Anvil Of Necessity

“Hey, guys. Take the crane, go with these ladies and do what they ask. Get back here as soon as you've finished.”

The four women made deep and respectful Wais to their benefactor, then got back into their jeep and headed off for the exercise site. Followed by an eight-by-eight cross-country truck fitted with a heavy-duty crane.

Tactical exercise site, near Ckulachotnklao Military Academy, Bangkok, Thailand

The four men had given up and were relaxing on the grass. They'd worked out what had to be done but also realized that their team just didn't have the muscle power to do it. Since they'd inevitably fail the test, there was no point in working themselves into exhaustion trying. Just take the hit of a failed exercise. And blame it on the women.

They were well into the process of alternately comprehensively trashing the female cadets and then speculating on the chances of persuading them to be affectionate during the wait for the exercise to end when they heard the engine noise. A few seconds later, the jeep appeared, followed by something that looked strangely like a very large, powerful, mobile crane. Awed, bewildered and a little nervous, they watched the crane halt by the block. There was a whine as the steadying jacks lowered into position, then a rattle as the chains unwound from their drum. The crane crew clambered on top of the block and secured four hooks to the rings up there.

Then they waved everybody away. Sirisoon guessed why. If one of those chains broke it would lash across the exercise site like a steel whip. Anybody in its way wouldn't stand a chance of survival. They'd be lucky if they were just killed. A heavy steel chain with that much energy behind it would pulp a human body beyond recognition. The crew took cover behind their crane-truck, the cadets joined them at the double-time.

Once the crane crew were convinced everybody was safe, the driver started throwing switches. To the awed amazement of the rest of the team, the whines and rattles turned to a deep-throated roar as the crane powered up. The block stayed put for a second, held down briefly by suction, then it lifted smoothly into the air. The crane rocked as the jib swung the block over the road and dropped it half­way to its resting place. The crew repositioned the crane, then took the block the rest of the way.

Within ten minutes, the job was done, the crane was on its way back to the bridge-building site and the team of cadets was looking at the block resting in the final, specified position. Officer-Cadet Sirisoon got back into her jeep, nobody daring to dispute that it was hers, and picked up the radio.

Training Center, Chulachomklao Military Academy, Bangkok, Thailand

“Officer-Cadet Sirisoon reporting Sir. Tactical exercise concluded.”

The training officer's face clouded over. It was not the place of cadets to make joke reports, especially when on tactical evolutions and he explained that in great detail to the impertinent young woman abusing the radio communications system.

His wrath knew no bounds when she insisted on making her report official. It was ridiculous, impossible. The record for this particular exercise was six and a half hours and this woman was claiming her team had managed it in barely more than one! Absurd. He’d expose this quickly enough. Then may the gods help her.

“Operator. Patch through to Sergeant Major Manop.”

There was a hiss and crackle on the line. “Manop-Actual Sir. I think you'd better get down here Sir. i assume they've called in already?”

Tactical exercise site, near Chulachomklao Military Academy, Bangkok, Thailand

It had taken half an hour to get to the exercise site. When the training officer reached the area, there could be no doubts about the facts of the matter. The block of concrete had been moved, according to orders. It was exactly where it was supposed to be. And that was quite impossible. Not only that, the cadets should be filthy dirty and exhausted. That was part of the point, to see how they behaved when under that sort of stress. Only they were clean, fresh and neat, the women sitting watching him with condescending smiles on their faces. The men didn't look nearly so happy.

There had to be something else and the evidence should be here. It was obvious they hadn't done it the way they were supposed to so how? The training officer looked at the tracks on the dirt road. A big, heavy truck had been here. He started to look around, what else was here that didn't belong?

Sirisoon watched him inspecting the ground. Behind him, Manop was standing trying desperately not to laugh. Suddenly it clicked into place; Sirisoon cursed herself for missing it. Of course, the Army wouldn't just leave them here. Somebody would be watching to see how they behaved and how they handled the situation. And, she suddenly realized, watching to see who took command of the little group. One of the purposes of the test was to see who were the leaders and who were the followers. It was a bit of a shock for her to realize that she had taken charge of the situation. That made her a leader. She hadn't thought of it that way before.

The training officer had found a depressed square in the ground, where one of the jack arms had dug in as the block swung across. With that as a reference, the tracks made sense. In fact it all made sense now, even to the laughter as he had passed back through the building site on his way down here. The one with the crane. The one where the workmen had all started laughing when they had seen him driving past.

“Sirisoon, you didn't” It was a flat statement, made out of hope that his conclusion was wrong yet with a distinct note of not wanting to know the answer.

“Didn't what Sir?”

“Explain yourself. How did you persuade the construction team to loan you their crane?”

“I discussed our need with the site foreman Sir, displaying officer-like qualities of persuasion, logic and exerting a commanding presence Sir.” The training officer just stared at her. “And I stuck my tongue in his ear,”

Manop couldn't hold it any longer and his suppressed snort of laughter echoed around the exercise area. The training officer spun around to stare at him as well and he struggled to get his face back under control.

“And, Sir f would like to claim, on behalf of my team, the Academy record for this particular exercise.”

“But you didn't do it the way you were supposed to.” The training officer knew that was a mistake as soon as he'd said it. He'd been wrong-footed by a group of cadets, and that was an experience he hadn't had before. The instructor looked at the four unhappy men on the team and felt a touch of sympathy for them. If this story got around, and it would, it was too good not to spread like wildfire, they would be laughing stocks.

“Sir, we were given no orders on how to do the job, just to get it done. And we did. Oh, and Sir we bought some beer as well for the construction team. Will the Academy reimburse us for that expense?”

The training officer looked as if he was about to have a stroke. Then, he shook his head. “Your new record will be officially listed as such in the Academy archives. As the result achieved by the team commanded by Officer-Cadet Sirisoon. And next year we will change to rules to stipulate the task be performed using resources at the site only. As for the beer, cadet, take a word of unofficial - and friendly -advice. Don't push your luck. Some things are better left undisclosed, A good officer knows when enough is enough”

Admiral's Quarters, INS Renown, Mumbai, India

“Lieutenant James Ladone to see Admiral Cunningham by appointment.” The Admiral's Doggie nodded briefly and motioned Ladone to take a seat. A few minutes later the intercom buzzed.

“The Admiral will see you now Lieutenant,”

Sir Andrew Cunningham was sitting behind his desk. He looked up as Ladone entered. “Have you made your decision yet Lieutenant?”

“Sir, I request permission to transfer to the Royal Indian Navy.” Under the terms of the Imperial Gift, every Royal Navy officer was entitled to settle down anywhere in any of the countries that had accepted the gift. It had been the only fair way. After the Great Escape, the Navy had been scattered all over the world. Done well too, very well for a fleet without a real home. Some had found themselves in highly agreeable circumstances, some in very much less pleasant ones. A few had found themselves in something that was a close approach to hell and a few others had found themselves somewhere far worse than hell. In Archangel. No, allowing people to choose had been the only fair way and the Royal Navy would take them where they wanted to go. For Ladone, who had thought long and hard over his decision, he was where he wanted to be,

“Britain not good enough for you then Lieutenant?”

“It’s not that Sir, but its true there's nothing left for me there. My brother was killed on Barham, my sister was with the Resistance when the Germans killed her. All I know is being a Navy officer and Britain won't have much of a Navy, not now.”

“Why not go to Australia then? The Aussies arc building up a Navy and be with our own kind there?”

“Everybody wants Australia. They'll have more Navy personnel than they can swallow. But Sir...”

“So what's wrong with South Africa?”

“Sir.” Ladone's voice was one of almost-despair. “It’s not like that. I don't want to stay here because I ruled out everywhere else. I want to stay here, it’s my first choice not my last.”

Cunningham softened and unbent slightly. “Then you'd better tell me why?”

“Sir, I've been here for three years now. This was a great country once and it can be again. It's happening, Sir and I want to be part of it. India, Sir, it gets into your blood and steals your heart. Oh I miss England, I always will but India's my home now. I belong here. Its sounds foolish Sir, but I love this country, its sights, its smells, its colors everything about it. I love the people here. Even the poorest have a sort of dignity about them. This country can be great again Sir and I want to help it. And the only way I can do that is to help them build their Navy.”

Cunningham looked at the young Lieutenant. “You love the people here. One in particular I'll be bound.” Ladone went bright red and looked at the floor. “Very well, you've made your choice. Your transfer to the Indian Navy is granted. Effective immediately. And it’s any help to you in what will be a difficult time, I made the same decision. For much the same reasons. Except the young lady of course.”

Ladone left Renown in something of a daze. Behind him, the three battlecruisers of the Indian Navy's, his Navy's now, Flying Squadron were at anchor. Tomorrow, he'd be back on board Repulse doing what he had been doing for the last year. Only he'd be doing it as an Indian “Naval Officer. Which brought him to his next duty of the day.

The house was large and well-built. In a city where grinding poverty was the norm, it was a mark of prosperity. He rang the doorbell and the Door Boy answered. The “boy” was a Mahratta and doubled as a bodyguard. “Please tell Doctor Gohill that Lieutenant Ladone of the Royal Indian Navy would be most grateful for a few minutes of his time.”

The door boy let him in and took him to the parlor to wait. On the way, he passed Doctor Gohill's eldest daughter Indira. She had looked at him with a trace of fear and apprehension in her eyes. He smiled slightly and nodded. The eyes turned bright and shiny with happiness. The first reward of a hard decision. He'd met Indira Gohill a few months earlier and had started a gentle courtship. One watched by a bevy of relatives and some particularly large door boys all determined to see that the needs of propriety were met. After a while, Doctor Gohill had made it clear that, while his attentions were welcomed, he would not consider his daughter leaving India. That hadn't been the deciding factor but it had been a weighty one. Then, he heard steps approaching the parlor and Doctor Gohill entered. Ladone snapped to attention.

“Doctor Gohill Sir. Lieutenant James Ladone, Royal Indian Navy. I request permission to ask your daughter Indira for her hand in marriage.” He thought he was fouling it up already, stumbling out with it like that. But the Doctor smiled.

“I think you will have a great future in our Navy Lieutenant, In fact I am very sure you will. You have my blessing if my daughter will accept you. You'd better ask her yourself.'“ The stern face relaxed and a smile broke out. Indira Gohill stepped out from behind her father.

“Indira, please will you do me the honor, the very great honor, of consenting to be my wife?” Now he was sure he was fouling it up. he'd had a proper speech worked out but it had all gone and he'd just stumbled out with the question.

“Oh yes Jim. Oh very, very yes.”

HMS Xena, At Sea, Off Rotterdam

Xena nosed gently, very gently, onto the mud. In the control room, there were some subdued grimaces but not many. After so many test dives it was what they had come to expect.

“Sorry. Swampy. It's about as definite as we're going to get. We can try a few more dives if you like but I can’t see it changing the picture. There's no fresh water layer down here. We came down so gently that last time, we would have bounced off any change like that. We've looked hard but what we're looking for just isn't here.”

“I know Robert. I'd guessed it was the case a couple of dives ago but I wanted to make certain. Damn it, the theory sounded right, we all were so sure. There should have been a layer down here. There's one in the Dardanelles and something similar off Gibraltar. Why not here?”

Fox shook his head. He'd taken Doctor Swamphen to the right place and they'd dived all over the area. Their high-frequency mine avoidance sonar was mapping the seabed around them and it showed the valley and river banks that had been the course of the Rhine before the North Sea had come in and flooded the plain. Once he'd even caught sight of what may have been the remains of a riverside village. Perhaps not though, the mine sonar wasn't designed for mapping and its readings were ambiguous to say the least. He'd marked the spot on the charts nevertheless, perhaps one day people with better equipment could come back and have another look.

“So, where does this leave us Swampy?”

“Well, with an opportunity of course. People don't win Nobel prizes by proving theories right, they get them for proving them wrong and coming up with better ones. That's science, we're always checking theories and discarding one's that don't fit the evidence. In (his case, it comes back to what I was saying before we left, the whole undersea world is unimaginably complex and we're just getting a handle on how complex it is. We've been trying to predict the weather for how many years now? And we've got it right how often? Then SAC take their bombers up higher than anybody has ever done before and they've started to find a whole group of things up there that we didn't even suspect. Same with us down here. We haven't reached the point yet when we know how little we know.”

“Very good, that's all very interesting, but what about this contamination we've been sampling. Now there isn't an undersea river down here, is that good or bad?”

Swamphen looked thoughtful for a few moments. ^LLA bit of both I'd say. We were hoping that the river running under the sea would sweep the contamination out to the Atlantic where it would be so dispersed it wouldn't matter. Now, unless there is something else down here we don't know about - and there almost certainly is - that's gone out the window. The good news is that the spread of contamination is going to be much more limited; I'd guess this finger here” he tapped the chart on the table “'has reached about as far as it's going to go. The bad news is that the degree of contamination in the affected areas is going to get a lot worse than we thought before it starts to subside. The really bad news is that, without that river, the North Sea is a closed system. What goes in, doesn't come out. The undersea Rhine we all thought was down here would have acted like a sewer, it would have spread contamination around a bit but flushed it out of the system as well. Without it, nothing's going to leave until it decays.”

“And how long will that be?”

Swamphen looked thoughtful again. “Based on the figures we have so far, I'd say the degree of contamination is going to increase for at least ten years. Then, it'll start to fade. Fifty years perhaps before the centers of the contaminated areas are safe? Even during mat time, sailing over them will be safe enough. Sailing through them, well, don't do it too often. Do you like Herring Robert?”

“Not particularly, no. Too oily, gives me the runs.”

“That's OK then. You won't miss the North Sea and Baltic herring fisheries. They're gone. And the fishing industry they supported. The fishermen will have to convert to deep sea or find other employment. And speaking of the Baltic, that's a whole other question. When the Americans took out the Baltic ports and shipyards, they exploded their atom bombs in contact with the ground.”

“I thought that's what all bombs did.”

“Not these new ones. When it comes to most targets, apparently its more effective to explode them, initiate them in Nuke-talk, over the targets. High enough so the fireball doesn't touch the ground. However, where the target has a lot of really strong structures, like graving docks and U-boat pens, then they drop the atom bomb so it lands on the target before it explodes.

“The problem is that creates a huge plume of really vicious radioactivity, fallout it’s called, and that's been spreading along the coast. Contaminating the water like there's no tomorrow, Which, for the fishing industry tip there, there isn't. The whole Baltic is seriously contaminated, the Swedes and Norwegians are creating hell about it. The Finns would, only they appear to believe that if they make noises, the entire Russian Army will occupy the country and rape it clean. A not unrealistic assessment by the way. The Danes have just abandoned their Baltic coast although I think they are being pessimistic. As far as we know, the main water movement is west to east. Unfortunately as we⁷ve just proved, we know virtually nothing. Robert, what are your orders?”

“Basically, to take you where you want to go and do what you want to do as long as I don’t hazard the boat or her crew in the process. To do as much training as I can and get this boat properly worked-up in the process.”

“Can we go to the Baltic?”

“From what you've said, that comes under the heading of hazarding the crew.”

Swamphen nodded. Faced with the knowledge of what the Americans had done to the Baltic and how little they knew about the movements of water, Fox's fears were reasonable. “How about this. We make course for the Skagerrak, taking readings all the way up. If my guess is right, contamination should drop quickly as we head north and then pick up again. When it gets to the same levels we have here, we turn around and give it up. Sound fair?”

“Fair enough.” Fox's voice betrayed his reservations. He'd already decided that he would be looking at rate of increase as well as absolute levels, and if he didn't like what he was seeing, they would get out of the area. Then he had an ugly thought, if they were both this worried about contamination while still in the North Sea, just what were the levels in the Baltic like?

The Oval Office, the White House, Washington D.C.

“Senator Joseph Kennedy to see you Sir.”

President Dewey cursed beneath his breath. The election was only months away and, according to the polls and the commentators, it was too close to call. Although Harry Truman was the face of the Democrats in this campaign, the reality was that Kennedy and his clique was taking over behind the scenes. One of the issues that Kennedy's clique of Democrats was driving hard was PoW/MIA. Prisoners of War and Missing in Action. The problem was that there were all too many of the second group and all too few of the first were being found. Kennedy and his supporters were spending their time attacking the administration for ''not bringing the boys home” and “forgetting the prisoners”.

Those accusations made Dewey's stomach knot with anger. How dare this bombastic SoB throw accusations like that around. When he'd been the Ambassador in the U.K., Kennedy had been in deep with Halifax and his Cliveden set. It was a level bet he knew what Halifax had been planning. Dammit, back then Kennedy had been close to being a Nazi supporter himself. That had only changed when.....

“Joe, it’s good to see you again. What can I do for you?” Dewey's welcoming voice echoed in the expanse of the office.

“You can find my boy.” Dewey's words had been friendly if insincere. Kennedy's were loaded with hate and totally sincere. Dewey was old-school politician, and whatever the differences in position, politicians kept their opposition professional, not personal. Participants in the give and take of politics didn't allow political differences to interfere with personal relationships. Truman was old school as well, he and Dewey were friends beneath their rivalry.

Kennedy and his clique were different. For them it was politics was personal and political differences were best solved by destroying everybody who did not agree with them. There was no give or take and solution by compromise for them. If they won, they took everything, if they lost they destroyed as much as they could to make their opponent's victory as barren as possible.

“Joe, Strategic Air Command have looked into this in depth. Joseph's B-29 exploded in mid-air when an Me-262 put a full salvo of R4Ms into it. The plane blew up Joe; it reached the ground in thousands of pieces. Nobody bailed out, there were no parachutes seen leaving the explosion and nobody could have survived the blast. I've got the whole report here. You can have a copy.”

“They're lying. They're covering up the truth. There were parachutes seen.”

“Joe, Joe. Nobody has any reason to try and cover anything up. Why should they? When Joseph's bomber went down, there were sixteen, sixteen other B-29s being shot out of the sky. Over a hundred bombers went down that day. It was a massacre, remember, one of the worst defeats the USAF ever suffered. There were almost twelve hundred men on those aircraft. About three hundred managed to bail out and were taken prisoner. Two of them survived to be rescued by SEALs. Two. The Germans killed the rest. Starved them, worked them to death as slaves, experimented on them or just gassed them in their death factories.”

“That's another lie, the Germans signed the Hague and Geneva Conventions.”

“Yes, they did. And they ignored them. Our SEALs have been going all over Europe trying to locate surviving prisoners of war and bring them home. You know how much luck they've been having. Your election campaign is repeating the numbers often enough.”

“My boy's alive. I know it.”

Suddenly, Dewey's temper broke. He'd had enough of this bombastic arrogant man with his bullying and hectoring. Dammit, America had fought a revolution to get rid of people who thought they were royalty and believed that gave them the right to trample everybody else. That revolution had sent George the Third scampering home. It was time to do the same to Joseph P Kennedy. He reached into his desk and pulled out a file. A thick one filled with depositions and pictures.

“Not a chance Joe. Not a chance. Ever hear of Novo-Alexandrovsk?” Kennedy tried to speak but Dewey rode him down. The authority of the Presidency made that work, even with Joseph P Kennedy.

“When the Germans broke through to the White Sea west of Archangel'sk, one of their flanking thrusts cut off a large part of the 23rd Infantry Division and a regiment of the 25th. Eighteen thousand Americans were taken prisoner and were sent to a prisoner of war camp at Novo-Alexandrovsk. Prisoner of war camp? No huts, no shelter, not even trees or bushes, just bare ground surrounded by barbed wire. And this was in a North Russian winter when the temperature was more than twenty below. The only provisions for feeding them were twelve cauldrons, holding enough for a hundred men each. The Germans boiled water in them and threw in a few hunks of rotten horseflesh. When the guards gave the order to come forward, the first I,200 men would be fed. The rest would miss out. If anybody ran, sub-machine-gunners shot them down and their bodies left on the ground. Less than seven hundred survived, we're pretty certain they did because they were the living who ate the dead. That's right Joe, Americans starved into cannibalism by the people you say signed the Geneva Convention.

“Your boy went down in 1945. If he beat one-in-ten million odds and did bail out, you think he survived two years like that? Here's some figures for you. The Germans took 7.6 million Russian soldiers prisoner. So far, the Russians have recovered fewer than one and a half million alive. Statistically, their soldiers stood a better chance of survival as front line infantrymen than they did as German PoWs. Ours are a little bit better, we've recovered just over 150,000 PoWs out of the 400,000 we knew were taken prisoner. We lost almost one and a third million men in Russia. Want to bet how many of those were kilted after they'd been captured? We'll know, sooner or later.

“I'm sorry for your loss Joe, I really am. Joseph was a good kid, a brave kid who could have shirked his duty but stepped up to the mark instead. That's the hell of it, the good and the brave are always the ones who get killed. But he's gone Joe, just like one and a third million other kids. That's a loss that will hurt our whole nation for a generation or more. We have to honor his memory and we have to carry on for them.”

“You're lying. He's not gone. He's out there somewhere and nobody can be bothered to look for him. Your precious SAC, it’s all their fault. They sent him in those damned bombers,” Kennedy spun out of his seat and stormed out of the room.

Dewey sighed and spun in his chair, staring at the wall. Kennedy probably didn't know how revealing those last words were. When Joseph had volunteered for the Air Force, it had been the Army Air Force then, his father had first tried to stop him, then had tried to get him into a safe posting. His son had fought that, and partially succeeded. He'd got himself into the bomber program. His father had won the other part of the battle, or so he'd thought. He'd bought into Boeing's propaganda about the B-29 and assumed the groups were safe compared with the fighter and light bomber units.

Of course, Joe Kennedy hadn't known about the B-36, he'd too many Nazi connections to be briefed on that. Then the B-29 groups had been slaughtered and he'd learned his son was dead. In maneuvering to get that posting for him, he'd as good as killed his own son and that was chewing away at his soul.

Dewey spun his chair again and sighed. For all his blustering and thuggish rudeness, Kennedy had a point. Intelligence was always presented by those who had an agenda. Sometimes it was done deliberately, sometimes unconsciously, but the agenda always distorted the message. What was needed was an outside agency, one that wasn't owned by any of the competing political and military power groups in Washington. One that was independent and could give the Presidency advice from its own perspective. Dewey stared at the wall some more, the idea germinating in his mind. Then, when he'd explored its possibilities, he picked up the phone on his desk.

“Find Harry Truman and ask him to see me will you? Tell him I have an idea I want to bounce off him.”

Saloon Bar, The Foundry Public House, Wallsend, Tyneside, UK

“Johnno, Missus McMullen. Good to see you again. May I buy you a beer?” Piet van der Haan was his usual jocular self.

“Only if you let us buy you the second half, brother.”

“Its a deal. Hey, have I got something to show you. Just arrived today.” The men picked up their beers, McMullen carrying his wife's for her, and went over to a table. They 'cheers'd' and drank down some of the weak brew. “D'ya think its getting a bit better. Seems to have a bit more body to it?”

“Mebbe. Mebbe. Its about time things got a bit better here. Perhaps it’s just having good company.”

“Aye. Hey look here. Got some pictures of my family. Just came in the post. My youngest's birthday party. He's two now, already getting some muscle on him. Look, that's him, Maartie. That's my daughter Emily and my eldest, Jan. That's my wife Paula. My father and my mother, my grandfather and grandmother, we call them oom-pa and oom-ina. Here, if you look at this one, that's the yard out back of our place.”

ⁱ⁴Oh its lovely Piet.” Maisie McMullen looked enviously at the children. Plump and healthy. There weren't so many children in Wallsend, she couldn't think of one of her friends who'd got pregnant, not since the war's end. Not since the atom-bombing. And the older children were thin and half-starved. ^LLls it yours? Or do you rent like us?”

“Its mine, Mrs. McMullen. The family has a farm out in the veldt and we go there often. Big family you see and like all Boer families, its one for all and all for one. Farm folk know it does the kids good to get out of the city, get good country air into their lungs. Jan, he's already got an eye with a rifle. Dropped his first buck just before I came. You see our party roast. Perhaps he got it for us. He's the man of the house while I'm here you see. His job to hunt.”

McMullen looked enviously at the loaded table. More meat there than people had here in a month or more. “You always eat like this brother?'

“Oh no, this is a party. A big roast like that is for company. We set a good table, proud to tell you that, but this is special. We've even got our own wine, tell you something give us a few years and we'll give the French and Italians a run for their money.”

Piet van der Haan flipped through the rest of the pictures. They really were all of his family but had been very carefully chosen. Nothing too ostentatious, just a reasonably prosperous family enjoying a special party. Something people could relate to, could perhaps remember themselves from better times. He watched Maisie McMullen looking at the pictures of the children, tears forming in her eyes and, for a moment, he felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. Then, he recalled the reason why he was here. The Republic was desperately short of skilled, white, workers. If the McMullens emigrated, left this in bleak, ruined country, they'd be much better off. And the Republic needed them.

Maisie McMullen dabbed her eyes. “You have a beautiful home Piet. It’s lovely. I'd love to see it really I would.”

“You can you know Mrs. McMullen.” The faces of the couple with him were disbelieving. ''Haven't you heard about the assisted passage scheme? For people who have skills the Republic of South Africa needs, there are special provisions. The Government will pay your fare out. There is a provision, if you leave after less than five years, you'll have to repay it but after that time, the debt is forgiven. And the way you swing a hammer, Johnno my boy, you'll have your own home by then. Shipbuilder is one of the highest priorities we have.”

Maisie McMullen stared at him. “Piet, why do you carry a gun?”

For a second he was flustered. “We heard there was a lot of lawlessness out here, people being robbed of their ration cards for the Black Market. So I brought the family Browning. Turns out the information was wrong of course but I'm stuck with it now. Can't leave it unattended.”

Maisie McMullen smiled understandingly. She knew van der Haan was lying. And now she had seen him lying, she knew everything else he had said was true.

Chapter Three Falling

Chvlachomktao Military Academy, Bangkok, Thailand

Four sheets of paper were pinned to the notice board, each with twenty five names on it. The system was simple and brutal. All the candidates who had made it to the end of the course were graded, a mixture of examinations, course work and the results of the tactical evolutions. Those whose grades did not meet the statutory minimum were failed. The brutal bit was that only a maximum of one hundred candidates were allowed to graduate from each class. If more than one hundred had exceeded that statutory minimum grade, only the top one hundred passed: the rest were failed as surely as those who had not made the minimum.

The four sheets were unofficially known as quarters. It was well-known that those who graduated from Chulachomklao in the top quarter were the high-flyers, the ones who would be sought out for prestige postings, groomed for the top ranks. Those in the bottom quarter were forever doomed to be the hewers of wood and the drawers of water, spending their careers in the backwaters of the Army. Officer Cadet Sirisoon Chandrapa na Ayuthya ran her eye down the list of names in the First Quarter. As she'd expected, hers was conspicuous by its absence. First Quarter had been too much to hope for and, being honest with herself, she guessed that she wouldn't find herself in the Second Quarter.

Honesty was appropriate, her name wasn't in the Second Quarter cither. She started to read the Third Quarter, a knot forming in her stomach as her eye went down the list. When she reached the bottom, the knot felt like a lead ball. Reluctantly, she forced herself to look at the Fourth Quarter. That didn't take so long, her name was second from the top. She'd come 77th out of 100. The lump faded back to a knot. Whatever else had happened, whatever would happen in the future, she was now Second Lieutenant Sirisoon Chandrapa na Ayuthya.

Then she ran her eye down the rest of the list. 88th, 92nd and 99th. All four women had graduated, that was the good news, They were all in the Fourth Quarter, that was the bad news. Hewers of wood and drawers of water. No chance of getting the high ranks or the really good postings. She'd never thought that would matter to her but now she found it did. It mattered very much.

She heard a sniff behind her. Doi, the girl who had come 99th, was staring at her name as if it was a poisonous snake. “We didn't do that badly did we?? She whispered when she saw Sirisoon looking at her.

“It's not that bad. We've graduated, more than thirty of the men didn't. They failed. We passed. The rest of it is up to us now.” She tried to sound encouraging but wasn't making a very good job of it.

“Ladies, would you please come to my office?” Sergeant Major (First Class) Manop Patmastana had been watching the candidates receiving their results. The process of evaluation at Chulachomklao never ended and how the candidates reacted on receiving their results, good or bad, was sometimes as important as the results themselves. Triumph could test character as sternly as defeat. The reaction of one cadet in First Quarter had already caused a black mark to be placed against his name.

Sirisoon looked around the office, one she had never been in before and that she had privately thought of as being the Holy of Holies. It was simple, spartan although she was amused to note that the Sergeant Major had a bigger desk than any of the officers and two telephones compared to their one.

“I wanted to speak with you four before the Passing Out ceremony. You've already graduated from the Academy but you haven't yet been commissioned. That gives us a very brief moment when we can talk frankly with each other. Well never have this opportunity again.

“Firstly I want you to know that the Instructors were all very impressed by the way you conducted yourselves here. You had a difficult time, we know that, and you did well. Much better than those lists you were looking at suggest. I know you are all disappointed that you were Fourth Quarter. Had those results been based on your academic work and your attention to your duties, you would have graduated much higher.

“Soldiering is not academic work; it is much more than that. Unfortunately for you, most of the extra involves sheer physical strength and that is what pulled all four of you down to the Fourth Quarter. Frankly, you are not strong enough for front-line soldiering and you never will be. You were far, far below the required minimums when you came here and you are only just barely above them now. One of you only qualified literally by a heartbeat, by a fraction of a second. Don't get me wrong, I and every other instructor here, have been very impressed by the way you worked around the problems caused by your lack of physical strength. Sirisoon, that stunt with the crane will go down into Academy history. But don't ever forget you never solved the problems caused by your physique, you worked around them.

“That's impressive but you didn't solve them. And you can't. Sorry, there's no nice way to put it. Throughout your careers, you are going to have to face those problems and, one day, they're going to hit you somewhere you can’t work around them. When we heard women were coming to the Academy, we had to make a decision. Do we expect you to meet the same standards as the men or do we set standards that are within the reach of more women? We settled on a policy of adopting the same standards for women as were already established for men.

“Why? Because we are soldiers and the physical requirements are set by the nature of our work. They are what we need to be to do our jobs. Artillery rounds don't get lighter because a woman lifts them, kilometers don't get shorter because a woman marches them. Bullets do not travel more slowly because they are about to strike a woman. So I beg you, in the future, never forget that you worked around physical problems, you didn't solve them. And try never to be caught in a position where strength is your only way out.

“Another thing. I watched yon checking your names on the lists. You're disappointed to be Fourth Quarter. Don't be. Your academic and study records are exemplary. You won't be posted to infantry, artillery, cavalry or armor units, you'll be going to the administrative parts of the Army. Judge Advocate General, Pay Corps, Medical, whatever. It's your academic and job performance that people will be looking at, not your graduation position. That only becomes important when you're up for promotion to General and I don't think that will concern you.

“I wish you the best in your careers when you leave here. I believe that we will probably meet again; the Army is recruiting more women for its administrative sections and I do not doubt we will have women instructors here soon. In the meantime, I hope fortune attends you and the gods smile upon you wherever you serve.”

Hindustan Shipyard, Mazagon, India

“And so, I declare this new shipyard, a symbol of India's growing industrial might, open. May the yard prosper and the ships built here have long and honorable careers.”

Sir Martyn Sharpe reached forward with the golden scissors and cut the white ribbon across the gate of the shipyard. The ends of the tape was on spring-loaded reels so that they retracted across the road once the cut was made.

“And to mark this auspicious occasion, it is my great pleasure to announce that the Indian Government is proud to place the first order at this new shipyard. We have today signed an order with Hindustan Shipyards for a pair of new destroyers, the first major warships to be built in India for more than a hundred and fifty years,

“Then, the great Indian master shipwright. Jamsetjee Bomanjee designed and built some of the finest wooden warships in the world. Such was his skill and talent that he solved the problem of building ships out of teak, making the Bombay Dockyard a dominating presence in the wooden shipbuilding world. I call upon Hindustan Shipyards today to honor the memory of Jamsetjee Bomanjee by making the two destroyers we will build here the envy of the world's navies!”

There was a thunderous roar of applause from the crowd. The new president of Hindustan Shipyards rose to reply. Sir Martyn went through the motions of listening attentively but he didn't have to. Copies of the speeches to be made here had been circulated around all the primary guests. It didn't do to have unpleasant surprises on public occasions. As usual, what was important here was not what was being said but what had been carefully left out. The new destroyers for example, magnificent ships, good looking and larger than any current rivals. Yet for all his speeches. Sir Martyn reflected, they were about as Indian as the ships received from the Royal Navy as India's imperial Gift. They were designed by Gibbs and Cox, the American Naval Architects, were armed with American guns and powered by American engines.

It wouldn't always be that way of course. One of the terms of the deal negotiated with Gibbs and Cox had been that the Americans would set up a design office in India and train Indian staff to design their own ships. Yet even that meant that the staff they trained would be indoctrinated in American ways and do things in the American style.

Sir Martyn suppressed a shudder. Doing things in the American Style meant The Big One and a whole country reduced to a smoking, blasted ruin. The pacifist movement in India, something that had almost vanished after Ghandi's “accident,” had reappeared once the full enormity of what the Americans had done to Germany became apparent. They had little power in a political sense, not yet and the way the Indian political machine was constructed meant that they probably never would have. But they did have a sort of moral authority and they did have the ability to cause trouble. There had been some here, protests against the construction of “tools of death”. Again, not enough to cause problems, just enough to cause embarrassment.

Only they had caused one problem, not a public but a private one. The truth was, Sir Martyn was not entirely convinced they were wrong. He'd seen the pictures that had come out of Germany, seen the film of the mushroom clouds rising over the cities, seen the images of charred bodies littering the burned-out streets.

Looking at the crowd cheering the Company President as he promised jobs and money and education, in fact promised a future. Sir Martyn wondered if these people understood that the shipyard here had made their town a target for a nuclear attack. He pictured the huge mushroom cloud rising over Mazagon and its effects on these people. Were the Ghandi-ites so wrong? Could India go any other way? If it came to it, could he order Indian forces to do to an enemy what the Americans had done to Germany?

Was it too late to do anything else? Buried in the news about the opening of the shipyard was something else. The cancellation of the Mosquito light bomber program and its replacement by a large purchase of American B-27 bombers and RB-27 reconnaissance aircraft. On the other hand the new Hindustan Hornet was being ordered into full production and another batch of Ostrich attack aircraft had been ordered from Australia so the dependence on America was mitigated a little.

The country was still heading down the American road though and Sir Martyn felt his concern deepening that prospect. Not least because of the oh-so-secret program that had been started in an oh-so-secret research facility tucked away in the depths of India. A program that would send the Ghandi-ites screaming mad.

“And so every effort must and will be made to make these new destroyers a fitting tribute to India's glorious naval heritage!”

The new President finished speaking and, again, a tide of cheering met his words. There was another point that troubled him. Suppose India didn't follow the American road, and rejected the solutions America had chosen? Implicitly that would mean India would be relying on the Americans to defend the country against a nuclear attack. And wasn't relying on another country to do what India was too 'moral' to do for itself even more reprehensible?

Sir Martyn sighed, gently and silently, and once again his mind's eye saw a mushroom cloud rising over Mazagon, And his mind's eye also saw a female face with a friendly, polite smile on it. And Sir Martyn knew there was one politician in Asia at least who wouldn't hesitate in the slightest to use nuclear weapons against people she considered to be the enemies of her country.

Halmstad, Sweden

The ferry Captain made a mess of it. A stray cross-current caught him unawares and swung the bow for just enough time to send in crunching into the timbers that lined the ferry bay. Fortunately, the timbers were there to absorb the blows from just such an accident and the only damage done was to the paintwork and the Captain's pride. There would be beers to be bought before his professional fellows allowed him to forget it. It was a pity the voyage had to end on a sour note, it had gone pretty well to date. They'd avoided the declared minefields easily, they hadn't run into the undeclared minefields and they'd stayed well clear of the off-limits areas along the German coast. Those areas were growing every time he made the trip and on every trip there were scientists taking water and mud samples. Every trip, the expressions on the faces of those scientists grew grimmer.

Still, they were safely back home, docked and the bow doors open. The passengers were streaming off, uncertainly, being directed by port authority police and Red Cross workers. In times past, the ferry had carried the usual mix, tourists going to visit the sights of Germany, traders, businessmen, truckloads of goods and supplies. Now, the load was German soldiers, released by the Russians and sent into what amounted to exile. Was it exile to be sent away from one's own country when that country didn't exist anymore? The ferry Captain had heard the stories of what Germany was like now and he'd read Major Lup's story of his unit's Calvary into the center of Duren just hours after the Americans had destroyed the city and everybody in it. Nothing left of Germany, nothing at all. A whole country wiped from the earth.

Down on the deck of the ferry, Matthias Schook found himself being carried along with the body of the crowd. There were almost a thousand passengers on the ferry, one small portion of the stream of demobilized soldiers being evacuated from the pocket of land held by Army Group Vistula. He was one of the lucky ones. His unit had been amongst the first to surrender to the Russians. There had been rumors that they would all be shot, that all that awaited them was a mass execution and an unmarked mass grave.

Some had even suggested that they mutiny against their orders and try to fight their way out but cooler heads had prevailed. Field Marshal Rommel had ordered the surrender and he wouldn't send men to a pointless death they had argued. See what the Field Marshal has planned. How many times has the situation been hopeless and the Field Marshal has got us out? We can trust him.

So the men had surrendered and been taken to a camp in the forest. Their officers and most of their NCOs had been taken away then the “NKVD had come in and taken those whose names were on lists they held. Curiously, Schook had noted, those who had spoken in favor of mutiny and a gallant escape attempt or fighting to the last round were the ones whose names were on the lists. The rest had been interviewed, the questions casual but pointed and then taken to Riga where they'd been put on ferries. Some were going to Denmark, some to Sweden, some to Norway. A few men had asked if they could go back to Germany; they'd been told that would be their decision later but first, they had to go to refugee camps.

So here they were. As expected, being divided up into alphabetical order by family name. It was a long wait, but eventually Schook stepped into the tent for the S group. An official was sitting behind a trestle table, tired and slightly irritable. It had been a long day and showed no sign of ending yet.

“You are Schook? Please remove your uniform and other clothing and place them in the container to be burned. Keep any personal property of course. Then go over there for a medical examination. After that, you may select some civilian clothes to get you started and you will be introduced to the people with whom you will be staying. But first, show me your arms please.”

Schook frowned slightly and stretched out his arms. The official looked carefully then turned them over and checked again. “What are you looking for Sir?” Schook couldn't help asking.

“Tattoos of your blood group.” “But only the SS have those.”

“Exactly. You would be surprised how many members of the SS turn up with identification papers of Heer soldiers. We presume they killed the original owners. Doesn't matter, when we find them, we send them back to the Russians. The Ivans didn't know about the tattoos at first; they do now of course.”

“Sir. may I ask what happened to those who were taken away?”

“As far as we know most have been taken to Russian cities where they have been put to work repairing the damage they caused. We believe that some, the hard cases, have been sent to the gold mines in Kolymya. There are rumors that those against whom the Russians make the most serious allegations are being sent to the uranium mines at Aksu. The Russians will be staging war crimes trials soon for the most senior ranks. Now. move along please.”

The medical inspection was routine and was followed by a delousing. It was actually the second since the surrender, the evacuees and their uniforms had been deloused before getting on to the ferry out. Still, Schook couldn't blame the Swedes for being careful. Then, he was sent through to the clothing section. There was a list up on the wall, each man was entitled to three sets of underwear, two shirts, two pairs of trousers, one suit and one overcoat. A gift from the Swedish Government to help the evacuees get back on their feet. Once he'd picked up his clothes and dressed, Schook was sent though to the next stage, meeting the people with whom he'd be living.

The couple looked prosperous and well-fed. As Schook emerged from the clothing section, they stepped forward, smiling hand outstretched. Schook almost saluted out of sheer instinct then stopped himself and seized the outstretched hand.

“Herr Schook? I am Sven Gundersen and this is my wife Helga. We would like you to stay with us until you get back on your feet.” Gundersen looked at the young man in front of them with his haunted eyes. He'd been worried about his wife until now; food rations in Sweden were short because the Baltic fisheries were out of business. The fishing boats had the long trip out of the Baltic into the Arctic - and a lot of the fishermen were giving up because they were getting sick. He'd thought Helga was looking pale on the restricted diet, now, compared with this young man, she was the epitome of bouncing good health.

“Tomorrow we will take you to the town hall where you can look through the job vacancies here. There are many of those so you shouldn't have trouble. What did you do before you became a soldier?”

Schook thought for a second, it was so long, 'before becoming a soldier' seemed like a different world. He had to work hard to remember. “I was an apprentice carpenter.”

The Swedish couple spoke quickly: then the man turned back to him. “Helga's cousin owns a small carpentry shop in town. Makes and repairs furniture. He is looking for an assistant. Perhaps you might like to speak with him. He will not pay as well as a big company but if one is a small fish, perhaps it is better to be in a small pond, yes?”

“Yes. I would be very pleased to meet your wife's cousin. Please thank your wife for her concern.” Schook caught sight of himself in a window. Talking about getting a job. My God he thought to himself I'm a civilian again. At last.

Administrative Building, Nevada Test and Experimental Area

“l would like to welcome you all to this facility. We are starting early today, once the sun comes up, the temperature rises very quickly and briefings can be quite uncomfortable. I will start by introducing the participants to this First Air Defense Exercise Series.” Colonel Pico looked around at the room. There was another reason why the meeting was being held so early but they'd come to that later. Or, rather, it would come to them. “Most of you are already known to each other but we'll do the formalities nonetheless.

“Firstly, I would like to welcome Colonel Francis Gabreski of the 56th Fighter Wing and his F-74B Furys. Also with us is Colonel Joseph McConnell of the 51st Fighter Wing with their P-80G Shooting Stars. Take a bow, gentlemen, please. Modesty does not become fighter pilots.” There were a series of cheers and some war-whoops from the assembled pilots.

“I would also like to extend a warm welcome to Guards-Colonel Aleksandr Pokryshkin and the MiG-9s of the Fourth Guards Fighter Division.” There was a burst of cheering and some of the nearer fighter pilots clapped the Russian on the back.

“The piston-engined fraternity is not forgotten. A big hand please for Colonel Robert Johnson of the 352nd Fighter Wing and Colonel James Jabara of the 4th Fighter Wing who have brought their F-72D Thunderstorms to the party. We would also like to welcome Major Dominic Gentile of the 479th Fighter Wing whose F-63G Kingcobras always add a certain level of style to any event.

“We would not like it to be thought that we have anything against the twin-engined community so to carry the flag for the multiply-screwed we have Major Manuel Fernandez with his F-58A Chain Lightnings and Major George Davis with that rarest of fighters, the F-71A Stormbird. In fact, I think the eight F-71s George brought with him are the only serviceable fighters of that type left. One of the questions we'll be investigating over the next two weeks will be whether we should recommend production of that aircraft be resumed. Finally, we have Colonel George Preddy and his F-65G Tigercat night fighters to help make sure nobody gets any sleep.

“'To meet with this array of talent, we have some guests from Strategic Air Command.” There was low growl. The tactical aviation groups in Russia resented the way SAC had got the credit for ending the war. This whole series of exercises had started life because of that ill-feeling.

“General Tibbets has brought the B-36Hs of the 100th Bomb Group while General Lucas has contributed the RB-36s of the 305th Strategic Reconnaissance Wing. There will also be detachments of KB-36 tankers and GB-36 fighter carriers participating. In additional, Kapitan Ivan Mayolev has brought a detachment of the Tu-4s from the Russian Navy's Third Long Range Naval Aviation Regiment.”

Colonel Pico looked at the room. Mention of the Tu-4s had caused confusion, everybody knew the Tupolev was only an improved version of the B-29 and everybody knew what happened when B-29s met fighters.

After getting back from the Big One, he'd lain awake for nights on end, his mind filled with the images of the mushroom clouds rising over German cities and, when sleep had finally come, dreams filled with montages of similar clouds rising over American cities. The B-36 might be slow by fighter standards but it could fly higher than any of them. That's what had made The Big One work. There had been nothing the Germans could do to stop the bombers. Now, the same applied to America. If an enemy came at them with a fleet of B-36s, there would be nothing in America to stop them.

The Imperial Japanese Navy was known to be developing a B-36-likc aircraft, Air Intelligence had code-named it “Frank” and if the Navy was developing such an aircraft, the Army could not be far behind. The B-36 had shown that such aircraft could be built and even given the more careful observers vital clues on how they could be built. And when they were built, there was nothing America could do to stop them.

“A word on the aims and organization of these exercises. We will be flying air problems during the day. These will all be quite simple, there will be assigned targets within the range area. Bombers from SAC will attempt to penetrate the defenses and strike those targets with simulated nuclear weapons. Your job, gentlemen, is to stop them. Any way you can. Once the exercise is completed and everybody is back here, we will be holding detailed debriefing sessions to assess what happened and how. By the way, General Tibbets has offered to carry any of you who wish to ride a B-36 on these exercises so you can see things from the bomber perspective. I urge you all to take advantage of that offer.

“Then, in the evenings there will be a series of presentations on new defense technologies and products. Tomorrow night will be the first, a team from Douglas, Raytheon and Bell Telephones will be here to talk about a new anti-aircraft missile system we are developing. The night after, Artem Mikoyan and a team from his design bureau will be here to tell us about their new MiG-t5 fighter. Colonel Gabreski?”

“You mentioned missiles? Any ground-based anti-aircraft units here?”

“Indeed. The targets will be surrounded by the 90mm anti­aircraft guns from Camp Roberts and we've got some new 120mms direct from the manufacturers. In addition, we have some captured German 127mms and even some Wasserfall missiles to try out.

“One of the things we're evaluating here is the air defense system that will tie all these bits together. Most of you've read the reports on that German system, NAIADS. It looks like it was the tactical coordination provided by that system gave the Germans the edge needed to crucify the B-29 raids. For all that, we're not too impressed with NAIADS. It’s a very Teutonic system, its reporting paths rigidly hierarchical and very strictly defined. That spells a fragile system to us, one that can be easily disrupted.

“We want to do better. That raises a question of how. The communications net we're defining is quite different in structure from NAIADS. The German system was, is, a tree with information flowing in defined paths from the branches to the roots then orders flowing back in the opposite direction. Break those paths anywhere and the information doesn't flow. We are designing a system that's more like a network a mass of interconnections. Break it at any one place and the information flows around the break.

“That begs a question, what do we control and how. One of the purposes of our work the next few weeks is to determine how defensive fighters can best be utilized within such a network. As most of you who served in Russia are aware, the Russians use fighters very differently from us. Their interceptors work under tight ground control, being vectored to their targets by ground stations. Our Russian friends have brought their own controllers with them and we will be comparing their doctrine with our own system. Some of you will be flying under Russian controllers, some of the MiG pilots will be flying under ours. We'll see what works.”

There was a rumble of dissent at that. Pico looked at the gathering grimly. “Let me make one thing clear. This is not the World Series. This is a post-graduate course in air defense. It doesn't matter who “wins' and who 'loses'. We're not defending 'our way' against 'their way' or 'TAC’ against 'SAC’. We're trying to find what works and what does not. We ail win if we learn, we all lose if we do not.”

Pico glanced at the clock. He'd been stalling for time although nobody else was aware of it. Now, it was just about ready to go. “Our task here is to find out how to defend America against the sort of attack that we launched against Germany. If we fail, if we let our own limited rivalries defeat that greater aim..”

A brilliant light suddenly shone through the tightly-shuttered windows, strong enough to cast shadows on the walls and dazzle eyes accommodated to the low light levels previously in the briefing hall. A few seconds later the earth under the pilot's feet started to shake as the ground wave reached them, then they heard the building creaking and the roar of the explosion. The phone rang and Pico picked it up. He listened for a second then gave a curt acknowledgment. Walking across the room, he opened the shutters, exposing a view across the desert. The sun had still to rise but in its place was a glowing mushroom cloud rising over the Yucca Flats test site.

“That, gentlemen, is a test shot of our latest Mark Five nuclear device. The estimated yield is 81 kilotons, in other words, its explosive power is equal to the detonation of 81,000 tons of standard TNT. It weighs only 3,150 pounds a third of the weight of the devices we dropped on Germany but it is more than twice as powerful. I should know, I dropped twelve of our older devices on Berlin.” And may God have mercy on me for that Pico thought silently. “As I was saying, if we fail, if we lose, if we do not find a way to stop modern bombers from penetrating our defenses, one day we will see fireballs like that rising over American - and Russian - cities.”

The fighter pilots looked horrified at the evil glowing red cloud, twisting and changing as it rose in the pre-dawn gloom. It was the first time any of them had seen a nuclear explosion in its true awful reality and the sight stunned them into silence. Pictures in a magazine were one thing; film in a cinema was another. Neither could compete with the reality of the glare, the shaking, the crushing roar or the numbing sight of that evil, twisting cloud.

“Just to remind you of that fact, it has been decided that this series of air defense exercises wilt be designated 'Red Sun'“.

Aboard MV “Union Castle”, Southampton, UK.

“Here you are, Sir, Ma'am. Your cabin for our voyage. If you need anything, just dial 9 on the telephone and a steward will be here immediately.”

It was a spartan cabin, two beds, a minimum of furniture. Just enough to keep a couple of immigrants on the Assisted Passage Scheme reasonably comfortable for the voyage to South Africa. “Well, Maisie luv. We're off now and that's no mistake.”

His wife nodded. It had been a hard couple of months. After they'd learned about the Assisted Passage Scheme, they'd talked long and seriously far into the night. It had been an eye-opening discussion, one in which they'd covered far more than just the possibility of leaving the UK.

Maisie Me Mullen had learned just how depressed and frustrated her husband was, no matter how good he was at his job, no matter how well he worked, he could never be more than he was now and would always be in the position of finding himself without a job at a few minutes’ notice.

He, in turn, learned how desperately tired and exhausted his wife was, struggling to keep a home running in the face of rationing, debts and never knowing whether there would be money coming in next week. And there was the grayness, the dank, futility of struggling to keep going in a bankrupt post-occupation Britain.

They hadn't decided to emigrate then, in fact they'd never made that decision. John McMullen had sought his friend out and got more information on the APS and on prospects in South Africa. Piet van der Haan had warned him that the material from the South African Government was rosily optimistic, that it presented the best of all possible cases in the best of all possible worlds. It wasn't untrue, just very glossy.

The three of them had spent a fun evening in the pub going over the material white van der Haan pointed out parts where the “official” line was unduly enthusiastic. “You'll have to work hard Johnno, no hiding that. But everything's there for a man who's prepared to make the effort.” Somehow, without anybody making a decision, they'd met a South African embassy official who'd helped them fill out the paperwork applying for places on the APS. McMullen had shown him his work chits from the Yard and the official had done a double-take at the number of all-passed bonuses he'd received. They'd been approved in record time.

That wasn't what had decided the issue though. It was the yard itself. Work on the cruisers was going well but there was an issue boiling away below the surface. The next ships to be built there would be two new X-class submarines. Welded. Experts from Canadian Vickers were coming over to train the workforce in welding techniques and that was the problems. The Steelworkers Union and the Boilermaker's Union both claimed that welding as a job for their members and their members alone.

The yard management had protested, there were enough jobs for both but their appeal had fallen on deaf ears. The Steelworkers demanded that welding was a job for steelworkers, the Boilermakers demanded that welding was a job for boilermakers. And both threatened to take it to a strike. A strike meant the yard stopped, work stopped, money stopped. Without saying anything, the McMullens decided to leave before it came to that.

They'd sold up, told their landlord they were leaving. They'd got good money for their furniture and the other stuff they'd not wanted to take with them. It had been good, prewar stuff and the town was still flush with money from the yard work. The implications of the impending labor dispute hadn't begun to sink home yet and when they'd started to sell, there'd been queues around the block. They'd had some hostility from those who saw them as cutting and running, others had been envious of their decision. Others had asked them about the possibility of following the McMullen example. Despite the varied reactions, they'd ended the sale with a healthy nest-egg to get them started. One that had impressed van der Haan when he'd helped them fill out the currency transfer papers.

“Johnno, with this, you could start up your own business. Way you swing a hammer, you could do well.”

“What, me join the bosses Brother?” McMullen’s voice had been guarded.

“One thing to join the bosses brother, quite another to be your own boss. Stand on your own feet, be beholden' to none. That's what the Republic's all about in the end. White men standing talk proud, on their own feet. Look, there's lots of riveting done on things other than ships. You set up a metal working shop, you do two things. One is get yourself work when there's nothing in the yards and you also can extend a helpin' hand to those who have just arrived and need a start. That's what the Union's all about so I've always thought. Give a helping hand to our brothers who need it. Get them started and on the right track.”

Again, they'd never made the decision but by the time they'd handed the keys of what had been their home back and got on the train for Southampton. McMullen knew he'd be starting his own metal working company as soon as he'd got established. He'd got an employment contract already, a year's work at the Simonstown Naval base, helping refit and repair the South African Navy's Imperial Gift. Something he'd never had before and he and his wife still wondered at it. A contract that said, as long as he did his job and didn't engage in misconduct (defined in the contract), he had a year's wages coming, guaranteed. All at Shipbuilder's Union approved rates.

“Look at this John.” Maisie McMullen handed over a sheet. It was a welcome letter “from the Captain” although the signature was obviously stamped and McMullen doubted whether the Captain had ever read it. It bid them welcome on board and gave them the ship's schedule. There were the menus for the meals next day and they were asked to select what they wanted to eat in advance so that the galleys could minimize wastage. There was information on emergencies, what to do if they were sick, what would happen if there was a collision or fire, how to abandon ship in an emergency. And there was a long list of courses held on board, about South African history, current events in the Republic, how to speak Afrikaans, cooking in South Africa, many, many things. Suddenly, the McMullens realized that they were indeed leaving everything they'd ever known behind them. As if to emphasize the point, the siren on the ship blasted.

“Come on luv, that's the ship getting ready to leave. Let's go up on deck and wave good-bye to the old country.”

Office of Sir Martyn Sharps, Chief of Staff to the President, New Delhi, India

“How does the new title sound?” Sir Eric Haohoa grinned at his friend as he planted the barbed question. He savored the taste of the vintage scotch whisky, usually only served when The Ambassador was visiting. But, today was special.

“Still getting used to it. Its going to be hard for a while, getting everything set up. How is it your end?”

“Fairing well. We've inherited a good network of human assets. Not much on the technical side and we're terribly short of funds but, we've a good intelligence base to work from. We'll manage. Given time.”

“Given time. That's the crunch isn't it? Will we get it. What are the Japanese up to?”

“'As far as we can gather, they're still trying to consolidate their hold on China. They hold most of the main areas no, they've pushed the Chinese Government back to the more remote areas. You heard the Flying Tigers had to pull out?” Sir Martyn nodded. The American Volunteer group in China had been a thorn in the Japanese side for almost a decade. Started off flying antique P-40s and eventually ended up in F-74s, all paid for by the Chinese Government of course and the pilots themselves were disowned by the Americans -although most of them seemed to rejoin the American armed forces with remarkably little difficulty after they left China. But, the last airfields capable of handling jets had gone so the Tigers had blown up their aircraft and left.

“The Japanese are expanding their army at an alarming speed, in late 1942 their Army had a total of 538,000 men active in 48 divisions. They had two divisions each in Japan, Indochina and Korea plus three Imperial Guard divisions in Japan, 12 divisions in Manchuria and 27 divisions in China. This has now risen to a total of 145 divisions, with over 5 million men. At least 55 of those divisions, with 2 million men, have been formed in China over the last year. In addition to the regular divisions, there's a large number of independent brigades, mostly light infantry and some motorized units.

“General Auchinleck believes that to get that rate of expansion they must be stripping their existing units of skilled cadres and filling up the ranks with Chinese conscripts. Disposition is much as we might expect. Japan still has its three Imperial Guard divisions and two regular Army divisions. Korea and Indochina two regular divisions each. China, now has 134 divisions. The oddity is Manchuria. There used to be twelve divisions up there, now there are four.

“That must ease the Russian mind considerably. Especially after the Americans pulled that border overflight.”

Sir Eric laughed. “Indeed so. The Japanese went ballistic of course but they seem to be getting used to it. Didn't even murmur about the last couple. By the way, did you see those pictures the Americans took of Bengal during the floods? They were an immense help to us in getting the relief efforts mounted.

“Anyway, the Russians may be happy but it seems like there are at least eight divisions of Japanese troops missing and we've completely lost track of them. There are four independent armored brigades missing as well. That's a powerful little army loose somewhere. The Army is expanding its air force as well, not as fast but steadily and they're bringing in a lot of new types. Mostly jet fighters and bombers which raises a fuel question of course. They have the same problem getting jet fuel as everybody else.

“The big loser over the last few years has been the Navy. They're the ones paying the bill for China. They finished their earlier fleet expansion program, all four of those battleship monsters, four repeat Shokaku carriers, five repeat Taihos. Gives them twelve modern carriers. Their air groups are pretty grim though. A lot of their fighter units are still flying Zeros and we can count the naval jet units on the fingers of one thumb. Land-based aircraft aren't much better although they do have some jets. Reports are they're still flying those big Mitsubishi twin engined torpedo bombers. George, I think the Americans call them

“But for the rest? A few heavy cruisers and they're building a new class of destroyers using the Agano light cruiser as a base. For the rest of it, it’s not just that new construction has slowed right down to a crawl; they're going through the rest of the fleet with an ax. Just in the last two years, all the old armored cruisers went, not that they were worth much anyway, all those old three- and four-funnel light cruisers have gone, all their pre-Fubuki class destroyers and we aren't seeing much of their older big destroyers either. Three of their oldest carriers went last year, including the two big ones, Akugi and Kaga. Got some jeep carriers built on merchant ship hulls though.

“And now we get this. They've just pulled their six oldest battleships from service. Scrapped five of them, made the sixth into a 'Museum of Japanese Naval Art and Science'. Damn pretentious name. Those old battleships aren't much of a loss in power terms but it shows the Navy is on the bottom of the pecking list now.”

Sir Martyn looked at the Cabinet Secretary and tried to resist but the historian's instincts got the better of him. “Just as a matter of interest, Eric, which battleship did they preserve?”

Sir Eric Haohoa grimaced. “I'm not sure. Didn't notice, anyway they're all just names realty. It'll be in here somewhere. “He thumbed through the intelligence briefing. “Battleships scrapped........Ah yes, here we are. Battleship preserved as museum. Fuso”

Chapter Four Striking

First Army Circle Headquarters, Ban Masdit, Recovered Provinces, Thailand

“Reporting for duty Sir.”

''Settled into your quarters yet, Lieutenant?'*

“Yes indeed Sir. And they are much better than I had expected. A private bath is a luxury I didn't expect out here.”

“In the Wild East you mean? As a matter of fact, the army bases out here are much better than the ones back home. They've all been built in the last six years you see and they've all incorporated new ideas.” And, thought General Songkitti, the most objectionable of those new ideas was women in the Army. “You'll have noticed the men have smaller barracks, more like large rooms really, and more privacy. Officers have small private quarters and about a quarter of them have separate bathrooms. Yours is one of those.”

“I don't ask for special treatment Sir.”

“And you won't get it. Get off your high horse, Lieutenant. It's a matter of simple fact that nobody wants a woman wandering around the barracks looking for a vacant bath. The decision to give you quarters with a bath was taken on purely common-sense grounds. It's better for good order and discipline. Now, that being settled, how is your office and workload? Sit down and give me your honest opinion on where we stand.”

Second Lieutenant Sirisoon Chandrapa na Ayuthya sat in the chair opposite her General's desk. She had, what would be under any other circumstances, a plum assignment. Administrative aide to the Chief of Staff of First Area Army. That meant she was responsible for maintaining all the paperwork and routine managerial tasks of the headquarters, making sure that her general didn't have to worry over who had filled in which particular bureaucratic nightmare. A good administrative aid would be their General's protégé, rising with him from post to post, having their careers gently directed from one important job to the next until, one day, they wore stars and sat behind a desk, sizing up a young Lieutenant who might, or might not, have what it took. Only stuck out here on the frontier far from the centers of power back home, there was nowhere to go.

In any case, it wasn't going to happen in her case. Because she was a she and the Army was a boy's club and she didn't belong there. She'd be tolerated and used but she'd never become a protégé, never have her career directed inexorably upwards. If she was going to move up the ranks, she would have to claw her way up. She'd never realized it would matter to her so much. She'd joined the Army for an education that her family couldn't afford. At Chulachomklao, she'd discovered something that surprised her; she liked being a soldier,

“Sir, the administrative side of this organization is a mess. It looks like every piece of paperwork has been dumped in what is now my office and left there. I'm having it sorted through now, I expect to find the surrender document from the French Army any time now, the 1868 one of course, we already have the later one. I've obtained some filing cabinets and we'll be pulling double shifts until everything is sorted out.”'

Songkitti smiled to himself at the 'we' then leaned forward. “So what do you think our problems are going to be?”

“I think we have two Sir, one internal, the other external. The internal one stems from what's going on here. This area was a wreck when we pushed the French out and moved in ourselves. The farms were half derelict and none were self-supporting. The farmers, the ones left anyway, were virtually starving. They grew nothing but rice and had to buy everything else from the government store. All at government-fixed prices. Just a form of slavery really. We're trying to rebuild those farms and get people to come out here and kick-start the agricultural sector.

“We're also trying to get the local farmers to stand on their own feet, that's a tough one because they've had the spirit hammered out of them. They don't even complain and when farmers don't complain, that's a real problem. The criminal thing is the soil here is rich, this area should be a rice bowl. Now, with hard work, we can get it back to the 14th century. The government is sending a mass of aid through various agencies, fertilizer and farm equipment, seed, livestock, investment money. That's a lot of wealth going through a poor area. My guess is that much of the stuff coming in is going astray. Lot of petty banditry and the odd truck hijacking around here?”

Songkitti nodded. “Exactly so. We have some troops here we are using as guards for truck convoys. You'll need to work out some schedules and a better system of truck convoying.”

“Troops sir, that brings us to the external problem. The Japanese. They never liked it when we took everything west of the Mekong and they don't like it now. They tried to call an early end to the war white we were still within sight of our own border and when the King's Ambassador refused, they didn't like that. They tried to force us to stop and they didn't like it when she beat them. Now, their China campaign is winding down, they must be thinking of how much they don't like us. Sir, when I was given the tour around here yesterday, the border troops looked awfully thin.”

Songkitti sighed. This Lieutenant had spotted it right away. Man or woman, Chulachomklao turned them out well. “Lieutenant, I have two infantry divisions, the 9th and the 11th, scattered all over the recovered provinces. From the South China Sea to the Lao highlands. I can spread them along the border and what will that achieve?”

“Nothing Sir, They'll be spread too thin. Defeated in detail.”

“Very good. So, they have to be held back as a counter-attack force. But that leaves the border almost bare. Smugglers' paradise of course. The border defenses have to buy time until we can concentrate 9th and 11th, then organize a counter-attack. All that's along there to do that are the villagers, we've distributed arms of course. The old-fashioned Type 45 rifles and other stuff we had before we re-equipped with German arms. And the stuff we took from the French, Mostly Berthier rifles and Chauchat machine-guns. No heavy stuff, the villagers couldn't use it even if we gave it to them. And there are Border Patrol Police mobile units.”

“Mobile units Sir?”

“On bicycles.” Songkitti looked embarrassed. An old military principle. If a unit had nothing to fight with, give them a flamboyant name. “I doubt if they can hold more than a few hours at most.

“So another thing I want you to do. The roads here run back to the Tonle Sap and Battambang. If the Japanese break through and get onto those they can overrun our whole position. Leaves the roads to Bangkok wide open and all that's there to stop them are the two Cavalry divisions in the strategic reserve. I want you to make up a plan to block the roads around here. We have landmines, some ours, some we captured from the French. How many, we don't know, its never been inventoried. Find out. And try to work out how we can commandeer trucks to turn into roadblocks. That's enough to be going on with. Dismissed.”

Sirisoon went back to her office and rejoined the effort to restore some semblance of order to the Army's administration. Hours later, she returned to her quarters for some sleep. On her mind was the thin line of Border Patrol Police and armed villagers along the border with Japanese Indochina. Before sleeping, she took her Mauser out of its rack on the wall and carefully cleaned it.

HMS Xena, At Sea, Off Jutland

Despite the fact that Xena had never been out of the North Sea since she'd left Rosyth, she had all the appearance of a submarine that had been on patrol too long. Beards were growing unkempt and the food had descended from the monotonous to the indescribably boring. She had spent the last few days probing around the entrance to the Skagerrak and trying to establish the pattern of contamination coming out of the Baltic. They had the answer to that now and it wasn't good.

“No way, Swampy, no way at all I'm taking this boat in there. Baltic's out through the narrows anyway and with the Kiel Canal gone, there's no other way.”

“Robert, the contamination readings are lower than they were around Rotterdam.”

“Agree. They are here. But look at the gradients. The way they rise as we head towards the narrows, we could get into trouble between readings. There's something flushing the muck out of the water and it’s all coming out here.”

“The winter.” Swamphen's voice was thoughtful. “It was a really bad winter, all over Europe and Scandinavia. Worst on record. Snowfall was two or three times the average. The climatologists haven't agreed why yet. Some say it was the bombing, some say just a normal fluctuation. Some say the next ice age is overdue and this is just the first sign of it. That's true by the way, the next ice age is overdue and the global temperature trends all show the planet is cooling. Global cooling is a problem and the bombing may have pushed us over the edge.

“Doesn't change what happened last winter though. A lot of snow, far more than the average, and its all melting. Most of that water goes into the Baltic and its flushing the contamination towards the North Sea. I bet if we go really deep around here, there's a freshwater stream down below that's almost glowing in the dark.”

“Just like the underwater Rhine. Swampy?” Swamphen grimaced, the absence of that phenomenon had been a blow for him. He'd been so sure it was down there. “Anyway, it’s that glowing in the dark bit that's worrying me. I'm starting to be concerned about the effect radiation is having on the pressure hull. Embrittlement and all that.”

Swamphen was surprised by the reference. Most scientists had a picture of Royal Navy officers as being very well educated in their professional sphere but with limited knowledge outside that. It wasn't so, he'd found that out often enough. As a group, they knew a lot about a lot and if they didn't know something, they knew how to find out about it. Swamphen guessed that Fox had been reading up on the effects of radiation on metals. How he'd discovered where to get the information onboard a submarine was a good question.

“It shouldn't be a problem, not at these levels. Look, we've got all these readings from the south of the Skagerrak, how about heading south and west then swinging around and taking readings from the north and west'.' That'll give us an idea of the shape of the contaminated area out here, then we can head for home. We've enough bad news to keep everybody in the vapors for weeks as it is.”

Fox quickly ran through the fuel and food status in his mind. “Very well, we'll do that. We've got another ten days out so we can do this properly and still get home. But, no matter what those readings are. I'm not taking Xena into the Baltic. If anybody goes there, it'll be a surface ship. It’s too hot for a submarine, literally and metaphorically.”

Headquarters, Second Karelian Front, Riga, “The Baltic Gallery”

There were strangers present at today's meeting. That was unusual, unique in fact. Usually it was just him and Rokossovsky. And the Russian aides of course, like the one who had escorted him in, the one wearing her beret on the back of her head. Rommel understood the code now. A woman soldier wearing her beret on the back of her head was a “campaign wife' of a senior officer. If she wore her beret squarely on top of her head, she was unattached - and available.

“Erwin, I would like to introduce you to the representatives of Norway, Sweden and Denmark. Their governments have asked that they be allowed to attend today's meeting since our discussions will affect a large number of their nationals.”

“TheNordland SS Division?”

“Exactly. Three mechanized regiments, one comprised mostly of Danish volunteers, one of Norwegians and one of Swedes. Not a unit with a bad reputation as SS units go. Which means of course that it stinks in the nostrils of civilized people.”

Rommel sighed to himself. There would have been a time when he would have risen in the defense of the German armed forces but those days had long gone. He⁷d learned too much, seen too much of what he had closed his eyes to before.

For all that, he'd done quite well. Most of the Ninth Army was out and those that the Russians had detained had been sent to “Mild Regime” camps. That meant working in the destroyed Russian cities, clearing rubble and rebuilding the ruins so people could live there. Some of the prisoners had written back, saying that the Russians had told them they could leave once the city they were working on was repaired. It was fair enough in a way, he supposed.

Skorzeny had even managed to get some of his SS troops into the Mild Regime camps. There'd been no possibility of getting them released of course but he'd taken the units the Russians were likely to have had least objection and used them to force the handover of the ones they hated the most. The first such unit to pay the price for the release of others had been Dirlwangers 36th Independent Motorized Brigade. When Rokossovsky had looked in the back of the trucks carrying their bodies his reply had a grim gallows humor to it. “Ah, some good Germans,” he'd said. But he had upgraded the status of the troops who'd put down Dirlwanger's rebellion from “Severe” to “Mild” Regime.

“Erwin, first of all, before all that. I have had a reply from the Red Cross. It appears Mannheim was south of the worst area of attack but it was not spared. The Americans dropped a single atomic bomb on the city. One of their more powerful ones. I have a list of the known survivors for you. There are none with your family name but perhaps you may recognize some of them. I regret to tell you, it is not a long list, only a few hundred out of many tens of thousands:”

Rommel took the list, reluctantly almost as if seeing what he had feared as words on a page would make its reality final.

“President Goering has attached a message for you. He wishes it to be known that he commends your conduct here and views with favor our efforts to find a just solution to the surrender of Army Group Vistula. He asks, however, that no persons be returned to Germany in the short term since there are no facilities to care for them and the available resources are strained to feed the population there already. He asks you and your men to be patient and to wait until there is a country you can return to.”

“Quite.” The two Army commanders laughed quietly with each other. They both knew what Der Dicke really had in mind. His authority and that of the new German Government was still very weak. Weak enough for large bodies of organized men to find the possibility of a power-grab too tempting. Better to get the state established first, then bring the men back. “Thank you Konstantin, it was kind of you to make this happen. Now, the Nordland Division.”

“The Nordland SS Division.”

Rommel swore quietly under his breath, he'd hoped he'd get away with that. If he could establish a mindset where the Nordland were regarded as an extension of the Heer rather than the SS he might have reached better terms for them.

“It is our position that these men are still citizens of our countries and should be returned to us. It is for us to try any who are accused of war crimes.'“ It was the Swedish representative who spoke. Rommel had noted that Sweden had been particularly generous when accepting demobilized soldiers as refugees. He'd guessed there would be a price for that generosity and it looked like the bill was about to be presented. He winced at the thought.

The Russians had won the war on the Eastern Front and they were prickly about their rights and status as the winners. Rommel had played on that, appealing to their pride to get as many of his men out as he could. If the Swedes tried to throw their weight around, they'd be cutting their own throats. Idly, Rommel wondered how long it would take the Russians to occupy Sweden. Judging by the amount of equipment within a few miles of this headquarters, not long. Even less if the Americans helped their Russian ally along by using their hellburners to blast a path through the Swedish defenses. The Swedes were playing a dangerous game and Rommel didn't think they understood just how dangerous.

“I would like to point out that, although the men for this unit are now represented by independent Governments, they were recruited while the areas in question were under German military occupation. In fact, the majority of these men were recruited in the period 1945 to 1947 when the SS was conscripting its troops rather than seeking volunteers.”

“That is true of Norway and Denmark. But not of Sweden.” Rokossovsky leaned back in his seat, eyeing the Swede in much the same way a hungry wolf might eye a particularly succulent sheep.

Rommel took over smoothly, before the Swede could have a chance to reply and turn cutting his own throat into radical decapitation. “A very sound point, Konstantin. The Nordland SS Division represents two quite different cases. The Danish and Norwegian regiments are mostly composed of conscripts, taken from their homes, almost at gunpoint and certainly regardless of their opinions on the matter. The Swedish Regiment is entirely composed of volunteers, not just volunteers but volunteers who went to great lengths and personal expense to reach our territory so they could enlist.”

“I take your point Erwin. You are right here. We have two very different cases and we must temper our judgment according to those circumstances.”

Opposite them, the Norwegian was nodding thoughtfully. He'd guessed where this was going and could see advantages for his people. The Dane was about to speak but suddenly changed his mind; Rokossovsky guessed that, under the table, a Norwegian boot had sharply kicked a Danish ankle.

“However, the case revolves around their induction to service rather than their national origin. I do not see the relevance of that for the crimes of which this unit is accused, a weighty and shameful list, were all committed on Russian territory. I am prepared to accept that they were conscripted at gunpoint and by threats to their families as some small mitigation. But for those who volunteered? I think there can be no mitigation and certainly we will not allow any others to claim jurisdiction.” The Norwegian and Danish delegates were speaking quietly. Rokossovsky gave them his best Russian General's glare. “There is one meeting here and one meeting only. If you have something to say, say it for all to hear.”

“My apologies Marshal.'' The Danish delegate was obviously now the spokesmen of the pair. “I have a suggestion that may quickly resolve our problem at least. The Norwegian and Danish Governments will concede your claims to jurisdiction over our nationals in the German armed forces. We also concede that the conduct of the unit in which they formed a part was such that criminal punishment is in order. We suggest, however, that instead of trying to separate out the bad from the not-so-bad, you treat the unit as a whole and sentence the two regiments as a whole to Mild Regime work rebuilding your cities.

“In return for our concession on these points we request that representatives of our government be allowed to remain in contact with these prisoners, that the prisoners be allowed to contact their families back home on a regular basis, say, two letters a month? And that their work be considered a substitute for any demand for reparations Russia may ask of us. Our men will work much better if they feel their efforts are of direct benefit to their country.”

Rokossovsky nodded slowly. It was a good compromise, one that gave Russia what it needed the most. Absolute jurisdiction over the prisoners, unaffected by the demands of any other nation. Given the witches brew of nationalities in the SS units, that was the one thing President Zhukov demanded above all others. Crimes against Russia and the Russians must be punished by the Russians. Otherwise there was no guarantee they would be punished at all. “'Very well I accept these arrangements, Erwin, you will draft the orders for the two regiments in question to surrender to the designated Russian forces?”

“Very well. Noon tomorrow be acceptable?” Rokossovsky nodded.

“This arrangement is unacceptable to us. We must demand that all Swedish nationals be repatriated to us without delay. If you accuse any of crimes then it is for you to present your evidence to our prosecutors who will pursue the matter. If they feel the evidence warrants it.”

Rommel and Rokossovsky locked eyes over the table. It was going to be a long, hard day.

Part Three - Necessity

Chapter One Demands

Operations Center, Laum Mwuak Airfield, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

“Have you seen these latest exchanges? And the last Japanese reply?” Flight Lieutenant Usah Chainam ruffled through the papers in his hands and pulled out the last flimsy. “And if we do not receive a positive response to our proposals, things will proceed from that point.”

“I think that's a threat.” Wing Commander Luang Chumsai's voice was thoughtful. “And the Japanese have a long history of starting things without advance warning, [f the book from that American historian is right, they were even planning to do the same to the Americans back in '41.”

“Might have saved the world a lot of trouble if they had.” Usah's voice was equally thoughtful. Both men were running the situation around Laum Mwuak around in their heads and calculating forces and dispositions. “Then the Americans would have turned Japan into a smoking hole as well. Some sort of large-scale incursion across the border? Won't be a full-scale, the Americans won't stand for it. They've made it quite clear what'll happen to anybody who starts launching wars of conquest.”

Luang's face was expressionless, his fingers drumming his desk. The peace agreement with the French in May 1941 had stipulated that the border between Thailand and French Indochina ran along the Mekong river from the Chinese highlands in the north to the sea. Then French Indochina had become Japanese Indochina and problems had started to emerge. One of them was the Mekong Delta.

The original interpretation of the agreement was that the border ran through the largest of the arms of that delta, splitting the area neatly in half and putting Saigon on the border. Now, the Japanese were claiming it ran along the southernmost arm of the delta. They had another claim, an even more outrageous one. Under international law, when a river was stipulated as marking a border, the actual frontier ran along the median line down the center of the river. The Japanese were claiming that the border wasn't just the Thai bank, it was the westernmost extreme of the watershed that fed the river. A claim that, if allowed, would put most of the Recovered Provinces and a big chunk of Northern Thailand into Japanese hands. It was, in fact, the same land-grab the French had carried out in the forty years from 1868 onwards.

“Order an alert. For the next seven days, pilots and ground crews are to sleep near their aircraft. Park the aircraft on the runways, ready for immediate takeoff. Pilot Officer Somsri's airfield defense company is to man a full perimeter. We're too close to the border here to take chances, if the Japanese do try something; this airfield is the prime target.”

The airfield, Luang thought sadly, not the aircraft on it. Khong Bin Noi Thi Haa was supposed to have three squadrons, two of fighters, one of dive bombers. One of the fighter squadrons was at Don Muang, converting from its old Curtiss Hawk Us to the new F-80 fighters the Government had just bought. The fighter squadron here had twelve single-seat Curtiss Hawk Ills and the dive bomber squadron a dozen two-seater Vought Corsairs. Both of the old biplanes had done well against the French back in 1941 but types were horribly obsolete now. Military re-equipment programs had been on life support for years now while the Government poured money into building the country's infrastructure. Decisions like that were a gamble and this one looked like coming up on the short end.

“I want a detachment, ten men with a machine-gun, over by Ta Luak. Their job is to hold the back door open. Get everybody who isn't on the perimeter or with the aircraft, that includes the families, digging fortifications around the golf course. That'll be our last redoubt, if we can't hold the perimeter, we'll fall back, burning the base as we go and make our last stand there. If we can't hold the golf course, any survivors can try and get out through the jungle. Oh, and send a message to the police, warn them as well.”

“You think it’s that bad?”

“I think it’s worse. But that's the best we can do.”

Police Station, Laum Mwuak Village, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

Why anybody had suddenly decided to post a guard was beyond Police Private Songwon. The other nineteen police officers assigned to this area were all safely asleep which was where all civilized people should be at 0400. He paced around and blew into his hands, everybody who didn't live here assumed that it was hot all the time but that was a sad mistake. The pre-dawn chill could be enough to make the bones ache. Then he stopped, he had heard the sound of gunfire from around the town hall and the telegraph office. Was it anything to worry about? Probably not, it was nearing the Loi Krathong festivities, it was amazing how people could interpret floating a bunch of flowers down a river as firing guns into the air but they did. Then, Songwon knew he was wrong for there were shadowy shapes moving through the darkness towards the police station.

As he watched, one of them became less shadowy, resolving itself into a Japanese soldier walking up to the front door of the police station, waving a piece of paper at Songwon. The policeman was confused, bewildered, could not understand what or why Japanese soldiers were trying to give him orders. In any case, he didn't read or understand Japanese so it didn't really matter. He had orders to let nobody into the police station, so his duty was obvious. He refused to let the soldier in.

That's when the aggravated soldier made a fatal mistake. In Thailand striking somebody in the face is a deadly insult and the Thai police were notoriously sensitive about their dignity at the best of times. When the soldier hit Songwon, the police private was infuriated and appalled that anybody would take such liberties. Instinctively he did two things, he took a step back and he dropped his Lee-Enfield rifle to an approximation of the “guard” position. Sensing he'd gained an advantage, the Japanese soldier took a step forward and literally walked onto the point of the leveled bayonet.

Songwon was shocked by how easily the long triangular bayonet slid through the Japanese body. Less than a kilogram of pressure, he thought remembering a long-ago lesson on using his bayonet. That's all it took to run a man through with a pig-sticker. The Japanese made a little sigh and crumpled as if he was an inflated balloon and somebody had let all the air out. As he slumped around the bayonet, Songwon remembered something else from the long-forgotten lessons. He pulled the trigger, the recoil from the shot yanking the bayonet out of the body. The Japanese immediately responded by opening fire on the police station. Songwon took a horrified look at what had started and dived for cover.

To a man, the sleeping policemen inside the station thought that a thunderstorm had started when the hail of gunfire hit their building. The sergeant in charge took a careful look through a window and saw no lightning in the sky but a fair equivalent of it along the treeline a hundred meters or so away. He also saw a single figure break cover and sprint for the barracks door. It opened briefly and Songwon dived through. “Japanese” he gasped, “the Japanese are attacking the town.”

The Police Sergeant grasped that situation immediately. “Take seven men, get out through the cellar and run for the airbase. Warn them; tell them the Japanese are coming. We'll hold here.” Not for long he thought grimly. They had six rifles, two Lee-Enfields, from a batch the Army had purchased for next-to-nothing from the British Army after WW1, the rest were the old Type 45s. A quick glance added a shotgun and that left the rest of the police with their revolvers. Not much to fight an army with. Still, the six riflemen were at the windows trying to return fire. No point in firing revolvers yet, anyway the volume of incoming fire made the defense seem puny. Over his shoulder, the Sergeant saw Songwon and six others scrambling down through the hatch in the floor. The cellar was long and thin, it surfaced some way away from the station. They should make it, the Sergeant thought, just as long as the ones left behind could buy some time.

To the slight surprise of the Sergeant, he and the twelve men left in the police station bought twenty minutes. That's how long it took for the firefight to reach the point where the Japanese had worked close enough to throw hand grenades into the building. As Songwon and his group eased out through the jungle, they heard the explosions that silencing the defenders' firing. They didn't see the invaders enter the building, but they did hear the screams as the Japanese took their time finishing off the wounded policemen with their knives and bayonets.

Cookhouse, Laum Mwuak Airfield, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

If there was a plum assignment when pulling a night alert, this had to be it. Guarding the cookhouse while a friendly cook prepared breakfast for the base. Chief Cook was a friendly, motherly woman who saw it as her duty to ensure “the boys'' guarding her cookhouse were properly fed. Breakfast in an hour or so time would be noodle soup with meatballs and “Her boys” had already had a bowl each, filled with tasty vegetables and meatballs fresh from the oven.

There was history behind Chief Cook's concern for the Air Force guards. She'd been born Thai and free but when she'd been a young girl, the French had stolen the province she came from and they'd treated the occupants like they'd treated the rest of their Indochinese subjects - as serfs. Then, in 1941, the Royal Thai Army had come and liberated them. Chief Cook remembered her first sight of the young men in jungle green uniforms with their strangely-shaped helmets who'd made her Thai again. Assistant Cook was young, Cambodian and couldn't remember a time before the French. Not the brightest of girls, all she knew was that life had become much better since the French had gone.

Airman Ronna Phakasad didn't know the history; all he did know was that the cook had looked after them almost unnervingly well. There was an advantage to being part of the guard unit on an air base; machine guns were hardly in short supply. There were so many that there was a joke in the guard company that the only soldiers who didn't have thirty-caliber Browning machine guns were the ones who had the fifty-calibers. They were aircraft guns, true, and their mountings were improvised but they were still there and they could pour out lead. They'd need to,

Ronna's little command had eight men, two two-man machinegun crews with a .30 Browning each and four men with the MP40 machine pistols Lopburi made under license. He reckoned that if everything dropped in the pot, he'd need them. This building was designated as a strongpoint that covered the entry to the base and a line of trees that offered quick access to the flight line beside the east-west 1,000 meter runway. That meant he was guarding the Corsair dive-bombers that needed the longer runway to get off. Over the other side of the base, the Hawk Ills were parked beside the 800 meter north-south runway. They were somebody else's responsibility.

The eastern sky was just beginning to redden with the dawn when Ronna saw a pair of headlights coming up the road towards the main gates. Erratic, unsteadily driven, as if the driver was drunk - or something worse. Ronna patted the gunner for the Browning covering the gate and pointed at the approaching vehicle. The gunner said nothing but heaved the cocking handle of the machine gun back. The vehicle continued to approach until it was under the lights by the entrance barrier. Ronna took his binoculars and looked hard. “Doirt shoot, they're our policemen!”

“How do you know boss?”

“Some of them are still wearing their pajamas.”

That, the machine-gunner thought, was unsettling on so many levels

Main Gate, Laum Mwuak Airfield, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

“Sir, you got to help us! The rest of the men are in the police station, the Japanese are slaughtering everybody”. Private Songwon was distraught, barely intelligible, thought Sergeant Nikorn Phwuangphairoch, who commanded the 20-men detachment in charge of holding the gates, the guardhouse and the rest of the approach to the accommodation areas. He'd placed his men inside the guardhouse itself and in foxholes along the side of the road.

Nikorn had already called in the arrival of the policemen and asked to mount a rescue mission to the police station. The request had been curtly refused; it was obviously far too late to save anybody down there. The base doctor had arrived almost immediately and tried to treat the men by the truck. They'd pushed him away, telling him they were unhurt. Then they'd told him their commander, Police Lieutenant Sangob Pornmanonth, was in the back of the truck.

“He was living at his house sir, with his family. It was oil the way here we'd stolen this truck you see, so we stopped to pick him and his family up. But the Japanese had got there first. Our Lieutenant was in the garden by the door and his family were, it was dreadful, horrible, they were all dead even the children. The Lieutenant's alive just, please help him Sir. The telegraph station's gone, the town hall as well. We heard firing from the railway station. All over. The Japanese are on foot, they're a few minutes behind us.”

Nikorn tried to descramble the valuable information from the man. The town was gone, captured, no doubt about that. And the Japanese were coming up the road, fast. Nobody should ever underestimate just how fast the Japanese infantry could move on Toot. A few minutes was the best they could hope for. As he turned to send a message to the operations center the doctor jumped down from the truck, his face frozen, his eyes sick. “Regret to tell you Sergeant; Police Lieutenant Sangob has died from the wounds inflicted on him by the Japanese at his home. Nothing anybody could do, wounds like that.”

Nikorn nodded. “Suggest you get back to the Operations Center. “ He dropped his voice “and tell the Wing Commander what you saw here. We must get the families out. Rest of you, get ready, they're coming. You, the policeman who drove that truck. Get it out of the way. Burn it if that's the only way to stop the Japs using it.”

Operations Center, Laum Mwuak Airfield, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

“You were right Sir, we're coming under attack. The Japanese are in Laum Mwuak already. They've taken the police station, we know that, and we think they've taken the town hall and the railway. The telegraph also.”

“Get a message out to Phnom Penh and Bangkok.”

“Telegraph's down Sir, that's why we think the Japanese got there. Radio, its atmospherics, we can't get through.”

“Right. If the Japanese are coming through the town, they'll hit us from that side. That means the Hawks are the nearest aircraft to their attack. Get them up and out now. Get them to the Kong Bin Noi Thi Saam base at Phnom Penh. They've got Ostrichs there. We're going to need some help.”

He stopped as the sound firing erupted from the perimeter by the residential area. The rapid hammering noise of the Brownings, the duller crack of the Mausers and a lighter crackle. Japanese Arisakas.

“We're going to need a lot of help.”

Flight Line, Laum Mwuak Airfield, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

The violence of the attack was unexpected. What seemed like a whole battalion of Japanese troops had swarmed out of the treeline and charged across the cleared area. They'd come under a crossfire from the machine guns in the Guardhouse and the Cookhouse but that hadn't stopped them.. They'd left bodies behind on the grass, that was certain, but not enough. They'd blown the wire and only a barrage of point-blank fire from the machine pistols of the troops in the residential area had finally stopped them.

Then, the Japanese had opened up on the flight line with the small mortars they carried. Two of the Hawk Ills were already burning, their fabric skins had already gone and their structure was outlined in the pre-dawn darkness as a glowing blueprint of fire.

Down the line, Pilot Officer Maen Prasongdi was first to get his aircraft moving, swerving out of the parking lot and down the runway. His move caught the Japanese by surprise, they hadn't expected the pilots to be waiting in their aircraft and their fire went wild. Maen got off the runway, clawed for altitude then swung his aircraft around for a strafing pass. His twin .30s started hammering as his nose lined up with the Japanese troops pinned by the crossfire outside the residential area. They were firing back and he felt the thuds as bullets tore into the fabric of his aircraft. Then, his Hawk lurched as the four 60 kilogram bombs dropped free and he was clear, trailing smoke but out and heading for Phnom Penh and the Ostrichs

Flight Sergeant Phrom Shuwong never got that far. Following Maen down the runway, he caught all the fire aimed at his aircraft plus most of the bullets aimed at his leader. His Hawk III was badly damaged before it even left the runway and as he climbed out, those on the ground saw his body jerking in the cockpit. Airborne for less than a few seconds, his Hawk III stalled out and spun into the ground.

Behind him, Sergeant Jamnien Wariyakun never even got off the ground. Raked by bullets, his tires blew as he made his run. The Hawk III swerved off the runway, then its wingtip caught the grass and it ground-looped, disintegrating as it spun across the grass and exploded. To the amazement of everybody, Jamnien actually managed to jump clear as the aircraft flew apart and tried to run for cover. He made about ten steps before Japanese fire cut him down.

Perhaps the spectacle distracted the Japanese because Flight Sergeant Sanit Rohityothin actually made it into the air. Like his leader, he swung around, trying to strafe the approaching Japanese. He was too low, and too slow. The groundfire got him as he started his run and his Hawk was burning before it started its dive into the ground.

Flight Sergeant Kab Khamsin was still trying to start his engine when he and the plane next to his were rushed by Japanese troops. They'd used a drainage ditch for cover and had got through the first defense line to get loose into the fighter park. Their bullets raked both aircraft, killing Kab in his cockpit and severely wounding Flight Sergeant Phorn Chalermsuk.

The Japanese might have been better advised to take a closer look at the aircraft on the flight line, or perhaps brush up on their aircraft recognition because they missed an important fact. The aircraft they passed on their way to attack the two Hawks wasn't a tighter at all. The old biplane was a Corsair ground attack aircraft, manned by Flying Officer Suatl Sukhserm, with Airman Somphong Naeibanlhad as his rear gunner. The Japanese rushing past were a target Somphong couldn't resist. His twin .30 machineguns raked the group, mowing them down as the Corsair turned out of the flightline onto the runway. Somphong kept firing, his machine guns stitching the area where the Japanese were firing on the escaping aircraft. He pinned them down just long enough for the Corsair to get off the ground. Over the racket of the engine and the hammering of his machine guns he could have sworn he could hear the cheers from the airmen fighting in the residential area and around the guardhouse. Behind them, the tighter parking area was a sea of black smoke and burning aircraft.

Headquarters Section, Japanese 2nd Battalion, 143 Division

The black smoke was clearly visible over the roofs of the residential area buildings, lit by the sun edging over the eastern horizon. That residential area was quickly turning into a death-trap for the advancing Japanese. The Thai airmen with their machine pistols were in their element, fighting room to room. They knew the ground, it was, quite literally their homes, and they were making the Japanese pay for every meter. Automatic fire was the key; even the new semi­automatic Arisakas couldn't match the fire from those machine pistols at close range.

Major Kisoyoshi Utsunomiya had already worked out what to do about it. The residential area was a hornet's nest but it was untenable if he could get his people around its flanks. The thing that stood in his way were the two strong points off to his left, what was obviously a guard house and another building beyond that. Both hadn't been fully engaged yet and the streams of machine gun fire from them were pinning down his flank. Take those two strongpoints out and he'd have a clear path through the hangars, cutting the whole residential area off. Time to take down the strongpoints.

“Follow me!” He leapt up swinging his sword, his flag-carrier unfurling the great Rising Sun beside him. As his men got up to advance on the Guardhouse, he heard the sound of an aircraft engine. That's when he realized his mistake. The first pilots to try and take off had been fighter pilots, full of courage and urge to fight but untrained in the ways of ground attack. They'd turned too early and been shot down. The Corsair crew were ground attack specialists, they were wily, they'd got clear, built up speed and come in when they judged the moment right.

Now the Corsair was sweeping over his men, its forward .50 caliber machineguns spewing tracer into their ranks, the tail gunner spraying the infantry as they passed. Beneath them, a line of explosions marked the 60 kilogram bombs dropping clear, Utsunomiya cursed, the attack was perfectly timed, it had broken the momentum of his move and revealed his plan. The guardhouse would be expecting to become the center of attention.

Then, as the Corsair swept overhead, Utsunomiya saw something he thought was long past. For perhaps the last time in modern warfare, a old biplane with an open cockpit was flying over a battlefield with its pilot's white silk scarf streaming in the wind behind him. As the Corsair vanished behind the treeline on its way to Phnom Penh, Utsunomiya carefully and very precisely saluted its crew.

Phnom Penh South Airfield, Recovered Provinces, Thai/and

The flight line was boiling with activity. Each of the twelve Ostriches lined up by the main runway had a group of men feeding their charge with the supplies it needed to fight. One group was feeding belts of .50 Browning ammunition into the tanks supplying the wing guns, another was beside the fuselage, lifting up belts of the big 23mm V-YA cannon rounds into the armored bathtub that protected the aircraft's crew. Other groups were hanging rockets on the rails under the wings or fitting bombs to the fuselage and inner-wing hardpoints. Yet more men were by the fuel bowsers, feeding aviation gasoline into the aircraft's self-sealing tanks.

For all the activity, the sound of an aircraft engine brought a standstill. The base was so used to the hearty roar of twin Pratt and Whitney R-2800s that the little Wright R-I820 sounded puny. Then, the aircraft itself came over the treeline, instantly recognized as a Hawk III. That meant it had to be from Laum Mwuak, the wing there was the only one still operating the old Curtiss biplane. The trail of black smoke and the unsteadiness of its flight were eloquent of an aircraft and pilot in serious trouble. Underneath the staggering fighter, the sound of its engine was drowned out by the sirens of a rescue truck and an ambulance racing out to be on hand when it landed.

The pilot nearly brought his aircraft in unharmed. Almost, but not quite, he put it down too hard and wiped the undercarriage off on touchdown. The Hawk slid on its belly down the runway, the ambulance and crash truck driving recklessly to keep up with it. As it came to a halt and started to burn, the crash truck had its foam hose ready and doused the wreck. It took only a few seconds to get the pilot out of the cockpit and even less time for the ambulance paramedic to make his decision. “Get him to the infirmary. Now!”

“No, wait.” Maen's voice was weak but urgent. “'Laum Mwuak, the Japanese are attacking it, Ground troops. They're holding up there but they need help. Get help to them.”

The word spread faster than possible and the aircrew waiting by their planes stared at the control tower, waiting for the signal. It came just as fast as it took a man to run up the control tower steps and speak to the Squadron commander. A red flare arcing into the sky. “Get ready for immediate take off.” Then, there was a sound like a barrage of gunfire as the ground crews started closing the hatches and access points on the waiting Ostrichs.

“First flight, get to Laum Mwuak. Identify the positions held by our people and give them support. Can't tell you exactly what to do, you'll know when you get there. Second Flight. The Japanese have crossed the border in strength. There's a regiment of the 9th Division moving up to block the enemy's advance. Contact the 9ths forward controllers, set up a cab rank using Channel Five and support them. Whatever they need. The other Ostrich squadron will be joining you. As for fighter cover.” There was a derisive laugh from the Ostrich crews, their Australian-built ground attack aircraft were almost 70 miles an hour faster than the Hawk 75N fighters that were supposed to cover them. “Escort yourselves. The fighters will be on free chase. Now GO!”

The ground crews were already turning the propellers by hand, distributing the oil that would have built up in the lower cylinders overnight. Before they could fire the starters, another biplane came in, swinging neatly into line and touching down on the runway. A Corsair. It taxied off the runway and its crew leapt from the aircraft, frantically looking for somebody to report to. The Squadron leader grabbed the pilot.

“You, I need a full report of what's happening, everything you've seen. At once. We've got to get word to Bangkok and to First Army Headquarters. Do you know how to fly an Ostrich?”

Flying Officer Suan took a careful look at the hulking beasts starting to taxi out onto the runway and shook his head. They were from a different age and he'd never before realized just how obsolete his old Corsair was.

“Time to learn” said the Squadron Leader. The rest of his words were drowned out as more R-2800s joined the roaring flightline and the first Ostriches started their take-off runs down the runway.

First Army Circle Headquarters, Ban Masdit, Recovered Provinces, Thailand

Despite the early hour and the new air conditioning system, General Songkitti was sweating. The picture from the front was threatening, worse than that; it looked like there was a military catastrophe in the making. There were reports of at least two Japanese infantry divisions and three independent regiments crossing the Mekong. No sightings of tanks yet and the Japanese weren't committing their aircraft. Trying to keep this on the level of a border incident he guessed. They'd penetrate to the watershed boundary they'd claimed was the correct line of the border then the follow up forces would go through the breach and spread sideways. Ten years ago, there would have been wild talk of an expanding torrent through a hole in the front, loose in the rear areas, destroying everything in its path. Nobody believed that rubbish any more. Reality was bad enough. Then the phone rang and Songkitti picked it up, listening for a few minutes. He acknowledged the caller and hung up again.

“Good news Sir?” His aide's voice was tentative, perhaps afraid that if somebody mentioned good news, it would vanish.

“Supreme's on the ball. They're sending the Second Cavalry to reinforce us. Second Army will be turning one of its divisions through 180 degrees and taking over the Laotian frontier so we can pull the 11th Infantry down. That gives us two leg infantry divisions and a motorized division to fight with. The lead elements of the Second will be here tomorrow evening, we can have the 11th disengaged and down twelve to 24 hours later. The bad news is the intelligence people think there could be six more infantry divisions and four independent tank brigades waiting behind the Mekong. Apparently they went missing from Manchuria a few months ago and now, it looks like they've turned up here.”

There was a gentle tap on the door and the clerk put his head around. “Lieutenant Sirisoon to see you sir.”

Songkitti looked dourly at the female officer. “What do you want?”

“Sir, my desk is clear; all my present assignments are completed. In view of the current emergency, what are your orders?”

“Go back to your desk, hide under it if you like, that's probably a good idea, and keep out of the way.”

Songkitti turned back to the map and stared again at the developing threat. The sparse information coming in suggested that the Japanese advance was shaped like a kidney, two lobes, parting at about 30 degrees. Fair bet one division in each lobe. They were splitting at a place called Laum Mwuak, there was an airfield there and the town was a minorly important road and rail junction. Nobody had heard from the airfield but the map was suggesting it was still holding out. Then..... Songkitti was suddenly aware Sirisoon was still waiting in front of his desk. “] told you to leave. Do you want me to have you dragged out by your hair?”

Sirisoon's eyes widened at the insult. Songkitti was an urbane and courteous man, for him to be so openly rude indicated how critical this situation was. “Sir, the Army recruited women officers so we could take over rear area jobs and free up men for the front. Let me do my job sir and make available another male officer for the front line.”

Songkitti was just about to explode and say something unforgivable when his aide cut in. “Sir, we've got a pool of replacement infantry here, the ones we've been using to guard truck convoys. They're going to be badly needed but we can't send them up without an officer taking charge of them on the way. Perfect job I would have thought.”

“Yes. Sirisoon, this is the situation. We're moving 2nd regiment, 9th infantry division up to here, to block this lobe of the Japanese advance. They're assembling now. That's a regiment taking on an entire Japanese division. Once they engage, the 29th is going to be chewed up, they'll need every replacement rifleman they can get. The Sergeants are organizing the unattached replacements into scratch platoons. There's one in the supply unit ready to go.

“Take command of it, take it up to the 29th assembly area here. Once the commander of the 29th releases you, return and take another platoon up.” Songkitti scribbled orders onto his pad and handed them over. Sirisoon grabbed them and fled before he could change his mind.

In her office, Sirisoon grabbed her telephone and called the motor pool. “Sergeant, I need four trucks and a jeep outside the supply unit in ten minutes........None available? Sergeant, my next task is to reconcile your equipment inventory against your requisitions. If I get my trucks, that job won't be started for weeks. !f I don't, it'll start the moment I hang up and I will be in a very bad temper. Tin sure neither of us want me to be reconciling your inventories and supply vouchers while in a bad temper......I thought not.........That's right, one jeep, four trucks, ten minutes. Thank you Sergeant.” Sirisoon grinned to herself, that was an application of logistics her instructors had never thought of.

Ever since she'd seen the operations map, she'd kept a set of combat gear and her rifle in her office. She changed out of her regular uniform into the fatigues, reflecting quickly that anybody who came into her office now was going to get an unexpected eyeful. She took a quick look at herself in the window reflection as she left, webbing in place, fully armed, fully equipped. A very militant water lily she thought with smug satisfaction.

Supply Section Barracks, First Army Circle. Ban Masdit, Recovered Provinces, Thailand

Sergeant Yawd had worked wonders since everything had dropped in the pot. He'd got 43 men together, drawn a full platoon set of equipment for them, even down to the machine guns, the new rocket launchers and a radio. Even better, one of the men knew how to operate the radio and another had basic medical training. He had created a fully fledged infantry platoon out of nothing; all it needed was an officer. There was a bang as the door opened and “Men Attention! Officer on....... Ma'am?”

“Sergeant Yawd, by order of General Songkitti I am taking command of this unit and will be taking us to join the 29th Infantry Regiment. “ She looked quickly around. “Men organized and properly armed. Good job Sergeant.” Then she frowned for a second and pointed at one of the men. “Private Phom, you were the man who got that truck out of a ditch a few days back. That was well done. Glad to have you along. And you Private Voi, has your wife recovered?” The two men flushed slightly, one with pride at being praised in public, the other that this strange officer had taken the trouble to ask after his wife, recovering in base hospital after an appendix operation.

Sirisoon pulled the map out of her pocket, In the last ten minutes she'd pulled the list of names from records and noted two outstanding things she could “remember”. Now, she had to keep things moving onwards so nobody would notice those were the only two things she knew about this group of men. “Sergeant, this is the assembly area here, I have to report to the Regimental Commander and he'll use as as he sees fit.”

“Going to be a long march ma'am, take most of the day I think.”

“Won't be a march at all Sergeant, I've organized some motor transport. One squad in each truck. Me, you, our radioman and medic in the jeep. What's our weapons section got?”

“Two MG34s on tripod's Ma'am and three RPG-2 teams. Rifle squads got an MG-34 each and a couple of Mausers fitted for rifle grenades. Rest have straight rifles. NCOs and weapons crews have these” He lifted his MP40 machine pistol. I got one for our officer but you brought your rifle.”

“Give it to the medic, the Japanese don't respect the Red Cross. Sergeant, get the men mounted up, we've got to get moving.”

Ban Phra Chuap, Recovered Provinces, Thailand.

The roads were jammed, truck convoys and marching infantry heading in one direction, refugees going in the other. The backwash of a nation at war, one that had been caught completely flat-footed. It had been hard enough getting her little convoy out of the base area, there were just too many vehicles, too little space. Once on the road, they'd made pretty good time given the circumstances. The villagers were out, guarding the road, helping the army trucks find their way from one village to the next. The police were out as well, helping keep traffic flowing and listening to the invitations to come and arrest the Japanese with weary patience. All in all, it was worse than it should have been but not as bad as it could be either.

By the time her jeep pulled into the 29th Regiment field HQ, Sirisoon was coated with a fine layer of laterite dust. She found the Command section and waited for a few minutes until the Regimental commander was ready to see her. “'Lieutenant Sirisoon, Sir. Ordered to bring up reinforcements for you. Awaiting your orders sir.” The Colonel took the message and read it with relief, he had too much front to cover, too few units to do it. Reinforcements to be used at his discretion. A fully organized infantry platoon. Better, much better than nothing.

“Sirisoon, I'm attaching your platoon to 1st Company, 2nd Battalion. 219th battalion is forming up along here,” his hand moved on the map “and 1st Company is here. Report to the Company Commander for your orders. When you get there, send your trucks back here, I need them.” Suddenly he peered at the Lieutenant in front of him. “You're a woman!”

“From birth Sir.” The Colonel shuddered and looked like he wanted to say something, then changed his mind. He had an understrength regiment fighting a reinforced division and anything was better than nothing.

Sirisoon took a deep breath and climbed back into the jeep. “They're not breaking us up. We're being attached to one of the infantry companies. Not far, back on the road, about two klicks down, break right. Another two or three klicks. Then we have to send our trucks back.”

The little convoy swung back out onto the main road and set off to the designated assembly area. As they approached the main turn, Yawd looked at his new officer a bit diffidently, “Ma'am, we're going to be the newbies in an established company. You know what that means don't you?”

“We'll get the dirty jobs and be the ones who draw fire? Yes, I know that. The only thing we can do about it is to make sure we all get to be veterans fast so we can send some other poor schleps out to draw fire.”

Yawd laughed, relaxing slightly “Ma'am, I like the way you think.”

Another headquarters area, another group of officers studying maps. Sirisoon got out of her jeep and reported in. Another set of raised eyebrows, another acceptance on grounds that anything was better than nothing. In the back of her mind was a grim determination, one day, one day, people would take her assignment as a welcome bonus, not an affliction that had to be tolerated. And if she got there over a pile of dead Japanese, so much the better.

“Sirisoon.” The voice snapped her out of her reverie. “Get your people together, we need to find out where the Japanese are and in what strength. I want you to be our spearpoint. Advance down the road to Tong Klao, it’s about five klicks that way. We think the Japanese have that village already. You should meet them halfway. You've got a radioman? Well done. Cabrank frequency is channel five, our net is channel seven. Call in when you make contact.”

Sirisoon saluted and walked back to her men, already debussing from their trucks. Behind her the Company Sergeant Major spoke quietly to the commander. “Bit of a rotten thing to do sir.”

“Somebody has to do the dirty jobs. We can send a bunch of repple newbies lead by a woman or one of our seasoned platoons. Which would you rather lose?”

The sergeant major sighed. Put like that, there really was no argument. Pity though, that young lieutenant seemed quite capable. For a woman of course.

Back at the trucks, Sirisoon called her NCO's together. “We have an advance to contact. That usually means advance until they shoot us. I don't want that, bullet holes are out of fashion this year. First section, I want you way out on the left flank, second section halfway out. Third section right flank, the other side of the road. Command group and weapons section to the right of the road but between it and third. Everybody keep off that road, if the enemy have pre-registered anything that will be it. We'll move cross country for about a kilometer, fast as we can then take it slow with overwatch. The Japanese love outflanking people so First Section, keep your eyes open. The odds are pretty good if we do run into a flanker, they'll do it from their right, our left.”

“Why's that ma'am?”

“Because most people are right handed and the right is their strong hand so they instinctively think of doing things with their right. I'm hoping we won't run into a Jap who's a leftie but even if we do, it might not matter. They're conformists all of them, kids who are naturally left-handed get beaten until they use their right. So I'm betting if we run into a flanker, it'll be on our left and First, you can flank the flankers. Important thing. Everybody. If we run into small groups, keep the machine guns quiet. Rifles only. There's our militia out there and they have rifles only. I want everybody to think we're militia until they learn the horrible truth. I want to get some good ground and chew the enemy up on it before they know who and what we are. Clear everybody?”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“Right. Let's get out there. And let’s do things to them that we most certainly do not want done to us.”

Administrative Building, Nevada Test and” Experimental Area

“We've got the wrong aircraft. That's all there is to it.” The voice was loaded with frustration and anger. Not to mention fear. The trials had been going on for two weeks now and. from the fighter pilot's view, they had been a complete failure. Nothing, but nothing, they had been able to do had even got them close to the B-36s. To make matters worse, some sadist organizing the exercises had designated each evolution after an American city. Today's had been “Mission Springfield” and, like all the rest, the question wasn't whether the fighters could defend the target but how badly they would fail and how close the B-36 Hometown would get to dropping its device on the aiming point. The answers had been disastrously badly and five hundred feet. If this had been the real world, Springfield would be history. The thick atmosphere of misery and futility could be cut with a knife.

“What do you mean Francis?” Gabreski's F-74s were the highest flying of all the American fighters in the exercise. They could get up to over 48,000 feet, agonizingly close to the B-36s cruising serenely over their heads, but not quite close enough. And, to make matters worse, it took almost 20 minutes to reach that altitude. The B-36s had seen them coming and changed course just enough to preclude any possibility of an intercept.

“Four thousand pounds of thrust just doesn't hack it. We need power, much more power.” By the time the F-74s had got up to their service ceiling, their engines were pushing out less than 600 pounds of thrust. “And we need swept wings.”

“There's a possible answer to that. North American is sending over a prototype, the XF-86A, for testing. Should be here in a day or so. Got the J-47 engine, same as the B-36s, and swept wings. North American is claiming 49,000 feet and getting there in 15 minutes. Artem, is there any chance of getting some MiG-15s over here?”

Across the room, the Russian designer shook his head. He spoke slowly and the interpreter paused a little before relaying his words. “The Chief Designer says that he is very sorry but it is quite impossible. We have a serious problem with the aircraft and it is proving difficult to solve. At 1,000 kilometers per hour, the aircraft drops a wing and stalls. Goes into a... mmmm ...., a flat spin? And crashes. Already we have lost three aircraft to this. He says that if they could get a MiG-15 here they would but it just cannot be done. We will be visiting North American soon and perhaps they can help.”

Mikoyan spoke again and again the interpreter paused before answering. “The Chief Designer also says that perhaps this would not help anyway. The problem is not swept wings, they give extra speed but they are less efficient at giving lift. So there is a penalty in altitude to pay. The key is wings and engine power. For high altitude the aircraft needs much power and wings with lift. After all, he says, that is why the B-36 can fly so high. Big wings and much power.”

“Navy aircraft then.” Joseph McConnell spoke from a corner of the room. His F-80Gs were actually 30 miles per hour faster than the F-74s at low altitude but their performance bled off quickly with altitude and they ran out of climb 3,000 feet below the newer tighter. “Navy birds have lower wing loadings than ours; they have to in order to land on a carrier. Perhaps we should call in the Navy?” There was a groan around the room, quickly stifled.

“It's worth trying, the latest model Banshee gets up to 48,500 and can do it in ten minutes. The Panthers are a bit worse in both departments. But, stripping them down might give us some capability.”

“Why do we worry about this? It's not as if anybody can copy the B-36 yet.” George Davis's voice was aggrieved and combative. His Stomnbirds had shown up badly, so much so they'd been withdrawn to be rebuilt. The idea had been good, the Stormbird had a 75mm cannon in its nose and the operational concept had been to get it up as high as it could and then use it as a sky-fired anti-aircraft gun. The problem was they'd run out of altitude at 37,500 feet and that just wasn't high enough to make the idea work. The F-71s were having every possible ounce of weight stripped out of them to see if that would make the idea feasible.

“We wish that was true. Only, it isn't. The Japanese Navy are working on a long-range heavy bomber, the Frank. We don't know its performance details but it's B-36 size. We have to assume that its got the same altitude capability. You see, the Japanese Navy are building two German designs, the Heinkel He-274 and the He-277. The Germans gave up on them back in '44 when they ditched their heavy bomber effort in favor of fighters and ground support but the Japanese Navy has both in service, the 277 in quite large numbers.

“The 274, the CADS code name is Dick, can get up to 47,000 feet, the 277 to 49,000. That one's the Eric according to CADS. They haven't got the range to worry us yet; the Dick is strictly a medium-range bomber radius is around 600 miles tops. Eric's at the bottom of the heavy bomber range capability, operational radius about a thousand miles. So, neither aircraft is a threat to us yet but we have to recognize the possibility that the Japanese will apply the technology from the two German aircraft to their own long-range bomber. Then we have a very real threat to the American mainland.

“How long will that take? We don't know. But, how long did the Germans think they had before we flew over their defenses and blew them into the history books?”

“Guys, I've had a thought.” Colonel Pico stopped and looked at McConnell. “Our fighters can't get up high enough to stop a B-36, but there's one aircraft that can.”

“Go on Joe, you can't leave it there.”

“I used to be a bombardier before I got into flight school. The only aircraft that can get up high enough to fight a B-36 is another B-36. So why don't we intercept the inbound high attitude bombers with B-36s and drop atomic bombs on them?”

There was a profound silence. Eventually, Pico looked around the room. “Will somebody, please think of a reason why that isn't a good idea? Anybody, please?”

Approaches to HM Submarine Base, Faslane, UK

The rain was savage, lashing across Xena's sail in an almost horizontal sheet, driving into the men's eyes and streaming off the superstructure around them. It had long since penetrated the towel Commander Fox wore around his neck and was now soaking under his oilskin and into his shirt and vest. He had a megaphone held over his face, reversed so the wide end covered his eyes and he could look out of the narrow end through the torrent that would otherwise have blinded him.

“Approaching the cleared channel now. Swampy, is this rain hot?” It was a question that wouldn't have occurred to Fox a few weeks earlier.

Across the bridge, trying to shelter behind the periscope stays, Swamphen shook his head. “Last year might have been a little above background but the winter washed all that muck out of the air. This'll be clean.” Swamphen spoke confidently, apparently in sure knowledge of the theoretical basis of his statement. In fact, he'd been worried enough by the rainstorm to take a few Geiger counter readings. To his relief, he'd found the rain was wet, not hot.

“Buoy coming up on to starboard right. Prepare for hard starboard helm. Don't cut that buoy too fine.“ The buoy marked the grave of Unlimited, sunk a few months before. She'd strayed out of the cleared channel somehow and been mined. Nine months after the war had ended. About half her crew had got out; the bodies of the rest had been recovered by divers.

These were still dangerous waters, for three years the Americans and the Germans had played a little game around here, the same one they'd played off all the ports in Europe. Who could lay the largest number of mines off the ports with bonus points for the most complex fusing. Magnetic, acoustic, pressure, magnetic-acoustic, all fitted with counters. Antenna mines, even, now and then, a good old contact mine. There were thousands off this port alone, hundreds of thousands around the UK, millions around Europe.

The newer ones couldn't be swept at all; there was only one way to get rid of them. They had to be found, one at a time, a diver had to go down, place a demolition charge against the mine and then retreat to a safe distance, it took about an hour in all, not very long really. Some humorist had calculated that it would take a diver, working 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, a full 6,000 years to clear all the mines around Europe. And a lot of the mines were booby-trapped, cunningly enough for the divers to get danger pay and be refused life insurance.

“Mines Robert?”

“Damned things. I'm not that confident even in this safe channel. They drift, and some have thirty or forty-hit counters. Watch it helm, the water's always ebbing here, even when the tide is in flood.”

“Could be worse Robert. The Americans have enough atomic bombs now that they're thinking of other ways to use them. Nuclear mines is one. Lay one in the seaway of a port, let the first ship to find it wipe the harbor out. The tidal wave and contamination from an underwater burst would be horrible.”

“Damn, Swampy, haven't they done enough damage? Thank God, we're out the rain at last.”

Xena had slipped under the stepped overhang that protected the caisson to the concrete submarine pen. The sail crew straightened up now without the rain beating down on them. Fox ordered full astern, slipping his submarine neatly into place inside the basin. Cables snaked across the water and were made fast. “Finished with main engines and steering.'“ The shore party were already warping Xena in to where the dockside crews were waiting to take her over. It was a sign of the times that the waiting dockies included a man with a Geiger counter to check the hull for radioactive contamination.

Submarine Bunker, Faslane, UK

“Julia darling! Been waiting long?'' It had taken Fox a couple of hours to finish off the job of handing Xena over to the portside watch. Now, he had a few hours for his family. Julia took a careful sniff and decided the first of those hours would be spent getting him into a bath. Like all submariners after a longish deployment, Fox was ripe. A mixture of foul air, slightly off food, diesel fuel and a shortage of water all made for an eye-watering cocktail,

“Not long Robert, I saw her coming in and I’ve been a Navy wife long enough to know the drill.” Unconsciously Julia had used the word “her” edge-uppermost. Secretly, she looked on her husband's command the way she would look upon a woman she suspected, but wasn't quite sure was his mistress. “How was it out there?”

Fox looked around. “Dreadful. The southern end of the North Sea and the Baltic Approaches, they're, oh I don't know what word to use. So foul nobody would want to go there. The North Sea will be a mess for years and the Baltic must be even worse, we couldn't even get in there. The only bright side, for us anyway, is that the filth coming out of the Baltic is staying well to the east. Water around here is cleaner. Anyway, that's for later. How are you settling in, House all right?”

Julia pulled a face. House was a nice word for it. Faslane had been heavily bombed and while the American fighter-bombers were accurate, they weren't that accurate. Still, it was better than Portsmouth. The stories were that Pompey had been hit so hard it looked like the surface of the moon. According to legend, the few people left lived in holes in the ground there and were fortunate to call them home. Up here, there were houses and work building replacements had started. Cheap, quickly-thrown together replacements that were barely more than a pre-fabricated wooden shack. Designed for a lifetime of five years, to give people walls and a roof until something better could be built.

“It’s not the house Robert, its, ohh, now I don't know the word for it. it’s the whole thing about living here. The people here hate us, did you know that? Wives aren't supposed to go outside the base area, it’s not safe. I can understand why.” She waved her hand in front of herself. “These clothes aren't new but I bought them in America and they're so much better than anything people have here. We're the ones who left and lived in 'luxury' in America while people here suffered. Nobody spits on us but we get the feeling they'd like to.”

Fox's face tightened although he didn't say anything. His arm gathered his wife just a touch more protectively to him.

“Something else you should know Robert.'“ Julia was now Mrs. Captain, advising her husband of things he ought to know about the families of his crew. “There's a lot of women around here selling themselves. I know its always been like that around naval bases but this is different. It’s not the women you'd expect to do that, it’s also the ones you never thought would. The ones before the war we'd have called respectable married women. And some of them are mixed up with pretty ugly people. There's already been cases of sailors being knifed after going out with one of them.”

“Julia, would you like to get away from here. I don't mean for a trip, I mean get away, never come back?''

“Can we?”

“That's a yes isn't it? You remember Jimmy Forrester? He ended the war in Australia, driving Clyde one of the old River class boats. The Australians loved them and they're building up a submarine arm out there. Jimmy elected to stay under the Imperial Gift and they've made him flotilla commander. They're short of submarine drivers, most of the gang had ties to Canada and elected to go there. Jimmy says, if we elect to go out under the Imperial Gift, he'll see that I get a boat for sure. Probably one of the modernized T-boats to start with.”

“Does the Gift apply to us, we're here?”

“I don't think it was intended to but the way the agreement is worded, any Royal Navy officer can elect to settle in any country that accepts the Gift. Australia's going to be no picnic. They're broke out there and the end of the war flipped them into recession but they're a better bet for the future than here. They've got food and a future.”

Julia nodded. Secretly, she'd been dreading living in the gray, hopelessness of Faslane. At least in Australia they'd have something to build. And Robert would still be able to play with his boats.

Office of Sir Martyn Sharpe, Chief of Staff to the President, New Delhi, India

“Sir Martyn, have you heard the news?”

Sir Martyn Sharpe lifted up his head. He'd heard the news from Thailand a few minutes before and he'd been weighing its consequences. As far as he could see, none of them would be good. “We need to talk to Sir Gregory Locock. And, of course. The Ambassador although I suspect she may be too busy to speak with us right now. Eric, the situation hasn't really changed since 1941. Thailand's still our forward line of defense. Singapore and Malaya can only be defended on the Mekong, if we lose that, we lose almost everything.”

“I didn't mean that Sir Martyn, although God knows, that situation is bad enough. I meant the news from South Africa. They're out.”

“Out?”

“'Of the Commonwealth. Their government made the announcement a few minutes ago, the Embassy there wired us the news immediately. There's a lot of diplomatic diarrhea but essentially, they're resigning their membership of the Commonwealth and pulling out of all the agreements that are part of that arrangement. The withdrawal is going to be absolute in six months.”

“We knew it was coming. They've expanded north and absorbed Rhodesia, Nyasaland, the old German and Portuguese colonies. And we virtually gave them Madagascar. They've become a pretty big force now, regionally at least, and old memories die hard. They still remember the turn of the century and the wars against the British. Anyway, I couldn't see the British tolerating the system they're bringing in over there very long. I think the Boers decided they would resign before they were kicked out.”

“Seems a bit, I don't know, heartless somehow. Leaving now,”

“'Eric, we're on our way out as well. Two years, perhaps three at the outside. Australia, I don't know, they might stay in, but we've got to leave. You know how strong nationalist feeling is here. They don't want to be under a British thumb any longer and the Nationalists see being a part of the Commonwealth as being under the British thumb. I can’t blame them for that.

“At the moment, we can trade off being a member of the Commonwealth for a long, slow phased transfer of government. We can train our successors; we can establish the system that runs this country the way it should be run. But to do that we have to give the appearance of casting off the British link and that means we too must leave the Commonwealth.

“Anyway, the Commonwealth is going to be pretty irrelevant to us now. Perhaps, if Halifax hadn't thrown in the towel and left England to be occupied, it might have been different. Who knows? But when the Germans occupied Britain, they kicked the center out of the Commonwealth; broke it apart and nothing can put it back together again. We have to look to ourselves now, and our future lies here, in the East, This news from Thailand just confirms that. If the Japanese get away with this they'll turn Thailand into one of their protectorates, an occupied colony, just like they tried back in '41.”

Sir Eric nodded. “The trouble is that the Japanese got China and Hong Kong, but Madam Ambassador filched the crown jewels while they weren't looking. Jardine and Matheson, Swires, Hutchinson-Whampoa, Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation, you name it. They're al! in Bangkok now. Economic power in the Far East is in the hands of the great Chinese trading companies, always has been. The smart Europeans knew that and rode the Dragon's back.

“Now the Dragon has a new lair and its making itself very comfortable, thank you. All the network of business contacts, family, personal, professional, all of them, have moved to Bangkok. They've nowhere else to go. If the Japanese get their hands on all that, within twenty years, they'll be the dominant economic power in Asia. That's why they're staging this whole thing.”

“Exactly. The Great Houses went to Bangkok because it offered stability and the resources of a reasonably large country. If that stability goes, they'll try to run again, though heaven knows where to. But Thailand will be left in the lurch and that means our defense in depth goes I must speak with The Ambassador as soon as our Embassy in Bangkok can arrange a conference. Whether we like it or not, our fate's linked to Thailand - and to Australia come to that. The question is, what do we do about it?”

Chapter Two Options

Headquarters Section, Japanese 2nd Battalion, 143rd Division

They'd finally taken the road that joined the Guardhouse to the residential area. That had split the defense here into two parts, the two fortified buildings over on his left and the residential hell-hole on his right. He'd finally managed to storm the line of foxholes along the road and he⁷d been expecting to fight it out with the bayonet as their occupants defended them to the last. But, when he and his men had finally taken them, they were empty except for the dead and there were few of those. The occupants had fallen back before he'd got there and were now blazing away with their accursed machine guns from a new line. It would all have to be done again. But first, the flank of the Guardhouse was exposed and that could be taken out.

Major Kisoyoshi Utsunomiya had brought up the tools he needed to do the job. His battalion had been heavily reinforced for the job, its gun company had six 75mm infantry support guns instead of the usual two and all his men had been given the new Type 8 semi­automatic carbines. In fact, his command had the 143rd division's entire allocation of those marvelous rifles. It was lucky they did for the hail of fire they had put out was the only thing keeping his casualties within tolerable limits. As it was, he was way behind schedule. This base was supposed to have fallen easily, to have been seized by a coup-de-main before the invasion proper even started. But it hadn't, they'd been waiting for him and now the entire 143rd Division was backed up on the road behind him. Perhaps that was an exaggeration, the troops would have been filtering through countryside to by-pass the base but they'd need the road cleared soon. The 75s would do it.

Guardhouse, Laum Mwuak Airfield, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

The building shook as the first shell plowed into the wall facing the residential area. Sergeant Nikorn Phwuangphairoch had guessed it would be coming; the studies of how the Japanese fought in China had been compulsory reading for a long time. They relied heavily on artillery brought forward and fired over open sights at strong points.

Sergeant Nikorn wasn't quite certain whether the guardhouse counted as a strongpoint but doubtless the Japanese thought of it as being one. It wasn't really designed that way but he'd strengthened the walls with sandbags and mounted machine guns in the windows. Now, the air inside was thick with dust, with acrid ammonia-tinged smoke from the cordite and the coppery smell of blood. He'd started holding the building with eight men, the other twelve had been in the foxholes along the road. They'd been driven back but were still covering his flanks with fire.

“Who's hurt?” There was a brief pause while the men inside peered through the gloom and the rancid smoke to make a check. They didn't get to answer because another shell and another crumped into the walls, filling the air still further. Men pulled their neck-clothes over their noses to try and keep out the dust, Nikom grabbed the phone and cranked the handle. “Operations, Guardhouse. We're under artillery fire here. We need help.”

“On its way. Keep your heads down.” The voice at the other end was completely emotionless.

Ostrich Djiap-One, over Laum Mwuak Airfield, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

“They want us to hit the north end of the field. Up here by the Guardhouse and the personnel quarters. The defense company is holding both but the road between them has fallen.” Flight Sergeant Kusol Chale had swung his seat around and was getting the ground situation on the radio, leaving his 20mm gun unmanned. On paper at least, the Ostrich had accommodation for a third crew member if needed, on a jump seat between the pilot and gunner. The Thai crews believed the Australians had bred a special species of airmen to occupy that seat, one 45 centimeters tall with their head between their legs and arms two meters long. None of the aircraft in the flight had ever flown with more than two crewmen on board.

Flight Lieutenant Phol Thongpricha nodded and looked down. The Ostrich had one vital characteristic for a ground attack aircraft, the pilot sat well forward and his vision downwards was excellent. He could see the square of the guardhouse, even the puffs of smoke around it that marked the start of an artillery barrage. The Japanese thought that a few guns firing over open sights constituted infantry support. They were about to learn differently. He banked left, rolling the Ostrich over into a long dive. Behind him Djiap-Two followed the maneuver, then Djiap-Three and the rest of the flight. One plane after another, their silver skins gleaming in the sun as they formed a long line heading downwards.

The Ostrich was a big plane but Phol was flying it gently, making tiny adjustments as he lined the nose up on the area in front of the Guardhouse. There were two gun buttons on his control column, one fired the six .50 caliber machine guns in the wings, the other the four 23mm cannon under the nose. He'd decided to use only the ,50s on this run, the 23mms were primarily anti-tank guns with a secondary air-to-air role. Against infantry, the fast-firing M-3 Brownings were the weapon of choice. Those and the six 250 kilogram bombs he had hanging under his belly.

Beneath him he could see the figures moving forward, seeming to stop and look up at the aircraft descending upon them. Off in front of him were the blotches of the field guns, sandbags piled in front to give the gunners a modicum of protection as they served their pieces. Even as he watched there was a belch of white smoke from one and an almost simultaneous black explosion on the Guardhouse. Still holding out then. Another slight adjustment on the controls and the nose of the diving Ostrich centered on the nearest of the field guns. Six of them, that was unusual; a Japanese infantry battalion usually only had two. Didn't matter, as he pulled out, his gunfire would rake along the line.

“Two, follow me down onto the guns, three and four hit the infantry.'⁷ Some of the men on the ground were kneeling, firing back with their rifles. If ever there was a forlorn hope, shooting at an Ostrich with a rifle was it. Phol almost imagined he could hear a “ting' as a rifle bullet bounced off his armored belly, the belly that had a double layer of armor that could stop a 20mm shell cold.

Then, he squeezed the trigger on his control column and heard the roar as his wing guns poured fire at the men below. Poured fire literally, the usual allocation was one tracer round in five but the Ostriches had every other round tracer. A red sheet poured from the wings, washing over the guns below him. His thumb depressed and held the bomb release switch. He felt the thumps as each 250 kilogram bomb was released. One, two, three, four, five, six. A stick right across the field guns or so he hoped. Then Phol pulled back the control column easing the Ostrich out of its wild dive. That wasn't as easy as it sounded, the Ostrich was nose-heavy and more than one of its pilots had become so fixated by the targets on the ground, they'd left pulling out too late and flown straight into the ground.

Phol made it, his heavy aircraft skimming a few tens of feet over the grass. In the mirror behind him he could see the boiling black and red cloud from his bombs and those of Djiap-Two. Then Djiap-Two burst out of the cloud, its silver skin stained from the explosions but safe and racing across the airfield after him. Ahead was a road, and as every good ground attack pilot knew, roads meant targets. This one led to the village. If the airfield was holding the first wave of the attack, there was a good chance the follow-up units were backed up there.

He was right, a group of trucks escorted by a foolish-looking armored car with a cylindrical turret. Phol shifted his grip slightly, adjusted the flight path - and as the pipper in his sight touched the armored car, squeezed the trigger of his 23mm guns. Those guns had been designed to stop a German tank, slicing through its thin topsides and into its fuel and engines. Penetration equivalent to 25 millimeters of hardened armor steel at 400 meters.

The armored car didn't have anything like that level of protection. It was designed to frighten Chinese infantry and was proof against rifle tire, no more. The first few shots landed short but the rest marched into the archaic-looking vehicle and tore it apart. As the shells from the V-Ya cannon ripped into the plating, there was in a spectacular display of instantaneous destruction. The whole vehicle was thrown backwards, the turret with its short-barreled gun flew into the air, the wheels were torn from the body, some burning, some spinning, one rolling down the road towards the trucks.

Even as the armored car was chopped apart. Phol was lifting the nose, just enough to walk the stream of fire into the trucks. More black clouds of smoke and flame, the Ostriches bursting through them as Djiap-One and Djiap-Two ran past the village and started to turn and climb away, ready for another pass at the troops attacking the airfield.

Headquarters Section, Japanese 2nd Battalion, 143rd Division

What had happened was something totally outside his experience. His head was fuzzy, shaken, the thoughts in it disjointed and dispersed. They just wouldn't come together. Although he didn't know it, he was staggering in the clouds of dust and rolling black shroud of smoke. To Major Utsunomiya, air support was a small light bomber tike a Ki-51 or Ki-71 that turned up from a nearby landing strip, dropped a few hand-grenade sized bombs then watched as the Chinese panicked and left their positions.

The silver monsters that had roared across the battlefield, spewing death and destruction beneath them, the yellow tigers painted on their tail fins snarling defiance, they were something from a different universe. Utsunomiya had heard Germans talking about ground attack aircraft on the Eastern Front, the Russian Sturmoviks, the American Jabos. the Australian Ostriches. He'd heard the stories of cannon fire, of bombs and rockets, of the American's frightful jellygas but he hadn't understood them, not until now.

Overhead, he saw the sunlight flashing off the silver paint as the aircraft climbed away, doubtless getting ready for another pass. Over the trees, from where the village sat, a column of black smoke rose. Burning trucks. Utsunomiya had guessed that the soldiers waiting for the way forward to be cleared would have been amusing themselves with the village girls. The Ostriches had probably been the worst form of coitus interruptus imaginable. The irreverent thought shocked Utsunomiya's mind back into military gear. If his men were in the open, the Ostriches would slaughter them all. They had to get into cover and the only way to do that was to take the Guardhouse ahead of them. Almost by remote control, he swung his sword over his head and pointed it at the building. “Charge! Follow me!”

The machine gun in the Guardhouse seemed puny, pathetic, after the Ostriches, Utsunomiya couldn't believe it had pinned him and his men down for so long. The guns had knocked most of one wall down, just leaving a pile of masonry rubble. Utsunomiya leapt up it, his feet scrabbling for a second as the broken bricks rolled and fell but he was up and over. In front of him a Sergeant was trying to point one of the machine pistols at him. Too late, the katana swung and Utsunomiya saw the man's left arm fall as the sword lopped it off. Then he swung again and the man's head fell from his body. Another soldier was in the cloud of dust and he fell as one of the Arisakas pumped half a dozen rounds into him. The Ostriches had failed; the Guardhouse was secure.

Cookhouse, Lawn Mwuak Airfield, Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

“We're next. You'd better get out of here while you can, mother.” Airman Ronna Phakasad saw the Rising Sun flag flutter up over the Guardhouse. The air strike had been vicious but not vicious enough. Whatever else the Japanese were, cowardly they were not. They'd pushed on and taken the building while the aircraft came around for another pass. That took courage and skill.

“And leave my nice kitchen for those animals? I think not young man. This is where I...” The rest of the words were cut off as a crash shook the building and dust filled the air. Somehow, the surviving Japanese gunners had got at least one of their pieces back into action and were firing on the cookhouse. There was a crackle of automatic fire outside; the Japanese infantry were pushing inwards. Ronna grabbed his Browning and started firing short bursts, chopping down the figures as they came towards him. Then, a series of loud pops as 50mm mortar shells dropped down on top of the men outside. The Japanese knee mortars. Ronna fired again moving methodically from left to right. He never made the full swing for a 75mm shell hit squarely onto the firing port.

Chief Cook opened her eyes and saw the nice young Airman who'd been so grateful for his bowl of soup, lying on the floor. Dead, may his spirit be rewarded by a propitious rebirth, she thought. Assistant Cook was lying across the room, a splinter almost a meter long sticking in her chest. The strange angle of her neck told Chief Cook all she needed to know about her late assistant.

Almost without thinking. Chief Cook took the kerosene container from the rack and started pouring it on the floor. As the container glugged empty, she dragged herself across to the gas stove and opened the valve on the propane cylinder as wide as it would go. The gas hissed into the room, making her choke but it was all ready now. She got out the battery-powered lighter one of the airmen had bought her after she'd burned her thumb lighting her stove with a match and got ready. Then, even above her coughing from the gas that was rapidly filling the room; she heard the crash as the Japanese broke down the door. And she even thought she heard the click as the end of the lighter burst out into flame.

Operations Center, Laum Mwuak Airfield. Thai/Japanese Indochina Border

“Whoa, look at that. The Japanese won't be eating anything there!” The explosion that blasted the cookhouse was spectacular even by the standards of the airstrike a few minutes earlier. Still, the defenders there might have taken some Japanese down with them but the Cookhouse had still fallen.

“Order Cabrank to hit the Guardhouse. Take out what's left of it. The residency is gone, we can't hold it any longer. Call the commander there and tell him to fall back. Burn the place as he goes.”

“Sir, the Clubhouse?” The Clubhouse was also the wing museum, filled with their trophies from the war with France. Parts of aircraft shot down, pictures of victories, a wall covered with the signatures of pilots.

“Burn it. Tell Cabrank to hit anything and everything short of the Golf Course. We'll fall back there. They've still got their rockets?”

“Yes Sir. The big ones, the 132s”

“That will do. Lord be praised, the Ozwalds do like to put big warheads on everything. The Ostriches have to buy us time to regroup around the Golf Course. Are the families out?”

“On their way, out the back door. We're holding that open, there's been some skirmishing in the hills but nothing serious. They're taking as many of the wounded with them as they can.” The ground shook as one of the Ostriches roared overhead, then an ear-ripping scream as it fired a salvo of RS-132 rockets into a group of Japanese trying to outflank the residential area. “How long can we hold Sir?”

“At least to dusk. We've got to hold until dusk.”

On the Road to Tong Klao, Recovered Provinces, Thailand

“It's the Army. Lord be praised, the Army is here.” The policeman's voice was remote, even, almost distant. His eyes were the same way, haunted, as if they were focused on something a thousand meters away that only he could see. His uniform, light green rather than the Thai Army's dark jungle green, was torn and dirty, stained with sweat and the red laterite dust. The policeman had only his pistol but with him were half a dozen villagers, some carrying old Type 45 rifles, one had a thick-barreled flintlock musket.

“How far behind you are they? How long have we got? And are there any more of your people out there?”

“No more, there were, but the Japanese got them. A few minutes no more. They move so fast, never seen men move so fast through the scrub. Every time we set up, they flanked us, drove us out.”

“Very good. Corporal, get your men to the rear, you've done more than anybody could have possibly hoped. I have to ask, did you actually use that flintlock?”

The policeman's eyes flicked into focus “Oh yes, we did that. The Japanese thought it was a field gun; it created so much smoke when we fired it. We bluffed them three or four times with it before they realized what it was.”

Sirisoon nodded. That was the theme tune for today. Make use of whatever came to hand and pray it would hold just long enough. “Go on, get back, get your people something to eat and drink. Sergeant, this is good ground, we'll hold here. Third section out on the right, second section and us here, First, back there and on our left. Give first both the weapons section MG34s, one rocket launcher to each section.”

“Both machine guns on the left ma'am?”

“Both, You heard, the Japanese are in a flanking mood. I want them to try it and walk into three MG34s. Say again, nobody fires anything but rifles until I say otherwise. When I give the word, Second section drops back to there, halfway between first and third. That way we'll get their main body in an L-shaped ambush. Now move.”

Underneath the German-style coal-scuttle helmet, sweat was rapidly turning Sirisoon’s hair into a tangled, sodden mass. Lesson one she thought. American-style crew-cut hair. It would send her mother mad of course. But there was a reason why Thai women of old had cut their hair short and Sirisoon had just relearned it. Then she saw something in the grass up ahead. Figures moving forward up ahead. A skirmish line, moving cautiously but as a unit. Not fire-and-movement, all the men moving together. Risky but a price paid for speed. Move fast enough, keep the enemy off balance and one could get away with taking chances. Only, this time, they hadn't moved quite fast enough. Then she saw a flash of light, reflecting off glass. Binoculars? Eyeglasses? Something like that.

As she watched, she saw the figures moving forward, some half crouched, others kneeling. One of them did have binoculars. You're mine; she thought and centered the hooded foresight of her rifle on his chest, about six inches below his neck. And the foresight blade evenly spaced between the leaves of the rear sight, its top level with the top of each leaf. Safety catch over to the left. Gentle, gentle pressure, an even squeeze throughout her hand and - it was a surprise when the heavy Mauser kicked into her shoulder. She could see the puff of dust from the man's jacket as he was flipped backwards. Then the stutter of rifle fire along the line as her men followed her lead and opened fire on the point unit of the Japanese advance.

There had been ten Japanese in the unit but only a handful got a chance to return fire. The Mausers took them down fast, one after another. Those who survived the initial shots tried to fire back at the figures who were lying in wait for them but they never got an even break. Sirisoon worked the bolt on her rifle, blessing the silk-smooth Mauser action that was so different from the sticky, heavy bolt on her father's Mannlicher and picked herself a second man. She fired, he went down although she wasn't sure whether she'd hit him or he'd just dived for cover. She hadn't watched because after her second shot, she'd rolled away from her first position. Fire one shot, she thought, they know you're there. Fire a second and they'll know where you are. She could hear a wheel, wheel noise as the Japanese return fire sliced through the grass but the time she'd got into position to fire again, it had stopped.

“Get back, everybody stay down and get back to the fall-back position. Now. Fast. Move, move, move.”

Her HQ section and Second obeyed her, crawling back through the grass to the line she'd picked. About 70 meters behind the first and in a shallow ditch. Now, her three sections were in a diagonal line, third advanced, second the center, first refused.

“Why are we running away? We were winning.” She heard a soldier whispering. Almost as if the Japanese were answering him, there was a whistle and a line of explosions marked their old positions. Japanese, 50mm knee mortars. Actually, more like grenade throwers but still deadly. She counted the patterns, the shells were landing in threes, so three mortars then. That made sense. Probably a company operating as six ten-man squads, three with a Type 99 light machine gun, three with knee mortars, A point squad that was now in the great void. And an HQ section. Her quick mental inventory was interrupted by a metallic smack as Sergeant Yawd smacked a coal-scuttle helmet over its owners eyes.

“Now do you see why we pulled back so fast duck-lover? Get it into your head; our officer knows what she's doing.”

I do so hope so, Sirisoon thought, Lord Buddha help me, I do so hope so.

The ditch was perfect, zig-zagged with deep depressions ideally suited to her machine guns and rocket launchers. It was so perfect, she couldn't help but wonder whether it had been dug as part of border defenses back in '4!. Even if it hadn't, it was doing its job now. The Japanese mortar barrage was falling short anyway, concentrating on the positions her unit had been in a few minutes earlier. But still, the ditch was protecting her men from overs and stray fragments.

The barrage seemed to go on and on, for hours. In fact, Lieutenant Sirisoon knew that it was lasting just long enough to pin her unit down while the Japanese commander moved the bulk of his unit around to flank her. Any second now, those men would be in position, the mortar fire would lift and they'd attack. It would be the standard way of doing it, a frontal attack to pin her, a flank attack to role her up and envelope her. Even as she thought the words, the mortar fire ceased and there were screams of orders, the Japanese clearly drifting across the momentarily-silent battle field.

Then they broke cover. Two infantry groups, five riflemen each, a three-man gun group with a Type 99 machine gun, another three man gun group with a 50mm mortar. Smaller than she'd thought. Assuming this was a third of the total force, the attack was being carried out on platoon size. And that meant there were two more platoons just like this one following it up. “Kep, when I say, take the machine gun group out first, then the mortar crew. Then as needed.'' The MG34 gunner nodded. He settled himself slightly, the muzzle of his machine gun covering the advancing Japanese machine gun group.

Sirisoon watched as the charging Japanese neared her original position seventy meters in front of her. The Japanese Type 99 machine gun was first cousin to the British Bren gun, no match for her MG34s but it was still most of the enemy's firepower. Now there was yelling on her left, the Japanese flanking force had bounced off and was making its move. Her head felt weird, it was almost as if she had left her body and was floating above the battlefield, she could see herself and her platoon in its lightning-flash formation lying in the grass, the Japanese charging her center and left. The key was her left, that had to be where the Japanese main body was. When her instincts told her they had reached the right position, it was as if she'd fallen out of the sky, back into her own body.

The Japanese in front had reached her original position. They'd jumped at her position, attempting to take it with the bayonet -and found it deserted. They'd hesitated, confused for a second, and in that moment Sirisoon smacked her machine gunner between the shoulder blades. “Now!” There was a ripping noise, the characteristic high rate of fire of the German-designed machine gun and the Japanese Type 99 crew were cut down almost instantly. A brief pause, so brief it could hardly be registered then another ripping burst at the mortar crew. Then a stutter of rifle fire as her men opened up, the dull thump of the Mausers complementing the sawing noise of the MG34 as her unit's fire dominated the killing zone in front of her. She took aim herself, picking one man and squeezing off a shot, then another.

She had no idea whether she had hit him or not for, once again, her mind had left her body and was looking down on the battlefield from above. She could see the three machine guns on her left crucifying the Japanese flanking force. Cutting them down, stacking their bodies like cordwood, the machine guns eliminating the crew-served weapons first, then shooting down the riflemen.

The Japanese had made a terrible mistake, they hadn't expected machine guns and now it was the machine guns that were doing the killing. The rifles, at best, were holding the enemy up until the MG34s could kill them. In front of her center, the Japanese pinning force was already destroyed, its men reduced to isolated pockets, pinned down by rifle fire until they could be taken out by the MG34. Off to her right, her remaining section lay quietly waiting for the signal to spring their own special trap on the enemy. As she looked down, her mind's eye saw what would happen next, as surely as if it had already happened and she was writing the report on it the next day.

The Japanese had charged riflemen and met machine guns. The platoon dying in the killing zone in front of her would never make that mistake again but there were two more platoons following it and she knew exactly what they were going to do. She also knew exactly what to do about it. Her mind snapped back into her body again and she quickly wrote on a pad what she wanted first section to do. Then gave it to her runner to take over to the sergeant commanding first.

Headquarters Section, First Company 2nd Battalion, 324th Division

He'd recognized his mistake as soon as he'd heard the vicious rasping noise. He'd thought this had been just another group of militia, another motley crew of the civilians and policemen who'd been harassing his company all day. Not skilled enough to do much damage or cause casualties but their mere presence had slowed him up. Frustration had made him think these were more of the same. He'd ignored the different sound of the rifles, ignored the change from the wild fire of armed civilians to the disciplined barrage of aimed rifle shots. He'd even ignored the fact that they'd taken out his lead squad. He'd willfully ignored all that, because they had to be just more militia. Because if they weren't, it would mean that rag-tag circus of civilians and policemen had held him up long enough for the enemy regular army to arrive.

The sound of the machine guns stripped that excuse away. No doubt left now, Captain Nagashino knew he was facing regular troops, line infantry. It was worse than that. He could tell from the volume of fire being poured out, from where that volume was coming from, that the enemy commander had guessed his move and been one jump ahead of him. He'd been expecting the flanking attack and moved the mass of his defense over to prepare for it. The flanking force that should have enveloped the enemy unit and rolled it up had walked straight into a prepared defense and were being cut down.

Well, that meant the strength of the force was out on the left. Convenient. Like most Japanese company. Nagashino's headquarters unit was small. He simply didn't have the command control resources to do anything elaborate but elaborate wasn't necessary. The enemy commander had anticipated his flanking move and countered it but in doing so, his front had been left dangerously weak. It had taken them time to cut down his pinning force. One really good push, that's all it would need and his company would break through that thin line and take the flank force from the rear. He issued the orders, second platoon to charge, third platoon to follow it in support and smash the enemy. After most of the day fighting militia who melted away when threatened, it was a relief to have an enemy who stood and fought.

Headquarters Section, Point Platoon, 219th Infantry Regiment

“Grenadiers, rifle grenades ready. Here they come.” Just as she'd seen, the Japanese were launching a sledgehammer blow at her front, aiming to crush her through sheer weight of numbers and roll up her unit. The Japanese were screaming, some were firing from the hip as they ran across the killing zone, others just trying to close with the bayonet. This time, all six squads were charging her position, three Type 99s, three 50mm mortars, more than 30 riflemen against her single machine gun, nine rifles and two submachine guns. Only third section out on her right remained uncommitted. That was angled at 45 degrees to her line so the Japanese were charging into a deadly crossfire. It was light though, very light.

“Fire!” the two grenade launchers coughed and a split second later there were the explosions of the grenades in the Japanese charge. It was a first blow and a signal. She hadn't told her machine gunner what to do next, he knew the drill already. His first burst cut down one of the machine gun crews, then the whole left of the charging Japanese platoon appeared to crumple as third section opened up on it. Two rifle grenades took down one of the remaining Type 99 crews; a burst of machinegun fire killed a mortar crew. Then, the other two Japanese 50mm crews went to ground. She knew what had to happen next, the whistle of descending mortar rounds, the explosions in her lines, not safely in front of them.

A flash of sunlight off something, she took aim and fired. A despairing click, her rifle was dry. A quick fumble with one of the six pouches on her webbing and a box of rounds slid into her hand. It was a moment's work to thumb the stripper clip of five rounds but even in that time, the Japanese were much closer. Took aim again and fired, the man dropping in a heap.

Next to her, one of her riflemen was fumbling with his pouches, the box was stuck, wouldn't come out. Sirisoon flipped him one of her stripper clips and he thumbed it home safely. There was a tighter rattle now, the 9mm submachine guns carried by Sergeant Yawd and the number twos on the RPG and machinegun crews. It was interrupted by the heavy crash of the inbound 50mm mortar rounds and the smaller explosions of the outbound rifle grenades.

More screams, more yelling and another Japanese line burst out of its position up ahead and charged. This one had something new, a small group, just two men, one waving a sword, the other carrying a flag. This was the main push, the first wave had bled her and pinned her men down. Now it’s survivors, firing from no more than 20 or 30 meters in front of her position, would keep up the fire while the fresh platoon charged through them and overran her. And, despite the L-shaped ambush and the bodies in the killing zone, she wouldn't be able to stop them.

Once again, she had the weird feeling of her mind leaving her body. She could see her men, now some of the figures broken and still, the rest pouring fire into the killing zone. Through it, the Japanese assault moving inexorably towards her line, threatening to overwhelm it with its numbers. And she could also see something else, her first section with its extra machine guns moving forward, swinging like a door on its hinge point, the joint with her second section.

In a few seconds, just a few seconds, those guns would be enveloping the Japanese from the left and both their flanks would be over-reached. It was as if she was looking down on the battle at the exercise tables of Chulachomklao and she could hear the dry voice of the instructor. “Well done Cadet Sirisoon, You're outnumbered four to one, you're outgunned, you've taken casualties and now you're attacking the enemy. An unconventional solution. A trifle over-aggressive don't you think?”

Her shoulder felt stiff, while her mind had been viewing the action from above, her body had been operating the bolt on her rifle, squeezing off round after round. She had no idea who she'd hit or how many, only that the line advancing on her position was closing fast and the machine gun out on her right flank had been silenced. Hit by a mortar round probably. “Fix bayonets” her voice carrying and being relayed as she and her men drew the silver, 30 centimeter-long sawbacks and clicked them into place. And the Japanese seemed to wait for them to do it, but not from choice. For there was a roar as the two tripod-mounted MG-34s opened up from the long grass, enfilading the line of Japanese infantry, cutting them down, sending them tumbling over as the twin streams of tracer raked the formation.

Surprise was total. It shouldn't have been, it was just another infantry section opening fire but it was the last straw, the Japanese were already in a crossfire and had assumed this was as bad as it could get. Now, they'd been hit by a much greater density of fire from the flank they'd thought they held. Surprise is in the mind of an enemy and Sirisoon saw the Japanese advance stagger with bewilderment, its men crumpling as they tried to get their minds around what had happened. What shouldn't have happened but had. Then a voice echoed in Sirisoon's head, not her instructors but an Englishman. A man speaking in English with the accent she'd heard in films about the English aristocracy. She didn't speak enough English to know what the words meant but she knew what they were saying. “Now! Now's your time!”

And she was on her feet, the rest of her platoon with her, closing in from the front and both flanks. The Japanese didn't break, Japanese infantry never did, but they were stunned by the sudden development. For years they'd fought Chinese who usually didn't hold and if they did rarely counter attacked. And never fought it out with the bayonet. They took time to react to the unprecedented thing that was happening and by the time they did, it was too late. Sirisoon saw one of them coming at her, his Arisaka leveled. She batted it out of line and lunged, her sawback slicing into the man's midriff. Twist and pull, the sawback ripping the man open. Behind her, Yawd cut down another Japanese with his MP40 before he could blindside her.

Then, it was over. The Japanese were down and her men held the field. What was left of them anyway. “Keep the men moving forward, don't stop. Find out how many we've lost. Radio Sergeant, we have to report contact.” Her voice was distant, level, her eyes scanning for any sign of resistance. There was a quick crackle of MP40 fire and her head jerked round. A Japanese casualty had raised his head and one of her men had shot him. Yawd caught her look.

“Can't do it ma'am. These are Japanese. They don't surrender. Try to take a prisoner, they'll explode a grenade in your face or squeeze off one last shot.” Sirisoon nodded. Ahead, her men had already retaken their original position and were forming a skirmish line, advancing by bounds. At her feet lay an officer, his chest half-torn away by a machine gun. “Ma'am, his sword. Pick up his sword, it’s yours by right.”

She shook her head. “Haven't time. We've got to move forward, keep pushing.”

“Ma'am. You really need to capture his sword. The men need to see you do it.”

She got the message and picked it up. It was a genuine katana, not one of the cheap stamped imitations so many officers carried. The scabbard lay not far away. She picked up that as well. Then she held it over her head, flashing in the afternoon sun. Those of her men who saw it cheered and the ones who hadn't heard the noise and looked, then added their voices.

“Radio, Ma'am. And the butcher's bill. Nine dead, six wounded. Few more got scratches but they won't admit it.”

“Thank you Sergeant. Ken, patch me though on Channel Seven.” She waited until the channel was clear. “1219, this is Sirisoon-Actual. We have made contact with the enemy. Infantry formation in company strength. We have defeated them and are pushing forward, advancing on Tong Klao. Request resupply of ammunition and any replacements if you have them. We have nine dead here, six wounded need evacuation. Enemy casualties, in excess of one hundred.”

There was a long pause then the familiar voice from HQ 1219 broke it. “Received and understood. Advance to Tong Klao and hold. Be warned, we have reports of enemy armor in the area. We will resupply you in Tong Klao.”

Back at company headquarters, the company commander shut down the channel. “Well Sergeant Major, what do you make of that?”

“I think the Japanese chose the wrong time of the month to invade Sir.”

Headquarters Section, Japanese 2nd Battalion, 143rd Division

The setting sun stained the Rising Sun flying over the golf course bright red. Major Kisoyoshi Utsunomiya stared around at the airfield that had finally fallen to his men. The gathering gloom was punctuated by the reddened skeletons of the buildings that had been burned down. He couldn't see that well, one half of his face was covered by a bandage where a fragment from a rocket had torn him. He knew what the Doctor knew but wouldn't tell him, that eye would never see again.

But the golf course had fallen at last. The enemy rearguard had held until the last, buying time for the rest to escape. They had darkness on their side now, the Japanese prided themselves that their infantry owned the night but catching a retreating enemy on their own turf was not part of that. Anyway, he didn't have the men left. He'd started with more than 700, now 391 were dead and a couple of hundred more badly wounded. It had been the airstrikes that had done the real damage. The ground troops had fought bravely but they weren't professional infantry. It was those damned invincible Ostriches that had done it with their bombs and rockets and guns.

“Sir! A trophy! They left the flag in the hole.”

All infantryman was pulling the flag from the 18th hole on the golf course, a long pole with a Thai flag on one end. Utsunomiya frowned, golf course markers didn't normally have national flags on them. Then his mind went into overdrive and he screamed out a despairing “No!” It was too late. The anti-personnel mine hidden under the green threw its ball a meter into the air before it exploded, spraying fragments in a vicious arc. Utsunomiya felt the thump in his legs as some of the metal cubes struck home. His fourth wound of the day, he thought grimly. Then he felt resentful. Surely there was a rule against booby-trapping a golf course?

First Army Circle Headquarters, Ban Masdit, Recovered Provinces, Thailand

“Sir, Its General Chaovalit. From Ninth Forward Command.”

General Songkitti grabbed the phone from his aide. “Van. Can you hold?”

The phone crackled a little before the voice came through. “Yes.”

“Lord be praised for that. Can you hold the line unassisted for another day? Our plot shows two Japanese divisions have crossed.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. But we've got all four regiments on the line now. 19th and 29th are holding the line and even pushed the Japanese back a little. 39th and 49th took longer to move up but they were in position by sunset. If Laum Mwuak hadn't held