Thailand’s Recent History Captured in Timely Timeline

Thailand Timeline cover:back

The following is an excerpt from a book review published in The Nation newspaper and written by Paul Dorsey.

Bangkok, Thailand – June 23, 2016: Thailand ranks as the second-largest economy in Southeast Asia and consistently ranks as one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world. Despite this, its colourful history is rarely chronicled in a simple and easy-to-digest format, but this oversight has well and truly been rectified with the publication of Thailand Timeline 1500-2015.

The book is a chronological history of events in Thailand covering the years between 1500 and the end of 2015, making it the most up-to-date publication to cover the recent tumultuous events of Thailand’s history.

Author Duncan Stearn, whose Chronological History of Southeast Asia 1400-1996 was picked up by libraries worldwide after it was published in 1997, and has lived in Thailand since 1999, has now written a country-specific book which will be of interest across the reading spectrum, from academics to lay people.

Thailand Timeline 1500-2015 runs to more than 180,000 words and around 7,000 entries, covering everything from the monarchy, religion, politics and both internal and external conflict to sport, cinema, architecture and the arts, and almost everything in-between.

It is the first major work to cover the all-important decade since the 2006 coup and its aftermath, detailing the important events which have shaped the nation in all facets of daily life in a simple and easy-to-read, factual format.

It is available both as an e-book through Smashwords https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/636271 and Amazon, as well as a print-on-demand paperback (392 pages) via Amazon’s Create Space https://www.createspace.com/6246499

Contact:

Daniel Speight

Proglen Trading

54/465 M5 Pattanakan Rd,

Prawes, Bangkok 10250

THAILAND

Email: danny@dco.co.th

Website: www.dcothai.com

Advertisements

It’s all Ancient History now

1973 School Certificate

The scale, in those days, went from Advanced (the highest one could attain) to Ordinary (Credit); Ordinary and Modified. How I managed an ‘Advanced’ in Commerce is beyond me.

At the end of 1973 I was sixteen years old and had successfully completed my School Certificate. This is basically another way of saying I had attended primary and secondary school for a minimum of ten years.

Fourth Form, as it was then known, or Year 10 as it is now termed, was behind me and the question for all students in that situation was whether to go on and complete secondary school by attending Fifth and Sixth Form (Years 11 and 12) and sit for the Higher School Certificate.

Basically, if you weren’t especially academic or were more likely to become a carpenter, plumber, electrician or the like, then it was considered better to leave school and get an apprenticeship. As I found to my chagrin a couple of years later when I applied for a cadetship to become a journalist on the Sydney Daily Mirror newspaper, I was considered too old at eighteen and they only required a School Certificate to be considered. This may explain something about the ‘quality’ of much of the journalism we used to read in the Sydney daily papers.

If you were like me, born with two left hands and for whom a hammer was more likely to be used as a deadly weapon than a tool of construction, then completing the last two years of high school was the potentially more sensible option. It was the only option if you were hoping to get a place in a university or hoped to become a clerk within either the Commonwealth or State Public Service.

From what I recall I don’t think the prospect of attending a university -which would have been a first for anyone in my direct family- or a career as a pen-pushing clerk in the Public Service had crossed my mind. My mother certainly believed finishing the last two years of high school would be worthwhile.

I was a student at St Paul’s Christian Brother’s Regional High School in Manly. Apart from a brace of so-called lay teachers, there were six members of the Christian Brother’s who taught at the high school and Brother Carl Sherrin was far and away the best of them, both as a teacher and, more importantly, as a person. Unusually, Brother Sherrin had been a fixture at the school since my class first went into high school, and he remained at the school until we completed our secondary education.

So, with another two years ahead of me, mum and I attended a one-on-one meeting with Brother Sherrin, who was then deputy principal, to determine what subjects I would take at the beginning of Fifth Form.

At the one-on-one meeting, which Brother Sherrin conducted over time with the student and a parent or parents of every boy who was going on, he said English was the only compulsory subject out of the six we were required to study.

My choices then went to Mathematics, Geography, Economics, Modern History and Ancient History. It was on the latter pair we hit a problem.

“You can only do either Modern History or Ancient History, not both, as the classes are on at the same time,” Brother Sherrin told us.

“Which one do you teach?” I asked.

“Modern History.”

‘OK, I’ll do Modern History.”

This meant my sixth subject became Science, instead of Ancient History.

School started at the beginning of February 1974 and I spent a short time enduring the Science class before coming up with a plan to ditch it in favour of doing Ancient History.

My plan was simple enough, which should be the way of most plans since trying to complicate matters usually leads to abject failure. My friend Paul Fawkner was doing Ancient History and I asked him if he would be willing to pass over his class notes to me so I could copy them and know what was being done at each lesson. He agreed. So hurdle number one was cleared.

I then went to the next hurdle, the Ancient History teacher, Mrs Hammond. I basically said to her, “If I were to do the essays and it the exams you set, would you agree to let me take Ancient History?” Without hesitation she said yes. I doubt that would happen these days. The teacher would nowadays probably ask me to fill in some kind of form which would then be passed on to a school committee, debated and possibly rejected.

Two hurdles down, one to go. The hardest task was informing the Christian Brother who was teaching the Science class. I can’t remember his name, although he was, I think, a fairly new addition to the gang of six high school Christian Brothers teachers. It wasn’t that I was bothered by him per se, I just remember thinking he’d impart the news of my defection to Brother Sherrin, who also happened to be our class master and my whole plan would be scuppered before I had a chance to start.

I don’t remember telling my parents of my plan, but I must have as I needed to buy the necessary textbooks so I could take them to the school library when the Science class was on. One of these was the rather imposing From the Gracchi to Nero. Although it may sound like the title to a video game compilation, the book was first published in 1959 and covered the period of the Roman Republic with such lofty chapters as ‘The Rise and Fall of Marius’, ‘The Rise and Fall of Sulla’ and ‘The Rise of Pompey’ which suggests getting to the top of the heap in Rome of the Republic wasn’t exactly a guarantee of the good life. After all, Pompey eventually fell foul of Julius Caesar and fell, just like Marius and Sulla.

All this was arranged in a few days early into the first term and I soon found myself trekking off to the school library once a day and quickly enjoying the dusty historical trail of the ancient Greeks and Romans, a far cry from trying to get excited by protozoa and worms, neither of which ever get to experience the political rollercoaster of a rise and then a fall.

It wasn’t long after I implemented my plan that it nearly all came unstuck. I was sitting at my desk in the classroom when Brother Sherrin called me out to the front and asked, in a fairly quiet voice but with a serious look on his face, “Are you doing Ancient History?”

“Yes,” I meekly replied, fully expecting not only an admonishment but a demand to cease this attempt at scholastic anarchy and return forthwith to Science.

Instead, Brother Sherrin simply said, “OK, sit down.”

I was greatly relieved but also knew my performance in the tests, which would be set at the end of the first term, would determine whether I would be allowed to continue. Thankfully, I managed to come second in the class in that first term. To his credit, Brother Sherrin never raised the issue again.

As I vaguely recall I think I finished in second place in the second and third terms as well that year.

When I look back on it I’m somewhat amazed at my own audacity. While I was not breaking any kind of school rule and was therefore not hurting anyone, my independent actions might well have backfired on me had I failed to perform well in Ancient History. During my earlier years at school I had always finished close to the top of my classes in history and I suspect my obvious past love for the subject meant Brother Sherrin was allowing me a latitude which others might not have been given. Whatever the reasons, the one lesson I did learn, albeit sub-consciously at the time, was the old saying of ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way’ remains as true as when it was first uttered.

The truth about Siam’s offer of elephants to fight for Abraham Lincoln in the American Civil War

Siamese troops in the 1890s, with war elephants behind them.

Siamese troops in the 1890s, with war elephants behind them.

When President James Buchanan of the United States penned a letter to King Mongkut (Rama IV) in May 1859 and included 192 books of US government publications in the accompanying package, the resultant reply from the Siamese monarch has led to some misconceptions which continue to this day.

The May 1856 Harris Treaty was ratified by the United States Senate and as a way of further cementing their relations, President Buchanan sent King Mongkut a gift comprising 192 books of US government publications. These arrived in 1860, a presidential election year.

Mongkut responded by sending a sword in a gold scabbard inlaid with silver, a daguerreotype portrait of himself with the future King Chulalongkorn, and a pair of elephant tusks as presents for the American president.

Included in this selection of gifts was a letter, dated 14 February 1861. Mongkut realised the length of time taken by a voyage between Bangkok and Washington DC, and was aware presidential elections had taken place the previous November, so his letter, while addressed to James Buchanan, took account of the fact the latter may no longer have been in office.

Mongkut notes his receipt of an official letter from President Buchanan and goes on to make the point that his reply is made to Buchanan, ‘or to whomsoever the people have elected anew as Chief ruler in [his] place …’

The letter and gifts were entrusted to Captain Berrien of the USS John Adams, which had paid a courtesy call on Bangkok on behalf of the US government.

Mongkut notes, ‘During the interview in reply from Captain Berrien to our enquiries of various particulars relating to America, he stated that on that continent there are no elephants. Elephants are regarded as the most remarkable of the large quadrupeds…so that if any one has an elephants’ tusk of large size, and will deposit it in any public place, people come by thousands crowding to see it…

‘Having heard this it has occurred to us that, if on the continent of America there should be several pairs of young male and female elephants turned loose in forests where there was abundance of water and grass in any region under the Sun’s declinations both North and South called by the English the Torrid Zone- and all were forbidden to molest them; to attempt to raise them would be well and if the climate there should prove favourable to elephants, we are of opinion that after a while they will increase till there be large herds as there are on the Continent of Asia until the inhabitants of America will be able to catch them and tame and use them as beasts of burden making them benefit to the country.’

King Mongkut (Rama IV), with his favourite wife.

King Mongkut (Rama IV), with his favourite wife.

The letter extolled the benefits of elephants to the construction of roads and stated Mongkut would be happy to send the animals to the United States if they so desired, but Siam did not have the means to be able to convey the beasts. He therefore asked if, ‘the President… and Congress who conjointly with him rule the country see fit to approve let them provide a large vessel loaded with hay and other food suitable for elephants on the voyage, with tanks holding a sufficiency of fresh water, and arranged with stalls so that the elephants can both stand & lie down in the ship- and send it to receive them. We on our part will procure young male and female elephants and forward them one or two pairs at a time.’

By the time the gifts and letter arrived in the United States, Abraham Lincoln was president. His reply to King Mongkut was a masterpiece of diplomatic tact and courtesy. ‘Your majesty’s letters show an understanding that our laws forbid the President from receiving these rich presents as personal treasures. They are therefore accepted in accordance with Your Majesty’s desire as tokens of your good will and friendship for the American People…’

Lincoln addressed the offer of elephants, diplomatically stating, ‘I appreciate most highly Your Majesty’s tender of…a stock from which a supply of elephants might be raised on our own soil. This Government would not hesitate to avail itself of so generous an offer if the object were one which could be made practically useful in the present condition of the United States.

‘Our political jurisdiction, however, does not reach a latitude so low as to favour the multiplication of the elephant, and steam…has been our best and most efficient agent of transportation in internal commerce.’ Basically, thanks, but no thanks.

For some reason, the contents of the original letter have been distorted to the extent there has arisen a belief King Mongkut did indeed send a herd of elephants which were received and kept by James Buchanan as pets, while others are under the impression Mongkut’s offer was made direct to Abraham Lincoln, suggesting elephants could be used to help the Union in its struggle with the Confederacy following the outbreak of the American Civil War in April 1861.

In fact, no elephants ever left the shores of Siam for a life of free ranging in the forests of the United States, and most assuredly the offer was initially made to President Buchanan with the reply coming from his successor President Lincoln. King Mongkut’s offer was made prior to the outbreak of the American Civil War and the letter therefore contains no suggestion of any elephants being used for the purposes of war. An intriguing story, but a myth nonetheless.

My (brief) career as a race-caller

One of the ways a racetrack fosters the atmosphere and excitement of racing is by having course broadcasters who describe each race as it takes place over the public address system.

Australia is world-renowned for producing the very best race-callers with many of the ilk travelling overseas to ply their trade and bring their skills to tracks as diverse as Happy Valley in Hong Kong, Kranji in Singapore and racecourses in the United States and Britain.

Way back in 1977 I began what turned out to be an intermittent two-year ‘career’ as a race-caller. As with a number of things I have done in my life, this was achieved by unconventional means.

I began- and finished- my brief career behind the microphone calling, of all things, quarter-horse races.

Quarter-horses are so called because they are designed to run faster than any thoroughbred over a distance of up to around 440 yards (400 metres), or a quarter of a mile in Imperial measurement terms. After about 400 metres they start to decelerate but are still quite capable of competing up to around half a mile, or 800 metres, or so.

Most races are held down a straight track where possible or, at worst, there will be a single bend.

I was nineteen years old and my school friend Warren Andersen, who was heavily into horse racing, decided to become a racehorse trainer. He was acquainted with a few people involved around the Australian Quarter-Horse Association (AQHA) and figured he might be able to get his foot on the training ladder by getting some old racehorses capable of still running a fast 400 or more metres and competing with them at the few tracks where quarter-horse racing was in its infancy.

While the American quarter-horse was a feature at Australian shows, festivals and rodeos engaging in all the features usually associated with horses at these events, it hadn’t progressed into full-scale racing, unlike in parts of the United States where quarter-horse racing was a major spectator and gambling sport.

The AQHA was in the throes of trying to bring quarter-horse racing in Australia to compete alongside the thoroughbreds, standardbreds (trotting as we called it back then; harness racing as it is now) and greyhound racing.

Yet there was a problem. The people Warren had come to know were not happy with the lack of progress being achieved by the AQHA, and they had split from the main organisation and formed the New South Wales Sprint Racing Association.

This breakaway group was beginning to conduct a show and race meeting at Bossley Park, out in the west of Sydney. The track itself was hardly Royal Randwick or Flemington. A long, straight grass run with railings on either side. The barrier stalls were about the only indication the Bossley Park racetrack was an operational entity.

I used to accompany Warren to the race meetings and show, held on a Sunday afternoon. The ‘races’, such as they were, usually consisted of a single race only, and rarely more than about three or four starters.

After a couple of visits Warren suggested I should bring my binoculars -which I’d had since I was about fourteen years old to watch greyhound racing at Harold Park and Wentworth Park- and see if they would let me do a call of the race.

Given that someone making a bit of ‘noise’ by calling a race through the on-course broadcast system would at least add a little bit of ‘colour’ to the day, it was agreed I could take up the duty as official race-caller. There was no remuneration involved.

It was a pretty easy introduction to the art. My first race call took place on 26 June 1977 and consisted of Warren’s entrant Balgownie Boy and one other horse, whose name I don’t recall. Warren was not only the trainer, he was also light enough in those days to be the jockey as well since he probably only weighed about 60 kilograms wringing wet.

A two-horse race over 400 metres or so should not be a cause for butterflies and trepidation, but I remember being extremely nervous. I was a very shy person compared to my gregarious mate Warren and kept thinking, ‘I hope don’t make a complete balls-up of this.’ Thankfully, no recording of the event is available; indeed I am not aware of any recording of any race which I called in my ‘career’, which at least prevents any chance of me being blackmailed to keep such a thing suppressed.

That first race took all of about twelve seconds to run and in that time I probably mentioned Balgownie Boy’s name twenty times and the other horse maybe six times. My excuse for this is that Warren pretty much led all the way on Balgownie Boy and won fairly easily. Being my first race call I thought I needed to rattle off names as fast as possible, whereas it would really have been better to relax and call the race as if it was going to last forever and I had all the time in the world. This was especially the case with a two-horse race.

Nonetheless, I wasn’t sacked from the task and came back two weeks later for the next meeting and called two races, both of which consisted of small fields of two or three horses only. I still wasn’t very good and after that meeting did not come back again for just over nine months.

I’m not sure why there was a long hiatus, although it may have been because there were ructions within the quarter-horse community and no racing was held, but I’m not sure. It may have been that Warren’s horses weren’t available to race and so we simply didn’t go to the meetings. I was starting to spend more evenings in the local pubs as well, especially on a Saturday night and so getting up early to drive out to western Sydney wasn’t especially enticing.

I do know Balgownie Boy won the CCQHA Racehorse Award for 1977. I think the CCQHA then stood for the County of Cumberland Quarter-Horse Association. Checking the ubiquitous Google in 2017 I note the CCQHA still exists, but it’s now the Central Coast Quarter-Horse Association and therefore not the same grouping.

My latent ‘career’ resumed on Sunday 30 April 1978 when I called the only race held at Bossley Park that afternoon. There was another single race held at the course on 28 May and I called that and then, on June 18, I called the only two races run that day.

By this time Warren had established the Duffy’s Forest Sprint Racing Stables, where he trained Balgownie Boy and a very fast but very temperamental black horse named Flying High who had set a 400-metres track record of 23.3 seconds at the Denman racetrack.

Warren, along with Max Andersen, his father, and myself attended a meeting on 7 July to select a committee to run a breakaway organisation to be called the Sydney Sprint Racing Association, which was to be affiliated with the wider NSW Sprint Racing Association. As it happened, Max, Warren and myself became the ‘committee’. The first meeting of this ‘committee’ took place just four days later, at a house in Fairfield.

Basically, the NSW Sprint Racing Association (NSWSRA) was a breakaway group from the Australian Quarter-Horse Association. It was all a bit Monty Python-esque.

The Sydney Sprint Racing Association could be likened to the Monty Python Life of Brian movie equivalent of the People’s Front of Judaea and not to be confused with the Australian Quarter-Horse Association which represented the despised Judaean People’s Front. No wonder quarter-horse racing never got out of the basement, let alone made it to the ground floor.

I imagine there were people who thought quarter-horse racing could be the next big thing and wanted to position themselves to be in the front ranks because of the earning potential and power which could be wielded. So, instead of quarter-horse racing participants uniting behind a single entity, the edifice they were trying to create essentially fell apart because of factionalised infighting.

A truce was called and on 22 July Warren and myself travelled to Dubbo as the delegates from the Sydney Region Sprint Racing Committee for a Sprint Race Club meeting. That meeting agreed to form the Union of NSW Sprint Race Clubs and would include both NSWSRA and AQHA tracks.

I resembled a piece of furniture at that Dubbo meeting. I sat alongside Warren and uttered not a single word during the entire conference. I’m not sure Warren said too much either. I think we both felt well and truly out of our depth. It certainly cured me of ever wanting to be a member of any kind of committee for anything at all.

On 25 July, Warren and I reported on our trip to a meeting of the Sydney Sprint Association and helped in organising what would be a major race meeting to showcase quarter-horse racing, to be held on Saturday 12 August. I was appointed Race Secretary for this meeting, which sounds pretty impressive but really was probably a kick upstairs while a ‘proper’ race-caller was roped in for the historic occasion.

I called my last race at Bossley Park on Sunday 30 July. When the big meeting took place on 12 August it came complete with a printed race-guide which highlighted the runners in each of the first four races, with a fifth event, to be run over 800 metres, to be run as a consolation and managed to misspell my surname, rendering it ‘Stern’ instead of ‘Stearn’. I’m not sure if that was meant to be a subtle hint of some kind.

The meeting was quite successful with Brian Jack, a ‘professional’ race-caller who, I think, used to call greyhounds and harness racing around the Newcastle region, being the race-caller for the day. He was certainly a far better choice than me to be calling a series of races which had more than two or three horses engaged.

After that ‘peak’ I never returned to Bossley Park or was involved in any kind of committee or administration of the sport. This was not because of any problem but simply because I was spending a lot of time getting inebriated in bars with a group of like-minded individuals. I was also busy playing cricket (badly) with a bunch of friends on Sunday afternoons during summer.

Nonetheless, I ended my race-calling career on a high, or low, depending on who was listening, at a place called Black Creek, near Cessnock, on 26 May 1979. By that time I was approaching my twenty-second birthday and it was pretty obvious I wasn’t going to be ‘discovered’ as the next big thing behind the microphone.

That meeting at Black Creek consisted of an originally-planned eight races which quickly blew out to become ten when a surfeit of nominations was received. The races were run over distances from 380 to 780 metres on a neat grass track complete with a finishing post which just happened to be sited right next to where I was seated to call the races.

The problem for me as a race-caller was the ‘post’ consisted of the finish line, which I could not see, and propped up with two rather large pieces of timber either side which meant as the field crossed the line there was no way I could see which horse was actually in front unless it had been a clear leader about two strides before it ‘disappeared’ behind the timber frame.

Adding to my woes, I was sitting in such a way the only time I could really see who was leading was as the field left the barriers and raced side-on to me until they came around the bend into the home straight. After that the horses were thundering in a line like the Charge of the Light Brigade and in many of the races that afternoon I had to gauge as best I could which ones were actually in front.

Further complicating matters was that each field was only finalised about twenty minutes before each race was due to start. I was then handed a sheet with the names and numbers of the horses and then I had to try and memorise the colours of the silks worn by the respective jockeys. The only set of silks with which I was familiar belonged to Warren. The rest I had to try and learn as each field got ready in the mounting yard, which was in front of my broadcast position, before they headed off to the barriers.

This was billed as a ‘picnic’ race meeting and so a couple of bookmakers were on hand to take bets from the public.

There was no photo-finish and so the winner and placegetters for each race were decided by the judges who were, naturally enough, on the opposite side of the track to the winning post and had an uninterrupted view as each horse reached the line.

Most fields, as I recall, consisted of at least six runners with a couple of races boasting nine or ten starters. I remember hoping for a few clean breaks where the finishes would be obvious and not so close. The gods of the racetrack rarely granted that wish. Of the ten races, about seven were extremely close finishes with the winner scoring by about a head or a neck.

Given I couldn’t actually see the finish, I had to try and guess which of a clutch of two or three horses which I knew had finished virtually together had won the race. Had I been a little smarter, I should have being saying something like, ‘oh, it’s too close to call, maybe Guano has nudged out Hit The Fan (to make up a couple of names), but we’ll have to leave it to the judges to decide.’ That would have been sensible, but I didn’t do it. Instead, I made an attempt to announce the winning horse at every race, and this caused me some grief at the conclusion of the meeting.

I had just called the last of the ten races when I became the target of abuse by one gambler. This bloke looked up at me and said words to the effect of, ‘I hope you’re bloody right with that last winner ya bastard, you’ve been calling the wrong ones all day!’

I looked down at him, smiled, and replied, ‘No, I’ve got this one right.’ How did I know? Truth is, I didn’t; I was bluffing, exuding a confidence in my prediction, which I had no right to exhibit. Thankfully, the result came up as I had called it, much to my relief and, I imagine, that of the abusive gambler who wandered in the direction of the bookies to collect his winnings and thence, no doubt, to the bar for a few drinks.

And so ended my ‘career’. What really put the nail in the calling coffin was a young lady, of course.

A couple of months after the Black Creek meeting I met a young lady in a bar in Manly, as one does, and started a courtship which excluded much in the way of racing, and certainly put an end to any ideas I had about continuing to pursue the life of a race-caller, which is a tough gig at the best of times.

As for quarter-horse racing in Australia, four decades later it remains an elusive pipedream, although there is talk of it kicking off in parts of Queensland some time in 2017 or beyond.

The day Siam recognized the Republic of Slovakia…six decades too early

1934-prajadhipok-on-a-state-visit-in-europe

King Prajadhipok (Rama VII) on a state visit to Europe in 1934.

When a letter written on parchment-like paper and bearing a large cerise seal arrived at the Foreign Ministry in Bangkok in early 1929, Thai officials naturally handled the missive with great care. Once the contents had been translated, officials noted that it requested the Royal Siamese Government formally recognize the new Republic of Slovakia.

The letter was signed by a Professor Mihalusz, who claimed to be the new President of the Republic of Slovakia, with its capital at Trencsen (modern day Trencin). Naturally, King Prajadhipok (Rama VII) and his senior advisers, led by 46-year-old Foreign Minister Prince Traidos Prabandh (a former Siamese ambassador to the United States), deliberated on the request. Clearly Slovakia had successfully seceded from Czechoslovakia, which had been created just a decade earlier at the conclusion of the First World War from the charred remains of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire.

Since the President of Czechoslovakia was Professor Masaryk, the Thai ministers came to the conclusion the Slovakian secessionists had also chosen a professor as their first elected leader.

A few weeks later the postmaster in Trencsen received a letter emblazoned with the Royal Coat of Arms of Siam and addressed to His Excellency the President of Slovakia, Professor Mihalusz. The postmaster went post haste to see the mayor. He opened the letter and read with mounting concern the contents in which His Majesty King Prajadhipok declared himself graciously and inexpressibly pleased to accord full recognition de facto and de jure to the Sovereign Republic of Slovakia.

The mayor of Trencsen quickly drafted a letter to be sent as quickly as possible to Bangkok. He explained Slovakia had not seceded from Czechoslovakia, the capital city remained as Prague and not Trencsen, and the President was still Professor Masaryk and not Professor Mihalusz.

The mayor went on to explain that some time in the early part of 1928 a group of Slovakians held a mass meeting led by Professor Mihalusz, an old botanist of minor renown, at which they issued a ‘Declaration of Slovak Independence’. The mayor wrote that the whole exercise was more academic than revolutionary and was easily suppressed by the local police. Professor Mihalusz, obviously frightened by the police interest in him, later fled Trencsen and had not been seen for some time. He was believed to be hiding out in Vienna from where he had probably written the letter that won Slovakia recognition from Siam.

Slovakia eventually achieved independence from Czechoslovakia, in 1993.

The Franco-Thai Border War 1940-41

1940-a-march-led-by-yuwanari-demanding-the-return-of-lost-territories-1940

A protest march in Bangkok demanding the return of territory from France.

If it is correct that one of the first casualties of war is truth, then certain previously accepted ‘facts’ about the Franco-Thai War of 1940-1941 need to be re-examined with greater scrutiny.

The Thai accounts of that brief war and the French versions tend to differ, sometimes by degrees and occasionally quite markedly. This is particularly so with regard to the causes of the war and especially the naval battle of Koh Chang.

France and Siam had been on the verge of war on a number of occasions from the mid-nineteenth century onwards, as the French sought (successfully) to extend their empire in Indochina and the Thais struggled in vain to hold on to the vestiges of control they exerted over their ostensible vassals of Laos and Cambodia.

Following the First World War, Siam hired German advisers to help build and train a Thai army. By 1935, Siam had a modern army of some 50,000 troops and it was in this year that yet another border incident took place between the Thais and the French.

A Thai-run logging company, owned by Khun Inta Bangcongcit, would purchase logs in French-controlled Laos and float them down the Mekong River to Siam. However, the French allegedly broke the logging agreement, causing Khun Inta to lodge a complaint with the French authorities. They responded by arresting and beating Khun Inta and allegedly raping his wife. This prompted Siam to make an official complaint to the League of Nations. France was ordered to pay compensation to Khun Inta and his wife, but the French ignored the order.

This complaint was the catalyst that led to Siam re-negotiating a series of treaties regarding navigation, commerce and extraterritoriality with 13 nations, including Britain, France, the United States, and Japan.

In 1938, Siam approached France and asked to renegotiate their common boundaries to prevent incidents similar to those of Khun Inta occurring in the future. The French refused to enter into any form of negotiation.

Following the fall of France to the Germans in June 1940, the Thais approached the new Vichy-aligned government in Indochina with regard to settling their border difficulties, believing they would be more amenable than their predecessors. The Thais were sadly mistaken, but the British, concerned about the very real possibility Indochina would fall to the Japanese, put pressure on the French to enter negotiations.

In August 1940, Japan, aiming to improve their strategic position against China, demanded the Vichy government in Indochina give them unfettered use of three northern Vietnamese airfields as well as allowing 5,000 Japanese troops to be stationed in the Red River Valley.

The French colonial administration agreed in principle to the demands, but haggled over the details. However, by September 1940, the Japanese were effectively in control of northern Vietnam.

Prime Minister Pibul Songgram offered to sign a Non-Aggression Pact with France, similar to the one then in force with Japan and Britain. Talks, led on the French side by Admiral Jean Decoux, the 56-year-old Governor-General of Indochina, commenced early in September 1940 with six major points to be addressed between Thailand and France. These involved clear demarcation of certain border areas as well as the return of some territory to Thailand. The negotiations lasted just two weeks before they broke down through the intransigence of both sides.

In retaliation, the colonial French authorities began making life difficult for Thais doing cross-border business. A number were arrested and in October, matters were exacerbated when Khun Canta Sintharako, after crossing into Cambodia to visit his business partner, was beaten to death by police in front of his family.

The Thai government demanded an investigation, a formal apology and a renewal of border negotiations. The French reply, according to the Thai version of events, came in the form of provocation with military aircraft over-flying Thai territory and artillery shelling border posts. French patrols started making incursions into Thailand.

Thailand responded by sending aircraft to patrol the border with orders to attack any foreign troops they encountered on Thai soil. The army also moved artillery units up to the border and returned French fire.

The French claimed the provocation came from the Thai side, with units being sent across the Cambodian border in probing actions.

1941-bombing-mission

Painting of a 1941 bombing mission undertaken by Thai military aircraft against the Vichy French. (from a painting in the Royal Thai Air Force Museum)

Whichever nation was at fault, by November border incidents were becoming more common and serious. The French, with around 100 military aircraft available, sent their bombers in at night to attack military positions and border towns, avoiding Thai aircraft. The Thai air force, according to League of Nations documents of the time, numbered around 207 planes (of which only 128 were in tactical units and considered modern) and some of these allegedly attacked places such as Battambang and Vientiane. The French claimed to have shot down four Thai aircraft in dogfights, though the claims are disputed.

On 1 December 1940, the undeclared war escalated when the French navy sent three sloops to shell the coastal town of Trat. Three Thai planes attacked the sloops, hitting one. The French then shelled the border town of Aranyaprathet, killing six civilians. A French assault against Nakhon Thanom the following night resulted in the deaths of two more civilians.

The Thais lost four planes to French action from 9-13 December, three were shot down while the fourth was destroyed on the ground when French aircraft bombed Ubon. The tale of woe for the Thais continued when two aircraft collided on take-off from Ubon on 14 December.

In an attempt to stop French aerial attacks, six Thai bombers struck Ban Sin airbase on 16 December, damaging the field and wrecking a few French airplanes.

During the Christmas-New Year period there was a lull in the fighting. Then, on the night of 4 January 1941, French bombers struck Udon Thani and Nong Khai. Five days later, Thai aircraft conducted a series of daylight raids against Battambang, Sisophon, Vientiane, and Pakse among others.

On 10 January, French reconnaissance planes were sighted over Bangkok. The Thai capital was subjected to an innocuous bombing raid that same day. At the same time, three Thai battalions crossed into Laos, met negligible opposition and in succeeding days occupied the entire western bank of the Mekong north and south of Paklay.

Also on 10 January, the largest of the Thai assault forces, consisting of nine battalions, two artillery regiments and tanks, struck Poipet before moving in the direction of Sisophon.

In a somewhat daring action, while French planes were targeting Bangkok, six Thai bombers and four fighters attacked Hanoi. Four French fighters attacked them, but the Thais claimed to have shot down two French planes, a claim refuted by the defenders. It is known that two French planes were out of action at the end of the war, possibly damaged by the Thai attack and it is almost certain one of them was shot down.

On 11 January, Thai planes attempted to knock out the main French air base near Siem Reap. The French claimed to have shot down at least five Thai aircraft (a claim disputed by the Thais) while the Thais believed they destroyed two French fighters in dogfights as well as another on the ground. The French did not confirm these claims. The Thais admitted to losing one fighter, the last of seven planes they lost during the war.

Thai forces attacked towards Pakse on 12 January and within a week had gained control of the region as far south as the Cambodian border.

1941-dogfight

Royal Thai Air Force fighters engaged in an aerial battle with the French. (from a painting in the Royal Thai Air Force Museum)

In northern Cambodia, three Thai battalions pushed past Samrong, which they burned, before being halted by determined French defence around the end of January. Among the combatants was Prem Tinsulanonda, a future Thai prime minister.

The French were hampered in their defence of both Cambodia and Laos by a revolt in the Mekong Delta region of southern Vietnam that tied up forces they could have used against the Thais.

Two prongs of the Thai offensive moved towards a junction at the Tonle Sap while the third section struck towards Battambang. The French, thinking the strike towards Battambang was the main Thai thrust, moved the bulk of their forces to counteract the drive.

The folly of this thinking was soon exposed when the other two Thai prongs swept aside resistance, surrounding the main French army. The Thais planned to wipe out the French, drive on and occupy Saigon and compel France to restore the territories it had taken in the previous 55 years.

Admiral Decoux had, in early December 1940, put together a small naval squadron called the Groupe Occasionnel in Cam Ranh Bay, placing Captain de Vaisseau Berenger in command.

In an effort to relieve the pressure on the army, the ramshackle squadron sailed into the Gulf of Thailand on 13 January 1941 to seek out their Thai counterparts. It appeared a David and Goliath contest as the Thai navy had been upgraded with ships purchased from Italy and Japan and the French had no real air cover apart from eight seaplanes based at Ream to provide reconnaissance.

On 14 January 1941, the naval battle of Koh Chang took place. The details of the battle, an undisputed victory for the French, are controversial, with both sides offering almost diametrically opposed versions. The French claimed to have sunk or destroyed no less than five Thai warships; the Thais allege they lost only two.

The French squadron consisted of the light cruiser Lamotte-Picquet (the flagship commanded by Captain Berenger) and four sloops, two of them quite ancient.

lamotte-piquet

The French flagship, Lamotte-Picquet.

The battle began when a French seaplane found a section of the Thai fleet, consisting of two coast defence ships (HTMS Ayutthaya and HTMS Thonburi, both commissioned between 1937 and 1938), two sloops, four torpedo boats, two minesweepers and a patrol boat, anchored off Koh Chang and attacked them.

Berenger then led his ships against the Thai vessels in an action that commenced near dawn and lasted around an hour before the French withdrew- according to them- unscathed.

The French alleged their flagship struck the Ayutthaya with a torpedo and, heavily damaged by gunfire, she was beached by her crew on the mainland. The Lamotte-Picquet severely damaged a Thai torpedo boat, which later sank, before sinking two other torpedo boats.

Berenger’s squadron then turned all their guns against the Thonburi and claimed to sink the vessel.

The squadron, its mission accomplished, began sailing back to the relative safety of French-controlled southern Vietnam but came under aerial attack, which they managed to beat off with anti-aircraft fire.

The Thai version of events is somewhat different. The action opened with the French concentrating their initial salvoes on the two Thai torpedo boats anchored near the approach to Koh Chang. These two vessels were overwhelmed by gunfire and sank.

The Thonburi began returning fire some 15 minutes after the attack commenced while the remainder of the fleet, caught by surprise, started raising steam with the aim of sailing out to battle.

The Thonburi, struck by French shells, began to burn and, suffering from serious flooding, was beached but the remainder of the Thai squadron started engaging the French.

The Ayutthaya fired on the French cruiser Lamotte-Picquet while two Thai torpedo boats engaged two of the French sloops. The Ayutthaya claimed to have scored a direct hit on the French flagship, penetrating the engine room. An American reporter who saw the ship back in Saigon later said he could see no evidence of damage.

Faced with a Thai force now ready to fight at closer quarters the French commander broke off the action and withdrew. The Thais lost 36 men killed in the action. French losses are unknown.

Following the battle, the crew of the Thonburi put out the fires on their ship and re-floated her. She was towed back to Bangkok where she entered dry dock for repairs. The ship eventually became an accommodation hulk in Bangkok before being scrapped in 1956.

tahure-photo-of-htms-songkhla-on-fire

HTMS Songhkla on fire during the Battle of Koh Chang.

In reality, the Ayutthaya received only superficial damage and was eventually sunk during the abortive coup of 1951. Two of the torpedo boats allegedly sunk by the French in fact remained in service until 1976.

Nevertheless, the French victory was their first against an opponent of equal strength since 1781, when they defeated the British in the second Battle of the Virginia Capes during the American War of Independence.

The final major action of the war took place either on 16 or 22 January (depending on whose account you read) when Thai units, supported by tanks, encountered a French defensive line at Yang Dang Khum, northwest of Sisophon. The French claimed to have held their line and forced the Thais to retreat, while the Thais stated they were waiting to move sufficient forces into the area to complete the destruction of the French.

The French also claimed to be preparing for a major counter-attack against the advancing Thai army and stated the Thai army had suffered around 800 casualties against 120 of their own. These claims seem exaggerated, although the Thai advance did stall.

On the other hand, the Thais state they had almost surrounded the remainder of the French forces defending Cambodia and were within three to four days of forcing the French to surrender.

While the fighting was raging, behind the scenes Japan offered to act as a mediator, encouraged by Prime Minister Pibul Songgram. With both sides accepting Japanese mediation, a ceasefire was arranged for 28 January. An armistice was signed three days later, on board the Japanese cruiser Natori in Saigon harbour, bringing military action to an end while a peace agreement could be hammered out.

The casualty figures for the war vary enormously; depending on which source is being referred to. Overall, deaths on both sides were at least 700 each on both sides, while one estimate goes as high as 2,000 military and 2,000 civilian casualties. Of the latter, two Catholic nuns and five catechists (one man and four women) were killed during what the Catholic Church deemed as persecution of Christians, Catholics in particular. The Thai government made it known they considered Catholic Thais to be traitors to their country for sharing a faith practised by so many French. The Catholic Church beatified the seven ‘martyrs’ as they termed them in 2000.

A large number of French Foreign Legion troops, taken prisoner during the invasion of Laos by the Thais, refused to be repatriated at the end of the war and decided to settle down in Thailand.

On 7 February 1941, a peace conference between the Vichy French government of Indochina and Thailand began under the auspices of the Japanese Foreign Minister Matsuoka Yosuke in Tokyo.

The Thai delegation, led by respected career diplomat Prince Wan, commenced negotiations with a series of ambit claims that the French, headed by Rene Robin and the ambassador to Japan, Paul Arsene Henry, could not possibly accept.

The two sides were deadlocked until the Japanese Foreign Minister presented a set of proposals some 10 days after negotiations had started. Rene Robin countered with a set of alternative proposals and, despite the fact Prince Wan felt the Japanese were biased towards the French, he was authorised to accept the terms after speaking with Prime Minister Pibul Songgram.

On 11 March, a mediation agreement was signed in Tokyo while on 9 May the Treaty of Tokyo officially ended the war.

By the terms of the treaty, the French were forced to cede the Cambodian provinces of Siem Reap (although not the temples at Angkor Wat) and Battambang to Thailand as well as Sayaboury in Laos. Thailand agreed that the ceded areas would be turned into demilitarised zones. In return, Thailand agreed to pay the Vichy French government the equivalent of 10 million baht in compensation.

In turn, the French signed a treaty with Luang Prabang in August 1941 ceding Vientiane, Xieng-Khouang and Luang Nam Tha to the French protectorate to compensate it for the loss of Sayaboury.

Japan exchanged letters with Thailand and France stating the agreement was irrevocable as long as neither country entered into any pact with a third power which could be deemed hostile to the Japanese.

To celebrate their success in the war, Pibul Songgram erected the Victory Monument in central Bangkok in late 1941.

Prajadhipok’s visit to the United States

In 1931 King Prajadhipok (Rama VII), accompanied by Queen Bharni, met President Herbert Hoover, becoming the first reigning monarch of an Asian state to enter the White House.

As a TIME reporter noted, Rama VII was, ‘the only monarch absolute both in theory and in fact…’ Just over 14 months later the ‘absolute’ part of monarchical power would be swept away in a coup and within four years Prajadhipok would become the only one of the ruling Chakri dynasty to have abdicated.

rama-vii-prajadhipok-queen-bharni

Prajadhipok, King Rama VII, and Queen Bharni.

In April 1931 though, he was treated with a measure of respect and diplomatic protocol from President Hoover and his cabinet, and with some bemusement and not a little patronising from the American press.

In fairness, TIME did make a number of positive statements regarding the military preparedness and economic position of Siam at the time: ‘Today the Siamese Army is modern, mechanized. Siamese build all their own airplanes, importing only the motors. The Royal Siamese Air Mail bi-weekly service has been maintained for seven years, 44,000,000 pounds of mail and merchandise have been carried, with two accidents, no deaths. Siamese are proud that 91% of their paper money is covered by securities readily convertible into gold, almost a world record. They are proud that their budget has balanced for years, grateful that King Prajadhipok has cut the royal civil list 30%, pepped up princely officials by discharging dullards no matter how royal they may be.’

Prajadhipok had come to the United States by steamer, first paying a visit to Emperor Hirohito in Japan. While the emperor conversed with his fellow ruler in Japanese, Prajadhipok replied in English. Naturally, an interpreter filled in the blanks.

After leaving Tokyo, the royal steamer sailed across the Pacific, eventually landing for the first time in North America at Vancouver in Canada. Here they boarded the Canadian-Pacific’s private railway car Van Home, to which was attached another series of Pullman cars to accommodate the remainder of the royal entourage as well as security personnel.

In theory, King Prajadhipok was travelling incognito, passing himself off as the Prince of Sukhothai. According to the newspaper reports he would only officially become the King for a 48-hour period while in Washington.

The private train crossed into the United States at around midnight on 19 April 1931 at a place called Portal in North Dakota.

The chief reason for the trip, and hence one of the reasons for travelling incognito, was the monarch needed delicate cataract surgery on one eye. After fulfilling his official duties and being treated to a State dinner by President Hoover, Prajadhipok underwent surgery. It proved successful and he and Queen Bharni remained in the United States recuperating at the New York home of a wealthy widowed American lady.

1934-king-prajadihipok-queen-rambaibarm-in-new-york-city-1934

Queen Bharni (left) and King Prajadhipok (second left) during their visit to the United States.

The royal entourage returned to Bangkok in late October 1931. The TIME correspondent claimed the morning after his return King Prajadhipok was up early with plans to enact a new law to allow the citizens of Bangkok to elect their own municipal officers.