A Mighty Endeavor

by Stuart Slade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Forward Headquarters, Burapha Payak Corps, Thailand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “As long as this war goes well.”

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

  Room 208, Munitions Building, Washington, DC, USA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Infantry Platoon, Second Battalion, 16e Regiment d’Infanterie Coloniale, Phoum Kham Reng, French Indochina

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

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

  He scanned the ground in front of him with his binoculars. He had expected to see the Thai infantry swarming forward, but the swathe of relatively low-laying ground seemed deserted. They had to be there, though. The sounds of gunfire were proof of that. RC-157 was lined with small huts, the homes of local farmers. Every so often, a flare would go up from one. There was no discernable reason why; although Roul assumed they marked the position of the Thai lead elements. With the quiet drone of the aircraft overhead, it was actually a remarkably peaceful scene. It couldn’t stay that way long. The Thais were advancing; it was their aircraft flying over the battlefield.

  Nobody had seen any French aircraft. Rumors were spreading that they had all been destroyed on the ground.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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