Winds of Destruction: The Autobiography of a Rhodesian Combat Pilot

by Peter Petter-Bowyer

  FROM THE SAS TAC HQ at Macombe, 4 Squadron pilots continued to be scrambled to assist troops deep inside hostile territory. This Air Strike Report by Chris Dickinson on 8 March 1974 gives an idea of the sort of work the youngsters were doing.

  While doing Telstar for RAR c/s 42, I was tasked to go overhead c/s B13 SAS and help them out. Difficulty was experienced in getting to their location i.e. UT 368920 because of low cloud but once in the area I was able to maintain 1500 ft AGL. c/s B13 were manning an OP and they directed me to attack a small valley at UT 364914 from where they had been fired upon. I did two strikes from north to south using front gun and SNEB. They then asked me to attack an area around a mealie field some 200 yards to the west of my first attack. This was done using SNEB. They then indicated a suspected ter camp at UT 358905 adjacent to a mealie field. I did one attack from south east to north west using front gun and SNEB. They then indicated a further suspect area at UT 353888 which was to the east of two mealie fields. I did a north to south attack using SNEB. At this stage it was at last light and I proceeded back to Macombe as the Musengezi airstrip was unserviceable and I did not have sufficient fuel to get to Centenary. The weapons were on target and it was later learnt that my rockets had destroyed part of a camp complex although everything had been concealed in thick bush.

  STOP PRESS. When the c/s was recovered from the area it was confirmed that three people had been killed and buried at the point UT 364914 where the strike had gone in on the camp complex.

  There was always concern for single-engined aircraft operating alone deep inside Mozambique, as in this case. Antiaircraft action or engine failure might force a pilot down; a situation that was fraught with peril. If a pilot survived the landing, whether hurt or unhurt, his chances of survival were very low unless he was close enough for anyone to pick up his radio distress call. However much of the time was spent beyond ‘friendly forces’ radio range.

  Personally I was petrified by the work I did over Mozambique and worried that others might notice this. As I write, a quarter of a century later, it is easy for me to admit to this failing. At the time however, I was annoyed by my inability to overcome the tight knot in my stomach and having to relying on four stiff whiskies after dinner to help me get some sleep. If I was on internal work, I always enjoyed a good breakfast that set me up for the day’s work; but before recces over Mozambique I could not face a meal knowing that I would be operating for over five hours beyond radio range of any Rhodesian.

  Everyone knew that if I ran into trouble this would not be known until too late and that a search and rescue attempt would defer to the following day. So, to assist searchers, I carried a small emergency radio beacon which, when switched on, transmitted a continuous low-powered coded distress signal. This device also had a voice and receiving facility that was limited to a very short duration before its battery was drained.

  I think it was Captain Mick Graham of SAS who flew one Mozambican sortie with me. He enjoyed the experience because it allowed him to see for himself what he had read in my recce report signals. But the main purpose of his flight was to assess the feasibility of an SAS soldier accompanying me on future missions to keep me out of trouble if I went down. My hopes were dashed when Mick said that, having seen the ground we had covered, this was simply not on. A single, super-fit, SAS soldier might evade hostile forces on his own, but not if he had to take care of me as well.

  An alternative solution was offered. It involved eight recently trained RLI paratroopers loitering at height in a Dakota close to the area over which I was operating. The experiment failed within the first two hours when Squadron Leader Peter Barnett told me all the paratroopers in the back of his aircraft were so airsick that they would be of no help if I needed them. I thanked Peter for trying and told him to take the men back to base. There was no alternative; I had to work alone. In the meanwhile Air HQ was looking into equipping 4 Squadron aircraft with HF/SSB to provide long-range communications with Air HQ and FAF Operations Rooms.

  I always briefed the FAF 3 commander (mostly Peter Cooke) on my intended outward and inward routes with details of the area to be covered, but those horrid butterflies in my stomach only slowed down when I was strapped into my seat with the engine running. Flight over Rhodesian soil felt quite normal until I reached the border. At this point the engine always appeared to be running roughly. Once across the Zambezi River the engine seemed to be running so roughly that I feared it might break from its mountings. This phantom situation continued until I reached the area over which I was to operate. As soon as I started searching the ground all fear vanished and I no longer worried about the engine purring away at low-cruising power.

  Unlike American and Canadian aircraft designers, those of British, French and Italian aircraft did not cater for pilots’ bladder needs. As early as 1939, Canadian and American designers provided aircrew with what was crudely known as ‘the pee tube’. This consisted of an extendible funnel on the forward edge of a pilot’s seat that connected to a tube leading to a low-pressure point on the underside of the airframe. Considering the restraints of harness, parachute straps and flying overalls, it was awkward to get one’s twin to the funnel, but at least it catered for minor misdirection and there was ample suction to take the urine away. Our Trojans did not have this luxury, so I had learned to manage seven-hour recce flights. But there was one day when things did not work out too well.

  In spite of the normal pre-flight precaution of ‘emptying the tank’, on this particularly cold day I was in need of a pee even before I crossed the Zambezi still flying outbound. Two hours later with much ground yet to cover, I could not hold out any longer. There was no bottle or similar receptacle in the aircraft and, though I thought about it, opening the door in flight was fraught with peril. However, next to me on the right hand seat was my bone-dome (pilot’s crash helmet). There was no option but to use it. The weather was particularly turbulent when I undid my seat straps, opened my fly and raised my body against the rudder pedals to get things into position. Head-support webs within the bone-dome compounded the problem of turbulence and fully stretched legs. As soon as I let go, the high-pressure stream struck the nearest web, spraying urine all over my legs and onto the instrument panel. I managed to change direction, but in no time the shallow basin of the bone-dome was close to over-flowing. Forced stemming of the steam was essential but at least my discomfort had been reduced. The next problem was how to get rid of urine in the bone-dome. To allow it to spill inside the cockpit was simply not on because urine is highly corrosive to aircraft surfaces.

  My window was always open during recce, so I decided to hold the bone-dome firmly and spill the urine into the outside airflow. As I did this, my arm was almost ripped off as the slipstream sucked the bone-dome through the window. The disturbed airflow blew back most of the bone-dome’s contents into my face, wetting half of my torso and the whole instrument panel. I managed to hold on to the bone-dome but the rest of that long flight was miserably cold and uncomfortable.

  Chifombo Base

  GOING AHEAD IN TIME, I was operating deeper than before and close to the Zambian/Tete border averaging about 3,000 feet above ground. Cloud build-up was making coverage difficult and I could only read ground where the sun was shining. I had just started picking up the signs of considerable human activity in the heavily treed region and was plotting this on my map when a loud crack on my right side made me look up at the starboard wing. I was astounded to see hundreds of green and red tracer rounds flying upward at differing angles but all appearing to emanate from the aircraft itself. I had seen tracer many times before but never so densely as the 12.7mm, 14.5mm and, possible, 23mm guns whizzing past. I immediately entered a vertical dive.

  Looking down towards the ground I saw what appeared to be a lesser number of tracer rounds coming my way but, when I looked towards the sky again, they were just as thick as before. Another crack sounded behind me by which time I was weaving left and right in a high-speed descent towards a huge
terrorist base that spread outwards in every direction I turned. When I levelled off at tree-tops, the Trojan, still taking hits, slowed down horribly and there were hundreds of people firing small arms so close that I knew I was about to die.

  Twice I passed across open patches and saw big guns flashing. For what seemed like a really long time I was locked in a terrible slow-motion nightmare as I passed over row upon row of small and large thatched buildings under tall trees, all the time under fire. Unlike all I had read about people facing death, my whole life did not flash before me as I looked at point after point ahead believing I would surely die there. The ground tearing past me registered in my brain as the aircraft took hits in a mixture of sharp cracks and dull thuds.

  Suddenly I was clear. It felt as if I had dived into cool water from burning-hot flames. Bullet holes in the airframe and windscreens were generating a strong whistling sound but the motor sounded fine.

  I had been looking for the big FRELIMO-cum-ZANLA base known as Chifombo but had not expected such a hot reception when I found it. Still breathless I held a straight course for some time before coming to my senses inside Zambia. It took a little while longer to pull myself together and register that the flight control instruments had all been rendered useless. Having turned southwest, as judged by the sun’s position, it took more time to gather courage to commence a climb for height. Only when established in the climb did I realise that I was bleeding from many places, making my overalls and face cold and sticky, but there was absolutely no pain. The fuel gauge for both left and right tanks worked fine and I could see no fuel leakage, nor could I smell fuel vapour. Every minute or so I flicked from one tank to the other to check for fuel loss and after ten minutes knew I would get back to safety, providing the engine kept going. I set power by ear and knew from engine response that the turbo-charger was working; but there was no way of knowing if engine oil was being lost, so I followed a route as far removed from human habitation as possible. I had considered going into Macombe to get first-aid from the SAS but then decided to press on to Centenary when I realised that, although there was a lot of blood about, the wounds to my face, chest, arms and legs were no more than shallow penetrations from bits of metal and broken glass.

  During an earlier recce deep inside Mozambique I had been feeling distinctly lonely and afraid when suddenly I became acutely aware that I was not alone at all. This was an experience I find impossible to put into words because the sudden knowledge of the presence of God is awesome, powerful and exciting all at the same time. Now, having survived passage over Chifombo Base and heading for home, the immediate presence of God overwhelmed me again. The feeling I experienced this time was different but just as impossible to explain by words alone.

  It was in this amazing state of comfort that I looked down at the ground as I climbed through about 5,000 feet and realised that I was seeing pathways with the clarity needed for over-border recce. I should have known this before but, being a typical creature of habit, I had stuck to the level I first thought was right. From that day onward I never flew recce in Mozambican territory below 5,000 feet.

  At about 8,000 feet radio contact was established with the Army relay station on the high Mavuradona mountain inside Rhodesia. I told the operator that I had sustained damage but expected to make it back to Centenary safely. I could see my left main tyre and knew it was fine but I was prepared for difficulties if the nose or right tyres had been punctured. Fortunately there was no problem on landing and I taxiied into dispersals to find Peter Cooke and a couple of TF soldiers waiting for me with a stretcher. I recall FAF 3 being almost deserted because Mount Darwin and Mtoko had become the operational focal points.

  I had set off on this flight from Bindura where I received a briefing from an SB officer who wanted more details on Chifombo. My reason for recovering into Centenary was that I knew there were spare beds there. But I cannot say why Peter Cooke was also there because he had left FAF 3 when operational activity moved east with Centenary passing into the care of a VR Camp Commandant. He may have been helping out as a (retread) helicopter pilot because I do not recall seeing another pilot for the only helicopter parked next to my Trojan. Anyway there were certainly no 4 Squadron personnel or aircraft around.

  Initially I declined to lie on the stretcher but the sharp fragments in my legs made walking so painful that I was forced to accept the lift to an Army medical tent. Having the bits and pieces removed without any anaesthetic by a very young TF medic was an unpleasant experience made easier by slugging neat whisky. I was very sore, stiff and covered in bloody dressings when Flamo Flemming, and I think Jungle Forrester, came to me in the medical tent with a request. “Boss PB, please come with us to your Trojan. We want you to explain something to us.” With the foreign bodies removed and being somewhat anaesthetised by whisky I was able to limp along with them.

  Using long ‘spear grass’ that grew along the airfield fence line, these two technicians had lined up all the bullet entry and exit holes. There were 123 strikes of which four were from heavy-calibre rounds that had failed to explode (guns too close to target), yet not one had struck the fuel tanks or any other vital part. This in itself was a miracle but Flamo wanted me to explain why I was not dead considering one bullet’s path appeared to have gone through my left flank.

  One length of spear grass ran from the port side of rear cabin through the backrest of my seat and into the instrument panel. Not bothering to prove to myself that the bullet line was correct I foolishly choked up and simply pointed heavenward. When I regained composure I was able to tell of my terror over Chifombo and how God’s powerful presence had overwhelmed me.

  This incident persuaded me to turn back to Christianity. I had abandoned the Anglicans at age twenty, swearing never to return to a church that laid emphasis on the pomp and ceremony I had experienced as an altar server. Now, some eighteen years later, I decided to find a church that practised biblical Christianity. This led Beryl and me to the Methodists in Waterfalls, simply because Beryl preferred we go to the pastor she had watched on TV. He was Reverend Gary Strong who, in his youth, had been a rough and tough ‘Main Street Cowboy’ biker.

  New offensive trials

  OUR ASSOCIATION WITH THE SOUTH African Air Force strengthened over time and much of the increased helicopter effort in 1974 had come from the SAAF in the form of machines and aircrews. This was as much for SAAF’s benefit to gain ‘on the job’ experience as it was for Rhodesia. It was for this reason too that Captain Kapp was sent to fly recce with me to assess the value of sending other pilots at a future date. Captain Kapp must have turned in a good report because SAAF sent four young pilots for recce training in 1975.

  Whilst I was instructing Captain Kapp, Chris Weinmann and Brian Murdoch continued to find CT camps inside the country and had initiated air and ground operations on them; but not once were terrorists in residence, all camps having been freshly vacated. The CTs had obviously become wise to the fact that the Trojans they saw flying in their area of operations were the same ones that brought trouble to their camps. This forced us to rethink tactics.

  I decided to try flying offensive low-level battle formations with four armed Provosts to see if we could catch CT groups in the open. By setting propeller speed to 2200 rpm, the Provost was very quiet and sufficient boost could be employed to ensure adequate flying speed for the undulating terrain in northeast Rhodesia. Flying this configuration, it was possible to come to within less than 500 metres of people on the ground before they heard the aircraft.

  Our flights were flown along random routes since we had no way of knowing where terrorists might be. Numerous bases discovered during recce were over-flown too, yet none of these flights produced any result. On one particular sortie I picked up a man on the horizon carrying what appeared to be a weapon over his shoulder. He was so close that it was too late to select guns and the man was not yet aware of my presence, so I manoeuvred to kill him with the left undercarriage. At the last moment he heard me, and as
he turned, I realised that his ‘weapon’ was a simple badza (hoe). Only he and his laundry woman knew what a fright he received as I passed inches above him.

  Beginning of Black Month

  BACK IN MOZAMBIQUE AGAIN, I picked up two new bases and returned to New Sarum to give briefings for two jet-strikes. It was decided to use a Vampire in which Hugh Slatter and I would mark one base at 1100B for the usual four Hunters and two Canberras. After that strike, I was to fly a Trojan from New Sarum directly to the second base for a routine FAC controlled strike at 1500B.

  This time Hugh let me handle the Vampire until the attack dive was established and then took control to fire four 60-pound rockets. I had no orientation problems this time and Hugh placed the rockets exactly where they were needed. The rest of the aircraft struck as planned.

  Following a short debrief back at New Sarum, I took off in my Trojan and headed for the SAS Tac HQ at Macombe then continued on for thirty kilometres northward to commence the southward orbits that would place me over the target. This base lay twelve kilometres north of the Zambezi River. I had just located a brand-new base in hills to the north of the target we were about to attack when the Hunters checked in. I put this base aside for the moment and continued towards the assigned target.

  A small, typical and easy-to-see FRELIMO-cum-ZANLA staging base. The markings on the photograph are by JSPIS. The vehicle track on the left proved FRELIMO’s presence but was unusual for bases far from primary roads.

  This particular attack marked the beginning of what became known to Air Force as ‘Black Month’. Flight Lieutenant Don Donaldson constructed this Canberra Air Strike Report:

  PLANNING. This sortie was planned as an FAC directed Hunter/ Canberra air strike on a terrorist base in Mozambique (TT 856799). Marking was carried out by Sqn Ldr Petter-Bowyer (A4) in Trojan using white smoke SNEB. The main strike component to be four Hunters (Red Section) leading two Canberras (Green Section).