During the 1949 Christmas holidays with Dad we learned that Tony and I would not be returning to Eagle School but were moving to government schools in Umtali. We were heart-sore about leaving the Vumba, which had been a happy place. Had the reason for moving—money—been explained to us, it would have been much easier to understand why we had to step-down, in line with our stepsister and stepbrother.
We moved to Umtali High School in January 1950. I boarded in Chancellor House, whereas Tony went to the junior school and boarded in Kopje House. From the outset I enjoyed Umtali High School, which catered for boys and girls. Unfortunately the subject levels I had reached at Eagle School were substantially higher than the grade into which I was first placed. I was immediately moved up a grade but, again, I had covered its levels. Any thought of elevating me further was rejected because I would have been two years younger than the youngest member. My brother was in a far worse position for having to stay at junior school.
By the time new subject matter came my way I was fourteen years old and had been in a state of idleness for over a year. Somewhat bewildered, I found myself struggling to learn for the first time in my life. Nevertheless, I managed to pass all examinations and moved up another grade with Jennifer, my stepsister. But instead of remaining in the upper academic stream, as expected, we were both placed in what was know as Form 4-Removed where subject levels were slightly lower than those being taught to some of our previous classmates, now in Form 4A. I did not understand this, but accepted that I would have to do another year at school before writing the Cambridge Certificate examination. Good results in these examinations qualified one for a Matric Exemption, which was crucial for acceptance into Edinburgh University.
On the 2 June 1952, my sixteenth birthday, the whole family attended a dance at the Black Mountain Hotel in the small village of Cashel. Any occasion at the Black Mountain Hotel was great fun, but this particular night turned out to be a depressing one for me. It brought about another substantial turnabout in my life. Dad chose that night to take me out into the cold night air to tell me that, with immediate effect, I was being taken out of school.
Schooling for Rhodesian whites was mandatory to the age of sixteen, so I could not have been removed before that day. But now Dad was telling me that my headmaster, Mr Gledhill, had told him that I was wasting my time at school and that I had no chance of gaining the all-important Matric Exemption needed for Edinburgh. Though totally shaken, I accepted Dad’s word, never realising that he was acting under direction from my stepmother who had absolute control over him. Another thing I did not realise at the time was that money was the root of the problem. I can only guess that Dad, who had used up most of his financial reserves to buy his farm and implements, was wholly responsible for Tony and me, whereas my stepmother, who was financially better off, following the death of her first husband, took care of Jennifer and John.
I worked with Dad on his farm, Curzon, which he had bought after selling Moosgwe and its lime-works. All was fine for a short while before things went horribly wrong. My stepmother decided I was too big for my boots for daring to offer a suggestion on how to improve the surface of the tortuous roadway leading up to the farmhouse set on the edge of a high ridge.
My self-confidence was already sub-zero when I was told I would be going to work for Freddie Haynes on his cattle ranch, Tom’s Hope, near Cashel. Dad said this had been arranged to give me experience under the care of a successful rancher. Later my stepmother let slip the real reason. She hoped that Freddie, an Afrikaner, would subject me to a hard time to ‘sort me out’. As it happened, Freddie and his English wife Sayer, together with his old father Hans Haynes, were very kind and I learned a great deal from them.
A strange thing happened whilst we were dipping cattle in the foul-smelling brown liquid of the deep plunge dip-tank through which the cattle had to swim regularly for tick control. Old man Hans Haynes had an Australian-style stock whip in his hand and, with a huge grin on his face, he told me that I could use the whip on him if I dived into the dip-tank and swam its full length. Being an Englishman I was certain this old-timer Afrikaner was inferring that I lacked the guts to meet such a challenge. Without hesitation I stopped the flow of cattle and dived into the tank. When I emerged from the slippery ramp at the far end I was choking and my eyes were burning badly.
The horrified herdsmen rushed to me with buckets of clean water, which they splashed on my face and poured all over my sodden clothing. When I regained control of my sight and caught my breath I went to the stunned old man and demanded his whip. This he gave me, then stood back expecting to be lashed. I smiled and handed the whip back before running off as fast as I could to a nearby dam to clean myself in an attempt to stop the awful burning that was consuming me from my head to my toes.
When she saw that I was sopping wet, unable to walk normally and reeking of dip, Sayer Haynes, who was a qualified nurse, became furious with Freddie and his father. She ordered me to undress and take a shower before inspecting my body in detail and applying dressings to awkward areas that were already raw and peeling. I stayed in bed for almost a week and was spoiled by everyone. The old man kept saying he was really sorry; that he had absolutely no idea that I would respond so rapidly to a challenge he claimed was made in jest.
Freddie Haynes had many outbuildings behind his beautiful home, with superb stables and all manner of implements and goods in storerooms. I asked him if I could use some of the poles and timber lengths stacked in one storeroom to build shelving in others so that I could get order into the hundreds of items that were in disarray. He welcomed the suggestion and was very pleased with the final result. In consequence of this, Freddie told my father that I was very good with my hands and implied that I should be in an occupation that would fully utilise this talent. For the first time in his presence, I broke into tears when Dad suggested to me that I should become an apprentice carpenter and joiner. Embarrassed by this emotional breakdown, I reminded Dad how I had always told him I wanted to use my hands for surgery.
Being the only young person on the ranch, I missed contact with my own age group. So, having given Dad’s suggestion some thought, the idea of going to town for an apprenticeship became more attractive. I moved to the Young Mens’ Club in Umtali and commenced my apprenticeship with Keystone Construction early in 1953. I got on well with everyone and did well in learning crafts that included cabinet-making, machining, joinery and site construction. I was able to see my brother Tony regularly, which was great, but I recall the envy I felt whenever he went off on his holidays to be with Mum and Berry.
Late in the winter of 1956, I ran from my work place to watch four Venom jet fighter-bombers of No 208 RAF Squadron. They were on a goodwill tour of Rhodesia and Umtali was one of the many centres the jets visited so to excite thousands of gawking citizens. All they did was a simple high-speed tail-chase inside the mountains ringing the town. But the sight and sound of those machines immediately decided me that the Air Force life was for me.
Right away I looked into joining the Royal Rhodesian Air Force but soon recognised two major problems. The maximum age for trainee pilots was 21 and a Matric Exemption was mandatory. For reasons I cannot recall, I made an appointment to see the company MD, Mr Burford. I wanted to tell him about my wish to be an Air Force pilot, notwithstanding the fact that this appeared to be an impossibility.
Of small build, dapper and very well spoken, Mr Burford always struck me as being too refined and gentlemanly for the world of construction. In his always-courteous manner he treated me in a gentle, fatherly manner. Before I could tell him of my hopes, he was telling me that the Board of Directors had decided to take me off the bench and get me cracking in quantity surveying—as a first step to management and later, maybe, to become an active shareholder in the company. I should have been pleased by such news but it all went straight over my head because it in no way fitted with what I had come to talk about, and I told Mr Burford so.
Peter.
&nbs
p; Tony.
I told him of my original dream to become a surgeon and all that had happened to bring me to being an apprentice in his company. From the moment I mentioned having been taken out of school prematurely I detected agitation in Mr Burford’s face. Before I could get to the matter of joining the Air Force, he cut in to say he could not accept that my withdrawal from school had been based on academic limitations considering the results of my NTC examination reports, all of which he had seen. Without further ado, and in my presence, he telephoned my old headmaster. Mr Gledhill told Mr Burford emphatically that he had not told my father that I was wasting my time at school. He said, however, that he would update his memory from my records and phone back.
While awaiting the call, I told Mr Burford that I had lost all desire to become a surgeon and that, although I desperately wanted to join the Royal Rhodesian Air Force, I was faced with major problems. Firstly, I had no Matric Exemption Certificate and, secondly, application for the next pilot intake was already in train. If I failed to get into the force on the current intake, I would be too old for the next one.
Mr Burford could not reconcile my original desire to be a lifesaver through surgery with my current wish to become an airborne killer. I told him I did not see things that way and that I considered both professions were for the protection of life. Nevertheless he tried to get me back to thinking surgery and even offered financial assistance and accommodation with his brother who happened to live in Edinburgh. This conversation was broken short by the return call from Mr Gledhill.
The headmaster repeated that he had at no stage given my father any reason to withdraw me from school—quite the opposite. On file was a copy of a letter from him to my father urging my immediate return to school. On the basis of my overall examination results, Mr Gledhill said that I would have passed Cambridge Certificate and almost certainly would have gained the all-important Matric Exemption. Mr Burford then asked Mr Gledhill if he would be prepared to repeat that in writing, to which Mr Gledhill gave an affirmative reply. Mr Burford also asked if his letter could be addressed to Royal Rhodesian Air Force Headquarters, for me to include in my application for pilot training. Again Mr Gledhill acceded and, true to his word, the letter was in my hands the next day.
Through Mum and Berry I had met the Northern Rhodesian politician Roy Welensky at his home in Broken Hill. This happened long before he became Prime Minister of the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland. But now as Sir Roy Welensky, heading the Federal Government, he gladly provided me with the written character reference required by the Air Force Pilot Selection Committee.
Having filled in all forms, I rode out to Dad’s farm on my AJS 500-single motorbike to get his signature of parental approval. Dad was happy to do this but, while searching for a pen, my stepmother interrupted, “Not over my dead body will you sign that application form.” That stopped Dad dead in his tracks. I could not believe what I had heard nor could I understand why Dad would not stand up for me in what he had first supported.
Why was I being stopped from doing something that would be good for me and without cost to family? The sad look on my father’s face told the whole story. I deliberately rode off gently rather than expose my incredible pain and anger by storming off at high speed.
Although, up until this time, my stepmother had done all in her power to crush me, I shall be eternally grateful to her for giving Tony and me two fantastic sisters. In years to come, Brigid and Mary married Jock McSorley and Doug Palframan whom Tony and I both consider the greatest and most lovable brothers-in-law any man could wish for.
Everything was complete, but for Dad’s signature—I even considered forging it but changed my mind. Instead I returned to Mr Burford for advice and this resulted in a consultation with his lawyer. The lawyer pointed out that the unsigned signature block read PARENT/LEGAL GUARDIAN. He drew a line through LEGAL GUARDIAN and told me to send the forms to Northern Rhodesia for my mother’s signature. Mum signed the form in spite of her deep concerns, having lost two brothers to flying with her only surviving brother already serving as a pilot in the Royal Rhodesian Air force.
Mine was one of over 350 applications received for No 10 SSU (Short Service Unit) training. Of these only thirty-five applicants were accepted for the final pilot selection process at New Sarum airbase. I was lucky to be one of these and even luckier to be one of the eighteen candidates to receive instructions to report for pilot training on 3 January 1957.
Chapter
2
Ground Training School
REPORTING FOR SERVICE MUST BE much the same for everyone. I am certain most recruits suffer intense apprehension and a sense of awkwardness while seeking out anyone in civilian clothing looking as unsure and awkward as they feel. I was delighted to find David Thorne whom I had met some months before during the pilot selection process. Together we felt more confident and were soon gathering in our new course mates.
All Rhodesian schoolboys had undergone Army Cadet training at school and the annual cadet camps at Inkomo Barracks. So we instinctively responded to the bellowed command “Fall in”. Before us was the Station Warrant Officer (SWO) Bill Holden, a large ruddy-faced ex-British Royal Marine. Having welcomed us into the RRAF and, following a few words on what we were required to do over the next two days, sixteen men in civvy clothing were doubled-off’ to sign up for service.
Thereafter, we went to Station Equipment section where we drew uniforms and our flying kit, then doubled to the Officers’ Mess single quarters to check into our billets; two cadets to a room. By midday we were being drilled in our unpressed and uncomfortable new uniforms and stiff shoes. The SWO gave all commands in the typical Army way but otherwise he acted somewhat differently to the drill sergeants we had previously known. He used no bad language and acted in a formal yet non-threatening manner.
We were released to our billets in the late afternoon to find all members of No 9 SSU awaiting our arrival. They immediately set out to subjugate us, a recognised prerogative of the senior course. Since they only had two nights before we would be at Thornhill and beyond their clutches, 9 SSU decided to make both nights sheer hell for us.
This course had been at Thornhill for their training and, like us, had only been subjected to the attentions of their predecessors—No 8 SSU—for two nights when they attested for service. The consequence of this was that they had little idea of how to handle a junior course.
The first ‘directive’ issued was that every one of 10 SSU was to have all his hair shaved off. For a short while they thought they had us under control until it came to cutting Gordon Wright’s hair.
Gordon stood back and said, “There is no way I am taking this. If you want to cut my hair you will have to force it on me.”
From me they received a similar response, which was again repeated by Ian Ferguson. The senior course recognised that someone was going to get hurt if they pressed the issue and found a feeble way of doing away with the mandatory haircut. They decided instead to leave things be until we had showered and dressed for dinner.
In the Officers’ Mess, under guidance of young officers who had recently gained their commissions, 9 SSU first challenged 10 SSU to a schooner race. This is a drinking competition involving an equal number of competitors facing each other in two rows. 9 SSU needed six junior officers to match our number.
In a schooner race each contender is given a full tankard of beer and an umpire verifies this. Upon instruction from the umpire, the first two opposing contenders at one end of the line commence drinking their beer as fast as possible with everyone else chanting “down, down, down”. Once a contender has emptied the contents of his tankard down his gullet, he inverts the tankard onto his head, giving signal to the next in line to start downing his beer. The first team to have all tankards inverted on heads is the winner.
For my course there was no chance whatsoever of winning such a race as none of us was a drinker. Most of us had not even started to drink by the time our opposition was through
, but we were compelled to down the beer anyway. Having done so, we were committed to a second and then a third race. Even before the third race started every member of 10 SSU was reeling about, most giggling and one ran off to throw up.
We were then subjected to a number of humiliating activities that were of little consequence until it came to the ‘communal trough’. This was an oversized chamber pot filled with beer. Our course was to remain out of sight until called forward, singly, to the circle of baiting officer cadets and junior officers. There, each of us had to lift the pot from the floor, take four large mouthfuls and place the pot on the floor for the next in line. There was great cheering and jeering from our baiters as each of us was called forward to take his turn.
Sergeant McCone.
Flight Lieutenant Parish.
My time came and as I lifted the pot I saw two turds floating in the beer. Instinctively the pot was lowered until I realised that they were in fact two over-cooked sausages. I took four gulps and put the pot down. The very last of our number failed the test when he puked directly into the pot. At this point our course turned as one and walked away. Commands to return to order were met by somewhat drunkenly uttered “force us if you can” challenges.
We were left alone. 9 SSU had failed miserably to subjugate us and we remembered this when, one year later, 11 SSU became our juniors in very different circumstances.
Our flight to Thornhill next day was by Dakota. My uncle, Flight Lieutenant Bill Smith, whom I have already mentioned, skippered this aircraft. Before the flight Bill had told me to keep our relationship to myself for my own good. This I did. Once airborne he invited all members of the course to go up to the cockpit in pairs where he explained instrument layout and answered many questions. The flight ended all too soon with our arrival in dispersals at Thornhill.
Winds of Destruction: The Autobiography of a Rhodesian Combat Pilot Page 4
