Babineau nodded. Dumont d’Urville was patrolling the Cambodian coast of Indochina, with emergency orders to bombard Thai coastal towns in the event of any border disputes. With three 5.5-inch guns, she was well-suited to that task. However, the authorities in Hanoi had not anticipated the situation breaking into a full-blooded war. With her feeble antiaircraft armament of four old 37mm guns, she was hardly suited for an independent deployment within range of enemy air forces.
“Sir, message coming in.” The morse code hammered for a few seconds, paused, and then hammered again. “Sir, it’s official. We are at war with the Kingdom of Thailand. We are to execute Plan Green.”
The operator tore off the message flimsy and handed it to Babineau. Up on the bridge, Captain Toussaint de Quieverecourt was scanning the horizon with his binoculars.
“Captain, message has come in. It’s war. We are to execute Plan Green.”
The Captain sighed. “The politicos in Hanoi have been asking for this. Now they’ve got it. I hope they’re happy. Plan Green, you say? That’s the bombardment of Muang Trat. Make revolutions for 15 knots. We want to get in and out before we are spotted.”
Babineau rang the orders down to the engine room. He felt the sloop vibrate as her Sulzer diesels picked up power. Muang Trat lay at the end of a long inlet; one that had a finger of Thai territory on one side and a group of Thai-owned islands, including a major naval anchorage at Koh Chang, on the other. Toussaint de Quieverecourt tapped the islands with his forefinger.
“If the Siamese have a squadron deployed here, we will be completely out of luck.”
That is the sort of understatement the milk-drinking surrender monkeys would come out with, Babineau thought, bitterness swelling at the memory of the way France had been abandoned to fight the Germans on her own. “Their Navy isn’t up to much.”
“No.” Toussaint de Quieverecourt was thoughtful in his agreement. “Certainly their weakest point. But this sloop is hardly a front line warship. Order the crew to action stations. We’re so close to the enemy coast that this situation can drop in the pot very fast. I think we would be well-advised to avoid the splash.”
“Sir, aircraft approaching from due north.” The starboard lookout’s cry was urgent.
Babineau used his binoculars to scan the indicated direction. “I see them Captain. Biplanes; nine of them.”
“Full speed; hold nothing back.” Toussaint de Quieverecourt did some quick mental calculations. If those are Thai dive bombers, we are in deep trouble.
The aircraft approached steadily. Dumont d’Urville’s pathetic antiaircraft guns were unable to put up any form of defense before the attack was well underway. Babineau watched the first flight of three aircraft, now clearly recognizable as Curtiss Hawk IIIs, peeling over into their dives. Toussaint de Quieverecourt was watching them as well. He waited until the aircraft were committed to their dives before giving the next order.
“Hard to port, now.”
Dumont d’Urville swerved; her side rails nearly submerged as the ship tilted over. She had been built to police far-off colonies and show the flag, not get involved in major battles. It all went to show that no plan survived contact with the enemy. Babineau watched a pair of bombs detach from under the wings of the lead aircraft. He saw them arc down towards his ship. He was convinced they were going to hit. But the last-second swerve threw off the Thai pilot’s aim. They exploded in the sea, well to starboard. Another pair of bombs hit the water the other side of the ship, splashing her with water and causing fragments to bounce off the steel plating.
Only four bombs? Babineau looked around; he saw the second dive bomber had held its fire. It pulled up to repeat its dive. To his amazement, the pilot made three more passes before dropping finally his bombs.
The results justified his dedication. His two bombs straddled the hull neatly, neither more than a few meters from the hull plating. The sloop rocked with the blast. The men on the 37mm guns fell as fragments scythed through their positions. Babineau felt the ship slowing abruptly as the engines failed. Sure enough, the engineering officer was on the line.
“We’ve lost power. Those bombs stalled the diesels.” There was a tinge of panic in the message from the engine rooms.
“Well, you had better restart them, hadn’t you?” Toussaint de Quieverecourt spoke in a steady, imperturbable voice that seemed completely unaware of the fact his ship was dead in the water while under air attack.
“Lieutenant, do we have any antiaircraft guns left?”
Babineau looked aft to where the 37mm mounts were located. The dead and wounded were being pulled off the mounts and replaced by other seamen. “Our 37s will be back in a moment, sir. And we still have our machine guns, if the Siamese try to strafe us.”
“We’ll just have to hope that will be enough, won’t we?” The Captain’s voice was still calm and collected. Hearing it steadied the bridge crew. So did the belch of black smoke from the forefunnel as the diesels in the forward engine room came back on line. Dumont d’Urville started to move forward again as the second flight of Hawk IIIs started their dives.
This time, there was no evasive action to throw off their aim. The kilogram bombs the first flight dropped. Babineau watched the bombs drop down towards the sloop. This time, he knew they would hit. This is going to hurt.
One exploded in the water just beside the forward 5.5-inch guns. It shook the ship with the same ferocity that a terrier shook a cornered rat. Fragments from the explosion sliced into the hull, tearing up the great black letters A72 painted on the bows. The second was equally close, but on the other side. Again, the ship was sprayed with water and fragments; ones that rocked the ship and cut down exposed members of the crew. The third crashed home aft; a direct hit on the catapult and the Loire seaplane. The whole area erupted into flame. A black plume of smoke stained the crystal-clear, blue morning sky.
The burst of power from the engines had been stopped again. Dumont d’Urville was dead in the water and burning. Overhead, the Thai Hawk IIIs circled, surveying the scene. Babineau guessed that the three aircraft that hadn’t dived were the fighter escort. They were probably debating what to do next. The sloop was badly hurt; there was no doubt about that in his mind. The question was whether more aircraft would be sent to finish her off.
“Sir, aft engine room reports the temperature there is rising quickly from the fire, but they have the aft pair of diesels back on line. We can make five knots now, perhaps ten in an hour, if we can get that fire out. We have flooding forward and amidships. The damage control crews are having trouble establishing a flooding perimeter because of all the fragment holes.”
“Change course; head due east. Plan Green is abandoned. All available hands, fight the fire aft. Once that’s out, they are to join the damage control teams trying to stop the flooding.” Toussaint de Quieverecourt looked up at the Hawk IIIs circling overhead. “I think they are leaving us alone. I believe the Siamese are stretching their aircraft to the utmost and knocking us out of action will be good enough for them. We’ll go home and lick our wounds. And report what happened here. That was a very well executed attack.
“I think the gentlemen in Hanoi have seriously underestimated our enemy.”
“We’ve pushed the Tirailleurs Tonkinois back here. Now, we’re going to engage them. Their officers have managed to organize a line of defense along this clearing east of Choeteal Kong. We’re going to push them out of it and destroy the unit in the process.”