Winds of Destruction

by Peter John Hornby Petter-Bowyer

  After a while I went to investigate a noise coming from my bathroom. Peter had pulled the plug to empty his bath water which bubbled up into my bath through the drain plug, bringing with it lumps of gooey muck. When his bath and mine reached the same level, both baths emptied very slowly. Eventually I had my bath and the incident amused Peter and me rather than annoying us. But we were both put out by boxes placed next to the toilet bowl into which used toilet paper was to be placed to avoid blocking the drainpipes. This would have been fine had soiled paper from many previous users been removed before we moved in.

  The next morning we met Captain Joao Brito who was tasked to fly us around the operational areas in a brand-new Alouette III. We became friends with this good-looking young officer who spoke excellent English and accompanied us throughout our visit. Sadly we learned of his death two years later when he was killed in action in Portuguese Guinea.

  Our first place of call had nothing to do with operations. Typically the Portuguese wanted us to enjoy our stay, so we were flown to Lumbo on the coast and driven by staff car down a long causeway linking the mainland to incredible Ilha de Moçambique.

  Te mainland of Ilha de Moçambique.

  Peter Cooke talking with the garrison.

  Most of the black women had white mud smeared over their faces to prevent them from becoming ‘too black’ in the hot sun by day and to make their faces smooth and beautiful at night. With its crystal-clear water, coral reefs, palm trees and pure-white beaches this island should have been a big draw for tourists. Because of the war, however, Peter, Joao and I were the only visitors. Here we booked into a quaint, clean hotel before exploring Vasco da Gama’s old fort and other exquisite historic places.

  Next day we flew up the unspoiled and breathtakingly beautiful coastline to Porto Amelia. The air base there was set on a long, high promontory with the Indian Ocean on its eastern side and the deep-blue water of Porto Amelia’s natural harbour on the western side. Just beyond the runway’s northern end lay the narrow entrance to the world’s largest natural deep-water harbour. The setting was quite magnificent and stimulating.

  We were billeted in tents within the large Army base sited close to the runway and visited the docks and a factory that produced most of Mozambique’s famous castanha de caju (cashew nuts). The clarity of seawater in the harbour was amazing. The entire keel, propeller and anchor chain of a Portuguese naval frigate lying at anchor more than 200 metres from the docks, though compressed by light refraction, were clearly visible.

  The Army garrison commander, a Mozambican officer, told us a great deal about FRELIMO’s operations in the Cabo del Gado region and why these differed so much from the situations we knew in Tete. It was because FRELIMO forces in this region were primarily from the warlike Makonde tribe.

  The Makonde were of the same Nguni line as the Zulus down in South Africa and our N’debele in Rhodesia. However, during setting up of the international line between Portuguese Mozambique and German Tanganyika in the nineteenthcentury, no account was taken (as in almost every country during the scramble for Africa) of the Makonde people who became divided by a borderline with no fence. The Makonde were not affected until black rulers in Tanzania and white rulers in Mozambique interfered with their freedom of movement and right to tribal unity.

  Just like their southern cousins these Nguni held all other tribes in contempt. The Makonde were only concerned in fighting the Portuguese to re-establish freedom of movement within the region they had always controlled. The border had no more meaning to them than in times before armed men of the FRELIMO movement drew Portuguese forces into their ancestral grounds.

  Linking up with FRELIMO had not been for the good of Mozambique in general, but it suited the Makonde to receive free military training and arms of war to expel the Portuguese military. Any hope FRELIMO’s hierarchy had for the warlike Makonde to push south beyond their own homelands was wishful thinking. Not only were Makonde interests limited to regaining control of their own ground, they had no wish to have other tribes within FRELIMO using their territory as a transit area. It was largely for these reasons that FRELIMO had been forced to open a second front. Malawi was the preferred country from which to launch this new front but Doctor Hastings Banda’s refusal forced FRELIMO into using Zambia and the Tete Province.

  Our flight to Mueda was at high altitude to avoid FRELIMO’s 12.7mm and 14.5mm anti-aircraft guns that made a low-level approach to the high ground on which Mueda stood too dangerous. Very little habitation existed between Porto Amelia and Mueda and the lack of game-trails suggested that all large game had been shot out. Otherwise the countryside was lovely. A widely dispersed Army establishment with the Air Force base and runway lying just to the south surrounded the small trading post of Mueda. Mueda was linked by a gravel road to the coastal port Moçimboa da Praia in the east. From miles out we picked up the line of this road because the bush had been cleared on both sides to a depth of 1,000 metres.

  Joao remained at high level until directly over the runway where he made a spiralling autorotative descent to a gate leading into the air base. The high rectangular earthen wall surrounding the air base gave protection against FRELIMO rocket and gun assaults. Other than covered bunkers for personnel, no overhead protection existed for mortar attacks, which occurred frequently. Pits with 81mm mortars at permanent readiness were sited close to the Officers’ Mess.

  The entire base contingent was on hand to greet their first Rhodesian visitors and it was clear from the outset that we were going to enjoy typical Portuguese hospitality. Whereas everyone, including cooks and bottle washers, wanted to be photographed with us, only the fourteen pilots on base at the time were permitted to do so.

  We were shown to the officers’ quarters. These incorporated two dormitories with heavy-tiered steel beds and simple lockers. Loos, showers and hand basins were in between the dormitories in a central ablution block.

  Standing: Joao Brito, Base Commander (3rd from left), PB and Peter Cooke. The short pilot in dark overalls standing next to Peter flew the twin Dornier on hairy reconnaissance missions.

  I wanted to wash my hands but the basins were so filthy that I started to scrub one clean. When one of the officers noticed this he summoned an airman to do the job. From then on this basin remained spotless in a line of otherwise filthy ones and, in Portuguese, was marked ‘Visitors Only’.

  The toilets were just as I had expected-bloody awful. Apart from the seats and bowls being filthy, the boxes that were provided for used toilet paper were full to overflowing. Peter and I nicknamed them ‘skid boxes’. To avoid using the loos, I attempted to go off into the bush beyond the earthen wall but was disallowed from going through the security gate because, apparently, FRELIMO snipers often operated close by.

  Other than the ablutions, the base was clean, the food was fantastic and the Portuguese were as friendly as ever. Having Peter and me around was great for those wanting to practise their English. This was both heavy going and amusing. One officer complained of his sleep being regularly interrupted by a colleague who suffered ‘bad night horses’.

  On our second night at Mueda my sleep was interrupted at around midnight by the sound of heavy explosions. Artillery shells then howled low overhead from the Army camp and exploded in an area just beyond the end of the runway as FRELIMO mortar bombs exploded in our base. I leapt out of bed so fast that I cut open my forehead on the steel bar of the bunk above me. I was first in the crude mortar bunker with Peter Cooke right behind me. The Portuguese officers were obviously used to the noise of artillery and incoming mortar bombs because they stopped to light cigarettes in the lighted passageway leading to the dark bunker then moved slowly down the steps into cover and safety.

  No serious damage was caused in this short exchange and I was the only casualty on base. However, we had seen the burnt remains of two Harvards, one twin-Dornier, an Alouette III helicopter and a store showing that FRELIMO attacks had been successful in the past. At Mueda it was very obvious
that the Portuguese Army’s war was separate from the Portuguese Air Force war. Not one Army officer was seen at the air base during our stay and we only got to visit the Army side because Peter and I requested to be taken there.

  Mortar-damaged Portuguese fuel bunker.

  We were called to an operational briefing following lunch on our first day. I cannot speak for Peter Cooke, but I was in an alcoholic haze following a welcoming lunch that included too much Manica beer, wine and aguadente. The black-on-white map on the Ops Room wall looked as if it had been produced in the previous century because it was so basic with limited contour information and river-lines appeared only to approximate their true paths. Photographs taken the previous day by a Dornier recce pilot of a camp assigned as target for the following morning were handed out to six pilots. Shadows of trees and the angle at which the photographs had been taken made me realise that all had been taken during one close range low-level orbit.

  A red arrow on the map pointed to the target. This was about fifty kilometres northwest of Mueda on the eastern bank of a prominent river. Destruction of the makeshift shelters (bashas) that covered a relatively small area under trees was to be by napalm. We learned that take-off was for “06:00 as usual, weather permitting”. Peter and I were told which pilots we were to accompany to observe the action.

  The fact that 06:00 was the standard time for first sorties shook us because all FRELIMO camps must surely be abandoned by then as a matter of routine, particularly following low-level photo-recce sorties. As it happened, low thick radiation fog delayed take-off to around 08.30. Whilst we waited, breakfast was served on a verandah next to our billets. It consisted of a bowl of light-coloured soup in which a fried egg floated. A Portuguese bread roll (pao) and a lump of butter came on a side plate. Ignoring how others tackled this unusual meal, I put the fried egg into my buttered roll, consumed the soup then ate the delicious egg roll.

  The rear cockpits of the Harvards in which Peter and I flew were almost totally stripped of their instruments. An inspection of other rear cockpits revealed a similar situation, the instruments having been removed to replace unserviceable ones in front cockpits. The Portuguese pilots nicknamed their Mk52 Harvards ‘F110’ because they climbed, cruised and descended at 110 knots. Immediately my pilot was airborne in the third position he turned steeply to port and, following the lead aircraft, orbited the airfield and Army base until over 2,000 feet above ground. This was to avoid flying near the lip of the high ground where FRELIMO’s anti-aircraft guns were sited. The guns were considered to be too dangerous to be taken out by the Air Force and the Army passed them off as an air problem. Unbelievable!

  I had not been in a Harvard before and enjoyed flying with the hood rolled back because it made photography easy. As we were approaching the target there was excited babble between the pilots with much screeching in earphones due to overlaid transmissions. This was so different from the limited crisp procedures of my own force. The aircraft were positioned in long line astern with canopies closed when a steep dive was made well short of the target for low-level deliveries of two napalm bombs per aircraft.

  Looking along one side of the cockpit past pilot and aircraft’s nose, I saw the first napalm tanks ignite in trees. About half a kilometre ahead the lead pilot was already in a climbing turn starboard to look over his shoulder to pass correction to the next in line. Both napalm bombs from the second aircraft landed with a splash and sent lines of flaming fuel along the surface of the river on which they landed.

  I watched closely as we dropped our tanks and saw bashas in the area where they ignited. It was only possible to get an idea of the camp size when we pitched up in a climbing turn to watch following strikes land in the target area. Out of twelve bombs released only the latter eight were on target. We made one orbit climbing for height and noted that about one third of the bashas were burning, adding white smoke to the columns of black smoke from napalm gel that was still burning in patches along lines of fading red flame. No person or anti-aircraft fire was seen.

  Back at base a steep spiral descent over the Army camp placed us on short finals for the runway. The aircraft turned off about two-thirds of the way down the runway’s length directly into camp through the rolled-back security gate, which closed behind the sixth aircraft.

  At 10:00 we declined the offer of whisky. At 10:30 the offer was repeated and again declined. At 11:00 we accepted but asked for Manica beer instead. By lunch at 13:00 I was feeling on top of the world and this was heightened by wine for each of three courses, the main one being piri piri prawns. Lunch ended with aguadente. It was only then that Peter and I learned that we were to accompany a recce pilot on a post-strike assessment flight.

  One of the Venturas taxiing out for the attack we witnessed.

  Photo by Peter Cooke of PB in back seat of Harvard after the attack.

  The recce Dornier with 37mm Sneb rocket pods.

  We flew in a Dornier piloted by a short stocky officer with a permanent smile on his round merry unshaven face. Peter sat next to him but I had to stand and brace myself using the front seats as anchors because there was no seat in the rear. My legs had to be set wide apart either side of a crude sprung-loaded door through which target markers and other small items were dropped. It ran along the centre of the rear fuselage floor and required very little pressure to open. Should I step on it or fall down, I would immediately fall free of the aircraft. I did not like this one bit but could not see any real problem so long as I retained my braced stance; but I did not know what lay ahead.

  Three PV1 Venturas (twin-engined bombers) came into our view as we approached the target. They were flying long line astern at about 6,000 feet and we were at 2,000 feet. We saw them enter into a steep dive and release six 500-pound bombs from around 3,000 feet. All the bombs exploded in an area of large trees, creating visible shock-waves that radiated outwards from the bright orange flash of each explosion. The resultant bangs that reached us in the noisy Dornier were dull; like the thud of footballs bouncing on concrete.

  As the third Ventura pulled out of his dive our bonny pilot bunted into a dive that had me hanging on for dear life. He levelled out with high ‘G’ that almost collapsed my legs. The pilot then flew below the overhang of high trees either side of a long curved passage through a forest, firing pairs of 37mm Sneb rockets as he made a casual visual inspection right and left into forest where the bombs had exploded.

  My eyes were wide open with fear of striking the overhanging branches or being hit by shrapnel from the 37mm Sneb rockets exploding just ahead of us. I saw nothing else in that first pass. Two more ‘dicing with death’ low passes were made through the same passage terrifying me no less than the first but at least I saw something of what our pilot was interested in. It looked pretty dark under the forest of huge trees that flashed by and many bashas were evident along the entire length of our run. It surprised me that not one was burning and no soul was seen.

  We accompanied the Harvards on further attacks but declined offers to ride with the crazy Dornier pilot again. Nevertheless we were interested to know why such a dangerous method of checking out strikes was necessary. The answer was simple; the Army had no interest in assisting the Air Force to establish the effectiveness of its airstrikes. Unbelievable!

  The most interesting aspect of our visit to the Army base was the huge vehicle park, half of which was a graveyard for many destroyed vehicles. Serviceable vehicles, mainly Berliot and Unimogs, were adorned with a variety of emblems. One Berliot had affixed to its front grill the longest pair of ox horns I have ever seen. Its driver was a coloured man who spoke good English and was happy to tell us about ‘Hell’s Run’, the route from Mueda to the coast.

  It took a whole day for each resupply convoy to reach Moçimboa da Praia. The following day was used to load and the third day to return to Mueda. Receiving double pay to compensate for the danger they faced on every trip were volunteer drivers who made the round trip on a regular basis. Officers were required
to remove their rank tabs so as not to draw FRELIMO sniper attention to themselves. The aggressiveness of the Makonde operating against the Portuguese convoys had been enhanced by devious techniques taught them by the Chinese instructors in Tanzania. We were given two examples.

  A Portuguese Army boot, filled to overflowing with chicken blood, had been placed in the centre of the road with a trail of blood leading off beyond the verge. The lead vehicle stopped to investigate. The investigating soldier then hurried down the line of vehicles to show the boot to the convoy officer who wore no rank insignia. BANG! The sniper had waited for the officer to be identified then took him out with one shot.

  A particularly nasty incident involved a horrible trap the Chinese had dreamed up. The lead vehicle in an unusually large convoy was brought to a halt by a command-detonated mine. Typically the convoy bunched up as all following vehicles came to a halt. All the soldiers and drivers had debussed to take up defensive positions when a ripple of small explosions ran down the edge of the road along the entire length of the convoy. These small charges released millions of angry bees from the plastic bags in which they had been held captive. Not one person escaped multiple bee stings that resulted in the death of a huge proportion of the men due to their distance from medical facilities. We were told that the ‘bee ambush’ was responsible for Mozambique’s greatest number of casualties from a single incident.

  Separate written reports submitted by Peter and me on our return to Rhodesia were surprisingly similar to those submitted by six Rhodesian Army officers who also visited Mueda. In particular the information we had gleaned emphasised the seriousness of the threat posed to Rhodesia from FRELIMO’s second front in the Tete Province.