Increased obligations to the RAF and the need to modernise became issues in making the decision to withdraw the Spitfires from service. Painful though it was for all concerned, single-seater De Havilland Vampire FB9 jets replaced the much-loved Spitfires. Later T11 two-seater jet trainers were added.
In addition to the Vampire fighter/bombers, expansion continued with the acquisition of Provost piston-engined trainers. Seven more Dakotas and two Pembrokes were acquired to replace the Ansons and Rapides, and further aircrew and technicians were recruited. By the beginning of 1956, the Air Force boasted four active squadrons, two Vampire fighter squadrons, a transport squadron and a flying training squadron.
Africa was now being subjected to the first of many political changes leading up to the withdrawal of the colonising nations. The Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland was formed in 1953 and, in its turn, caused some major changes within the Air Force.
The title was changed to Rhodesian Air Force, with Queen Elizabeth conferring the ‘Royal’ prefix. As the Royal Rhodesian Air Force, the unit forsook its army ranks and khaki uniforms and adopted ranks and uniforms similar to those of the Royal Air Force.
But the major change of the Federal inception was one of scope and responsibility. From being a minor, self-contained force, preoccupied with territorial defence, the RRAF was now responsible for the defence of the Federation as a whole and was also to acquire wider responsibility as a part of the Royal Air Force’s potential in the Middle East.
At the conclusion of the Second World War, the RAF retained its RTG airfield, Thornhill, where flying training on Harvards continued. This was the largest and best-equipped RTG airbase sited close to the Midlands town of Gwelo. It remained an active RAF base until its closure in 1955 when it was taken over by the Royal Rhodesian Air Force.
With ever-increasing commercial flights in and out of Salisbury Airport, Group Headquarters decided to reduce congestion at the jointly used facilities by moving all Air Force training to Thornhill. Initially this was only possible for piston operations, using existing grass runways. Two years of work during 1956 and 1957 were needed to build a tar macadam runway with taxiways, concrete hard standings and a modern control tower, incorporating radar, before jet training could commence.
In line with RAF practice, the RRAF pilot-training scheme was known as a Short Service Unit (SSU). Successful applicants for pilot training were inducted as officer cadets for a two-year training course. Failure at any point in training resulted in the immediate release of a student with no obligation on either side. However, students who gained their wings and had completed advanced-weapons training had the option of either applying for a medium-service commission or returning to civilian life. Air Headquarters was under no obligation to accept those who applied for medium service.
No 1 SSU was inducted in 1952 with successive intakes occurring at six-monthly intervals. Tiger Moths, Harvards and Spitfires served the training needs initially until Provosts and Vampires replaced them. In 1956, the intake frequency was reduced to one intake a year when No 9 SSU was the first to undergo Basic Flying School (BFS) training at Thornhill.
At the conclusion of BFS in December 1956, No 9 SSU had to move to New Sarum for the Advanced Flying Training (AFS) on Vampires because Thornhill was not yet ready to accommodate jets. The first course to undergo BFS, AFS and OCU (Operational Conversion Unit) at Thornhill was No 10 SSU. This was the course I attended.
Younger days
AT 13:15 ON 2 JUNE 1936, Doctor Ritchken’s regular lunchtime break was interrupted to attend to my mother who was in labour at the Lady Chancellor Maternity Home in Salisbury. No complications occurred with my birth and I was declared to be a strong and health baby.
My father and mother were both from England. Dad was born in Southampton and Mum in Brighton. Dad came from a long line of naval pilots who brought many thousands of ships safely down Southampton’s Water. Not surprisingly Dad had hoped to join the Royal Navy but he was rejected for being unable to differentiate between purple and mauve. So, in 1923 at the age of 17 he set out to see the world as a hired hand on a steam-powered cargo ship. In New York he explored the big city, wearing the only clothes he possessed—a rugby jersey and shorts. After roaming the seas he found New Zealand to be the right place to stay ashore and to try and settle down.
He did well as a lumberman. He also worked on sheep farms and played a good deal of rugby in his free time. There he met his lifelong friend, Alan Martin, who later became my godfather. Alan interested Dad in opportunities being offered by the British Government in far-off Southern Rhodesia; so they moved to Africa together.
Dad was christened Paul Charles Petter Bowyer. The third Christian name was in fact his mother’s maiden name. The Petters were, and still are, well known for their internal-combustion engines and other engineering successes. For instance, William Petter was designer and chief engineer of Britain’s Canberra bomber, Lightning interceptor and Gnat trainer. Prior to this, William’s father had designed the famous short-field aircraft, Lysander, which gave such excellent service to special agents and the French Resistance during World War II.
In New Zealand Dad’s banking affairs were getting muddled up with another Bowyer. All efforts to rectify the situation failed until Dad hyphenated his name—to become Petter-Bowyer. Though this resolved his problem and fitted a fashion for double-barrelled names in those times, the surname has presented its difficulties over the years.
When I joined the Royal Rhodesian Air Force my surname was short-circuited. Nobody could pronounce Petter-Bowyer correctly so I became known as ‘PB’. It is the name Bowyer that seemed to cause problems to many until I explained that my ancestors were men who equated to modern-day artillery-fire controllers. In their own day the Bowyers trained and controlled groups of bowmen in battle. During critical stages when British and enemy forces were closing on each other, it was the bowyers who gave bowmen their orders on aiming angle, draw strain, lay-off and release, for each volley of arrows launched against rapidly changing enemy formations. When BOW of the arrow launcher replaces BOUGH of the tree or BOY of youth, my surname comes out okay!
Dad was six-foot tall, good-looking and immensely strong. Not long after arriving in Rhodesia he attended a country fair at Penhalonga in the east of the country. Late in the evening he was walking past an ox-wagon where an elderly man asked for his assistance. Dad was happy to comply by lifting a large blacksmith’s steel anvil from the ground onto the deck of the wagon. When he had done this he became aware of shouted congratulations and slaps on his back from a group of people he had not noticed until then. The elderly man also congratulated him and with great difficulty pushed the anvil off the wagon. He then invited Dad to lift the anvil back onto the wagon, this time for a handsome cash prize that none of many contenders had won. Dad tried but no amount of cheering and encouragement helped him even lift the anvil off the ground.
Mum moved with her parents to Southern Rhodesia in 1914 when she was four years of age. Her father was controller of the Rhodesian Railways storage sheds in Salisbury. He, together with Mum’s mother, ran a dairy and market garden on their large plot of land, one boundary of which bordered the bilharzia-ridden Makabusi River, south of the town.
Mum attended Queen Elizabeth School in Salisbury where she acquired a taste for the high-society lifestyle of her friends, though this was not altogether to the liking of her middle-class father. She was christened Catherine Lillian Elizabeth but became known as Shirley because of her striking resemblance to a very beautiful and well-known, redheaded actress of the time. This nickname stuck to Mum for life; and she loved it. Her maiden name, Smith, on the other hand did not suit the image Mum desired. However, that all changed when she married Dad in early 1935.
Dad enjoyed the company of many male friends at the Salisbury City Club. It was from there that he went to register my birth following a lunchtime session to celebrate the birth of his first-born son. I guess he must have been fairly tipsy because he
added an extra name to the ones he had agreed with my mother. To Peter John he added another family name, Hornby. In consequence, three of my names link me to family lines in sea, rail and air.
Two years after my birth my brother Paul Anthony (Tony) was born. Together we enjoyed a carefree childhood in the idyllic surroundings of the Rhodesian highveld. Our westward-facing home was set high on a ridge overlooking rolling farmlands, with the city of Salisbury and its famous kopje (Afrikaans for hill) clearly visible beyond the multi-coloured msasa trees and bushlands. From here our parents enjoyed breathtaking sunsets as they took their after-work ‘sundowner’ drinks on our spacious verandah.
My parents wedding day photograph was taken in my grandparents’ garden. Dad’s best man, Alan Martin (later my godfather), is left of Dad. To the right of my mother are her parents and sister Roma. Her brothers John and Bill are the two youngsters seen here.
Mom, Dad and I.
Both Mum and Dad worked. Dad had his own heavy-transport business, Pan-African Roadways, and Mum was personal secretary to the Honourable John Parker who headed up the Rhodesian Tobacco Association. So, with the exception of weekends, Tony and I were left from about 07:00 until 17:30 in the autocratic care of our African cook, Tickey. Tickey was the senior man over Phineas (washing and ironing), the housekeeper Jim (sweeping, polishing and making of beds), two gardeners and, during our younger years, someone to watch over our every move. Such a large Staff was commonplace in Southern Rhodesia in those days.
Tickey was a fabulous cook. Mum had taught him everything he knew but Tickey had a knack of improving on every dish he learned though the names of some gave him difficulty. For instance, he insisted on calling flapjacks “fleppity jeckets” because the common name of the African khaki weed, black jacks, had stuck in his mind as “bleckity jeckets”.
We had more black friends than white for many years and we really enjoyed their company. Together we hunted for field mice and cooked them over open fires, before consuming them with wild spinach and sadza (boiled maize meal—the staple diet of the African people). Only people born in Africa will understand why Tony and I enjoyed these strange meals, squatting on our haunches out in the bush, just as much as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding taken at the dinner table!
Whenever possible, we limited our lunch intake to keep enough space so as to be able to join our African friends for sadza, gravy and whatever they produced as muriwo (supporting relish). Meat was usually cooked extensively to give it a burnt surface from the barely wet base of a three-legged cooking pot set over a small fire. Once the meat was ready, spinach, tomatoes and onions might be added and cooked until well done. On a separate fire a larger pot was used to boil water before mielie-meal was added in small quantities and stirred continuously with a mixing paddle until the texture was just right. All participants in the meal would then wash their hands in a communal bowl and squat on haunches in a circle around two and sometimes three bowls of food.
Only one hand was used to scoop up a lump of boiling hot sadza that was then manipulated into the shape of a rugby ball, sufficient in size for three mouthfuls. Severe burning of fingers was avoided by knowing exactly how to use the side of the index finger during pick-up, immediately followed by quick thumb and finger movements to change the point of contact of the steaming lump. The end of the lump was then dipped in the relish for each bite, following strict observance of sequence to ensure that everyone had equal share. All the time someone within the circle would be talking. These were noisy affairs with much laughter. There is no such thing as silence during an African meal. Tony and I loved every moment of those far-off but never forgotten delights.
A gravel road running behind our spacious gardens served the line of homes built along the ridge on which we lived. Across this road lay various fruit and cereal farms and a big dairy farm. Beyond these lay a large forested area, full of colourful msasas and other lovely indigenous trees, through which ran two rivers. The larger of these was the Makabusi in which Tony and I were forbidden to swim because of bilharzia. Needless to say we swam with our mates whenever our wanderings brought us to the inviting pools bounded by granite surfaces and huge boulders. Being laid up in bed with bilharzia seemed a more attractive option than attending school. But try as we did, we failed to pick up the disease.
Ox wagons were still in use on the farms. This gave ample opportunity to try our hands at the three functions of leading the oxen, wielding the long whip and manning the hand-crank that applied brakes on downhill runs. The black men whose job it was to do these things were amazingly accommodating and never seemed annoyed by our presence.
When old enough to do so, Tony and I rode bicycles to David Livingstone School some four miles from home. I neither liked nor disliked school, but dreaded the attention of bullies who cornered me on many occasions. Dad told me one day that all bullies had one thing in common—they were very good at meting out punishment but cowardly when receiving it. Dad also told me that to accept one good hiding was better than receiving many lesser ones. I got the message and waited until the biggest and meanest of the bullies cornered me in an alley. I climbed into him with everything I had. He tried to break free but I pursued him with vigour until I realised that he was crying like a baby. Not only was I left alone from then on, I assumed the role of protector for other bullyboy victims. The attention I received from the girls was very confusing but strangely pleasing!
Tony and I were blessed with angelic singing voices and were often asked to sing for our beloved grandparents. We took this all for granted until one day we attended a wedding in the Salisbury Anglican Cathedral. After the service I got to talk with one of the choirboys. From him I learned that he had just been paid two shillings and sixpence, the going rate for singing at weddings. That added up to a lot of ice-creams; so Tony and I joined the Anglican Cathedral choir that very week. Dad was horrified when he learned his sons had joined the Anglican choir, though he never said why. Mum thought it a good idea.
The organist and choirmaster were Mr Lillicrap and Mr Cowlard respectively—names that caused much amusement and some confusion for us. Nevertheless they were good at their work and taught us a great deal about singing. But going to church was a totally new experience for me because the nearest I had come to knowing about God arose from questions I had asked some years earlier when driving past one of Rhodesia’s famous balancing granite rock formations.
I asked Mum how the rocks had been placed in such precarious positions. When she told me that God had put them there I wanted to know how many Africans He had used to lift such massive rocks so high. I’m sure she gave me a sensible answer but it obviously went right over my head. Dad on the other hand planted information in my small mind, and it stuck. He told me that all of God’s tools are invisible. Some that we know and take for granted include gravity, magnetism, light, sound, radio waves and electricity, simply because we can measure them. However, those tools of God that we know about but cannot measure, such as our powers of thought and love, are substantially less in number than those of His tools about which we know absolutely nothing. These are the ones that control the stars, the air above, the rocks, trees and grasses on the surface as well as the oceans and the depths of the earth. Strangely, with all he said, including something about God’s dwelling-place, heaven, Dad did not mention Jesus. This is why the Anglican experience was entirely new to me.
While World War II was raging in Europe, Dad was in Air Force uniform in Rhodesia. Like all Rhodesians, Dad wanted to get to where the action was but the Royal Air Force needed his expertise in transport, right where he lived. This was to support the Rhodesian component of the vast British Empire scheme established to train badly needed aircrews. Dad was disappointed, embarrassed even, but Tony and I saw him as a star and revelled in the situations that the war had brought into our lives.
One of the RAF’s Rhodesian Air Training Group (RATG) stations, Cranborne, was just out of view from our house behind the carpet of intervening trees. How
ever, the Harvard Mk2 training aircraft would come into view immediately after take-off. These noisy machines filled the air around us with their ever-changing sounds all day and night as they ploughed around the circuit.
With so many aircraft flying so many hours it was inevitable that mishaps occurred both at and beyond the airfield. On occasions, engine failures and student errors caused crash landings on and beyond the airfield. Some of the crashed machines came down where Tony and I could get to inspect them. Harvards, which still fly in many clubs around the world today and remained in service with the South African Air Force right up until 1996, possess amazingly strong airframes. Those that came down in the bush and farmlands around our home had all ploughed through trees before coming to rest. Though buckled and bent, not one machine we saw had shed wings or tail planes. The unique smell of those crashed aircraft was too wonderful and we clambered in and out of the cockpits at every opportunity. Sharing ultra-thick dry sandwiches and lukewarm tea with RAF guards and salvage crews added to memories that remain clearer to me today than yesterday’s happenings.
My mother’s three brothers all went off to the war in Europe. John Smith was an air gunner on Halifax bombers and was posted missing after the second 1,000-bomber raid into Germany. His body, along with those of his crew, was never found.
Eric Smith was killed in a most unfortunate accident while leading his Spitfire squadron back to Britain at the cessation of hostilities in Italy. This was a cruel loss considering he had survived many months of Offensive action in the Desert and Italian campaigns.
Eric Smith.
Winds of Destruction Page 2
