A Mighty Endeavor

by Stuart Slade

  He also knew what he was up against. His information was that he was attacking the Thai 11th Infantry Division. That was, according to his intelligence data, a division remarkably similar to his own. It was a square division, with four regiments; the difference was that the Thais didn’t use the intermediate brigade command level. It had trucks to tow its guns and a divisional tank battalion; although that battalion had fewer, weaker tanks than Nakamura could call upon. If both units were Japanese, this would be an even fight. Such fights rarely went well for the attacker. However, Nakamura knew he had the Japanese fighting spirit of his men to rely on. That is worth more than abstract mathematical arguments of numbers and force levels.

  “Situation?” he snapped the word out to the divisional intelligence officer. “And where are those aircraft?”

  “Sir, 9th Brigade is landing on the other side of the river now. They report little resistance on the riverbank, but both 11th and 41st regiments are taking casualties from enemy artillery fire and air attacks. They report no friendly aircraft over the crossing and say the Siamese are bombing and strafing them without interference.”

  “Where are those aircraft?” Nakamura repeated the question with growing impatience.

  The reluctance with which the liaison officer with the air units spoke filled Nakamura with apprehension. “Sir, the attack formation we launched was intercepted by at least thirty Hawk 75 fighters. They shot down six Ki-27s and seven Ki-32s and then scattered the rest. Our fighters claim twenty enemy fighters shot down.”

  Well, that will be a miracle from the gods themselves, since it’s twice as many Hawk 75s as the Thais have. “Get aircraft up to support our units now.”

  “Sir, we have no fighters left operational at this time. The 77th Sentai is bringing its remaining 24 Ki-27s up from Haiphong. They’ll have to land at Pakse to refuel so they won’t be operational for three or four hours at the earliest. Until then, we have only Ki-51 light bombers and a handful of Ki-48 mediums. Without fighter escort, they will be shot down.”

  There are no reserves. Once again, the thought passed through Nakamura’s mind. It had the echoes of a temple bell tolling for the souls of the dead. The Thais have air superiority over the battlefield, for a few critical hours at least. But until then, we will have to do without. The Thais have already made one bad mistake. They have refused to fight us at the water’s edge. Instead they have allowed us ashore and let our units establish themselves. They will pay for that.

  Main Line of Resistance, 11th Infantry (Queen’s Cobra) Division, Ridge 70, Phoum Sam Ang

  “Who are you?”

  Lieutenant Somchai was expecting many things at this time. One of them was for Japanese tanks to appear out of the woods and advance upon him. Another was to have Japanese infantry to do the same while Japanese artillery rained shells down on his head. What he had not expected was for a farang loaded with cameras to appear in his rear.

  “Robert Capa. Photographer for Life magazine. I’ve been told to stay with you and cover the action.”

  The man handed over an order from the regimental commander. Somchai smiled politely, while mentally cursing the gods for lumbering him with a civilian just before a major battle. “You are most welcome, Khun Robert. You will be leaving before the fighting starts?”

  Capa had a local interpreter with him, a member of Life’s local bureau, who translated the question and relayed the photographer’s response. “I could hardly cover the action if I did that, could I? Do not worry, Lieutenant. I covered the Spanish Civil War and the fighting in the Desert. I’ll stay out of your way.”

  Somchai looked at him doubtfully, but orders were orders. “Then please take cover. Japanese tanks are coming.”

  It was an odd fact. Perhaps the direction of the wind or the way sound reflected from the ground, but the squeal of metal as the tanks edged through the woods below was clearly audible, even through the howl of shells overhead and the rumble of explosions from the artillery bombardment of the Japanese landing force. The fluke sound effect lasted for only a minute or two. It was drowned out by another formation of dive bombers appearing.

  Somchai watched them peel over and dive on the Japanese positions. Even at this distance, the sound of their dives and the wailing of the sirens fitted to their undercarriages drowned out everything else. They were concentrating on the artillery batteries, trying to eliminate them before the fighting really got started. For that, Somchai was profoundly grateful. This was going to be bad enough without the Japanese having their artillery operational as well.

  He was so intent on seeing the dive bombers at work that he missed his forward pickets breaking out of the treeline, running for the ridge. They were half way towards the defenses dug along Ridge 70 when spurts of dirt started to erupt around them. The leading edge of the Japanese infantry had to be close. How did they close up so fast?

  It was a hard thing holding fire while his pickets were brought under fire, but the cost of revealing his positions this early would be worse. In any case, the range was a little too long for the Japanese rifle fire to be really effective. A few men were hit, but the others picked them up and helped them to cover. Somchai breathed a little more easily; then suddenly realized that he was impatient for the Japanese assault to start. Waiting for the blow to fall was sapping at his nerves.

  “Sir, the Japanese are right behind us. They’re riding bicycles through the forest.” Somchai turned slightly to face Sergeant Mongkut. The man was out of breath from the run back to the main formation and he was trying to compose himself.”

  “Did you see the tanks?”

  “No, sir. We heard them though.”

  “Very good, Sergeant. Rejoin your men and make ready. It is time the Japanese were taught that they are not the only men in Asia who know how to fight.” Somchai thought for a second. That sounded suitably inspiring.

  That was when something very strange happened. The whole world seemed to go completely silent. The artillery fire directed at the Japanese positions on the far bank, the buzz of aircraft overhead, everything seemed to pause for a second. In one of the slit trenches, Capa took a look and dived for cover. Somchai guessed that, after covering all the wars he had, Capa probably knew what was happening. Somchai followed his example. His men saw him taking cover, assumed he knew what he was doing and followed his example. The silence only lasted a few seconds.

  There was an intense howl of inbound artillery as the concentrated artillery of the 5th Motorized Infantry Division opened up on the positions along Ridge 70. It was followed a split second later by the crash and howl of the Thai artillery opening on the unmasked Japanese batteries.

  Somchai curled up in the bottom of his slit trench. He had dug it in absolute conformity with the instructions he had been given. It was as narrow as possible, so that fragments from shells exploding around him would have as small a window for entry as possible. He’d hollowed out the bottom so there was an overhang to protect him from shells that exploded overhead. For all that, he knew that if one of the 105mm howitzer shells scored a direct hit, all the careful digging in the world wouldn’t save him from the blast. He knew that his trench still gave him an excellent chance of survival against any reasonable kind of bombardment. It just didn’t seem that way, now that the shells were actually arriving.

  He knew something else. As an officer, he had to be aware of what was going on and make ready to receive the impending assault. He sneaked a look out at the ground in front of him. The shells threw up clouds of muddy fragments that looked like leaves falling in a windstorm. Combined with the smoke from the explosions, he could hardly see anything. The noise was so deafening, it was impossible to make sense of anything else. Then, the hail of shells seemed to slacken. Visibility cleared. Across the couple of hundred meters that separated him from the treeline, formations of Japanese infantry were running towards him. Between the infantry groups were Japanese tanks.

  Somchai knew his voice would still not carry well enough to alert his m
en. There was an answer to that. The shrill blast of his whistle penetrated the bedlam around him. He heard the sound taken up by his NCOs as they led the men out of their foxholes and took up positions to beat back the assault.

  The heavy artillery fire had lifted. Now the shells were landing in the gap between Ridge 70 and Ridge 77 a kilometer to the rear. That didn’t mean that the forward positions weren’t getting hit; merely that they were now under direct fire from the Japanese 70mm infantry guns, not indirect fire from the 105mm howitzers on the other side of the river. Sergeant Mongkut wasn’t actually sure than was an improvement. The shells were still arriving. Now they were being deliberately aimed at points of resistance. He sighted down his rifle, looking through the showers of mud and debris and the clouds of smoke. Japanese troops were pouring out of the treeline. They were already starting to cross the open space that separated the trees from the Thai positions. His squad had a pair of Lewis guns, one for each of the two nine-man sections. The gunners were waiting for the whistle blast that would tell them to begin their work.

  The Maxim guns fired first. Mongkut could hear their long tattoo of fire. The guns swept backwards and forwards across the Japanese troops. There were two Maxim guns per platoon, a total of 24 for the battalion. Mongkut knew the officers had spent most of their time making sure they had been properly placed and well protected. They were they key. As long as they remained firing, the Japanese could not survive an attempt to cross the open ground. The Japanese knew that as well.

  Watching the groups of Japanese advance, Mongkut saw them being tumbled down by the machine guns. He also saw something else; small groups of Japanese taking cover. He knew from the information that had been passed down the line that each Japanese platoon had three 50mm mortars. They were more grenade throwers than mortars; sacrificing shell weight and range to lighten the weapon so that it could be carried around by the infantrymen and taken into battle. Their specific job was to take down the heavy machine guns. That was just what they were starting to do. That made them a priority target.

  The explosions were small, but the Japanese crews had spotted the Maxim guns. The mortarmen were very good. Their shells were on target. The steady rhythm that was cutting down the assault infantry wavered. Now the Lewis guns would come into their own. Mongkut smacked Corporal Pon’s helmet and shouted into his ear. The battlefield noise was so intense Pon could barely understand what was being said. But he saw where Mongkut was pointing. He was where he belonged, right alongside his Lewis gun. The light machine gun started stabbing out short bursts. That took fine judgement. The bursts had to be long enough to be effective, short enough to conceal the fact another machine gun had joined the battle. The bursts silenced the mortar. Fire from the nearest Maxim steadied as the harassment of the mortar fire ended.

  Now it was the turn of Mongkut’s platoon to be on the receiving end of the galling mortar fire. The small shells weren’t really big enough to be a serious threat, but they were a nuisance. There was a big difference between a threat not being serious and not existing. He was being splattered with mud from the little shells. It was only a question of time before one of the splats was from a fragment of shell casing. To make matters worse, the burst of fire from his Lewis gun attracted the attention of the infantry guns. Their larger, much more lethal, shells had started to impact around his positions. The shriek of their shells was almost as terrifying as the bursts, but Mongkut knew that the sounds of shells arriving had never killed anybody. Blast and steel fragments were different. They were all around him. Where is our artillery? Where are our infantry guns? Why aren’t they silencing the enemy guns? Have they run away?

  In front of him, barely 50 meters out, the Japanese emerged from the clouds of debris-laden smoke. Not the ordered waves that had left the treeline, but groups of men who ducked and weaved as they ran towards the Thai positions. Another whistle blast pierced the roar of the artillery fire and the hammering of the machine guns. Mongkut sighted on a Japanese infantryman. He squeezed off a round, cursing the useless dustcover that encumbered the action of his rifle as he worked the bolt. The man went down, but Mongkut believed he had simply gone to ground.

  The deafening roar of the fighting was supplemented by high-pitched metal squeals and the growl of an engine. A Japanese Chi-ha tank approached. Its green and orange-red paint seemed to blend in with the smoke and explosions around it. The tank fired its short-barrelled 57mm gun at the positions in front of it; the hull machine gun sprayed the area in general.

  This was what tanks are supposed to do. Mongkut knew that. They brought their gun up to close range so that they could combine a heavy shell with pinpoint accuracy. That helped the infantry cover the open ground and chew a hole through the defenses. He didn’t see where the first two or three shells went. He did see the one that exploded in the pit used by one of his Lewis guns. He saw something circling up through the air. For a moment, he thought it was part of the stricken Lewis gun. It landed not far from him. He saw it was a foot, still inside its regulation Thai Army boot.

  The Chi-ha lurched and started to move towards the entrenchments. Mongkut saw brilliant flashes as rifle and machine gun rounds bounced off its armor. The tank seemed to ignore them. An explosion on the front of the tank seemed to push it backwards. One of the battalion’s 75mm infantry guns had waited for just the right moment to hit the tank from just the right angle. The Chi-ha stopped dead; burning furiously from the devastating shell hit that had torn its front open. Mongkut felt bitterly ashamed of what he had thought about the artillerymen just a few seconds earlier.

  The Japanese infantry were still coming; still moving towards Mongkut and his men. He aimed again. This time, his bullet struck his target squarely in the chest. He could even see the little puff of dust from the front of the man’s jacket and the spray of blood behind him as it left his body. Incredibly, the man was still coming. Mongkut worked the bolt on his rifle and fired again. This time his target went down.

  There was hardly any time or space left. A Japanese officer came straight at him, swinging his sword back in preparation for a deadly blow. Mongkut fired his rifle. He hit the Japanese officer in the shoulder for all the good that seemed to do. Then, he blocked the swing of the sword. The katana sheered deep into the wooden furniture of his rifle; he felt the shock as the blade bit home. Having blocked the swing, he thrust with his bayonet. Mongkut saw his victim run right onto the point. His arm was flung back. The katana flew through the air, and his hat was hurled high above his head. Mongkut saw a flash out of the comer of his eye. He had much more important things to worry about. The officer had doubled up around the point, fouling the bayonet and dragging it down. By then, Mongkut had another round in the chamber. The recoil as he fired it pulled the bayonet clear of the officer’s body.

  The trench line was a primeval bloodbath. Japanese leaped into rifle pits and trenches. The fight was a brutal match of men in blood-splattered green or khaki gouging, clubbing and tearing at each other. One Japanese soldier had Corporal Pon down and was pounding at his face with his fist. Mongkut grabbed the Japanese by the neck and pulled him backwards, dragging him off the corporal. Another figure in jungle green swung at the Japanese with a meat cleaver and ripped open the man’s chest. Even through the dirt and blood, Mongkut recognized the battalion cook. There was no time to ask questions. The Japanese were everywhere. Every man was needed. The meat cleaver was designed for this kind of butchery.

  Mongkut moved along the trench line, stabbing and battering anything not dark green. In this confined area, his rifle was useless. He had drawn his entrenching tool. Its weight and carefully sharpened edges provided a much better weapon. It crushed heads or sunk deep into chests. He swung blow after blow. It was now literally dripping with blood and things that Mongkut dared not name. By then, he had lost track of time and space. He didn’t know where he was or how long the fight in the trenches had been going on. All he knew was whether there was a khaki-clad target in front of him or whether it was
time to go and find another one. He wasn’t even aware that his men had formed up behind him and were methodically sweeping their sector of the trenches clear.

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

  General Nakamura took another long look at the map in his command tent. It wasn’t supposed to be happening like this. Japanese willpower and fighting spirit always carried all before it. The map was starting to show otherwise.

  It wasn’t that the casualties had been much heavier than he had expected. The ground in front of the Thai positions was carpeted with Japanese dead, but the soldiers were expendable. They could be replaced by conscripts for the cost of a postage stamp. It was that the Thais hadn’t fled when the assault had reached their positions. This hadn’t happened before. A few bombs from some aircraft, a few rounds of artillery and a determined charge supported by a light tank or two would send the Chinese Army reeling backwards.

  This time, his men were locked in battle in the defense lines against an enemy that would not give up. Several times, in several places, his infantry had broken through the defenses, only to find a Thai officer had grabbed a few men and assembled a blocking force. Cooks, clerks, truck drivers, messengers, anybody who could hold a weapon, had been thrown into the battle. That small group of men would hold back the breakthrough until a reserve force could arrive on the scene and drive his men back into the bloody swirling chaos of the trench-fighting.

  “Sir, we need to commit the 21st Brigade right away.”

  Major General Masao Watanabe, commander of the 21st Brigade, could envisage what was happening in the maelstrom that was engulfing Ridge 70 without being told the details. The whole of 9th Brigade was committed to the battle there. He doubted very much if anything was left of the 11th Regiment. That unit had spearheaded the assault and it had probably been cut to pieces. The survivors had probably made it to the Thai lines and died there, but they would have disabled the defenses long enough for 41st Regiment to get across no-man’s land with far less loss. It was probably 41st Regiment that was engaged in the bloody battle of attrition taking place up there now. Watanabe believed that if he could bring both the regiments of his 21st Brigade in a coordinated blow at the same sector of the line, they could smash right through.