by Stuart Slade
Without being able to explain why, Mongkut knew that war was coming. It wasn’t the troop movements or his sudden resumption of military life. Nor was it the intense training he and his men had gone through over the last few weeks. It was much less definable than that. It was just that there was something in the air; an electricity or a tension. It was as if all the decisions had been taken, all the preparations made and the war was a reality that hadn’t quite happened …. yet.
His thoughts were interrupted by a blast of whistles. A rest period. Ten minutes rest for every hour of marching. He couldn’t detect urgency in the movement; it was as if the planners knew that there was plenty of time and they preferred the troops on the move to arrive in good condition rather than exhausted from a forced march.
“Water carriers; fall out and refill canteens.”
The order had come from the Sergeants, but it was for the Corporals to carry out. Mongkut didn’t need to say anything; he just pointed at two of his men and watched them join the rest. There was a lake through the trees, gleaming dark blue in the sunshine. He recognized it; knew the shoreline and the square fish farm that lay across the width of the lake. They were just a little bit north of Non Sung; only a few kilometers from his family home. That really did put them close to the border with Cambodia and Laos.
Troops moving up to the Indochina border and a war in the air. Mongkut put the two together and came up with a very satisfactory answer. In his opinion, there were a lot of debts owed. It was about time that his country collected on them.
Don Muang Airport, Bangkok, Thailand
“My apologies, Mister Secretary, for the landplane. Unfortunately, we have no areas suitable for flying boats, so we have to use DC3 aircraft for even the most prestigious of dignitaries. Please accept the warmest hospitality of our nation.” The Ambassador placed both hands together in the traditional Thai ‘wai’ gesture and dipped her head.
“This is a more modern airport than I had expected.” Cordell Hull did not return the gesture or make an equivalent response. “And a much more active one. I assume you have arranged this as a demonstration of your country’s modern outlook?”
The Ambassador ignored the discourtesy shown to her. She’d been insulted many times in her life and had long ago learned to ignore the slights. There were much more important things at stake here than her personal feelings.
“This is a normal day’s activity for this airport, especially now at the end of the rainy season. You see, the whole of the river delta is low-laying ground and it floods very easily once the rains start. By this time, the end of the monsoon, most of the area is underwater. This is wonderful for our farmers who will produce rice on the newly-enriched ground, but it makes the construction of roads and railways in the region difficult. To make matters worse, most of our population lives in the flooded areas. So we have developed air travel to maintain communications. The aircraft you just saw taking off is taking some passengers and, most importantly, the mail to Aranyaprathet. If you wish to look at the logs of the Civil Aviation Division, you will see this is a regularly scheduled flight.”
“I am sure I will.” Hull looked skeptical. “Who runs this airfield?”
“It is a joint civilian and military operation. The plan is to transfer the civilian part of the airfield to civilian employees as soon as they are properly trained and qualified. The actual airfield is run by our air force and they use the northern part. The fighters charged with the defense of the city are based there.”
“What fighters and how many?”
“We have six Curtiss Hawk IIs based here; that’s the export version of the U.S. Navy’s F11C-2,” The Ambassador sighed. “They are old, of course, and quite obsolete. Six more are at Chiang Mai in the north. We had hoped to replace them all with North American Model 68s, but the six aircraft we bought are being held in Hawaii.”
“We cannot afford to allow the Japanese access to our latest technology.” Hull slid into the waiting limousine. The Ambassador sat beside him in the back. “Not with the Japanese set on a course of territorial aggression across this whole region.”
“And as one of the potential victims of that aggression, we could not afford to compromise the effectiveness of our air defenses by giving away their details. The secrets of your aircraft are safe with us. Secretary Hull, Bangkok is a densely crowded city built largely of wood. If anybody was to bomb it, the way the Japanese have bombed cities in China, the fires would be a catastrophe. Our fire fighting services would be overwhelmed and the only thing to stop the blaze spreading would be the canals that divide the city. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, would die. Without modern fighters, if our major cities are threatened with bombing, we would have no choice but to submit.”
For the first time, Cordell Hull paused to question his basic assumptions. It was one thing to look at a map and make theoretical assumptions; quite another to deal with realities on the ground. The vulnerability of Thai cities to fire had never occurred to him. In passing, he wondered how many other cities in Asia would burn just as easily or as catastrophically.
“And why should the Japanese bomb you? It would appear to me that your government and political systems are very much akin to theirs.”
The Ambassador smiled politely. Mentally, she imagined the American Secretary of State being burned at the stake; using a slow, carefully controlled, fire. “To the Japanese, other nations fall into two categories. Those who must be conquered and turned into slaves or those who acknowledge Japanese superiority and become willing servants. We would prefer to be neither; but, if forced to make the choice, we would become the second rather than the first.
“As to similarities, yes, there are many. We are both monarchies where the King is held in high esteem. There is an important difference. In Japan, the Emperor is held in high regard because that is the religious duty of the people. In ours, we hold our King in high regard because he has earned that respect by his service to our people. If the respect is not earned, it is not given and he is replaced. You may remember this happened, less than ten years ago.” And let us see if you remember who commanded the troops that did it.
“Replaced by a military junta that wields authority in the name of the monarchy.” Hull’s voice injected a healthy dose of contempt into the phrase.
“Again, I will concede a superficial similarity.” The Ambassador’s voice remained polite and deferential. “But the reality is very different. In Japan, the military junta is an end in itself; it is the final product of a flawed system. Here, the military dominance of our government is a temporary thing; a step on the road to a functioning democratic government. In any case, our Prime Minister may be an Army officer, but he also functions within the rules and limitations of an elected assembly.
“By 1942 we will have full elections and we already have opposing political parties ready to contest them. The leaders of those parties already freely express their opposition to our current administration and its policies. They even have their own newspaper. What would happen to them in Japan?
“No, Mister Secretary, we have little in common with the Japanese. They believe they are already perfect and seek to impose their will on others. We recognize our imperfections and ask only to be given the chance to learn from others. And we ask you only to give us the chance to choose from whom we wish to learn. For without proper air defenses, we will have no such choice.”
4 Battalion 11th Sikh Regiment, Bitama, Eritrea
It had only been a short advance. But it had a significance much more than just the ten miles they had moved. They had crossed the border from the Sudan and were now driving the enemy 40th Infantry Division backwards on their base at Bitama. The 40th Infantry, also known as the Cacciatori d’Africa, had held the ridgeline east of Kassala for two days before a flanking move by a brigade of the Fifth Indian Division had made the line untenable and forced them to evacuate.
Subedar Shabeg Singh felt gravely shamed that his Skihs hadn’t managed to take the posit
ion and had to be helped out by the Jats of the 9th Brigade. Somehow, it made matters worse that the same flanking threat made the position at Bitama untenable and the Italians would not be trying to defend it. The critical high ground, the Bara Ghazi, to the west of Bitama had fallen without a fight.
Brigadier Harold Rawdon Briggs had called the meeting of his battalion officers to outline the next stage of the campaign. Scattered amongst the august ranks of the British were the much more junior Indian officers. Briggs was keenly aware that the political circumstances of his brigade had changed. It was now an Indian Army formation, in all its attributes; the process of handing it over to Indian command was, if not absolutely urgent, something all the better for being started as soon as possible.
The command structures of the battalions was being changed; each of the British officers now had an Indian ‘shadow,’ who would be learning to take over. Briggs had spent long hours looking at the men involved and their records, carefully picking out pairings that would work together. As far as he was concerned, the longer these men had together in the transition phase, the better for the Indian Army that was being bom here. That was why an early start had been so essential.
“Major Hamby, sir.” Singh recognized the man he was supposed to meet here. They’d worked together in the past and made a good team. The news that they would be working together again pleased him greatly.
Major Joel Hamby turned around; his own face was split by a friendly smile. “Shabeg, my old friend. It is good to see you again.”
In the background sitting at his briefing desk, Briggs saw the two men greet each other as old friends and allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. To his knowledge, there was no parallel in modern warfare for what was happening now. An entire army was changing nationalities in the middle of a campaign. The Indian will be the British officer’s second-in-command and assistant while he is taught the new responsibilities. Then, when the Indian officer is ready, the two will switch positions. Finally, command will be handed over to the Indians and the British officer will… Well, that is the problem, isn’t it? What will happen to us once command of the Indian Army is fully returned to the Indian Government?
It was time to start the meeting. He tapped the glass of water on his desk and the room froze into silence. Briggs glanced around and saw how the Indian and British officers had completed pairing off. That part of the meeting, actually the most important part, was accomplished. He just hoped that other brigade and battalion meetings would be going as well. “Gentlemen, I have news for you that will change our plans for the immediate future. The armored cars of the Central India Horse have taken Bitama from the Italians without resistance.”
There was a series of polite cheers from around the tent. Briggs paused for a second, acknowledging the moment before continuing on a cautionary note. “Let us not be misled. We all know that the Italians can fight and fight well. They are retreating because they do not believe that they can put up an effective resistance here. Our assessment is that the Italian garrison in Eritrea is falling back on Asmara and, eventually, Massawa. We believe that they will form a defense line at Keren to defend that position.”
Briggs cleared his throat and drank some water before continuing. “The Fifth Indian Division will be pursuing the Italian force back to Keren and will be occupying Eritrea. The Italian moves appear to be similar to those adopted in Kenya and Somaliland. Put briefly, the Italian garrison in all the Somalilands are retreating without putting up much of a fight. They are regrouping in Ethiopia and it is there that they will make their final stand. The South African Division is already entering Ethiopia from the south, while the 11th and 12th King’s African Divisions complete the occupation of all the Somalilands. Now, we can’t let the Boers have all the glory can we?”
There was a patter of applause and a discrete Sikh war-cry. Briggs smiled to himself. There is nothing like providing a common rival to weld people together. “Just because the South Africans and their Tomahawks have shot down large numbers of Italian aircraft doesn’t mean that nobody can win a battle or two without them, does it?”
Again a patter of applause rippled around the room. The way the two squadrons of Tomahawks had cleared the air of Italian air support had made a compelling story for the newspapers, but it had left the ground troops feeling unappreciated and resentful. Briggs waited again until it had settled down. “Well, we have our part to play in Ethiopia. Effective immediately, we will be heading south. And, I am reliably informed, we will soon be having our own Tomahawks to support us, along with other American aircraft, including a new light bomber called the Maryland. Our job will be to drive south and link up with the South Africans. I needn’t say that honor demands we meet them as far south as possible, need I?”
There was another subdued roar of agreement.
“I am advised that we will be cooperating with other forces on our move into Ethiopia. One will be an Ethiopian irregular force that will be conducting a partisan campaign against the Italian forces in the country. There is also a British group doing much the same thing, under the command of a Colonel Wingate.”
Briggs paused for a few seconds, running over that issue in his mind. When he spoke again, he did so very carefully. “I would caution you all that irregular forces and partisan groups invariably have their own agenda, and their long-term interests may not coincide with ours. I would counsel caution in your dealings with them. Be aware that they may be on our side today, but we do not know on whose behalf they may act tomorrow.”
There was much nodding around the room at that. Briggs was interested to see that the Indian Army officers were as cautious as the rest. There was a much greater degree of agreement than he had dared hope. Eventually, one Indian officer asked the question Briggs hoped nobody would.
“Sir, does this most appropriate caution also apply to Colonel Wingate’s force?”
“He calls his group Gideon Force, and I believe Colonel Wingate is aware that his control over the men nominally under his command may not be as absolute as he would wish; nor are their interests and ambitions necessarily in accordance with his own.”
He could see the officers he was addressing translating his words in their minds and coming up with the answers he had intended. The Indian officer nodded with satisfaction and sat down again.
“Is there any word of the French?” A British officer spoke up.
Briggs hesitated for a moment. “I have been advised that the French have shown no interest in the conflict between us and the Italians at this time. In the absence of any further information, I believe we will have to continue planning our operations based on that perception. I would add that the Italians did attack the French back in June, although they did not achieve very much. The French may resent the fact that we left them in the lurch, as it were, but they actually fought the Italians.”
There was a deep silence around the room. The British officers remembered how France had fought on after the Halifax had accepted the German Armistice offer. The French fight might have been hopeless, but it had been gallant. France had gone down with its colors still flying bravely. The contrast with Britain’s actions had echoed around the world.
Looking at the meeting, Briggs began to realize how deep the wound in British pride and self-confidence had been.
Supreme Command Headquarters, Bangkok, Thailand
“The greatest curse of any nation is illiteracy. No matter how free somebody may be in theory, if that person is illiterate, then they are imprisoned by their minds. A prisoner held by steel bars and iron shackles may escape his bonds, but one imprisoned by an illiterate mind can never escape its curse. That is why we must educate our children; so that freedom will be their heritage.” Field Marshal Plaek Pibulsonggram leaned forward in his chair, his eyes flashing. “The teacher is in the vanguard of progress and the school is where the future is born.”
Cordell Hull blinked at the unexpected lecture. This wasn’t going at all the way he had expected. “And where
does military rule fit into all this?”
Marshal Plaek folded his fingers together as he thought the question over. “In the long term, it does not. In the short and medium term, I believe our task is to prepare the country for truly democratic rule under the leadership of a constitutional monarchy. Once again, we come back to the problem of literacy. People who are illiterate, who cannot investigate matters and form their own opinions, are easily led. To be frank with you, Mister Secretary, my greatest fear is of some smooth-tongued scoundrel who will use wealth and charisma to dominate large numbers of illiterate peasants and bring them to our capital in order to wreak havoc. While illiteracy remains rampant in our country, then that is a danger we must guard against. That is why our constitution stipulates that the transition to full democratic representation in the Assembly should only be achieved at the end of ten years or when more than half of the populace has gone through primary education, whichever is achieved first.
“I am proud to say that we have met this target and when the new elections take place in 1942, more than half the population will indeed have gone through primary education. Many of them are not youngsters; but older members of the community who have sacrificed what little leisure time they have to go back to school and become literate. When they make such sacrifices, we cannot let them down.”
“The American concept of democratic government does not include the concept of qualifying people for the vote. We have had such measures in the past, and they were used to oppress and disenfranchise the voters.”
“Our constitution was actually written by an American jurist, Raymond Bartlett Stevens. It does not qualify people for a vote individually, but merely states that the present arrangement of our parliament, wherein half the members are elected and half appointed, shall be replaced by a parliament wherein all the members are elected once the primary education target is met. Which it was, well before the 1942 deadline.”