad smile across his face. I was still in a state of shock, standing there with my mouth wide open, unsure of what to believe. Then he screamed.

"RUN!"

So I did. I hightailed the fuck out of there, sprinting back the direction I came. If I hurried, I could make it back to camp in time to get the group leaders to mobilize the children staying with us, and get them to a different location. I frantically stumbled into each of their tents, screaming nonsensical babble as I desparately tried to describe what I had just seen.

An hour later, the military arrived. They asked us politely if there were any children at our camp who were not ill, as they were required to take them a nearby school to begin classes. This was a blatant lie, one that had been told hundreds of times before to ignorant foreigners.

Unlucky for them, the children had been evacuated thirty minutes before. Joey's early warning allowed the group leaders to load the healthy children into the few vans we had, and get them a safe enough distance away from the military's probing.

A few days later, I found a baseball on the outskirts of our camp.

Reddit

I came to this subreddit for a very simple, up front reason. I can't sleep.

As I type this very message, there is a constant, consistent gnawing in the back of my mind. It's as if an unfillable hunger rests in the deepest canals of my slipping mind, begging and endlessly searching for nourishment that won't be found. I hear a metronome echoing in the back of my head. At night, during the morning, the day… I lay awake in my bed, and I hear it. Every two seconds it floats from the right side of my head to the left. It rocks carefully back and forth. I've timed it, over and over again in my mind. It never changes.

My eyes dart back and forth uncontrollably. It makes it difficult to keep them locked on this very screen. When they move to the left, or to the right, I see things...

Sometimes it's a fellow in a clean cut suit, reclining on the chair and studying me. Other times, it's a creature crawling across the floor, dripping fluid out of its body as it crawls up onto my bed.

My brain feels as if it cooking on a slow burn.

I've read, in an old paperback encyclopedia in the basement I never leave, that hallucination is common in people with sleep deprivation, given a certain amount of time. That time has come and gone. I think I'm approaching insanity.

My thoughts and visions are constructed of breaks in reality. At least, that's what my doctor calls them. Time and time again, I ask myself if the things I see are truly my imagination, or reality slowly creeping past the imaginative monotony of my every day life.

But it's okay, because I'm not alone anymore.

He started out at a whisper. Late at night, when I laid awake in my bed counting the seconds of the softly ticking metronome, I'd hear him.

He was barely audible, at first. just a constantly repeating phrase, echoed again and again in a voice I couldn't understand.

And then, one night alone in my basement, his voice became a scream in a harsh, rushed voice.

"MY NAME IS BENJAMIN DYSON. I LIVE AT 1153 HUMMINGBIRD LANE. MY NAME IS BENJAMIN DYSON. I LIVE AT 1153 HUMMINGBIRD LANE"

He listens to me. I tell him of my problems, my daily worries of work and always waiting. I tell him my dreams, my wishes, my fantasies… He has become a part of me.

At first his response was always the same,

"My name is Benjamin Dyson, I live at 1153 Hummingbird Lane."

But then he changed. As the days crawled bye, Benjamin's voice became a scream of anger and cynicism.

"End it!" He would scream, as he forced my hands to shake uncontrollably in public, spilling coffee all over the public counter.

Even now, as I type out this message to you, his screams echo against my cerebrum. At times, it's so loud he forces me to double over in pain. It's so loud, that at times I press my hand to my ears only to find them covered in blood.

It's been seven days since I have slept at all. I view myself as a ticking time bomb. If I don't hit the switch, I will explode. I can't force myself to sleep, but I can turn out the light.

Goodnight.