The effect on the battalion had been disastrous. They had been reduced to company strength and lost most of their privileges. Only recently had they been restored to battalion status and received the heavy weapons their table of equipment dictated. That the battalion was still commanded by a major was a mark of how recently it had been restored to its original status. Major Wuthi was painfully aware that, even now, there was a question mark against the trustworthiness of his unit. After a moment’s thought, he resumed his comments.
“The French are moving up their forces while we speak. And not making a very good job of it, I might add. Our scouts say that their units are stumbling around in the trees and getting lost. They’ve identified two separate formations; a three-battalion group in the north and a two-battalion group in the south. It looks like they plan to start their attack about dawn.”
“Fifteen companies to our four.” Major Anansong Chirawatra, the battalion second-in-command, was thoughtful. “We will have to earn our redemption.”
“It’s not that bad. Most of the French units are understrength and have only two companies each. Third Infantry will handle the southern thrust. They have four companies and tank support, against five without tanks. They’re already moving out into ambush positions. We’re four companies against seven and we have artillery and armor. And once the sun comes up, we will have air support. I think this will be a fair test for us.”
“We must always try to be our best.” Major Anansong repeated the mantra cheerfully.
“There is no trying about it. We must perform better than our peers expect, much better. When we were assigned to this division, Her Highness, the Ambassador, made it clear that she expected great things from us.” Major Wuthi paused for a second. “It’s not being reprimanded by Her Highness that frightens me so much; it’s when she forgives me afterwards that I get really scared.”
“Have Ayuthya, Maeklong and Tachin left?”
Commander Luang Phrom Viraphan had completed the hand-over and taken responsibility for the squadron at Koh Chang. It was hardly a powerful force; the coast defense ship Thonburi as flagship, four torpedo boats and a minelayer. It was intended simply to deter any French attack on coastal cities to the west. That was where the minelayer came in. She would mine the waters between Koh Chang and the mainland. That would effectively bar the French from intruding.
Luang Phrom was keenly aware that his role, and that of the Navy in general, was purely defensive in this war. The major part of the burden was being carried by the Army and Air Force. The reports from Laos suggested that the war up there was already won and that all Thai territory west of the Mekong had been recovered. It wasn’t surprising that had happened so quickly; the pockets of ground were small and Luang Phrom doubted if the French troops up there had amounted to much more than a corporal’s guard.
“They pulled out a few minutes ago.” The communications officer had come up to the bridge with the signal lamp message. “They delayed their departure by a few minutes due to a French seaplane that was buzzing around. Now they are on their way back to Satahip.”
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.
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.