Preecha checked the machine guns; both the two Vickers guns that were normally part of the company and the three additional guns assigned from the battalion machine gun company. There was a minor problem there. When the battalion had been reconstituted, their infantry weapons had been donated by a patriotic group, the Wild Tiger Corps. So, the Guardsmen carried Lee Enfield rifles and had Lewis and Vickers machine guns. The downside was that they all fired British .303-inch ammunition, not the 8x52mm rounds used by the rest of the Army. That was a supply problem and Preecha just knew that one day they were going to get sent the wrong ammunition.
Explosions raked across the positions held by his company. They concentrated Preecha’s mind wonderfully. They were hand grenades, tossed across the clearing and into the Guardsmen’s positions. The grenades were accompanied by a sheet of rifle fire. Brilliant white streaks of bullets flashed all around Preecha. He heard thuds as they hit the logs and whines as they ricocheted off them. The noise stunned him; compared with the silence of the forest a few seconds earlier, it was ear-splitting enough to drown out his own thoughts. Half-seen figures in the darkness were swarming towards his positions, climbing over the fallen trees or gathering in groups where the going was easier. Those groups attracted the fire of the Vickers guns as they joined the battle.
Preecha knew how to handle the water-cooled machine guns. They needed to be swept, slowly and methodically, across the line of the enemy advance in a pattern of interlocking streams. If they did, nobody could survive the web of bullets. But that wasn’t possible. The range was far too short and the enemy were not advancing in regular lines. Instead, they tumbled into view; either alone, or in groups. The machine gunners were concentrating on those groups; hammering them with long bursts that cut infantry down in heaps. The Guardsmen left those groups to the experts; instead, they fired single shots at the men who were on their own. Preecha remembered the words of the advisors who had retrained the battalion.
It is the machine guns that do the killing. The job of the riflemen is to protect the machine gunners. As long as the machine guns fire, your position will hold.
“Reloading!”
One of the Vickers guns had reached the end of its belt and a new box wasn’t quite ready. Almost as if by magic, the French concentrated on the gap in the wall of defensive fire that was cutting them down. They funneled towards the silent machine gun, trying to get at it before it could start firing again. Behind the logs that protected the gun and its crew, the loader frantically tried to get the ammunition box open.
“With me.” Preecha called the three men nearest to him. They ran to support the gun. The three guardsmen fired their rifles from the hip. The bullets probably went anywhere but into the enemy, but that didn’t matter. The shots themselves started to stall the French. Some of them into a dove for cover. Some tried to return fire, but the three-round magazines on their Berthiers put them at a grave disadvantage. Preecha drew his revolver, an old British Webley, and fired two shots. One of them took an enemy in the chest, spun him around and dropped him into a heap on the ground.
That old .455 can knock an elephant off its feet.
Preecha barely had time to compliment his revolver when another Frenchmen jumped up on top of the logs that provided top cover for the machine gun crew. He was preparing to drop a grenade inside the field bunker. Preecha put another pair of shots into him. Once again, the heavy bullets did their work. The man was thrown off the roof before he could arm his grenade. That was when the Vickers gun started firing again. The stream of brilliant white fireflies caught the attackers in the open and scythed them down.
“Well done Guards-Sergeant.” Guards-Lieutenant Patma had seen the incident and made sure his Sergeant got the public commendation his actions had merited. The impromptu little counter attack had saved one of their machine guns. “That gun’s crew owes you and your men some beer.”
The cheer that met his words was cut by another scream of warning. “Here they come again.”
This time, the French knew where the machine guns were. Their attack was concentrated on the gun nests. Hand grenades exploded around the impromptu bunkers, sending fragments ricocheting off the logs. The extemporized defenses didn’t stop them all. Preecha heard the screams from inside one of the gun pits as a grenade bounced inside. He ran over to the scene, firing more pistol shots as he want. The gun was knocked out. One man from its crew was dead; another blinded and his face tom open by fragments. The third man had been lucky; he must have been shielded from the fragments by the bulk of the gun. His arm was pouring blood, but he would live.
The same fragments had knocked the gun off its tripod and lacerated the water cooling jacket. A quick glance showed Preecha that the French were closing in fast. He grabbed the heavy gun; the hot barrel burned his arm as he did so. He remounted it just in time to pour a long burst into the French. The charge on the position broke and the men were driven back into the cover of the treeline.
Preecha looked along the line. Mostly, it was holding. One section had started to fall back from the fire of light machine guns that had been concentrated on them. He picked up his machine gun and lifted it up on to the logs that surrounded its pit. That way, he could fire along the line of the defense and enfilade the attackers. The white flashes of bullets around him seemed to intensify. He ignored them and squeezed the trigger on the Vickers gun. It was so hot the barrel was beginning to glow. His long burst plowed into the source of the light machine gun fire and silenced the enemy guns. Protected from the galling fire, the corporal in charge of the section led his men back up to their original positions.
“Guards-Sergeant, get ready to move our men out.” Guards-Lieutenant Patma had appeared, apparently from nowhere. “Fourth Company has set up a defense line to our rear. Major Anansong is assembling a force from First and Second Companies to extend our left. The enemy are moving armored cars up.”
The lieutenant moved away, passing the word to the rest of his platoon. Preecha took the opportunity to look around the scene of the fighting. To his surprise, the sun was already rising. He could see the carnage in front of the battalion positions. There were dozens of dead and wounded scattered in front of the Thai defense line. Their horizon blue uniforms were mixed in with a much smaller number of figures in the dark green of the Thai infantry. Preecha shook his head, then gathered his men together. As he did so, there was a howl overhead and a series of explosions in the French positions in front of them. The regimental artillery was covering the withdrawal of the two companies that had held this section of the line.
Preecha’s men abandoned their positions under cover of the artillery fire and dropped back. As they passed through the new defense line, he saw that the company here had properly-built field fortifications. Slit trenches and proper dugouts. Preecha’s men had bought them the time they had needed to set their defense up properly and it showed.
By the time he and his men had reached their new positions, the sun had risen. Preecha could see what was going on. The Guardsmen had won the race and were spreading out into defensive positions. The scene was a small hamlet, just a few wooden houses and a road junction. Guards-Lieutenant Patma had his map out and called Preecha over.
“We’re here; junction of RC-157 and RC-160. We’ve had word that the French are moving their armor up along RC-157. At least six AM-50 armored cars and six FT-17 tanks. All from the French DMC. Plus two understrength infantry companies. My orders are to stop them here and drive them back. Major Anansong is in charge of us, while Major Wuthi has the remainder of the battalion in our old positions. Get the men into position, Guard-Sergeant; this looks like a hard fight.”
Once again, it was a matter of building field entrenchments with whatever happened to be at hand. Mostly, that meant wood torn from the huts constituting the hamlets. The four remaining Vickers guns were the main priority. Preecha already knew they would be the backbone of the defense here. Around them, men who had entrenching tools were digging rifle pits, while the less fortunate were using their helmets in a determined effort to create at least some cover. Whatever they managed to dig by the time the French arrived was all they would have.
The first to arrive were a trio of motorcylists. Their machines were fitted with sidecars that carried a single light machine gun. Preecha actually felt sorry for the one in the lead. He was cut down by rifle fire before he realized that he was under attack. The other two crews abandoned their machines. They took cover in the ditch by the side of the road and tried to return fire. The platoon Lewis gunners started to exchange bursts with the French crews.
Give a child a new game and they’ll be happy for hours,
Preecha thought indulgently.
The armored cars that turned the battle serious. There were indeed six of them. They had spread out into a line, taking advantage of the open ground before it closed in. They had the old, very short-barreled, 37mm gun, firing a one-kilogram shell at no velocity to speak of. Yet they were deadly enough as a fire support weapon.
The armored car crews spotted where the Lewis guns were firing from and started to fire on those positions. The AM50 armored cars leapfrogged forward in pairs; one pair moving, one pairing firing, the third pair spotting for targets. The equipment might be old and obsolete, but the crews knew what they were doing and were closing in on the Thai positions. Preecha looked at the Vickers gun crew closest to him. They were holding fire, ostensibly not to give their positions away needlessly, but really to ensure than the AM50s closed in as much as possible. The machine guns had a short belt of 100 rounds loaded. The bullets on each belt had solid black tips; armor-piercing ammunition. At 500 meters, those bullets would penetrate 12mm of steel. The armor on the AM50 was only 7mm thick.
He heard the nearest machine gun chatter and saw the brilliant flashes as the steel-cored rounds hit the front of the AM50. Some ricocheted off the sloping steel plates that protected the radiator. Others must have penetrated, for a cloud of white steam enveloped the front of the armored car. It swerved to a stop beside the road and stayed there, immobile in its cloud of white fog. Another AM50 wasn’t so lucky. The Vickers gun caught it at an angle. The armor-piercing bullets penetrated its fuel tank. The armored car caught fire, sending a column of black smoke into the sky.
What happened next was something Preecha had never seen before. The stricken vehicle exploded as fuel and ammunition were ignited by the fire. It went up in a single blast that sent debris and white trails of smoke in all directions. What had been a recognizable vehicle was reduced to a blazing hulk.
The sight seemed to cause the other armored cars to hesitate before they opened fire on the machine gun positions with their 37mm guns. Preecha heard a whistle overhead. One of the remaining AM50s was suddenly surrounded by shell bursts. The battalion might only have the old 50mm infantry guns as its artillery, but firing over open sights they were enough to completely outgun the old armored cars.
One of the AM50s took a direct hit on the front. The shell crushed the driving cab completely. The armored car ceased fire and the survivors of its crew bailed out. They tried to take cover from the rifle and machine gun fire that seemed to be surrounding them. Another AM50 had already fallen victim to the black-nosed bullets from the Vickers guns. With all the assurance of a veteran who had seen a whole two hours in combat, Preecha knew that the battle for the Thai left flank was going well for the Guardsmen.
Anti-Tank Company, 3rd Battalion, 5th
Regiment Etranger d’Infanterie,
Yang Dham Khung, French Indochina
The day was not going well. Lieutenant Roul had known that ever since the armored car company that had attacked the Thai left flank had been pushed back with heavy losses. The sites of four lost armored cars were still marked by the smoke stains in the sky, but they’d been joined by more marks of battle. The FT-17 tanks had tried to support the Legion infantry. The Thai medium tanks had arrived and driven the FT-17s off the field.
This whole attack is turning into a disaster. The DMC has been decimated and our infantry are getting nowhere. And I wonder where the Thai infantry are now? Last time we were in this kind of position, they were already working their way around behind us.
The Legion infantry were fighting hard, repelling Thai attacks and pushing back where they could, but the French offensive had never really got off the ground. It was quickly turning into a quagmire.
“We have news from Phoum Preav.” Major Belloc arrived with as little warning as he had on his previous visits. This time, though, his formerly immaculate Foreign Legion khaki was stained and blackened. The infantry of the 3rd battalion had been hammering the position held by the Thais for over four hours, with no success. “Groupement C under Colonel Cadoudal has been severely handled. 19th RMIC has been cut to pieces and Colonel Quelenc has been killed. Jourdain, what do you think the Thais are up to right now?”
“We’ve got the only high ground here.” Roul was thoughtful. “They can’t use the ridgelines for cover the way they did before. Not if they come through to the north of us. If they’re going to try that, they’ll have to come south; long way south, around Phoum Kdol.”
“Turning our left flank, the way we tried to turn theirs.” Belloc chewed the advice over. Roul was the only man in his command who had fought the Thais before and the Lieutenant’s insights were precious to him. “The way they are pushing Groupement C back is consistent with that. And for us?”
