by Stuart Slade
Marshal Plaek’s quiet, very precise English had the desired impact. Very reluctantly, Cordell Hull had to concede the point made. Nevertheless, his primary concern remained unaddressed.
“And what, may I ask, are your future intentions with regard to your neighbors?”
“Once again, I will be frank with you, Mister Secretary. Personally, I like Japanese weapons. They are inexpensive for us to buy, simple, easy to maintain and effective. My colleagues in the government disagree and the government has discussed the issue with the loyal opposition, led by Luang Pridi Phanomyong. After listening to the case made by the opposition, I agreed with their position that the political costs represented by any links with Imperial Japan were too high to countenance. However, the need for armaments still remains paramount, given the world situation. The North American P-64s we bought and the license we had been granted to build more would have resolved our problems but….” Plaek sighed softly and noted the guilty bob of the head from Cordell Hull.
“Weapons are tools, not intentions; Field Marshal. I asked after the latter.”
“But the availability of appropriate tools determines the range of intentions, does it not? If one has only a hammer, one cannot build a house using screws. The intentions of Thailand, Mister Secretary, are simple. We intend to preserve our independence and our way of life, while also modernizing our country to become part of the modern, democratic world. For this, we require strong defenses and secure borders. The greatest threat to those is Imperial Japan. We must either be strong enough to oppose Imperial Japan or friendly enough with them for them not to be a threat to us. We prefer the former.
“Part of maintaining strong defenses is the ability to recognize threats before they become critical. Every day, the Japanese position in French Indo-China becomes stronger. The French authorities in Indo-China are staunch supporters of the Vichy government and are so indirect allies of Japan. Our border with French Indo-China was forced on us by the treaties of 1893 and 1908 and was deliberately designed to be indefensible. It concerns us here in the government that soon Japan will be on the other side of that border. If Japan attempts the same absorption process that is being conducted in Indochina, it will leave Malaya, Singapore and Burma gravely exposed. Ultimately, India itself will be at risk. As responsible members of the international community, this causes us much concern. We would make some minor changes to the border to improve our defensive positions and negotiate cross-border trade agreements to benefit the lives of the people living along that border, but the French authorities refuse to negotiate with us.”
Cordell Hull shook his head. As a long-term diplomat, a refusal to negotiate was one of the worst cardinal sins he could imagine. It had been the way he, himself, had nearly committed the same sin that had shocked him into undertaking this mission. In his mind, the only worse sin that refusing to negotiate was to negotiate in bad faith. Determining whether the people he had met since his arrival were speaking in good faith was his next priority.
“If Thailand will accept my services as an intermediary, I will go to Hanoi and attempt to organize a meeting where trade and security issues may be discussed. In the meantime, I would like to visit some of the towns and villages here.”
“We will be most grateful for your aid, Mister Secretary. Let us know where you wish to go and we will arrange transport for you.”
The meeting ended much more cordially than it had started. Cordell Hull returned to the Oriental Hotel while Field Marshal Plaek Pibulsonggram read reports on the progress of the communications work that was finally in hand. Even so, he heard the quiet steps as the Ambassador entered his office. Unannounced, of course.
“I trust you did not tell him that the minor border adjustments we have in mind will take us all the way to the Mekong?” Her voice was droll.
“Of course not, Highness. It will be a nice surprise for him.”
CHAPTER NINE: EARNEST MONEY
Ministry of Defence, Canberra, Australia
Sir Wilfrid Freeman sighed softly as he tried to settle comfortably into his seat. The damage done by the bullet that had struck his shoulder still troubled him gravely and he had the resigned feeling that the mobility of his arm would never be fully restored. Still, the report he was reading cheered him up greatly. If the Commonwealth Aircraft Corporation could pull this off, then the genius of the British for inspired improvisation still survived.
“So you’ve converted the Harvard trainer into a fighter?” Sir Wilfrid deliberately put an incredulous note into his voice. If the CAC could defend this project properly, they would also be capable of driving it to a proper conclusion and taking it even further.
“Not the Harvard; nah. The Wirraway. A cousin ta the Harvard. We took the basic NA-16 design, gave it a R-1340 engine, beefed it up for dive bombin’ and gave it two forward-firin’ machine guns, not one. More or less what North American did with the design ta get the AT-6, which then became your Harvard. Then, of course, North American beefed that aircraft up to be a dive bomber and light attack aircraft, then sold it to the Siamese.”
Sir Wilfrid nodded, taking due care to make his expression as skeptical as possible. “Converting a trainer to a light bomber is one thing. Converting it into a fighter is quite another.”
“It’s a bit more than just a conversion, cobber. We gave it a license-built R-I830, reworked the whole airframe ta cope with the extra power, messed around with the undercart and gave it a pair of 20mm cannons in addition ta its ,303s. Changed the wing profile as well. Truth be told, there ain’t much of the ridgy didge Wirraway left there.”
It took him a few seconds to translate the comment into English. When he had, he was impressed. The file on the aircraft had the estimated performance data and Sir Wilfrid had already made his assessment of that information. The new fighter would be slow at altitude and virtually useless over 15,000 feet; low down, it would be the equal of anything believed to be in the area. Most importantly, it was made using Australian resources and was quite independent of anything that had to be imported. Except the 20mm cannons, of course. They were going to be a problem.
“How long? A year? 18 months?”
The CAC representative looked unbearably smug. “Nah. We’ve rolled the first one out already. We’re doin’ the ground tests now. We’ll fly her in less than five weeks. January 29th is the date we have pencilled in. You’re welcome to come down and see her fly. I know, she ain’t important in the run of thin’s…”
It was time to end the charade. Sir Wilfrid knew that CAC had done an incredible job in getting their little fighter ready in such a short time. It was time to make sure that achievement was recognized.
“Not important? My dear sir, this CA-12 fighter of yours could turn out to be the most important project Australia is currently involved in. The deliveries of American fighters have staunched a gaping hole in our air defenses, but they are a short-term expedient only and they leave us open to unwelcome pressure. One change you will have to make will be the 20mm cannon. We cannot be sure of their supply; make certain the CA-12 can carry four .303 machine guns in their place.”
“The order is confirmed, then?” CAC had an order in hand for 105 CA-12 fighters but they knew Sir Wilfrid was tasked with choosing the aircraft to rearm the RAAF, and controlling of their production, by the Australian government. The CA-12 would be competing with the Department of Aircraft Production Beaufort for the R-1830 engines
“Of course. And I will be honored to attend the aircraft’s first flight. What do you want to call it, by the way?”
“We thought ta’ Boomerang. Always comes back, ya see. We’ll be proud to see ya at CAC anytime ya like. To be honest, we thought DAP would be takin’ us over.”
Sir Wilfrid shook his head. “They’re all set up to build the Beauforts and their design team will be fully-absorbed in bringing the Beaufighter into production. Anyway, it never hurts to have a little competition, does it? That brings us to the subject of your future. I assume that, with
the first flight impending, your design team is reaching the end of their involvement in the CA-12? That being the case, you would be well-advised to come up with some concepts for its successor. You might like to look at some of the wing designs the Americans have come up with.”
The representatives from CAC left with delighted expressions on their faces. Once they were gone, Sir Wilfred opened the next file on his desk, de Havilland Australia were already building Tiger Moth trainers and Dragon Rapide light transports but their capacity was under-utilized. Amongst the treasure trove of documents brought out of Britain were the blueprints for a medium transport aircraft, the Flamingo. Building that aircraft in Australia was the next project to get under way. The problem was getting anybody in Australia to trust a de Havilland-built transport after the DH.86 disaster. He sighed again and shook his head. He’d gone through this whole process once before as the Air Member for Research and Development. That hadn’t ended well, but all he could hope was that his work would have a better outcome this time.
Cabinet Office, 10 Downing Street, London, United Kingdom
“Now is the time to call a halt.”
R.A.B. Butler had the situation reports from the Middle East in his hands. They showed that Italian resistance in East Africa had crumpled completely, with Italian forces heading in full retreat back to Ethiopia. “The 12th King’s African Division has taken Mogadiscio, while the South Africans have cleared Kenya and are moving northwards into Ethiopia. In the north, General Wavell’s troops are advancing on Asmara while his forces are also entering Ethiopia. A diplomatic engagement with the Italians now will pay dividends and consolidate our gains. We have a victory that we can point to, as justification for our adjustments to Britain’s political outlook.”
“Did you see what the newspapers have said?” Lord Halifax gave no sign of having heard Butler’s words. His own voice was querulous and petty. “They refer to the South Africans driving the Italians out of Kenya. It is South African Tomahawks that swept the skies of Italian aircraft. Indian troops are advancing on Massawa and invading Ethiopia. African troops are occupying Italian Somaliland. Where is mention of us in all this? According to the newspapers, these victories are being won by the Dominions without any contribution by ourselves. I approved the operations in North Africa and supported General Wavell. Where is mention of that?”
Lord Halifax was genuinely bewildered by the newspaper coverage of the war in North and East Africa. He had expected his friends in the Cliveden Set to ensure that he got all the credit for the apparently remarkable turnaround in the military fortunes of the country. Instead, his name was barely mentioned.
“I suspect that Geoffrey Dawson and Robert Barrington-Ward are doing you a great kindness in keeping your name out of this.” Butler sounded sincere. “This whole business will end in tears. Wavell has his troops stretched to the absolute limit there, and he has still done nothing to remove the Italians from Egypt. I suspect that the Italians were not expecting him to attack, so he had the element of surprise working for him. When they counterattack, we will see another disaster out there; you mark my words.”
“What I see is the Dominions getting all the credit for winning a series of victories out there. They’re taking the credit for a situation that is my creation. If I hadn’t backed Wavell, he’d never have dared move like this.”
“Prime Minister, the fewer people who know that, the better. Wavell is horribly outnumbered in North Africa and as soon as Mussolini moves against him, his entire position will crumble. With it, the credibility of the Dominions as independent powers will be crushed and they will be forced to come back to us, cap in hand, to rescue them from the wreckage. I would urge, though, that we do not let matters reach that pass. We can approach Signore Mussolini now and offer him a ceasefire; one that returns to the prewar boundaries. We have a window of opportunity here; one where the balance of power is in our favor. We should take advantage of it.”
Halifax looked out of the window, at the miserable darkness of a British winter. There had been plenty of dry weather during December, and the rain that had fallen during the month was mainly light. The temperature was on the way down, though; there had already been several slight frosts. That wasn’t the reason for the grayness that seemed to blanket the country.
Halifax could sense what was really the problem. The atmosphere of reluctance to accept defeat; a resentment at the way the war had been suddenly ended. Now, with the news of the Commonwealth victories in East Africa, there was a growing sensation that the Armistice had been a mistake.
To make matters worse, the demands from Germany were growing. Some of them had been quite reasonable, Halifax had thought at the time. Closer economic ties between Germany and Britain, for example. The Germans were placing large orders with British factories. The shipyards were building merchant ships for German companies; light engineering groups, a variety of supplies. Then, the Germans had asked for the use of a small number of British airfields so they could improve surveillance of the eastern Atlantic. Tangmere had been one such airfield; Manston another. There had been a few more. A handful of German reconnaissance aircraft on a handful of British airfields hadn’t been too high a price to pay for peace.
“Very well, RAB. Instruct our Ambassador in Rome to seek an appointment with Mussolini so we can negotiate a ceasefire.”
Bridge, HMAS Australia, off Berbera, Italian-occupied British Somaliland
“Perhaps it was for the best after all?”
Lieutenant Colonel Beaumont sounded almost amused by the situation. Standing beside him, Captain Robert Stewart couldn’t help smiling. Any reply was forestalled by Australia’s eight-inch guns crashing out a salvo. A thousand yards a stern, HMAS Canberra fired at the same target: an orderly group of buildings that were the home of the Italian garrison. The buildings were empty and deserted. Early in the morning, a Sunderland flying boat out of Aden had dropped leaflets on the area, warning everybody that the base would be bombarded at noon and that anybody who did not want to see what eight-inch shell bursts looked like at close quarters ought to evacuate.
“The warning leaflets?” Stewart shook his head. “I can only think that we’ve got some very good intelligence on this garrison. Otherwise, those leaflets could cost us dear.”
“I meant getting thrown out of the old country.” Beaumont looked back on the last few weeks with almost fond exasperation. His battalion had disembarked from Australia, and been divested of all their extra equipment, before being put on trains and sent over to the Pacific Coast. There, they’d been put on a hastily-commandeered liner and sailed for the Middle East. They got there just in time to match up with Australia again. They’d been three-quarters of the way around the world to end up more or less where they had started. His thoughts were interrupted by the ship shaking as another pair of broadsides crashed out.
A group of boats was assembling in the water between the two cruisers and the shoreline. They contained two battalions of Canadian infantry; an extemporized expeditionary brigade under Beaumont’s command. It was a mark of just how stretched the Commonwealth was for troops that they were here at all. With the South Africans committed in East Africa, the Indians in Eritrea and Ethiopia and the Australians and New Zealanders in Egypt, these two battalions of Canadian troops were about the only available forces that could be found. It was the old story; wait six months, let the mobilization take effect, wait until the men being trained were ready and all would be well. Only, the war had its own momentum; it wouldn’t wait.
“Sir, the landing force commander wishes to speak with you.” The sparker had a radio set positioned on the bridge for just this eventuality.
“Mark, what’s going on?”
“The Italians are waiting for us.” There was the sound of teeth being sucked around the bridge. The troops having to fight their way ashore had been the worst-case scenario.
“Are they putting up much of a fight?”
“No, sir. They’re drawn up in parade formati
on on the beach. About sixty of them, waving a white flag.” There was a pause. “Sir, war can be very embarrassing sometimes.”
Beach outside Berhera, British Somaliland
“Sir, I must ask you for your assistance.” Colonel Nerio Amedeo Amerigo was almost completely white and was barely able to stand. “My men are accursed by malaria. Only a handful are in fit condition for duty; the rest need medical attention urgently. I implore you to send as much aid as you can spare. Our own doctor, Rosa Dainelli, is overwhelmed and without supplies.”
Beumont took a horrified look at the desperately ill man before him. His condition was no worse, and no better, than that of the other Italian soldiers on the beach. “You paraded your men in this condition? In the sun?”
“It was necessary for us to surrender honorably.”
Beaumont nodded and turned to his radioman. “Get word to the cruisers and the two transports. Tell them we need every medic and every ounce of quinine here right away. Colonel, we will transfer your men to the transports Chakdina and Chantala immediately. We will do everything in our power for you.”
GHQ, Middle East Command, Cairo, Egypt
“We knew it was coming.” Maitland Wilson sounded infinitely depressed. “That Man cannot maintain a purpose from one minute to the next.”
“He’s maintaining a purpose, Jumbo; and, from his point of view, it is a very logical one. He’s trying to gain the maximum credit for his administration at minimum cost. Since our operations began, we’ve cleared the Italians out of Kenya, made a landing in Somaliland and pushed the Italians back in Eritrea. That’s a pretty impressive set of achievements and he wants to take full advantage of them now before they fade away.” Wavell sighed slightly and looked out of his window at Cairo bustling in the afternoon sun. “I think I understand him better for this. That Man does not believe he can win, ever. He assumes that no matter how well things appear to be running, they will always turn around and move against him. So his eyes are set short; to take what advantages he can seize in the short term, for he believes that the long term will always hold worse.”