Winds of Destruction: The Autobiography of a Rhodesian Combat Pilot

No 1 Squadron

ON 3 JANUARY 1959 WE returned from Christmas leave and I was very pleased to learn that I had been posted to No 1 Squadron together with Dave Thorne, Eric Cary, Bill Galloway and Keith Corrans. Before being split up to go our various ways, my course was summoned to Wing Commander Wilson’s office to take commissioning oaths and sign a ten-years’ Medium Service contract. (On completion of ten years, one could apply for permanent service.)

Only after this had been done did the CO tell Group HQ about my marriage. As expected, he got one hell of a rocket for withholding this information for five long months. The next day I was called to his office again to be told that I would be called to Group HQ in the near future for an interview with the Chief of Air Staff, Air Vice-Marshal Ted Jacklin. In the meanwhile I was to get on and establish myself as a useful squadron pilot.

No 1 Squadron was a regular-sized squadron in terms of its fifteen pilots but was very short staffed on the technical side with only thirteen technicians led by a frosty, no-nonsense old timer Scot, Flight Sergeant Jimmy Stewart, who was the NCO in charge of all technical matters.

Flight Lieutenant Colin Graves commanded the squadron with Bob Woodward (ex-RAF Central Flying School) and Flying Officer Norman Walsh as his flight commanders. Three of the PAIs who had instructed my course on weapons, Randy du Rand, Justin Varkevisser and Peter McClurg, remained with No 1 Squadron. Basil Green, Eddie Wilkinson, Ted Stevenson and Mike Reynolds made up the balance of our numbers.

Frank Mussell, Ted Brent and Brian Horney had been posted off the squadron to join other pilots for a conversion onto Canberra bombers at RAF Bassingborne in the UK. Sandy Mutch also left the squadron for a Staff position in Group HQ.

Thornhill worked different hours to both Group HQ and New Sarum. The aircrew workday commenced at 06:30 in the station briefing room where OC Flying covered any non-routine events. This was followed by that day’s meteorological forecast given by the resident meteorologist, Mr Harvey Quail. Thereafter everyone went about his normal business and regular work ceased at 13:30.

Everyone was free to do his own thing in the afternoon. For the most part this involved sports followed by a few drinks in the all ranks Sports Club or within individual messes. A pilot’s life in those days seemed to be more like being on permanent holiday than working for a living.

Interview with Commander

I HAD BEEN DREADING MY INTERVIEW with the Air Force Commander, which occurred on 3 February 1959. Having been authorised to fly myself to New Sarum in a T11 for the occasion, I was pleased to be approached by Mike Reynolds who wanted a lift to attend to private business in Salisbury. We landed at New Sarum a whole hour ahead of my 10:00 appointment and Mike raced off immediately saying he should be back at lunchtime.

Because I was so nervous about the interview, Beryl had approached a chemist friend who gave her a small white tranquilliser tablet and a larger one to offset drowsiness induced by the first. These were to be taken thirty minutes before my interview.

Ten minutes before due time I reported to Group Captain Harold Hawkins. This large, good-looking man was much gentler than I had expected. He told me to relax and said, “The old man is going to give you a going over like you will never have to face again. But don’t worry, all will be fine." ‘Harry the Hawk’, as he was known, was not to know that I was so relaxed by the tranquilliser tablet I had taken twenty minutes earlier that my fears were all but gone.

At precisely 10 o’clock I was ushered into the Chief of Air Staff’s office. I had only seen this revered man once before at our Wings Parade and the Wings Ball that followed it. Having saluted him I remained at attention in front of his desk. Looking me straight in the eye, the CAS started off in a quiet voice with the words, “So you are the puppy who chose to disobey Air Force regulations and undermined the standards of my Air Force!” His voice rose steadily as he lectured me on his intolerance to indiscipline and had resorted to thumping his desk with his fist to emphasise points by the time he had come to shouting his words.

The tranquilliser’s effects on me made everything seem quite unreal. I was taking in the words and the scene thinking: ‘He is really having to work at raising his anger.’

The next moment the Commander started to cough and reached into a drawer for a small container from which he inhaled spray. Later I learned that he was an asthmatic but at that moment he was red-faced and struggling for breath. I remained dead still knowing instinctively that I would be doing the wrong thing to offer help. The CAS was still struggling to breathe when I said, “Sir, may I tell you my story." He nodded and signalled me to sit down.

By the tine I had finished telling him how and why I had married Beryl, the CAS had fully regained his composure. His first words were very reassuring. “Son, I am so pleased you did not have to get married and that your wife is not pregnant now. I hate shotgun marriages in my force.”

For over forty minutes AVM Jacklin, all the time referring to me as “son”, told me all about his plans and dreams for “my Air Force”. He ended up by saying I was to take six weeks’ paid leave so that Beryl and I could put our lives into good order.

The Commander then telephoned Mr Lionel Harris of Bannett and Harris, a well-known, high-quality furniture shop in Salisbury, and requested that he attended to our needs; the Air Force would stand guarantor to Beryl and me. He told me I was to ensure that we set out in our married life with the best-quality furniture and a good clean home. Today, over forty years on, we still have much of the furniture we bought from Bannett and Harris in 1959 and Beryl has always kept a very clean home.

I was about to leave his office when the Commander asked me how I had come up from Thornhill. Still a bit tranquillised I unthinkingly said I had flown up in a Vampire. This news sent the Commander through the roof.

Knowing that I must have been pretty stressed ahead of this interview, he could not understand why I had not been flown up by one of the squadron pilots. When I revealed that Mike Reynolds had hitched a lift with me, Group Captain Hawkins was called in and told to change the flight authorisation for Reynolds to captain the return flight to Thornhill. As I marched out, Air Vice-Marshal Jacklin was already on the phone to Wing Commander Wilson. I felt really bad about my CO having to take another blasting from CAS because he had done more to protect me than I deserved or expected.

Beryl and I found a lovely apartment in Shema’s Flats in Gwelo that we furnished to our liking. Beryl’s dad helped us with half the money to buy a second-hand Vauxhall Velox so we were well set and happy by the time I returned to duty and Beryl to her hairdressing job.

Air Force life was idyllic. Flying was a joy and the squadron crew room was a happy place. There was always a great deal of chatter, leg pulling, reading or playing cards, Scrabble and other games. One day we acquired a chess set. Those who had not played the game before chose to ignore it. Two of these were Justin Varkevisser (Varky) and Randy du Rand, but when I came in from a sortie one morning, I was surprised to find these two playing each other at chess. I moved closer and was astonished to see that Varky had Randy’s king off the board. “You cannot do that”, I told Varky. “The king never leaves the board." Other pilots gathered and were amused to hear Randy say, “You play to your rules and we will play to ours!”

Eddie Wilkinson had a dog named Pickles who followed him everywhere. Pickles was allowed into the squadron building where his presence was hardly noticed because he was very well behaved. The one thing that amazed us all about this dog was that he was only noticed when Eddie went out to his aircraft or taxiied into dispersals. He would follow his master right through the pre-flight inspection then move off the hard-standing to watch Eddie taxi out towards the runway. Pickles would not be noticed again until he leapt up and ran out to the flight line to meet Eddie as he taxied in. Only a dog could differentiate between the many Vampires Eddie flew. They all sounded the same to us!

Nyasaland emergency

THE FEDERATION OF RHODESIA AND Nyasaland was facing opposition from black leaders who wanted the three territories of the Federation to be dissolved and independence bestowed upon each under ‘black governments’. Rioting broke out in Nyasaland and blood had been spilled before the Police and Army moved in to quell the unrest. Nos 3 and 4 Squadrons (Dakotas, Pembrokes and Provosts) were dispatched to the troubled region immediately and No 1 Squadron was put on standby. Then on the first day of April we deployed to Chileka Airport near Blantyre.

The Dakotas and two Pembrokes were still engaged in positioning ground forces around the country and Provosts had already flown missions in active support of Police and Army units serving as airborne observers and laying tear-gas screens when needed.

The Vampires were only there to ‘wave the flag’, uphold the spirits of the ‘goodies’ and undermine the confidence of the ‘badies’. Ours should have been a very soft number but the first flag-waving flight was a pretty hairy experience for me. A formation of six Vampires was to expose our presence in and around Zomba, the seat of government.

Norman Walsh led the formation of six aircraft. We took off from Chileka Airport in pairs under ‘chiparoni’ conditions of low cloud with drizzle (known to Rhodesians as guti and normal wet weather in Britain). Because we entered dense stratocumulus shortly after take-off, Norman instructed us to hold a particular heading until above the cloud where we would link up. I was No 2 in the second pair and saw Norman and his No 2 as soon as we came into clear air in a cloud valley with higher banks to right and left of our flight line. We linked up and I became No 4 on Norman’s lead. The third pair reported being above cloud but could not see our formation. After orbiting for about three minutes Norman decided that link-up would not occur and instructed the unseen pair to return to Chileka.

The cloud opened about twenty kilometres northwest of Zomba sufficiently to allow for a visual descent. Norman picked up the main road from Lake Nyasa to Zomba and flew us fast and low in tight battle formation along the road just below thickening low cloud. I was slightly stepped up in the starboard outer position where I could see the three aircraft as well as the reaction of people along the road. Most had not seen jets at close range before and were diving for cover as Norman swept over them.

The northern slopes of Zomba mountain suddenly appeared out of the gloom, its base reaching down to the main road. This forced both of us on the starboard side to step higher and steepen the echelon angle, placing me at cloud base close against the mountainside.

As the outskirts of Zomba came into view I suddenly saw a heavy cable at such close range that I had to make a violent break to port to avoid it. I then had to repeat the manoeuvre in the reverse direction so as not to lose sight of the other aircraft, now on my right side. It became so dark over Zomba town, in moderately heavy rain, that Norman considered it unwise to make the planned orbits of the town, so he led us straight back to Chileka Airport.

On the ground we learned that the line I had so nearly hit was an old hawser cable that used to transport timber from the top of Zomba mountain down to its base. Norman expressed his relief that the third pair had been dropped because, with six aircraft, the unmarked hazard may have proven fatal.

For the next few days the weather was good and we flew a number of sorties over troubled areas. We got to see much of truly beautiful Nyasaland and crystal-clear Lake Nyasa that, like Lakes Albert, Kivu and Tanganyika, is a water-filled section of the Great Rift Valley running down the eastern side of Africa.

Mount Mlanje, the highest feature in the territory, was surrounded by a vast spread of well-manicured tea estates having lines of magnificent acacia trees that acted as protective windbrakers. Norman was leading as usual when he turned our formation of four FB9s towards the mountain for a zoom climb up a well-defined gully running from the base of the mountain to its summit. Full power was applied as we commenced the ascent in loose line astern. I was No 3 and soon became concerned when the mountain seemed too steep and high because I was dropping back from the two aircraft climbing ahead of me. Keith Corrans flying No 4 passed on my right side waving at me as he flew by.

I had suspected that my FB9’s engine was shy on power during each formation take-off over the previous few days, but now I knew for sure that it was not performing like those of the three aircraft racing away from me. Soon all three aircraft disappeared from view as they pitched over the rounded summit that was still a long way ahead.

I was considering lowering undercarriage for what looked like an unavoidable stall onto the rough rising ground but by using a small degree of flap; I managed to wallow past the mountain climbers’ resthouse at the summit. Falling ground allowed a slow acceleration to safe flying speed and I reestablished visual contact with the formation descending some two miles ahead.

For pilots and technicians of the jet and transport squadrons, life at Chileka Airport was comfortable, with pleasant tented accommodation and the airport restaurant and bar at our permanent disposal. On the other hand, No 4 Squadron’s crews were split up at three forward Airfields where conditions were not so easy; but at least they were seeing action in close support of the Army and Police.

For the men operating the Provosts, accommodation and food was pretty basic with little to occupy the long hours between sorties. It was during such a lull that Frank Gait-Smith, sitting in a camp chair and having lost interest in all the over-read magazines, watched a black woman bearing a bucket of water on her head cross the grass runway at Kota Kota. In a bored voice, and speaking to nobody in particular, he observed that, “Absence surely makes the blacks grow blonder!”

I was instructed to take my underpowered FB9 back to Thornhill and was granted permission to stay over for the night before returning with a replacement aircraft. A few weeks after this we learned that Beryl was pregnant and nine months after that one night stay-over our daughter Deborah was born.

One morning there was quite a commotion as police vehicles came onto the airport apron and pulled up to the open doors of a waiting Dakota. A number of black men emerged from the vehicles and were ushered into the Dakota. I noticed that one of them was small and still wearing pyjamas and dressing gown. This was Doctor Hastings Banda who was on his way to Gwelo Prison. The Nyasaland Emergency was over and we returned to base having been away for only twenty-one days.

The need to prepare aircrew to survive many days in the bush brought about a series of ‘bush survival exercises’. The first of these was run in August after our return from Nyasaland. Half of 1 Squadron’s pilots were flown to Binga airfield on the south bank of the Zambezi River, soon to be lost below the waters of Kariba Dam. Many crocodile basking points were evident right next to the runway markers.

A famous hunter cum game-ranger, Mr Cockroft, conducted the course that included a very long and strenuous hike to the Amanzituba Vlei area climbing from the hot bush-covered flats through a rugged range into the cooler highveld. Close encounters with two black rhino induced high adrenaline flow but otherwise we all enjoyed moving through bushveld that supported a full spread of African wildlife totally unaffected by human intrusion.

On completion of our bush hike we were pretty exhausted and very much enjoyed swimming in the therapeutic waters of a hot spring pool. I believe it is still there, close to the Kariba shoreline.

Canberra bombers

NEGOTIATIONS BETWEEN THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT and the British Government had been ongoing since September 1956 concerning our participation in Britain’s defence undertakings in Africa and the Middle East. The Federal Prime Minister, Sir Roy Welensky, considered the acquisition of Canberra bombers important to the Federation for fuller support to the Baghdad Treaty signatories. Though this was opposed by a number of Federal politicians, negotiations with Britain for the on-take of the bombers continued.

The Suez Crisis delayed communications on the issue until Mr Duncan Sandys, the British Minister of Defence, wrote a letter to Sir Roy Welensky dated 13 August 1957 to say that 18 RAF Canberra B2 bombers had been earmarked for refurbishment for the RRAF. In light of today’s prices, the cost to the Federal Government of £18,310,000 for eighteen jet bombers seems remarkable. At the same time, plans were being made for RRAF Vampires to spend time in Aden to foster good relations with Britain’s Middle East Command and to prepare for situations of limited and global war. When ready to do so, RRAF Canberras would also participate.

The first flight of four Canberra B2 bombers, led by Squadron Leader Charles Paxton, arrived at Thornhill where they were met by a large welcoming crowd including the Air Force Commander, every man on station and many wives with their children.

This lovely-looking aircraft held special interest for me because my second cousin, William Petter, had designed it. His father had designed the famous WW II ‘behind the lines’ short-field workhorse, the Lysander, and William followed in his father’s footsteps. He designed a bomber that all the recognised aircraft manufacturers refused to take on. In desperation he eventually approached the English Electric Corporation who had not until then been involved directly in the production of aircraft.

Subject to design modifications to incorporate English Electric in-house technology, William Petter’s bomber was taken on and become Britain’s first jet bomber and a great success for the manufacturer.

As chief design-engineer for the company, William was also instrumental in designing the prototype of the Lightning interceptor. Later he designed a low-cost fighter that became the Folland Gnat.

Not only had the Royal Rhodesian Air Force strike power increased with the addition of Nos 5 and 6 (Canberra) Squadrons, No 3 (Transport) Squadron’s lift capacity was substantially enhanced with the addition of four Canadairs (DC4 M-2 Argonaut) aircraft, each powered by four Merlin engines. The Federation was establishing a fair-sized balanced Air Force and there were rumours that we would be getting Hunter GF9s in the near future. All of this was very exciting for the likes of myself!

The Colin Graves tragedy

AFTER THE FIRST CANBERRAS ARRIVED, No 1 Squadron was preparing a formation aerobatic team to participate at the ‘Elizabethville Air Show’. The reason for the Belgian invitation to our Air Force to participate in their great show at Elizabethville in the Katanga Province of the Congo is lost to me. Nevertheless the Vampires were to put on a formation aerobatics display and the newly acquired Canberras were to give solo and formation demonstrations.

As Squadron Commander Colin Graves led a formation team of four aircraft with Mike Reynolds No 2, Peter McClurg No 3, and Randy du Rand No 4. Norman Walsh was one of two reserve pilots and, though I led him on a couple of pairs formation aerobatic practices, I only recall him flying with the initial team of six on a couple of occasions. Then the team was reduced to four because of Vampire power limitations.

Colin had taken his team out into the flying area for some days before he felt ready to come to the airfield to have his prepared sequence viewed and evaluated. The results were pleasing and we all felt good about having such a team to show off Rhodesian talent. Most Air Forces around the world boasted national aerobatics teams of which the Black Arrows team (Hunters) of the RAF was closest to us by association.

However, there was an enormous gap between handling demands on pilots flying formation aerobatics on Hunters and those doing the same in Vampires. The Vampire’s power margins were really too small and engine response too slow for formation aerobatics, placing unusually high demands on pilots to hold a steady station in all manoeuvres. Typically a jet suited to formation aerobatics would have at least 25% power reserve and rapid response engines. The Vampire at best had 10% reserve with relatively poor thrust response to throttle.

The old Control Tower, soon to be demolished, incorporated an outside balcony that served as a perfect place from which to watch Colin’s team go through its routines. Together with others, I was on this balcony on 6 May 1959 waiting for another in a series of display practices when I happened to notice that Wing Commander Wilson was joining us.

Colin had completed a barrel roll running across our front from east to west before leading the formation in a long sweeping climb to starboard during which the aircraft, all FB9s, changed from finger four to box formation. In this pattern and still in the turn, the formation kept coming around descending to gain speed for a loop directly in front of us.

Before the aircraft reached the top of the loop Randy du Rand, as No 4, had fallen back two aircraft lengths from his correct position. Immediately Wing Commander Wilson crossed the platform at a run and went racing off down the stairway. Most of us saw this out of the corner of the eye but thought nothing of it because our attention was focused on the formation.

In the descent Randy’s aircraft moved forward but overshot slightly, his nose coming under the leader’s tail plane as the formation swept through the bottom of the loop. As the aircraft pitched into the climb Colin’s aircraft dropped in turbulence and his tail plane was removed as it smashed through Randy’s canopy. This created a shower of flashing debris that seemed to stop dead in mid-air with the aircraft passing on. Without its tail plane, Colin’s aircraft pitched down from its shallow climb into a shallow dive then rolled inverted and disappeared from view behind a line of gum trees on Thornhill’s western boundary. A huge angry red fireball enveloped in black smoke rose into view a couple of seconds later.

We were staring in disbelief when I pointed to Wing Commander Wilson’s speeding Staff car. How he had sensed what was coming we could not say but from the start he had been heading directly for the crash site.

That the much-loved and respected Colin Graves was dead there could be no doubt and one was left wondering how the decision not to fit life-saving ejector seats could be justified on the basis of high costs. Compared to the loss of this experienced officer and father of two young children it seemed such a petty issue. But then our attention was drawn from the tragedy to a new situation. Randy, though still flying, was in mortal danger.

The impact with Colin’s tail plane had shattered Randy’s canopy. The thick armoured glass of his windscreen, still encased in its battered frame, had been pushed past the gunsight and lay across Randy’s arms fully exposing his head and upper body to high-speed airflow. This might have been tolerable had the visor on Randy’s helmet not been shattered too. Fortunately his oxygen mask was still in place and prevented Randy from an air drowning.

With blood being driven into his eyes by the airflow, Randy could not see a thing. Fortunately he did not lose consciousness, his mask and earphones continued to function and he could still move throttle and control column. Peter McLurg had seen the collision right next to him but instantly lost Colin’s aircraft when it pitched out of sight. Like Mike Reynolds, Peter moved away slightly but he kept his eye on Randy whose aircraft was climbing.

Peter knew that Colin had ploughed in and, closing his mind to this horror, switched his full attention to Randy who reported that he was blind. Peter moved in and became Randy’s eyes by calling his climb angle and telling him which way to roll to keep wings level. Holding formation on Randy, Peter asked him to start throttling back and continued informing Randy of his flight attitude, speed and engine rpm.

Randy considered bailing out but Peter McLurg insisted he was safer where he was and assured Randy he would guide him in for a safe landing. After discussion, Randy agreed that a wheels-up landing on the large open expanses of cut grass was safer than attempting to bail out or risking a blind landing on the relatively narrow tarmac runway. By this time Randy, now flying at reduced speed, could see just enough to hold formation on Peter.

All attention was on the two dots descending towards the airfield. Anyone not knowing of the drama in the air would not have guessed that the pilot of one aircraft could hardly see. Everything looked normal except for the fact that the aircraft were not aligned with the main runway. On short finals Randy’s descent suddenly increased towards high-tension power-lines running between the railway and the airfield boundary fence. He responded to Peter’s urgent “Pull up—check—hold it—descend—close throttle—start rounding out—a bit more—touch down now!”

Peter McLurg was overshooting as Randy’s aircraft bellied onto the grass. High friction pitched the aircraft nose down, lifting the tail so high it remained visible above flying debris and a great cloud of red dust. Having travelled about 200 metres, the aircraft went into a slow turn and was lost to view in dust before it came to rest facing back along the line of torn-up grass. A Staff car seen tearing across the grass paddock from the Tower disappeared into the dust cloud. When it cleared we could see Randy being helped out of his wrecked cockpit by the one and only Mac Geeringh; ever ready to help anyone in trouble.

An inspection of the crash site suggested that Colin had deliberately rolled his stricken aircraft to avoid crashing into a particular house. The engine had buried itself into the ground but three of the 20mm cannons broke loose and somersaulted ahead of airframe wreckage. In another house, a Rhodesian Railways man was fast asleep in his bed, having come off night duty. He was awakened by the loud noise of one cannon smashing through his window and driving sideways through a large wardrobe. It had passed just a couple of inches above his body. Two other cannons passed either side of the man’s two small children who were playing in the driveway. These came to rest at the back of his garage, one each side of his unscathed car. These were lucky people but Colin was not the only casualty that day. An old man seeking to give assistance died of a heart attack before reaching the crash site.

Prior to the accident, a routine medical examination showed that one of Randy’s eyes had become weaker than the other, but not to the extent that he could not pass the compulsory six-monthly flying fitness test. When he had fully recovered from the accident, it was established that the bang he had received on his head might have been the reason his faulty eye had returned to normal.

Air shows

FOLLOWING THE DEATH OF COLIN we received a new squadron commander. Squadron Leader Sandy Mutch’s posting to No 1 Squadron brought our OC’s rank into line with the other squadrons. He took over leadership of Colin’s formation aerobatic team and had it ready in time for the ‘Elizabethville Show’.

After this there were air shows in Broken Hill and Lusaka in Northern Rhodesia and a number of others in Southern Rhodesia. Each involved flying displays by all squadrons. My involvement with other junior officers was manning static displays of aircraft and equipment. It happened to be a very pleasant task because spectators showed so much interested in the aircraft. When the flying started I could watch every display from start to finish because all spectators were doing the same. There were two particular displays that stick in my mind. They were given by Canberra and Vampire FB9 solo routines, both at Broken Hill.

Squadron Leader Charles Paxton flew the Canberra. Like most bombers, this aircraft was not stressed for aerobatics even though, without the encumbrance of bombs and long-range fuel tanks, it could perform lovely-looking loops and barrel rolls.

Charles opened his display with a high-speed pass followed by loops and barrel rolls. Next came tight turns at very slow speed so that spectators could see bomb doors opening for a close look into the bomb bay. In the next turn undercarriage was lowered to show the sequencing of wheel doors and gear, again at close range. Two more turns were made with bomb doors closing and wheels retracting before full power was applied in the last turn which developed into a thunderous sounding steep climb-out followed by a powerless and silent descending turn back towards the crowd.

Still holding crowd attention, Charles whispered past the crowd flying slowly with full flap and wheels down. At this point John Mussell opened his display with an ultra low-level, high-speed pass under the Canberra, flying in the opposite direction then pulled up into the loop that opened his sequence. John Mussell had flown the FB9 solo aerobatic display for some time before Bob Woodward arrived from the RAF with his own polished version of low-level aerobatics flown in a T11.

Bob, who had been the top solo aerobatist in RAF Central Flying School in the mid 1950s, flew a close-in compact display at relatively slow speed that only pilots could appreciate because of the flying skills involved. John Mussell on the other hand flew to please the public. Flat out at full power he provided the noise and speed expected by all civilian spectators.

John’s run under the Canberra was so low that many people standing two or more rows back heard but did not see the FB9 flash by. The crowd loved the noisy surprise, which resulted, according to the newspapers, in two of Broken Hill’s pregnant ladies being carted off to the maternity home ahead of schedule.

Because he was so fast, John’s first loop took him almost out of sight before he came down in a forty-five degrees inverted dive. Leaving his roll-out very late, he entered a second loop with plenty of crowd-pleasing speed and noise. He continued on with his sequence for about five minutes, throwing in every aerobatic manoeuvre before making a slow roll along the viewing line at very, very, low level as only John could do. He then pulled up sharply into a vertical climb intending to execute a left-hand stall turn, again high up.

I do not recall what went wrong. The aircraft was pivoting around its left wing when suddenly it started a rotation. This tightened as the aircraft descended. When John had done more than six turns in an ever-tightening spin, it seemed he would not recover from the dreaded condition for which the FB9 had such a bad reputation. It was obvious that John would have trouble bailing out and I had a picture in my mind of what he was experiencing up there as the crowd clapped and cheered this ‘spectacular manoeuvre’. When it looked as if there was no hope, the aircraft snapped out of the spin and John stole the show by continuing his noisy display as if nothing untoward had happened. The crowd certainly did not realise how close they had come to witnessing a disaster!

On return to Thornhill there was a fuss over the Canberra that Charles Paxton had been flying. Many of the rivets in the fin and rear fuselage had popped, indicating that the aircraft had exceeded its structural limitations. Though the damage was easily repaired, Canberra pilots were immediately banned from making any aerobatic manoeuvre.

Flypasts

NO 1 SQUADRON WAS OFTEN INVOLVED in formation flypasts for a variety of special occasions. In the latter half of my first year on the squadron I was included in formation flypasts over parades held for the Queen’s Birthday, the Governor-General of the Federation inspection of forces and the Battle of Britain Commemoration Parade. Little preparation was required for formating pilots but the formation leaders had to practise for the split-second accuracy needed to pass over a parade bang on time. This was much more difficult to achieve than was apparent to observers on the ground.

The first requirement was to know the exact order of parade, the height and ‘time zero’ for The first formation to be overhead. Also needed were timings and heights for those following. Time Zero inevitably coincided with the last note of the Royal Anthem. The parade would remain at the ‘Present’ until the last formation noise had abated sufficiently for the parade commander’s voice to carry to all units on parade.

An Air Force officer on the ground (air co-ordinator) had to time parade rehearsal so that he would be in a position to give the formation leaders a running commentary on what was happening on the parade ground with a countdown to ‘Zero’.

Formation leaders would usually fly a reverse pattern from the parade ground to their intended holding point to establish precisely how many minutes and seconds it took to fly the route. Having established this, they would then fly their intended path a few times to prove their timings for the actual parade when they would be leading whole formations.

Out of sight and hearing of the parade each formation flew a racetrack pattern in its assigned waiting area, well separated by height and distance for safety’s sake. Each leader knew how long it would take from any position in his racetrack pattern to get to the parade ground on time and on correct heading. But seldom did the timings of the practice match those of the official parade. This made a formation leader’s job a very tricky business.

The problems in getting timings right were almost always due to unexpected actions by the reviewing Officer. This is the sort of information from the Air Force co-ordinator that formation leaders dreaded, but had to be prepared for:

“No sight of the Reviewing Officer’s car yet—already running five seconds late—Oh! Here he comes—he is driving slower than expected—pulling up behind dais now—56 seconds—Governor General climbing out of the car—51 seconds—Oh boy, he has turned to the crowd and not the dais—moving to greet someone on the front seats—still talking—looks like he might move now—yes—51 seconds—climbing steps now—taking position—35 seconds—presenting arms—Royal salute—28 seconds.”

The leaders of slow aircraft faced the greatest difficulties when this type of thing happened because, to make the distance, they would have been running in, even before the reviewing Officer’s car came into view. Having reduced speed to meet the first five-second delay they then faced the unexpected problem of the reviewing officer turning to greet someone giving no option but to go into a 180-degree turn. But how tight? How long before the reviewing officer moves to the dais? Problems such as these were greater for a leader of cumbersome Dakota formations than for leaders of smaller nimble aircraft such as the Provosts. For the helicopters that came later this was a piece of cake.

When helicopters led flypasts Provosts, Dakotas, Vampires, Canberras and Hunters followed them in that order. I recall the reviewing officer of one parade in Bulawayo making so many changes to his briefed routine that the helicopters, Provosts and Dakotas passed over the parade at the same time; one formation stepped closely above the other. Happily the spectators thought this was intentional and were suitably impressed. Just a few seconds further delay would have had the aircraft passing in reverse order before the Royal Anthem had been played out.

Formation leaders were generally cool characters who always considered pilots’ difficulties formating on them. Sandy Mutch, being a highly excitable character, was not one of these and being led by him was usually bloody dangerous. For example, we were doing a six-machine Vampire flypast for a parade in Luanshya in Northern Rhodesia when Sandy became uncertain of his position. At a very late stage he suddenly saw the parade area at ninety degrees to his left and without any warning banked sharply. I was the second aircraft on the port side where I had to roll rapidly and pull away to avoid collision with the inside aircraft, whose pilot had been forced to do the same. My breakaway put me well outside the formation forcing me to close rapidly, so rapidly in fact that I was banking steeply to check closing speed as the formation passed over the parade. In this case the observers could not possibly have been impressed.

It must be said however that the standard of leadership and of formation flying in general improved noticeably as the Air Force increased in size and experience.

Aden detachment

IN LATE SEPTEMBER 1959 WE learned that No 8 Squadron of the RAF was to be temporarily detached from Aden to Cyprus and that No 1 Squadron was to fill in for the month of November.

Preparatory to going on the squadron’s third trip to Aden, I passed my Green Card Instrument Rating test and gained a First Line Servicing Certificate. The squadron’s entire weapons allocations for the balance of the financial year was made available for intensified weapons training and emphasis was given to formating in cloud.

Two days before our departure, a Canadair set off from New Sarum to drop technical staging parties and Air Traffic Controllers at three Airfields along our route, and to take the detachment technicians to Aden. On its return, the Canadair recovered the staging parties.

Our route to Aden was via Chileka, Dar es Salaam and Mogadishu. The legs, Chileka to Dar es Salaam and on to Mogadishu, were flown in almost continuous cloud, which I found very hard going because, whilst in cloud, I suffered continuously from ‘the leans’. Flying No 4 in a tight-finger four-starboard position I felt as if we were in a continuous steep left-hand turn orbiting over one spot. When cloud density allowed me to see the lead aircraft it was not so bad, but on many occasions the cloud was so dense that I could see no more than the red wing-tip of Mike Reynold’s aircraft, on which I was formating. Coming out of cloud and being able to see all the aircraft was a great relief.

At Dar es Salaam my whole canopy and front windscreen misted up on short finals, forcing me to roll back the canopy on touch down so that I could see the edge of the runway to hold line up. As soon as the aircraft was rolling slow enough I undid my straps and stood on the rudder pedals looking over the top of the windscreen to taxi into dispersals in blistering hot conditions.

Our pre-positioned ground crews, shirtless, bathed in sweat and smiling as always, brought superbly cold bottles of Coca-Cola to each pilot. Refuelling and aircraft turn-round for my formation was very slick and had been completed just before the next formation of four taxiied in.

We stayed overnight in Dar es Salaam but once in the air-conditioned hotel few of our number ventured out into the oppressive heat. Following an early breakfast, we were ready to return to the airport. Early though it was, the air was muggy and we were all sweating in our flying overalls even before climbing aboard a steamy airless bus.

One was supposed to be airborne with gear raised before turning on the Vampire’s Godfrey air-conditioning unit. However, it was so hot that I am sure I was not the only pilot who rolled the air-conditioner control wheel to maximum cold as soon as we were at full power on the take-off run. The inrush of cold air provided instant relief and allowed me to enjoy the sight of endless palm trees stretching across the vast land that sank away from the climbing formation. Zanzibar Island was in full sunshine as we passed it, still in the climb. Brilliant colours varying from deep blue water to light turquoise over shallow coral reefs contrasted strongly with Persil-white beaches of mainland and island. It looked just as spectacular as the glossy travel magazines showed it. But the view was short-lived.

Back in cloud all the way to Mogadishu, I again suffered the sensation of that damned continuous left turn. About ten minutes out of Mogadishu we picked up the unmistakable and most comforting voice of Flight Lieutenant Peter Cooke. He had pre-positioned at Mogadishu Airport, which ran parallel and close to the beach, with his portable device that gave him the directions he would give us to steer to reach the airfield. Peter told us that the cloud base was down to 500 feet over the airfield that was covered by thin sea mist, but he thought that the cloud base was somewhat higher and visibility better out at sea. Having heard this, Bob Woodward changed heading with the intention of breaking cloud over water east of Mogadishu.

At around 1,500 feet above sea level the descent rate and flying speed had been reduced when we passed through particularly dense cloud and encountered a patch of severe turbulence. Mike Reynolds, upon whom I was formating, lost visual contact with the leader’s wing-tip and immediately pulled up and out of my sight. I broke starboard and reverted to instruments.

In reply to Mike’s call Bob gave his heading, speed, power settings and rate of descent. Mike said he would add five degrees to leader’s heading to ensure safe separation and I advised Bob that I had added ten degrees. Peter McLurg in the meanwhile had managed to hold station on Bob’s port wing.

When Bob broke out he broadcast that, because of dark and murky conditions, he had not seen the sea surface until he was dangerously low and was now turning for Mogadishu. I commenced my turn onto the heading Peter Cooke gave Bob, my descent rate having been reduced from 500 feet per minute to 300 fpm.

Even though I was switching my attention rapidly from instruments to what lay ahead, no distinctive cloud base or horizon came into view. At 300 feet I levelled off on instruments in what looked like smoky-grey cloud when I saw a small fishing boat that appeared to be suspended on its white wake in the grey murk where sea and cloud blended as one. Shortly thereafter I picked up dull white sand dunes directly ahead and in a moment I passed over the beach and runway. Gingerly I eased my way around to land fairly close behind Mike whom I had not seen until I rolled out on runway line-up. Fortunately there was no recurrence of canopy misting when I throttled back. Once out of the cockpit in hot humid air, the technicians plied us with ice-cold Cokes that we gulped down whilst rubbing sore butts and exchanging individual accounts of our hairy arrival.

Mogadishu’s runway was not suited to a full-formation take-off so we took off for the last leg in pairs. Once airborne, Bob reduced power and levelled off until Mike and I had come up on his starboard side. As soon as our climb was established, we entered cloud and remained there throughout the climb to 29,000 feet.

Soon the cloud gave way to cirrus and then cleared completely. It was a joy to open out into battle formation and feel relaxed after flying hundreds of miles in cloud. Below us was endless desert, which I was seeing for the first time in my life. The barren land of sand and rocks supporting a few clumps of brown scrub looked so uninviting that I found myself wondering why so much blood had been shed for this vast desolate land called Somalia.

The desert seemed to go on forever until we reached the mountainous region in the north. We crossed the coast at Berbera with Djibouti visible on our left. Out over the Gulf of Aden a surprisingly large number of vessels, trailing long wakes, headed to and from the Red Sea. Our descent commenced long before the Arabian coastline was visible.

When Aden Bay and the distinctive mass of Mount Shamsham came into view we remained in loose formation, long enough to take a look at the peninsula on which Mount Shamsham, Aden town and the suburb of Crater stood separated from the mainland by a narrow isthmus.

Across the entire width of this isthmus lay the runway of RAF Kormaksar with beach and sea at both ends. The only road linking the mainland to Aden ran right across the centre of the runway with RAF buildings spread out over a large area on the Aden side. Apart from the sea, everything looked just as dismal to me as the brown African desert behind us.

We ran in along the runway in echelon starboard for a standard formation break onto downwind. Whilst in the descending turn for landing, I noticed that the water was shallow for some distance out into Aden Bay. Later I was told that sharks favoured this particular patch, but in all the landings I made thereafter I never spotted one.

The moment I switched off the air-conditioner on landing I became aware of the heat and high humidity that had me sweating during the long taxi run to dispersals. The Commanding Officer of RAF Kormaksar and our ever-cheerful, shirtless sweating technicians welcomed us. The CO then led us to our poorly lit, dull-looking crew-room.

Next we were shown the aircrew changing-room. The stench from the sweat-stained flying overalls hanging on lines of hooks was overpowering. My first impression was that our RAF counterparts were not up on their hygiene but within a week I realised that our kit looked and smelled the same.

It was late afternoon so we were taken to our billets to settle in and clean up. We then went to the ‘Jungle Bar’ adjoining the Officers’ Mess. This was a large area under a trellised canopy covered by creepers where one could sit and enjoy a drink in good company under coloured lights with a gentle breeze coming from banks of electric fans. The RAF officers insisted that this was a cool time of the year and suggested we try Aden in July when sweat ran so freely that one only needed to urinate every third day, no matter how much one drank.

Our accommodation was good; four men sharing a room with plenty of fans and decent ablutions. Apart from the Jungle Bar, there was a large air-conditioned bar where drinks were served at amazingly low prices, Aden being a duty-free port.

It was in this bar that I first acquired a taste for beer because it was inexpensive and I found it to be the most effective thirst quencher. I enjoyed the fact that the beer did not intoxicate me at sea level as it did in Rhodesia at 5,000 feet. Presumably the high rate at which one’s body sweated had a part to play in this.

Some distance from base, beyond Aden town on the southern end of the peninsula was the Tarshayn Officers’ Club where we could take a swim in the sea in safety behind rusty pole-borne shark nets. The beach was clean, the water crystal-clear and tepid but the sun made daytime swimming so unpleasant for me that I only swam at night. Most of my visits to this club were with Bob Woodward who did not seem to be too popular with the other squadron pilots. I never did get to know why because I got on well with him. Bob, a thickset man of medium height, displayed amazing agility by frequently executing a string of seemingly effortless flick-flack somersaults along the beach.

All travel to Aden town and the club was by taxi. The cost was not high but the driving habits of the Arab drivers were maddening. No Arab driver I met could cruise at a constant speed. It was a case of foot on accelerator to speed up and foot off to slow down. The continuous forward and rearward force on one’s body, about every three seconds, sometimes turned annoyance into hysterical laughter. Vehicle maintenance was poor and only when the hooter failed was a vehicle considered seriously unserviceable because it was used constantly, even on deserted stretches of road.

The only driver I encountered who could cruise was a fellow from India who had spent time in Britain. He complained about Aden drivers. He said that in India nobody obeyed the rules of the road so every driver knew where he stood. In Britain everyone obeyed the rules so, again, everybody knew precisely where they stood; but in Aden some obeyed and others did not which made driving plain dangerous.

There was a peculiarity about shopkeepers in Aden; they could spot a Rhodesian way off and would start shouting, “Hello Rhodesia. Hello Rhodesia, come see my shop." How they distinguished us from the RAF people we could not tell. Our clothing was the same as our RAF counterparts, we wore the same wristwatches and sandals yet even ex-RAF Brits serving in the RRAF were immediately identified as Rhodesians.

One particular shopkeeper called Smiley gained most of our business because he had the best shop in town. I was there one afternoon when the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, even to this day, came gliding through the door. Dressed in white and obviously Eurasian, everything about this tall lady was so absolutely perfect that I wondered if I was looking at an angel. Moments later, her husband dressed in white slacks and jacket, came in. He was impossibly handsome and so neat despite the heat that I felt doubly sure that God had sent down His angels—but why to Aden?

When the couple, whose English-speaking voices and accents matched their looks, left the shop to return to their ship, I could not remember why I had come into the shop. Smiley, realising I was in a tizzy over the couple, laughed and told me that they were film stars from India who stopped over in Aden from time to time on their many sea cruises to the USA and Europe.

Having been brought back to earth, I remembered that I had come to buy something to take home to Beryl. One item I bought was an elaborately painted, hand-operated sewing machine called a Lion, a direct copy of the Singer sewing machine. Yvonne Stajer, Beryl’s sister, eventually took this machine to Canada where it is still rated as a good collector’s item.

Smiley talked me into looking at some special German brassières that he said were tops in women’s underwear. Knowing no better, I took him at his word and looked at them; but I had no idea what size to take. He was gesturing cup size with his hand when I noticed an RAF wife in the shop who was about Beryl’s build. Much to my embarrassment Smiley called the woman over and I left with two pairs of bras and a set of seven knickers embroidered for every day of the week. When I gave these to Beryl she laughed, saying the knickers would not fit a ten-year-old; but she said nothing about the bras. For years they remained amongst her underclothing until, I guess, she found someone to give them to, unused!

We were instructed to attend an Officers’ Dining-in Night that was quite unlike any I had known in Rhodesia. There were four RAF squadrons on base together with all the supporting services; so about a hundred officers sat down in full mess dress at superbly laid tables. Even before the main course was over, large quantities of salt tablets, ever present in bowls on the dining tables, were being thrown up into the fast rotating overhead fans that propelled them around the room like shotgun pellets. Next came little balls that exploded when thrown at any surface offering moderate resistance. Hilarious laughter, flying tablets, bangs and smoke filled a room that seemed more like a Goon Show set than a gathering of Her Majesty Officers. I must say we Rhodesians found it great fun, probably because such behaviour would never have been condoned at home.

We received our flight briefings in the Station Operations Room where the air-conditioning was so cold that having to return to the hot air outside was like walking into a blast furnace. Doctors had told us that going from cold into the heat was more likely to bring on flu than moving from hot to cold, but none of us was any worse off for the twice daily Ops Room visits.

The first briefing was for those of us who were new to the Aden Protectorate. This was for an orientation cruise up the eastern coast to the Oman border, along the northern border with Saudi Arabia, down the western border with Yemen then out to Pemba Island in the Red Sea.

Along the route the features we would use in the following days were pointed out. Radar-controlled anti-aircraft guns along the Yemeni border presented a threat which necessitated both height and distance separation, which we plotted on our maps as we cruised by.

The sheer height of the rugged mountains running along the north and west region impressed me more than I had expected. Steep slopes with tumble-down rocks and narrow ravines running into dry twisting wadis gave way to lush green agricultural strips between the mountains’ edge and the dry desert. Beyond the green, the dry watercourses followed haphazard lines that dissipated and were lost on barren sand. Clusters of mud-structured buildings were on every prominent hill adjacent to the green belts. Building on mountain foothills was to gain relief from high day temperatures and freezing cold air that settled over the desert floor at night.

When we were issued with our maps, we were instructed to mark the boundaries of ‘Prescribed Areas’. The governor-general of Aden had to sanction these as ‘No Go Areas’ for all living souls, animals included. Any sign of life within a Prescribed Area demanded immediate Offensive action with air weapons best suited to terrain and target.

Along with our maps, we were issued with cards in English and Arabic that the RAF nicknamed ‘gooly chits’. In the event of coming down beyond secure locations, a pilot was to hand his gooly chit to the first person he encountered. The chit offered a £10,000 sterling reward for returning a pilot, alive, to any British authority. However, there was a problem with this. The Yemeni Government offered twice this amount for any British serviceman brought in, whether dead or alive. We heard some terrible stories about mutilated bodies of downed pilots being dragged for all to see through the streets of Sana, capital of Yemen.

Some specially trained Army and Air Force men assigned to roam within and beyond the Prescribed Areas were employed to find the locations of the communist-backed terrorists who were waging a war of independence against Britain. These specialists were also highly trained to conduct forward air control (FAC) of strikes by bombers and fighter-bombers against enemy targets.

We had been told of these individuals who spent long, dangerous periods in the desert turning them into pretty strange characters who needed to return to base from time to time to regain some level of sanity in safe and civilised surroundings. I saw two of these men whose skin was almost black where their Arab clothing had not given their otherwise white skin protection from the sun. They were on recall for six weeks of total rest and recuperation. They seemed to stick to themselves and their eye movements and physical actions made it clear that they were ‘different’.

From time to time the special agents, known as Air Liaison Officers (ALO), called for strikes within Prescribed Areas and sometimes as punitive actions against headmen who were known to be assisting terrorists. It was easy enough to respond to calls for air actions against terrorists, but punitive strikes against headmen required a great deal of preparation. When any headman had been identified as having assisted terrorists, the British Governor-General had to approve punitive action before it was taken.

If this involved an air strike, photo-reconnaissance was flown to positively identify the headman’s house and pamphlets were airdropped or hand-delivered to every person in or near the headman’s village. This was to allow the headman time to empty his home and to let his people know the British were going to punish him for being a bad lad for having helped terrorists. The pamphlets told everyone the day and time that the headman’s house was to be destroyed and suggested were they should go for their own safety. The venue chosen was invariably a high position to give everyone a good view of the event.

Such an occasion occurred whilst we were there and I witnessed the event when Varky and Randy were tasked to destroy a three-storey house that was separated from neighbours by very narrow streets. To cater for the flight path of 60-pound. squash-head rockets, only one direction of attack was possible.

The ALO identified the ridge on which he and a large gathering of people were assembled, and we could see them all clearly. Varky’s salvo of four rockets scored direct hits on the house. To start with, the combined effect of the explosions seemed to have taken out the entire village until the huge dust-cloud drifted off to expose a heap of rubble where the headman’s house had stood. Only a small portion of the bottom storey, at the rear of the downed house, remained above street-level. I thought there was no more to be done, but Randy fired a pair of rockets with such accuracy that no damage extended across the road and no portion of the house remained standing.

The ALO said everyone, including the headman, was very impressed but the headman’s immediate neighbours were very disappointed that they would not be able to claim for damages from the British Government.

We had only been in Aden ten days when I was tasked to accompany Flight Lieutenant Buster Web of the RAF, who was to be the RAF’s Air Liaison Officer (ALO) to an Army convoy travelling from Aden to Dhala in the mountains. My job was to assist Buster and learn something about British Army–Air Force co-operation.

The Royal Rhodesian Air Force had trained Buster but, together with Barry Raffel, Cyril White, Bernard du Plessis, Roy Morris and Doug Bebbington, he had left Rhodesia on completion of his SSU course to join the RAF. The latter four officers were destined to rejoin the RRAF but, at that time, they were all flying Venoms on No 8 Squadron. Why Buster had remained behind in Aden when the rest of his squadron was in Cyprus, I cannot say. I only remember him saying he was not too keen about the Dhala route, which he referred to as ‘ambush alley’.

An Army Arab levy drove the open Land Rover in which Buster and I travelled behind the armoured vehicle carrying the convoy commander who headed the long line of vehicles. Numerous armoured vehicles and covered trucks stretched back about two kilometres. Our drive started by crossing the centre of the main runway at Kormaksar, this being the only route from Aden to the interior. Once through Shaykh ‘Uthman we entered the open desert which was hot, dusty and boring.

In the late afternoon, camp was established about five kilometres short of the mountain range that ran square across our route. The extreme cold of the desert and the loud incessant crackling and chatter on the Army radio network made it seem a very long night.

Before sunrise we had coffee and set off on a road along the bed of a steep-sided gently winding wadi (watercourse) running through mountains for most of the remaining distance to Dhala. At the end of this wadi the road left the watercourse to climb up the southern side of a steep mountain face known as the Dhala Pass. On the opposite side, high rough mountain faces overlooked the narrow roadway all the way to the high plateau where the village of Dhala stood. This was the section that gave the route the name ‘Ambush Alley’. The entire wadi line and, more especially the pass itself, offered perfect terrain for terrorist ambushes. They could hide in strength amongst rocks and scrub, attack from behind excellent cover, then melt into the rugged countryside behind.

We had been running up the wadi for about an hour when the lead vehicle came to an abrupt halt and the commander leapt out onto the road. Behind us all vehicles bunched up and stopped as soldiers ran to take up defensive positions under a barrage of loud commands. Buster went forward to the Army commander to establish what was going on. I saw the Army commander pointing to the right mountain ridge as they talked. Buster then shouted to me, “Call Air." I had absolutely no idea what the fuss was about nor did I know how to call up aircraft because I had not been told how to. So, having heard RAF pilots use a callsign in jest, I transmitted, “Pig’s Arse, Pig’s Arse, this is Dhala ALO. Do you read? Over.”

To my surprise and great delight I received an immediate reply. I said where we were and two Venoms arrived overhead in less than a minute, by which time Buster had returned to our vehicle. He told the Venom pilots that one soldier had been hit. This may have been a lone sniper but there was no way of knowing if more terrorists were about. The jets made passes along the ridges even though there was virtually no hope of seeing bandits in that rough country. The real value of the Venom presence was to dissuade anyone from taking on the stationary convoy.

A large-calibre musket round had passed through the side of one of the convoy trucks, ripped away half of a soldier’s right buttock, and lodged in the seat between two soldiers sitting opposite him. Buster requested the lead Venom to call in a Twin Pioneer transporter to uplift the casualty back to base.

For almost an hour we waited for the Pioneer. I did not hear or see this twin-engined high-wing light transport aircraft until it was already rolling along the floor of the wadi. It was amazing to see that it had landed on unprepared ground then picked up the casualty without stopping engines. Immediately the Pioneer took off in a reverse run of no more than 200 metres. Its pilot told Buster on radio that his casualty was all smiles because he knew he would be flying back to Britain before the day was out. “Wait till the morphine wears off, most of the poor bugger’s arse is missing.”

The rest of the trip to Dhala was uneventful and we spent a pleasant evening with the OC of the Army company we had come to relieve and return to Aden. I was amused to hear the amiable posh-speaking Army major progressively revert to his natural Cockney accent as gins and tonic took effect. The next morning we were on the road again and reached Aden that evening following a disappointingly trouble-free trip.

On the 16th November 1959, I flew wingman to Varky on a call to strike a specific location near the base of the deep Wadi Adzzh that ran through the highest mountain range northeast of Aden and close to the Saudi border. Terrorists were reported by an ALO to be based up at this specific spot. We ran east along the mountain ridge with Wadi Adzzh on our starboard side. As Varky came abreast of the target location he called “Turning in live" and rolled right into a steep dive down the deep valley. Smoke was streaming from his guns as I followed about 1,500 meters behind him. His strikes were concentrated and easy to see.

When Varky broke off his attack and pulled up left, I started firing all four 20mm cannons with my sight set high above the target. I had not fired all four cannons together before and revelled in the noise, airframe shudder and the sight of my very first rounds exploding right on target. I was impressed by the length of time the firing continued before all four guns stopped as one.

I then turned hard to port pulling up sharply to align with the short eastward leg of the wadi. The only route out was straight ahead and over the top of the mountain, because the wadi turned ninety degrees south followed by ninety degrees east that was way too tight a route to follow. As soon as the aircraft was angled for the summit, I realised I was in deep trouble because my speed seemed insufficient to make the ridge ahead. The Mlanje mountain experience in Nyasaland immediately came to mind and my breathing went into overdrive.

Full power had been applied the moment I pulled out of the attack, so all I could do was aim for the crest and pray. After an agonisingly slow climb, the mountain face was cleared by no more than ten feet and my FB9 was very close to stalling. Having passed the crest in a fifty-degree climb, I was able to allow the aircraft to pitch down to twenty degrees nose-down to regain flying speed. This was achieved very close to the ground on the plateau beyond the ridge, but I was able to breathe normally again. Varky was miles ahead of me turning starboard for base. By turning inside him I caught up quickly enough, but said nothing to Varky about my close shave with the mountain until we were back on the ground.

In the crew-room I learned that when firing all four cannons the usual speed build-up was severely curtailed, necessitating 7,500 rpm to be set to ensure adequate acceleration throughout the dive, particularly where such a steep climb-out was necessary. I had nearly lost my life for want of such simple yet vital information that I should have been given during my OCU. Immediately the other junior pilots were briefed on this matter.

The very next day I returned to Wadi Adzzh on a routine armed patrol, this time with Randy du Rand. I ran my eye along the path I had flown the previous day, then along the wadi’s passage south then east to where it broke out onto the desert floor. At this point I saw two camels standing close to a crude single-floor mud building on the desert floor tight up against the base of the mountain. Immediately I turned in to attack the building knowing that terrorists alone were in this area. Four Squash-head rockets were launched and I pulled up really hard to clear the mountain under which the target was sited. When I looked back, I saw the camels running south into the desert but could see nothing of the house because of the dust from the explosions. After one orbit the dust had drifted away and I could see that the house had been flattened but, in almost childish enthusiasm, I turned in again to attack the immediate surrounds with cannon fire. This time I had set the appropriate power and cleared the mountain with ease. So far as I recall, someone on the flat desert had shot at Randy and whilst I was doing my thing he was trying to find the man to give him a ‘snot squirt’.

When we returned to base I reported my strikes to the operations staff. The RAF Squadron Leader in charge of the Operations Room consulted the map and told me that I had taken on a target just outside the ‘Prescribed Area’. For some reason the area’s eastern boundary had been extended along the wadi’s south leg straight out into the desert. In consequence the final east leg of the wadi opening to the desert plus the eastern corner of the mountain range lay outside of the official ‘no go area’.

I was really worried that I had made this error but the Squadron Leader, who was not a particularly friendly type, told me not to be concerned. He had no doubts that the target was legitimate. But he gave me hell for not killing the camels with my cannons instead of wasting ammunition on a worthless piece of real estate. He emphasised the need to have taken out these animals because they constituted vital transportation for terrorists. The thought of killing animals with cannon fire appalled me, but this requirement had not been spelled out strongly enough in earlier briefings.

Set in the old extinct volcanic crater of Shamsham mountain was the Arab town called Crater. We were all advised not to visit this potentially dangerous place that was strictly off limits to all servicemen during the hours of darkness. Nevertheless, Eric Cary and I were keen to make a visit to Crater town and went there by taxi one Thursday afternoon.

Once through the mountain tunnel leading into the crater, we entered a world of strange sights, sounds and smells. We walked around the narrow streets that bustled with folk moving to-and-fro into open-sided shops and amongst hundreds of street vendors selling an amazing assortment of herbal drugs, vegetables and cooked food. The smells were very inviting but the swarms of flies crawling over prepared food and vendors’ faces dissuaded us from trying anything.

It was late afternoon when we turned back for the tunnel where the taxi rank was sited. Soon enough we realised that we were lost but unable to communicate with those around us. Panicking somewhat in fast fading light, we eventually picked up our bearings quite close to the taxi rank. It was then that I spotted a man following a short distance behind wearing a thick belt in which was tucked a superb ghambia (curved Arabian fighting knife) with a magnificent jewel-studded black handle showing prominently above the belt-line.

When I drew Eric’s attention to the weapon, the man slowed to a crawl, his face twisting noticeably into a menacing expression. He continued to move towards us as Eric dived into an open-sided shop urging me, under his breath, to get off the street but I remained mesmerised. Next moment the shopkeeper was calling even more urgently saying I must not, under any circumstances, look at the weapon again. Feeling rather foolish I went in and pretended to be interested in a stack of rubber mats.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man walking slowly by. When he had gone, the shopkeeper who spoke good English told us that there were problems with that specific individual and his bejewelled ghambia. Firstly he was a renowned terrorist who was in town because it was ‘market day’ and secondly, it would have been incumbent upon the man, by custom, to give me his knife had I continued to admire it. In return however, I would be compelled to give him something of equal worth; but I was in no position to do this. Failure to produce a reciprocal gift simply meant forfeiture of one’s life. Having been given such sobering information, Eric and I were escorted by the shopkeeper to a taxi, but not before he pressurised us into buying unwanted items from his shop.

These experiences lead us to ask questions about what the shopkeeper had said concerning ‘market day’. We were told that, in the strange world of British and Arab relations, Thursday was a day when fighting stopped to allow friend and foe to go to market in safety. A recurring Ceasefire existed from midnight Wednesday to midnight Thursday. Whether this very strange arrangement was true, or not, I still cannot say. Nevertheless, my impression of Arabs, developed from stories I had heard before and during the visit to Aden, was not good at all. Any doubts I had then had been totally removed by the goings-on at the RAF’s crude air-weapons range which lay about ten kilometres to the north of RAF Kormaksar. This range was nothing like ours at Kutanga with its beautiful trees and wild game. It was just an area of desert sand set against the beach.

During weapons training Arabs ran about in the danger area where spent cartridge casings fell from the aircraft. The RAF Range Safety Officers were not too concerned because no amount of effort had succeeded in stopping those people from collecting spent cartridge cases that they sold over the border to Yemeni gun-makers.

The kinetic energy of a spent 20mm cartridge case reaching ground at speed was lethal. The Arab collectors knew this only too well, but it did not put them off. RAF officers said that when a collector was killed, others would rush to grab the dead man’s bag, dig out the spent cartridge from head or body, and continue collecting as if nothing had happened.

On any air weapons range there is need for clearly visible targets for pilots to aim at and to measure their accuracy. Old vehicles make good targets because non-explosive practice weapons pass through a vehicle leaving it intact and reusable. Hundreds of hits could be taken before a vehicle fell to bits. But in Aden such a target would be stolen the first night it appeared. Laying down white lime as a marker was a waste of time because the mark disappeared under sand thrown up by just a few strikes. In fact a single 60-pound rocket falling short could totally obliterate a freshly laid lime marker. So, the RAF armourers decided to overcome the problem by building a huge pyramid using old forty-four-gallon drums encased in concrete. This target took a week to build and was guarded day and night for another week to ensure that the concrete had set. However, it only took the first unguarded night for Arab thieves to destroy the entire arrangement and abscond with every single drum. The remaining concrete rubble, rejected as worthless by thieves, was then bulldozed into a heap and used for a while as a viable target.

In the last week of our detachment I managed to arrange a flight in an RAF photo-reconnaissance Meteor with Flight Lieutenant Munroe. He let me aerobat the twin-engined jet and showed me how to stall-turn the aircraft using power on the outside engine to make the manoeuvre very easy. Next I flew with Flight Lieutenant Morris in a Hunter T7 and experienced supersonic flight for the first time. Going supersonic at height was a bit of an anti-climax but low-flying the Hunter at high speed was really fantastic—though I found the servo-driven controls almost too light and sensitive. One had only to think about a manoeuvre and it seemed to occur instantly.

Having been away from my pregnant wife for four weeks, I was pleased when the time came to return home to a land of sanity. It was even more pleasing to learn that Varky and I were to fly in the RAF Shackelton that would provide search and rescue cover for No 1 Squadron’s formations between Aden and Nairobi in Kenya. The formations were to route via Addis Ababa in Ethiopia and then on to Nairobi. At Addis Ababa, the jet pilots experienced the horrors of having to let down through cloud that was lower than the mountains surrounding the national airport.

Apart from the joy of flying low-level in the four-engined bomber-cum-maritime-surveillance Shackelton, it meant that neither Varky nor I would be flying from Nairobi to Thornhill in the back of a Rhodesian Air Force Dakota. The old DC3 made most pilots flying as passengers airsick; a situation that never failed to amuse our strong-stomached technicians.

When we arrived back in dispersals at Thornhill, the whole station was gathered to welcome us home. I was one of the sweat-stained pilots who climbed down from his aircraft wearing Mae West with mask and helmet pressure lines under wet, dishevelled hair. But I was too busy seeking out Beryl to savour the glamour I had witnessed two years earlier when, as a student pilot, I watched pilots returning from the first Aden detachment.

At the end of December I took leave to be with Beryl for the arrival of our first-born child. Towards the middle of January it became obvious that the baby was in a breach position and the decision was taken by Doctor Deuchar to make a caesarean delivery on 14 January.

Deborah Anne was perfect in every way with not a single blemish on her nine pound, six ounce body. Beryl handled the operation like a star, her private ward full to bursting with many flowers and cards from family, friends and clients. It was a special time for both of us.