My position was changing rapidly as I battled to fathom out a heading to steer for Thornhill. It probably only took a minute but it seemed like an eternity as I dithered to come to a firm decision to steer a true heading of 290 degrees. Strangely that decision had a calming effect as I looked east to find the distinctive star pattern of Orion’s Belt.
This very distinct star group consists of three evenly spaced and equally bright stars set in a straight line (the belt), with another line of lesser stars on the south side (the sword) that points to the centre of the three bright stars. If a line is taken from the southernmost of the lesser stars through the northernmost of the bright stars and extended to the horizon, this is True North in the period December to January. I turned port to align with True North.
Using my port wing and the nose as reference I assessed where 290 degrees was, selected a star on that line and turned to head for this star. No cumulus formation appeared to lie directly in the path between my destination and me and, odd though it may seem, I was certain that I would arrive directly over Thornhill with plenty of fuel to spare.
Approximately three minutes before my expected time overhead Thornhill I noticed that stratocumulus lying in the shadow of a cumulonimbus mass was glowing from a lighted area beneath it. This I knew must be Gwelo, and Thornhill would be at the edge nearest to me. Not daring to change power from the 9,500 rpm I had set for cruise I pitched the nose down to a comfortable descent angle and turned the trim wheel progressively forward to cater for the increasing speed. The aircraft was correctly trimmed and the speed was stable by the time I was over the illuminated cloud.
A twenty-degree turn to port was then established. Around and around the lighted area I went in the descent, with the aircraft passing in and out of the moon’s shadow until the entire orbit at a lower level was in the shadow of the huge cloud. Flight was smooth and I had frozen both hands on the spade grip of the control column to prepare for the blind passage through cloud.
Entry came in an unexpected rush. It was slightly turbulent and I held my breath when I heard the speed increasing. I dared not move a muscle for what seemed like a long time with the noise of the airflow steadily rising. As suddenly as the aircraft had entered cloud in a controlled manner, it exited fast and steep with about ninety degrees of port bank. The lights of town were so close as I rolled right to pull out of the dive, breathing like a racehorse, only to shoot straight back into cloud. I pressed forward hard and emerged out of cloud and turned left again to stay over the lights of the town.
Still hyperventilating, I cruised at low level around and around the town attempting to orient myself on the landmarks of Gwelo. Nothing fitted until I noticed a high mast on the edge of the town. I must have done at least six turns before I realised that this high mast fitted Que Que, not Gwelo. Now I knew I was about seven minutes away from base and felt certain I would get there with some fuel to spare.
The aircraft had settled into a steady trimmed state and I had regained control of my breathing as I swept around at about 280 knots in relative safety with Que Que town about 500 feet below me and the lighted cloud base 100 feet above. I knew this would change the moment I set course for base but there was no time to spare.
Knowing that the road from Gwelo ran right next to the mast on entry into Que Que, I was able to establish the line of the main road by the lights of vehicles approaching Que Que from Gwelo. I rolled out along the road line and flew straight into blackness. Barely sufficient moonlight was illuminating stratus to help me keep wings level, but the cloud base itself was indistinct. For about a minute all seemed well until vehicle lights were lost as I entered cloud. I pushed out gingerly and, as I saw vehicle lights again, I also saw, way off, the faint glow of Gwelo lighting the low cloud base. Suddenly the glow was lost and I knew I had dropped below high ground along this route so I pulled up smartly, saw the glow momentarily and lost it as I entered cloud, yet again.
Deep breathing set in once more as I eased down. Out of cloud the glow came back brighter and even the cloud base became more distinct. From here on I was safe. When the actual lights of Gwelo were visible I could work out where Thornhill lay. I picked up the moving tail-light of a Vampire on final approach for runway 13. This helped me find the runway lights but I could see I was closing on the Vampire very rapidly.
Only when I was sure of making the runway did I throttle right back and selected undercarriage down when the reducing speed sounded right. With no flap and rolling onto the runway much too fast, I held to the extreme right edge of the runway to overtake the Vampire I had seen on finals. Having turned off the runway I taxied to dispersals where a marshaller, waiting for the aircraft behind me, was surprised to see another Vampire, with no lights, roll into view in the illuminated dispersal area.
In response to the marshaller’s signals, I made the first turn towards the hard-standing and had just commenced the second turn when the engine quit. The marshaller, thinking I had deliberately closed down the engine, was visibly annoyed as he moved over to bring in the next aircraft.
Flight Lieutenant Colin Graves was in the T11 that taxied in behind me. Squadron Leader Dicky Bradshaw had recalled him from his sortie because the Air Traffic Controllers at Thornhill, Salisbury and Bulawayo had been unsuccessful in their attempts to establish communications with me. Radar contact with an aircraft, presumed to be mine had been seen flying some distance to the north-east of Thornhill, was lost in the vicinity of Que Que.
Colin’s relief at seeing me was obvious and he had not seen my unlit aircraft overtake him on the runway. I told him I had experienced total electrical failure, followed by emergency light failure and the disintegration of my pocket torch before he noticed that my hands and body were shaking. He arranged some very sweet black coffee for me and made me sit down in his office while he made calls to ATC and OC Flying to let them know I was safe. In listening to what he had to say to OC Flying, I realised that I had survived a freak situation.
When Colin had listened to the whole story he asked me why I had not diverted to Salisbury Airport. Everyone attending night-flying briefing, including me, had heard that Salisbury would be free of cloud. I felt such a fool but had to admit that in my state of near-panic I had given this obvious solution to my problem no thought whatsoever. What a way to build up experience!
The third incident occurred when Bill Galloway and I were in the flying area, flying pairs-formation exercises. Another formation of four Vampires had taken off about forty minutes after us. We were both flying FB9s and had already descended to low-level on return to base when warned that two heavy thunderstorms were merging into one massive storm so rapidly, that Thornhill would be engulfed in torrential rain before we could get down.
There was insufficient fuel to divert to another airfield, so we were instructed to hold off for about fifteen minutes when the storm was expected to clear. Bill was leading and immediately reduced power to 6,500 rpm to conserve fuel. Had we been warned of the storms two minutes earlier we would certainly have remained at high altitude where a lower fuel-consumption rate would have allowed us to divert to Bulawayo.
We orbited a little away from the edge of the dark rain line nearest to the end of runway 31 until it became clear to us that the storm was moving so slowly that we would be out of fuel before it cleared. So Bill requested that the runway lights be switched on to maximum brightness for a landing in rain. He then lined up on two references he assured me were on a direct line with the runway.
We had both lowered undercarriage and flaps when Bill disappeared from my view into heavy rain. I entered it about five seconds later. Visibility through the FB9’s armour-glass was poor in such heavy rain, but out of the corner of my eye I saw the rail and road pass under the aircraft and picked up the blur of runway lights a little to my left. Having landed, I could just make out a large white blob of spray ahead with Bill’s wing tips showing on each side. Seeing this, I instinctively moved to raise the flaps to reduce any damage from the high-pres
sure spray coming off the main wheels. As I did so, my nose wheel collapsed and the aircraft skidded along the runway noisily in a steep nose-down attitude. When the aircraft came to a halt, I advised the controllers that my nose wheel had collapsed on landing and that I was on the extreme right-hand side of the runway, well clear of the centre line.
Fire engines emerged out of the gloom as I climbed out onto the runway. The tarmac surface was so close that I did not have to await extrication of the fuselage footstep for the usual climb down to ground. Having pulled the canopy closed, I ran across to the nearest fire vehicle in heavy rain. When I looked back at the FB9, my heart sank. Not only had the nose wheel collapsed, both main wheels were partially retracted and pressed against the runway surface. Flight Sergeant Jimmy Dumas, the senior fire-fighter, followed me back to the aircraft. I slid the canopy open and we both looked in to see the positions of the flap and undercarriage levers. Both were fully down.
Jimmy Dumas took me back to the control tower, which was halfway along the runway and set back about 300 metres. No sooner had I climbed the steps up to the third storey and into the actual control tower than Wing Commander Wilson came running up the steps and it stopped raining. He passed me not saying a word and set about ensuring the safe return of the airborne formation.
Watching the CO go about his business with the two controllers at their consoles, I wondered where I stood. My FB9, now clearly visible, was lying on its belly because of my own error. Added to this were my secret marriage, hypoxia, flame-out and electrical failure at night—all so close together that I felt the CO might give up on me now.
Flight Lieutenant Mac Geeringh, the ever-helpful friend to students, took me aside. Mac had originally served with the South African Air Force and had seen service in Korea where the loss of a nipple on his chest bore witness to one of the injuries he sustained when his Mustang fighter-bomber struck a landmine on a taxiway. He asked me what had happened.
I told Mac how I went to raise flaps but obviously moved the undercarriage lever instead. The downward forces when the fuselage dropped onto the runway would have brought my arm down and reset the undercarriage lever into the ‘down’ position.
Without hesitation Mac Geeringh told me not to say a word about this. “Just say the undercarriage collapsed on landing. Say not a word about lifting flap. Too much has happened to you already. Take no chances.”
Although I understood what Mac was saying—and why—I decided to repeat to the CO exactly what I had told Mac. I am glad I did.
Wing Commander Wilson knew that the undercarriage lever should have locked the moment the weight of the aircraft was on the wheels. He told me not to be too concerned for the moment because he had initiated a technical investigation to establish why the micro-switch in the undercarriage bay failed to energise the lock plunger on the undercarriage-operating lever. The answer to the CO’s queries was given by the STO (Senior Technical Officer) very promptly. He reported that the micro-switch on the port oleo worked normally until subjected to high-pressure water spray.
Notwithstanding the technical defect, I felt very embarrassed about this incident because I had been taught never to tamper with flap or undercarriage controls on the ground. Not long after this, Keith Corrans, flying with his instructor John Mussell, made an unavoidable wheels-up landing in a TII because of a punctured port wheel jamming the undercarriage in the retracted position. I have to say that when I saw this aircraft lying on its belly on the runway, I did not feel quite so bad about my cock-up, even though mine had been caused by my own piloting error.
Keith’s T11 belly-landing.
Shortly after this our operational conversion was complete and all ten members of my course were offered a Medium Service Commission for regular service in the Royal Rhodesian Air Force. Nine of us accepted. Ian Ferguson opted to return to his first love, farming. This meant that No 10 SSU, with a 90% return on training costs, became the most fruitful of any SSU course ever trained by the Royal Rhodesian Air Force.
Beryl and I went on Christmas leave to Northern Rhodesia where Mum and Berry met Beryl for the first time. We had collected my grandmother on our way through Salisbury and returned her there, having enjoyed a magnificent time at Mkushi.
Chapter 3
No 1 Squadron
ON 3 JANUARY 1959 WE returned from Christmas leave and I was very pleased to learn that I had been posted to No 1 Squadron together with Dave Thorne, Eric Cary, Bill Galloway and Keith Corrans. Before being split up to go our various ways, my course was summoned to Wing Commander Wilson’s office to take commissioning oaths and sign a ten-years’ Medium Service contract. (On completion of ten years, one could apply for permanent service.)
Only after this had been done did the CO tell Group HQ about my marriage. As expected, he got one hell of a rocket for withholding this information for five long months. The next day I was called to his office again to be told that I would be called to Group HQ in the near future for an interview with the Chief of Air Staff, Air Vice-Marshal Ted Jacklin. In the meanwhile I was to get on and establish myself as a useful squadron pilot.
No 1 Squadron was a regular-sized squadron in terms of its fifteen pilots but was very short staffed on the technical side with only thirteen technicians led by a frosty, no-nonsense old timer Scot, Flight Sergeant Jimmy Stewart, who was the NCO in charge of all technical matters.
Flight Lieutenant Colin Graves commanded the squadron with Bob Woodward (ex-RAF Central Flying School) and Flying Officer Norman Walsh as his flight commanders. Three of the PAIs who had instructed my course on weapons, Randy du Rand, Justin Varkevisser and Peter McClurg, remained with No 1 Squadron. Basil Green, Eddie Wilkinson, Ted Stevenson and Mike Reynolds made up the balance of our numbers.
Frank Mussell, Ted Brent and Brian Horney had been posted off the squadron to join other pilots for a conversion onto Canberra bombers at RAF Bassingborne in the UK. Sandy Mutch also left the squadron for a Staff position in Group HQ.
Thornhill worked different hours to both Group HQ and New Sarum. The aircrew workday commenced at 06:30 in the station briefing room where OC Flying covered any non-routine events. This was followed by that day’s meteorological forecast given by the resident meteorologist, Mr Harvey Quail. Thereafter everyone went about his normal business and regular work ceased at 13:30.
Everyone was free to do his own thing in the afternoon. For the most part this involved sports followed by a few drinks in the all ranks Sports Club or within individual messes. A pilot’s life in those days seemed to be more like being on permanent holiday than working for a living.
Interview with Commander
I HAD BEEN DREADING MY INTERVIEW with the Air Force Commander, which occurred on 3 February 1959. Having been authorised to fly myself to New Sarum in a T11 for the occasion, I was pleased to be approached by Mike Reynolds who wanted a lift to attend to private business in Salisbury. We landed at New Sarum a whole hour ahead of my 10:00 appointment and Mike raced off immediately saying he should be back at lunchtime.
Because I was so nervous about the interview, Beryl had approached a chemist friend who gave her a small white tranquilliser tablet and a larger one to offset drowsiness induced by the first. These were to be taken thirty minutes before my interview.
Ten minutes before due time I reported to Group Captain Harold Hawkins. This large, good-looking man was much gentler than I had expected. He told me to relax and said, “The old man is going to give you a going over like you will never have to face again. But don’t worry, all will be fine." ‘Harry the Hawk’, as he was known, was not to know that I was so relaxed by the tranquilliser tablet I had taken twenty minutes earlier that my fears were all but gone.
AVM Jacklin.
At precisely 10 o’clock I was ushered into the Chief of Air Staff’s office. I had only seen this revered man once before at our Wings Parade and the Wings Ball that followed it. Having saluted him I remained at attention in front of his desk. Looking me straight in the eye, the CAS star
ted off in a quiet voice with the words, “So you are the puppy who chose to disobey Air Force regulations and undermined the standards of my Air Force!” His voice rose steadily as he lectured me on his intolerance to indiscipline and had resorted to thumping his desk with his fist to emphasise points by the time he had come to shouting his words.
The tranquilliser’s effects on me made everything seem quite unreal. I was taking in the words and the scene thinking: ‘He is really having to work at raising his anger.’
The next moment the Commander started to cough and reached into a drawer for a small container from which he inhaled spray. Later I learned that he was an asthmatic but at that moment he was red-faced and struggling for breath. I remained dead still knowing instinctively that I would be doing the wrong thing to offer help. The CAS was still struggling to breathe when I said, “Sir, may I tell you my story." He nodded and signalled me to sit down.
By the tine I had finished telling him how and why I had married Beryl, the CAS had fully regained his composure. His first words were very reassuring. “Son, I am so pleased you did not have to get married and that your wife is not pregnant now. I hate shotgun marriages in my force.”
For over forty minutes AVM Jacklin, all the time referring to me as “son”, told me all about his plans and dreams for “my Air Force”. He ended up by saying I was to take six weeks’ paid leave so that Beryl and I could put our lives into good order.
The Commander then telephoned Mr Lionel Harris of Bannett and Harris, a well-known, high-quality furniture shop in Salisbury, and requested that he attended to our needs; the Air Force would stand guarantor to Beryl and me. He told me I was to ensure that we set out in our married life with the best-quality furniture and a good clean home. Today, over forty years on, we still have much of the furniture we bought from Bannett and Harris in 1959 and Beryl has always kept a very clean home.
Winds of Destruction Page 9
