Bitter Harvest

by Ian Smith

  The next term was rugby and I had made a good start when my knee was damaged and I was off for the rest of the season. A great friend of mine who played for the first XV in his first year — no mean achievement — was also keen on rowing and advised me that this sport would benefit my knee. He was right; it did seem to strengthen the ligaments and ease the stiffness. I enjoyed rowing, the team spirit and synchronisation with every member of the crew trying to work as one unit. One of my claims to fame was that in 1946, after the war, I went back to Rhodes to do the final year for my degree and I was stroke in the Rhodes crew which won the Inter-Varsity Boat Race on the Vaal Dam near Johannesburg. A few months previously the Wits University crew had won the Transvaal Grand Challenge Cup, and the local media had suggested that they should represent South Africa at the coming Empire Games. So it is fair comment to say that we pulled off a significant victory, especially when one considers that we were from one of the small universities, with inadequate facilities and a small patch of water which did not allow a crew to get into its stride.

  Far from knocking a tenth of a second off my 100 yards time each year, however, I was adding a tenth of a second, and there seemed to be no doubt that the reason for this was rowing. The opinion of specialists substantiates this. The message seems clear: rowing does not go well together with sports where speed is an advantage, such as athletics, rugby, hockey, soccer and many others. These sports will not adversely affect one’s rowing ability, but one should give serious consideration to the disadvantages in the opposite direction.

  I have no regrets over my incursion into rowing, since it is so different from other sports and I therefore found it a completely new experience. Rowing is a sport which promotes philosophical thinking and reasoning. It has the peace and tranquility of water as a background, there is no body contact, no face-to-face confrontation, and the noise element is almost non-existent — apart from the ripple of the bow through the water. Clearly, it has therapeutic qualities, encouraging participants to resolve differences through peaceful communication and rationalisation. Perhaps all politicians should be encouraged to do a little rowing occasionally! Given that I was brought up under a system where sport was part of one’s training, discipline, character formation, and the idea that one should partake of as many kinds as possible, I think my life has been enriched by participating in such a range of activities, enabling me to make friends among people from a wide variety of human types. There have been no regrets in my life for the course I followed.

  If one’s intention is to achieve championship status, however, it would appear that specialisation is a sine qua non, and sadly, this places one in the class of quasi-professionalism, and this has a tendency to detract from the quality of sportsmanship.

  II: THE OUTBREAK OF WAR

  When war was declared in September 1939, among most people there was a sombre air of anxiety. But for a large number of the younger generation, excitement predominated. For those of us at university, end-of-year examinations were approaching, so there was general acceptance, albeit reluctant in some quarters, that these should be taken normally, and that then there would be ample time during the long vacation to assess the position.

  At my home town of Selukwe, one of the biggest mining areas in the country, some of the young-bloods, having celebrated the occasion, boarded the night train to Salisbury, and on arrival next morning presented themselves for service at the nearest appropriate government office. Their absence from work, however, caused immediate consternation at the mines concerned and the message was swiftly conveyed to Salisbury: the production of gold and chrome, the principal products at Selukwe, was an essential part of the war effort. So those young bucks, hoping for immediate enlistment, were summarily arrested and sent back to their jobs on the mines. Other similar cases presented themselves, and government assessment of the situation indicated a need for conscription, not to conscript people into the services, but to keep people in their jobs until plans were produced to ensure that when young people were accepted for service, there were older people ready to fill their positions. A unique situation: people were conscripted to keep them out of the security forces, as opposed to getting them in! Such was the character of these people who were more British than the British.

  Part of the government’s plan was also that university students should complete their courses before enlisting. It was difficult to argue against the logic and sense of such a plan, no matter how frustrating for some. I received some hope from an announcement that Rhodesia had been chosen as one of the countries to pioneer the Empire Air Training Scheme; not surprising, as we had one of the most perfect climates in the world. My dream was to fly a Spitfire, so I consoled myself with the need for patience — but it did not come easily, and it was difficult to concentrate on such mundane things as academic studies.

  During the long Christmas vacation of 1940 I made a trip to Salisbury on the pretext of visiting some of my friends. I had been given a name to contact at Air Force Administration and the whole exercise went surprisingly well. The question of my attendance at university was evaded, a medical examination produced no problem, and one of my local friends undertook to receive and pass on correspondence. So I returned to university with hope in my heart. Every day I scanned the post, exercising great patience. Then they arrived: my call-up papers for a pilot’s course. I read and re-read every word, half a dozen times.

  Next morning I went straight along and was shown in for an interview with the registrar, Major Walker MC. He was an impressive, no-nonsense man, highly respected by all. I was a member of the students’ committee responsible for running our hall of residence and enjoyed good relations with the Major; we were both lovers of sport, believers in law and order and a bit of discipline. He listened to my case and inspected the call-up papers. ‘There must be some mistake,’ he said very deliberately. ‘Your government has made it clear that it does not wish students’ courses to be interrupted in this way.’ I assured him that there was no mistake, that this was in keeping with my wishes, and I would not be put off. He paused for only a few moments, and then said: ‘The decision is really your own; even if I wished to prevent you I have no power to do so. Knowing your character I am not surprised at your stand, and I can tell you that I approve.’ After dealing with a few formalities he stood up, shook my hand very warmly and said that he hoped we would meet again one day.

  Fortunately we did. After the war, when I returned to Rhodes in 1946 to do the final year for my degree, he was still very much in control, and as I was chairman of the students’ representative council for that year, there was much to be done requiring our co-operation. He was, moreover, the President of the Rhodes Rowing Club, so after that memorable victory of ours on the Vaal Dam I wired him: ‘Rhodes wins Inter Varsity Boat Race. Ian Smith.’ When he subsequently congratulated me, his comment was: ‘That telegram of yours made my day.’ Members of his staff informed me that wherever he went he had it in his hand, showing all and sundry.

  We had a few rousing parties before my departure, and at one of them my friends presented me with a fine leather wallet with their good-luck wishes. Although it is a bit tattered and worn, it is something I shall never part with. Normally it is sad to leave behind friends and memories, but above all I was stimulated by what lay before me. I was going to fight for Britain and all that it represented. This was uppermost in my mind, and everything else faded into the background.

  III: PILOT TRAINING AND 237 (RHODESIA) SQUADRON

  One’s entry into the security forces is a pretty boring, depressing affair: waiting, filling forms, answering questions which, on the surface at any rate, appear irrelevant. If you try to resist, or improve the system, you will only set your cause back, so, you just have to grin and bear it.

  Eventually I received my first posting, to Initial Training Wing (ITW), Bulawayo. It sounded exciting, especially that last word, ‘Wing’, which hinted at the real thing: an aeroplane. In reality, though, it was a dismal anti-climax.
From Bulawayo railway station the motor transport took us to the Bulawayo show grounds — this was ITW. I knew the place well, as my father, as one of the top cattle judges in the country, had taken me there on many occasions to attend the Bulawayo show. We were taken to our quarters — the pig pens — and there were lines of palliasses on the floor: our beds.

  The Australian and British contingents had their uniforms but we Rhodesians had not yet been issued kit, so we were dressed, typically, in khaki shirts and shorts. I was strolling about with a hand in my pocket when somebody barked at me: ‘Take your hand out of your pocket. Who do you think you are?’

  I looked at him, first at his shoulder to see if he was an officer, then at his sleeves to see any NCO stripes, and as there was none, I asked who he was. It was the first time I had seen a warrant officer, his insignia worn on his wrist like a watch. This was an introduction which I will not forget: Station Warrant Officer Hampton was a man who, while not unnecessarily aggressive, was one who certainly commanded respect.

  A good part of our time was spent square bashing. We had in our contingent a couple of Rhodesians who had been in the army for six months before coming on our pilots’ course, and not unnaturally they felt they had done more than their share of parade-ground drill. One afternoon we were doing our stint on the square when SWO Hampton suddenly appeared over the horizon, stopped the drill, and with obvious fire in his eyes, surveyed us for a good few seconds. Then it came out: ‘I have just come from a walk through the pig pens, and you know what I saw there?’ He paused for a few dramatic moments, and then said with great deliberation: ‘Two fat pigs lying there snoring!’ And then the final shot, with a tinge of emotion in his voice: ‘I never thought I would find Rhodesians doing that!’ There was an obvious insinuation of neglect of duty. Needless to say, Hampton administered punishment to fit the crime, and there was no repetition of any such incident.

  I did not see Hampton again until I walked into Parliament for the first time as a new MP in 1948. He was the Chief Messenger of Parliament, a very important post which he held for many years with great distinction. When we came face to face he greeted me with a ‘Good morning, sir’ — he had a twinkle in his eye, and I said in reply: ‘Shadow of ITW and the pig pens.’ We had a good laugh, as we often did subsequently when reminiscing about those days.

  After what seemed an interminable wait — in fact about six weeks — our posting came to Elementary Flying Training School (EFTS), at Guinea Fowl, just outside Gwelo. This was more like it: aeroplanes and interesting people! Some of the instructors had been on operational flights, so the whole tempo quickened. More than half our course members were Australians, about a dozen were Rhodesians, and the rest were from Britain, so there was a wide variety of differing interests. I struck up many strong friendships with some of the Aussies, and have maintained contact to this day. Fortunately I had no problems with flying, and seemed to have a natural facility for handling and landing. I loved every minute of it, but always at the back of my mind was the wish that the process could be speeded up, as an operational squadron still seemed so far away.

  I was hoping for a posting to the United Kingdom, believing there would be more action there, but through the luck of the draw I landed in Egypt. I was then posted to an operational training unit course at Baalbek, in Lebanon, situated in a beautiful valley between Damascus and Beirut. I had a good look at Jerusalem, Tel Aviv and Haifa en route, and on a number of occasions had the intriguing experience of flying an aircraft 1,500 feet below sea level, over the Dead Sea which separates Israel from Jordan.

  The beauty of Lebanon, with its cedar-clad mountains, warm coastline and rich history, makes the recent suffering of its friendly people all the more grotesque. The great failing of our civilisation is that, despite its advances in science and other fields, it is impotent when faced with such tragedy.

  From Baalbek my next posting was to 237 (Rhodesia) Squadron to fly Hawker Hurricanes. They had been pulled out of the Western Desert for a break, and posted to Teheran, capital of a country then known as Persia. From there we moved westwards to Kirkuk, one of the big oil fields of Iraq. The winter weather was settling in, so it did not take us long to organise a rugby field. We had some rousing games against the London Scottish and London Irish regiments, Habaniya, the large permanent RAF base to our south near Baghdad, and a few others in the vicinity who were able to muster a team to give us a game.

  After a few months there, we started moving back to Egypt and ended up at El Alamein, west of Alexandria. We slowly moved along the coast until we reached Tobruk, where we spent some time before being brought back to do a stint on the defence of Alexandria.

  Taking off one morning in the dark and a sea mist on a dawn patrol, my undercarriage hit a bomb shelter at the end of the runway, and I landed in hospital with a bashed face, broken jaw, broken leg, broken shoulder, and a back which at first was thought to be broken but fortunately was only buckled. It was a bit of a mess. The squadron doctor’s comment was that if I had not been so fit and strong it could have been the end, but after five months of expert medical attention at the Fifteenth Scottish Hospital on the banks of the Nile in Cairo I was passed fit for flying.

  During my stay in hospital there was a South Africa Division and a New Zealand Division in Cairo. Rugby was the natural consequence. There were a couple of excellent games. For the first game I was still in a wheelchair with my leg propped up, in an excellent spectator position right on the centre line, and rather embarrassingly attracting sympathetic attention. Boy Louw, one of the greatest rugby Springboks, chatted with me, clearly a bit apprehensive as to how his chaps were going to perform. There was another good game too, Rhodesia vs the Rest, and the Rhodesians won — it goes without saying that there was a very good celebration that evening at the Rhodesia Club! With all this going on, my time convalescing passed reasonably quickly.

  I resisted a suggestion to return home as an instructor, and set off to rejoin the squadron, which was stationed at Ijacio on the Island of Corsica, flying Spitfire Mark IXs.

  IV: CORSICA AND THE PARTISANI

  On Corsica we were part of an American group and, when not escorting the bombers (Mitchells, Bostons and Marauders) on their daylight missions, we spent our time on strafing raids, principally train busting and attacking heavy motor transport. As German aircraft were conspicuous by their absence, this was the next best thing to engaging them and it provided us with good sport. We flew over the famous leaning tower of Pisa on many occasions, and on one return trip I came down low and did a tight circle to obtain a better view — it certainly does lean over at quite an alarming angle.

  We were positioned further north than our counterparts on the Italian mainland and thus were able to cover targets beyond their reach. I remember the arrival on the squadron of a young Rhodesian pilot, Jack Malloch, who was hit by flak on a strafing raid and bailed out behind the lines shortly before the war ended. He returned to Rhodesia and built up his own air freight business, which from 1965 onwards became one of the main arms of our sanctions-busting operation. In the mid-1970s he obtained from our air force a MK 22 Spitfire which had been in mothballs since 1954. Using his contacts all over the world to find the necessary spare parts, he painstakingly restored it to its former glory and on 29 March 1980 it flew again with Jack at the controls. On many occasions subsequently Rhodesians were treated to the spectacle of seeing this, the most beautiful aircraft ever made gracing the skies above them. Tragically, on 26 March 1982, Jack and his beloved Spitfire were lost in an unexpectedly violent hailstorm.

  An entry in his log book from those days in Italy reads: ‘June 9, 1944 — a good day. Six of us got 15 flamers and 14 damaged — Ian Smith was leading.’

  They were stimulating times, and few days passed without similar occurrences. One morning about a month later I was leading a flight on a strafing raid into the Po Valley, and soon picked up a railway line which led to a large marshalling yard. We went straight in picking on the most attract
ive targets of locos and fuel tanks. There were some healthy explosions with columns of black smoke billowing up. I then made the mistake against which I had often warned others: I went back for a second run. There was no sign of any opposition but, with the element of surprise in our first attack, this was normal. It is different, however, once you have stirred the hornets’ nest. I had enjoyed a long run of successes, and it had led me to overconfidence and complacency, and the target was very inviting. I told the other members of the flight to keep their height and observe if there was any reaction while I attacked another line of tank cars. As I pulled up out of my dive there was a resounding thud which shook the Spitfire, so I turned left towards the coast and base, telling my number two to follow me and the rest of the flight to carry on with the mission.

  Noticing that my oil pressure had gone, I tried to gain as much height as possible. If I could cross the coast even a few miles out to sea, there would be a good chance of being picked up by one of our sea rescue craft. They were constantly on the lookout between Corsica and the mainland and would be able to pick up my ‘Mayday’ radio message. However, this was not to be. My temperature gauges were off the clock and I began to feel the heat from the engine. Alan Douglas, my number two, first told me that black smoke was pouring out and then that flames were engulfing the whole engine. I realised the danger, because if the fire reached the fuel tanks, the whole aeroplane would explode. There was only one answer — I had often gone through the drill for such an emergency, so there was no hesitation. I jettisoned the canopy, released my harness and, although I would have preferred more height for the operation, I turned the Spit over on its back, rammed the stick forward and out I came perfectly.