Underneath him, the hangars he had spotted entered his bombsight. He waited a second, allowing the cross-hairs to pass just over the target. Then he pressed his release. In the streamlined bomb panniers under his wings, the racks released the ten 100-pound bombs contained in each. They hit the bungee-loaded bomb pannier doors, knocking them open and then falling clear to rain down on the target below. The ground around the buildings erupted in a tight pattern of explosions, the buildings vanishing under the clouds of black and red smoke.
“Fighters; fighters.” The voice from his gunner came over the speaking tube clearly. Mannix looked around and saw a flight of CR.32s descending on the British formation.
“Everybody, keep it tight.”
Mannix tried to stay calm.
They promised us there wouldn’t be any fighters here.
Behind him, he heard chatter; his gunner opened fire on a pair of CR.32s that had picked his flight. The other gunners in his formation did the same. Between them, the display of firepower looked impressive. Mannix was painfully aware of how ineffective it really was. In contrast, the other flights had dispersed as each aircraft made its own run. Now the fighters had a spread-out series of targets, instead of the compressed mass offered by Mannix’s group. They went for the easiest targets: picking an isolated bomber, diving down and coming up from below, gutting them with their machine guns. Mannix saw one Wellesley break up. Its long wings folded around it as it started to spin down. Another developed a trail of black and orange flame; two parachutes separated from it.
There was more chattering from his formation. A CR.32 tried an up-and-under attack, but the aircraft were able to cover each other. The fighter pilot obviously decided easy kills were better and left them alone. Mannix’s decision to keep a tight formation paid of in ways he had never expected. By the time the CR.32s pulled away, seven of the 18 Wellesleys had been shot down, not one of them from his flight.
Asmara, Italian Eritrea
“They all escaped?” Colonel Duilio Loris Contadino looked at the destruction and shook his head. The prison on the outskirts of the town had been the center of the attack and the bombers had done appalling damage. The walls had been knocked flat; the baked-mud bricks powdered by the bombs. The walls of the cell blocks had collapsed as well, leaving the cells inside exposed. The occupants of those cells took the opportunity the British bombers had so generously provided and fled. A handful had died from the bombs; the majority of prisoners, almost all leaders of the resistance to the Italian occupation of Eritrea and Ethiopia, had escaped.
“All of them, except the few we see in the ruins, sir.” Captain Crescenzo Rico surveyed the destruction and whistled. “These must be the very best crews the British had. Just to hit a target like this from so high showed great skill and to get a close pattern like this, all around the prison but so few hits on it is truly remarkable. Our airmen could never do such a thing. And the way the other bombers drew our fighters away from the attack formation. I hope these were the elite British crews; because, if the rest of the British bombers are as skilled and ruthless as this, we will have much to fear.”
“They were lucky, Captain. We were expecting them to bomb the airfield the other side of town and our fighters were stacked there, waiting for them. By the time the pilots realized the airfield wasn’t their target, it was too
late. The bombers had an undisturbed run.” Contadino sighed; privately he was
shaken by the attack.
How had the British bombers known that the leaders of the bandit forces were held here? Asmara must be saturated with British spies.
“What of the rest of the town?”
“The bombs are scattered all over the town. No great damage; a few buildings knocked down here, a road blocked by craters there. It’s annoying more than anything else. If it hadn’t been for those bombs disrupting our efforts to move through the town, we would have been here in time to chase the escapees. As it was, by the time we got here, they had got clean away. This was a very well-planned raid; an accurate main strike and well-executed diversions.”
Contadino nodded. “We underestimated the British badly. I will seek a meeting with the Duke of Aosta and tell him that he will now have to face a resumption of bandit attacks in this area. I do not think he will be pleased with that information.”
GHQ, Middle East Command, Cairo, Egypt
“Bill Slim shapes up well.” Wavell sounded pleased.
Maitland Wilson agreed. “Fifth Indian Division is pushing forward into Eritrea and advancing on Asmara. If he can just forget that he isn’t commanding a brigade any more and stop running around on the front line, he’ll make a good divisional officer. Fourth Indian Division is hung up on the ridges south of Kassala. We expected that; they’re pinning down the 40th Infantry Division there. Slim’s Indians will be taking the
Cacciatori d’Africa
in the flank very soon.”
“We’re taking a hell of a chance moving 4th Indian Infantry down there, Jumbo.” Wavell was flicking at the map with his fingers. “The 6th Australians are as green as grass and I doubt if any of their officers have commanded more than a battalion. Blarney makes a big show, but expecting those men to equal the performance of the Indians is pushing it. I hope we don’t have a disaster in the making.”
Maitland Wilson stared at the map. “We don’t really have much choice. We know Halifax will call for an armistice as soon as he has enough gains to make securing one politically worthwhile, or plead for one as soon as it looks like we’re losing. We’ve got to grab everything in one go. Once we have momentum on our side, we get freedom of action. If we let momentum slip, we’re going to lose that freedom.”
“Just how green are the Australians, Jumbo?”
There was a long pause as Maitland Wilson thought the situation over. “Very, but I’m not entirely sure that it matters. They want to fight. There’s no doubt about that and the treatment of the Canadian division back home got their dander up. On the other hand, they lack experience in combined arms operations and large formation actions. The question is, will they need to do either? If 7th Armoured defeats the Italian armored battle group and spearheads the advance, the Australians following behind will be doing little more than clearing up and taking prisoners. Looked at that way, this may even be the training exercise they need to shake down. Anyway, I say again, Archie; do we have a choice?”
Wavell shook his head. “No, we do not. We cannot rely on any coherent policy out of London. Between us, Jumbo, I must admit that my position here is about as uncomfortable as it gets. I’m supposed to report to London, but I am an Indian Army officer who is now supposed to report to Calcutta. Well, that’s always been something of a problem, we all know that; but we’ve never had a situation where India is at war and Britain isn’t.”
“Britain
is
at war with Italy; effectively, at any rate.” Maitland Wilson was looking for some ray of sunlight to illuminate the situation.
“Yes, now. And that brings us back to our initial problem. For how long will Halifax keep up his present position? Anyway, Jumbo, I have another problem. Have you ever heard of an officer called Wingate? Major Orde Wingate?”
“Heard of him? I’ve had the misfortune of dealing with him. Insufferable, arrogant, conceited man, with excessive religious beliefs. Did well in Palestine, but got convinced he was the messiah come to Earth and ended up part and parcel of the Jewish forces there. Working as much for them as for us. Why? He’s not in Egypt, is he?” Maitland Wilson’s face was so distraught at the possibility, Wavell couldn’t help but laugh.
“No, he’s in Ethiopia. Bill Platt knew his success in raising and commanding irregular forces in Palestine and brought him out. Anyway, I’ve had a message from our Major Wingate claiming to have organized a jail break in which nearly all the leaders of the Ethiopian anti-Italian groups have escaped. He wants to set up an irregular group in Ethiopia to help drive the Italians out.”
“That fits the man. He’s obsessed with irregular warfare and deep penetration operations.”
“They worked in Palestine.”
“Yes, they did. Give him credit for that, but he was operating in a very friendly environment for what he was doing. He could trust his own people implicitly and they knew exactly who the enemy were. Neither will be true in Ethiopia. Anyway, I have my doubts about his deep penetration operations theories. I think he’s going to try it one day against an enemy who know what they are doing and he’ll get cut to pieces. The problem is that he’ll take a lot of good men down with him.
Wavell nodded thoughtfully. “There’s a lot to be said there. I’ve got a different question, though; one that strikes right at the heart of this proposed operation of Wingate’s. Do we really want to go around starting up these irregular insurgency groups? It strikes me that the whole idea could backfire very badly.”
“You mean start something that will return to haunt us?” Maitland Wilson looked thoughtful. “That’s a very real danger. However, there is something else we have to take into consideration. We’re desperately short of troops. We’ve got five front line divisions, one independent brigade and two divisions that are second line. We’ve got the whole lot committed to action right now and we’ve not got a man in reserve. Archie, if there’s a crisis now, you’ll have to give me a pistol and tell me to deal with it myself, because I’m the only reserve you’ve got.”
“I might have to take you up on that, Jumbo. But, I take the point. The two Indian divisions are over-extended in Eritrea already and their attack has barely started. We need that irregular force in Ethiopia or we just won’t have the men to boot the Italians out.”
11th Infantry (Queen’s Cobra) Division, Sisaket, Thailand
“Do you know where are we going, Corporal?” The private was deferential, as befitted one speaking to somebody of higher rank.
“Of course.” Corporal Mongkut had already noticed the differences in the 11th Infantry since he had first been recalled to the colors. Where once men had made hard work of a few kilometers march, now they swung along easily; their steps accompanied by light-hearted banter. Yet, despite the rhythm of the march, they were keeping a wary eye out for a ‘surprise’ planned by their officers. Or, much more likely, the German advisors who had directed their training.
“Well, where are we going?” After a marked pause, the same private asked Mongkut with carefully faked patience.
“Why, wherever our officers tell us to go, of course.” Mongkut replied with equally carefully faked innocence. He listened appreciatively to the wry groan of disappointment that went up.
Mongkut had a shrewd idea where he was. His family came from Rattanburi and he knew the country well. After the train had brought them from Kanchanaburi and unloaded them at the marshalling yard at Sisaket, they had marched east. Combining that with his knowledge of the land, he guessed that the whole regiment was moving towards the Indo-China border; probably close to where the borders of Thailand, Cambodia and Laos intersected. There was no logical reason why an entire infantry regiment would be needed up here; not unless something big was about to happen.
Without being able to explain why, Mongkut knew that war was coming. It wasn’t the troop movements or his sudden resumption of military life. Nor was it the intense training he and his men had gone through over the last few weeks. It was much less definable than that. It was just that there was something in the air; an electricity or a tension. It was as if all the decisions had been taken, all the preparations made and the war was a reality that hadn’t quite happened
....
yet.
His thoughts were interrupted by a blast of whistles. A rest period. Ten minutes rest for every hour of marching. He couldn’t detect urgency in the movement; it was as if the planners knew that there was plenty of time and they preferred the troops on the move to arrive in good condition rather than exhausted from a forced march.
“Water carriers; fall out and refill canteens.”
The order had come from the Sergeants, but it was for the Corporals to carry out. Mongkut didn’t need to say anything; he just pointed at two of his men and watched them join the rest. There was a lake through the trees, gleaming dark blue in the sunshine. He recognized it; knew the shoreline and the square fish farm that lay across the width of the lake. They were just a little bit north of Non Sung; only a few kilometers from his family home. That really did put them close to the border with Cambodia and Laos.
Troops moving up to the Indochina border and a war in the air.
Mongkut put the two together and came up with a very satisfactory answer. In his opinion, there were a lot of debts owed. It was about time that his country collected on them.
Don Muang Airport, Bangkok, Thailand
“My apologies, Mister Secretary, for the landplane. Unfortunately, we have no areas suitable for flying boats, so we have to use DC3 aircraft for even the most prestigious of dignitaries. Please accept the warmest hospitality of our nation.” The Ambassador placed both hands together in the traditional Thai ‘wai’ gesture and dipped her head.
“This is a more modern airport than I had expected.” Cordell Hull did not return the gesture or make an equivalent response. “And a much more active one. I assume you have arranged this as a demonstration of your country’s modern outlook?”
