A Mighty Endeavor

Chapter Twelve THE HEART OF THE MATTER

“Cowardice! Unforgiveable cowardice!”

Captain Grégoire Dieudonné crashed his fist on the table to give emphasis to his words. In front of him, Jourdain Roul stood to attention, trying to keep his temper under control. He was uneasily aware that a good part of him agreed with his Captain’s assessment. The company was formed up around a small hamlet; one so small, it didn’t even have an official name. Its degree switch in direction from south to due east and crossed a small stream. The curve of the stream and the arc of the road offered what appeared to be a good defensive position; on the surface, anyway. His experiences earlier in the day gave Roul good reason to doubt that.

“Do you have any explanation for your actions? Or must I assume that you are English?” Dieudonné was bright red with rage. Still, his words gave Roul a chance to explain himself.

“Sir, our position was untenable. The Siamese had occupied the high ground to the north and were making undisturbed artillery practice on my right. Their infantry demonstrated against my center, pinning it in place, while they advanced to cut the road in my rear. They had tanks in support. There was nothing I could do. If we had remained in place, we would have been cut off and forced to surrender.”

Roul took a deep breath. “Sir, our position here is in equal danger. The Siamese are not advancing along the road, to the exclusion of everything else. They are methodically occupying the ridge to the north, parallel to RC157. They are doing that while we speak. If they haven’t occupied Hill 168, they will soon. From there, they can bring their guns up again. Captain, I must urgently recommend we detach a unit to secure Hill 168.”

Dieudonné stared at the map, running permutations through his mind. Despite his behavior towards Roul, he was actually quite sympathetic to the young Lieutenant’s dilemma. The French defensive plan had been based on the border battalions forming a series of roadblocks along the key east-west highways that would pin down the Thai forces. Then, the core of the Indochina army would counterattack, envelop their left flank and drive them back. The problem was that the whole plan was built around the assumption that the Thais would keep to the roads. Obviously, they weren’t doing that at all.

Dieudonné knew more about what was going on around him than Roul, although he was unpleasantly aware that his picture was very incomplete. He suspected that the disappearance of the Third Battalion, Tirailleurs Tonkinois had been caused by the same sequence of events that had taken place at Phoum Kham Reng. Only, the Tirailleurs hadn’t disengaged and had been swallowed up in place. If Roul hadn’t disengaged, his platoon wouldn’t be here now. On the other hand, if he had remained in place, his sacrifice would have bought Dieudonné more time to prepare his defenses. Sometimes there were no good options.

“If you had held your position as ordered, I might have had time to do just that. The option is no longer open to us. We will have to extend our position on our right to defend against an envelopment. Take your platoon and prepare defensive positions on our extreme right. And Lieutenant, do not believe that your position on the right of the line means your actions today are considered creditable.”

Lieutenant Roul snapped out a salute and stomped out of the tent, obviously angered by the reprimand. Dieudonné shook his head and studied the map again, trying to put some form of sense to the Thai advance. It was slow and methodical; a harsh critic might even describe it as lethargic. The image that came to his mind was that of a slow flood of water, perhaps from a dripping tap. It was quietly seeping past the French defenses, not forcing its way through them. Obviously their commanders are determined to keep their casualties to a minimum but there is more to the situation than just that. They’re just not trying to move quickly. Are they really prepared to cede the initiative to us?

His thoughts were interrupted by a tattoo of rifle fire from his left flank. A breathless runner arrived a few second later. “Sir, Lieutenant Lucrèce sends his compliments and says he is under rifle fire from a low ridge some three hundred meters to his front. He seeks permission to return fire.”

Dieudonné looked at his map and marked a red circle on the ridge in question. It really wasn’t much of a ridge. At best it was only some ten meters higher than the position held by Lieutenant Benjamin Lucrèce. “Tell the Lieutenant to hold his fire. We will engage the ridge with our mortar.” The company had a mortar squad with a single 60mm barrel. This was the kind of situation the weapon was ideal for. The captain left his tent and went over to where the Sergeant in charge of the mortar squad had set up. A quick inspection of the map and the mortar crew knew exactly where they had to drop their rounds. A few seconds after that and the ridge was marked by the series of small explosions that showed an infantry mortar at work. The Thai rifle fire quickly petered away and the ridge, such as it was, fell quiet.

“Any casualties?” Colonel Romklao had his maps out in front of him.

“None, sir. The men pulled back quickly. They’re certain, though, it was mortar fire. A 60mm mortar.”

Romklao knew the implication of that. A single 60mm mortar firing meant they had an infantry company ahead of them. His reconnaissance squad had goaded the French into opening fire with it. That had told him all he needed to know. It was probably a full strength company as well. Romklao regretted bitterly that the infantry platoon he had run into earlier in the day had managed to slip away. They’ve had plenty of time to rejoin their company. It would have been better to have put them in the bag earlier.

His battalion was flowing forward, mostly silently. That was part of the doctrine they had carefully absorbed from their German instructors. Don’t get hung up on every enemy force that tries to block you. Go around them; filter past them and leave them cut off in your rear. Follow-up forces will deal with the troops you have bypassed. Keep the initiative by continually moving forward. Don’t get involved in fights you don’t have to; but, if you have to fight, bring every scrap of force you can summon against your enemy. The Germans had used the analogy of a man digging a hole in dry sand. As fast as he shovelled it out, it would flow back around him. The only problem was that, in this particular case, he was the follow-up element. The other two battalions in the regiment were already moving to occupy Hill 280 some 12 kilometers further east.

“Are the guns ready?” The Regiment had a battery of six 77mm infantry guns ,but it had been split down to three two-gun sections; one section was attached to each infantry battalion. That was another thing their instructors had stressed; most of the damage done by artillery took place with the first few rounds. After that, the effectiveness of the guns declined steeply. A few shells right at the start of an action were worth hundreds later on. Not for the first time, Romklao reflected grimly on how much hard-won expertise their advisors had passed on. Before their arrival, he’d never understood just how much his Army had to learn. Now, he knew enough to wonder whether his army was capable of translating lessons into practical experience.

“Yes, sir.”

Lieutenant Kulap Kamon had brought his guns up and positioned them behind the ridgeline exploited by the recon section. This was their second time in action. A few hours earlier, they’d dispersed a French outpost at Phoum Kham Reng. It had been a minor action, starting with a sergeant wounded by a sniper and ending when a few rounds from his guns had sent the rest of the French unit running. But it had been enough to give his men some of the swagger of veterans.

“Have smoke ready. The machine guns will open the battle.”

Romklao had positioned his four heavy machine guns carefully. They were screened from direct fire, but their bursts would graze the top of the ridge before plunging on the French positions. Each machine gun had its limits set. They would fire along those lines to rake the French positions with gunfire. Indirect fire from machine guns; Romklao knew he would never have believed it was practical.

“Colonel, we have the dive bombers waiting. Nine Hawk IIIs, with four 50-kilo bombs each. Their pilots await our word.”

The comment from the Air Force officer in the truck sounded a little pompous, but rumors were already spreading on how the dive bombers demoralized the French infantry. The rumor mill was always more efficient than any regular communications system could be. There had been doubts within the Army about whether assigning Air Force pilots to Army units this way had been wise, or even sensible, but the idea was working.

“Ask them to hold please. We will mark the target with smoke when we want them to make their attack.”

Romklao took a flare gun and fired a red flare into the sky. There was a pregnant pause. Then rifle fire broke out along the ridgeline to the north. Romklao had two of his four infantry companies spread out along the ridge with orders to pin down the French right and prevent them reinforcing their left.

“Machine gunners, open fire on the French positions.”

Captain Dieudonné had been expecting the attack to develop on his right but the force that was taking part astonished him. The volume of rifle fire was much more than that of a company. He could count at least six light machine guns snapping short bursts into the positions held by his two platoons on the right flank. The firing spread quickly along the line. Now he heard the sustained jackhammer noise of heavy machine guns. For a moment, he thought that it had started to rain. The sight of some of his men, caught in the open, falling to the ground quickly dispelled any such notion. He was under indirect machine gun fire. It’s probably just suppressive fire. The enemy’s main strength is on my right.

In truth, after the initial surprise, the machine gun fire achieved very little. At most, it disrupted movement in the French position. Once the French infantry had gone to ground, their casualties were very few. So, it was no surprise to him that the whistle of inbound artillery fire dominated the noise of the battle. The shells seemed aimed directly at him. Their noise swelled to a crescendo before the shells exploded with soft, dull thuds in front of his positions. The white smoke billowed upwards. Just like Lieutenant Roul a few hours earlier, Dieudonné thought that he was coming under gas attack. His mind recalled ugly pictures of the time when he had been a young Lieutenant in the trenches of 1918 and had seen gas at work for the first time. Thankfully, it isn’t gas; just smoke. Roul mentioned that the Siamese like smoke screens. “They’re coming.”

The cry went up from along the trenches that marked the position of the platoon on his left. Dieudonné looked at the advancing infantry with a degree of shock. The main attack was coming on his left and was in much greater strength than he had believed possible. There were more than two hundred Thai infantry attacking; perhaps closer to three. They swarmed forward, beginning their descent of the long ridge that had shielded them. Beyond his left, Dieudonné saw another force of infantry, at least equal to the one on the ridge, moving to envelop his flank. There is no way that this force could be anything less than a whole regiment. Any further thoughts along those lines were disrupted by the scream from overhead.

Each Thai Hawk III had peeled over. The aircraft dove on the French positions beneath. The noise of their near-vertical, full-power descent hammered into the brains of the men below. It prevented rational thought and dispelled any attempt to organize a defense. Looking up at the aircraft, each and every man was convinced that the attack was aimed personally at him. The defenses started to break apart. One of the sections of Dieudonné’s heavy machine gun platoon was trained for antiaircraft work. The crews held firm. They sent two streams of tracers skywards. The effort only brought about their destruction. The dive bombers saw where the fire was coming from. The later aircraft to dive used that area as their target. The Hotchkiss machine guns were silenced by a combination of bombing and strafing before they could do any harm.

The biplanes grew as they neared the ground. The snarl of the engines and the howl of the wind through their wings combined to make a deafening roar. The Hawks didn’t carry the additional sirens that were used by the Vought ground attack aircraft, but their effect on the morale of those below them was still devastating. The French infantry couldn’t stand. They were already out of their defenses and running for the rear when the 50-kilogram bombs exploded around them. By the time the air attack was over, Dieudonné’s left flank had collapsed as thoroughly as if it had never been. Now the Thai infantry were into his defenses.

The French fought as they fell back, firing their Berthier rifles from the hip. Officers tried to rally their men and used their pistols on the enemy who was enveloping them. It was fruitless. Some of the French troops rallied and tried to form a defensive line. They were too outnumbered, their tactical coherence already been shattered by the bombing. A few of their shots struck home. A handful of the advancing enemy fell. But the men of the platoon had no chance. They were either shot down while they fought or threw down their weapons and raised their arms.

Dieudonné drew his pistol and fired it until it ran dry, but his position was hopeless. As the green-clad infantrymen surrounded him, he threw his pistol to the ground and raised his hands. Behind him, he saw the positions on his right being rolled up as they were taken in the rear.

“Captain, please ask your men to surrender. You have done all that you can. There is no point in more bloodshed.”

Dieudonné looked at the Thai infantry officer standing in front of him. Again, memories of the First War came back, triggered by the Germanstyle helmet. French intelligence material all said that the Thais used the Fremch Adrian helmet, but it was obviously wrong. He found himself wondering what else he had been told was mistaken.

“Sergeant, we need to get out of here.” Lieutenant Roul gave private thanks that he had been positioned on the extreme end of the line. The dive bombing and artillery fire had been far enough away that his platoon wasn’t too badly affected. It also gave him time to see the platoon on the left dissolve under the ferocious assault and the first of the two platoons on the right of the road break up. His unit was next and he didn’t intend to sit still and let it happen.

“Down the road, quickly.”

The NCOs passed the word and the platoon started to fall back along the road. It was a race. The prize getting clear of the trap they were in before the jaws closed on them. The Thai infantry on the ridgeline to the north extended beyond Roul’s position. Their rifle fire was galling. Roul saw some of his men falling as bullets bit home. Other members of their squads tried to help the wounded back, but the delay meant they too fell from the increasing volume of rifle fire.

“Leave them! Everybody save yourselves. The Siamese will look after the wounded.”

Roul hated himself for giving the order but he realized he had little choice. More Thai infantry were already closing in from the South. It was going to be a very finely cut thing for any of his men would get clear. His order gave no indication about running, but it might as well have. The entire platoon, Roul included, broke into a trot and then into a full run. Roul’s humiliation filled his throat and made him feel sick. He was leading a rout, running away from a battle. What would my father think of me? The thought made tears stream from his eyes.

What was left of the platoon made it to an area of thick scrub and bushes about a kilometer east down RC-157. It wasn’t just that the scrub and bushes provided cover; there was a slight, horse-shoe shaped rise around it that screened him from view. Roul knew he had learned something today. Even a meter rise in the ground could be tactically vital. That one-meter rise saved his platoon from total destruction.

Even so, he looked back on the road and saw the lines of figures in horizon blue that marked the path of his rout. He had started the day with four sergeants, four corporals and 32 privates. Counting the men he had left, he could see private first class Léo Corneille, Sergeant Arsène Ambroise and one or two more.

How many men survived?

“Corporal Frenais; eleven men, sir. Three of them are wounded but can walk.”

It was as if the sergeant can read my mind. So answer me this. What do we do next? “Very good, Sergeant. The Siamese will be clearing the battlefield and that will give us a chance to break away. We must head for Yang Dham Khung. That’s where the main body will be assembling.” Dear God, I started this day with 41 men and now there 14 of us left. And we have achieved nothing.

Roul used his binoculars to watch the Thai infantry back at the position they had just seized. Three Vickers tanks and some trucks joined them. Some of the trucks had red crosses pained on them; stretchers were being placed in them. As one was lifted on, Roul caught a glimpse of horizon blue from the man on it.

Thank God. They are looking after my wounded.

“We badly need those Ki-30s. If we had ordered them as I wished…” Marshal Plaek Pibulsonggram sounded reproachful.

“Politically, the order would have been disastrous. It would have linked us to the Japanese and ruled out any other options. There is more at stake here than just the fighting now in progress.” The Ambassador snapped the reply out. She was tired, despite managing a quick nap while flying down to Bangkok on her private Boeing 247.

“Our pilots are flying five or six missions a day. Because of that, we have already lost a Hawk 75N from a crash. The pilots are very tired. We cannot go on like this.”

“We can and we will.” The Ambassador’s voice was pitiless. “Every hope we have for the future now hangs on us defeating the French in Indochina. And we are defeating them. We have driven them back almost 30 kilometers and are only 20 kilometers from Sisophon. We have wiped out their border forces already. All that is left of them are groups of stragglers heading east.

“We know the French are assembling their main force at Yang Dham Khung. They have massed nine battalions of infantry, two battalions of artillery and a company of tanks there. When the French launch their counterattack from Yang Dham Khung, we will have 15 battalions of infantry, three of artillery and two complete battalions of tanks waiting for them.

“In the north, we have already reached the Mekong in Laos and are digging in there. North of the Tonle Sap, we are swinging across country, peeling off units to guard the Mekong as we move east. Above all, the fourth regiment of the Queen’s Cobra Division is swinging south to by-pass Battambang to the east. The first regiment of the White Horse Division is swinging north from Trat to the same destination. The other two cavalry regiments are heading for Phnom Penh. When they link up, the whole French Army in Indochina will be encircled around Battambang while we advance on Phnom Penh from north and south of the Tonle Sap. Soon, there will be nothing left between us and Saigon. The French have no idea what they are up against.”

Marshal Plaek raised his hand placatingly. “I know what we are achieving. And I understand how important those achievements are. I just fear for how long our Air Force can keep up its efforts.”

The Ambassador relaxed slightly. “Perhaps this may calm your fears. We captured these documents at a minor skirmish on RC-157. An affair of no great importance, except for the capture of these French intelligence assessments of our forces. Take a look at them.”

She handed the role of documents over and Palek read them. As he did, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “These are completely wrong. The French seem to think we have copied their triangular division and regiment structure. They don’t realize our infantry divisions use the German square structure with four regiments per division and four companies per battalion. That basic mistake means they’re underestimating our strength by over a third. They put our army at 44 infantry battalions? Now that we are mobilized, we have seventy-seven and that increases as more reservists join the colors.”

“And those battalions are a third larger than theirs.” The Ambassador sounded very satisfied. “The Air Force need only struggle for a few more days, my old friend. Then, our pilots can rest before we deal with the Japanese.”

At least, this time, we have the high ground. Here, the French forces were arrayed along a ridge that lay behind a twisting river. It is, Roul thought, a good defensive position. On the long march back along RC-157, he’d realized just how hard this part of Indochina was to defend. The ground sloped steeply downwards from the mountains along the Thai border, so anybody advancing from the west always had the high ground. This was the first point at which the geography changed. Here, the French positions were at an elevation of 30 meters while the low ground in front of them was, at most, 16 meters. What worried him was that the Indochina Army would be launching its counterattack from these positions and would have to pass through the heavily-forested areas that lay between their ridge and the river. Roul’s two previous actions had taught him that the Thai Army knew how to maneuver and he suspected they would make good use of that jungle.

The problem was that Colonel Jacomy, whose “Groupement J” was assigned to conduct the attack, wouldn’t listen to anybody. Especially a Lieutenant whose sole contributions to the engagements over the last few days had apparently been to retreat as fast as his legs would carry him. Roul’s attempts to report on the actions he had fought and the lessons he had learned had been brushed aside with overt contempt. The survivors of his platoon had been assigned to reinforce an antitank battery belonging to the Fifth Regiment of the Foreign Legion. To an officer of the regular French Army, that was very close to being an insult.

The antitank unit had two Model 1934 25mm guns. Roul wasn’t quite sure what the third gun was. It had originally been a standard Soixante-Quinze, but the Legionnaires had modified its carriage drastically so that it sat much lower on the ground and was easier to move around. He’d arranged the three guns in a triangle, with the 75 at the back. The 25mm gun was light and underpowered, but it could deal with any tank in this part of the world. Roul was more worried about the Thai infantry. Against them, the 25mm was just a very big rifle. The Soixante-Quinze had explosive shells as well as solid shot and could put up an adequate fight.

“Interesting defensive position.”

Roul jumped at the unexpected comment. He looked around and saw Major Belloc, commander of the Foreign Legion battalion standing behind him. He jumped to attention and snapped out a salute.

“Sir?”

“Putting the Soixante-Quinze at the rear. How did you come to that conclusion?”

Roul took a deep breath. “Sir, I’ve fought the Siamese twice now. Each time, when they ran into opposition, they maneuvered us out of our defenses. They would never attack us frontally. They always pinned us down and then maneuvered against our flanks. If there was a position that was too tough for them to take with a quick attack, they would bypass it and continue on.”

“Stosstruppen tactics.”

“Exactly, sir. I’ve also seen the Siamese bringing up tanks. If we engage their tanks with our guns, they won’t fight it out. The tanks will pull back, they’ll bring up their infantry and try and outflank our position. So, I’ve got the two twenty-fives positioned forward to take on the tanks. Then, when the infantry move up, the Soixante-Quinze will be perfectly positioned to support the antitank guns and we can hold out here.”

Belloc nodded. “You’ve fought the Thais before. You’re Roul, aren’t you?”

“Sir.”

“Hmm. Colonel Jacomy suggested I put you somewhere you can’t run away. Have you anything to say to that?”

Roul was outraged. “Sir, my platoon has lost more than two thirds of its strength fighting the Siamese. We held our ground until it was impossible to do so any longer, then we disengaged in as good an order as the circumstances permitted.”

“I thought as much. Anyway, Colonel Jacomy forgets that we in the Legion have no personal history, save that we make for ourselves here. But, I need to know everything you have to tell me about the actions you have fought. Soon, we will start our counter-offensive and try to drive them back. I think this will be a much harder fight than our commanders realize. By the way, you may be interested to know that two border guard battalions of the Tirailleurs Tonkinois have been dispersed. To all intents and purposes, they have been destroyed as fighting formations. They were so unwise as not to disengage when the circumstances dictated that course of action.”

“We have a chance to redeem ourselves.”

Major Wuthi Wirrabut spoke quietly in the pre-dawn darkness. A few years earlier, the Royal Guard battalion had made the worst mistake any military unit could make in a civil war. They had picked the wrong side. Following the coup that had ended the absolute monarchy, Prince Boworadet had led pro-royalist forces, including several infantry regiments, a cavalry unit and several artillery batteries, in a march on Bangkok to restore the traditional order. They reached the capital to find that most military units in Bangkok supported the government. The Royal Guard battalion had been the exception; they had sided with the traditionalists and shared in the defeat that had engulfed them.

The effect on the battalion had been disastrous. They had been reduced to company strength and lost most of their privileges. Only recently had they been restored to battalion status and received the heavy weapons their table of equipment dictated. That the battalion was still commanded by a major was a mark of how recently it had been restored to its original status. Major Wuthi was painfully aware that, even now, there was a question mark against the trustworthiness of his unit. After a moment’s thought, he resumed his comments.

“The French are moving up their forces while we speak. And not making a very good job of it, I might add. Our scouts say that their units are stumbling around in the trees and getting lost. They’ve identified two separate formations; a three-battalion group in the north and a two-battalion group in the south. It looks like they plan to start their attack about dawn.”

“Fifteen companies to our four.” Major Anansong Chirawatra, the battalion second-in-command, was thoughtful. “We will have to earn our redemption.”

“It’s not that bad. Most of the French units are understrength and have only two companies each. Third Infantry will handle the southern thrust. They have four companies and tank support, against five without tanks. They’re already moving out into ambush positions. We’re four companies against seven and we have artillery and armor. And once the sun comes up, we will have air support. I think this will be a fair test for us.”

“We must always try to be our best.” Major Anansong repeated the mantra cheerfully.

“There is no trying about it. We must perform better than our peers expect, much better. When we were assigned to this division, Her Highness, the Ambassador, made it clear that she expected great things from us.” Major Wuthi paused for a second. “It’s not being reprimanded by Her Highness that frightens me so much; it’s when she forgives me afterwards that I get really scared.”

“Have Ayuthya, Maeklong and Tachin left?”

Commander Luang Phrom Viraphan had completed the hand-over and taken responsibility for the squadron at Koh Chang. It was hardly a powerful force; the coast defense ship Thonburi as flagship, four torpedo boats and a minelayer. It was intended simply to deter any French attack on coastal cities to the west. That was where the minelayer came in. She would mine the waters between Koh Chang and the mainland. That would effectively bar the French from intruding.

Luang Phrom was keenly aware that his role, and that of the Navy in general, was purely defensive in this war. The major part of the burden was being carried by the Army and Air Force. The reports from Laos suggested that the war up there was already won and that all Thai territory west of the Mekong had been recovered. It wasn’t surprising that had happened so quickly; the pockets of ground were small and Luang Phrom doubted if the French troops up there had amounted to much more than a corporal’s guard.

“They pulled out a few minutes ago.” The communications officer had come up to the bridge with the signal lamp message. “They delayed their departure by a few minutes due to a French seaplane that was buzzing around. Now they are on their way back to Satahip.”

Luang Phrom looked sharply at the officer. “A French seaplane, you say? Not one of ours?”

“Definitely French, sir. A Loire 130. Quite unlike anything we have.”

“Scouting us out.” Luang Phrom paused, then came to a decision. “Send a signal to Trad, Songkhla, Chonburi and Rayong to maintain an increased watch. If the French are scouting us, they mean to attack. We can expect them at dawn. Order Songkhla and Chonburi to raise steam and take up positions off Koh Lao Ya, at the anchorage entrance. They’ll give the French a surprise as they come in.”

“And the mainland?” The communications officer phrased the question delicately.

“Send a warning to Bangkok that we expect a French attack here at dawn tomorrow. And contact the commander of Foong Kap Lai 72. He should have his dive bombers ready to engage any French forces that appear.

The chance of finding one of the French Farman 222 bombers at night was remote. Flying Officer Suchart Chalermkiat had absolutely no faith that his patrol would be productive, but it was necessary to at least make the effort. His Hawk 75N was heavier and more difficult to handle than he was used to. The wing .30-cal machine guns had been removed; each had been replaced by an underwing pod containing a 23mm Madsen cannon. The judgement was, if he did get lucky and find one of the big Farmans, he would have a major performance advantage so the weight and drag of the cannon wouldn’t be disastrous. On the other hand, their extra firepower might be decisive in a fleeting engagement.

If he found one of the French bombers, of course.

Suchart had no doubt they were coming. The border lookout posts had reported hearing them pass overhead. An extrapolation of their course led here. Were they were heading for the city itself or Don Muang airfield on the outskirts? Most of the pilots in FKL-60 believed the French would bomb the city, arguing that the French had a long history of bombarding or bombing civilian targets. Suchart had disagreed. In his opinion, the French would realize it was too late for that and would try for the airfield instead. Thai air superiority over the battlefield was crippling the French Army’s ability to fight. A few airfield raids might destroy enough aircraft to swing the balance away from the advancing Thai infantry formations.

The result was that, of the ten Hawk 75s airborne over Bangkok, nine were over the north of the city where the loop of the Chaophrya river made a target easy to find in the moonlight. Only Suchart’s aircraft was to the east of the city. He flew in a racetrack pattern, looping around with his fuel mix thinned out as much as possible. Saving fuel meant extending the time he could wait for the Farmans.

Even though he was expecting the airfield to be attacked, the explosion of the bombs in the darkness was a shock. One minute, the night was dark; only the silver stream of the moonlit river told him where he was. The next, patterns of orange explosions rippled across the ground below him. By the time the first group had flared and faded, another group had replaced them. The second batch was further away and behind him. Suchart’s first thought was that, even if one load of bombs had hit Don Muang, the second couldn’t have. His second thought was the realization that he was between the Farman and its home at Saigon. Suddenly, the chance of staging an intercept wasn’t so remote.

He peered into the darkness, so intent on trying to pick out the shadow of the bomber that he missed the explosions of the third and fourth patterns of bombs. The Farman had to be out there, somewhere. Almost without thinking, he advanced his throttles and touched the mixture control on his engine. The extra power made his fighter a little more lively, but it was still sluggish compared with its normal configuration.

That was when he realized one of the stars had flicked out and then returned. Something had passed between it and his Hawk 75N. Suchart curved around and closed on the tell-tale star. Sure enough, in the darkness ahead of him, was a shadow; slightly darker than the blue-black of the tropical night.

More throttle, another fuel adjustment and the shadow grew quickly. A big, highwing aircraft with its engines slung underneath the wings. Now Suchart knew where to look. He could see the flames of the exhausts rippling in the darkness. There were two sets per side; that confirmed it. The Farman had four engines, two in each underwing gondola; one at the front and one at the back. The aircraft ahead of him was indeed a Farman 222. The near-impossible chance had taken place.

Suchart continued to close. Now that he had seen his target, he wondered how he could ever have overlooked it. He had a quick moment to think about his angle of attack. The Farman had a single machine gun in the nose, one in a dorsal turret and one in the belly. He settled on coming up from underneath, so that the aircraft’s engines would be exposed.

He sighed slightly, steadying himself. Then he squeezed the upper of the two gun-switches on the control column. That fired his nose .30-cal machine guns. Tracer arched out. The first few passed low. Suchart corrected his aim and walked the burst into the fuselage, then along the wing. As soon as he was hitting in the region of the engines, he pressed the lower firing trigger. He felt the 23mm cannon firing. The heavy recoil caused his Hawk to lurch in ways that the .30s had never done. The effects were immediate and appalling. The whole engine gondola erupted into flame. Brilliant red fire lit up the fuselage. Suchart paused, then fired again.

The fire spread with stunning speed, turning the Farman into a great burning cross in the sky. There was a short burst of fire from one of the gunners, but it was wild. Anyway, Suchart had broken off his attack. There was no need to push it any further. The burning bomber was already heading down, slowly losing altitude and speed. For a moment, he wondered if the pilot was still alive at the controls. Pity for a fellow pilot made him hope that he was not. To be trapped in that inferno was a terrible way to die. The Farman 222 sank, its airframe now outlined as dark lines against the burning fabric of its skin. Then, suddenly, it was all over. The wings crumpled. The wreckage fell from the sky to become a flaming pyre on the ground.

The great flaming cross in the sky made a fitting introduction to his visit. Sir Josiah Crosby looked up at it and imagined what it must be like for the crew of the burning bomber. Those poor, poor men. The thought came out with genuine sympathy. Sir Josiah might have cast his lot in with the Indian government, but the thought of Europeans dying so far from their homes still affected him. The sight was shut off as he went into the headquarters of the Thai Army.

The building seemed very different from his previous visits. The leisurely, almost lazy, atmosphere had gone completely. Now, men in dark green uniforms rushed from place to place with an air of determined urgency.

His escort led him through the corridors, towards an office buried in the depths of the building. He knocked on a featureless, unpainted wooden door, paused for a second, then opened it and ushered Sir Josiah in. The Ambassador Plenipotentiary was inside.

“Ah, Sir Josiah. Thank you for coming at this unspeakable hour. I must leave Bangkok at dawn and return to our forward Army headquarters and this is the only time I have. May I offer you some tea? We have a fine spiced mandarin orange tea, if you prefer?”

“Thank you, Madam Ambassador. Or, should I say Colonel? The orange tea sounds delightful.”

“Whichever form of address makes you most comfortable. You saw we have just shot down one of the French Farman bombers? And our antiaircraft guns hit a Potez 542 over Nakhorn Phanom? So far, the night is going well.”

A maid appeared with a cup and a pot of tea on a tray. She poured for Sir Josiah and then quietly left. He took a sip and delight spread across his face. “This is indeed delicious. I have always reported to London by way of Calcutta; but, with the change in authority, this is no longer the case. I now represent only the interests of India and my actions are determined by the Indian Foreign Office. They have instructed me to tell you that we have received authorization from the United States to transfer some of the aircraft we will be receiving from them to your country, in lieu of the aircraft your Air Force ordered but never received. We have been assured we will be fully compensated by a finance credit for any such aircraft we transfer.”

Suriyothai nodded. She had noted the tiny stress that Sir Josiah had placed on the ‘you’ in his comments. “That is very good news.”

“The Americans took it for granted that we would transfer Hawk 75A-4s; Mohawk IVs, we call them. However, on the advice of our Air Force and its advisors, we have elected to standardize on the Hawk 75 ourselves. The Brewster Buffalos we have received will be needed by the Navy, for our aircraft carrier. But, our share of the Hawk 81s, Tomahawk Is, amounts to 48 aircraft and we will offer all of these to you.

“At our first meeting, you expressed concern about Japanese intentions. We believe that the performance of these aircraft in the Middle East and Africa will give the Japanese pause for thought. In addition, we will also offer you 24 Hawk 75s and the same number of DB-7B aircraft. Our advisors say the latter will make superior intruders and are significantly faster than most Japanese fighters.”

It took all Suriyothai’s self-control to stop her jaw from dropping. An influx of aircraft on this scale would provide all the air defenses her country needed to refuse compliance with any Japanese demands. “Sir Josiah, on behalf of my government, there is little I can do other than express my very great gratitude for this generosity. Obviously, your offer is accepted gladly, with the hope this will mark the start of an enduring friendship between our nations.”

Sir Josiah laughed gently. “It is not so generous as you think. We are giving you the older aircraft ordered by France and Britain more than a year ago. The Americans will be providing us with the latest models in exchange. A year is a long time in war, but I think this exchange benefits everybody involved.”

Suriyothai looked out of the window at where a fire burned across the city. The French counterattack was beginning; all the reports from the front stressed that. The night bombing of the airbases showed that the French were, this time, in real earnest.

A year was indeed a long time in war, but so could be a few hours.

“The report from the reconnaissance aircraft is in. ” Lieutenant Laurent Babineau passed the word through to Captain Toussaint de Quieverecourt. “We are in luck. Both the Thai coast defense ships are in the anchorage.”

To Babineau’s surprise, his Captain seemed decidedly unhappy. One reason was obvious; the blackened area of twisted metal where the ship’s catapult and seaplane had once resided. The other was less tangible.

“Commodore Berenger has sent his orders for the attack. He is forming the fleet into three divisions. La Motte-Picquet will go in east of Koh Wai, while we will take the channel between Koh Wai and Koh Klum with Amiral Charner. Tahure and Marne will take the passage between Koh Klum and the main Koh Chang Island.”

“He’s splitting our force into three groups?” Babineau realized why his Captain was perturbed. “If the Siamese move quickly, they could defeat us in detail. ” Tahure and Marne are weak; they’ve only got a pair of 140mm guns and some 100mms between them. If the Thais are expecting this, they could cut those two ships off and sink them before we could come to their aid.”

“I know what Commodore Berenger is thinking. Our squadron has three different speeds. La Motte-Picquet can do more than 30 knots, Tahure and Marne twenty; we are limited to 16. Splitting us up into three groups means that each group can maneuver at maximum speed.” de Quieverecourt sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “And we all have different guns. 155mm on the La Motte-Picquet; we have 140mms and the others mostly 100mms. Operating separately will ease our fire control problems.”

And I know what Commodore Berenger is thinking as well, Babineau thought. He can take his cruiser in fast, open fire first and claim the credit for any victories. But, if it goes wrong, he will have us coming up behind to bail him out. But to voice such ideas would be insubordinate, at best. Babineau saw his captain looking at him and realized that de Quieverecourt knew exactly what he had been thinking. “Should we come to action stations, sir? We are approaching the anchorage and dawn is not far off.”

de Quieverecourt shook himself. “Yes, do so.”

Tahure and Marne had already sheered away, heading for the channel that led into the anchorage from the north. Then, La Motte-Picquet started to surge forward and peel away to starboard. That left Dumont d’Urville and Amiral Charner heading directly into the anchorage. Babineau looked over to the east. He saw the first faint hint of purple that spoke of a dawn yet to come. In the minor degree of extra light it provided, he saw two shapes close to the island of Koh Krabung. He managed to make out the distinguishing feature of their design, the large single funnel amidships.

“Captain, two torpedo boats. Close by Nagam Island.”

“I see them, Laurent. Bring the ship around to oh-nine-oh. Prepare to open fire on them as soon as we are clear of the Laoya islands in the middle of the anchorage. And order Amiral Charner to take its lead from us.”

Dumont d’Urville was now parallelling the course of La Motte-Picquet but falling steadily behind the cruiser. Looking at the charts, Babineau realized that Berenger, on board La Motte-Picquet, couldn’t see the torpedo boats, since they were screened by Koh Wai Island. “Captain, we have a clear line of fire now. I believe the Thais are trying to raise steam over there.”

Babineau took another look. In the dim pre-dawn light, the threads of smoke from the two torpedo boats were only just dimly visible. Certainly, the two ships weren’t moving. The three 140mm guns on Dumont d’Urville crashed out, sending the first shells of the battle towards the two Thai ships. It was a ranging salvo; three shots spaced out to straddle the targets. Actually, all three fell short. The next salvo was over. It was only the third that actually achieved the desired straddle.

The forward 3-inch gun on one torpedo boat opened fire. Babineau guessed that it was aiming at the gun flashe,s but the shots weren’t even close.

The next salvo from Dumont d’Urville fell all around the torpedo boat. They must be taking splinter damage at the very least. The 140mm guns fired again.

This time the target reeled from the impact of a direct hit. The orange glow of a major fire started to spread from her midship section.

“Why the devil isn’t Amiral Charner firing?” Captain de Quieverecourt was furious. The French force had achieved complete surprise, yet his was the only ship firing on what appeared to be a defenseless enemy.

“Laurent, contact her and order her to open fire on those torpedo boats.”

Babineau grabbed a signal lamp and sent out the message as ordered. While he did so, the Thai torpedo boat had been hit twice more. She was clearly sinking. Her companion was starting to move very slowly, but she was firing her trio of three-inch guns. Where the shots were going was another matter. Certainly it was nowhere close to Dumont d’Urville. The signal lamp on Amiral Charner started to wink. Babineau took down the message. Its content actually made his jaw drop with shock.

“Sir, with respect, the message from Amiral Charner says that Commodore Berenger did not place you in command of this division so, therefore, Amiral Charner will dictate her own movements in compliance with the Commodore’s orders.”

Babineau shook his head. It seemed incredible, but the Captain of Amiral Charner was actually correct. Commodore Berenger had divided his squadron into three divisions but not appointed anybody to command those divisions. Correct that may be, but it would take a mind of incredible pettiness to make an issue of such things in the middle of a battle. Babineau’s thoughts were interrupted by more cheering from the bridge. The gun crews on Dumont d’Urville were into their stride; the guns fired with a rapidity they had rarely achieved before. The second Thai torpedo boat was already hit and her return fire was faltering. That was when a broadside of 155mm shells from La Motte-Picquet blanketed the position of the first torpedo boat to be taken under fire.

If she wasn’t sinking already, she certainly is now. Babineau actually felt sorry for the poor ship. She was hopelessly outmatched by the cruiser and sloops that were pounding her and didn’t even have the steam raised to make a run for it. She was rolling over already and was finished. A sad way for a ship to die. At least she got a shot off to save her honor. The other torpedo boat was in no better condition; her death was made certain when the La Motte-Picquet switched fire on to her.

“Bring us around to oh-oh-five.” de Quieverecourt snapped the order out. He hoped that Amiral Charner would follow the maneuver, since there was a limb of the anchorage ahead and there might be game there.

“Captain, Amiral Charner reports we are under attack by a third torpedo boat approaching from the north. It has a merchant ship following it.”

“What?” de Quieverecourt frowned. “A merchant ship?”

Any additional questions he might have had were broken by the firing of Amiral Charner’s guns as she engaged the new targets. Babineau looked across to where the shells were directed. The ships were hard to see in the gloom and shadows of the nearby land, but he caught a glimpse of the targets in the light of the shells exploding. Two funnels amidships. Suddenly, he realized what was happening. He snapped out a signal to the other sloop.

“Cease firing, those ships are the Marne and Tahure!”

To Babineau’s sickened dismay, Amiral Charner continued firing. Marne’s silhouette was disfigured by the red flare of a hit and the orange glow of fire. That made the identity of the ship painfully obvious. Mercifully, Amiral Charner ceased fire.

“Get under way now.”

Commander Luang Phrom Viraphan snarled the order out. Thonburi was the only diesel-engined ship in the fleet. That meant she was the only one that could move right away. The attack had come a vital few minutes earlier than he had expected. Another quarter of an hour, 30 minutes at most, the four torpedo boats would have raised steam. Faced with them, the French squadron would have been in an invidious position. But he’d never had those few minutes.

The fleet was still raising steam. The fate of the two torpedo boats slaughtered off Koh Ngam showed what would happen to the other ships if the French squadron got to them. There were two more torpedo boats, two fleet oilers, several transports and a minelayer back in the anchorage. Thonburi had to protect them until they got under way. Luang Phrom cursed the fact that Thonburi’s sister ship Ayuthya was not there to help him.

Luang Phrom felt the vibration under his feet as the diesels started to move the gunboat forward. “Navigation, keep us in shallow water. That’s to make the French stay at longer range.”

“Torpedoes!”

The scream of warning from the lookout was nearly panic-stricken. The eastern sky was much brighter now. Deep purple changed to light blue as the sun steadily neared the point where it would peek over the horizon. In the extra light, the white streaks on the water were clearly visible. Thonburi was moving, but just barely. The torpedoes were perfectly aimed. For a moment, Luang Phrom was dismally certain that his mission to protect the rest of the fleet would be ended before it started. Then, the tracks were replaced by white-capped blasts. The torpedoes exploded in the shoal water.

“And that’s another reason to stay in shallow water.”

A combination of relief at the sudden end to a near-mortal threat and the fact that the Captain’s jokes are always funny caused a wave of laughter to sweep the bridge. The problem was that Thonburi was silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky to the east. The French ships were lost on the darkness to the west. Still, the flash of their guns had been visible and there was just enough light to see a vague shadow.

“And, open fire.”

The gunboat lurched as her four 200mm guns roared out. Luang Phrom hoped against hope that he would see the brilliant flash of hits on the leading French ship but there were none. It had indeed been a faint chance under the conditions prevailing. He was still disappointed.

“Prepare to fire again. Wait on my command.” This is going to be a long fight. We will have to save ammunition. Over to the east, there was a tiny white spot that marked the first tip of the sun coming over the horizon. In a few minutes, the sun would be up and the French ships would be staring right into it. That would swing the advantage back to Thonburi.

“La Motte-Picquet has fired torpedoes.”

Babineau made the report with a slight degree of reluctance. He could see the Siamese gunboat by Krabung Island and the white streaks of water that marked the torpedoes on their way to destroy her. He lost track of them in the semi-darkness but say the white towers of water and then the brilliant flash of explosions. “We got her.”

A few seconds later, there was the train-like roar of 200mm shells. Four towers of water rose between the La Motte-Picquet and the Dumont d’Urville.

“That must be the other gunboat.” de Quieverecourt was surprised at the speed with which the Thai gunboats had opened fire. “Those gunboats are only 2,200 tons. The one we just hit won’t be firing at anything with three torpedoes in her.”

Babineau glanced aft. Marne and Tahure had fallen in aft of the two larger sloops. The fire on Marne had been put out very quickly. Mercifully, she had only a few wounded from the ‘friendly’ shell that Amiral Charner had put into her. Nevertheless, her captain was maintaining a hurt silence. Viewed objectively, Babineau couldn’t blame him.

“Open fire, Laurent.”

de Quieverecourt noted that the movement of the ships had brought a Thai gunboat into his firing arcs, while La Motte-Picquet’s rush eastwards had meant that any shots she might have had were at Mai Si Yai Island. Dumont d’Urville was a well-drilled ship and her gun crews were filled with confidence after the destruction of the two torpedo boats a few minutes earlier. The only question that de Quieverecourt couldn’t answer was where the gunboat La Motte-Picquet had torpedoed was. Could she have sunk so quickly? Perhaps, after three hits on a small ship like that. That thought was interrupted by the crash of 140mm guns as the French sloop opened fire.

“I can’t see what’s happening, Captain.” Babineau sounded frustrated.

“We’re staring right into the rising sun and I can’t see a damned thing. That’s why La Motte-Picquet is heading so far ahead of us. She’s trying to get clear of the sun.”

There was another train-roar overhead. This time, there was no doubt as to which ship was the target. The four shells exploded in the water around Dumont d’Urville. Her side plating rang as a patter of fragments hit the steel.

Her own guns returned the salvo. The glare from the rising sun stopped Babineau from seeing where they landed. The minutes ticked past, with the slow exchange of ineffective salvoes growing more hesitant. In Babineau’s opinion, he was shooting blind. The futility of the exercise annoyed him.

“Captain, we can’t engage under these conditions and our flashes are just giving the Siamese something to aim at. I suggest we cease fire until we can spot the fall of shot.”

de Quieverecourt nodded. Dumont d’Urville’s gun fell silent. A few second later, another salvo arrived from the Thai gunboat. This one was far aft of Dumont d’Urville; a close straddle on the Amiral Charner. For a moment, Babineau thought she had been hit, but there was no tell-tale burst of black smoke or red glow of fire from her.

“Close but not close enough, Captain.”

“If she had more than four guns, we would be in serious trouble by now. She just hasn’t the number of guns needed to give a dense shell pattern.”

“Nor do we, sir.”

“True, but we’re not supposed to get involved in this kind of fight.”

Behind them, Amiral Charner had been straddled again. The next rounds seemed to be a long time coming. That made Babineau look; first at the gunboat that was maneuvering away from the line of four sloops, then at La Motte-Picquet. The cruiser was firing her guns in full broadsides; eight 155mm weapons blasting out rounds at her target. The first broadsides were badly off; Babineau guessed that La Motte-Picquet had mistaken the shots from the Amiral Charner as her own. Four broadsides in, she obviously realized her mistake and corrected her aim.

“Move to intercept that cruiser.”

Luang Phrom was buying time and he knew it. The sun was up and that was both a good and a bad thing. His position in the eye of the rising sun had allowed him to engage the four sloops and hold them at bay while expending relatively little ammunition and suffering no damage from the wildly inaccurate return fire. Now the sun had risen properly, he no longer had that advantage. The accuracy of the French gunnery was improving.

On the other hand, the fact it was now daylight meant that the dive bombers would soon be on their way, if they weren’t already. And always, there was the question of steam. Every minute that passed meant the other warships would be that much closer to joining Thonburi’s lonely fight against five French warships.

The tactical situation was changing as well. Up to now, the French cruiser had been out of the fight, masked behind Koh Mai Si Yai and Koh Mai Si Lek. Now she was emerging from their shadow and was threatening to make an end-run past the Thonburi. Capable of more than 30 knots, the cruiser could do that and there would be little Thonburi could do to stop her, unless she was physically in the way. Luang Phrom saw the ripple of flashes along the cruiser and heard the howl of the inbound shells. Fortunately, they were well off-target.

“Shift target to that cruiser.”

“She’s La Motte-Picquet. I saw her on a trip to Saigon not so long ago.” Lieutenant Sunan Shinawatra looked at his Captain and smiled. “I was on a Dutch liner, travelling for my family’s silk business. Met an American called Jim Thompson. Oddly, I just happened to have a very good camera with me when we passed the French warships.” His reminiscence was interrupted by another broadside from the cruiser. This one was closer but it was still far enough away. In reply, Thonburi’s 200mm guns sent a full broadside at the cruiser. The four splashes were all around her but there was no sign of a hit.

“We need more guns. Our salvoes aren’t dense enough to give a good number of hits.”

“The new cruisers will have six guns.”

Luang Phrom knew that was irrelevant. What mattered were the forces here and now. Where are those dive bombers? We need the support here.

“Lieutenant, go aft to the secondary control position. If anything happens to the bridge, you will take over the ship from there. Your orders in that event are simple. Keep fighting until the French retreat or the ship sinks under you.”

A third salvo from the French cruiser was also wild. In reply, Thonburi once again straddled her without scoring any hits. He next French salvo was different. It was on target. The eight shells were close enough to the gunboat to rattle her sides with splinters. La Motte-Picquet paid a price for her accuracy though.

Thonburi straddled her once again. This time, there was a brilliant red flash between the funnels. Luang Phrom heard the cheer go up from his ship at the long-delayed success. He saw La Motte-Picquet reverse course and return behind the shelter of Koh Mai Si Lek. The threat of an end-run was past, for the moment.

“Reverse course; head back for Koh Krabung. Let us see what our guests in their sloops are up to.”

“What the devil is Berenger up to?” Babineau let the words slip out with much more force than he intended or was prudent.

“He is concentrating his force, I think. Perhaps he realizes that dispersing us all over the anchorage may not have been the best of policies. His orders are for us to circle Baidang Island until he joins us. Then his intentions are for us to assault as a group and force our way past that gunboat.”

This is what we should have been doing an hour ago, de Quieverecourt thought, instead of wasting time messing around. We should have been in the anchorage by now, shooting up everything that floats. One look at the charts shows there is only one way in for ships that draw as much water as we do and that damned gunboat is blocking it.

“She’s hit!” Babineau’s report was a gasp of dismay. “She’s taken a hit amidships.”

Every pair of binoculars on the bridge swung to look at La Motte-Picquet. The cloud of smoke amidships was apparent, but there was no red glare of fire and she didn’t seem to be slowing. “Captain, a report from the flagship. She took a hit amidships that has penetrated the armor but damage is not serious. Commodore Berenger’s compliments and the four sloops are to join him at Baidang Island for an assault on the main anchorage.”

“Assuming the dive bombers don’t get here first.” de Quieverecourt muttered the words to himself, but he saw Babineau nodding. The threat of the Thai dive bombers was on both officer’s minds.

The minutes ticked by as La Motte-Picquet closed on the four sloops that had rounded Baidang Island and were now heading west. Eventually she drew level with them and rounded the island again; the sloops fell in behind her. At that point, the Thai gunboat reappeared from behind Mai Si Yai Island.

Her guns flashed again. The salvo of four shells landed all around the La Motte-Picquet. The cruiser picked up speed, heading east and leaving the slow sloops behind.

“Message from the flagship, sir. It says the Siamese are trying to escape via this channel and we are to remain here to block them. The flagship will go into the main anchorage by the eastern channel.”

“Damn him, why can’t he make his mind up? We’re running against the clock here and he is going backwards and forwards.” Babineau didn’t care who heard him. He swung his binoculars up and watched La Motte-Picquet round Chan Island and head northeast. Then, he swung his gaze to the Thai gunboat. She had reversed course and was heading east as well.

“There he goes; determined little bugger isn’t he?”

Despite the situation, de Quieverecourt was almost laughing at the comment. “You know, I think I like the captain of that gunboat. He’s decided what he wants to do and has set his mind on doing it. There are others who could learn from that example.”

Lieutenant Sunan expected La Motte-Picquet to emerge from the shadow of Koh Mai Si Lek any moment. Based on her previous behavior, she should be at least 15,000 meters out, in the deeper waters beyond the Koh Sang anchorage itself. That was the best range for Thonburi, one where her 200mm guns were still effective but the older 155mm weapons on the La Motte-Picquet were loosing effectiveness. He had the guns already loaded, trained and elevated so that he could open fire with the minimum of delay.

It didn’t work out that way. This time, La Motte-Picquet came in on a much more northerly course and was into the shoal water. Sunan guessed that there was probably only a few meters of water between her keel and the jagged coral. More importantly, she was at least 8,000 meters closer to the Thonburi than he had expected. In the race to get the first salvo off, the lighter, handier 155mm guns on the cruiser won. At what was virtually point-blank range, the effects were devastating.

Sunan picked himself off from the deck. His ears rang from the explosions and blood ran from his nose. Thonburi had been hit at least four times. The forward section of the ship was devastated. The bridge was a shambles, the foremast down and the conning tower had been penetrated. He knew that Captain Luang Phrom could not have survived the blows. Nobody could, not in that shambles. He staggered to his feet, pummelling life back into himself and the rest of the reserve command crew. Before he could get them to do anything in the way of fighting back, a second broadside slammed into the gunboat. The forward gun turret was knocked out; its barrels drooped dispiritedly as the power failed. Another shot bounced off the roof of the aft gun turret, jamming it in train. Two more smashed into the already-wrecked superstructure, causing fires to erupt from the antiaircraft guns.

“Bring her round, use the engines to bring her round.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Lord Buddha have mercy, I am the captain now.

Thonburi started to swing. The French were overconfident; so convinced that the gunboat was crippled that they hadn’t bothered to correct their aim. The shots fell short. Only two of the 155mm shells hit the ship; they hit low on the hull where the armor stopped them. Despite that respite, Sunan felt the tilt of the deck as Thonburi listed. There was a blast and he wondered which of the ship’s magazines had exploded. As it turned out, none of them.

As Thonburi had turned, the guns in the jammed aft turret aligned with La Motte-Picquet. The gunners took the opportunity to unload them via the muzzle. The shots went wild, missing La Motte-Picquet by a wide margin but Sunan took comfort in the fact his ship was still fighting. He tried to turn Thonburi around so that her gunners in the aft turret could have another crack.

He was rewarded by two more 200mm shells heading off towards La Motte-Picquet. They missed. Sunan felt the ship shift under his feet again and the list increased. The battle was nearly over and he knew it.

“Head for Koh Ngam. We’ll beach her there.”

“Sir, overhead.”

One of the men was pointing skywards. Overhead, Sunan saw the glint of the morning sun on the wings of the Hawk biplanes. The leader made the traditional wingover into a near-vertical descent. The dive bombers had arrived.

“Air attack! Air attack!”

The lookouts screamed the warning; the crew of Dumont d’Urville cringed, remembering the attack they had experienced a few days earlier. This time, though, they watched the dive bombers drop from the sky towards La Motte-Picquet. The first pair of bombs straddled the hull, so close that the towers of water seemed to touch the hull. There was no trace of the third bomb. Babineau wondered what had happened to it. The answer was not long in coming.

“Message from the flagship. She is under dive bombing attack, has taken two near-misses and one direct hit from 100-kilogram bombs. The bomb that hit did not explode but the near misses have caused severe splinter damage and the machinery compartments are suffering from shock.”

Babineau looked at the cruiser accelerating to maximum speed and starting to weave. Perhaps it was the unexpected change in speed and direction that threw the next flight of dive bombers off, for their weapons well off target. Nevertheless, more were coming in. High overhead, Babineau saw a formation of four twin-engined bombers heading towards the formation of sloops. They didn’t have the speed to evade bombing the way La Motte-Picquet did.

“Sir, Commodore Berenger orders us to withdraw to the west at best speed.” The communications officer had brought the message up himself. The starboard lookout added to the mass of information flowing in.

“Sir, two more Thai torpedo boats are moving. They are heading up the anchorage now. And more aircraft are coming in.”

“That’s it. We’re out here without cover and the whole Thai Air Force will be descending on us. The Commodore is right. Our time here is over.”

Captain de Quieverecourt sounded disgusted. He looked over to where a pyre of black smoke marked the position of the Thai gunboat and shook his head sadly. “One ship against five and she held us off for over an hour. I would say she deserves to make it home.”

“They’re coming.”

Company Guards-Sergeant Preecha Budisalamat passed the word quietly. He had seen the shadows slipping into place amongst the trees to his front and knew that the attack was coming. He had been expecting it for over an hour, but the observation outposts had reported the French were having severe trouble moving into their assault positions. Apparently, some of their units had become lost in the maze of paths through the trees and disrupted other units that had stuck to their assigned route. Preecha didn’t condemn that; as a city man, he thoroughly understood just how easy it was to miss one’s path in forest this dense. A few street signs nailed to the trees would make life so much easier.

His Guardsmen prepared the defense line as well as they could in the short time they had available. They’d dug rifle pits and dragged trees over to help provide protection against rifle fire. Major Wuthi Wirrabut had put three of his infantry companies up on the line, with the fourth held back in reserve. The line itself was buried deep in the trees. That had already proved its value; the French artillery bombardment had been concentrated on the treeline. It missed his unit completely. Defend a treeline from in front of it or behind it, but never in it.

Preecha checked the machine guns; both the two Vickers guns that were normally part of the company and the three additional guns assigned from the battalion machine gun company. There was a minor problem there. When the battalion had been reconstituted, their infantry weapons had been donated by a patriotic group, the Wild Tiger Corps. So, the Guardsmen carried Lee Enfield rifles and had Lewis and Vickers machine guns. The downside was that they all fired British .303inch ammunition, not the 8x52mm rounds used by the rest of the Army. That was a supply problem and Preecha just knew that one day they were going to get sent the wrong ammunition.

Explosions raked across the positions held by his company. They concentrated Preecha’s mind wonderfully. They were hand grenades, tossed across the clearing and into the Guardsmen’s positions. The grenades were accompanied by a sheet of rifle fire. Brilliant white streaks of bullets flashed all around Preecha. He heard thuds as they hit the logs and whines as they ricocheted off them. The noise stunned him; compared with the silence of the forest a few seconds earlier, it was earsplitting enough to drown out his own thoughts. Half-seen figures in the darkness were swarming towards his positions, climbing over the fallen trees or gathering in groups where the going was easier. Those groups attracted the fire of the Vickers guns as they joined the battle.

Preecha knew how to handle the water-cooled machine guns. They needed to be swept, slowly and methodically, across the line of the enemy advance in a pattern of interlocking streams. If they did, nobody could survive the web of bullets. But that wasn’t possible. The range was far too short and the enemy were not advancing in regular lines. Instead, they tumbled into view; either alone, or in groups. The machine gunners were concentrating on those groups; hammering them with long bursts that cut infantry down in heaps. The Guardsmen left those groups to the experts; instead, they fired single shots at the men who were on their own. Preecha remembered the words of the advisors who had retrained the battalion. It is the machine guns that do the killing. The job of the riflemen is to protect the machine gunners. As long as the machine guns fire, your position will hold.

“Reloading!”

One of the Vickers guns had reached the end of its belt and a new box wasn’t quite ready. Almost as if by magic, the French concentrated on the gap in the wall of defensive fire that was cutting them down. They funneled towards the silent machine gun, trying to get at it before it could start firing again. Behind the logs that protected the gun and its crew, the loader frantically tried to get the ammunition box open.

“With me.” Preecha called the three men nearest to him. They ran to support the gun. The three guardsmen fired their rifles from the hip. The bullets probably went anywhere but into the enemy, but that didn’t matter. The shots themselves started to stall the French. Some of them into a dove for cover. Some tried to return fire, but the three-round magazines on their Berthiers put them at a grave disadvantage. Preecha drew his revolver, an old British Webley, and fired two shots. One of them took an enemy in the chest, spun him around and dropped him into a heap on the ground. That old .455 can knock an elephant off its feet.

Preecha barely had time to compliment his revolver when another

Frenchmen jumped up on top of the logs that provided top cover for the machine gun crew. He was preparing to drop a grenade inside the field bunker. Preecha put another pair of shots into him. Once again, the heavy bullets did their work. The man was thrown off the roof before he could arm his grenade. That was when the Vickers gun started firing again. The stream of brilliant white fireflies caught the attackers in the open and scythed them down.

“Well done Guards-Sergeant.” Guards-Lieutenant Patma had seen the incident and made sure his Sergeant got the public commendation his actions had merited. The impromptu little counter attack had saved one of their machine guns. “That gun’s crew owes you and your men some beer.”

The cheer that met his words was cut by another scream of warning.

“Here they come again.”

This time, the French knew where the machine guns were. Their attack was concentrated on the gun nests. Hand grenades exploded around the impromptu bunkers, sending fragments ricocheting off the logs. The extemporized defenses didn’t stop them all. Preecha heard the screams from inside one of the gun pits as a grenade bounced inside. He ran over to the scene, firing more pistol shots as he want. The gun was knocked out. One man from its crew was dead; another blinded and his face torn open by fragments. The third man had been lucky; he must have been shielded from the fragments by the bulk of the gun. His arm was pouring blood, but he would live.

The same fragments had knocked the gun off its tripod and lacerated the water cooling jacket. A quick glance showed Preecha that the French were closing in fast. He grabbed the heavy gun; the hot barrel burned his arm as he did so. He remounted it just in time to pour a long burst into the French. The charge on the position broke and the men were driven back into the cover of the treeline.

Preecha looked along the line. Mostly, it was holding. One section had started to fall back from the fire of light machine guns that had been concentrated on them. He picked up his machine gun and lifted it up on to the logs that surrounded its pit. That way, he could fire along the line of the defense and enfilade the attackers. The white flashes of bullets around him seemed to intensify. He ignored them and squeezed the trigger on the Vickers gun. It was so hot the barrel was beginning to glow. His long burst plowed into the source of the light machine gun fire and silenced the enemy guns.

Protected from the galling fire, the corporal in charge of the section led his men back up to their original positions.

“Guards-Sergeant, get ready to move our men out.” GuardsLieutenant Patma had appeared, apparently from nowhere. “Fourth Company has set up a defense line to our rear. Major Anansong is assembling a force from First and Second Companies to extend our left. The enemy are moving armored cars up.”

The lieutenant moved away, passing the word to the rest of his platoon. Preecha took the opportunity to look around the scene of the fighting. To his surprise, the sun was already rising. He could see the carnage in front of the battalion positions. There were dozens of dead and wounded scattered in front of the Thai defense line. Their horizon blue uniforms were mixed in with a much smaller number of figures in the dark green of the Thai infantry. Preecha shook his head, then gathered his men together. As he did so, there was a howl overhead and a series of explosions in the French positions in front of them. The regimental artillery was covering the withdrawal of the two companies that had held this section of the line.

Preecha’s men abandoned their positions under cover of the artillery fire and dropped back. As they passed through the new defense line, he saw that the company here had properly-built field fortifications. Slit trenches and proper dugouts. Preecha’s men had bought them the time they had needed to set their defense up properly and it showed.

By the time he and his men had reached their new positions, the sun had risen. Preecha could see what was going on. The Guardsmen had won the race and were spreading out into defensive positions. The scene was a small hamlet, just a few wooden houses and a road junction. Guards-Lieutenant Patma had his map out and called Preecha over.

“We’re here; junction of RC-157 and RC-160. We’ve had word that the French are moving their armor up along RC-157. At least six AM-50 armored cars and six FT-17 tanks. All from the French DMC. Plus two understrength infantry companies. My orders are to stop them here and drive them back. Major Anansong is in charge of us, while Major Wuthi has the remainder of the battalion in our old positions. Get the men into position, Guard-Sergeant; this looks like a hard fight.”

Once again, it was a matter of building field entrenchments with whatever happened to be at hand. Mostly, that meant wood torn from the huts constituting the hamlets. The four remaining Vickers guns were the main priority. Preecha already knew they would be the backbone of the defense here. Around them, men who had entrenching tools were digging rifle pits, while the less fortunate were using their helmets in a determined effort to create at least some cover. Whatever they managed to dig by the time the French arrived was all they would have.

The first to arrive were a trio of motorcylists. Their machines were fitted with sidecars that carried a single light machine gun. Preecha actually felt sorry for the one in the lead. He was cut down by rifle fire before he realized that he was under attack. The other two crews abandoned their machines. They took cover in the ditch by the side of the road and tried to return fire. The platoon Lewis gunners started to exchange bursts with the French crews. Give a child a new game and they’ll be happy for hours, Preecha thought indulgently.

The armored cars that turned the battle serious. There were indeed six of them. They had spread out into a line, taking advantage of the open ground before it closed in. They had the old, very short-barreled, 37mm gun, firing a one-kilogram shell at no velocity to speak of. Yet they were deadly enough as a fire support weapon.

The armored car crews spotted where the Lewis guns were firing from and started to fire on those positions. The AM50 armored cars leapfrogged forward in pairs; one pair moving, one pairing firing, the third pair spotting for targets. The equipment might be old and obsolete, but the crews knew what they were doing and were closing in on the Thai positions. Preecha looked at the Vickers gun crew closest to him. They were holding fire, ostensibly not to give their positions away needlessly, but really to ensure than the AM50s closed in as much as possible. The machine guns had a short belt of 100 rounds loaded. The bullets on each belt had solid black tips; armorpiercing ammunition. At 500 meters, those bullets would penetrate 12mm of steel. The armor on the AM50 was only 7mm thick.

He heard the nearest machine gun chatter and saw the brilliant flashes as the steel-cored rounds hit the front of the AM50. Some ricocheted off the sloping steel plates that protected the radiator. Others must have penetrated, for a cloud of white steam enveloped the front of the armored car. It swerved to a stop beside the road and stayed there, immobile in its cloud of white fog.

Another AM50 wasn’t so lucky. The Vickers gun caught it at an angle. The armorpiercing bullets penetrated its fuel tank. The armored car caught fire, sending a column of black smoke into the sky.

What happened next was something Preecha had never seen before.

The stricken vehicle exploded as fuel and ammunition were ignited by the fire. It went up in a single blast that sent debris and white trails of smoke in all directions. What had been a recognizable vehicle was reduced to a blazing hulk.

The sight seemed to cause the other armored cars to hesitate before they opened fire on the machine gun positions with their 37mm guns. Preecha heard a whistle overhead. One of the remaining AM50s was suddenly surrounded by shell bursts. The battalion might only have the old 50mm infantry guns as its artillery, but firing over open sights they were enough to completely outgun the old armored cars.

One of the AM50s took a direct hit on the front. The shell crushed the driving cab completely. The armored car ceased fire and the survivors of its crew bailed out. They tried to take cover from the rifle and machine gun fire that seemed to be surrounding them. Another AM50 had already fallen victim to the black-nosed bullets from the Vickers guns. With all the assurance of a veteran who had seen a whole two hours in combat, Preecha knew that the battle for the Thai left flank was going well for the Guardsmen.

The day was not going well. Lieutenant Roul had known that ever since the armored car company that had attacked the Thai left flank had been pushed back with heavy losses. The sites of four lost armored cars were still marked by the smoke stains in the sky, but they’d been joined by more marks of battle. The FT-17 tanks had tried to support the Legion infantry. The Thai medium tanks had arrived and driven the FT-17s off the field. This whole attack is turning into a disaster. The DMC has been decimated and our infantry are getting nowhere. And I wonder where the Thai infantry are now? Last time we were in this kind of position, they were already working their way around behind us. The Legion infantry were fighting hard, repelling Thai attacks and pushing back where they could, but the French offensive had never really got off the ground. It was quickly turning into a quagmire.

“We have news from Phoum Preav.” Major Belloc arrived with as little warning as he had on his previous visits. This time, though, his formerly immaculate Foreign Legion khaki was stained and blackened. The infantry of the 3rd battalion had been hammering the position held by the Thais for over four hours, with no success. “Groupement C under Colonel Cadoudal has been severely handled. 19th RMIC has been cut to pieces and Colonel Quelenc has been killed. Jourdain, what do you think the Thais are up to right now?”

“We’ve got the only high ground here.” Roul was thoughtful. “They can’t use the ridgelines for cover the way they did before. Not if they come through to the north of us. If they’re going to try that, they’ll have to come south; long way south, around Phoum Kdol.”

“Turning our left flank, the way we tried to turn theirs.” Belloc chewed the advice over. Roul was the only man in his command who had fought the Thais before and the Lieutenant’s insights were precious to him.

“The way they are pushing Groupement C back is consistent with that. And for us?”

Roul thought back over the engagements he had already fought.

“They’ll try and pin us down here while they cut us off. Expect to see an attack that is much sound and much fury but signifying nothing. A lot of fire, a lot of artillery and their dive bombers will hit us, but they won’t push the attack home on the ground. When that starts, we’ll know they are behind us. There will be a brief moment when we can get out; we can disengage and pull back to another defensive position. Leave it too late and we will either be encircled or we will have to break out.”

He was interrupted by a drone of aircraft engines overhead. Roul watched Major Belloc look up at the biplanes in the clear morning sky.

“Corsairs. There is only one problem with your analysis, Jourdain. Colonel Jacomy has sternly forbidden us to retreat.”

Overhead, the drone of engines turned to the wailing scream familiar to anybody who had seen cinema films of the fighting in France the previous year. The Corsairs dropped almost vertically out of the sky. The scream of their engines was amplified by the sirens on their fixed undercarriages and the wind howling over the struts between their wings. To Roul’s relief, the target was the French infantry position to his front. As yet, his antitank guns had not fired; the battery remained masked. He had a hunch that the situation was quickly reaching the point where he would be earning his pay for the day.

In front of him, the infantry broke under the dive bombing. They streamed backwards, abandoning their positions and fleeing the coming battle. Roul heard the shouts as they went.

“The tanks are coming! We are betrayed!“

He took a deep breath to steady himself. Overhead, the Corsairs finished their dive bombing runs and started strafing the retreating infantry. That brought them much closer to Roul’s position.

“Steady, men. Sergeant Ambroise, the crews should be ready to open fire. The 25mm guns will engage the tanks. The SoixanteQuinze will hold its fire until we have a clear shot at the supporting infantry. Private Corneille, you know your duty. I leave you to carry it out. Without the infantry supporting us, the whole weight of repelling this attack falls on us. Let us show them what regulars can achieve.”

The attack was following very closely behind the dive bombers. Just how do the Siamese manage to bring their aircraft in so quickly? Roul could see four Vickers 6-ton Type B tanks surrounded by the green-clad infantry.

They already had an air of implacability about them. If the French infantry had remained at their posts, there would be a firefight going on now. But they had not; the positions were deserted. The effect on the advancing Thais was discernable even at this distance. Their advance picked up speed.

“Target the two tanks in the center.”

Roul passed the word to his gun crews. They carefully aimed their pieces. The antitank guns had the advantage, for the first few shots at least. They didn’t intend to waste them. Roul waited until the tanks had closed in and then gave the order to fire.

The first two shots didn’t seem to achieve much. The tank targeted by one had turned at the last second. The shot sprayed dirt and stones all over it, but did no apparent damage. Roul saw a brilliant flash as the shot hit the frontal armor, but it seemed to ricochet off. The tanks stopped; it was obvious that the crews were searching for the gun that had fired on them. Roul understood their problem. Unlike the larger, and theoretically more capable, 37mm guns, the Hotchkiss 25mm had a negligible firing signature. Unless one knew where to look and caught it while firing, there was little to see. The tanks started to move again. Now they edged forward, while the infantry moved ahead of them. Then, there were two more cracks. The 25mm crews took their next shots.

This time, the two guns had concentrated on a single target. Their shots had effect. A tank spun to one side. Its tracks flailed; a drive wheel was destroyed by the hit. The other three tanks had seen something; they started firing their 47mm guns at the site of the antitank guns. Their supporting infantry moved forward fast, attempting to find and clear the antitank guns that threatened their advance.

The survivors of Roul’s infantry platoon opened fire. Their light machine guns cut down the Thai infantry. Roul jumped down beside the crew of his 75mm gun and pointed to a group of the green-clad men.

“There, take them down!”

The Soixante-Quinze fired. The burst of the high-explosive shell scattered the attacking infantry. The antitank guns fired again; their shots hit the Thai tanks but ricocheted off their armor. The 25mm was a good gun for its size; but, at this range and against real targets, its penetration was marginal. The 75 did better. The crew loaded an armorpiercing shot. The effect on the Type B was devastating. The turret spiralled high into the air. What was left of the hull erupted into flames. With two of its tanks gone and the infantry driven to ground by the fire from Roul’s platoon, the Thai attack faltered and fell back.

“That was well done.” Major Belloc had reappeared. “A creditable defense indeed. However, I have to tell you that the Thais have taken Phoum Kien Kes and cut RC-157 some eight kilometers to our rear. And in the north, Sisophon has fallen to them. We are cut off; all six battalions of us. Colonel Jacomy has ordered us to hold our positions. The remainder of the forces at Battambang will break through and relieve us.”

Belloc and Roul exchanged glances. It was Belloc whose quotation expressed what they both knew was going to happen.

“Nous sommes dans un pot de chambre, et nous y serons emmerdés.”

The road was hard-topped. The black asphalt seemed to shimmer in the afternoon sun. A few tens of meters away, the waters of the Tonle Sap shone in the same sun. The great lake stretched from Battambang most of the way back to Phnom Penh; here, it cut Cambodia nearly in half.

The scene on the road was something that its builders had never anticipated. The CardenLloyd machine gun carrier rocked slightly on its suspension as it halted across the left-hand lane. Behind it, the trucks of the infantry battalions stopped as well and discharged their men to form the defense perimeter. It hadn’t been a hard fight on the drive up from Chantaburi; the few French roadblocks had been shelled, dive bombed and bypassed. The only real problem had been the driving urgency to get to this point with minimum delay. That, the battalion had done. They had made it on time and done their duty. Now they, and their vehicles, could rest.

The same could not be said for the other two regiments of the division. They would be heading east, along the road that had just been captured. For the road in question was Route Coloniale Five leading from Battambang to Phnom Penh and it was the main supply line for the entire French Indochina Army now concentrated around Battambang.

“There is not much difference between the P-36G and the Hawk 75N you have flown up to now.” The American civilian speaking to Flight Lieutenant Suchart Chalermkiat had landed the aircraft behind him just an hour before, after flying it in from India. “That’s why we’re getting them through to you first. The P-40Bs can follow later when you have more time to convert.”

Suchart understood what the American was getting at, even while the interpreter was translating his words. FKL-60 had started with 11 Hawk 75Ns; now they had five. Two had been shot down by French Morane fighters; two by ground fire. Two had been lost in accidents. The eight aircraft that had just arrived from India were desperately needed. “P-36Gs?”

“Army Air Corps designation for the Mohawk IV. You’ve got the retractable undercarriage, of course. Don’t forget to pull it up when you take off and lower it before landing. We’ve lost aircraft because of that. There’s an extra machine gun in each wing, giving you six. We’ve replaced the French 7.5mm guns with British .303 Brownings. That’s cost you some ammunition capacity. Otherwise, you’ll find the aircraft is 40 mph faster then the 75N, and that’s about all. Lands the same way and is a touch more agile. Take her up and try her out.”

“Thank you,…” Suchart hesitated.

“Boyington; everybody calls me Pappy. How many kills you got?” It was the standard fighter pilot question; Suchart was slightly flattered by being asked. It meant this American recognized him as being one of the club.

“Does that include aircraft on the ground?” Suchart got a sideways look by way of response; he kicked himself for the obvious mistake. “Of course not. So far, three. Two Moranes and a Farman bomber. The last one was at night.”

Boyington nodded. “Four here. All Japanese. When you fight them, the major one you’ll run across is the Nakajima. You can recognize it by its fixed undercarriage. It’s as agile as the devil, but only got two .30s. Your Hawk can handle it as long as you don’t try and do a low-speed dogfight. There’s a bigger version of it that’s a bit faster and got a retractable undercarriage. The one to watch for is the new Mitsubishi. I’ve never run into one, but the rumor is that it’s very fast, very agile and got wing-mounted cannon.”

There was a pause while the interpreter caught up and got his breath back. Suchart grabbed the opportunity to ask another question. “You think we will fight the Japanese?”

Boyington looked around. He had strict orders not to discuss politics on this delivery flight, but he told himself that this was tactical advice to a fellow fighter pilot, not political at all. “You will. The two biggest guys on the block always end up fighting it out and the Japs will want to take you down before you get big enough to give them a hard time. Only, I’m getting a feeling they may have left it too late. Anyway, you watch their fighters. They love dogfighting. Just dive on them and get away before they can trap you into a turning match.”

“That’s what the German pilot who came here said. Aerobatics are for amateurs. Dive and zoom.”

“Glad to hear it. That’s good advice. Now, the most important thing. Anywhere I can get a drink around here?”

The maps on the walls showed the developing situation quite clearly.

To the Ambassador, it looked like a European fried breakfast. There was a big red circle around Battambang, with the town itself a red blob in the middle. That was the fried egg. North of it was an ellipse stretched out along Route Colonial 157 with a series of designations scrawled in it. That was the sausage. Then, north of that was a series of small red circles that marked the remnants of the French troops north of the Tonle Sap. They would be the hash browns. To the Ambassador, it looked like breakfast; but she knew to the French it was a military disaster in the making.

Six battalions of French infantry and an artillery battalion were cut off and surrounded north of Phoum Preav. Ten more French battalions of infantry, three battalions of artillery and the survivors of an armored battalion were surrounded at Battambang. Only two battalions of infantry were left unbesieged. One was the first battalion of the 5th REI at Siamreap and the other was a Tirailleur Tonkinois battalion at Kompong Thum. Almost half the French forces in Indochina had been either destroyed or had been left with no choice but to surrender. On the other hand, the Ninth Infantry division was wholly tied down at Battambang, along with a regiment of the 11th Infantry and another of the 2nd Cavalry. The rest of the 11th was either spreading out along the Mekong to await the anticipated Japanese thrust or advancing along Route Coloniale 6 to Phnom Penh. South of the Tonle Sap, the rest of 2nd Cavalry was also heading towards Phnom Penh along Route Coloniale 5. She was confident they would get there. After all, there was nothing left to stop them.

“What excuses have the Navy offered us?” Her tone was icy cold; the naval officer waiting to report blanched at hearing it.

“We have lost two torpedo boats and the coastal defense ship Thonburi is grounded off Koh Chang. She’ll be towed back to Bangkok for repair later this afternoon. The French were driven off and they were prevented from bombarding our coastal towns.” Captain Chuan Jitbhatkorn sounded defensive and knew it.

“That’s what happened. I asked why it has happened. Or is there no reason why the Navy has let us down?” The Ambassador’s tones hadn’t warmed in the slightest. In her own mind, she had a reasonable idea of what lay behind the naval losses at Koh Chang. The Army had been rebuilt with young, vigorous officers in command, men who had been selected on merit.

The Air Force was recently-formed and had always been that way. The Navy, though, had been aloof from the political disruptions of the previous decade and had not been forced to change as a result. It was still wedded to the old ways. One of them was officers selected by connection and family, not ability. There was a place for soldier-politicians in the armed forces; the Ambassador was well aware of that, since she was one. But a military politician who was also an able military commander was rare. More normally, the two were mutually exclusive.

“We were outgunned and outnumbered. Our ships could not raise steam fast enough. The idea of a coastal defense ship with a few heavy guns is fundamentally flawed; such ships cannot fire effectively on moving targets. For all that, one ship held off five enemy warships for over an hour and saved the rest of the squadron. We lost a battle, tactically; but strategically, we may have won. That will depend on whether the French return or not.” Captain Chuan was angered by the insinuations about the Navy’s conduct and it showed.

“Very well. I have a task for you.” The Ambassador eyed the Captain thoughtfully. He’d fought back when attacked; that meant he could be the sort of young, intelligent officer she sought out. Let’s give him a job to find out.

“You are charged with interviewing all the survivors of the action and making out a list of lessons learned and actions recommended. If our naval policies are wrong, say so. If our present ships are useless, say that too.”

Her voice softened. “There is no shame in losing a battle, Captain. That can happen to anybody. There is much shame in not finding out why the battle was lost and failing to correct those errors. Report back to me with the reasons why Koh Chang did not go as we desired and solutions for the problems so revealed. And remember. If anybody tries to prevent you from giving me your honest opinions, place them firmly out of your way. I have no wish to be told what I want to hear. Nobody has ever suffered at my hands for telling me the truth.” Chuan glanced around and noted that several of the Army officers were nodding absent-mindedly.

A communications officer rushed in waving a message. “Highness, a message from the Foreign Ministry in Bangkok. The Japanese Ambassador has delivered a note to ourselves, and apparently to the French, offering to mediate an end to this war. The terms they dictate are attached.”

“And what is the reaction in the Government so far?” The Ambassador spoke reflectively while she read the terms of the Japanese ultimatum. They were better-suited to her purpose than she could dream possible.

“Marshal Plaek wants to throw the Japanese Ambassador down a well and asks your permission to do it.”

The Ambassador snorted. “This is not Sparta. I will compose a suitable reply for the Japanese Ambassador to send back to Tokyo. However, advise my old friend to pick out a suitable well; just in case.”

“So, the conclusion so far is that the industrial infrastructure of Germany is such that there are no singularities that we can take out. We define a singularity as a point of failure, the destruction of which will bring warmaking capability to a halt and which cannot easily be repaired or replaced. This means that any strategic bombing campaign is going to have to hit a large number of targets to induce the kind of failure we are seeking. The ballbearing industry is a good example, as you will see from Chapter TwentySeven of our preliminary report. There are only four ball bearing plants in Germany and their destruction would bring ball bearing production to a halt. In theory, that will destroy German war production. In reality, they can replace ball bearings by roller bearings for many applications and roller bearings can be made anywhere. They can also replace internal production with ball bearings imported from, say, Sweden or Switzerland. Then, of course, there is the question of repairing the factories and there we move into unknown territory.

“The truth is that neither we nor anybody else have any idea what it actually takes to destroy a factory. The British believed that it would take four 250-pound bomb hits to destroy an average factory. Already, the experience available to date shows that this estimate was ludicrously wrong. Probably wrong by several orders of magnitude. We’ve already determined one problem; that is that all the bombs we were planning to use have impact fuzes. They explode immediately on impact and the factories have roofs.”

“Oh?” Secretary Stimson sounded confused; suddenly, realization dawned on him. “Ohhh. The bombs hit the roof and wreck it, but the inside remains undamaged?”

“Exactly. We need to fit our bombs with delayed action fuzes. It sounds simple, but it appears nobody thought of that. A dead space between the roof and the ceiling of the factory floor is excellent protection. The roof sets the fuze off and the ceiling catches the debris. Reinforcing building roofs is also a simple defense. Anyway, we’re going to have to do a lot of research on what it takes to blow a factory up before we can take a target list and estimate the force we need to destroy it. We’ll probably need to take a real factory and bomb it just to see what happens. One thing I will say now, the 250-pounder won’t hack it. We’re looking at 500-or 1000-pounders, at least, to get real effects. Possibly much larger. We could be dropping 4000-pounders by the time this war is over. We’ll have to bear that in mind when designing the bomb bays for our aircraft.”

“Thank you, Phillip. I suggest you find a disused factory we can employ for that purpose. Now, I assume everybody has heard that the Japanese have offered to ‘mediate’ a negotiated peace between French Indochina and Thailand?” Cordell Hull looked around the table. More heads shook than nodded. “Mediated is a very polite way of putting it. Dictated terms that suit themselves would be closer. I have those terms here. Essentially they are that Thailand gets a small strip of land along the border. Quite a bit less than they have occupied over the last few days. Japan gets full basing rights and essentially complete political control over the rest of French Indochina, along with free access rights to Indochinese and Thai territory ‘to monitor the ceasefire’. Oh, and the French authorities plus the Thai government will be expected to pay significant amounts to Japan to compensate them for their efforts.”

“That’s not a mediated ceasefire; that’s a power grab.” Stimson frowned. “Are the Thais complicit in this? In league with the Japanese?”

“Given the nature of their reply, I hardly think so.” Hull looked around, his opinions conflicted. On one hand, he was delighted at what he had read; on the other, perturbed that his original judgment had been so mistaken. Driven by his instinctive prejudices against military governments, he had nearly made a catastrophic mistake by alienating a valuable ally. “To quote the Thai Foreign Ministry, ‘Since the Empire of Japan has no legitimate presence, position or interest in the Indochina region, the Kingdom of Thailand firmly and unequivocally rejects the ultimatum masquerading as a mediated settlement to the current hostilities between the Kingdom and the French Indochina authorities. These hostilities are a matter between the participants and will be resolved on a bilateral basis between them. Furthermore, the Kingdom of Thailand advises the Empire of Japan that it will not be allowed access rights to Thai territory and any attempt to secure such rights will be resisted by all the force at the Kingdom’s disposal.’ In non-diplomatic language that reads ‘mind your own business and drop dead in the process.’ It’s about the most emphatic rejection of a diplomatic approach I have seen in forty years of public service. The French Indochina authorities have accepted the Japanese proposals. I would say that the two reactions have drawn the lines of political alignments quite definitively.”

Suriyothai, honey, when you nail your colors to the mast, you sure use the largest nails you can find. Stuyvesant restrained himself from grinning at the thought. He was forestalled from saying anything by Henry Morgenthau’s worried comment.

“Aren’t the French doing quite well? The Thai advance seems limited and the French are claiming a major naval victory. They’re saying they’ve sunk a third of the Thai Navy including both their largest battleships and three destroyers.”

Stimson shook his head. “Not according to our military attache there. One of the ships the French claim to have sunk is in Sattahip. She’s not just undamaged; she wasn’t even in the battle. The other one was towed into Bangkok the day after the battle. She’s badly shot up but afloat. They’re coast defense ships, by the way, not battleships. The Thais say they’ve lost two torpedo boats; that’s all. We do know they drove off the French squadron. It’s in Saigon right now, with their cruiser and at least one sloop damaged. On land, the French are facing an imminent disaster. Their counterattack was a complete failure and it seems like their army has been surrounded at Battambang. That’s probably why they accepted the Japanese proposal. It’s the only chance they have of stopping the situation unravelling completely.”

“I think it is fairly obvious that reversing our position on arms supplies was a major factor in Thailand adopting its anti-Japanese alignment.”

Cordell Hull sounded almost sanctimoniously pleased with himself. Given a week, you’ll have convinced yourself that this was what you had planned all along. Stuyvesant contented himself with nodding thoughtfully at Hull’s statement. Hull’s next words caught him by surprise. “Since they are obviously aligned with our interests, perhaps we should make our support clearer? Unfortunately, we appear to have run out of British and French aircraft to give away.”

A ripple of laughter ran around the room. The truth was that the vast stockpile of undelivered French and British aircraft had been put to a far better use than its original owners could ever have thought possible. The political and strategic gains from their distribution far exceeded their actual military value.

Stimson raised a hand in a munificent gesture. “Actually, I might be able to help there. I was speaking with General Marshall this morning. Apparently, the British bought 100 M2A4 light tanks, which remain undelivered. They were scheduled for our own use, but we have a new model, the M3, being introduced. Their loss will not be significant. Perhaps, if we were to offer them to the Thais, the reinforcement would make their rejection of the Japanese all the more emphatic?”

“They belong to the Commonwealth of Nations as the legitimate successor to the British government.” Cordell Hull was firm on that. The proprieties had to be observed. “Of course, if the Indians, Australians, Canadians and South Africans don’t mind, the transfer would be possible.”

“The South Africans want armored cars. The Canadians are building Valentines. It’s just the Indians and Australians who matter and I think we know where the Indians stand on this. They won’t object.”

Cordell Hull acknowledged Stimson’s assessment with a nod.

“Phillip, you look like you have a thought on this?”

“It seems to me that a longer-term commitment is necessary. Speaking as a businessman, I’d want to know that the current relationship is stable before investing. After all, we have reversed course on Thailand twice now.”

“Perhaps a long-term financial commitment?” Henry Morgenthau spoke diffidently. He’d seen the intricate detail of the studies on German industry and didn’t like what he was seeing. The sheer complexity and number of variables in the picture that had been presented made him question the plausibility of theories based around central economic planning. That ran against the beliefs of a lifetime and made him pleased to get back to simpler and less disturbing ground. “Extend a substantial credit line, repayable over a long period at a low rate of interest? That would be a sign that the relationship now being established is an enduring one.”

“And what they do with the money would also be useful information on their real policies and intents.” Hull nodded approvingly. “An excellent suggestion, Henry. Has anybody anything else to add?”

There was a generalized murmur of denial and Hull looked around happily. “Very well then; I will present these opinions to the next meeting of the cabinet. Phillip, I will let you know when that will be. I understand that your team has finished the first draft of Air War Plan Directive One. Please hold yourself ready to attend the appropriate part of that meeting. I fear nobody else can present the information you have gathered in a way that will do it justice. On that note, I move this meeting be closed.”