Everything was complete, but for Dad’s signature—I even considered forging it but changed my mind. Instead I returned to Mr Burford for advice and this resulted in a consultation with his lawyer. The lawyer pointed out that the unsigned signature block read PARENT/LEGAL GUARDIAN. He drew a line through LEGAL GUARDIAN and told me to send the forms to Northern Rhodesia for my mother’s signature. Mum signed the form in spite of her deep concerns, having lost two brothers to flying with her only surviving brother already serving as a pilot in the Royal Rhodesian Air force.
Mine was one of over 350 applications received for No 10 SSU (Short Service Unit) training. Of these only thirty-five applicants were accepted for the final pilot selection process at New Sarum airbase. I was lucky to be one of these and even luckier to be one of the eighteen candidates to receive instructions to report for pilot training on 3 January 1957.
Chapter 2
Ground Training School
REPORTING FOR SERVICE MUST BE much the same for everyone. I am certain most recruits suffer intense apprehension and a sense of awkwardness while seeking out anyone in civilian clothing looking as unsure and awkward as they feel. I was delighted to find David Thorne whom I had met some months before during the pilot selection process. Together we felt more confident and were soon gathering in our new course mates.
All Rhodesian schoolboys had undergone Army Cadet training at school and the annual cadet camps at Inkomo Barracks. So we instinctively responded to the bellowed command “Fall in”. Before us was the Station Warrant Officer (SWO) Bill Holden, a large ruddy-faced ex-British Royal Marine. Having welcomed us into the RRAF and, following a few words on what we were required to do over the next two days, sixteen men in civvy clothing were doubled-off’ to sign up for service.
Thereafter, we went to Station Equipment section where we drew uniforms and our flying kit, then doubled to the Officers’ Mess single quarters to check into our billets; two cadets to a room. By midday we were being drilled in our unpressed and uncomfortable new uniforms and stiff shoes. The SWO gave all commands in the typical Army way but otherwise he acted somewhat differently to the drill sergeants we had previously known. He used no bad language and acted in a formal yet non-threatening manner.
We were released to our billets in the late afternoon to find all members of No 9 SSU awaiting our arrival. They immediately set out to subjugate us, a recognised prerogative of the senior course. Since they only had two nights before we would be at Thornhill and beyond their clutches, 9 SSU decided to make both nights sheer hell for us.
This course had been at Thornhill for their training and, like us, had only been subjected to the attentions of their predecessors—No 8 SSU—for two nights when they attested for service. The consequence of this was that they had little idea of how to handle a junior course.
The first ‘directive’ issued was that every one of 10 SSU was to have all his hair shaved off. For a short while they thought they had us under control until it came to cutting Gordon Wright’s hair.
Gordon stood back and said, “There is no way I am taking this. If you want to cut my hair you will have to force it on me.”
From me they received a similar response, which was again repeated by Ian Ferguson. The senior course recognised that someone was going to get hurt if they pressed the issue and found a feeble way of doing away with the mandatory haircut. They decided instead to leave things be until we had showered and dressed for dinner.
In the Officers’ Mess, under guidance of young officers who had recently gained their commissions, 9 SSU first challenged 10 SSU to a schooner race. This is a drinking competition involving an equal number of competitors facing each other in two rows. 9 SSU needed six junior officers to match our number.
In a schooner race each contender is given a full tankard of beer and an umpire verifies this. Upon instruction from the umpire, the first two opposing contenders at one end of the line commence drinking their beer as fast as possible with everyone else chanting “down, down, down”. Once a contender has emptied the contents of his tankard down his gullet, he inverts the tankard onto his head, giving signal to the next in line to start downing his beer. The first team to have all tankards inverted on heads is the winner.
For my course there was no chance whatsoever of winning such a race as none of us was a drinker. Most of us had not even started to drink by the time our opposition was through, but we were compelled to down the beer anyway. Having done so, we were committed to a second and then a third race. Even before the third race started every member of 10 SSU was reeling about, most giggling and one ran off to throw up.
We were then subjected to a number of humiliating activities that were of little consequence until it came to the ‘communal trough’. This was an oversized chamber pot filled with beer. Our course was to remain out of sight until called forward, singly, to the circle of baiting officer cadets and junior officers. There, each of us had to lift the pot from the floor, take four large mouthfuls and place the pot on the floor for the next in line. There was great cheering and jeering from our baiters as each of us was called forward to take his turn.
Sergeant McCone.
Flight Lieutenant Parish.
My time came and as I lifted the pot I saw two turds floating in the beer. Instinctively the pot was lowered until I realised that they were in fact two over-cooked sausages. I took four gulps and put the pot down. The very last of our number failed the test when he puked directly into the pot. At this point our course turned as one and walked away. Commands to return to order were met by somewhat drunkenly uttered “force us if you can” challenges.
We were left alone. 9 SSU had failed miserably to subjugate us and we remembered this when, one year later, 11 SSU became our juniors in very different circumstances.
Our flight to Thornhill next day was by Dakota. My uncle, Flight Lieutenant Bill Smith, whom I have already mentioned, skippered this aircraft. Before the flight Bill had told me to keep our relationship to myself for my own good. This I did. Once airborne he invited all members of the course to go up to the cockpit in pairs where he explained instrument layout and answered many questions. The flight ended all too soon with our arrival in dispersals at Thornhill.
A truck drove up to the aircraft and its driver, a sergeant in Army uniform with a small dog, instructed us to load our kit onto the vehicle. Having done this the sergeant told us to fall in. He then introduced himself in a gentle manner as Sergeant McCone and even told us the name of his canine companion. He said he was our Drill Instructor (DI) for the duration of the course and welcomed us to Thornhill—all very soothing.
We expected to be told to climb onto the truck to be driven to our quarters. Not so! The DI’s quiet voice suddenly switched to that of an Army drill instructor. We were moved off at the double, our standard speed when moving from point to point… for months to come. As we turned to run past a hangar, Sergeant McCone gave the thumbs-up signal to a man, the actual driver of the truck, who had been waiting out of sight.
We ran to our quarters and saw that Thornhill was a neatly laid-out station, with tree-lined roads. Other than a handful of brick buildings, most were constructed of corrugated iron. All the roofs were red and the walls cream. We ran past the guardroom then over the main Gwelo-Umvuma road and rail line running parallel to Thornhill’s long southern boundary fence.
This led us into the large married quarters, which we could see were all brick-under-tile homes set in well-treed grounds. We then wheeled into the driveway of No 1 Married Quarters and were brought to a halt in front of the verandah where Flight Lieutenant Parish stood waiting to address us.
He introduced himself as the Officer Commanding Ground Training School (OC GTS), responsible for all our activities during the first four months of our Initial Training School (ITS) phase. He said that once flying training commenced in May, we would fall under OC 4 Squadron for the Basic Flying Training School (BFS) but he would continue to be responsible for all our ground schooling thr
oughout our two years of training. We were told that Vampires were scheduled to arrive at Thornhill for the Advanced Flying School (AFS) in January 1958), twelve months hence.
The house before which we stood rigidly to attention was being used as the temporary Officers’ Mess. Four houses back from the Mess were our quarters. Flight Lieutenant Parish read out our names and the number of the house to which each of us was allocated. It being Sunday, we were instructed to go to our quarters, sort out our kit and return to the Mess for lunch in casual attire. The afternoon was free.
I shared a house with David Thorne, Bill Galloway and Robin Brown. How he had managed it I cannot recall, but Dave Thorne’s MG was parked outside the house. He invited us to accompany him for a look around Gwelo town, some four miles away.
During my apprenticeship in Umtali I had met, and thereafter dated, Pat Woods. For over two years we did everything together and spent much time exploring the mountainous eastern districts on my AJS 500 motorcycle. Her family always made me feel very welcome in their home.
When Pat went off to Teachers’ Training College in Grahamstown, South Africa, I felt pretty lost riding alone down back roads and through forests. Then one day a tubby blonde female who was at college with Pat told me that Pat was having a gay old time with the college boys in Grahamstown. I was shaken but, believing what I had heard, immediately wrote to Pat terminating our association. Pat made many attempts to get me back, but I stubbornly refused.
Because I had been very distressed over Pat, I vowed to myself that I would not get involved with a woman until I had completed pilot training. Looking back on events it still amuses me that I met my wife-to-be during that very first visit to Gwelo on that very first day at Thornhill, not that I realised this at the time.
Gwelo was the fourth largest town in Rhodesia and on this Sunday it appeared to be deserted. Having driven around a while we spotted a place called the Polar Milk Bar and dropped in for milkshakes. The pretty redhead with a big smile behind the counter was very pleasant and introduced herself as Beryl. Once I had received my drink, I went to a table and looked out of the window onto the dismal street while my three course mates engaged Beryl in conversation.
About two weeks had passed when we heard that a major dance was to take place in Gwelo. Dave, Bill and Robin were keen to go but needed to find dates for the occasion. They decided Beryl was the person to help and that I, being the oldest member in our house, should do the talking. Even knowing that I had no desire to find a date or to go to the dance, they cajoled me into helping them.
We went to the Polar Milk Bar but found another lady there instead. Cleo Pickolous told us that Beryl Roe was a hairdresser friend who had been standing in for her on the afternoon we had met, so she gave us directions to Beryl’s home. Mr and Mrs Roe met us at the front door and seemed to be incredibly pleased to see us. I was taken through to the lounge to talk to Beryl while my younger mates stayed in the sun lounge chatting with her folks.
Beryl, whom I judged to be about twenty-six years of age, seemed mildly perplexed by my request to find dates for my three course mates—yet not asking her for a date myself. Nevertheless, she was helpful and all was duly arranged. We left and I thought no more about the matter.
Our day at Thornhill started at 5:30 a.m. with a walk to the Mess for coffee, after which the week’s course commander, a duty we all took in turn, formed us up. We then doubled off to collect weapons for morning drill, which commenced at 6 a.m.
Sergeant McCone was always standing to attention awaiting our arrival, his dog sitting patiently close by. Without fail, he consulted his wristwatch as we came to a halt in front of him. For a solid hour we responded to his bellowing and binding which, happily, reduced in proportion to improvements in our standards of drill and dress. At 7:30 we handed in our weapons and were always ravenously hungry by the time we had run back for an excellent breakfast.
With the exception of Ian Ferguson, all my course mates were either directly out of school or had gained Matric Exemption twelve months earlier. So, from Day One I realised that my premature removal from school, with three years out of an academic environment, would present major challenges for me. My problem areas were essentially mathematics, English grammar and spelling. The practical subjects of engines, airframes, instruments, radio, airmanship, meteorology, navigation and so on, were fine.
The pass mark required for every examination paper was 70%, providing the average for all subjects was over 75%. I met these criteria at the end of each month, but only just. Many years passed before I gained access to my personal training file at Air HQ and found that Flight Lieutenant Parish, insofar as my weak subjects were concerned, likened me to a tube of toothpaste: “Press Petter-Bowyer here and a bulge appears in a different place.”
We were in our sixth week of training when I broke my right ankle on our way to morning drill. As with most days, the dawn was quite splendid. All colours of the rainbow painted the early morning cirrus stratus, adding a special dimension to the crisp, clean, highveld air. I diverted attention for just a moment to look at the sky while we were running next to the service railway line that brought fuel trains into Thornhill. In so doing I failed to see the displaced rock that twisted my ankle.
In agony I was taken to SSQ where the doctor found that a section of bone had broken away from my heel and was being held apart from its rightful place by the ligament of the calf muscle. After treatment and with my leg in a plaster cast, I was ordered to bed for one week. Of all the members of my course, I was the least able to handle a full week off lectures. I feared that my misfortune might result in my failing ITS, even though Dave Thorne did his best to keep me abreast of what was being covered.
I had been laid up for a couple of days when Flight Sergeant Reg Lohan, the Officers’ Mess caterer, came to my room to say that a young lady had called and would be visiting me that afternoon. I went into a cold sweat believing Pat Woods had tracked me down again and I lay wondering how I was going to a handle this unhappy situation.
When Beryl Roe breezed into my room with Flight Sergeant Lohan, I was very relieved. She was an easy person to relate to and we discussed all sorts of things without any loss for words or subjects. Flight Sergeant Lohan sent us a tray with tea and cakes, which Beryl said was “so sweet of him.” Then the guys came back from classes and, without consulting me, they suggested to Beryl that we all go to the cinema that evening. Beryl accepted and persuaded me to go along. What an awful night! I was in agony with my foot on the floor, so Beryl insisted I lift it, plaster cast and all, onto her lap. We both agonised through the show and I was happy when the evening came to an end. Thereafter Beryl and I saw each other regularly, but only after she had shown me her passport to prove that she was nineteen years old and not twenty-six as I had thought.
Back row: Scrubbed, Ian Ferguson, Murray Hofmeyr, Peter Petter-Bowyer, Ian Law. Centre: Scrubbed, Scrubbed, Scrubbed, Dave Thorne, John Barnes, Scrubbed. Front: Eric Cary, Gordon Wright, Keith Corrans, Scrubbed, Bill Galloway.
Auv Raath, PB and Dave Thorne.
On my twenty-first birthday we got engaged, before attending a dining-in at the Mess. Arranged by my course mates and Flight Sergeant Lohan to celebrate my coming-of-age it turned out to be an engagement celebration as well. So much for having nothing to do with women before completing pilot training!
Our Commanding Officer was Squadron Leader Doug Whyte—a superb individual who enjoyed the respect of everyone who ever met him.
He came to lecture us about the dangers of ‘crew-room bragging’, a real killer in any Air Force. With the aid of photographs taken of a fatal flying accident in the Thornhill Flying Training Area the previous year, the Squadron Leader pressed home his message to us. With our flying training about to commence he urged us all to exercise responsibility towards each other and never to brag or challenge others into unauthorised flying activities. The death of 9 SSU Officer Cadet Nahke had been the direct result of a crew-room bragger’s challenge to a tail-
chase. In a steep turn, Nahke had probably entered the bragger’s slipstream and paid an awful price for his inexperience. The loss of a valuable aircraft and the unnecessary pain caused to a grieving family was simply too high a price to pay for sheer stupidity. The CO’s message was firmly embedded in all of us.
PB and Beryl at Great Zimbabwe.
Two of our numbers were ‘scrubbed’ on the grounds of poor officer-potential and fourteen of us passed on to the BFS (Basic Flying School) phase. During the two weeks preceding BFS we had spent most of our free time in Provost cockpits learning the various routines and emergency drills that we were required to conduct blindfold. During this time we anxiously awaited news of who our personal flying instructors would be.
Basic Flying School
WE KNEW ALL OF THE instructors by sight and for weeks had heard the exciting sound of the Provosts on continuation training as instructors honed up their instructional skills.
One instructor had the reputation of being an absolute terroriser of student pilots, so we all feared being allocated to this strongly accented South African, Flight Lieutenant Mick McLaren. Murray Hofmeyr and I were the unlucky ones and everyone else breathed a sigh of relief.
Mick McLaren.
The Percival Provost had replaced the Mk2 Harvards as the basic trainer and was quite different in many ways. The most important difference was that the Provost had side-by-side seating as opposed to the tandem arrangement of the Harvard. This permitted a Provost instructor to watch every movement his student made, which was not possible in the Harvard because the instructor’s instrument panel obstructed view of the front cockpit.
Winds of Destruction Page 4
