Winds of Destruction

by Peter John Hornby Petter-Bowyer

  One morning Captain Neves, their OC, gave the whole company a pep-talk, telling them that convoys were going to be sent out on the three roads that led out of Chicoa to locate mines. This was a good plan—except for one small drawback—the intention was to discover the mines by hitting them. The plan also required volunteers to drive the vehicles. As these vehicles were not mine-protected, the volunteers were, in effect, going to their deaths. The troops got into a huddle and a group of volunteers stepped forward to loud applause from their comrades. They boarded the vehicles and drove off. Within the hour we were called on to pick up the casualties and drop trackers to search for spoor but, even in the case of freshly laid mines, the rains soon washed any evidence away. The young people lost their lives needlessly but this did not seem to bother the officers. After a few days the exercise was called off—there were no more vehicles. There was one concession, however. The drivers of the Bedford trucks were allowed to remove the bonnets because if they hit a land mine the bonnets would flip back and crush the driver!

  Then we were off again on our ‘magical mystery tour’, on this occasion to the picturesque resort of Tembue, an Army camp encircled by a few mud huts. We were billeted in a corrugated-iron shed, which had a hessian partition across the middle to separate the officers from the other ranks. A short walk found us at the officers’ mess, next to which was an open kitchen in which the chef was preparing our evening meal, surrounded by a host of flies. A severely undernourished cow, which should have been put out of its misery months ago, was tethered nearby. On the second day, we returned to camp to find the cow missing. We decided not to risk it, so we dined on corned beef and ‘dog’ biscuits washed down with copious amounts of cerveja (beer). The following morning the cow reappeared, so we needn’t have worried, but the threat was ever-present that she would one day go missing for good.

  Animal incidents

  FOR THE MOST PART RHODESIAN troops were pretty bored with border-control routines though the abundance of wild life often helped break the monotony. The Zambezi Valley teamed with wild game in the early 1960s before they became disrupted by terrorist and security force activities, which forced some to move to quieter regions; many elephants crossed the Zambezi River for the tranquillity of Zambia.

  On a number of occasions we saw soldiers swimming in deep water close to sandy beaches along the Zambezi River. From our helicopter my technicians and I could see the semicircle of large crocodiles lying submerged in close proximity to the naked men. Every radioed warning was ignored because experience had shown the troops that, if a group of people remained close together, crocodiles kept their distance. If however anyone separated from the group, or was alone, crocodiles would attack. A number of men were lost to crocodiles in this way, including some members of SAP operating in the Victoria Falls area.

  Situations of confrontation between soldiers and big game occasionally induced friction between National Parks and the military, particularly when charging animals were gunned down. There were also situations in which the Army shot for the pot and to produce biltong (dried meat) in quantities exceeding Parks’ approval. But the presence of game had its lighter side.

  A high-ranking aged policeman flew into Mana Pools during a joint-force inspection tour of border-control units. He was a keen photographer and left the helicopter immediately on arrival to take photographs of a large lone bull elephant he had spotted from the air just before landing. This was ‘Twinkle Toes’ who was well known to the locals, but not to this policeman.

  Some months earlier Twinkle Toes had been darted by National Parks rangers to record his vital statistics and to mark him with a large white painted number for ease of tracing his movements. Before the recovery drug was administered, the rangers had a bit of fun painting the big jumbo’s toes in a variety of bright colours; hence his nickname.

  When the visiting team was ready to fly on to their next port of call they could not find the aged policeman. A quick search around found Twinkle Toes circling the base of a large, straight-trunked tree. He had taken exception to the clicking of the camera and had charged the policeman who was now perched out of reach amongst the high branches. The jumbo was chased off but no amount of persuasion could get the policeman to slide down the huge, straight and smooth tree trunk. Use of the helicopter’s hoist was discounted because of the density of the tree’s foliage. How he managed to climb the tree the aged policeman could not explain; how he eventually came down I do not remember.

  At Mana Pools there was a treetop lodge whose owner spent the six coolest months of the year running a game-viewing business and the rest of the year at his home in England. I landed at the treetop lodge to conduct one of multiple location tests on an SSB radio unit that had been specially developed for deployment by helicopter. It so happened that this coincided with the impending departure of the owner of the lodge who was packing up for his return to Britain. Since he had so much curry in his fridge he asked my technician and me to take lunch with him on the high balcony that overlooked the Zambezi River.

  Having set up the SSB aerials and tested the set with satisfactory calls to Air HQ, we left the equipment in situ and went off for a leisurely lunch because we had two whole hours to waste before the next radio test. We had finished eating and were chatting when I asked my tech to check on the aircraft, which was out of sight to us. Immediately hesaw the helicopter he called saying, “Just take a look at this!” Surrounding the helicopter was a herd of about fifty jumbos, huge to tiny, all sniffing and feeling the helicopter and laid-out equipment with their trunks. There was nothing we coulddo because forcing the big fellows to move away might have caused damage. Seeing one large trunk wrapped around the flimsy plastic hydraulic fluid reservoirs of the main rotor blade dampers worried me. When the elephants moved off we went down to inspect for damage. None was found though there were snot marks covering everything and our slimy helmets and masks stank strongly of jumbo.

  Mick Grier had just landed troops in the Zambezi Valley when, out of the corner of his eye, he detected movement. The next moment a large angry black rhino bull burst out of the bush charging directly at the helicopter. Mick, who had a good sense of humour, told me how, “With one graceful fluid flowing movement, I applied full collective and watched the beast pass inches under the aircraft.” Luckily the rhino did not notice the two soldiers he had barely missed and, with horns and tail held high, followed Mick who drew him away to a safe distance from the men on the ground.

  An ambush was hastily laid by an RLI callsign on the extended line of terrorist tracks that were being followed by another RLI callsign. After a long uncomfortable night the ambushers were looking forward to daylight when they all became aware of noiseless movements bang in the middle of their ‘killing ground’. They waited tensely for their officer to spring the ambush. The officer was fully aware of the movement but was waiting for it to reach a point directly in front of him when the movement ceased and everything went still.

  A very light breeze was blowing from the ambush position towards the killing ground. Had this not been so, the troops would have been aware of the unmistakable, pungent smell of the pride of lions that lay facing them. Only when there was sufficient light did the soldiers find themselves staring straight into the eyes of a line of big cats that faced them with curiosity wrinkled on their big faces. After what seemed a very long time the officer fired a single shot into the air. The lions moved as one with deep-throated growls of protest as they turned and disappeared with mighty leaps into the safety of their habitat.

  The Army base at Kariba was set on the edge of Kariba Heights giving it a superb west-facing view of Lake Kariba whose closest shore lay 1,400 feet below at the base of the mountain. I was talking with Army friends on the verandah of the Officers’ Mess and enjoying the beauty of a sunset when I received a mighty blow between my legs that laid me flat on the ground and writhing in agony. I had no sooner been downed than a wet grunting snout pushed at my ear and neck. This wasyoung ‘Oink’ the
warthog who had introduced himself with that mighty upward thrust into my crutch. Only Archie Wilson’s handshake compared with the agony of this encounter.

  Oink had been found abandoned by Border Control troops who took him into their care and brought him to Kariba Heights as a baby. Oink wandered around the camp like a dog and was very spoilt. His in-built habit of thrusting upward with his snout was well known to the inhabitants who knew better than to stand with legs apart when he was around. Many unwary visitors received the same welcome as myself, which amused the Army no end. When, however, Oink’s tusks started to grow he became too dangerous to have around and was handed into the care of a Karoi farmer.

  Oink being given a drink of beer by Air Force Radio Technician, Ray Hooper.

  The Kariba Heights base had a variety of animals over time, two of which were confirmed alcoholics. A dog and a baboon visited the pubs every evening and wandered around begging for beer. The young soldiers poured portions of their drinks into bowls from which these two animals drank. It did not take too much to make either the dog or the baboon drunk yet they continued to be plied with beer until they disappeared into the night to sleep it off. Badly hungover next morning, these animals behaved differently but their plight was all too obvious. The dog slept in the darkest places indoors whilst the baboon spent much of the morning hunched up in the shade of a tree with his hands over his eyes emitting occasional grunts. By midday they were fine and in the evening they returned to the pub.

  Fish may not necessarily rate as animals, but I found one fishing incident amusing. It involved an NCO of RLI who was a dedicated and capable fisherman. He invited another RLI colleague who had never fished before to accompany him in a small boat to do some fishing on Lake Kariba. This novice experienced all the frustrations of ‘bird’s nest’ tangles and hooking himself whilst attempting to cast his lure. Then, more by accident than skill, he hooked a small Tiger fish. The experienced fisherman warned him to be careful in boating his fish because of its razor-sharp teeth, but in his excitement the novice lost his top dentures, which flip-flopped down through the clear water until lost from sight in the dark depths. With first success having been achieved, the experienced fisherman let his friend continue as he prepared to fish for vundu. When he landed a medium-sized vundu, he hit on the idea of pulling his friend’s leg. He stuck the vundu a lethal blow to the head and placed his own dentures in the vundu’s large mouth. “Hey look, Charlie, this vundu has your false teeth.” His friend’s eyes lit up as he took the dentures saying, “Gee that’s great.” But then he looked at them again, and said, “No these aren’t mine!” and threw them over his shoulder. Flip-flop, down they went to join his own dentures in the watery depths.

  Death of Don Annandale

  SOUTH AFRICAN POLICE HELICOPTERS HAD been operating in Rhodesia ever since they first appeared during Operation Nickel. With further SAANC incursions giving rise to Ops Cauldron and Griffin, their numbers were increased to six SAP Alouettes, all of which were flown by South African Air Force pilots. Peter Briscoe had been one of these until, in January 1969, he became the first SAAF pilot to join our Air Force on direct entry. More were to follow his lead in later months. I ran Peter through the entire range of helicopter flying exercises to ensure that he was totally au fait with Rhodesian Air Force methods and standards. Since he was experienced on helicopters, this was an easy and pleasant task.

  Along with SAP helicopters there were a few Cessna 185 aircraft (named Kiewiets—an African bird belonging to the Ground plover species) that undertook light communication work. SAAF pilots, some of whom were very junior, also piloted these aircraft. One of these young pilots was a menace because he was way too sure of himself. He delighted in beating up various locations, always coming down too low for his level of experience. Within his own service Lieutenant van Heerden was known as ‘Odd Job’—a nickname that suited him well.

  The Makuti Hotel was sited on a hill with a steep drop away from the edge of the swimming pool. I was standing there in the late afternoon having a beer with Lieutenant Fanie Coetzee when we saw a low-flying Cessna coming straight towards us across the low ground. This was Odd Job who left his pull-up to clear the hill so late that his aircraft’s tail wheel touched a small tree, barely four metres from Fannie, as he zoomed past in a steep climb. The matter was immediately reported to the Officer Commanding FAF 2 who had received similar complaints before mine. But the admonitions given him by the SAAF Air Liaison Officer, on this and other occasions, seemed to go straight over his head.

  Don Annandale.

  Some time passed when Odd Job, then operating out of Thornhill, was tasked to fly the Station Armament Officer to Kutanga Range. As well as being the S. Arm. O, Flight Lieutenant Don Annandale was responsible for administering Kutanga Range, whose staff he visited regularly. When he had completed his work and was ready to return to Thornhill, Don learned that Odd Job had told the range staff he would be showing them a slow roll before heading for Thornhill.

  Don refused to board the Cessna saying he would use road transport to get home. Odd Job assured Don that he had only been pulling the rangers’ legs and that he had no intention of rolling his aircraft. Relieved by this, Don climbed aboard.

  Once the aircraft was airborne, Odd Job climbed for height and dived for a fast, low-level run past the master quadrant hut. This was standard practice and Don did not worry about it. But when the aircraft was climbing away from the pass, Odd Job commenced a slow roll. He reached the inverted position all right but then scooped into a steep dive in the second half of the roll. The aircraft was too low and struck the ground in a high-nose attitude with wings level. Odd Job died instantly.

  Don was thrown through the windscreen over the propeller and flew through the air surrounded by burning fuel that followed him to where he came to rest. By the time the three black crew of the fire Jeep reached him, Don’s rich red hair and his clothing had been burned away and his skin was hanging in sheets from his blackened, bleeding body. Amazingly Don was on his feet and got into the front seat of the Jeep unassisted. He urged the shaken driver, “Get me to hospital—I’m dying.”

  The driver set off for Que Que, which was forty minutes away. He drove as fast as the Jeep would go but fifteen minutes out from Que Que the vehicle failed to negotiate a road bend, left the tarmac paving and went into a broadside before flipping over as the wheels struck soft sand. Once again Don went flying and crashed down in soft sand and rolled to a halt with sand and dust embedded in his suppurating flesh. The three black firemen were unhurt.

  A farmer driving from Que Que came upon this awful scene and immediately turned around to take Don to hospital. On his admission it was clear to attending doctors that there was no hope of his survival because Don had third degree burns to over 90% of his badly battered body. He survived a couple of agonising days during which time he bravely briefed his lovely wife Pat on exactly what she must do when he was gone. Don’s grieving family and the Air Force were badly shaken by the loss of this superb officer through the harebrained actions of a stupid pilot.

  The consequence of Odd Job’s appalling stupidity.

  Recce training and Willie de Beer

  GROUP CAPTAIN DICKY BRADSHAW RETURNED from a liaison visit to Portuguese forces operating against communist terrorist factions in Angola. Whilst there he was given a briefing on the visual reconnaissance methods the Portuguese Air Force had developed for slow fixed-wing aircraft operating at 1,500 feet above ground. Dicky was taken on a recce flight to see for himself and was very impressed by all he saw and learned. Upon his return to Salisbury he lectured a number of pilots in the matter of visual reconnaissance. But only in me did he find a pilot who was genuinely interested in all he had to say because I had already experienced some recce successes, albeit conducted at low level in helicopters.

  Because of this, Dicky Bradshaw tasked me to join No 4 Squadron on an exercise that Squadron Leader Peter Cooke was conducting in Wankie Game Park. My task was to introduce the fix
ed-wing pilots to visual recce. Though this was a pleasant enough task it really was a matter of the blind leading the blind because I had not yet acquired any experience in fixed-wing recce. Using my Alouette as a perfect platform from which to observe the ground, I was able to show 4 Squadron’s pilots how to correctly employ sunlight to follow freshly laid trails from the air. But it was impossible to simulate operational conditions such as I had encountered in Tete, so my part in 4 Squadron’s training exercise was really a waste of rations. Nevertheless it was good to spend time with Peter Cooke and his crews who were flying the newly acquired Trojan aircraft. I shall say more about this aircraft shortly.

  Peter Cooke, seated centre, behind the mounted Secretary bird which was 4 Squadron’s badge emblem.

  I also met up with Willie de Beer who I had not seen since the buffalo hunt that ended in the death of the lone terrorist during Operation Nickel. Willie had a young lion that followed him wherever he went. This playful animal took a liking to my helicopter. Leaping in and out at every opportunity, he chewed any loose item he could find. This did no good to my flying helmet or my Air Force cap, which the brute tore to shreds.

  The 4 Squadron technicians put the cub onto the flat rear fuselage of a Trojan with a view to taking a few photographs for the Squadron Diary. The little guy immediately ran up the fuselage, along the starboard wing and flopped down at the wing tip. A Lion beer bottle was placed between the cub’s paws for a snap shot. When developed it was submitted to Castle Breweries in a failed attempt to swell squadron funds from an envisaged Lion Beer advertisement.