Winds of Destruction

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by Peter John Hornby Petter-Bowyer


  John Smith.

  Bill Smith, incensed by the loss of his brother John, lied about his age to get into the Fleet Air Arm at age seventeen and saw active service in the latter stages of the war. Later he joined the auxiliary force in Rhodesia, which became the Southern Rhodesia Air Force. Dad’s only brother, Steven Bowyer, left his gold mining occupation in Rhodesia to join the RAF as mid upper gunner on Halifax and Lancaster bombers. He survived many missions, including the one on which Guy Gibson died

  Tony and I could not fully comprehend the loss of two uncles. Even though we had known and loved both of them, we did not understand the enormous pain their deaths had brought to Mum and our grandparents. We only comprehended the glamour of our Dad in uniform, bringing home many high-ranking officers and gracious ladies to the Sunday swimming parties for which he and Mum were renowned.

  Towards the end of the war Dad lost his arm in a freak accident. As Officer Commanding the RATG motor transport fleet, he had visited Thornhill airbase near Gwelo and was on his way to Heany airbase near Bulawayo. Along the way he realised that he still had a document that he should have left at Thornhill. As he was approaching a bridge on a steep downward slope he spotted an RAF truck, still some way off, coming towards the bridge from the opposite side. Dad crossed the bridge and pulled over just short of a point where the road commenced a right-hand sweep. He put out his arm and was waving down the oncoming driver with a view to handing him the document for delivery to Thornhill.

  Unbeknown to Dad, the airman driver had been drinking and panicked when he recognised his CO’s Staff car. Instead of slowing down, he accelerated. The truck drifted on the corner and passed Dad’s car in a mild broadside with the tail sufficiently off-line for the extended number plate to rip Dad’s arm off just above the elbow.

  The truck roared off into the distance, leaving Dad with not a soul around. He could not easily get the severed arm into the vehicle because it was hanging outside the door on a substantial section of skin. He leaned out with his left hand and managed to bring the arm inside. Blood was spraying everywhere in powerful spurts bringing Dad to the realisation that he would be dead in less than a minute if it continued. The door panel of his American Dodge was made of compressed hardboard. Through this panel he managed to drive the exposed bone and press the flesh tight up against the surface to stem the blood flow. He then drove like the wind for Heany. On arrival at the main gate, the duty provost marshal failed to understand Dad’s frantic calls to lift the security boom. Instead he ambled to the car, looked inside and keeled over in a faint. Dad had no option—he smashed through the boom and drove straight to Station Sick Quarters where he kept his hand on the horn until help arrived. Shocked and now in pain some forty minutes after the accident, he surprised the doctor and Staff by not only remaining conscious but for being fully articulate.

  Reverting to me—the matter of what I wanted to do in life came early. Having passed through the usual stage of wanting to become a driver of the beautiful Garret steam engines that Tony and I loved to watch labouring up the long hill from Salisbury station or racing fast in the opposite direction, I settled for surgery. When I was about nine years old, the war having just ended, Dad and Mum told me that they had booked a place for me at Edinburgh University for 1954.

  When I turned eleven and Tony was nine, our secure little world fell apart. We woke one morning to discover that Mum had left Dad. We loved our parents dearly and simply could not understand why things could not go on as before. In a relatively short time, in a blur of insecurity, uncertainty and confusion, Tony and I learned that Mum and Dad were divorced and that we were going to a boarding school in the Vumba Mountains near Umtali, as founder members of Eagle Preparatory School. When we checked into this brand-new school we found ourselves with another twenty youngsters ranging in age from nine to twelve.

  Frank Carey and his small Staff had come from the Dragon School in Oxford, England, to establish Eagle School. He intended to emulate a style of teaching he knew and believed in. Our environment was wonderful so Tony and I settled in easily, and quickly regained lost confidence. The style of teaching was quite different from that we had known and new subjects, including Latin, French and trigonometry, were brought in immediately.

  Group Captain Berrisford-Pakenham.

  In our first year at Eagle, Mum remarried and moved with her husband, Group Captain Berrisford-Pakenham, to farm in Mkushi in Northern Rhodesia. Dad had bought a farm and lime-works near Cashel Valley in the foothills of Rhodesia’s eastern border mountains. Tony and I alternated our school holidays between Mum and Dad, which was fine for a while but we both hated being away from Mum for such long periods.

  On return to school at the beginning of the second year we learned that Dad had married Joan Shevill who had a daughter of my age and a son of Tony’s age. Jennifer and John were in boarding at Umtali High and Umtali Junior schools, respectively. Our first holiday with the new family on Moosgwe Farm went well, though we were all a bit uncertain of each other. Thereafter relations became strained because Tony and I were only present on alternate holidays and because my stepmother loathed my mother, whom she never ever met.

  Visits to Mum were too wonderful for words. Much of this had to do with the fact that our stepfather, Berry, had gained our absolute trust by never interfering in matters that did not concern him, but always giving sound advice and clear answers to any question we asked.

  Berry had served with the British Border Regiment where he had risen to the rank of colonel. He then switched to the RAF, accepting a considerable loss in seniority simply because he wanted to fly. In the RAF he rose to the substantive rank of group captain. To have achieved the same level of rank in two substantially different forces was a remarkable achievement considering he was only forty-two when he retired from service and immigrated to Rhodesia.

  The ranch on which Berry and Mum farmed, in partnership with two other ex-servicemen, was vast (36,000 acres) and absolutely beautiful. Apart from running big herds of Afrikaner and Red Poll cattle, large quantities of tobacco were grown and cured. We lived in pole and dagga (mud) thatched houses for many months with communal kitchen and dining hall constructed in like manner. Peter, Michael and Marcus Gordon, though younger than Tony and me, were good friends who, like us, enjoyed living in the crude accommodation so much more than the brick homes that came later.

  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.

  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.

 

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