A Mighty Endeavor

Chapter Eleven SERIOUS NEGOTIATIONS

The border post was supposed to control the passage along the road from Kantharalak in Thailand to Angkrong in French Indochina. In fact, it blocked it completely. The French had brought in local labor to dig up the road surface. Their efforts left a deep ditch across the road lined with parapets made of the rubble from the road surface. There was barbed wire tangled along the mounds of earth and solid wooden stakes to hold it on place. There was even a guard box behind the earth banks that had a telephone. Corporal Mongkut Chandrapa na Ayuthya could see the telephone line heading southeast towards Angkrong. He carefully did not think that it connected the border post to Angkrong, since one of his men had cut the wire a couple of minutes before.

There were just three men at the border post. One was in the guard box and looked as if he was asleep. The other two were sitting on the embankment, smoking and surveying the neighborhood with monumental disinterest. They would have been much more interested if they had realized all twelve infantry battalions of the Queen’s Cobra Division had moved up to the frontier and were currently in their jump-off positions for the invasion. An invasion that had already started with a cut telephone wire. Corporal Mongkut took a deep breath as the approaching dawn revealed more details of the target. In the back of his mind, he noted the birds were starting to sing. Then the hammering noise of a Lewis gun drowned them out.

The burst fountained soil around the two men outside the post. One died instantly, riddled with bullets. The other jumped to his feet, dropped his cigarette and frantically looked around to see what was happening. A second burst cut him down as well, long before he had learned anything. Mongkut saw him down on the ground, his body shaking as he died.

He focused on his primary target, the guard box. The man in it had grabbed the telephone. He was banging the handpiece on the desk, apparently in the belief that doing so would repair the cut wire. There was a short crackle of rifle fire from Mongkut’s group. The glass in the guard box shattered, and he, too, went down. With the border guards neutralized, Mongkut got to his feet and jog-trotted towards the ruins of the border post.

His men worked fast. They took the bodies of the two men outside the post and their corporal from inside it and dragged them to the side of the road. Mongkut quickly checked the bodies, identifying them as members of the 4th Tirailleurs Tonkinois. The sun was already rising over the mountains on either side of their road. Behind him, other units of the 11th Division were crossing the border and beginning to push down the road towards Angkrong.

Mongkut’s lieutenant waved. He and his men fell in with the rest of their unit and joined the march south. He had the map he had been shown clearly in his mind. Angkrong was a small rectangular village, but it controlled a vital crossroads; one that opened the way eastwards. Once Angkrong was in their hands, the real advance could start.

Behind Mongkut’s unit, engineers brought up a quartet of elephants. They started the task of destroying the border post and repairing the road that led through it. Their orders were quite simple; they were to erase the border so thoroughly that nobody would ever know it had once existed here.

Thakhek Airfield was the primary staging post for the attacks on Thai cities over the last six months. The Farman bombers that had carried out the most devastating of the raids were based far back in central Vietnam. That put them out of range of the Thai aircraft; for the moment, at least. But Thakhek was within range and it was a priority target for the Air Force. Other airfields were being attacked as well, but Thakhek was getting the main effort.

The primary strike was the halfdozen Martin 139 bombers; they formed two neat V-formations at 3,000 meters. Their stately progress through the air was marred by a very light scattering of black spots. The antiaircraft defenses of the base were limited. There were few antiaircraft guns in French Indochina, and it seemed as if the French believed that they could continue attacking Thailand without any form of reprisal.

Unaccountably, the antiaircraft fire stopped as the Martins swung into their final bomb run. The export equivalent of the USAAC B-10B, each Martin 139 carried ten 250-pound bombs. Their bombing showed the inexperience of the crews. Most of the sixty bombs the formation dropped were within the airfield boundary, but the explosions were scattered all over the base. From what Flying Officer Suchart Chalermkiat could see, the vital hangars and runways were undamaged. That left taking the airfield out to him and his fellow Hawk 75N pilots.

As the Martins turned away for the flight home, Suchart pushed the nose of his fighter over and started to dive on the base below. Dive bombing was something every Thai pilot practiced. For the last six months, they had done little else but train for dive bombing missions. Even the Hawk III and 75N fighters had not been exempted. They had had to carry out their dive bombing training in addition to their other duties. Foong Kap Lai 60 was supposed to be the elite fighter squadron of the Thai Air Force, but their Hawk 75Ns had flown on this mission with a 250 pound bomb slung under their bellies. If French fighters showed up, they would jettison their bombs and fight. Otherwise, they were dive bombers. So was every other aircraft the Thais had. Even their Avro 504 trainers were carrying bombs today.

Suchart released his bomb. He saw it curve down into the center of one of the hangars. A smooth pull on the control column brought his Hawk out of its dive. He skimmed over the parking area, a few tens of feet over the grass. To his disappointment, there was only one aircraft in easy sight, a Potez 25. Still, it is a ground attack aircraft and that’s worth taking. Suchart’s four .30-caliber machine guns raked the old biplane. It burst into flames in front of him.

His flight formed up around him and he turned his nose west for home. Once the bombers that had struck the airfields were safely back at base, the fighters could do what they were supposed to do.

Hunt down and kill the enemy.

The maps on the walls showed the developing situation quite clearly. The 11th Infantry Division was north of the Tonle Sap, crossing the border into Cambodia and advancing towards the banks of the Mekong River. So far, they hadn’t experienced any serious opposition; just a few scattered patrols and the unfortunate border guards. Further south, two regiments of the 9th Infantry Division pushed along the road to Battambang. They were having a tougher time. Battambang was the headquarters of the French Indochina Army this far south; it was well-placed to organize a proper defense.

That was exactly what Suriyothai hoped they were doing.

“Your Highness, two farang ladies to see you.” General Arthit Kongsampong seemed slightly surprised at the number of women who were descending on the command center of an army corps. Having the corps commanded by a woman was shocking enough, although the whispers about this woman officer were startling indeed. Two farang women turning up as guests was something quite else.

“Send them in.” Suriyothai looked at the map again. The tiny piece of Laos that lay west of the Mekong was already well on its way to being secured by a battalion of infantry. A regiment of the 11th Infantry was moving west to cover its flank. It was a good start.

“Igrat, Achillea; It has been a long time since we met under these circumstances.”

Igrat smiled broadly and made a creditable attempt at a respectful wai. Suriyothai solemnly returned it. Achillea followed Igrat in. She had grease on her blouse and smudges of oil on her nose and cheeks.

“What happened Achillea?”

“A couple of your men were having trouble with a Hotchkiss thirteen-point-two. Headspace adjustment screw had jammed. I fixed it for them. Just poured boiling water over it and that expanded the metal enough to get the screw loose.”

“Ahh, I see.” Suriyothai had no doubt that Achillea was now politely worshipped by the men she had helped. There was something about the combination of Achillea, oil, grease and guns that men found irresistible. “How did you two get up here and what do you want?”

“Hitched a lift on a supply truck headed this way.” Igrat spoke as if cadging lifts on army supply trucks was the most natural thing in the world. To her, it was. “My father has some information for you. He says that Cordell Hull has softened his position and he is prepared to allow the transfer of American-produced arms to Thailand. They will be supplied from India. But, my father cautions, to consolidate this position, you need to do two things. One is to make visible progress towards a democratic form of government. The other is to kick a Japanese unit around very soon. You need to be seen as an enemy of an enemy.”

Suriyothai nodded. Relief flooded through her. The single greatest obstacle to all her plans was crumbling. “I can promise the kicking around as soon as the Japanese move. That will be when they realize how far we will be advancing into Indochina. They will try and intervene with diplomacy; we will turn them down and they will be more forceful. Then we will demonstrate how foolish that approach will be. What will we get from the Indians?”

“Hawk 75 fighters, the latest model, and DB-7 light bombers. And, direct from America, thirty A-24 dive bombers. They are in compensation for the other aircraft you purchased and did not receive. Now, my father asks, can he have details of your plans for this campaign?”

“No.” Suriyothai was absolutely firm on that. “I haven’t even told me what our plans are yet. Now, what else have you got? Phillip wouldn’t send you all this way just for this.”

“Mostly reports on business involvement in this area. Phillip is investing in India especially and he wants you to be aware of what is going on. He has also picked up word that the Hongs are moving to Bangkok and he is curious as to whether you have a hand in this.” Igrat’s voice took on her own pitch and cadence. “He is, of course, being sarcastic when asking that. But he regards stabilizing the economies of the area as being a very high priority. That also reflects U.S. Government policy, although the decisions were not linked. Both he and Secretary Morgenthau came to the same conclusions for the same reasons.”

“How did he hear about the Hongs?” Suriyothai was genuinely curious. She had thought that information was strictly controlled. Igrat didn’t answer and Suriyothai realized she knew, but wasn’t going to say anything. “Alright. Forget I asked. Tell Phillip this. We’re going to destroy the French Army in Indochina. That is already in hand. Think Sedan. We’re moving one division along the northern part of the Mekong now to deal with any Japanese incursion. The Japanese are desperately short of maneuver units and the most they can throw at us is a single division. We can handle that. Everything else is details and subject to change at short notice.

Mongkut was quietly proud of both himself and his squad. In fact, of the whole platoon. Ever since they had eliminated the border post, they had been advancing at the double-quick-time: 180 paces to the minute. Six months of training had shown its value. His men chewed up the five kilometers that separated them from Angkrong in less than forty minutes. They’d been helped by geography. The road had snaked around, but after the crest of the ridge had been passed, it had all been downhill.

Looking behind him, Mongkut could see the mountains that delineated the border. In front of him was the flat plain that had so recently been part of Thailand, but had been seized by the French and made part of their Indochina empire. Now, it would be returned to its rightful owners. That thought cheered Mongkut. It offset the rawness in his chest from the prolonged quick-time march.

Angkrong was a basic rectangle of four unsurfaced roads, divided horizontally into upper and lower halves by a fifth. On a map, it looked like a figure-of-eight that had been squashed so it was wider than it was high. The road that Mongkut and his men were following led into the northeast corner of the town, the top right hand corner of the 8. The road that formed the bottom of the eight was the critical one. Once that was seized, Thai infantry could advance east or west, according to their desires. Their seizure of the road would also prevent the French Indochina Army from moving eastwards. It was a key part of the plan to split the French Army apart and dismember each section separately.

Mongkut waved his arm. His men scattered to the right hand side of the road. Behind him, the next squad was going left. The effect was simple. What had been a column of troops advancing down a road was now a line that would assault the village. The orders had been very strict. ‘Remember, not so long ago, these people were our countrymen. Treat them with respect, for they are to be our countrymen again.’

The company had finished deploying for the assault. Mongkut heard the whistles blow. That was the signal for the charge. He broke into a jog-trot. Then, he was in a full run towards the town. It was quiet. No dogs barked or chickens crowed; just the pounding sound of army boots running on hard ground. Mongkut was panting as he reached the first line of huts. They were poor things by the standard of his home village; rotting wooden walls topped by a thatched roof. A piece of tattered cloth substituted for a front door. The obvious poverty made him hate what he had to do next, but the safety of his men depended on it.

He grabbed the cloth and flung it to one side, pushing his way into the hut. There were two women inside; one young and feeding her baby, the other much older. Probably the young woman’s mother, Momgkut thought. The young woman screamed and swung away, shielding both herself and her baby from the stranger. Mongkut reacted quickly.

“I am sorry to frighten you. Are there any French soldiers here?”

The young woman showed no sign of understanding. Her mother broke out into a beam of delight at the Thai words. She replied quickly in the same language, the words coarsened from long disuse. “At the other end of the village. There are a few. You have come back?”

Mongkut knew what she meant. “We are back and this time to stay. We will not allow our land to be stolen today. Now, excuse me, Mother; we have much work to be done today.” As he left, a thought occurred to him. “Where are your ducks and chickens?”

“The French did not allow us to keep them. They said we must buy all our meat and eggs from them. All we were allowed to grow was rice.”

Mongkut was shocked. A village of farmers not allowed to own ducks? It was unnatural. In the short time he had been checking the hut, a crackle of rifle fire broke out in the far corner of Angkrong. He led his men to the sound of the firing. It was over by the time he had got there. Five men, a corporal and four privates of the 4th Tirailleurs Tonkinois, were standing with their hands raised; their Berthier rifles on the ground beside them. None were injured. A quick glance showed Mongkut that none of the Thai troops were hurt either.

“It wasn’t serious.” Mongkut’s sergeant was watching the scene.

“They fired a few rounds for honor’s sake, we fired a few to show we were serious and they surrendered.”

“Sergeant, may I speak with an officer? I have information they might need.”

The sergeant nodded and pointed at a Lieutenant, who was reading a map. Mongkut went over to him and saluted. “Permission to speak, sir?”

“Corporal?”

“Sir, the importance of winning over these villagers was much emphasized. I have learned the French would not let them keep their own ducks. Perhaps, if we gave them some to keep, they might look on us as friends?”

Lieutenant Somchai Preecha nodded. In fact, Mongkut was the third man to approach him with that idea. “A good idea, Corporal. I will mention it to our Captain. Now, assemble your squad and head east. We have far to go today.”

There was a steady crackle of rifle fire from the hills as the attack spread along the border. It was punctuated by blasts Mongkut recognized as mortar rounds. The French defenders were realizing this was a serious invasion and beginning to try and organize resistance. It was too late for them to defend the border. They would have to concentrate on a defense further inland. Mongkut wondered where that would be, then dismissed the question. He and his men would find out soon enough.

There was a sudden redoubling of the rifle fire from the area of a ruined temple just to their east, followed by a series of loud explosions. The lieutenant looked at the area and grimaced. “The old temple up there; the one surrounded by cliffs. If there are any enemy troops in it, they have nowhere to go. We have much work to do today as well as far to go, Corporal. And your men will lead the regiment.”

That’s phrased as an honor, Mongkut thought, but it’s a really dangerous job we could do without. He went back to his men who were resting on the dried-out grass. “Time to move out, men. It is our honor to lead the regiment.”

There were groans of displeasure at the news, but his men hauled themselves to their feet, picked up their rifles and got ready to head west. They returned to the double-quick time they had used to get here and left the village of Angkrong in fine style. As they did so, the men saw the villagers making respectful wais to them as they passed. Perhaps there is something in this liberating business after all, Mongkut thought to himself. They were supposed to advance to another small village, Choeteal Kong, some 16 kilometers due east of Angkrong. Mongkut hoped that it wouldn’t be so poor and run-down as Angkrong had been.

“Is there any news?” Lieutenant Laurent Babineau stuck his head through the hatch leading to the radio room. Inside, the radio duty crew were scanning the airwaves, trying to find out what was happening.

“Sir, all we know is that the Siamese have crossed the border in large numbers and are advancing on Battambang. Their aircraft have attacked airfields all over Indochina. This is not a border clash, sir. This is a real war.”

Babineau nodded. Dumont d’Urville was patrolling the Cambodian coast of Indochina, with emergency orders to bombard Thai coastal towns in the event of any border disputes. With three 5.5-inch guns, she was well-suited to that task. However, the authorities in Hanoi had not anticipated the situation breaking into a full-blooded war. With her feeble antiaircraft armament of four old 37mm guns, she was hardly suited for an independent deployment within range of enemy air forces.

“Sir, message coming in.” The morse code hammered for a few seconds, paused, and then hammered again. “Sir, it’s official. We are at war with the Kingdom of Thailand. We are to execute Plan Green.”

The operator tore off the message flimsy and handed it to Babineau. Up on the bridge, Captain Toussaint de Quieverecourt was scanning the horizon with his binoculars.

“Captain, message has come in. It’s war. We are to execute Plan Green.”

The Captain sighed. “The politicos in Hanoi have been asking for this. Now they’ve got it. I hope they’re happy. Plan Green, you say? That’s the bombardment of Muang Trat. Make revolutions for 15 knots. We want to get in and out before we are spotted.”

Babineau rang the orders down to the engine room. He felt the sloop vibrate as her Sulzer diesels picked up power. Muang Trat lay at the end of a long inlet; one that had a finger of Thai territory on one side and a group of Thai-owned islands, including a major naval anchorage at Koh Chang, on the other. Toussaint de Quieverecourt tapped the islands with his forefinger.

“If the Siamese have a squadron deployed here, we will be completely out of luck.”

That is the sort of understatement the milk-drinking surrender monkeys would come out with, Babineau thought, bitterness swelling at the memory of the way France had been abandoned to fight the Germans on her own. “Their Navy isn’t up to much.”

“No.” Toussaint de Quieverecourt was thoughtful in his agreement. “Certainly their weakest point. But this sloop is hardly a front line warship. Order the crew to action stations. We’re so close to the enemy coast that this situation can drop in the pot very fast. I think we would be well-advised to avoid the splash.”

“Sir, aircraft approaching from due north.” The starboard lookout’s cry was urgent.

Babineau used his binoculars to scan the indicated direction. “I see them Captain. Biplanes; nine of them.”

“Full speed; hold nothing back.” Toussaint de Quieverecourt did some quick mental calculations. If those are Thai dive bombers, we are in deep trouble.

The aircraft approached steadily. Dumont d’Urville’s pathetic antiaircraft guns were unable to put up any form of defense before the attack was well underway. Babineau watched the first flight of three aircraft, now clearly recognizable as Curtiss Hawk IIIs, peeling over into their dives. Toussaint de Quieverecourt was watching them as well. He waited until the aircraft were committed to their dives before giving the next order.

“Hard to port, now.”

Dumont d’Urville swerved; her side rails nearly submerged as the ship tilted over. She had been built to police far-off colonies and show the flag, not get involved in major battles. It all went to show that no plan survived contact with the enemy. Babineau watched a pair of bombs detach from under the wings of the lead aircraft. He saw them arc down towards his ship. He was convinced they were going to hit. But the last-second swerve threw off the Thai pilot’s aim. They exploded in the sea, well to starboard. Another pair of bombs hit the water the other side of the ship, splashing her with water and causing fragments to bounce off the steel plating.

Only four bombs? Babineau looked around; he saw the second dive bomber had held its fire. It pulled up to repeat its dive. To his amazement, the pilot made three more passes before dropping finally his bombs.

The results justified his dedication. His two bombs straddled the hull neatly, neither more than a few meters from the hull plating. The sloop rocked with the blast. The men on the 37mm guns fell as fragments scythed through their positions. Babineau felt the ship slowing abruptly as the engines failed. Sure enough, the engineering officer was on the line.

“We’ve lost power. Those bombs stalled the diesels.” There was a tinge of panic in the message from the engine rooms.

“Well, you had better restart them, hadn’t you?” Toussaint de Quieverecourt spoke in a steady, imperturbable voice that seemed completely unaware of the fact his ship was dead in the water while under air attack.

“Lieutenant, do we have any antiaircraft guns left?”

Babineau looked aft to where the 37mm mounts were located. The dead and wounded were being pulled off the mounts and replaced by other seamen. “Our 37s will be back in a moment, sir. And we still have our machine guns, if the Siamese try to strafe us.”

“We’ll just have to hope that will be enough, won’t we?” The Captain’s voice was still calm and collected. Hearing it steadied the bridge crew. So did the belch of black smoke from the forefunnel as the diesels in the forward engine room came back on line. Dumont d’Urville started to move forward again as the second flight of Hawk IIIs started their dives.

This time, there was no evasive action to throw off their aim. The kilogram bombs the first flight dropped. Babineau watched the bombs drop down towards the sloop. This time, he knew they would hit. This is going to hurt.

One exploded in the water just beside the forward 5.5-inch guns. It shook the ship with the same ferocity that a terrier shook a cornered rat. Fragments from the explosion sliced into the hull, tearing up the great black letters A72 painted on the bows. The second was equally close, but on the other side. Again, the ship was sprayed with water and fragments; ones that rocked the ship and cut down exposed members of the crew. The third crashed home aft; a direct hit on the catapult and the Loire seaplane. The whole area erupted into flame. A black plume of smoke stained the crystal-clear, blue morning sky.

The burst of power from the engines had been stopped again. Dumont d’Urville was dead in the water and burning. Overhead, the Thai Hawk IIIs circled, surveying the scene. Babineau guessed that the three aircraft that hadn’t dived were the fighter escort. They were probably debating what to do next. The sloop was badly hurt; there was no doubt about that in his mind. The question was whether more aircraft would be sent to finish her off.

“Sir, aft engine room reports the temperature there is rising quickly from the fire, but they have the aft pair of diesels back on line. We can make five knots now, perhaps ten in an hour, if we can get that fire out. We have flooding forward and amidships. The damage control crews are having trouble establishing a flooding perimeter because of all the fragment holes.”

“Change course; head due east. Plan Green is abandoned. All available hands, fight the fire aft. Once that’s out, they are to join the damage control teams trying to stop the flooding.” Toussaint de Quieverecourt looked up at the Hawk IIIs circling overhead. “I think they are leaving us alone. I believe the Siamese are stretching their aircraft to the utmost and knocking us out of action will be good enough for them. We’ll go home and lick our wounds. And report what happened here. That was a very well executed attack.

“I think the gentlemen in Hanoi have seriously underestimated our enemy.”

“We’ve pushed the Tirailleurs Tonkinois back here. Now, we’re going to engage them. Their officers have managed to organize a line of defense along this clearing east of Choeteal Kong. We’re going to push them out of it and destroy the unit in the process.”

Lieutenant Somchai Prachakorn looked up from the packet that had been dropped by an Avro 504 trainer a few minutes earlier. “Corporal Mongkut. Platoon Sergeant Kamon was wounded outside Angkrong. You are promoted to Sergeant and will take his place. Our platoon will form the lead element of this attack. We have a forward air controller with us. When we make contact with the Tirailleurs Tonkinois, he will call in dive bombers to support us.”

Overhead, the puttering of a low-powered aircraft engine intruded on the briefing. The Avro 504 was back, circling overhead. After a few seconds, a small package with a white streamer attached was thrown from the back seat. It landed in the middle of the camp. Mongkut ran out and brought it back to his Lieutenant, who read the contents with satisfaction.

“The Avro says, the enemy positions are where we thought; a few hundred meters down the path. They gave away their position by firing on the aircraft. Foolish of them.”

“Fortunate for us.” Mongkut had just realized he had been made a platoon sergeant.

“Very fortunate. Sergeant, Kam asked me to give you these. They are his sergeant’s stripes. He also sends a message; that if you ruin his platoon, he will beat you. Now, sew them to your uniform and move our platoon up. Oh, and recommend one of the men from your old squad for promotion to Corporal.”

The hours they had spent at the double-quick time along dirt roads were now a fond memory. The platoon was moving through scrubland; country covered with bushes and the occasional outcrop of trees. This was also snake country, infested with kraits and cobras. Fortunately they preferred not to confront humans and were doubtless moving out of the way. It was just one more problem Mongkut had to think about.

He had his sergeant’s stripes sewn to his uniform, quickly and clumsily, but still in place. Returning to his old squad, he’d felt a wrench at being parted from the men he’d served with ever since being called back to the colors. Who do I recommend as squad corporal? Din, who everybody likes? Or Pon, who is the best soldier but unpopular? Then he remembered the advice he had been given on his promotion to Corporal. We will help you along. He would consult with the other Sergeants.

He looked quickly right and left, checking that his men were spread out properly as they advanced. Over to his far left, the great ridge of hills that marked the old border still glowered down on the advancing infantry. The 11th was advancing parallel with that old border and would continue to do so until they reached the Mekong River. Then, they would fan out along it to establish the new border. No, reestablish the true border. Another glance behind showed the small truck that followed at a respectful distance.

The Tirailleurs Tonkinois battalion defending the treeline gave its position away by firing far too early. The patter of rifle fire was largely ineffective, although it did cause the advancing Thai infantry to go to ground. Mongkut heard a hammering noise; the platoon Lewis gun opened fire to cover the first step in a leapfrog advance.

“Hold positions.” Lieutenant Somchai snapped an order out. “The dive bombers are coming in. We’ll attack as soon as they’ve finished.”

The word was obviously spreading along the line. The sounds of firing died down to a few isolated shots. Mongkut got a feeling than the enemy battalion was probably congratulating itself for having stopped the attack. If so, they were in for an ugly disappointment. He could already hear the sound of aircraft engines overhead. A quick look upwards showed two flights, each of three Vought Corsair biplanes, overhead.

They peeled over into their dives. The sound that erupted was an earsplitting cacophony of sheer terror. In addition to the scream of their engines, the Corsairs had sirens mounted on their fixed undercarriages. The trick was one they had learned from their German instructors; they placed considerable emphasis on just how demoralizing it was to those on the receiving end. The wailing noise reminded Mongkut of the ghosts that inhabited an old ruined temple near where he had grown up. The volume of the shrieking howls was so great it made him want to flee. He hugged the ground and forced himself to wait for the bombing to end.

The ground shuddered as the first explosions tore into the French positions. Mongkut felt a smack on his back and looked up. Lieutenant Somchai already on his feet and running towards the ripple of explosions that marked the Tonkinois defenses. Mongkut couldn’t allow him to go alone; he rose to his feet and followed. Behind him, the rest of his platoon did the same. The unit sprinted across the ground towards where the 50-kilogram bombs were still landing. Clods of earth, sticks and fragments of metal were still flying as they closed in on their enemy.

The Tonkinois riflemen were stunned, incapable of resistance. Only a few seconds, a minute or so at most, marked the gap between the dive bombers finishing their work and the Thai infantry leaping the barriers and engaging the defenders. Miongkut saw the blue-clad Tonkinois throw down their rifles and hold up their hands in surrender. Some tried to run away. They were shot or bayoneted as they left their rifle pits. Others were on the ground, crying out for mercy as they writhed with the wounds from the bombing. Then there were those who were on the ground and would never move again. Between the dead, the wounded and the prisoners, the 4th Battalion of the Tirailleurs Tonkinois had completely collapsed as a fighting force.

“First reports in, Highness. A battalion of the First Regiment, 11th Infantry Division has engaged a battalion force of the Tirailleurs Tonkinois. The air support techniques Wing Commander Fuen devised have worked very well. The enemy battalion collapsed with only nominal resistance. They have taken over 250 prisoners and four guns. Our casualties were three dead and eleven wounded. Very little resistance in Laos. We have already captured Pakse and the battalion assigned there is spreading out along the Mekong. Ninth Infantry Division is advancing with tank support along RC157 towards Battambang. They took Poipet without any opposition but they report French skirmishing is increasing.”

“Keep those troops under control. We need the French to come forward to meet them, not retreat away from them.” Suriyothai’s voice was sharp and decisive. One regiment of the 9th Infantry was advancing along the Battambang road but it was little more that bait to draw the French Indochina Army into a catastrophic encirclement. Their job was entirely different from that of 11th Infantry. The Queen’s Cobra Division had to sweep forward as fast as possible to secure the northern flank of the advance. The Black Panther Division had to advance slowly to lure the French forward.

“The commanders know that, Highness, and are gauging their actions accordingly.” Suriyothai’s aide swallowed slightly at the near-rebuke he had delivered. On being appointed to the position, he had been warned that the one unforgivable sin was to tell the Princess what he thought she wanted to hear. What she actually wanted was the truth and nothing else.

“In the air, our pilots report destroying 17 aircraft on the ground and three in the air. The latter were all MS.406s shot down by our Hawk 75s. We lost three aircraft; all Hawk IIIs. Every aircraft we have is hard at work, either supporting the Army or hunting the French fighters. Except the dive bombers of Foong Kap Lai 72. They found a French sloop moving towards Trat. They bombed it, leaving it burning and dead in the water. We believe the French are planning bombardments of our coastal towns.”

“We cannot allow that.” Suriyothai looked at the map pinned up on one wall of the headquarters. “What does the Navy say about this?”

“They have promised to move a squadron down to the anchorage at Koh Chang. A coastal defense ship and four torpedo boats. They believe that will deter any further French naval enterprises.”

“I hope so. It doesn’t matter too much, though. This war will be decided on the ground and in the air. French bombardments will kill civilians; that is all. Has the Foreign Office had any official word from anybody yet?”

“No, Highness. Although it is still very early for an official response. The French authorities in Hanoi have formally declared war on us though.”

Suriyothai frowned slightly. “I’m not sure they can do that. The central government in Vichy can certainly can, but we have heard nothing from them?”

“Nothing, Highness. But Field Marshal Wavell agreed a ceasefire and peace treaty with the Italians just a few days ago. He has even less standing than Hanoi.”

“No.” Suriyothai was decisive on that point. “Wavell was acting as an Indian Army officer, not a British Army officer, and his orders from Calcutta were very clear. India had declared itself fully independent and was acting as a separate country. Hanoi has not made that declaration and it is still a French colony. They do not have the authority to declare war on anybody. I think they may have just played into our hands again.”

Suriyothai waved and the officer left her alone. Once again her mind shifted into gear. The waterfall display of swirling colored lights formed. The strands interlocked and merged, only to split apart again as the events that drove them eddied and swirled. The thread that she had first recognized only six months ago was now pulsing brighter and more strongly than it had ever done before. She looked at it, evaluated it and carefully weighed its progress. Now, it dominated all the others; to the point where it had mass and momentum all of its own. As long as this war went well, it was the primary thread of the future at last.

“As long as this war goes well.”

Suriyothai spoke the words aloud. Everything that she had to achieve, economic, political, military, social, came down to that one requirement. This war had to go well.

“Phillip, what do your business contacts make of this war?”

Henry Stimson was reading the initial reports on the fighting with some interest. True to form, the only really accurate reports so far were in the Singapore-based Straits Times.

“There’s very little reliable information in the public domain, of course.” Stuyvesant was speaking carefully. “But the consensus is that the recent bombing attacks on Thai border cities finally pushed the Thais too far, and they want to secure their population against further attacks. Of course, there’s the matter of exactly where the border really runs. The French established the current border in 1907, literally at gunpoint. The Thais, many of them anyway, regard that as an unresolved question. However, in a strange way, that is probably only a side issue. The real conundrum here is where the French authorities in Hanoi stand.”

“Hanoi has declared war on Thailand.” Cordell Hull sounded uncharacteristically uncertain of himself. “After their bombing attacks while I was there, that would seem hardly necessary. It seems to me that Hanoi has been spoiling for a fight.”

“Most of the business people I have spoken to agree with that.” Stuyvesant thought for a second before continuing. “Ever since the Japanese seized key positions across northern Indochina last year, the actions of the authorities in Hanoi have confused everybody. They seem to be determined to provoke a major conflict in the region, despite the fact that they are at a serious disadvantage without support from metropolitan France. Their policies do not appear to be aligned with their interests. In fact, the only people who can benefit from their actions are the Japanese. We know the Japanese see Indochina as a secure basing area for a possible assault on the rest of South East Asia.”

“The French start a war in Indochina; the Japanese move in as peacemakers and reinforce their position across the whole area.” Stimson nodded, his mind running across the permutations. “That makes sense. Are the Hanoi authorities that much of Japanese puppets, though?”

“With a whole Japanese infantry division sitting around Hanoi, do they have a choice? I think it is very significant that this declaration of war came from Hanoi, not Vichy. After all, the only difference between Hanoi and Vichy is…”

“One Japanese infantry division sitting around the former.”

Stuyvesant finished off the thought, causing Hull to smile for the first time since he had returned from Thailand. “I agree. The actions of the French authorities in Hanoi are obviously quite distinct from those of the Vichy government in France and we must presume that they are being dictated by the Japanese. That would make Hanoi a Japanese ally, albeit probably an unwilling one.” And that, Suriyothai, honey, is as far as I am going to go. You’re on your own from now on.

General Marshall reached out and tapped a map of the area. “This is where the battle will take place. The French will have to assemble their forces and that puts the fighting near Battambang. This village is where the north-south road, RC-160, crosses the east-west road RC-157. It’s on the banks of a river that gives the French a good defensive position. That’s where the French will hold. The village of Yang Dham Khung.”

The low ridge gave the roadblock at least some warning of the enemy approach. Lieutenant Jourdain Roul had positioned the block just behind the ridgeline so that it would be protected from direct fire. Pickets on the ridge line itself had a good line of vision that stretched all the way back to the hills on the Thai border. Given how little warning he had received of the attack now obviously in progress, it was the best he could do. Very soon, his work would be put to the test. He had been hearing sporadic rifle and machine gun fire all morning, getting steadily closer to his position. The Third Battalion, Tirailleurs Tonkinoisaren’t holding the border the way they were supposed to. If that’s true all over, then we have some serious problems.

Roul’s briefing had been brief but to-the-point. The Thais had invaded Indochina and were advancing down Route Colonial 157 to Battambang. They had to be stopped. That meant the forces in the area had to be assembled into a proper military formation. Doing that required time. Roul’s platoon was to block the road and delay the Thais to buy that time. The briefing had been short; as far as Roul was concerned, the only important word in it was the one that hadn’t been said. Sacrifice. He and his men were being sacrificed to buy time.

He scanned the ground in front of him with his binoculars. He had expected to see the Thai infantry swarming forward, but the swathe of relatively low-laying ground seemed deserted. They had to be there, though. The sounds of gunfire were proof of that. RC-157 was lined with small huts, the homes of local farmers. Every so often, a flare would go up from one. There was no discernable reason why; although Roul assumed they marked the position of the Thai lead elements. With the quiet drone of the aircraft overhead, it was actually a remarkably peaceful scene. It couldn’t stay that way long. The Thais were advancing; it was their aircraft flying over the battlefield. Nobody had seen any French aircraft. Rumors were spreading that they had all been destroyed on the ground.

Roul wormed his way back from the observation point and checked the defenses his men were digging. There was a slit trench on either side of the road, exploiting the reverse slope to gain protection from artillery fire. Roul had selected the ground himself, taking full advantage of a small area of bushes to provide a little cover. It was a scarce resource along RC-157. The ground seemed bare and almost desolate, other than the odd patches of crab bush and the occasional stand of trees. Almost a kilometer south of his position was a small stream that ran through a depression. Roul had marked that out as his retreat route. He’d noticed that RC-157 was commanded by higher ground on both sides. He had come to the conclusion that any attempt to retreat along the road would be a disaster. Once his position here was untenable, he would fall back on the stream and use its bed for cover as he retreated to the next holding position. The road actually made a loop and the streambed lay across the neck of the loop. He had his third squad dug in to protect the dirt track leading to the stream, thus protecting his line of retreat. It was the best he could come up with.

Having checked his men were digging in properly, he returned to the observation point. The situation didn’t appear to have changed much during his absence, although one of the flares going up showed that the enemy infantry were a lot closer. Now, at last, he could see them. They moved carefully through the huts that lined RC-157. Their dark green uniforms and Germanstyle helmets clearly distinguished them from the Tirailleurs Tonkinois, who wore the standard French horizon blue and the Adrian helmet. Whatever had happened to the Tonkinois riflemen, they aren’t retreating along the road.

That was when Roul saw something that filled him with dismay. A pair of tanks supported the Thai infantry. He recognized them immediately; Vickers 6-ton Type B. Armed with a machine gun and a 47mm gun in a twoman turret, they were more than capable of destroying his roadblock. Once he revealed his position, the battle was going to get ugly very quickly. Roul began to suspect he knew what had happened to the Tirailleurs Tonkinois.

Beside him, private first class Léo Corneille had shouldered his Berthier rifle and taken a sight on the Thai infantry below. He was the platoon sniper; a skill that had gained him the distinction of being a first class private rather than a humdrum ordinary one. His Berthier had a three-power magnification telescopic sight. Roul watched his rifle moving as Corneille scanned for a suitable target.

“Corneille, on the road, beside the third building on the left. He looks like an officer.”

Roul looked again. The man was definitely giving some sort of orders to the other infantrymen. That made him either an officer or a senior NCO. Beside him, Corneille nodded. He settled down into the authorized firing position. There was a flat crack as the Berthier fired. Roul saw the man spotted crumple to the ground. He was hoping somebody would come out and pull the victim to cover; that would provide Corneille with another target. Instead, one of the tanks pulled in front of the victim, screening him from view. By the time the tank moved again, the ground was empty. Reluctantly, Roul was impressed. Somebody thought that out.

Overhead, the gentle buzz of aircraft engines changed. It seemed no more threatening than it had before, but it grew closer and seemed to pause above the platoon. Roul looked up. A biplane was circling overhead, obviously attracted by the shot that had brought the Thai soldier down. Roul couldn’t recognize the aircraft. It looked a little bit like the French Potez 25, but seemed flimsier somehow. From behind him, tracers arched through the air. His three squad light machine guns fired on the aircraft. It turned and left the scene. Mentally, Roul cheered on his gunners who had driven the enemy aircraft away.

The whine of inbound shells changed the situation completely. Roul recognized them immediately; they were French 75s. For a moment he believed he was getting some timely artillery support, but the hope was quickly dashed. The shells exploded on the front slope of his position. That didn’t worry him too much; he had used the reverse slope to protect his road block for exactly that reason.

“Time to drop back behind the ridge, sir?”

Sergeant Arsène Ambroise had put exactly the right note of respectful urgency into his comment. That was hardly surprising; he was a veteran who had served in the trenches during the Great War. The rounds from the 75s weren’t actually that close to the observation point, but there was little reason to wait around until they were. The four men in the post scrambled back over the ridge and down towards the defensive positions.

Roul could see that the Sergeants had done their work well. All the men were in position and alerted for the fighting that seemed imminent. A quick glance around him suggested that his unit was as well-positioned and readied as anybody could expect. All that was left was to wait for the Thai infantry and the two tanks to come over the hilltop. He was confident his men could handle the infantry; the tanks had him worried.

The wait seemed to stretch on. Roul knew that the Thai infantry had some six hundred meters to advance before they could assault the hill he occupied. It seemed like they were taking their own sweet time about it. He glanced down at his watch, surprised by how little time had actually passed since the first shots from the 75s. The artillery fire had ceased after those first few rounds. Roul was sorely tempted to go back to the ridgeline and find out what was happening.

A patter of rifle fire erupted from the low ridge off to his right. It was only some ten meters higher than his positions and was about six hundred meters away. That meant the fire was largely ineffective against dug-in infantry but it was more than annoying. The axis of attack against his platoon had changed. Now, he faced an attack from due north as well as from the west. He knew why the attack had been so long in arriving now. The Thais hadn’t charged his position head on; they had outflanked him.

“A nice move.” Sergeant Ambroise seemed quite impressed. “Should we order our squad on the right to return fire, sir?”

Roul thought for a second. The rifle fire seemed ill-directed and largely ineffective. As far as he could tell, not one of the bullets had bitten yet. “No, keep them quiet. No point in giving the enemy targets to aim at. We’ll let the situation mature.”

His orders were to block the road and delay the Thai advance for as long as possible. He was doing just that. That he had only expended one rifle round and a couple of bursts of machine gun fire to do so seemed to him to be a good thing. Nothing, even rifle ammunition, here in Indochina was in copious supply. There was no telling when any ammunition he expended would be replaced. His thoughts on the neglect of the Indochina Army were interrupted by a renewed crash of artillery fire. This time the shots had arrived from his right. For the first time, the fight had become serious.

“Damn, that will be difficult. They’ve brought up infantry guns.”

Ambroise recognized the distinctive noise of the short-barrelled Japanese 75mm infantry howitzers; quite different from the flat crack of the earlier guns. “And they’re spreading along the ridge.”

Roul swung his binoculars to the east. Behind his position, almost a kilometer away, were two hills. One was 218 meters high, the other 200. Hills 218 and 200 dominated the area, simply because they were the only really high ground in the area. Given his choice, Roul would have occupied them, but doing so would not have blocked the road. He could see what the Thai commander had in mind now. He’s spreading along the ridge and will occupy those hills. He won’t be blocking the road, but he doesn’t want to. What he wants is me out of the way. With those hills in his hands, he can sweep the entire platoon into the can.

The infantry guns had got the range. Two of the shells slammed into Roul’s squad on the right hand side of RC-157. What had been a good position to defend against an attack along the road was a bad one to defend against an attack from the north. It was obvious that the Thais knew where his positions were. With a flash of insight, Roul knew why. The aircraft my men ‘scared’ off had seen where the machine gun fire had come from and reported back. Firing on that aircraft had been a really bad idea.

“Sergeant, order our first squad to drop back. Their position is already compromised and the artillery is ranged in on them. They can achieve nothing where they are. We’ll drop back to the ridge to the south here. We’ll still be blocking the road but we’ll be in dead ground for the guns to the north and west. And we’ll still be covering our line of withdrawal.”

Ambroise gave the orders. Horizon blue figures left their trench and headed backwards towards the huts that lined RC-157. Not all of them; two of the twelve remained behind, their figures still. The enemy artillery got two more before they reached cover. Shells from the infantry guns threw them in the air and left them twisted heaps on the ground. A third of the squad gone, Roul thought, and nothing to show for it.

“It’s the guns that kill, sir.” Ambroise sounded thoughtful. “They’ve got just two of them up on that ridge, but that section is all they need. Ahh, there they go. Clever little buggers, aren’t they?”

The two infantry guns fired a pattern of smoke rounds. White clouds billowed in front of Roul’s new positions. For a hideous moment, Roul had thought they were gas rounds. He almost gave a gas attack alert, but he realized what was happening when the Thai infantry broke from cover. He watched the small groups move forward, leapfrogging from point to point, with each group covering the rest.

Ambroise was watching them carefully. “Stosstruppen tactics. I think all the stories we heard about German instructors must be true. Or British veterans.”

“Milk-drinking surrender monkeys?” Roul was openly derisive. “The Siamese are attacking us, not running away.”

A stutter of rifle fire rose from the French positions along RC-157, but the smokescreen made the defensive fire ineffective. It was significant the squad machine gun hadn’t opened fire yet. Machine guns were always a priority target. Gunners never fired unless they had worthwhile targets or fixed lines set up. No machine-gun fire meant the defenders were firing blind.

“The Tommies in the trenches were good, Lieutenant.” Ambroise was patient, as befitted a veteran sergeant with a young officer to train. “In 1914, they knew all the tricks that the Germans claim to have invented for their stosstruppen and a few more besides. And they knew how to put them into practice. Their army lost that edge in the middle of the war, but they had it back by the end. But, those Siamese are German-trained. You can tell by the way they’re moving forward.”

Below them, the French squad machine gun finally opened fire. The two Thai infantry guns shifted fire to the huts occupied by the survivors of the squad. The pressure of the fire from the guns and the rifle fire from the advancing infantry started to push the French force back. With the smoke clearing, Roul could see further east along RC-157. The sight was not encouraging. The attack on his position was just one part of a company-level assault along the road. To make matters worse, He could see they were already in process of seizing Hill 218. That left his little command in a very precarious position.

“And its time for us to leave, Sergeant. We can’t stay here.” Roul knew the truth. In a few minutes, his position would be hopeless; its lines of withdrawal cut off. Then, his men would only have the choices of dying in a brave but futile fight or surrendering. “Order the men to fall back along the pre-planned route.”

Ambroise nodded and passed the orders out. The survivors of the first squad retreated again, leaving their position on RC-157 and falling back to the dirt track. Second squad peeled off and followed them; the third squad acted as a rearguard. Roul sighed and led his command section south as well.

As they trudged along the dirt track, Roul couldn’t understand what had happened. He had expected an infantry attack with bare steel and a desperate fight in the ruins of the huts. Instead, it seemed as if there had been hardly any fighting at all; just a few artillery rounds and a scattered series of rifle shots. Yet, he was retreating away from the position he had been ordered to hold, leaving five of his men behind. Somehow, he felt sick and disappointed in both himself and the morning’s work.

“Why, Sergeant? What did I do wrong.”

Ambroise looked around quickly. Fortunately, there had been nobody in earshot. “Quiet, sir. Don’t want the men to hear you’ve got doubts. Cut right into them that will. Nothing went wrong back there, sir; you did well.”

“But we’re retreating.”

“We got maneuvered out of position. That’s the way professionals do things. It’s amateurs who make gallant charges on heavily-defended positions. We had a good defense there; would have been a tough one to break. So the Siamese didn’t try. They just made it impossible for us to hold on there. And they took their time about it; did it right and didn’t worry about doing it fast. They’ve been taught well.”

Roul felt better. If the veteran sergeant thought he had done well, that took the sting out of a defeat. Yet, for all of that, it remained a defeat.

“I don’t believe the current situation is supportable. I would give it two years at most. That Man does not seem to realize that Britain and Germany are on divergent courses and a confrontation between the two is inevitable. A confrontation that will mean the destruction of one or the other. He is trying to deny the widening gap between the two nations and in doing so he is merely stoking the fires of the future conflict.” Captain Peter Fleming of the Grenadier Guards looked owlishly at Duke of St Albans. “You should hear my young brother on the subject.”

Osbourne de Vere Beauclerk nodded thoughtfully at his two guests. The contents of his wine cellar had only just started to recover after the depredations of Winston Churchill; now they were taking another nasty blow. Peter Fleming himself was abstemious enough, but his companion, Captain Mike Calvert of the Royal Engineers, was sinking whisky as a phenomenal rate. If he carries on like that, the Duke thought, his liver won’t last two years.

“What do you suggest we do about it? Stage a coup ourselves?”

Fleming shook his head. “That won’t work, not now. For good or ill, Halifax is established in power. We must not forget that he gained that power quite legally, even if his use of legality was underhanded. Events now have their own momentum and we must run with that. The situation will come to a head in two years; three at the very outside. We have that long to prepare.”

The Duke decided that being obtuse was probably the best approach at this point. “Prepare for what? Resuming the war?”

“That would be the best possible outcome, if fortune was to favor us. I do not think the Germans will make that mistake twice. To invade this country as an act of war against organized opposition is futile. Germany has neither the resources nor the expertise to do it. If they had tried last year, we would have slaughtered them. Damn it, we still might now. Look at what Wavell and his Desert Rats have achieved over the last few weeks. They knocked Italy out of the war and wrapped up the Italian Empire. We were safe here in our island, but Halifax and his cronies never saw that. No; next time, the Germans will come by stealth and we will not see the invasion for what it is until it is all but complete. We must prepare a resistance movement for after that invasion.”

Great minds think alike. I’ve been trying to do that ever since Nell and her friends spirited Winston out of the country. I just don’t know how to start. Nobody seems to write instruction books on how to do it. “What is that to do with an old man like me? Hiding in the woods and shooting up patrols is a young man’s game.” And a sober man’s game. The Duke cast an anguished glance at Calvert who had killed a bottle of pinch-bottle Haig in five straight pulls.

“One might think of a fake auxiliary police unit smuggling a certain figure out of the country and a Flying Fortress that arrived at Prestwick, took off and was never seen again. Little Brother was enormously impressed by that, Your Grace; he swears he will write it up as a novel one day. He believes there is a market for novels about spies. You’ve got a rare talent for this game; and, with respect, your age makes you all the less likely as a leader.”

“But what do you want me to do?” The Duke put an air of despairing confusion into his voice.

“We’re going to set up the resistance forces.” It was Calvert speaking, his voice steady and level. Dear God; he’s sober. How? Listening to him, the Duke had sudden doubts about the authenticity and strength of his whisky supply. Calvert carried on in the same, steady voice. “Colonel Colin Gubbins has been appointed by Winston to organize the force. It will consist of two components. The first being a military arm that will be raised out of, and technically be part of, the Home Guard. We’re calling it the Auxiliary Units, in the hope that anybody coming across the name will confuse it with Butler’s Auxiliary Police. They’ll be supported by a civilian arm, the Special Duty Sections, recruited from the local civilian population. This group will act as the spotters for the Auxiliary Units. In addition, a signals structure will link the isolated bands into a national network that can act in concert. That network will work on behalf of a British government-in-exile and its representatives still in the United Kingdom. We want you to keep an eye open for likely civilian candidates and we want to place the root of the communications system here.”

“So my job will be to recruit members of the civilian resistance?”

“No.” Fleming was sharp and very emphatic. “You will coordinate recruiting but, Your Grace, you must never be directly involved in any operations again. Mike and I will be your aides and do the leg work. We are the cut-out between the German occupiers and the head of the resistance movement. That’s you. Your job will be to coordinate recruitment and oversee the organization. At most, to spot likely candidates. We will do the rest.”

“Halifax OUT! Halifax OUT! Halifax OUT OUT OUT!”

It is the eternal prerogative of university students to demonstrate. It worked off excess energy. University College Nottingham might not have been a fully-fledged university yet, and it might have to rely on the University of London to award its degrees, but that merely added to the fervor of its students. If they weren’t quite university students, they’d show everybody that they had the spirit and energy to become ones. And so it was that the demonstration poured down Abbey Street; their banners held high and their chant echoing off the buildings. For all its energy, it was a good-mannered demonstration. No windows were broken and the students made sure that passers-by had the room they needed to go about their business. The police recognized that. The handful of constables on duty watched with tolerant smiles. More than a few of them agreed with the students.

It was the crossroads by the White Hart public house that did it. The threat of a major demonstration had caused the National Security Service to bring in large numbers of Auxiliary Police. Their lorries blocked the way down Abbey Street. That forced the demonstrators to turn down Lenton Lane. Unfortunately, the road narrowed sharply as it approached a bridge over a canal. That compressed the crowd and made it more difficult to control. There were factories the other side of the bridge. The Auxiliary Police had been ordered to protect them. They’d blocked the bridge. The demonstrators had nowhere to go. Those at the front tried to stop. Those behind them couldn’t see what the problem was. Their pressure pushed the front ranks forward. Even then, the situation might have been controlled, given skilled handling. The Auxiliary Police had little training in crowd control and too many of them had been sampling the beer served at the White Hart.

In the front ranks of the demonstration, David Newton saw the cordon of Blackshirts. He felt the crowd eddying around him. The pressure from behind was carrying him forward, leaving him helpless to do anything other than watch the disaster unfold. As the crowd surged towards them, the Blackshirts panicked. They started lashing out with their batons in order to stave off the pressure. Newton heard the thud as the batons, longer and heavier than the traditional policeman’s truncheons, struck home. The victims fell. Others tripped over them; some falling into the Blackshirts in the cordon. What had been a neat division between demonstration and Blackshirt ranks collapsed into a swirling mass. That was when he heard the sharp crack of a pistol shot. There was a stunned pause; a moment of silence. Then two or three more shots. The students forming the demonstration broke and ran. Unable to go backwards or forwards, they went sideways, into the maze of old houses that lined the canal.

Newton ran, heading away from the Blackshirts. They were following the crowd, lashing out at anybody who was within their reach. He knew they were out of control; any semblance of discipline they might have had was collapsing under the pressure of events. Instinctively, he knew how dangerous they were. The screams and scattered shots from behind him merely reinforced that knowledge. Heaving for breath, he turned into a sidestreet to try and get clear. That was when fear really gripped him. He had turned into a dead end. A group of Blackshirts were already approaching. There was a small group of students between him and the Auxiliaries. That gave him a chance to hide. He grabbed a doorhandle. To his blessed relief, the door was unlocked. He dived in, slammed it shut and turned the lock. Then he put his full weight against it.

He was shaking as he heard the screams get closer. Then he heard a figure pounding on the door and a frantic plea. “For God’s sake, let me in. Help me, for mercy’s sake, let me in.”

He recognized the voice. It was Rachael. He tried to move, tried to open the door for her, but his body wouldn’t obey the orders from his mind. He kept trying to move, trying to get his arms to slip the catch and his legs to move him away so the door could open. It was as if his limbs were encased in mud. While he fought himself, he heard her pleading change to wails of fear and then screams. Behind him, the door lurched and banged. Its lock, reinforced by his back, held firm. It seemed like an eternity, but it was only a few seconds. He heard more screams and pleas from outside. Then silence. The sounds receded.

Only then did he realize he was weeping with shame and humiliation.

Hours later, he was cold and stiff from being braced against the door. The sounds of the riot had long since faded away, leaving him alone and sickened. It was safe to leave; safe to pick his way back through the streets towards the College and its halls of residence. It was strange; for all the fear, terror and violence there was little actual evidence of what had happened. The buildings seemed undamaged in the twilight. There were no shattered windows or broken doors. A broken streetlight was unusual enough to draw his attention. There were small dark puddles that he kept well away from. That was all he saw of the aftermath from the afternoon that had changed his life.

Back in his room, he was sitting, staring at the wall when there was a polite knock on the door. That was unusual. This was a hall of residence and people tended to barge in without knocking and apologize later. But, the whole area was like that, stunned by what had happened. It was as if common courtesy was a refuge people retreated to in order to deal with what happened.

“David. Thank God you’re all right.” Colin Thomas was an old friend of his. “We knew you were up near the front and thought you might have had it. It’s a nightmare out there; those bastard Blackshirts… ”

“How many?” Newton could barely speak.

“Dozens got beaten up and arrested. We know of three dead so far. George got shot at the bridge, right at the start. Freddie too. Shot in the back as he ran.” Thomas hesitated, his voice shaking and his eyes wet. “David, you were walking out with Rachael weren’t you? I’m sorry; a group of six Blackshirts cornered her. One of them recognized her, knew she was Jewish. The bastards knocked her down and started kicking her, right there in the street. A couple of the lads saw it, but they were too far away to help. By the time they got there, she was dead and the Blackshirts had legged it. I’m so sorry. Anyway, you’re all right. Look, I’ve got to go. We’re still trying to find out where everybody is and get an idea of who has been arrested.”

The door closed. Newton stared at the mirror, guilt at what he inevitably saw as his craven cowardice ripping at his soul. Very, very quietly he made himself a promise. Never, never, never again will I turn my back on somebody who needs protection.

He didn’t see his own reflection in the mirror. Instead he saw his memories. The girl who, when the student’s canteen had served bangers and mash, had given away her pork sausages to her friends. Her great beaming smile when the students had got together to buy her a proper kosher meal in return. Her lying helpless on the ground, her ribs kicked in by men wearing hobnailed boots while he had cowered behind a door.

He realized he had something very important to do. Something that mixed atonement and vengeance, and was more than a little of both.

The woman walked with the practiced swing of an experienced prostitute. This was Sally’s beat, her corner of Queen’s Road and Arkwright Street. It was a good corner; lots of traffic and the entrance to the station was close enough for her to pick up travelling trade. There was even a pub with rooms opposite and she had a working agreement with the landlord. She didn’t embarrass him by plying for trade in his bar, but she could rent one of his rooms by the hour and use the side door to get in. The fact she had such a good spot wasn’t by chance. She paid the local ‘Firm’ their protection money without argument, didn’t try to hold out on them and never stole from her clients. The Firm was a loose organization of local criminals who controlled the underworld in Nottingham. Every city had its firm, under one name or another. Some were relatively benign, others vicious. Nottingham had one of the better firms. She played straight with them; they played straight with her. They’d given her a good pitch and trusted her enough to send some of their better clients to her.

Things were changing in Nottingham. They had been ever since the Auxiliaries had arrived. What had been a pleasant, friendly city had turned into one with the brooding air of menace typical of a city under occupation. The Auxiliaries weren’t police any more; not after the way they had smashed the demonstration. They were an occupation force and were regarded with sullen hatred.

Sally saw two of them approaching down Queen’s Road. They were thick on the streets, had been ever since the riot the other side of town. The official line was that some students had started a brawl and the Auxiliaries had broken it up; but there were uglier rumors than that. Like students who had been arrested but had then vanished without explanation.

“Hey, Johnsie, you want some of this?” One of the Auxiliaries grabbed her arm and spun her around. He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back so his partner could see her face in the yellow glow of the streetlight.

“You joking? Never know what you’ll catch from a tom.” The Blackshirt called Johnsie looked disgusted. “I’ll bet it’s rotting away down there.”

“Nah, this one’s clean. And she’s going to give me a free ride to prove it. Aren’t you love?”

“Look, I…”

“Because, if you don’t… Remember what we did to that Jew-girl? You’ll get the same.”

Sally sighed and led the Auxiliary over to the side door of the pub. The other Auxiliary shook his head and leaned up against the wall, waiting for his partner to finish. The streets were empty, almost. It was too early to be crowded from people going home after a night out, too late for the back-from-work crowd. He turned around, wondering how long he was going to have to stay around out here when a youngster bumped into him. He smelled of beer and was obviously very drunk. He put his arm around Johnsie’s shoulders and breathed heavily into the Auxiliary Policeman’s face.

“You gave them students a seeing-to didn’t ya mate. Stuck up gits, they all are. Deserve what they got. Let me buy you a drink.” The youngster tried to push a ten shilling note into the Blackshirt’s pocket. For a moment, the Blackshirt tried to push the young man away. He hesitated; ten shillings was ten shillings.

The hand with the banknote clamped over his mouth. He felt an agonizing pain in his back. Newton thrust the carving knife into Johnsie’s liver. He twisted it around. It left the Blackshirt bleeding to death so fast he could feel his life draining from him. Newton let the body fall to the ground, then reached down and took the .38 Webley from the man’s belt.

That was when he heard the side door of the pub slam.

The second Blackshirt was looking down at him from the step. He fumbled with the revolver holstered at his waist. A woman was standing beside him; one hand raised to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. Newton didn’t hesitate. He brought the Webley up and fired a single shot that took the Auxiliary in the forehead.

“Get out of here lad. That shot will bring the law. The real law.”

Newton backed away and then looked at the woman. One cheek was reddened and her lips were slightly swollen. There was a long pause. She nodded very slightly.

“Yeah, I did what he wanted and he smacked me around anyway. Why d’ya do it, lad?”

“The girl they killed? She was my girl. I didn’t realize it was them though.”

“Yeah, word is they were a couple of Mosley’s boys before they joined the Auxiliary, so I heard. Those two have been beating on a lot of the toms here. They’ve really got the Firm mad at them. The cops will think that the Firm did it as a lesson to the others. The Firm won’t care who did. Saved them the job, you see. You’re in the clear, this time. Now, scat.”

Sally was only two years older then Newton, but her years working the street gave her voice an timbre of experience that brought an immediate result. Newton dropped the revolver and left. As he ran around the corner, he heard the first blast of police whistles.

“Nasty case.” Fleming read the newspaper account and shook his head. “Still, if the Blackshirts go around beating up the local toms, they can expect the Firm to get upset about it. The word is that the police have already concluded this was a gangland killing and are just going through the motions. If it had been one of their own, it would have been different, of course. They’d be tearing the town apart and there would be help coming in from every police force in England. But, Blackshirts? Police don’t really care one way or the other about what happens to them. The only witness they’ve got is a tom who says the first one was dead when she came out and the one with her was shot from the shadows. She didn’t seem to care much either.”

“And the Firm aren’t denying it was them. Suits everybody for that to be the official verdict.” Calvert was relaxed in an armchair. Where the local Firm was one of the more reasonable sort, they and the local police would have a tacit agreement over boundaries and conduct. Burglaries in unoccupied houses received little police attention as long as the local people were safe when inside their homes and could walk the streets at night safely. Toms could ply their trade as long as they did so in an agreed area away from decent people. Unwritten agreements that accepted some things so that worse ones could be avoided. Calvert was already establishing discrete contacts with Nottingham’s local Firm.

“That wasn’t what happened and you know it.”

The Duke stared at the wall, trying to work out how he felt about what had happened. Two dead men, even if they were Blackshirts, was a lot to swallow.

“The whisper is, those were two of the Blackshirts responsible for killing that girl in the riot a couple of days ago. Seems like one of the lads decided to take the law into his own hands. Done both of them in.” Calvert grinned. “One unarmed, untrained lad against two armed men and he gets them both. That lad has promise.”

“We can’t justify… ” The Duke was still appalled by the reality that was opening in front of him.

“Oh yes we can.”

Fleming spoke coldly; there was no mercy in his manner. “Did you see what they did to that poor girl? You often hear people say it, but this time it was true. They beat her so badly, even her own mother couldn’t recognize her. And even that doesn’t matter.

“What does matter is that the Auxiliaries are going to be running scared and angry now. They’ll be even more aggressive, even more unreasonable. They watch the official police doing next to nothing about the killings. That makes them livid. They’ll throw their weight around even more and, all the time, be watching out for the next likely lad with a knife or a gun. They’ll treat everybody as a potential killer and, that’ll make people hate them even more and build up support for the Resistance. And that’ll set the Auxiliaries off even more. You see how the spiral goes from there?”

“I do.” The Duke hated what he was hearing, but it rang terribly true. “But this was still murder. What sort of world are we creating?”

“Nothing that hasn’t been created for hundreds of years. Your Grace, there’s going to be a Resistance; that is as sure as anything can be. This is just the start. It’s going to get worse. A time is coming when this kind of thing is normal. That Man thinks he stopped a war with his armistice, but he hasn’t. He’s started one; only it’s being fought here, not on a battlefield a long way away. Once the Germans arrive, it will be a real war. What’s just happened here has done so over and over again, all over Europe. We’ve been so far removed from it, we’ve forgotten the reality. Now we’re learning it again. We’re lucky in a way; we’ve got time to prepare and get things ready. A year ago, that lad wouldn’t have dreamed of killing two men. Not in his wildest nightmares. A year ago, what he did would have been to commit two foul murders. A twelve-month later, it is now a courageous act of resistance. Now he’s made that leap, we can recruit him, train him and use him. Make sure he kills the right people in future; not that he didn’t, this time.

“That Man has changed the rules and he doesn’t realize how much yet. We’re in the middle of the change right now. It’s happening all over the country. Up in Scotland, there are already areas the Auxiliaries dare not go, for fear of a pistol shot in the darkness. And as for Northern Ireland, when an IRA man shoots down an Auxiliary, the Protestants cheer him on. You wanted to start a resistance movement? Well, it’s started. Now, we find that lad and bring him into the fold. Through a couple of cut-outs, of course.”

Fleming sighed and helped himself to a brandy, to recover from his outburst. The frustration at having to explain such things was genuine, but it was mixed up with despair at the dark, dismal future he could see coming. People think a resistance movement is glamorous and exciting. When they learn the truth about just how dirty a business it is, the realization always sickens them and they still don’t know the worst of it. They have no idea what is to come and it’s probably better that way. God help us all. England won’t be a green and pleasant land again, not in my lifetime.

Calvert took another drink. “Oh yes, that lad has promise. Just what we’re looking for, in fact. Motivated.”