Nevertheless the bombs on this attack exploded on their planned positions despite the cloud base being lower than expected. This had forced navigators Doug Pasea, Bernie Vaughan, Bill Stevens and Bill Airey to make last-minute setting corrections to bombsights late in the attack run. The Hunters patterned as planned.
According to Randy du Rand’s Air Strike Report, he struck at 1259:50B with last Hunter clearing at 1303B. This meant it had taken three minutes and ten seconds to place down all weapons, which was at least two and a half minutes too long. If Hunters had led this attack, the four Canberras could have been much closer to each other and the re-strike by Hunters could have finalised the attack in less than forty-five seconds.
To add to this unsatisfactory situation, Chris realised too late that the target was displaced 200 metres north-eastward of the position he had marked on the photographs. This meant that only two-thirds of the strike was inside the actual base. The reason for Chris’s error lay in the considerable difference between the dark-green bush lines, as they appeared to him in the month of February, and the leafless trees and bush line as it appeared on photographs taken in winter. FAC marking would have eliminated the error and Chris was wiser for his mistakes.
Three days later I also made a mistake by agreeing to fly with Hugh Slatter in a Vampire T11 to mark a target for Hunters and Canberras. Aerial photos of a camp I reported had been taken from a Canberra flying at 40,000 feet the day before but it was agreed that the target lay in such flat, featureless ground that the jets would have no chance of locating it on an unmarked first-run attack. Air HQ was always keen to try new approaches in operations and had decided that I should lead the attack in a jet instead of my puddle-jumping Trojan. Having not flown in a jet aircraft for over ten years, the speed at which ground was being covered and the height at which we flew compressed the terrain I knew so well from 2,000 feet into unfamiliar perspective.
In the long dive to the target, Hugh adjusted his aiming according to my instructions and pressed the firing button for a salvo of four 60-pound squash-head rockets, but they failed to fire! Only then did I realise we had aimed at the far end of the terrorist base and not at its centre, so I transmitted an immediate correction “Drop 500”. Fortunately Rob Gaunt, having assessed where the failed rockets would have landed, picked up the correction and fired. Hugh was pulling up steeply and turning out right to allow me to look over my shoulder to see Rob’s strike to pass further correction to Rich Culpan, Chris Dixon and Ginger Baldwin.
I had completely forgotten how to handle 6G, which locked my head awkwardly forcing me to roll my eyes hard up and right to spot the strike just before experiencing ‘grey out’. Fortunately the lead 30mm cannon strike was just where it needed to be but I could not lift my hand to the radio transmitter button on the throttle to say this. Hugh had to relay my G-stressed and awkwardly spoken words, “On target”.
Following this experience, thought was given to converting recce pilots onto Hunters so that future strikes need not involve FAC and would ensure that recce pilots could switch between ‘puddle-jumpers’ and jets without the problems I had just encountered. For Chris Weinmann this would have been a simple matter because he had recently come from Hunters. I was really keen to fly these lovely aircraft but, very reluctantly, came to the conclusion that the advantages to be gained were outweighed by the cost of training and the time it would take to position at Thornhill or New Sarum for each airstrike.
The Air Staff had been under directive from Air Marshal Mick McLaren to try every tactic possible to improve airstrike versatility and accuracy. To this end, and unknown to me, photographic reconnaissance (PR) had been flown on Mozambican targets that Chris and I had reported but not committed to airstrike.
Repeated PR had been conducted to watch for obvious changes on those targets best suited to first-run jet-strikes. Then Flight Lieutenant Bill Buckle and his Photo Reconnaissance Interpreter (PRI) team at New Sarum selected a target set in heavy bush on the east bank of a dry river where a distinctive bend with visible water made identification certain. I was called to New Sarum to look at the photographs. The PRIs were happy when I agreed the camp was much larger than when I found it two months earlier. Bill briefed the jet crews at 9 o’clock on the morning of 23 February, just two days after the attack I had led with Hugh Slatter. It went in at 1228B and worked out exactly as planned.
During March I led two successful ops against terrorists inside Rhodesia. Externally I picked up a small base near Mukumbura in which fifteen head of cattle were penned at its centre. Being so close to the border, it was decided to attack this base with Hunters at first light the following day and follow up immediately with RLI heli-borne troops. The plan was for helicopters and myself to fly from Centenary to Mukumbura where the troops would be waiting for first light lift-of.
At Centenary I was doing my pre-flight inspection with the aid of a torch when I found a yellow bone-dome hanging from the pitot-head under the port wing of my Trojan. It belonged to Flight Sergeant Ray Cox who was one of the technicians on the flight line at the time. I called him over and asked him to remove his bone-dome, then continued with my inspection.
The helicopters were lifting off as I taxiied out to the runway. Late in my take-off run I found I had to apply a great deal of right rudder to counter a strong yawing force to the left. By this time it was too late to abort take-off. Once airborne I saw the helicopter lights winking away ahead of me and continued my climb, still with heavy pressure on the right rudder to maintain balanced flight. I told the lead helicopter pilot I was experiencing some difficulty but said I would establish the cause when we reached Mukumbura.
We crossed over the escarpment as the first rays of dawn lit up the horizon on our right side. By this time my left foot was over my right foot to help maintain pressure on the right rudder pedal. I turned to look at the rotating beacons of the helicopters flying below and to my left when, with horror, I saw somebody hanging upside-down on my left wing wearing a bone-dome with its visor closed. It took a moment or two to realise there was no actual body involved; it was Ray Cox’s yellow helmet hanging on the pitot head by its chinstrap.
Foolishly I told the lead helicopter pilot the cause of my flight control problem. I could have saved myself the ribbing that came my way had I simply kept quiet and pulled ahead to land and remove the bone-dome at Mukumbura before the helicopter boys arrived.
When I marked for the Hunters, I was happy to see that the cattle-pen was empty. Helicopters were on the ground within thirty-five seconds of the lead strike and the troops were already moving in during re-strike. Unfortunately the CTs must have heard the helicopters before the noise cover of the Trojan became effective because fresh tracks of running terrorists were located going south-east towards another base I had located but discounted.
Cattle tracks heading north were aerial-tracked for no more than three kilometres were I found fifty-five head of cattle. These were rounded up by the troops and driven back into Rhodesia because, having been stolen from those few unfortunate Mozambican locals who still lived in the area, they constituted an immediate source of CT food.
Fear of landing in enemy territory
FROM THE SAS TAC HQ at Macombe, 4 Squadron pilots continued to be scrambled to assist troops deep inside hostile territory. This Air Strike Report by Chris Dickinson on 8 March 1974 gives an idea of the sort of work the youngsters were doing.
While doing Telstar for RAR c/s 42, I was tasked to go overhead c/s B13 SAS and help them out. Difficulty was experienced in getting to their location i.e. UT 368920 because of low cloud but once in the area I was able to maintain 1500 ft AGL. c/s B13 were manning an OP and they directed me to attack a small valley at UT 364914 from where they had been fired upon. I did two strikes from north to south using front gun and SNEB. They then asked me to attack an area around a mealie field some 200 yards to the west of my first attack. This was done using SNEB. They then indicated a suspected ter camp at UT 358905 adjacent to a mealie f
ield. I did one attack from south east to north west using front gun and SNEB. They then indicated a further suspect area at UT 353888 which was to the east of two mealie fields. I did a north to south attack using SNEB. At this stage it was at last light and I proceeded back to Macombe as the Musengezi airstrip was unserviceable and I did not have sufficient fuel to get to Centenary. The weapons were on target and it was later learnt that my rockets had destroyed part of a camp complex although everything had been concealed in thick bush.
STOP PRESS. When the c/s was recovered from the area it was confirmed that three people had been killed and buried at the point UT 364914 where the strike had gone in on the camp complex.
There was always concern for single-engined aircraft operating alone deep inside Mozambique, as in this case. Antiaircraft action or engine failure might force a pilot down; a situation that was fraught with peril. If a pilot survived the landing, whether hurt or unhurt, his chances of survival were very low unless he was close enough for anyone to pick up his radio distress call. However much of the time was spent beyond ‘friendly forces’ radio range.
Personally I was petrified by the work I did over Mozambique and worried that others might notice this. As I write, a quarter of a century later, it is easy for me to admit to this failing. At the time however, I was annoyed by my inability to overcome the tight knot in my stomach and having to relying on four stiff whiskies after dinner to help me get some sleep. If I was on internal work, I always enjoyed a good breakfast that set me up for the day’s work; but before recces over Mozambique I could not face a meal knowing that I would be operating for over five hours beyond radio range of any Rhodesian.
Everyone knew that if I ran into trouble this would not be known until too late and that a search and rescue attempt would defer to the following day. So, to assist searchers, I carried a small emergency radio beacon which, when switched on, transmitted a continuous low-powered coded distress signal. This device also had a voice and receiving facility that was limited to a very short duration before its battery was drained.
I think it was Captain Mick Graham of SAS who flew one Mozambican sortie with me. He enjoyed the experience because it allowed him to see for himself what he had read in my recce report signals. But the main purpose of his flight was to assess the feasibility of an SAS soldier accompanying me on future missions to keep me out of trouble if I went down. My hopes were dashed when Mick said that, having seen the ground we had covered, this was simply not on. A single, super-fit, SAS soldier might evade hostile forces on his own, but not if he had to take care of me as well.
An alternative solution was offered. It involved eight recently trained RLI paratroopers loitering at height in a Dakota close to the area over which I was operating. The experiment failed within the first two hours when Squadron Leader Peter Barnett told me all the paratroopers in the back of his aircraft were so airsick that they would be of no help if I needed them. I thanked Peter for trying and told him to take the men back to base. There was no alternative; I had to work alone. In the meanwhile Air HQ was looking into equipping 4 Squadron aircraft with HF/SSB to provide long-range communications with Air HQ and FAF Operations Rooms.
I always briefed the FAF 3 commander (mostly Peter Cooke) on my intended outward and inward routes with details of the area to be covered, but those horrid butterflies in my stomach only slowed down when I was strapped into my seat with the engine running. Flight over Rhodesian soil felt quite normal until I reached the border. At this point the engine always appeared to be running roughly. Once across the Zambezi River the engine seemed to be running so roughly that I feared it might break from its mountings. This phantom situation continued until I reached the area over which I was to operate. As soon as I started searching the ground all fear vanished and I no longer worried about the engine purring away at low-cruising power.
Unlike American and Canadian aircraft designers, those of British, French and Italian aircraft did not cater for pilots’ bladder needs. As early as 1939, Canadian and American designers provided aircrew with what was crudely known as ‘the pee tube’. This consisted of an extendible funnel on the forward edge of a pilot’s seat that connected to a tube leading to a low-pressure point on the underside of the airframe. Considering the restraints of harness, parachute straps and flying overalls, it was awkward to get one’s twin to the funnel, but at least it catered for minor misdirection and there was ample suction to take the urine away. Our Trojans did not have this luxury, so I had learned to manage seven-hour recce flights. But there was one day when things did not work out too well.
In spite of the normal pre-flight precaution of ‘emptying the tank’, on this particularly cold day I was in need of a pee even before I crossed the Zambezi still flying outbound. Two hours later with much ground yet to cover, I could not hold out any longer. There was no bottle or similar receptacle in the aircraft and, though I thought about it, opening the door in flight was fraught with peril. However, next to me on the right hand seat was my bone-dome (pilot’s crash helmet). There was no option but to use it. The weather was particularly turbulent when I undid my seat straps, opened my fly and raised my body against the rudder pedals to get things into position. Head-support webs within the bone-dome compounded the problem of turbulence and fully stretched legs. As soon as I let go, the high-pressure stream struck the nearest web, spraying urine all over my legs and onto the instrument panel. I managed to change direction, but in no time the shallow basin of the bone-dome was close to over-flowing. Forced stemming of the steam was essential but at least my discomfort had been reduced. The next problem was how to get rid of urine in the bone-dome. To allow it to spill inside the cockpit was simply not on because urine is highly corrosive to aircraft surfaces.
My window was always open during recce, so I decided to hold the bone-dome firmly and spill the urine into the outside airflow. As I did this, my arm was almost ripped off as the slipstream sucked the bone-dome through the window. The disturbed airflow blew back most of the bone-dome’s contents into my face, wetting half of my torso and the whole instrument panel. I managed to hold on to the bone-dome but the rest of that long flight was miserably cold and uncomfortable.
Chifombo Base
GOING AHEAD IN TIME, I was operating deeper than before and close to the Zambian/Tete border averaging about 3,000 feet above ground. Cloud build-up was making coverage difficult and I could only read ground where the sun was shining. I had just started picking up the signs of considerable human activity in the heavily treed region and was plotting this on my map when a loud crack on my right side made me look up at the starboard wing. I was astounded to see hundreds of green and red tracer rounds flying upward at differing angles but all appearing to emanate from the aircraft itself. I had seen tracer many times before but never so densely as the 12.7mm, 14.5mm and, possible, 23mm guns whizzing past. I immediately entered a vertical dive.
Looking down towards the ground I saw what appeared to be a lesser number of tracer rounds coming my way but, when I looked towards the sky again, they were just as thick as before. Another crack sounded behind me by which time I was weaving left and right in a high-speed descent towards a huge terrorist base that spread outwards in every direction I turned. When I levelled off at tree-tops, the Trojan, still taking hits, slowed down horribly and there were hundreds of people firing small arms so close that I knew I was about to die.
Twice I passed across open patches and saw big guns flashing. For what seemed like a really long time I was locked in a terrible slow-motion nightmare as I passed over row upon row of small and large thatched buildings under tall trees, all the time under fire. Unlike all I had read about people facing death, my whole life did not flash before me as I looked at point after point ahead believing I would surely die there. The ground tearing past me registered in my brain as the aircraft took hits in a mixture of sharp cracks and dull thuds.
Suddenly I was clear. It felt as if I had dived into cool water from burning-hot flames. Bull
et holes in the airframe and windscreens were generating a strong whistling sound but the motor sounded fine.
I had been looking for the big FRELIMO-cum-ZANLA base known as Chifombo but had not expected such a hot reception when I found it. Still breathless I held a straight course for some time before coming to my senses inside Zambia. It took a little while longer to pull myself together and register that the flight control instruments had all been rendered useless. Having turned southwest, as judged by the sun’s position, it took more time to gather courage to commence a climb for height. Only when established in the climb did I realise that I was bleeding from many places, making my overalls and face cold and sticky, but there was absolutely no pain. The fuel gauge for both left and right tanks worked fine and I could see no fuel leakage, nor could I smell fuel vapour. Every minute or so I flicked from one tank to the other to check for fuel loss and after ten minutes knew I would get back to safety, providing the engine kept going. I set power by ear and knew from engine response that the turbo-charger was working; but there was no way of knowing if engine oil was being lost, so I followed a route as far removed from human habitation as possible. I had considered going into Macombe to get first-aid from the SAS but then decided to press on to Centenary when I realised that, although there was a lot of blood about, the wounds to my face, chest, arms and legs were no more than shallow penetrations from bits of metal and broken glass.
During an earlier recce deep inside Mozambique I had been feeling distinctly lonely and afraid when suddenly I became acutely aware that I was not alone at all. This was an experience I find impossible to put into words because the sudden knowledge of the presence of God is awesome, powerful and exciting all at the same time. Now, having survived passage over Chifombo Base and heading for home, the immediate presence of God overwhelmed me again. The feeling I experienced this time was different but just as impossible to explain by words alone.
Winds of Destruction Page 52
