A Mighty Endeavor

by Stuart Slade

  General Catroux shuddered. “That man will come after you with every ounce of power at his disposal. He will throw the whole might of the Japanese forces in Indochina at your country.”

  The Ambassador’s smile broadened into one of pure delight. “Oh, I do so hope so.”

  Forward Pickets, 11th Infantry (Queen’s Cobra) Division, Ban Dan Ky, Mekong River, French Indochina

  Sergeant Mongkut Chandrapa na Ayuthya sighed gently and shook his head. He’d just received a rare treat, a letter from home, and he treasured its contents. Well, most of them, he thought. His daughter Sirisoon was in trouble again, for fighting at school. Again. Apparently, one of the boys had kept pulling her hair while she was repeating her lessons to the teacher. She turned on him and scratched him so badly he’d had to be sent home. He was actually quite proud of her for doing that. Most girls of her age would have just run away or cried. My daughter had turned and fought her tormentor. Come to think of it, I am actually doing much the same thing right now.

  “Sergeant, I can hear something.”

  Corporal Pon spoke very, very quietly. The observation point was right on the banks of the Mekong River, shielded from the water only by some tree-trunks and bushes. At this point on the river, the water flowed smoothly and steadily. Sound would reflect over it. That is probably what the Japanese were forgetting. The sounds of hammering and movement their side of the river was faint, but clearly audible.

  “I hear it too. Stay alert and watch for any movement.” One good thing was that the moon was up. The Japanese would be visible in the reflections of the moonlight off the water. Mongkut was pleased with the way Pon was working out. He’d selected him for promotion on the advice of the other Sergeants, who had reminded him that a popular Corporal might be so because he was too slack on the men. They’d been right; the very qualities that had made Pon unpopular as a private had worked well for him as a corporal.

  Mongkut slid backwards and made his way to the platoon command post, set well back from the river. The plan was to drop back when the Japanese attacked so that their blow would meet nothing but empty air. Then, when the Japanese were over the river and trapped on the Thai-held side, the 11th would counterattack and drive them back. There was no doubt that the Japanese would attack. Word of how the commander of the Burapha Payak Corps had insulted and publicly humiliated a very important Japanese officer had spread through the whole Army. Even better, the commander of the corps was a Princess; that had added extra spice to the story. By the time the story had finished spreading, it had been elaborated with extra details of how the Japanese officer had burst into tears at the humiliation and had been so demoralized that his men had to restrain him from committing suicide.

  “Sir, we heard movement across the river. Hammering and voices speaking. I think the Japanese are assembling boats.”

  Lieutenant Somchai was looking at the map spread out on his table. North of his position, the Mekong had split into a vast maze of tiny rivers, each deep and fast flowing. The combination of thousands of small islands and an ever-changing maze of waterways made launching any kind of cross-river offensive impossible. South of his position, the river split in two around a large central island. Any Japanese attack there would have to occupy the island first. They hadn’t. Further south still, the river entered another stretch dominated by rapids; a profusion of fast flowing streams and thousands of tiny, snake-infested islands. By the time the river became crossable again, it was not far north from Phnom Penh. The Thai Army hadn’t got there yet, although the fourth regiment of the 11th Infantry was advancing fast in that direction. First Regiment was on the outskirts of Siem Reap. Second and Third Regiments were here, waiting for the Japanese assault that had to hit this single, 14 kilometer stretch of the river. There was, quite simply, nowhere else the Japanese could make the crossing. Somchai knew he was only a lowly lieutenant, but he could see that this particular stretch of the Mekong was going to be strategically very important one day.

  “Very well. The observation points are on full alert?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mongkut noted a touch of reproof in his voice. He felt his lieutenant should have realized that would be the case; but he reminded himself that it was a lieutenant’s job to check on such things.

  “Make sure they remember the orders. As soon as the Japanese start to cross they are to drop back, keeping the enemy under observation but not impeding his move forward.”

  “I will remind them, sir.” Mongkut guessed what the plan was. The Japanese had shown in China that they were attack-crazy; their first reaction was always to attack an enemy in front of them. There was a long ridge a kilometer or so behind the riverbank; one that the Japanese would have to take before they could go anywhere else. Mongkut was quite sure that ridge was defended by every unit that could be brought up. The Japanese would be trapped between the defenses and the river.

  The only thing that worried Mongkut was that if he, a sergeant, could see it, the Japanese officers surely could.

  Headquarters, 11th Infantry (Queen’s Cobra) Division, Phoum Sam Ang, Mekong River

  “We’re getting reports in from all the forward pickets. The Japanese are active all along this stretch of the Mekong. You were right, Highness.”

  Suriyothai restrained herself from replying ‘of course.’ It hadn’t actually taken much effort to see that the Japanese assault had to come here. It wasn’t just that the river was crossable at this point. There was a good road network centered on this area; that would ease Japanese supply problems.

  There were three airfields within a few minutes flying time. The Japanese only had one division available for the assault, so they didn’t have the manpower to do anything elaborate. Then, again, they don’t think they will need to do anything more than a simple charge. They’ve learned a lot of very bad lessons from the fighting in China. Coupled with their overweening self-confidence, they’ll destroy themselves on these defenses.

  “The reinforcements are ready?” There were two regiments of the 11th Infantry spread along the ridge, dug in to bunkers and entrenchments. A regiment of the First Cavalry had arrived as well; they were the reserve in case anything went wrong. Finally, she had moved the assault engineer battalions from the Ninth, Eleventh and First Cavalry Divisions up. They had unloaded their equipment and were waiting in the dead ground just below Ridge 77. When the time came to counterattack, those assault engineers would lead the way. And may the Good Lord Buddha have mercy on the Japanese when they do.

  “They are, Highness, and the artillery is in position, waiting. We have the 150mm guns on call.” General Pridi hesitated before continuing. “Highness, the combat engineers. Do we have to use them this way?”

  “The Japanese are foolhardy in attack but tenacious in defense. They have shown that in China. We will break them on our defenses here but throwing them back across the river will involve hard fighting. We will have to crush their defense thoroughly. I do not intend to sacrifice one more of our soldiers than absolutely necessary. Those engineers are the key to everything.”

  Suriyothai looked down on the ground that lay between the main line of the Thai defense and the river. It was invisible in the darkness but it was there. The Mekong, probably the strongest defense line in Asia. Once before, her country had held these positions; but they had been a medieval, primitive army where spears were still regarded as viable weapons. Against Europeans with breech-loading rifles, they had stood no chance. They’d had to compromise, prevaricate and appease their enemies. Now, they had tanks, artillery, machine guns, aircraft and, most important of all, the knowledge of how to use them. This, here, was the decisive battle and everything depended on it.

  For a brief moment, the waterfall of colored lights filled her mind. She saw the thread of events she had first detected the previous year. It glowed strong and firm; all the threads converged here. Once this battle was won, the French would concede. Her country would have the Mekong back as its primary line of defense. Her Army would have cru
shed the French and the Japanese. That would provide the security and stability guarantee that would cause the Hongs to make Bangkok their base. With them would come prosperity for her people and tax income for her government. Defeating the Japanese would put her country firmly in the American camp and ensure their support. Her country’s position secured, they would become the guardian of the back door to India and thus a trusted Indian ally. And that was the opening door to a real position on the world stage. The mouse would have become an elephant.

  This battle was indeed the key to everything.

  Mohawk IV, Over The Mekong River, French Indochina

  They had taken off for this sweep along the Mekong just before dawn and had been patrolling the river by the time the sun came up. Flight Lieutenant Suchart Chalermkiat had taken that time to fall in love with his Mohawk IV. It was much faster than his old Hawk 75N and much more responsive on the controls. He was leading a flight of four aircraft; two more flights accompanied his. The older Hawk 75Ns had been consolidated into a single squadron and they also were patrolling the area. The briefing before take-off had been very clear. A major Japanese assault on this part of the front was expected. Their aircraft had to be cleared from the sky.

  “I see them. Below, ten o’clock.”

  The washed-out light gray of Ki-27 fighters stood out clearly against the dark green of the jungle that bordered the Mekong. A closer look showed the dozen Ki-32 light bombers skimming the jungle below the fighters. They’d had green mottling painted over their light gray; obviously, they’d been in Indochina longer than the fighter pilots and realized how ineffective the light gray was. It amused Suchart that he probably knew more about Japanese Army aircraft designations than most people. A few months ago, the Japanese had been trying to sell aircraft to Thailand. Several types had arrived at Thai airfields for evaluation. Suchart had taken the opportunity to look at them closely. I wonder of any of the aircraft I saw are down there.

  “Take them. Suchart, lead the way.” The order from the squadron commander was terse. Suchart pushed the nose of his fighter over and started to dive. Break up and disperse the escort first, then tear the bombers apart.

  The Japanese pilots were neither stupid nor ill-trained. They spotted the Mohawks early in their dive. The neat formation of three Vs scattered. When the Japanese had been trying to sell the Ki-27 to the Air Force, they’d made great play of the aircraft’s agility and its unequalled ability to turn tightly. Later, the German pilots who had been hired to train the Thai Air Force after the political climate in Germany had turned sour gave their opinions on that theory. Now, Suchart could see why they had been unimpressed.

  The tight turns looked impressive, but the Ki-27s bled off energy in the process. It did not get them out of the lethal cone of fire from the Mohawks. Suchart had picked his target carefully. His six machine guns lashed out with a converging cone of tracer. The first few rounds went past the Japanese fighter’s nose. The rest walked along the fuselage. To his astonishment, the Japanese fighter blew up; disintegrating into an orange ellipse of flame as its fuel tanks erupted. The Moranes I killed never exploded tike that. They took a battering before they went down.

  He was through the Japanese fighter group but still in a dive, heading for the Ki-32s below. He banked right, hoping that one of the Ki-27s would see him do so and close in for the kill. Their job is, after all, to stop us getting at the bombers. To his delight, a Ki-27 took the bait and curved after him. That was why Suchart had broken right, not left. He was leading the Japanese fighter right across the nose of Suchart’s wingman. In his mirror, he saw the Japanese fighter start to fire its two nose guns. Then the stream of tracers from his wingman enveloped the little fighter. It erupted into another orange fireball. Teamwork, teamwork, teamwork. Their instructors had hammered it home with ruthless persistence. Wingman, cover your leader; leader, cover your wingman. That way you’ll both get home. Most of the time. Don’t make pretty maneuvers. Dive, gun, run.

  The formation of Ki-32s was right in front of him. Suchart approached them from the front quarter, but that was hardly a problem. He’d been taught the art of deflection shooting against fighters; the Ki-32 was a much larger, slower target. His first few shots went past the nose again; the remainder of the fire walked along the fuselage. The effect wasn’t as dramatic as with the Ki-27s. The Ki-32 started to burn; a mix of black and gray smoke pouring from its engine. The stricken aircraft nosed over. The steepening dive only ended when it plowed into the treetops beneath. Another Ki-32 was already following it down. Suchart’s wingman had seen the opportunity and raked it with his machine guns.

  A quick glance at his instrument panel showed him that the needle on his speedometer was jammed against the stop. Am I really going that fast? The Japanese formation was already well behind him, so he pulled the nose of his fighter up and started to climb. There would be time for another pass or two soon enough. The other three aircraft in his flight had already formed up around him. Suchart started the long curve that would get them back into position over the battlefield. The Japanese formation that had approached so confidently was gone, scattered to the winds. There were a dozen or more pyres of smoke from the ground. The only question was, how many of them represented a precious Mohawk lost?

  Far below him, over the muddy, gray waters of the Mekong, a formation of Hawk 75Ns were strafing the Japanese boats that were pouring across the river. Suchart wondered if his old Hawk 75N was one of the aircraft attacking the boats. He dismissed the question. He had enough to worry about.

  Forward Pickets, 11th Infantry (Queen’s Cobra) Division, Phoum Sam Ang, Mekong River, French Indochina

  “Look at that!”

  Corporal Pon was awed by the sight. The river was covered by a huge fleet of small boats, all of which were heading for the Thai-held bank. A group of Thai aircraft had swept over them, their guns firing into the swarm. It had all the effect of trying to wipe out an ant’s nest by stabbing them individually with a needle. Overhead, the rumbling roar of artillery shells dominated the scene. The vast flock of boats was pock-marked with great white towers as shells plowed into the water. Every so often, a shell would bite home. A boat would be thrown into the air; men spiralled from it as the wooden craft broke up. Yet, despite the shelling, the approach of the assault boats seemed unstoppable.

  “The great fish will eat well tonight.”

  The grim words were all too true, as anybody who lived near the Mekong was aware. The river was populated by giant catfish; scavengers who would eat anything. Literally anything. That was why the bodies of those who drowned in the Mekong were seldom found. Sergeant Mongkut saw something unusual in the midst of the swarm of small craft, larger vessels carrying a tank each. One of them exploded in a ball of orange flame; a 150mm shell made a direct hit on it. The rest continued their apparently inexorable advance.

  “They’re bringing tanks over. We’d better get out of here.”

  It was as if the Japanese heard him and decided to encourage him on his way. The sound of inbound artillery fire was quite distinct from outbound. Japanese shells hit all along the banks of the river. The shells burst in the trees and sprayed wooden fragments across the patches of clear ground.

  That was all the pickets needed. Their job had been to warn the troops holding the high ground off to their left and the lower ridge that marked their center and right of any Japanese assault. That work was done. Now they needed to get back to join the main line of resistance, two kilometers to their rear. An early start, Mongkut thought, would be a good idea at this point.

  He led his troops away from the river, slipping through the trees before the Japanese could arrive. To his relief, the Japanese bombardment was limited to the riverbank and treeline. He guessed that the Japanese guns were mostly 75mm weapons, firing on a flat trajectory across the river. That kind of fire was of limited value; the thick groups of trees along the bank stopped the guns firing further inland.

  Once his men were away from the bank,
they picked up speed as the trees thinned out. Two hundred meters away from the bank, there was a wide belt of open ground; an old farm that had been abandoned too recently for the jungle to reclaim. Mongkut saw another sergeant leading a batch of pickets back from the bank. The sight gave him a distinct feeling of relief. At least I didn’t abandon our positions too early The scattered infantry picked up speed as they jog-trotted back to the main line of resistance along Ridge 70. The last thing any of them wanted was to be caught in the open by the Japanese.

  Headquarters, 5th Motorized Infantry Division, Ban Dan Ky, French Indochina

  The problem was that everything had to go right.

  There were no reserves for this operation. Japanese forces in Indochina were thin on the ground to start with, and this operation had already changed into a full-scale assault. Lieutenant General Akihito Nakamura knew his 5th Motorized Infantry Division was one of the most powerful in the Japanese Army. He had more than 500 trucks to move his supplies and artillery and every man in his unit had a bicycle. That gave them unprecedented mobility, especially where the density of forest precluded the use of trucks to carry his men. He also had a tank battalion, in place of the horse cavalry battalion used by less-favored divisions. That gave him twelve Type 95 Ha-Go light tanks and twenty-four Type 97 Chi-Ha medium tanks. He had enough artillery as well: 12 105mm howitzers and 24 75mm guns. With four infantry regiments organized in two brigades, the 5th Motorized was a powerful formation indeed.

  There was nothing else. Apart from the 5th Motorized Division, there were two Independent Mixed Brigades in Indochina. The 21st Independent Mixed Brigade was stationed around Hanoi, while the 14th was tasked with consolidating Japanese interests in the South. The latter was technically his reserve formation for this assault, yet it was more than 150 kilometers away. Given the poor road network and virtual absence of railways to the area his division was operating in, he couldn’t expect any support from them. To make matters worse, his promised air support hadn’t shown up either. He had been told that a formation of twelve Ki-32 light bombers escorted by nine Ki-27 fighters had been sent to assist in the assault on the Thai positions, but they hadn’t arrived. It wasn’t good when things like that happened before battle was even properly joined.