“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 organize 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 anti-aircraft 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 anti-aircraft 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, surveying 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.
“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, re-establish the true border.
Another glance behind showed the small truck that followed at a respectful distance.
