A Mighty Endeavor (76 page)

“And we ours.” General Archibald Percival Wavell was very firm on
that point. It was essential that either this peace agreement held or that
breaking it was seen to be the work of the Italians. With the second possibility eliminated, the first was guaranteed. “With the Canal and Egypt secure, we can address the problem of Iraq. There are rumblings from that country and I fear the situation there is coming to a head.”

“The latest intelligence is that a group of four Iraqi nationalist army generals, known as “the Golden Square,” are planning a revolt. The Golden Square intend to overthrow the regime of Regent ‘Abd al-Ilah and install Rashid Ali as Prime Minister. Their objective is to press for full Iraqi independence following the limited independence granted in 1932. To that end, they are working with German intelligence and are accepting military assistance from Germany.”

“The Noth Plan.” Major-General Noel Beresford-Peirse sounded almost incredulous. “They actually mean to go through with it.”

“It defies logic, but I must agree with you.” Wavell thought for a few seconds. “Have your Fourth Indians ready to move to Iraq. They can join 20th Indian Brigade there.”

“I’ll need to get my Government’s approval for that, Archie.”

Wavell nodded. “Of course. My apologies; it’s so easy to forget how much things have changed in a year. Please, consult Calcutta, Noel, and ask their approval to move your division. Perhaps we can shift some air power to Iraq. Moving aircraft doesn’t have the political implications of ground forces.”

“My New Zealanders are well-placed, Archie,” Major-General Bernard Freyberg spoke. “We could move a column into Iraq damn fast, if you give the word. I’m not sure how long we’ll be a viable force, though, the way things are going back home. The Government’s bankrupt and the boy’s pay is months in arrears. As far as you’re concerned, if you don’t use us, you could lose us.”

“Thank you, Bernie. I’ll bear that in mind. So far though, we’ll just have to let the situation mature.” Wavell looked around. “If there is no other business, I suggest we adjourn for the day.”

Tomahawk II
Marijke,
Habbaniyah, Iraq

“So this is the famous
Marijke?”

The sixteen Tomahawks were lined up in the parking area after the flight in from Kenya. They were only one of the squadrons that had arrived. A Desert Rat Maryland squadron was also trying to make itself comfortable in its new home. One of their pilots was admiring
Marijke
and the line of kill marks painted under her cockpit. Flight Lieutenant Pim Bosede had almost two dozen confirmed kills by the time the fighting had ended. His fame was spreading as one of the first Commonwealth aces. The Tomahawks, their noses painted with the garish shark’s mouth, had become as symbolic of the Middle East fighting as the Matilda tank and the Bren Gun carrier.

“Sean Mannix, 47 Squadron. That’s my Maryland over there.
G-George.
We got pulled out of Egypt a few days ago and ordered here. No idea why.”

“Iraq’s a nice, quiet area. Guess the powers that be decided we needed

a rest.”

“Might be, Pim; might be. Why don’t you come over and I’ll introduce you to my crew?”

Cabinet Office, 10 Downing Street, London, United Kingdom

“According to the note of protest, two Ju-90 reconnaissance aircraft were damaged in the attack.” Sir Arnold Robins looked at the copy of the report again. “The damage is really quite minor; amounts to no more than a few bullet holes really. Nobody was hurt, although one of our regular policemen twisted his ankle while searching for the shooters.”

“It sounds more like vandalism, or even just youthful high spirits, than an organized attack.” Lord Halifax was very reluctant to admit there was anything more to the incident than a few farmers, probably very drunk, taking pot-shots at parked aircraft. He wasn’t even certain whether who owned the aircraft would have made much difference.

“The German note says as much, Prime Minister. They make light of the situation and imply that, taken by itself, it is of little account. However, they do suggest it points to a risk that a more organized and effective attack may take place one day and that an ounce of prevention now would be better than a pound of cure later.”

“And just what would that ounce of prevention be?” R. A. B. Butler sounded slightly suspicious.

“The note draws our attention to the fact that the police guarding the gate at Tangmere airfield were unarmed. In this case, it would have made no real difference to the situation, but they suggest that the replacement of unarmed British regular police by armed personnel would reassure the authorities in Germany.”

“Sounds like a job for the Auxiliaries. When we set them up, defending airfields and factories was explicitly included in their remit.”

“My thoughts exactly, Foreign Secretary. The Germans also suggest that improving liaison between the Auxiliaries and the German reconnaissance detachments would be worthwhile. They suggest a corporal’s guard of Luftwaffe police be allowed to reside at the bases. Purely to maintain order amongst the German personnel and liaise with the Auxiliaries.”

“German troops on British soil. I do not think so.” Halifax didn’t like the way this was going at all.

“Luftwaffe police, Prime Minister, not troops.” Butler was at his oiliest, positively oozing reassurance. “A corporal and eight privates, at most armed with a pistol for the corporal and truncheons for the rest. They would not be allowed off the base and their responsibilities would be restricted to dealing with the German Luftwaffe personnel. I believe, even in Germany, the Luftwaffe police do not even have the power to arrest civilians but must summon the ordinary police to make an arrest. I do not see any great problem here.”

“Perhaps not.” Halifax read the complaint from the German Embassy again. “I just wish this hadn’t happened; that’s all. We have no idea who fired those shots?”

“None, Prime Minister. An investigation revealed nothing.”

“Pity. Some stern punishment of the offenders might have been more useful than these measures. Very well, Richard, I will approve these measures. Replace the regular police with Auxiliaries and tell the Germans that they may send assign a corporal’s guard of Luftwaffe police to each of the bases they use. For deployment on the base. It must be clearly understood they may not set one foot outside the airfield perimeter. See to the arrangements, Sir Arnold.”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

Don Muang Airfield, Bangkok, Thailand

Bangkok had proper fighter protection at last. A whole squadron of Tomahawks lined up alongside the runways. They lacked the garish shark’s tooth markings sported by the Commonwealth Tomahawks. Instead, they had a leaping tiger painted on to their tails.
The Thai Tigers.
Squadron Leader Suchart rolled the name around in his head.
It had a ring to it.

The airfield was the staging point for the new aircraft. There were some of the new American dive bombers being readied for transfer to an attack squadron and a number of DB-7 bombers had been flown in from India. Suchart looked around for his friend Pappy, but the American was nowhere to be seen. Left to his own devices, he wandered over to the DB-7s. They were different from any he had seen before. The nose was solid instead of glazed. It had the barrels of eight .50-caliber machine guns sticking out of it. They were also painted a dark blue-gray.

“Looking at your new aircraft Khun Suchart?” The voice from behind him was hearty and encouraging. Suchart turned to see Group Captain Fuen standing behind him.

“These are mine? But, Sir, I am a fighter pilot
...”
Suchart was deeply distressed. The words ‘fighter pilots and lesser men’ echoed in his mind.
What will Pappy say when he finds out I have been transferred to bombers?

Group Captain Fuen slapped him on the back. “And these are fighters. Night fighters. You are the only fighter pilot in the Air Force with a kill scored at night. In fact, there are very few men in the world today with that distinction. So you will command our new squadron of night-fighters; the only such squadron in the whole region. They are more than just that though. These are intruders. Your job will not just be to defend our capital at night but also to take the battle to the enemy, hunt him down on his bases and destroy him there. With our bombers in the day and your intruders at night, those who threaten us will get no sleep.”

He paused for a second and suddenly the joviality had gone. “Suchart, these aircraft are probably the most important of all the ones that have been delivered to us. Our greatest vulnerability is our wooden cities. If they are set on fire, the results will be a national catastrophe. We could see tens of thousands of our wives and daughters dying in the flames. Our enemies know this well and already they talk of exploiting it. Even the threat of firebombing is something we must take very seriously. So, every defense we can mount against the threat of bombing is vital to us. You understand now? We must learn to fight at night and you are the only one who has done so successfully. Suchart, I do not exaggerate when I say that every person in our capital is relying on you. Don’t let them down.”

Fuen went off to inspect another group of new aircraft, leaving Suchart to look at the DB-7 with new eyes. He still wasn’t entirely convinced it was a fighter. He looked underneath and saw the bomb bay. That increased his doubts on the point a bit further. Then he looked at the battery of machine guns in the nose and remembered his hunt for the Farman bombers over the city. That made him content.

Headquarters, Imperial Japanese Army, Tokyo, Japan

The package arrived on Colonel Masanobu Tsuji’s desk. It had been posted from abroad, Singapore, to be precise, and was very carefully wrapped. It slightly mystified him, since he had no idea what was in it. However, he had gone to great lengths to establish a chain of correspondents all over the Far East. All he could think of was that one of them had found something very important indeed. It also meant that the person responsible had been astute enough to work out who he was and discover how to contact him.

The package was a welcome introduction to what was otherwise a frustrating day. With the collapse of his Indochina plan, he was trying to work out how to get at the wealth of resources that lay in South East Asia. It was by no means as easy as he had hoped. Strategic options were closing in fast and the age-old rivalry between the Army and the navy didn’t help matters. He sincerely hoped that this package would contain the answers. Something had to. Japan’s imperial destiny had been thrown into doubt. He used a knife on his desk to cut the string and brown paper that wrapped the box. Inside that was another cardboard box, also carefully secured. Inside that was a brown paper bag. Tsuji spilled the contents of the bag on to his desk. A dozen bottles. It took a few seconds for the significance of the words “hair removing lotion” to sink in. When it did, his scream of anger could be heard all over the building.

Prisoner of War Camp, Ratchanaburi, Thailand

“You have heard we are to go home?” Major Belloc didn’t sound too pleased at the prospect.

“I have, sir.” Lieutenant Jordain Roul wasn’t that happy with the idea either. The options were to resign from the Army and go back to a France that was very close to being German-occupied, or stay in the Army and go back to a French Indochina that was very close to being Japanese-occupied. Neither really appealed that much. “A lot of the men are saying they would rather stay here.”

“And that surprises you?” Belloc sounded almost broken. “We are the Legion; the Fifth
Regiment Etranger d’lnfanterie.
We have no home other than the Legion and the men have no place in France until their enlistment is concluded. Worse, we have not just been defeated; we have surrendered. I doubt we have a place in the Legion after this. With no place to go, staying here has its merits.”

Roul looked around. The truth was that staying on did look attractive. The prisoner of war camp was clean and well-built. The food wasn’t to French taste, but it was fresh and there was plenty of it. There were doctors from the Swiss Red Cross to look after the wounded and they had received everything they asked for.
If this is a sample of what waits for us here, then I can see how the men might find it welcoming.
“I hear the Thais are asking the Germans in the unit if they want to serve as advisors to the new units they are forming.”

Belloc laughed. “I heard the same. And that some men were accepting. Although, it seems that those are well-disposed to the present government in Germany will not be welcome here.”

“There is General de Gaulle of course. And his Free French movement.”

“Yes, there is always General de Gaulle.”

Village School, Rattanburi, Thailand

Mongkut Chandrapa na Ayutthya, to his great relief no longer a Sergeant, stopped at the door of the school. The teacher had a big map of the new Thailand pinned to the wall. The areas occupied in the war were marked “The Recovered Provinces.” She was teaching the children the names of those provinces and explaining how they had been returned to their rightful owners. She was young herself and very earnest; one of many who had volunteered to leave the cities and come to these country villages to teach the children.

“And so, Our Heroes defeated the French who had taken our land from us and freed all our people. The Japanese didn’t like this and they sent a great army to force us back, but Our Heroes met that army and defeated it as well. And so, peace was agreed and Our Heroes are coming home.” She looked up and saw Mongkut standing at the door, his army rifle slung over his shoulder. The 11th was receiving a new rifle, the Kar-98k, that was shorter, lighter and more powerful than the old Type 52 he had carried. So the demobilized soldiers had been told they could take their old-model rifles home with them if they wished.

“Look children, a great honor has been granted to us. One of Our Heroes has come to visit our school.”

“Daddy!” Mongkut heard his daughter squeal with delight. The teacher had arrived after he had left for the Army, so she hadn’t known he was Sirisoon’s father. She did now. Mongkut didn’t care. He was looking at his daughter who had grown so much since he had left. And she was looking at him with her eyes shining.

“Honored Sir, please, could you tell the children about what the war was like?”

For a moment Mongkut smelled the stench of the flamethrowers and roasting flesh. Above all, he remembered the searing hate that had filled him when the beaten Japanese refused to surrender and how he had started to relish their screams as they were burned in their foxholes.
The teacher is young and a girl, she has no idea what she is asking. If she did, she would want me to cut out my tongue before telling them the truth.

Mongkut entered the schoolroom, making a respectful wai to the portrait of the King on the wall. He sat on the table at the front of the class and told the children about what he had seen of the provinces, how poor the people were and how they needed so much help to recover from the years of occupation. Some of the boys were disappointed. They had wanted to hear about the fighting, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to describe it. He showed them where he had been but of the battles themselves he said nothing. In the end, he just said, “the French and Japanese were skilled and fought very hard. But we fought better and we won in the end. Never forget; it is never wrong for us to defend ourselves.”And the children had smiled. Only the teacher heard what he added so softly afterwards.

“Even when it has torn out my soul.”