“That was well done.” Major Belloc had reappeared. “A creditable defense indeed. However, I have to tell you that the Thais have taken Phoum Kien Kes and cut RC-157 some eight kilometers to our rear. And in the north, Sisophon has fallen to them. We are cut off; all six battalions of us. Colonel Jacomy has ordered us to hold our positions. The remainder of the forces at Battambang will break through and relieve us.”
Belloc and Roul exchanged glances. It was Belloc whose quotation expressed what they both knew was going to happen.
“Nous sommes dans un pot de chambre, et nous y serons emmerdés.”
The road was hard-topped. The black asphalt seemed to shimmer in the afternoon sun. A few tens of meters away, the waters of the Tonle Sap shone in the same sun. The great lake stretched from Battambang most of the way back to Phnom Penh; here, it cut Cambodia nearly in half.
The scene on the road was something that its builders had never anticipated. The CardenLloyd machine gun carrier rocked slightly on its suspension as it halted across the left-hand lane. Behind it, the trucks of the infantry battalions stopped as well and discharged their men to form the defense perimeter. It hadn’t been a hard fight on the drive up from Chantaburi; the few French roadblocks had been shelled, dive bombed and bypassed. The only real problem had been the driving urgency to get to this point with minimum delay. That, the battalion had done. They had made it on time and done their duty. Now they, and their vehicles, could rest.
The same could not be said for the other two regiments of the division. They would be heading east, along the road that had just been captured. For the road in question was Route Coloniale Five leading from Battambang to Phnom Penh and it was the main supply line for the entire French Indochina Army now concentrated around Battambang.
“There is not much difference between the P-36G and the Hawk 75N you have flown up to now.” The American civilian speaking to Flight Lieutenant Suchart Chalermkiat had landed the aircraft behind him just an hour before, after flying it in from India. “That’s why we’re getting them through to you first. The P-40Bs can follow later when you have more time to convert.”
Suchart understood what the American was getting at, even while the interpreter was translating his words. FKL-60 had started with 11 Hawk 75Ns; now they had five. Two had been shot down by French Morane fighters; two by ground fire. Two had been lost in accidents. The eight aircraft that had just arrived from India were desperately needed. “P-36Gs?”
“Army Air Corps designation for the Mohawk IV. You’ve got the retractable undercarriage, of course. Don’t forget to pull it up when you take off and lower it before landing. We’ve lost aircraft because of that. There’s an extra machine gun in each wing, giving you six. We’ve replaced the French 7.5mm guns with British .303 Brownings. That’s cost you some ammunition capacity. Otherwise, you’ll find the aircraft is 40 mph faster then the 75N, and that’s about all. Lands the same way and is a touch more agile. Take her up and try her out.”
“Thank you,…” Suchart hesitated.
“Boyington; everybody calls me Pappy. How many kills you got?” It was the standard fighter pilot question; Suchart was slightly flattered by being asked. It meant this American recognized him as being one of the club.
“Does that include aircraft on the ground?” Suchart got a sideways look by way of response; he kicked himself for the obvious mistake. “Of course not. So far, three. Two Moranes and a Farman bomber. The last one was at night.”
Boyington nodded. “Four here. All Japanese. When you fight them, the major one you’ll run across is the Nakajima. You can recognize it by its fixed undercarriage. It’s as agile as the devil, but only got two .30s. Your Hawk can handle it as long as you don’t try and do a low-speed dogfight. There’s a bigger version of it that’s a bit faster and got a retractable undercarriage. The one to watch for is the new Mitsubishi. I’ve never run into one, but the rumor is that it’s very fast, very agile and got wing-mounted cannon.”
There was a pause while the interpreter caught up and got his breath back. Suchart grabbed the opportunity to ask another question. “You think we will fight the Japanese?”
Boyington looked around. He had strict orders not to discuss politics on this delivery flight, but he told himself that this was tactical advice to a fellow fighter pilot, not political at all. “You will. The two biggest guys on the block always end up fighting it out and the Japs will want to take you down before you get big enough to give them a hard time. Only, I’m getting a feeling they may have left it too late. Anyway, you watch their fighters. They love dogfighting. Just dive on them and get away before they can trap you into a turning match.”
“That’s what the German pilot who came here said. Aerobatics are for amateurs. Dive and zoom.”
“Glad to hear it. That’s good advice. Now, the most important thing. Anywhere I can get a drink around here?”
The maps on the walls showed the developing situation quite clearly.
To the Ambassador, it looked like a European fried breakfast. There was a big red circle around Battambang, with the town itself a red blob in the middle. That was the fried egg. North of it was an ellipse stretched out along Route Colonial 157 with a series of designations scrawled in it. That was the sausage. Then, north of that was a series of small red circles that marked the remnants of the French troops north of the Tonle Sap. They would be the hash browns. To the Ambassador, it looked like breakfast; but she knew to the French it was a military disaster in the making.
Six battalions of French infantry and an artillery battalion were cut off and surrounded north of Phoum Preav. Ten more French battalions of infantry, three battalions of artillery and the survivors of an armored battalion were surrounded at Battambang. Only two battalions of infantry were left unbesieged. One was the first battalion of the 5th REI at Siamreap and the other was a Tirailleur Tonkinois battalion at Kompong Thum. Almost half the French forces in Indochina had been either destroyed or had been left with no choice but to surrender. On the other hand, the Ninth Infantry division was wholly tied down at Battambang, along with a regiment of the 11th Infantry and another of the 2nd Cavalry. The rest of the 11th was either spreading out along the Mekong to await the anticipated Japanese thrust or advancing along Route Coloniale 6 to Phnom Penh. South of the Tonle Sap, the rest of 2nd Cavalry was also heading towards Phnom Penh along Route Coloniale 5. She was confident they would get there. After all, there was nothing left to stop them.
“What excuses have the Navy offered us?” Her tone was icy cold; the naval officer waiting to report blanched at hearing it.
“We have lost two torpedo boats and the coastal defense ship Thonburi is grounded off Koh Chang. She’ll be towed back to Bangkok for repair later this afternoon. The French were driven off and they were prevented from bombarding our coastal towns.” Captain Chuan Jitbhatkorn sounded defensive and knew it.
“That’s what happened. I asked why it has happened. Or is there no reason why the Navy has let us down?” The Ambassador’s tones hadn’t warmed in the slightest. In her own mind, she had a reasonable idea of what lay behind the naval losses at Koh Chang. The Army had been rebuilt with young, vigorous officers in command, men who had been selected on merit.