Winds of Destruction

by Peter John Hornby Petter-Bowyer

  A large-calibre musket round had passed through the side of one of the convoy trucks, ripped away half of a soldier’s right buttock, and lodged in the seat between two soldiers sitting opposite him. Buster requested the lead Venom to call in a Twin Pioneer transporter to uplift the casualty back to base.

  For almost an hour we waited for the Pioneer. I did not hear or see this twin-engined high-wing light transport aircraft until it was already rolling along the floor of the wadi. It was amazing to see that it had landed on unprepared ground then picked up the casualty without stopping engines. Immediately the Pioneer took off in a reverse run of no more than 200 metres. Its pilot told Buster on radio that his casualty was all smiles because he knew he would be flying back to Britain before the day was out. “Wait till the morphine wears off, most of the poor bugger’s arse is missing.”

  The rest of the trip to Dhala was uneventful and we spent a pleasant evening with the OC of the Army company we had come to relieve and return to Aden. I was amused to hear the amiable posh-speaking Army major progressively revert to his natural Cockney accent as gins and tonic took effect. The next morning we were on the road again and reached Aden that evening following a disappointingly trouble-free trip.

  On the 16th November 1959, I flew wingman to Varky on a call to strike a specific location near the base of the deep Wadi Adzzh that ran through the highest mountain range northeast of Aden and close to the Saudi border. Terrorists were reported by an ALO to be based up at this specific spot. We ran east along the mountain ridge with Wadi Adzzh on our starboard side. As Varky came abreast of the target location he called “Turning in live" and rolled right into a steep dive down the deep valley. Smoke was streaming from his guns as I followed about 1,500 meters behind him. His strikes were concentrated and easy to see.

  When Varky broke off his attack and pulled up left, I started firing all four 20mm cannons with my sight set high above the target. I had not fired all four cannons together before and revelled in the noise, airframe shudder and the sight of my very first rounds exploding right on target. I was impressed by the length of time the firing continued before all four guns stopped as one.

  I then turned hard to port pulling up sharply to align with the short eastward leg of the wadi. The only route out was straight ahead and over the top of the mountain, because the wadi turned ninety degrees south followed by ninety degrees east that was way too tight a route to follow. As soon as the aircraft was angled for the summit, I realised I was in deep trouble because my speed seemed insufficient to make the ridge ahead. The Mlanje mountain experience in Nyasaland immediately came to mind and my breathing went into overdrive.

  Full power had been applied the moment I pulled out of the attack, so all I could do was aim for the crest and pray. After an agonisingly slow climb, the mountain face was cleared by no more than ten feet and my FB9 was very close to stalling. Having passed the crest in a fifty-degree climb, I was able to allow the aircraft to pitch down to twenty degrees nose-down to regain flying speed. This was achieved very close to the ground on the plateau beyond the ridge, but I was able to breathe normally again. Varky was miles ahead of me turning starboard for base. By turning inside him I caught up quickly enough, but said nothing to Varky about my close shave with the mountain until we were back on the ground.

  In the crew-room I learned that when firing all four cannons the usual speed build-up was severely curtailed, necessitating 7,500 rpm to be set to ensure adequate acceleration throughout the dive, particularly where such a steep climb-out was necessary. I had nearly lost my life for want of such simple yet vital information that I should have been given during my OCU. Immediately the other junior pilots were briefed on this matter.

  The very next day I returned to Wadi Adzzh on a routine armed patrol, this time with Randy du Rand. I ran my eye along the path I had flown the previous day, then along the wadi’s passage south then east to where it broke out onto the desert floor. At this point I saw two camels standing close to a crude single-floor mud building on the desert floor tight up against the base of the mountain. Immediately I turned in to attack the building knowing that terrorists alone were in this area. Four Squash-head rockets were launched and I pulled up really hard to clear the mountain under which the target was sited. When I looked back, I saw the camels running south into the desert but could see nothing of the house because of the dust from the explosions. After one orbit the dust had drifted away and I could see that the house had been flattened but, in almost childish enthusiasm, I turned in again to attack the immediate surrounds with cannon fire. This time I had set the appropriate power and cleared the mountain with ease. So far as I recall, someone on the flat desert had shot at Randy and whilst I was doing my thing he was trying to find the man to give him a ‘snot squirt’.

  When we returned to base I reported my strikes to the operations staff. The RAF Squadron Leader in charge of the Operations Room consulted the map and told me that I had taken on a target just outside the ‘Prescribed Area’. For some reason the area’s eastern boundary had been extended along the wadi’s south leg straight out into the desert. In consequence the final east leg of the wadi opening to the desert plus the eastern corner of the mountain range lay outside of the official ‘no go area’.

  I was really worried that I had made this error but the Squadron Leader, who was not a particularly friendly type, told me not to be concerned. He had no doubts that the target was legitimate. But he gave me hell for not killing the camels with my cannons instead of wasting ammunition on a worthless piece of real estate. He emphasised the need to have taken out these animals because they constituted vital transportation for terrorists. The thought of killing animals with cannon fire appalled me, but this requirement had not been spelled out strongly enough in earlier briefings.

  Set in the old extinct volcanic crater of Shamsham mountain was the Arab town called Crater. We were all advised not to visit this potentially dangerous place that was strictly off limits to all servicemen during the hours of darkness. Nevertheless, Eric Cary and I were keen to make a visit to Crater town and went there by taxi one Thursday afternoon.

  Once through the mountain tunnel leading into the crater, we entered a world of strange sights, sounds and smells. We walked around the narrow streets that bustled with folk moving to-and-fro into open-sided shops and amongst hundreds of street vendors selling an amazing assortment of herbal drugs, vegetables and cooked food. The smells were very inviting but the swarms of flies crawling over prepared food and vendors’ faces dissuaded us from trying anything.

  It was late afternoon when we turned back for the tunnel where the taxi rank was sited. Soon enough we realised that we were lost but unable to communicate with those around us. Panicking somewhat in fast fading light, we eventually picked up our bearings quite close to the taxi rank. It was then that I spotted a man following a short distance behind wearing a thick belt in which was tucked a superb ghambia (curved Arabian fighting knife) with a magnificent jewel-studded black handle showing prominently above the belt-line.

  When I drew Eric’s attention to the weapon, the man slowed to a crawl, his face twisting noticeably into a menacing expression. He continued to move towards us as Eric dived into an open-sided shop urging me, under his breath, to get off the street but I remained mesmerised. Next moment the shopkeeper was calling even more urgently saying I must not, under any circumstances, look at the weapon again. Feeling rather foolish I went in and pretended to be interested in a stack of rubber mats.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man walking slowly by. When he had gone, the shopkeeper who spoke good English told us that there were problems with that specific individual and his bejewelled ghambia. Firstly he was a renowned terrorist who was in town because it was ‘market day’ and secondly, it would have been incumbent upon the man, by custom, to give me his knife had I continued to admire it. In return however, I would be compelled to give him something of equal worth; but I was in no position to do this. Failure t
o produce a reciprocal gift simply meant forfeiture of one’s life. Having been given such sobering information, Eric and I were escorted by the shopkeeper to a taxi, but not before he pressurised us into buying unwanted items from his shop.

  These experiences lead us to ask questions about what the shopkeeper had said concerning ‘market day’. We were told that, in the strange world of British and Arab relations, Thursday was a day when fighting stopped to allow friend and foe to go to market in safety. A recurring Ceasefire existed from midnight Wednesday to midnight Thursday. Whether this very strange arrangement was true, or not, I still cannot say. Nevertheless, my impression of Arabs, developed from stories I had heard before and during the visit to Aden, was not good at all. Any doubts I had then had been totally removed by the goings-on at the RAF’s crude air-weapons range which lay about ten kilometres to the north of RAF Kormaksar. This range was nothing like ours at Kutanga with its beautiful trees and wild game. It was just an area of desert sand set against the beach.

  During weapons training Arabs ran about in the danger area where spent cartridge casings fell from the aircraft. The RAF Range Safety Officers were not too concerned because no amount of effort had succeeded in stopping those people from collecting spent cartridge cases that they sold over the border to Yemeni gun-makers.

  The kinetic energy of a spent 20mm cartridge case reaching ground at speed was lethal. The Arab collectors knew this only too well, but it did not put them off. RAF officers said that when a collector was killed, others would rush to grab the dead man’s bag, dig out the spent cartridge from head or body, and continue collecting as if nothing had happened.

  On any air weapons range there is need for clearly visible targets for pilots to aim at and to measure their accuracy. Old vehicles make good targets because non-explosive practice weapons pass through a vehicle leaving it intact and reusable. Hundreds of hits could be taken before a vehicle fell to bits. But in Aden such a target would be stolen the first night it appeared. Laying down white lime as a marker was a waste of time because the mark disappeared under sand thrown up by just a few strikes. In fact a single 60-pound rocket falling short could totally obliterate a freshly laid lime marker. So, the RAF armourers decided to overcome the problem by building a huge pyramid using old forty-four-gallon drums encased in concrete. This target took a week to build and was guarded day and night for another week to ensure that the concrete had set. However, it only took the first unguarded night for Arab thieves to destroy the entire arrangement and abscond with every single drum. The remaining concrete rubble, rejected as worthless by thieves, was then bulldozed into a heap and used for a while as a viable target.

  In the last week of our detachment I managed to arrange a flight in an RAF photo-reconnaissance Meteor with Flight Lieutenant Munroe. He let me aerobat the twin-engined jet and showed me how to stall-turn the aircraft using power on the outside engine to make the manoeuvre very easy. Next I flew with Flight Lieutenant Morris in a Hunter T7 and experienced supersonic flight for the first time. Going supersonic at height was a bit of an anti-climax but low-flying the Hunter at high speed was really fantastic—though I found the servo-driven controls almost too light and sensitive. One had only to think about a manoeuvre and it seemed to occur instantly.

  Having been away from my pregnant wife for four weeks, I was pleased when the time came to return home to a land of sanity. It was even more pleasing to learn that Varky and I were to fly in the RAF Shackelton that would provide search and rescue cover for No 1 Squadron’s formations between Aden and Nairobi in Kenya. The formations were to route via Addis Ababa in Ethiopia and then on to Nairobi. At Addis Ababa, the jet pilots experienced the horrors of having to let down through cloud that was lower than the mountains surrounding the national airport.

  Apart from the joy of flying low-level in the four-engined bomber-cum-maritime-surveillance Shackelton, it meant that neither Varky nor I would be flying from Nairobi to Thornhill in the back of a Rhodesian Air Force Dakota. The old DC3 made most pilots flying as passengers airsick; a situation that never failed to amuse our strong-stomached technicians.

  When we arrived back in dispersals at Thornhill, the whole station was gathered to welcome us home. I was one of the sweat-stained pilots who climbed down from his aircraft wearing Mae West with mask and helmet pressure lines under wet, dishevelled hair. But I was too busy seeking out Beryl to savour the glamour I had witnessed two years earlier when, as a student pilot, I watched pilots returning from the first Aden detachment.

  At the end of December I took leave to be with Beryl for the arrival of our first-born child. Towards the middle of January it became obvious that the baby was in a breach position and the decision was taken by Doctor Deuchar to make a caesarean delivery on 14 January.

  Deborah Anne was perfect in every way with not a single blemish on her nine pound, six ounce body. Beryl handled the operation like a star, her private ward full to bursting with many flowers and cards from family, friends and clients. It was a special time for both of us.

  Chapter 4

  No 2 Squadron

  ON RETURN TO DUTY I was told that I had been posted, together with Dave Thorne and Keith Corrans, to a re-formed No 2 Squadron. This squadron was to handle all future student training on both piston and jet aircraft. Dave and I were to become instructors on Provosts, Keith on Vampires. The prospect of instructing so early in our careers was both disappointing and pleasing. The disappointment came from having to leave the easygoing lifestyle of an operational squadron; the pleasure was in being considered worthy to become instructors.

  Sitting (left to right): Roy Morris, Keith Corrans, Dave Thorne, Basil Myburgh, Bob Woodward (OC), Chris Dams (Flt Cdr), Pat Meddows-Taylor, Mark Smithdorff and PB. Back Row: Technicians who are named in this book are, from left: Taffy Dowell (2nd) Jimmy Stewart (Sqn WO centre) and Don Annandale (7th) Note: the efficiency of Rhodesian technicians is again amply illustrated in this photograph. One tech for every pilot seems ridiculous. In any other air force this number would not have been less than 3 to 1.

  Flight Lieutenant Bob Woodward being an ex-RAF Central Flying School instructor was a natural choice to command No 2 Squadron with Flight Lieutenant Chris Dams as his second-in-command.

  For the first two months we did very little flying and instructor training was limited to groundwork. This left us with a fair amount of time on our hands, which we occupied in other interests. One of these was fashioning aerobatic model aircraft from balsa wood. Bob Woodward introduced this rather dangerous hobby that involved high-speed launching of these gliders, fashioned to resemble well-known jet aircraft. A five-metre length of heavy elastic line propelled the small aircraft at initial speed somewhere in the region of 250 knots. One man held one end of the elastic with arm stretched high above his head whilst the launcher walked backwards holding the model aircraft. When the elastic was at full stretch some twenty-five metres from the launcher, he made sure wings were level and released the model. Usually the aircraft passed well above the launcher’s head as the aircraft pitched up into a high loop.

  One of my gliders, fashioned to look like an RAF Lightning interceptor, failed to climb when Randy du Rand, visiting from No 1 Squadron, was holding the elastic for me to launch. The aircraft failed to climb immediately and its heavily leaded nose struck the peak of Randy’s Air Force cap, splitting it in two and leaving Randy with a nasty blue lump on his forehead.

  Another activity involved building a ladies’ bar in the grounds of the Officers’ Mess. The Officers’ Mess of RAF times was in the middle of the Married Quarters but the Ministry of Education had commandeered it as a school for retarded children. It was known as Glengary School. The RAF Sergeants’ Mess had been damaged by fire in RAF days and, when refurbished in mid-1958, it became the Officers’ Mess. Close by in the garden of this mess was a building that had become completely overgrown by scrub and bramble.

  Bob and I cut our way through the vegetation to find out what this building was all ab
out. We discovered that it had once been a billiard room that had also suffered fire damage though the walls and roof remained sound. With the blessings of Group Captain Jock Barber, who was Station CO at the time, we set about refurbishing the building.

  In a remarkably short space of time the entire structure and its surrounds took on a new look. Because of my experience in carpentry, it fell to me to build a decent-size bar, construct requisite shelving and install comfortable wall seats. Upon its completion, Bob requested all officers on Station to make submissions from which to select a name for the ladies’ bar. Over a hundred names were offered and one of my submissions was chosen. From then on the ladies’ bar was known as ‘The Grog Spot’; a name that became well known to thousands of military and civilian visitors who enjoyed its special atmosphere and superb parties.

  Death of Jack Roberts

  JACK ROBERTS OF NO 11 SSU had only served on No 1 Squadron as a Staff pilot for six months when, on 1 July 1960, he was reported overdue from a low-level, cross-country flight. An air search was about to be mounted when a telephone call was received from a ranch south of Belingwe mountain. The rancher reported that the sight of a wheel bouncing past him at high speed had shaken him and his trailer-load of workers. When he located the wheel he realised it must have come from an aircraft. In fact it had travelled an incredible distance from Belingwe mountain peak where Jack Roberts had met his death.