I explained to Sandy that I felt certain that John had done what I would have done in his situation. I would have diverted from the direct track to run up the Ruya at low level in the hopes of catching the terrorist group in the open. There had been no urgency for John to reach his destination so a deviation of some forty kilometres would not have concerned him. Sandy still took no notice and two whole days of intensive but fruitless searching passed.
The wreckage of John’s helicopter was then located by accident. Hugh Chisnall of the Police Reserve Air Wing was on a routine flight along the border when he noticed strong sun reflections flashing off items in heavy bush in the Ruya riverbed. He knew an air search was being conducted for a missing helicopter and guessed that the flashes he had seen might have been from wreckage of that machine. His report was investigated by one of the search helicopters whose pilot immediately confirmed the reflections had been from the scattered wreckage of John’s helicopter.
Troops were flown in to secure the area before an Air Force team arrived to conduct a detailed investigation. The findings were that the helicopter had struck a tall, dead tree that John had obviously not seen (a known hazard when low-flying). Whether the impact incapacitated John or the helicopter was not clear, but some 100 metres had been traversed before the helicopter reached high bush and broke up in a long crash path. John and Tinker had been killed instantly and there was no evidence to suggest any enemy involvement.
Offensive recces
ALTHOUGH I HAD BEEN IN and out of Centenary to change over crews and receive updates on what was happening in the Op Hurricane area, I did not deploy to Centenary until March. Back at base Rob Tasker was busy with Trojan conversions and operational orientation for a new crop of youngsters fresh off PTC. These were Peter Simmonds, Chris Dickinson, Ken Newman, Cocky Benecke, Mark Aitchison and Willie Wilson.
There were limited calls on 4 Squadron in this period, so I decided to get back into Tete to see what was happening in the same area 4 Squadron had used for recce training eight months earlier. Mike Litson flew with me and we were both astounded by the changes.
SAS teams had been operating in this same region since January and had scored small successes against ZANLA. However, the area was simply too large for the limited number of foot-bound SAS callsigns to fully reconnoitre, monitor and ambush an expanding network of routes to Rhodesia.
Although in three days I could provide the basic intelligence the SAS would take more than a month of hard work to glean, Brian Robinson was dead against my continued presence over any area in which his men were operating. Since I held the SAS in high regard, I honoured Brian’s wishes, but I have to say that I never did agree with his thinking.
We knew ZANLA was making inroads into the populated areas. When a question arose as to how far their influence extended, I offered a simple way of finding out. I got most of my squadron crews and aircraft, from Thornhill and elsewhere, to meet at New Sarum. After my briefing we flew ten aircraft low-level along parallel lines set five miles apart heading due north from a start line that ran eastwards from Salisbury. We flew due north to another line running due east from Centenary to where the Mazoe River exited Rhodesia. Along this line, all aircraft headed east for fifty miles and repeated the parallel pattern heading south.
Each aircraft had a crew of two whose task it was to study the local peoples’ reaction to the presence of their aircraft. My observation over years had been that all the black folk, men, women and children, living normal lives instinctively waved at low-flying aircraft, even when they were caught stark naked. However, whenever there had been any political tension, such as occurred during the banning of ZAPU in the 1960s, nobody would look up at an aircraft, let alone wave at it.
The crews were asked to plot the point at which peoples’ responses to the aircraft changed from open friendliness to indifference. In this way we found that the terrorists were active in northern Chiweshe TTL south of Centenary, throughout that part of the Kandeya TTL lying north of the Ruya River, the northern half of Chimanda TTL and the whole of Masoso TTL. The Ngarwe and Mkota TTLs in the east appeared to be free of ZANLA influence.
In the manner we had come to expect, Internal Affairs paid no attention to our information but Special Branch men like Peter Stanton and Winston Hart took it seriously. These two men had already learned what pilots could pick up from the air using God-given Mk1 eyeballs.
Blonde-haired, softly spoken Winston Hart, like Peter Stanton, was a top-rate intelligence officer. Both of these men became key figures in future SAS and Air Force planning. As early as 1970 they were already well known but were seldom seen because they were forever on the move, and always in a hurry. Winston was particularly lucky to have been blessed with the lives of a proverbial cat but unlucky in another sense to be involved in two landmine explosions in the space of a few days at the beginning of Op Hurricane. In these incidents he was fortunate to get away with temporary deafness and severe bruising because proper mine-proofed vehicles did not exist then.
Non-offensive casualties
AN UNFORTUNATE FACT OF LIFE is that lives are lost or seriously affected by accidents. In the normal run of things they seldom draw public attention because accidents are simply regarded as risks of living. This changes the moment they involve men in uniform. In Rhodesia routine accidents continued but new situations introduced new hazards. The greatest of these came from killing devices such as rifles and explosives as well as increased vehicular movement of men.
So far as I remember, we lost more uniformed men to accidental gunshot wounds than to offensive actions. These incidents were recorded as ‘accidental discharges’, abbreviated to ‘AD’ in the daily Sitreps (Situation Reports) sent to OCC from the JOCs. Reports of deaths and injuries by ADs became so commonplace in Sitreps that the horror of these was usually lost to those who read them. But one thing was clear, ADs hardly ever occurred amongst highly trained and disciplined units. Road accidents also made too high a claim on our uniformed men and one such incident involved my cousin, Brian Ade.
Brian was the son of my Uncle Eric Smith who had died in Italy when his Spitfire struck high-tension cables. Eric’s wife, Eileen, remarried some years later and changed the surname of Eric’s son Brian and daughter June to that of her husband, Cliff Ade. Nevertheless, Brian and June Ade were still my first cousins and were special to me.
Brian was in charge of a number of TF (Territorial Force) soldiers being transported to Mukumbura on the Mozambican border in one of a convoy of Bedford trucks. The road to Mukumbura descended from the highveld into the Zambezi Valley floor via a steep, winding pass down the Mavuradona mountain range. During its descent, the vehicle on which Brian was travelling suffered total brake failure. Brian immediately realised that the steep gradient and sharp corners spelt disaster, so he ordered everyone to jump off the moving vehicle. Whereas most did so, a few men froze. Brian manhandled some over the side of the truck and was so engaged when the vehicle rolled on a sharp corner. Brian was flipped out and flew through the air in a near-vertical descent onto rocks. Unfortunately he landed on a wedge shaped rock that broke his back, confining him for life to a wheelchair.
Not content to be just another paraplegic number, Brian coached hockey and learned to drive a car with tailor-made accelerator and brake hand-controls. He often used to go off into the bush to photograph wildlife. Using his photographs, Brian eked out a living as a painter of wildlife. On one occasion he had left the road and was taking photographs of a baobab tree when he found himself surrounded by armed terrorists. Not wishing to let the CTs know he was incapable of normal movement, Brian quietly countered threats by launching into a lecture on the finer points of the giant baobab. Quite why they enjoyed Brian’s talk I do not know, but they moved on and let him be.
The Peter Simmonds incident
ALTHOUGH THERE HAD BEEN MANY occasions in which enemy fire had been directed at aircraft, there had been no serious damage or injuries. On 4 July 1973 this changed for Air Lieutena
nt Peter Simmonds. He was piloting a Provost on a sortie giving support to an RAR tracker-combat team inside Mozambique. Along for the ride was his technician Mike Guy.
Army Lieutenant Mike Wilson had followed a group of terrorists across the border into Mozambique but the depth of his penetration was such that he had moved beyond the coverage given by his maps. Although there was need to know Mike’s location, his major back at base in Mukumbura had been reluctant to use air, as this would arouse the terrorists to the follow-up operation. After four days however, Peter Simmonds was asked to find the RAR callsign and drop a supply of maps and radio batteries to him. Neither Mike Wilson nor Pete Simmonds were to know that the callsign was within 100 metres of the terrorists as Peter descended for a slow low pass over the ground force. As he and Mike Guy threw out the stores, there were two loud bangs that Pete thought had come from his engine. He immediately applied full power and was relieved that the engine responded normally.
It was only as Pete gained height and closed the canopy that Mike Guy pointed to Peter’s legs. Considering a bullet had shattered his left femur and gouged a hole in his right leg, it is surprising that Peter had not felt the strike and that there was no pain whatsoever. Realising he was bleeding heavily and might lose consciousness, Pete asked Mike Guy to handle the aircraft whilst he stuck his fingers into the holes in his left leg to stem the blood flow for the twenty-minute flight to Mukumbura.
Unlike most aircraft, the Provost’s rudders pedals had leather toe straps that, together with hand-operated wheel brakes, were a godsend to Peter in this predicament. His left leg was quite useless to him but his right leg could still push to apply right rudder and pull on the toe strap to apply left rudder. Having thought things through before landing, Peter was able to put the aircraft down safely before executing a deliberate ground loop with full braking when the aircraft had slowed to a safe speed.
The agony he was to endure over the next six months first came to him as he was extracted from the Provost cockpit. The pain that comes with a shattered femur and a useless dangling leg moving in uncontrolled directions is impossible to describe and one never to be forgotten by Pete Simmonds. It was a pitch-black night with no horizon but Peter Woolcock flew Pete Simmons to Centenary in an Alouette. Alf Wild then took him on to New Sarum in a Trojan and the Station Sick Quarters ambulance completed this ‘impossibly painful’ casevac to Andrew Fleming Hospital.
Flight Sergeant Benji
THE GRASS STRIP AT CENTENARY had become very worn and dusty from high-volume traffic when it was decided to lay down a tarmac runway, so all personnel and aircraft moved to an airstrip on Eureka Farm, just a short distance away. The tented camp at Eureka suffered terribly from dust stirred up by every helicopter and fixed-wing movement. Whenever the wind blew from the flight lines to the camp, it brought dust that penetrated bedding, clothing, radios and kitchen; not that this dampened the spirits of the men.
An over-supply of camp toilet seats, nicknamed ‘thunder boxes’, provided an answer to the shortage of seats for a pub the technician constructed from scrounged materials. Elevated to barstool height, they gave the option of hollow or solid seating at the bar counter of ‘The Thunderbox Inn’.
One of the Eureka Farm dogs, a scruffy terrier named Benji, took to the Air Force in a big way. Benji was returned to his owner many times but he simply ran back to the camp. He was always in evidence lying on anything that was elevated, such as the sandbag walls around the camp. When the Centenary Airfield tarmac runway was completed and the Air Force returned to comfortable accommodation, Benji followed. The farmer felt there was no point in returning Benji to the farm every day and was happy to pass the scruffy little mutt into Air Force care.
Benji stayed with Air Force for years. In October 1973 he was inducted into the force with the rank of corporal. Later he was posted to FAF 4 at Mount Darwin. Having risen to the rank of flight sergeant Benji disgraced himself by peeing on the Camp Commandant’s cap and was demoted back to sergeant. When he regained his rank for outstanding service and devotion to duty, Benji was posted to FAF 7 (Buffalo Range) in mid-1978 where he continued service to the end of the war. When FAF 7 closed at the cessation of hostilities, Benji was taken by car to New Sarum but, probably sensing the changing times, he died before reaching his new home.
Flight Sergeant Benji.
Another Aloe Festival
AT THE END OF JUNE 1973, No 4 Squadron was given clearance to withdraw most aircraft and crews from operations to participate in Umtali’s annual Aloe Festival. It was wonderful to have the majority of our squadron together for the first time in eighteen months and to sense the spirit and esprit de corps that existed throughout the ranks. The technicians were an incredible bunch of men whose wide-ranging characters and talents too often manifested themselves in impish acts.
The officers and wives stayed at the Wise Owl Motel whilst the technicians all booked into the Flamboyant Hotel. This was not a case of rank separation but was the consequence of insufficient accommodation for everyone at either location.
At a civic function on the first night, I presented the mayor with a 4 Squadron plaque that, between deployments, I had personally crafted for the Umtali City Council.
Just after sunrise on the day of the flypast and Aloe Ball, I received a visitation from the Police who reported that a whole bunch of my technicians had been seen running down Main Street totally naked save for Air Force caps, black socks and shoes. Few people were around at the time and none of the surprised onlookers had lodged a complaint. The Police had gone directly to the hotel only to find every tech ‘fast asleep’. Of course everyone who was questioned knew nothing about a mass streak and since no complaints had been received, no charges were laid; but the Police felt I should know of the incident to avoid trouble in the future.
PB presenting the mayor with a personally crafted 4 Squadron plaque.
Having been warned to behave themselves at the Aloe Ball, all squadron members were on their best behaviour. I crowned the Aloe Queen, everyone enjoyed a great meal and good music had brought most people onto the dance floor when Henry Jarvie started an impromptu act that stopped everyone in their tracks. I knew Henry would be the instigator of something unusual because of his naughty nature, but I had no need to worry about him being crude or destructive.
The band was playing ‘Hey Girl’ when Henry climbed onto the stage with a pint of beer in his hand. He placed the beer on a stool at one end of the stage and, moving his lanky body to the rhythm of the music, proceeded across stage sliding off his jacket, which he then twirled above his head on one finger. At stage end he placed the jacket neatly on the floor and, mincing to the music, returned slowly to his beer. He took a great swig, turned about and repeating the first act, this time removing his wristwatch, again twirling it over his head before placing it on the jacket. The band clicked with Henry from the outset and just kept repeating the very catchy theme of ‘Hey Girl’. All eyes remained on Henry as he made pass after pass, never once using the same style of dance and always removing one item of clothing. It took two passes just to remove cuff links. Ripples of laughter passed through the crowd who loved Henry’s facial expressions and lanky body movement, everyone wondering just how far he would go. I knew he would not push the limits.
Following the removal of his shirt with Superman poses to show off scrawny muscles, Henry was left with slacks and socks. The removal of the second sock gave Henry opportunity to demonstrate his sleight of hand by giving the distinct impression of filling the sock with beer and straining it into his mouth as he crossed the stage to lift his clothing and disappear as women yelled, “Encore! Encore! You haven’t finished yet!”
The next day, Sunday, the squadron was invited to join the mayor and senior town counsellors for tea at Leopard Rock Hotel in the Vumba mountains. Beryl and I, together with other officers and wives, were having tea with the mayor and mayoress on the hotel lawn when Henry Jarvie appeared at the top of the hotel stairway high above us. He
was resplendent in full chef’s regalia, high cap and all.
On the open palm of his left hand he held a silver salver with a serving towel perfectly draped over his forearm. Down the steps he came, stiff as a board, looking straight ahead with a fixed expression. He came directly to our table and placed the salver in front of me, bowed and turned towards hotel guests seated under umbrellas. As he moved away we spotted the full beer glass held behind his back.
Chef Jarvie.
The silver tray contained a note and a sandwich. The note read, “Boss PB is in need of nourishment”. The sandwich consisted of two tomato toppings between very dry crusts of butter-less bread.
Facial expressions of hotel guests to whom Henry moved showed he was up to no good. Initially they thought he was the hotel’s senior chef. At one table Henry warned that there would be a slight delay in serving lunch because all meat stocks had “gone off slightly due to refrigeration failure but a good soaking in vinegar will solve this problem”. To others he told of stale bread rolls that only needed a good soaking and re-baking to make them good and fresh. One group learned that the speciality of the day, crayfish, was giving the entire kitchen staff a major headache following their escape from the refrigerator. They had run off into flowerbeds and the fishpond but all would be rounded up soon, and lunch should be served on time.
I intercepted Henry on his return to the stairway. I thanked him for the sandwich and instructed him to eat it on my behalf. Not saying a word, he took the silver tray, bowed and climbed the stairs, beer still behind back. When he reached the balcony he placed the tray and his beer on the serving towel spread neatly on the balcony wall.
Winds of Destruction: The Autobiography of a Rhodesian Combat Pilot Page 46
