Following the successful completion of my staff course, I had naturally expected to be posted into a staff position in Air HQ. So it was something of a surprise to learn that I was to take command of No 4 Squadron at Thornhill.
Deaths of Munton-Jackson and Garden
I WAS STILL ON LEAVE WHEN, on 17 January 1972, Air Lieutenant Guy Munton-Jackson and Flight Sergeant Peter Garden were killed in a very unfortunate and totally unnecessary helicopter accident. From the time Alouettes first arrived in Rhodesia, warnings given by Sud Aviation never to fly these aircraft at night had been ignored. None of our high-ranking officers had flown helicopters themselves and they did not seriously accept that momentary loss of control could lead to airframe failure in flight. For ten years our helicopters had been flown at night with only minor accidents occurring during landings, so the Sud Aviation warnings had continued to be ignored until these men lost their lives.
Two helicopters were tasked to fly from New Sarum to Thornhill to be available from first light to assist police against mobs that had started rioting in the Gwelo townships late that afternoon. It was known that the rioting would resume early next morning.
Storms and heavy cloud in the vicinity of Gwelo forced both helicopters to enter cloud in turbulent conditions. On instruments and with no way around the storm clouds, both pilots asked for a radar-controlled approach into Thornhill. The first helicopter arrived safely; the second disappeared off the radar screen. Guy Munton-Jackson had almost certainly got into difficulties and over-controlled on cyclic causing the main rotor blades to pitch back severely enough to sever the tail boom.
The Board of Inquiry into this accident was conducted by experienced helicopter pilots who recommended that, henceforth, helicopters should only be flown at night in clear weather conditions with a distinctly visible horizon. Air HQ accepted the recommendation and issued the appropriate Air Staff Instruction.
Chapter 7
No 4 Squadron
MY POSTING TO 4 SQUADRON was a huge disappointment because I had hoped one day to be given the helicopter squadron. There was another reason for my disappointment—No 4 Squadron was considered to be ‘a penal squadron’. The reason for this unfortunate reputation was obvious. The squadron operated the least inviting aircraft—Trojans and Provosts. Upon completion of OCU training, the best PTC pilots went to jet and transport squadrons and the balance were posted to 4 Squadron. For any young pilot coming off jets, the step down to piston aircraft was bad enough but, mistakenly, it appeared to them that their flying capabilities were in question because 4 Squadron’s flight commanders were senior instructors.
When I reported to Air Staff for briefing, DG Ops, Group Captain Dicky Bradshaw, congratulated me before passing me on to D Ops, Wing Commander Sandy Mutch, for a detailed briefing. I could not see the point in being congratulated for what I perceived to be a low-grade posting until Sandy’s briefing helped me see my situation in a better light.
Officers returning from Staff College had always been posted to Air HQ, but an increasing security threat required that 4 Squadron’s pilots become highly proficient in visual reconnaissance work. No serious preparation had been made to meet this need because there was nobody able to instruct pilots in the art. Since I was the only man in the force who had shown any interest in visual recce, and had a few successes to prove it, the Air Staff concluded that there was no alternative but to give me the squadron. Sandy Mutch also gave me the sop that I had been a particularly successful ‘A’ Flight commander on 7 Squadron and 4 Squadron was deeply in need of good leadership.
This was somewhat flattering, but I had serious doubts about being the right man for the job. There were two reasons for this. Firstly, my entire bush-fighting experience was on helicopters, which seemed to me to be so much more worthwhile and exciting than the fixed-wing activities I had observed in the field. Secondly, Flight Lieutenant Gordon Wright was the current ‘A’ Flight commander on 4 Squadron.
Flight Lieutenant Gordon Wright.
Peter Cooke with Air Commodore Archie Wilson discussing newly acquired 37mm Sneb rocket system.
Gordon and I had been students together on No 10 SSU. Unlike me he was a natural sportsman who always struck me as possessing a stubborn and difficult nature. But then Gordon had reservations about working under me because, not knowing how often I had broken the rules, he mistakenly believed that I was a man who worked ‘strictly by the book’. He was man enough to let me know his concerns, making it easier for me to express how I viewed my new job and how I was counting on his support. Happily our fears were misplaced because, from the start, we clicked.
Top Row: WO 1 ‘Spike’ Owens (Sqn WO) Flt Lt Gordon Wright (‘A’ Flt Cdr) Sqn Ldr Peter Petter-Bowyer (Sqn Cdr) Flt Lt Rob Tasker (‘B’ Flt Cdr). Standing: Sgt Cox R, Sgt Sinclair D, Sgt McCormick H, Sgt Britton J, A/S/L V Culpan, A/S/L A W. Wild, A/S/L SM Caldwell, Air Lt John Carhart, A/S/L Mike Litson, A/S/L Tony Oakley, A/S/L Dave Rowe, Flt Sgt Bruce K, Sgt Jelliman N, Sgt Smit C. Squatting: Sgt Forrester N, Sgt Menhenick C, Sgt Mare N, SAC Bartlett A, SAC Jenkins D, Cpl Tubbs P, SAC Keightley B, SAC Louw P, SAC Singleton R, SAC Wilkinson B, SAC Parker M, Sgt Charles R, LAC Besant P, Cpl Badenhorst B, LAC Steyn M, LAC van der Merve J. Sitting: Sam, Philip, Karata, Ayton. Inserts: Sgt Jarvie H, Flt Lt Bruce Collocott, Air Lt John Blythe-Wood.
During my first days with 4 Squadron I felt distinctly uncomfortable. Having been away from Thornhill for a long while, I had lost touch with junior officers and technicians and knew only a handful of my men. To me there seemed tobe a depressed atmosphere, one totally lacking in spirit. This surprised me because, notwithstanding the ‘penal squadron’ tag, Squadron Leader Peter Cooke followed by Squadron Leader Peter McLurg had both led what I understood to be a cheerful unit. However, so far as I can remember the next in the line was Flight Lieutenant Peter Knobel, as acting OC, who lost allof 4 Squadron’s experienced pilots on various postings. Flight Lieutenant Gordon Wright, again in an acting OC position, followed Peter. Together with Rob Tasker and Bruce Collocott, Gordon had found himself in a particularly difficult position with a bunch of puppy pilots with no experience whatsoever.
The building in which the squadron was housed was set way back from the flight lines. This was unacceptable to me because the squadron building that had been vacated when the Canberras moved to Salisbury had been taken over by Station Equipment Section. My first priority was to have the situation reversed and within four weeks we were on the flight line in our freshly painted building. This in itself lifted spirits.
During my first month with 4 Squadron I was in need of a haircut and visited Mac the barber in Gwelo. Mac only knew one cut, which left me almost bald. Reaction to this was “Oh boy, we are in for a tough time with this boss!” It was certainly not the image I sought and I wondered how I might weld the personnel into a spirited group of men determined to make 4 Squadron great. Beryl gave me the lead on how to do this.
I instructed all squadron members, including wives and children, to gather for an open-air spit braai at a quiet spot at White Waters just twenty kilometres from Thornhill. When Beryl and I arrived there at around 10:00, we found a team of four technicians basting a whole impala carcass on a spit over deep coals. These guys had been working since first light and were already pretty plastered, pouring as much beer over the roasting carcass as down their throats.
About eighty people gathered under lovely trees with colourful chairs, umbrellas, shade tents and tables laden to bursting with food all beautifully set out. Children clambered over the domed granite hill against which we were gathered and everyone got to know everyone else. Beryl insisted on being called by her first name and not Mrs Petter-Bowyer, which endeared her to everyone. I acquired the name ‘Boss PB’ which I much preferred to being called ‘sir’. Thereafter the prefix ‘Boss’ was applied to a number of officers who were popular with junior pilots and technicians.
The roasted impala, superbly tasteful and tender, was wholly consumed but the rest of the food spr
ead proved to be more than ravenous youngsters could manage. Beer and wine flowed freely and everyone enjoyed the best open-air party I can remember. When the squadron’s personnel reported for duty at 06:30 on Monday, I knew I was leading a totally changed team of men. There was sparkle in their faces, spring in their step and the mischievous spirit that continued beyond my three years with 4 Squadron had been unearthed.
My good friend Flight Lieutenant Rob Tasker with whom I had served as an instructor on 2 Squadron, was ‘B’ Flight Commander. He ran me through Provost re-familiarisation flights. Having lost the stomach for fuel vapour, spinning and aerobatics I felt really ill after the first two flights.
Gordon Wright conducted my conversion to the Trojan. This was an aircraft that was easy to handle in flight but one that tested one’s abilities when it came to engine handling and limit flying. The engine was too low-powered for the Trojan’s bulky airframe and thick high-lift wings, which severely limited payload. Increasing and reducing power was not a simple matter of opening and closing throttle control. With every change of power or engine rpm the fuel mixture had to be adjusted to prevent power loss. This meant that any change in engine setting necessitated rapid movements between throttle, pitch and mixture control, which took some time to master. I found no joy in flying the Trojan, preferring to fly a Provost at every opportunity. Gordon, however, enjoyed instructing on the Trojan because, of all our aircraft, it was the most challenging one to handle proficiently.
Provost
My first solo in a Trojan ended with a forced landing on the Gliding Club strip at Moffat Airfield because of partial engine failure with insufficient power to reach Thornhill safely. At first I thought the problem was engine mismanagement on my part, but it turned out to be a fuel feed problem.
The Trojan was a very noisy machine because its propeller tip speed was supersonic in the higher rpm range. Take-off performance at Rhodesia’s high altitudes was marginal and in flight the aircraft was slow. Because of these characteristics the Trojan attracted unkind clichés such as—having constant power with variable noise—noise generated by five pistons clapping for the one doing all the work—reliance on the curvature of the earth to get airborne—the only aircraft that received bird strikes from the rear.
The latter saying came to mind one day during operations when I was conducting visual reconnaissance. I was making a gentle turn to port when a Bateleur eagle overtook me on the inside of the turn just a couple of metres off the wing tip. Through the open window I shouted. “Bloody show off! I hope your eyes are watering.”
Because of the Trojan’s power limitations and the need to operate in and out of short runways, Gordon placed great emphasis on preparing pilots for short-field operations. We flew long low-level flights, hopping from one airfield to another, sometimes stopping over for a break in Bulawayo where three or more Trojans crews met for lunch in Gordon’s favourite Chinese restaurant. This was considered a real treat and emphasised just how much I missed flying versatile helicopters with frequent luncheon stops at farms and hotels or simple picnic breaks in beautiful surroundings.
Whereas we usually made a low-level inspection-run of every remote runway before each roller landing, Gordon told me not to worry about this procedure when we were approaching the airstrip at Guyu. On very short finals we both realised that the grass was far too long for a safe landing but, because it took so long to power up, the aircraft came to ground as full power was achieved. Fortunately we had not lost too much speed, but drag on wheels and airframe threatened to overcome the thrust of the propeller that was slicing through thick grass. We were fortunate to lift off with absolutely no runway remaining. Whereas Gordon was very annoyed with himself, the experience was important to me. When added to all of Gordon’s work it fully prepared me for many strange and often frightening flights to come.
Learning recce
AS SOON AS I WAS proficient on the Trojan, all my attention turned to learning visual reconnaissance in a fixed-wing aircraft. I had little idea of how to go about this but persuaded myself that, since man is a creature of habit, his routine movements must give a picture of his activities. I felt that if I fully understood the pathways of ordinary tribesmen who had no need to obscure their movements or presence, it should be possible to detect those made by men in hiding. I already knew something about aerial tracking and how to find terrorist and civilian camps in Mozambique, but all of that had been done at low level.
Flying at 1,500 feet above ground, because it was considered to be high enough for safety from enemy ground fire, I spent hour after hour studying every pathway and disturbed area over hundreds of square miles of tribal territory. I watched people moving along pathways, found where women bathed and laundered clothing along rivers and even watched people move into cover near their homes to attend to their toilet needs. Slowly I picked up similarities that helped me understand what I was seeing and how to use the sun to illuminate very faint pathways. Herds of cattle in the tribal areas were usually too large for the ground that supported them, resulting in hundreds of cattle paths which ran in parallel lines. Though clearly visible, they were not as well defined as human paths and had many distinctive shallow-angled linking lines—something like railway yards.
Of specific interest to me were small short paths close to huts that followed erratic courses into tree cover. At the end of each pathway there were barely discernible patches of bare ground that I had already established were toilet points. But it was noticeable that one group of paths had four bare patches at their ends whereas others had only three. I guessed that the former were women’s toilet paths and the latter were those made by adult men. At most villages there were also patches of haphazard trail lines that crossed over each other in a jumble. I concluded that these were the loo paths of children.
When I thought I had a fair understanding and was reading ground well enough, I made a specific study of one small group of huts that were close to a road and not too far from Thornhill. I attempted to determine the exact numbers of men and women living there and identify the purpose of every pathway leading from these huts. Having decided that there were three adult men and five women, I motored to the village to check this and other aspects of my assessment.
Hours spent studying the terrain.
When I reached the place, I drove off the road and stopped just short of the village. In a loud voice I called “Kokoko” which is the polite way of calling for attention to be invited in. Kokoko represents the sound of knocking on a door. The old man who emerged from one of the huts turned out to be the local sabuku (keeper of Government record books). As is customary, we talked about the weather, cattle and crops before coming to the purpose of my visit. I asked the old man if he had seen an aircraft circling above his kraal earlier in the day. He said he had. When I told him I was flying that aircraft he told me I was not telling him the truth because he could see that I was much too big to fit into that tiny ndege. Fortunately there was a vehicle parked at another kraal about two kilometres away. I told him that though the vehicle looked small it was farther away than I had been above him. Since he knew he could fit into that vehicle he was able to accept that the aircraft must have been big enough for me.
He asked what I had been doing flying over his kraal, so I told him and said I had come to seek his help to confirm my assessment of his family’s routines. The pathways the family used to go to the river, the location of the women’s bathing place and that used by the men were correct. We walked along the paths to confirm all of this. Communication lines to drinking water, to maize fields, to the local store and the community school were all spot on. I was pleased and asked if we could turn to the toilet areas used by his family. Immediately he said this was not for men to discuss; his wife would have to help me with such delicate matters.
The mbuya (grandmother) came to us full of smiles. Her husband told her all about how this white man could fit into the small ndege they had seen flying above. He pointed to the parked car way off to
prove his statement. He told of our walk along the paths, telling his wife how I had said what each path was used for even before we followed it. Exclamations emitted from the old lady with every statement her husband made. He then told her that she must help me with a matter I would explain before hurrying off to the safety of his hut.
The mbuya was amazed by what I wanted to know and even more so when I pointed to specific areas saying I judged these to be toilet area for five women, four men and a number of children. She wasted no time and led me down the path used by one of her daughters. At the end of its short run, I saw fresh evidence of a recent visit at one patch, one was clean and two showed that previous wastes were all but cleared by busy ants. With the old lady’s help, I learned why there were four positions.
Bowel movements for the average black person occurred at least twice a day because of their high-bulk maize diet. Two squat points used today would be cleaned by ants within twenty-four hours so only four points were needed. I asked her about the matter of urinating. She said this always occurred at the same time as the bowel movements. In-between needs were met on the previous day’s patches to “help the ants finish their cleaning-up act”. Having said this, the mbuya gave a very graphic demonstration of how women, standing with legs set wide apart, pulled their pants to one side then let their fluid flow. Screeching with laughter, she said how much easier this was for men.
I was taken down three more toilet paths used by two other daughters and a daughter-in-law. However, there was absolutely no question of going down the path she used. So I had been right; five women. The men’s lines, three of them, were checked out. Sure enough there were only three cleared patches for which the old lady had a simple explanation. Because the men were often away from the village during the day, three points sufficed and all in-between urinating occurred along the path, not at the squat points. The children’s toilet area was just as it had appeared from the air—a shambles requiring close attention to every step one made.
Winds of Destruction Page 40
