A Mighty Endeavor

by Stuart Slade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  11th Infantry (Queen’s Cobra) Division, Angkrong, Cambodia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “It wasn’t serious.” Mongkut’s sergeant was watching the scene. “They fired a few rounds for honor’s sake, we fired a few to show we were serious and they surrendered.”

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

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

  “Corporal?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  French Sloop Dumont d’Urville, At Sea, South of Muang Trat

  “Is there any news?”

  Lieutenant Laurent Babineau stuck his head through the hatch leading to the radio room. Inside, the radio duty crew were scanning the airwaves, trying to find out what was happening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Hard to port, now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  This time, there was no evasive action to throw off their aim. The three aircraft dropped a single bomb each. A 500-kilogram, not the 100-kilogram bombs the first flight dropped. Babineau watched the bombs drop down towards the sloop. This time, he knew they would hit. This is going to hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

  11th Infantry (Queen’s Cobra) Division, Choeteal Kong, Cambodia

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

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

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