Luang Phrom looked sharply at the officer. “A French seaplane, you say? Not one of ours?”
“Definitely French, sir. A Loire 130. Quite unlike anything we have.”
“Scouting us out.” Luang Phrom paused, then came to a decision. “Send a signal to
Trad, Songkhla, Chonburi
and
Rayong
to maintain an increased watch. If the French are scouting us, they mean to attack. We can expect them at dawn. Order
Songkhla
and
Chonburi
to raise steam and take up positions off Koh Lao Ya, at the anchorage entrance. They’ll give the French a surprise as they come in.”
“And the mainland?” The communications officer phrased the question delicately.
“Send a warning to Bangkok that we expect a French attack here at dawn tomorrow. And contact the commander of Foong Kap Lai 72. He should have his dive bombers ready to engage any French forces that appear.
Hawk
75N
Over Don Muang Airfield, Bangkok, Thailand
The chance of finding one of the French Farman 222 bombers at night was remote. Flying Officer Suchart Chalermkiat had absolutely no faith that his patrol would be productive, but it was necessary to at least make the effort. His Hawk 75N was heavier and more difficult to handle than he was used to. The wing ,30-cal machine guns had been removed; each had been replaced by an underwing pod containing a 23mm Madsen cannon. The judgement was, if he did get lucky and find one of the big Farmans, he would have a major performance advantage so the weight and drag of the cannon wouldn’t be disastrous. On the other hand, their extra firepower might be decisive in a fleeting engagement.
If he found one of the French bombers, of course.
Suchart had no doubt they were coming. The border lookout posts had reported hearing them pass overhead. An extrapolation of their course led here. Were they were heading for the city itself or Don Muang airfield on the outskirts? Most of the pilots in FKL-60 believed the French would bomb the city, arguing that the French had a long history of bombarding or bombing civilian targets. Suchart had disagreed. In his opinion, the French would realize it was too late for that and would try for the airfield instead. Thai air superiority over the battlefield was crippling the French Army’s ability to fight. A few airfield raids might destroy enough aircraft to swing the balance away from the advancing Thai infantry formations.
The result was that, of the ten Hawk 75s airborne over Bangkok, nine were over the north of the city where the loop of the Chaophrya river made a target easy to find in the moonlight. Only Suchart’s aircraft was to the east of the city. He flew in a racetrack pattern, looping around with his fuel mix thinned out as much as possible. Saving fuel meant extending the time he could wait for the Farmans.
Even though he was expecting the airfield to be attacked, the explosion of the bombs in the darkness was a shock. One minute, the night was dark; only the silver stream of the moonlit river told him where he was. The next, patterns of orange explosions rippled across the ground below him.
By the time the first group had flared and faded, another group had replaced them. The second batch was further away and behind him. Suchart’s first thought was that, even if one load of bombs had hit Don Muang, the second couldn’t have. His second thought was the realization that he was between the Farman and its home at Saigon. Suddenly, the chance of staging an intercept wasn’t so remote.
He peered into the darkness, so intent on trying to pick out the shadow of the bomber that he missed the explosions of the third and fourth patterns of bombs. The Farman had to be out there, somewhere. Almost without thinking, he advanced his throttles and touched the mixture control on his engine. The extra power made his fighter a little more lively, but it was still sluggish compared with its normal configuration.
That was when he realized one of the stars had flicked out and then returned. Something had passed between it and his Hawk 75N. Suchart curved around and closed on the tell-tale star. Sure enough, in the darkness ahead of him, was a shadow; slightly darker than the blue-black of the tropical night. More throttle, another fuel adjustment and the shadow grew quickly. A big, high-wing aircraft with its engines slung underneath the wings. Now Suchart knew where to look. He could see the flames of the exhausts rippling in the darkness. There were two sets per side; that confirmed it. The Farman had four engines, two in each underwing gondola; one at the front and one at the back. The aircraft ahead of him was indeed a Farman 222. The near-impossible chance had taken place.
Suchart continued to close. Now that he had seen his target, he wondered how he could ever have overlooked it. He had a quick moment to think about his angle of attack. The Farman had a single machine gun in the nose, one in a dorsal turret and one in the belly. He settled on coming up from underneath, so that the aircraft’s engines would be exposed.
He sighed slightly, steadying himself. Then he squeezed the upper of the two gun-switches on the control column. That fired his nose .30-cal machine guns. Tracer arched out. The first few passed low. Suchart corrected his aim and walked the burst into the fuselage, then along the wing. As soon as he was hitting in the region of the engines, he pressed the lower firing trigger. He felt the 23mm cannon firing. The heavy recoil caused his Hawk to lurch in ways that the ,30s had never done. The effects were immediate and appalling. The whole engine gondola erupted into flame. Brilliant red fire lit up the fuselage. Suchart paused, then fired again.
The fire spread with stunning speed, turning the Farman into a great burning cross in the sky. There was a short burst of fire from one of the gunners, but it was wild. Anyway, Suchart had broken off his attack. There was no need to push it any further. The burning bomber was already heading down, slowly losing altitude and speed. For a moment, he wondered if the pilot was still alive at the controls. Pity for a fellow pilot made him hope that he was not. To be trapped in that inferno was a terrible way to die. The Farman
222 sank, its airframe now outlined as dark lines against the burning fabric of its skin. Then, suddenly, it was all over. The wings crumpled. The wreckage fell from the sky to become a flaming pyre on the ground.
Supreme Command Headquarters, Bangkok, Thailand
The great flaming cross in the sky made a fitting introduction to his visit. Sir Josiah Crosby looked up at it and imagined what it must be like for the crew of the burning bomber.
Those poor, poor men.
The thought came out with genuine sympathy. Sir Josiah might have cast his lot in with the Indian government, but the thought of Europeans dying so far from their homes still affected him. The sight was shut off as he went into the headquarters of the Thai Army.
The building seemed very different from his previous visits. The leisurely, almost lazy, atmosphere had gone completely. Now, men in dark green uniforms rushed from place to place with an air of determined urgency. His escort led him through the corridors, towards an office buried in the depths of the building. He knocked on a featureless, unpainted wooden door, paused for a second, then opened it and ushered Sir Josiah in. The Ambassador-Plenipotentiary was inside.
“Ah, Sir Josiah. Thank you for coming at this unspeakable hour. I must leave Bangkok at dawn and return to our forward Army headquarters and this is the only time I have. May I offer you some tea? We have a fine spiced mandarin orange tea, if you prefer?”
“Thank you, Madam Ambassador. Or, should I say Colonel? The orange tea sounds delightful.”
“Whichever form of address makes you most comfortable. You saw we have just shot down one of the French Farman bombers? And our antiaircraft guns hit a Potez 542 over Nakhorn Phanom? So far, the night is going well.”
A maid appeared with a cup and a pot of tea on a tray. She poured for Sir Josiah and then quietly left. He took a sip and delight spread across his face. “This is indeed delicious. I have always reported to London by way of Calcutta; but, with the change in authority, this is no longer the case. I now represent only the interests of India and my actions are determined by the Indian Foreign Office. They have instructed me to tell you that we have received authorization from the United States to transfer some of the aircraft we will be receiving from them to your country, in lieu of the aircraft your Air Force ordered but never received. We have been assured we will be fully compensated by a finance credit for any such aircraft we transfer.”
Suriyothai nodded. She had noted the tiny stress that Sir Josiah had placed on the ‘you’ in his comments. “That is very good news.”
“The Americans took it for granted that we would transfer Hawk 75A-4s; Mohawk IVs, we call them. However, on the advice of our Air Force and its advisors, we have elected to standardize on the Hawk 75 ourselves. The Brewster Buffalos we have received will be needed by the Navy, for our aircraft carrier. But, our share of the Hawk 81s, Tomahawk Is, amounts to 48 aircraft and we will offer all of these to you.
“At our first meeting, you expressed concern about Japanese intentions. We believe that the performance of these aircraft in the Middle East and Africa will give the Japanese pause for thought. In addition, we will also offer you 24 Hawk 75s and the same number of DB-7B aircraft. Our advisors say the latter will make superior intruders and are significantly faster than most Japanese fighters.”
It took all Suriyothai’s self-control to stop her jaw from dropping. An influx of aircraft on this scale would provide all the air defenses her country needed to refuse compliance with any Japanese demands. “Sir Josiah, on behalf of my government, there is little I can do other than express my very great gratitude for this generosity. Obviously, your offer is accepted gladly, with the hope this will mark the start of an enduring friendship between our nations.”
Sir Josiah laughed gently. “It is not so generous as you think. We are giving you the older aircraft ordered by France and Britain more than a year ago. The Americans will be providing us with the latest models in exchange. A year is a long time in war, but I think this exchange benefits everybody involved.”
Suriyothai looked out of the window at where a fire burned across the city. The French counter-attack was beginning; all the reports from the front stressed that. The night bombing of the airbases showed that the French were, this time, in real earnest.
A year was indeed a long time in war, but so could be a few hours.
French Sloop
Dumont d’Urville,
At Sea, Approaching Koh Chang
“The report from the reconnaissance aircraft is in. “ Lieutenant Laurent Babineau passed the word through to Captain Toussaint de Quieverecourt. “We are in luck. Both the Thai coast defense ships are in the anchorage.”
To Babineau’s surprise, his Captain seemed decidedly unhappy. One reason was obvious; the blackened area of twisted metal where the ship’s catapult and seaplane had once resided. The other was less tangible. “Commodore Berenger has sent his orders for the attack. He is forming the fleet into three divisions.
La Motte-Picquet
will go in east of Koh Wai, while we will take the channel between Koh Wai and Koh Klum with
Amiral Charner. Tahure
and
Marne
will take the passage between Koh Klum and the main Koh Chang Island.”
“He’s splitting our force into three groups?” Babineau realized why his Captain was perturbed. “If the Siamese move quickly, they could defeat us in detail. “
Tahure
and
Marne
are weak; they’ve only got a pair of 140mm guns
and some 100mms between them.
If
the Thais are expecting this, they
could cut those two ships off and sink them before we could come to their aid.”
“I know what Commodore Berenger is thinking. Our squadron has three different speeds.
La Motte-Picquet
can do more than 30 knots,
Tahure
and
Marne
twenty; we are limited to 16. Splitting us up into three groups means that each group can maneuver at maximum speed.” de Quieverecourt sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “And we all have different guns. 155mm on the
La Motte-Picquet;
we have 140mms and the others mostly 100mms. Operating separately will ease our fire control problems.”
And I know what Commodore Berenger is thinking as well,
Babineau thought.
He can take his cruiser in fast, open fire first and claim the credit for any victories. But, if it goes wrong, he will have us coming up behind to bail him out. But to voice such ideas would be insubordinate, at best.
Babineau saw his captain looking at him and realized that de Quieverecourt knew exactly what he had been thinking. “Should we come to action stations, sir? We are approaching the anchorage and dawn is not far off.”
de Quieverecourt shook himself. “Yes, do so.”
Tahure
and
Marne
had already sheered away, heading for the channel that led into the anchorage from the north. Then,
La Motte-Picquet
started to surge forward and peel away to starboard. That left
Dumont d’Urville
and
Amiral Charner
heading directly into the anchorage. Babineau looked over to the east. He saw the first faint hint of purple that spoke of a dawn yet to come. In the minor degree of extra light it provided, he saw two shapes close to the island of Koh Krabung. He managed to make out the distinguishing feature of their design, the large single funnel amidships.
