It was not possible to break away left or right from the serious condition developing so unbelievably fast around and ahead of us. Very quickly, heavy rain was falling out of the base of the cumulonimbus and sweeping outwards to remove the ground below from view. For a short while we remained in smooth air in a huge tunnel such as surfers enjoy when riding under the curl of a breaking sea wave. But this tunnel was dark and ominous.
The smooth ride suddenly changed when the aircraft entered turbulence and started to rise in super-strong uplift. Collective pitch was dumped reducing power to zero but the ascent continued. As the aircraft was about to enter cloud, the ascent turned to a descent which maximum power failed to check. Full power only helped reduce the descent rate to something in the order of 3,000 feet per minute in turbulence. I knew that this powerful down current would not drive us into the ground but I feared entering the heavy sweeping rain we were approaching. Converting to flight instruments, we entered the blinding noisy torrent and almost immediately were lifted by another invisible force for a powerless climb through the centre of the swirling tunnel. The end of this passageway of cloud and rain came into view just as the climb reversed into another descent that, again, full power could not counter until we broke out into clear smooth air. Having recovered our senses, we landed to inspect the aircraft for stress damage.
None was found.
Bad weather and violent wind conditions did not only concern pilots. I witnessed a strange incident that was caused by a passing whirlwind. Flight Lieutenant Boet Swart, the senior PJI (Parachute Jumping Instructor) in charge of the Air Force Parachute Training School, had just landed on the normal training drop zone next to runway 14. He was drawing in his parachute when a whirlwind inflated it and lifted him into fight.
On the opposite side of the runway, next to the security fence where I was standing on the helicopters concrete pad, OC Flying Wing Ozzie Penton was sitting astride his service motorcycle watching the PJIs do their mandatory monthly parachute descent. He saw Boet land then lift upwards and drift rapidly in his direction. Boet returned to earth but was dragged roughly across the ground as Ozzie desperately tried to kick-start his motorbike to get the heck out of Boet’s way—but Oz was too late! The parachute canopy knocked him half over before Boet crashed into the bike, whereupon a jumble of motorbike, OC Flying and senior PJI went sliding for some distance amidst bellowed curses until the whirlwind let go of the parachute!
A roll cloud developing along the advancing front of a cumulonimbus storm.
Engine failure
HAROLD GRIFFITHS WAS POSTED TO helicopters in February 1969. I had instructed him on BFS in 1963 and flew with him again during his Flying Instructor’s course on 2 Squadron. Of all the pilots I instructed on helicopters, I enjoyed teaching Griff most. In and out of working hours we became close friends and our families got together regularly. At the swimming parties Beryl and I held at our Hatfield home and those in the garden of his own home, Griff was always happiest braaing (barbecuing) and handing around ‘snackers’ to all and sundry whilst he sipped away at an ice-cold beer. I have never met anyone who enjoyed food to the extent Griff did; yet he retained a relatively trim figure throughout his service life.
During his operational conversion phase, we were flying in the farming area north of Salisbury when I surprised Griff by cutting the fuel flow to test his reaction to engine failure. I had done this with everyone on 7 Squadron ever since Roland Coffegnot of Sud Aviation told me it was the only way to confirm that pilots reacted correctly to this potentially deadly situation.
Griff acted as he should and was autorotating towards the landing point of his choice. I was satisfied and prepared to advance the fuel-flow lever to bring the engine back to its governed speed of 33,500 rpm for a powered over-shoot. As I looked down at the rpm indicator I was astonished to see that it was reading way down near zero meaning that the engine had flamed out instead of maintaining idling rpm.
I immediately took control from Griff and transmitted a Mayday call to Salisbury Approach whilst turning for a gentle up-slope landing on a fallow field that was covered by tall dry grass. A strong flare cushioned the aircraft’s high rate of descent before collective pitch was applied for a slow roll-on landing. We had rolled no more than two metres when an unseen contour ridge stoved in the nose-wheel causing damage to its mountings. Our technician, Willie Jevois, only realised that we had made a genuine forced landing when the rotors stopped turning with no noise coming from the engine.
Whilst waiting for the squadron technical team to come in by helicopter, I considered the implications of having tested Griff, and many pilots before him, in a manner contrary to the Air Staff Instructions (ASI) that disallowed engine-of testing of students anywhere but at New Sarum. Although I had been in trouble so many times, particularly during my tour on helicopters, I had always stuck with the truth. But this situation had me in a quandary because, although it was obvious that a technical fault had caused the idling fuel-fow valve to close down the engine, I had knowingly tested Griff in a manner contrary to the ASI that I had signed.
There was another matter too. I had recently been told, on the quiet, that I was about to be promoted to Squadron Leader, a situation I did not want to jeopardise. Wrongly I know, I asked Griff not to say anything about my having cut fuel flow but simply to tell the inevitable Board of Inquiry that the engine had failed in flight.
When my time came to give evidence I said the engine quit in flight—which it had—but I said nothing about having deliberately reduced fuel-flow to idling rpm. Had the right question been asked, I would have been forced to admit my guilt. Fortunately a technical inquiry had already established that a faulty electrical micro switch, which cut off the idling fuel flow, could just as easily have cut fuel flow in powered flight. A minor modification was introduced to prevent this happening in future and the matter was laid to rest.
Joint Planning Staff
I LOOKED FORWARD TO BECOMING A staff officer, which I knew would be quite different to any administrative post on any air base. Until now I had considered everyone working in, or for, Air HQ was flying on ‘cloud 9’.
Following the retirement of Air Vice-Marshal Ted Jacklin, the post of Commander of the Royal Rhodesian Air Force became limited to a four-year term. AVM Jacklin was followed by AVM Raf Bentley smartest dressed officer I ever encountered in any force.
AVM Raf Bentley was followed by AVM Harold Hawkins, an Australian by birth.
AVM Archie Wilson became our fourth commander following the retirement of AVM Harold Hawkins in April 1969.
Just before he became the commander, I received official notification of my promotion and posting to the Joint Planning Staff (JPS). Keith Corrans gained his majority at the same time and our independent interviews with the new Commander took place on the day of my move to JPS.
Keith Corrans and I were very conscious of having been promoted over many senior Flight Lieutenants, most of whom we held in high regard.
AVM Raf Bentley (top left), AVM Harold Hawkins (top right), AVM Archie Wilson (bottom left), Keith Corrans.
In my interview this was the first matter that AVM Wilson raised by telling me my promotion was purely on merit and that I must not be embarrassed or concerned about superseding men who had been my senior. He told me a number of flattering things that had led to this early promotion before telling me he also knew more about the naughty side of me than I would have wanted him to know.
First he told me of Beryl’s nightly visits when he had made me Orderly Officer over Christmas and New Year back in 1957—a story I have already covered. My flights under the Chirundu and Victoria Falls bridges had not passed unnoticed nor the ‘looping’ of the Victoria Falls Bridge in a helicopter. The latter arose from a silly bet with the local Police. All I did was fly under the bridge, rise up, reverse over the top of the bridge then descend to pass back under it, all in a manner that described a complete vertical circle. The AVM knew all about my family’s ride in a helic
opter at Kariba in 1967, including the circumstances and names of the NCOs that had brought it about. He knew I had mastered a technique of catching guinea fowl with a helicopter and that other pilots had followed my example. The AVM covered other misdemeanours, including the unauthorised project works, but it was clear to me that his whole purpose was to let me know that he received more information about the goings-on at squadron level than any of us realised.
The Joint Planning Staff, sited in Milton Building close to Air HQ, was under the chairmanship of Group Captain Mick McLaren, who was my first flying instructor. His was a two-year posting that alternated between Army and Air Force. Mick’s promotion to Group Captain had brought him level with his archrival, Group Captain Frank Mussell.
Some years earlier, when Frank Mussell was promoted to Squadron Leader in command of No 6 (Canberra) Squadron, Mick McLaren was still a flight lieutenant. AVM Wilson had changed this and was later responsible for Mick’s meteoric rise to succeed him as the Air Force’s fifth Commander.
As Chairman of JPS, Group Captain Mick McLaren’s responsibility was to provide secretarial and joint planning services to the Operations Co-ordinating Committee (OCC) and to conduct studies and produce papers on matters required by the OCC. His permanent staff consisted of six officers, two each from Army, Air Force and Police plus a typist and an Army Warrant Officer as Secret Registry clerk.
The OCC was made up of the Commanders of the Air Force and Army, the Commissioner of Police and the Head of CIO (Central Intelligence Organisation). Mick produced the minutes for all meetings and received instructions for JPS tasks. His staff operated as three teams of two and met regularly under his chairmanship to receive OCC instructions as well as discuss every paper produced. I worked with Lieutenant-Colonel John Shaw. Wing Commander Harry Coleman worked with a Police superintendent and a Police chief superintendent worked with Major John Cole. Anne Webb, who I nicknamed ‘Machine-gun Annie’ because of the incredible speed at which she typed, was typist for the whole staff. Warrant Officer Shaun Stringer ran the Secret Registry.
Initially, I felt awkward with John Shaw; not that he seemed to be aware of this. He was a graduate of the British Army Staff College, had an excellent command of the English language and indulged in crossword puzzles at every opportunity. I learned that he had been a heavy drinker with a very rude and abusive manner but, having dropped the habit, he had become a much nicer person. Because John Shaw did not talk very much and would not join us for a drink in the small JPS bar after working hours, I did not get to know him too well. However, he was great at delegating all work to me so that he could concentrate on the most difficult of crossword puzzles, which he imported from Britain. I profited from this and learned a great deal from him whenever he went through the drafts I had prepared.
Frank Mussell (standing), Flight Lieutenant Mick McLaren (nearest seated).
John Shaw.
The Operations Co-ordinating Committee of 1969. From left: Air Vice-Marshal Archie Wilson, Mr Ken Flower (CIO), Group Captain Mick McLaren, Major-General Keith Coster, Commissioner of Police, Jimmy Spink.
Operations within the country were low key throughout my time at JPS. From a selfish point of view this pleased me because I was not missing out on any excitement and anyway I enjoyed most of what I was doing. One task that proved difficult was briefing Ian Smith. JPS faced onto the Prime Minister’s Offices from which Ian Smith appeared on frequent but irregular visits for personal briefings on current operations. No matter how much the staff discussed the matter, we never once anticipated the difficult questions he asked at the end of his briefing and he seldom seemed convinced by the answers he was given.
The only bad incident I recall in this period was when the rotors of an Alouette beheaded RLI Trooper A.J. Johnston. He was the son of Air Force Flight Sergeant Les Johnston and was doing his National Service, which applied to all Rhodesia’s young white males. This horrible accident resulted in the helicopter’s destruction when it rolled onto its side as the rotors distorted and smashed the airframe. Fortunately, no one else was seriously hurt. The pilot had been unable to place all three wheels on the ground of a narrow riverbed whose bank sloped upwards on his right side. Only the right rear wheel had been placed on a rock whilst the soldiers disembarked. Trooper Johnston went out on the right side but ran up the slope instead of remaining where he was until the helicopter lifted. Great effort had been put into helicopter emplaning and deplaning drills for all Army and Police personnel to guard against such accidents, but not every circumstance could be foreseen.
Unrelated to this incident were some in which small dogs, troubled by the high-pitched noise of helicopters, ran yapping and snapping at the tail rotor that was the source of intense irritation to their ears. At least two that I can remember were chopped to pieces when they leapt up to snap at blades spinning at 2,001 rpm.
Paris Air Show
I HAD ONLY BEEN WITH JPS for about six weeks when summoned to AVM Wilson’s office. He wanted to know if I held a British passport. I did not; so he asked if I would be prepared to apply for one since he knew I qualified on the grounds of parentage. I told him that there was no difficulty from my side. However, being a staunch Rhodesian who had developed an aversion to most matters British, the AVM apologised for asking me to do this but said it was necessary because he needed me to accompany him on a visit to the Paris Air Show. In particular he wanted me to fly the Sud Aviation Puma helicopter to assess its suitability for Rhodesian operations.
Most of my time in Paris was spent with Ken Edwards because we were the only two members of the team of eight who were booked into a middle-class hotel. It suited both of us to be freed from the nightly dinners and high-level meetings with industrialists and French Government officials.
For three days we roamed around the Paris Air Show viewing large numbers of aircraft and visiting all the display stands to gawk at equipment we had only read about. I was alone and admiring a large model of the proposed Anglo-French Alpha fighter when a man of my height came next to me and asked what I thought of the design. I knew immediately that face and voice were familiar but only realised it was Britain’s Prince Philip in the middle of answering his question. A little earlier in the day we had watched the British and French supersonic airliners, Concorde, pass each other in their historic first meeting. Prince Philip had come to the air show in the British machine.
On our second day in Paris, AVM Wilson told me to go to the Yugoslav pavilion to collect every bit of available information on the Galeb jet trainer and its fighter version, the Jastreb. He said, however, that I must not let it be known that I was a Rhodesian. Although our French hosts knew exactly who we were it was upsetting to be regarded as illegal undesirables by all the other nations present. To present myself at the Yugoslav pavilion and pose as someone else was quite beyond me. I had received no training whatsoever in this line nor had I time to think it over. Nevertheless, I was under orders and did what I thought best.
My uncle, Wing Commander Bill Smith, was our Air Liaison Officer in Pretoria, South Africa at the time. I decided to use his name and address as my cover. When I introduced myself to the only man in the Yugoslav pavilion, he asked me for my business card. I apologised saying I had inadvertently left my cards in another jacket in my hotel room. He was hesitating over my request for specifications, prices, delivery, and so on when another man walked in. This was obviously the senior man who reached out to shake my hand as the first man hesitated in introducing me, so I helped out by saying, “Peter Petter-Bowyer,” then, “Damn it, I’m sorry,” and walked out.
Back in the Sud Aviation pavilion I was feeling pretty bad about my blunder when an AVM from the Pakistani Air Force walked over and introduced himself. His skin colour struck me as being too white for a Pakistani but he was such an open person that I used my correct name and let him know that I was a ‘rebel’ from Rhodesia. He was fascinated and, having told me he had no hang-ups about Rhodesia, ordered coffee so that we could have a chat
. I told the AVM how difficult it was to try to act at being someone else and how relieved I was by his attitude towards me. This led me to telling him of my failure with the Yugoslavs. In a flash he called over a Pakistani squadron leader and asked me to brief him on my needs.
The AVM and I talked a great deal whilst awaiting the return of the squadron leader. He wanted to know all about Rhodesia and told me how much Ian Smith was admired in his country. When the squadron leader returned he was laden with everything the Yugoslavs could provide and said how excited they had been over ‘Pakistani Air Force interest in their aircraft’. AVM Wilson received the huge pile of documents in a manner that showed he never doubted my ability to acquire them, and I chose to leave it that way—until now!
The purpose of my being in Paris was to fly and assess the Sud Aviation Puma. This was conducted on a freezing cold day with the chief test pilot, Monsieur Moullard. None of us possessed the clothing needed for this unseasonal weather and I for one appeared somewhat overweight with jacket stressed over vests and a thick jersey.
Monsieur Moullard had to curb my handling of the fairly large machine when I attempted to fly it like its baby sister, the Alouette III. Once I became used to the larger cyclic and collective controls I was handling flight in a more circumspect manner and found the Puma was easy to fly and exactly what Rhodesia needed. It was obvious that, being a large machine it could not land in tight LZs, such as those suited to Alouettes, nor could it be put down too close to an enemy position. However, its soldier-carrying capacity equalled that of four Alouettes, which more than compensated for these limitations.
Unfortunately we never did acquire Pumas because, unlike the Alouette that had been produced for civilian use, Puma was specifically designed and designated for military purposes. The UN mandatory sanctions imposed against Rhodesia made the sale of such equipment to Rhodesia impossible—even for the French.
Winds of Destruction: The Autobiography of a Rhodesian Combat Pilot Page 37
