This battle was indeed the key to everything.
They had taken off for this sweep along the Mekong just before dawn and had been patrolling the river by the time the sun came up. Flight Lieutenant Suchart Chalermkiat had taken that time to fall in love with his Mohawk IV. It was much faster than his old Hawk 75N and much more responsive on the controls. He was leading a flight of four aircraft; two more flights accompanied his. The older Hawk 75Ns had been consolidated into a single squadron and they also were patrolling the area. The briefing before take-off had been very clear. A major Japanese assault on this part of the front was expected. Their aircraft had to be cleared from the sky.
“I see them. Below, ten o’clock.”
The washed-out light gray of Ki-27 fighters stood out clearly against the dark green of the jungle that bordered the Mekong. A closer look showed the dozen Ki-32 light bombers skimming the jungle below the fighters. They’d had green mottling painted over their light gray; obviously, they’d been in Indochina longer than the fighter pilots and realized how ineffective the light gray was. It amused Suchart that he probably knew more about Japanese Army aircraft designations than most people. A few months ago, the Japanese had been trying to sell aircraft to Thailand. Several types had arrived at Thai airfields for evaluation. Suchart had taken the opportunity to look at them closely. I wonder of any of the aircraft I saw are down there.
“Take them. Suchart, lead the way.” The order from the squadron commander was terse. Suchart pushed the nose of his fighter over and started to dive. Break up and disperse the escort first, then tear the bombers apart.
The Japanese pilots were neither stupid nor ill-trained. They spotted the Mohawks early in their dive. The neat formation of three Vs scattered. When the Japanese had been trying to sell the Ki-27 to the Air Force, they’d made great play of the aircraft’s agility and its unequalled ability to turn tightly. Later, the German pilots who had been hired to train the Thai Air Force after the political climate in Germany had turned sour gave their opinions on that theory. Now, Suchart could see why they had been unimpressed.
The tight turns looked impressive, but the Ki-27s bled off energy in the process. It did not get them out of the lethal cone of fire from the Mohawks. Suchart had picked his target carefully. His six machine guns lashed out with a converging cone of tracer. The first few rounds went past the Japanese fighter’s nose. The rest walked along the fuselage. To his astonishment, the Japanese fighter blew up; disintegrating into an orange ellipse of flame as its fuel tanks erupted. The Moranes I killed never exploded like that. They took a battering before they went down.
He was through the Japanese fighter group but still in a dive, heading for the Ki-32s below. He banked right, hoping that one of the Ki-27s would see him do so and close in for the kill. Their job is, after all, to stop us getting at the bombers. To his delight, a Ki-27 took the bait and curved after him. That was why Suchart had broken right, not left. He was leading the Japanese fighter right across the nose of Suchart’s wingman. In his mirror, he saw the Japanese fighter start to fire its two nose guns. Then the stream of tracers from his wingman enveloped the little fighter. It erupted into another orange fireball. Teamwork, teamwork, teamwork. Their instructors had hammered it home with ruthless persistence. Wingman, cover your leader; leader, cover your wingman. That way you’ll both get home. Most of the time. Don’t make pretty maneuvers. Dive, gun, run.
The formation of Ki-32s was right in front of him. Suchart approached them from the front quarter, but that was hardly a problem. He’d been taught the art of deflection shooting against fighters; the Ki-32 was a much larger, slower target. His first few shots went past the nose again; the remainder of the fire walked along the fuselage. The effect wasn’t as dramatic as with the Ki-27s. The Ki-32 started to burn; a mix of black and gray smoke pouring from its engine. The stricken aircraft nosed over. The steepening dive only ended when it plowed into the treetops beneath. Another Ki-32 was already following it down. Suchart’s wingman had seen the opportunity and raked it with his machine guns.
A quick glance at his instrument panel showed him that the needle on his speedometer was jammed against the stop. Am I really going that fast? The Japanese formation was already well behind him, so he pulled the nose of his fighter up and started to climb. There would be time for another pass or two soon enough. The other three aircraft in his flight had already formed up around him. Suchart started the long curve that would get them back into position over the battlefield. The Japanese formation that had approached so confidently was gone, scattered to the winds. There were a dozen or more pyres of smoke from the ground. The only question was, how many of them represented a precious Mohawk lost?
Far below him, over the muddy, gray waters of the Mekong, a formation of Hawk 75Ns were strafing the Japanese boats that were pouring across the river. Suchart wondered if his old Hawk 75N was one of the aircraft attacking the boats. He dismissed the question. He had enough to worry about.
“Look at that!”
Corporal Pon was awed by the sight. The river was covered by a huge fleet of small boats, all of which were heading for the Thai-held bank. A group of Thai aircraft had swept over them, their guns firing into the swarm. It had all the effect of trying to wipe out an ant’s nest by stabbing them individually with a needle. Overhead, the rumbling roar of artillery shells dominated the scene. The vast flock of boats was pock-marked with great white towers as shells plowed into the water. Every so often, a shell would bite home. A boat would be thrown into the air; men spiralled from it as the wooden craft broke up. Yet, despite the shelling, the approach of the assault boats seemed unstoppable.
“The great fish will eat well tonight.”
The grim words were all too true, as anybody who lived near the Mekong was aware. The river was populated by giant catfish; scavengers who would eat anything. Literally anything. That was why the bodies of those who drowned in the Mekong were seldom found. Sergeant Mongkut saw something unusual in the midst of the swarm of small craft, larger vessels carrying a tank each. One of them exploded in a ball of orange flame; a 150mm shell made a direct hit on it. The rest continued their apparently inexorable advance.
“They’re bringing tanks over. We’d better get out of here.”
It was as if the Japanese heard him and decided to encourage him on his way. The sound of inbound artillery fire was quite distinct from outbound. Japanese shells hit all along the banks of the river. The shells burst in the trees and sprayed wooden fragments across the patches of clear ground.