Back in JPS I asked John Shaw one day if I could submit a paper I had written on my personal opinion of what should be done about the Mozambique situation. He read the draft and burst into laughter saying, “This will get the OCC pretty excited.” Nevertheless, he agreed that he and I should present it to Mick McLaren. Mick did not read far before he asked angrily what right had we to say the Portuguese would collapse, and who the hell were we to suggest that Rhodesia and South Africa should take over friendly Mozambique’s territory south of the Zambezi. The paper found its way into the shredder but I retained a copy for many years beyond the time the Portuguese did finally collapse. We were given a not-too-unkind telling-off and asked never again to waste time on work not tasked by OCC. John Shaw took the telling-off with a fixed expression on his face and never let on that I had written the paper.
Medical hitch
I BECAME CONCERNED ABOUT A NASTY-LOOKING black growth on the mid-upper thigh of my right leg. If subjected to sunlight when swimming it would subside and turn red but it became bigger and blacker in no time at all. I was sent by the Air Force doctor to see a specialist who would not even allow me time to go home for pyjamas and toothbrush but committed me to hospital immediately. The specialist surgeon told me the growth appeared to him to be a malignant melanoma that had to be removed without delay. He explained that he would have to remove the entire upper muscle from knee to hip together with the glands in my groin. “Don’t worry, you should learn to walk again within nine months.” I was horrified, believing this spelled an end to my flying career.
When readied for theatre and very drowsy from the pre-op drugs, a very brash individual accompanied by two nurses came to my bedside. He demanded to see my decorations. In my dopey state I said, “I don’t wear decorations on pyjamas,” whereupon Doctor Gregg, a radiologist, pulled back the bed sheet and pointed to my leg. He inspected the growth from every angle and reaching for a marker pen said, “If you do have a problem here I do not want to have to deal with a large wound.” He then drew a line around the spot in the shape of an eye, saying this was the limit of the muscle section that would be removed down to bone level. He departed saying, “Do not be concerned, you will fly again.”
In a small passage outside the operating theatre I had been waiting for ages on a wheeled trolley when a matron passed by and slapped a file on my chest. More time went by so I decided to see what my file said. I was amazed to find that I was Mrs Somebody-or-other and that I was about to have a hysterectomy. I called a passing nurse and, showing her the file, offered to prove I was not a woman.
When I was coming around from the anaesthetic, I felt my leg and groin and was delighted to find a relatively small dressing where Dr Gregg had done his artwork. For the next three days I walked without pain or limp going up and down the passageways visiting people, three of whom I knew. Squadron Leader Rob Gaunt was in for cartilage removal, Reverend Frank Mussell, father of Frank and John, was in for cancer treatment and Flight Lieutenant Paddy Rice was suffering the indignities and pain that accompany a piles operation.
It was only when the dressing was removed that I realised I had a really deep hole in my leg that had been filled with some special gunk. When I got up to walk it hurt like hell and no matter how I tried I could not help limping. Laboratory tests proved the growth to be benign—an enormous relief.
I had not been out of hospital long when Beryl and I attended a ‘Roman Night’ at the New Sarum Officers’ Mess. It was one of those lovely parties that went through the night, ending with a superb pre-dawn breakfast in the dining hall. At the end of this Christine Nicholls, just out of hospital with leg in plaster, Rob Gaunt with leg in plaster and myself heavily bandaged were all lifted onto the table to give the gathering reasons for sporting apparel ‘unbecoming to our Roman dress’. Rob Gaunt had started speaking when fire hoses were turned on us. The whole place was awash with everyone slipping around before the culprits were overpowered and the hoses switched off. With Roman togas and flimsy dresses soaked through, everyone ended up in the swimming pool where we were treated to some unusual diving exhibitions.
Dawn was breaking when we heard the pounding of hooves and saw Phil Schooling galloping through the trees with cloak flying as in a Roman movie. When we all repaired to the bar, Phil brought his horse to the counter. The floor was slippery from wet bodies which caused the horse to slip, panic, fall and vacate its bowels before being led to a safer environment. I ended up at the doctor’s rooms to have the hole in my wound mended because its over-stressed stitches had failed. But, all in all it had been a great party.
Aircraft accidents 1970-1971
MY ROUTINES IN JPS WERE interrupted from time to time to retain currency on helicopters and conducted Final Handling Tests on pilots trained by Hugh Slatter and Harold Griffiths. Norman Walsh handed over No 7 Squadron to Squadron Leader Gordon Nettleton in early 1970 but his command terminated in a freak accident on 1 July 1970.
Lieutenant Mike Hill (left) and Squadron Leader Gordon Nettleton (right).
Gordon had been ‘under the hood’ on instrument flying practice with Flight Lieutenant Mike Hill as his safety pilot. At the end of the flight a radar talk-down onto the grass runway 14 was completed and, so far as could be judged, control must have already passed from Gordon to Mike. At this point observers saw the helicopter pitch up and roll sharply to starboard. The roll and pitch continued in a tight descending path that ended when the aircraft impacted belly down on the main road verge against the airfield security fence. Both these fine men died instantly.
Assisted by French experts from Sud Aviation, the Board of Inquiry realised that mechanical failure of the cyclic controls system would have resulted in a roll to port so only pilot action could have been responsible for the starboard roll. This being so, there could only be one conclusion; Mike was suffering from ‘flicker vertigo’ before he took control.
Flicker vertigo in helicopters is an unusual condition caused by rotor blade shadows that are seldom noticed. Put very simply, flicker vertigo is to do with synchronised frequencies in which the frequency of shadows perceived by the eyes, consciously or subconsciously, divide perfectly into the brain’s functioning frequency to produce a whole number. This upsets normal brain function causing mesmerism and haphazard muscular movements as in an epileptic fit. Such a condition is known on roadways where the shadows of trees interrupts direct sunlight during early morning and late afternoon. Motorists can go off a roadway when impaired by flicker vertigo.
On 28 October 1970, Flying Officer Al Bruce was on a pairs formation exercise when his Hunter started venting fuel. He turned for Bulawayo Airport but his engine flamed-out short of the runway leaving him with no option but to eject. Al suffered bad bruising of the spine but otherwise he was fine. For the Air Force, however, the loss of our first Hunter FB9 was a major blow, reducing the fleet to eleven aircraft.
Keith Corrans and I were at Voortrekkerhoogte (previously Roberts Heights) in Pretoria for most of 1971, undergoing the South African Air Force Staff Course. In the latter stages of this eleven-month course we were shaken by news of the deaths of Flight Lieutenant Alex Roughead and Air Lieutenant Robertson.
On 16 November 1971, a formation stream take-off of Canberras from Salisbury turned out right to climb through cloud. Alex’s aircraft did not appear when the other Canberras broke out above cloud. Following a short air search, wreckage of his aircraft was located and an inspection of it showed that Frame 21, which connects the airframe to the main spar of the mainplanes, had failed, resulting in loss of the starboard wing.
Alex holding the Jacklin Trophy awarded to 4 Squadron in 1965. To his left are Bruce Smith and Prop Geldenhuys. Behind him are Henry Elliott, Tony Smit, PB and Ian Harvey.
Prior to this terrible accident, hairline cracks in Frame 21 of all B2 Canberras had been a cause for major concern and they were monitored regularly. The RAF was aware of this problem caused by work hardening of the aluminium castings. This had been overcome by improv
ed material and design for later Canberras, but Rhodesia was stuck with the MkB2 model.
Almost daily, Master Technician Brian Goodwin was seen on the flight-line with black material wrapped around his head to protect him from the ultrasonic emissions of his non-destructive, crack-detecting equipment that tested Frame 21 sections. Whenever a crack was located there was need to carefully ‘blend out’ the offending area to stress-relieve affected sections. Why Alex’s aircraft suffered catastrophic failure of the Frame 21, having only just been declared free of cracks, was the subject of much conjecture but it was eventually concluded that Alex must have inadvertently exceeded the airframe’s ‘G’ limit in turbulence.
Canberra pilots and navigators were already recording time spent in every condition of every flight and a ‘fatigue factor’ was being applied to each of these conditions. I do not recall the fatigue-factoring figures but they ranged upward from something like 1.5 for normal cruise at 250 knots in turbulent conditions to 30 for the speed range 330-350 knots. After applying the appropriate factor to the time spent in each flight condition, the ‘factored flight time’ was deducted from the number of airframe hours remaining. This substantially reduced our Canberras’ life spans even though Frame 21 cracks were occurring at progressively reducing frequency, thanks to successful stress-relieving procedures.
Exercise Blackjack
BY NOW THE AIR FORCE Volunteer force had increased considerably with VR Squadrons having been established at Bulawayo, Gwelo, Salisbury and Umtali-more were to follow. All VR personnel had undergone considerable field training in operations management, air movements, security and so on. Air HQ was pleased with progress and the fact that so many regular pilots and airmen had been freed to concentrate on their primary roles. But there was need to test the whole service in a countrywide exercise codenamed ‘Blackjack’.
A long-range navigation exercise went badly wrong for the crew of a Canberra flying in the northwest sector. Due to weather and unreliable NDB aids, the crew became uncertain of their position and were forced to eject when their fuel ran out. A very uncomfortable night was spent on the ground where the widely separated pilot and navigator experienced the terror caused by lions roaring within yards of their locations.
The exercise was a great success in so far as proving the VR. On the flying side it had also been a success save for the loss of the Canberra and the exercise finalé. This finalé included a series of airstrikes on the Army Weapons Range at Inkomo. Almost every weapon-carrying aircraft was involved, all approaching from different directions to conduct independent squadron attacks on targets assigned by grid reference only. Mistakenly, Air HQ invited top brass from Army HQ and Police General Headquarters to witness these strikes. The position selected as an ideal observation platform for the ground party was the wall of a small dam that would obviously be one of the reference points some pilots would need to confirm their targets. It so happened, however, that there were other dams of similar size close by.
The Hunter and Canberra strikes went off fine. 4 Squadron was next in line but had the big brass diving for cover when the formation erred by attacking a point very close by. The strike leader had selected the correct point relative to the dam wall— but this was the wrong dam!
All the spectators were up on their feet laughing nervously and dusting themselves down when they were forced to dive for cover again as Vampires unleashed rockets close by. Never again would Air HQ dream of exposing other services to exercises intended to test the force. There were many red faces that day but, when the crunch came, Air HQ would have every reason to be proud of all squadrons’ performances.
Staff College
IN LATE JANUARY 1971 KEITH Corrans and I were sent to South Africa to attend the South African Air Force Staff College (SAAFCOL) course. Prior to Rhodesia’s Unilateral Declaration of Independence, our officers, accompanied bywives and children, underwent Staff College training at RAF Bracknell in Britain. RAF staff courses were designed to run for twelve months with compulsory time-off every weekend for family affairs and rest.
Although the subject matter of the South African course was taken directly from the RAF, a different approach had been adopted. The American technique of pressurising officers was applied by compressing the British course into ten and a half months. This meant having to work seven days a week with only two free days during the entire course; consequently heart attacks amongst older officers undergoing SAAFCOL were not uncommon. Because the South African course was less than twelve months, Rhodesian wives and families were not permitted to accompany husbands, so Sue Corrans, Beryl and the children had to stay home.
For me it was a gruelling experience, particularly as I had been given only three months’ notice to learn Afrikaans having only learned French at school. Keith had studied Afrikaans at Churchill High School so he was better prepared than me. Although we had been led to believe that half of all lectures and presentations would be in Afrikaans and half in English, it turned out to be 73% in Afrikaans. This placed me at a distinct disadvantage, particularly when advanced Afrikaans was being spoken so quickly that I could not even pick up the trend of what was being said. Fortunately, Keith and I were allowed to write appreciations and papers in English.
Because we worked all day every day and late into the night, Keith and I decided to take in a movie every Saturday to get a short break from never-ending studies and tasks. Only once did I go out for a night on the town and this turned out to be a costly error. A notoriously naughty SAAF pilot and an equally mischievous SA Army major invited me to accompany them for dinner at a posh restaurant. At this dinner I drank too much and was introduced to the art of eating carnations and other flowers that decorated our table. Following a good meal and having had more whisky than I was used to, I helped these crazy fellows swallow every one of about twenty goldfish swimming in one of the restaurant’s beautiful fish tanks. Not caring that our shirtsleeves were soaking wet right up to our armpits, we scooped out the highly prized Chinese Fantails whenever nobody was looking. These we swallowed head first and washed them down with a slug of whisky.
The sensation of a panicking fish swimming down one’s gullet before thrashing around for a short while in the stomach is not one I would have chosen. On that night, however, I had no difficulty in meeting the unspoken challenge. Next morning things caught up with us when the restaurant owner pitched up at the college demanding replacement of his prized fish.
The Afrikaans language was a major problem for me even though I could usually follow the gist of lectures. But there were occasions when I became lost the moment professors and other high-speaking lecturers got past the greeting ‘Goeie môre here’. Following such lectures I was surprised to find that my South African colleagues had experienced great difficulties in understanding new words and phrases of the still-expanding Afrikaans language. It was during one such presentation when I noticed that Major Blackie Swart dealt with his boredom in a very strange way.
Blackie was a very tall, slim, balding man who sat in front and to one side of me. With his right hand he took hold of his right eyelashes and, pulling gently, stretched the eyelid forward. When his eyelid sprang back, Blackie brought his fingers to his lips and made small sweeping motions. If he felt a lash tickle his lip he placed it on a matchbox lying next to his pipe on the broad wooden arm of his chair. This he repeated until no more loose lashes came away, whereupon he changed hands to subject his left eye to the same treatment. Next he turned attention to hairs in both ear-holes and the pile of hairs on his matchbox became visible to me. Then came the hairs in his nostrils. These were subjected to fiercer treatment as hand and head jerked in opposite directions. Wiping of eyes to remove consequential tears followed every successful extraction.
When our lecture programme showed that one particular professor was returning, I asked my colleagues if they had noticed what Blackie did when he was bored. None had but all eyes were on him as he went through his strange ritual. None of us dared look at another w
hilst the lecture was in progress for fear of breaking into uncontrolled laughter.
PB receiving Staff College graduation certificate from a very tall South African Air Force Commander, Lt-Gen Vestér.
Sue Corrans and Beryl flew to South Africa to be with us for our end-of-course party. All men were dressed in full mess kit and wives wore long evening dresses. Beryl, dressed in a lovely sari, drew disparaging stares from the older women but my SAAF coursemates and their young wives thought she looked wonderful. Before the party ended Major Paul Nesser had somehow persuaded Beryl to bid the senior officers’ wives ‘good night’ in Afrikaans. His strange sense of humour was typical for his breed and I had suffered from this on a few occasions. But I was not aware of what had gone on until I noticed the horrified expressions on the faces of the ladies as they passed Beryl. I shot across and asked her what she was saying.
“Leave me alone. I am saying ‘good night’ in Afrikaans.”
“Yes Beryl, but what is it that you are actually saying?”
“I am saying ‘harn kark’, which is Afrikaans for ‘good night’.”
“Damn it Beryl, not only are you pronouncing the words incorrectly, the words ‘gaan kak’ mean ‘go shit yourself’.”
It was an enormous relief to get back to Rhodesia and have time to spend with my family.
Debbie and Paul were equally pleased to be home on their six-week Christmas break from boarding school.
Winds of Destruction Page 39
