Winds of Destruction: The Autobiography of a Rhodesian Combat Pilot

by Peter Petter-Bowyer

  At 05:10 I called FASOC and was answered immediately, loud and clear, by Gordon Nettleton. I told him we were estimating Binga at 05.25 though we may be a little late because I had changed heading for Chete Island to offset the sensation of high but unproven drift. Even though the haze had reduced dramatically I could not see the lake at 05.30. It was then that Ewett Sorrell picked up the glow of town lights way off on our port side. I was dumbfounded thinking that this must be Wankie and that my sensations of drift had been correct after all. I called FASOC, but there was no reply.

  The Alouette fuel gauge was calibrated by fuel weight from zero to 1,000 pounds. With cruising power set and flying at 8,500 feet there was sufficient fuel for a flight time of between two hours, fifty minutes and three hours. Before reaching zero fuel, a small light on the fuel gauge gave warning when only fifteen minutes of flying time remained. The light would flicker for a while before burning brightly. It was from this point that the fifteen minutes was timed. When we saw the lights of the town the warning light flickered for the first time. Dawn was breaking but I knew I must get on the ground as soon as possible to await better light. An autorotative descent was made to conserve fuel and halfway down the descent the ground became vaguely visible. As we got closer, I saw that we were over very rough country with deep ravines that looked wrong. Even in the poor light conditions the rivers seemed to be running south when they should be flowing north. I had not seen the lake or the Zambezi River so put this matter out of mind as I eased on power to level off over one of the ridges. We spotted a small vlei deep in a valley and went in to land. On short finals, however, the fuel warning light came on steady at the very same moment that we picked up a herd of elephant right where we had to land. They cleared off quickly enough allowing us to put down in the long grass that reeked of the great brutes. After fifteen minutes waiting with curious elephants milling around us it became light enough to get airborne.

  As we crested the ridge we saw farmlands directly ahead and set course for the closest farmstead. Close up the farm looked very dilapidated so we went on a little farther to one that looked much neater and landed in a paddock close to a fence. Just beyond the fence was the farmhouse from which smoke was rising lazily in the cold morning air. A couple of moving figures showed that the place was coming to life. I had a sneaking suspicion we were in Zambia but wondered how this could be since we had not seen the Zambezi River.

  As a precaution I asked Ewett to remain in the helicopter cabin and prepare his rifle in case of trouble—what trouble I could not say. I walked forward of the helicopter and stopped at the fence to await a man who was coming towards me. Because I could not speak N’debele, I greeted the guy in the usual Shona way with the words “Mangwanani, mamuka se”? to which he replied “Tamuka! Mamuka wo”? I then asked him where the ‘boss’ was to which he replied “bwana ne dona vakaenda ku taundi." His use of the words Bwana and Dona really worried me. Even though the man spoke Shona, my guard was already up when I asked him for the direction to Binga. He had never heard of the place, so I asked where Livingstone was. He pointed in a southwesterly direction saying Livingstone was quite close. Quite close in African terms usually means a long way off!

  I thanked the man and was about to turn round when, in English, he asked in a rude fashion “Where the hell you come from”? I told him we were on our way from Lusaka to Livingstone but the haze had been so bad that I was making sure I had not crossed the Zambezi into Rhodesia. He seemed satisfied and I turned to walk back to the helicopter as coolly as I could. My nonchalance was overdone because my foot slipped through the step and I nearly broke my leg between the two bars that formed it.

  There was no time to rub my aching leg. Two others had joined the man and all three were climbing through the fence to get a closer look at the helicopter. On selection of the engine starter switch the engine fired up but suddenly quit. I slammed back the fuel-flow lever to close the micro switch that had caused the motor to shut down. Then, hand-signalling the three approaching men to stay where they were, we had to wait an agonising thirty seconds before repeating the start-up sequence

  As soon as the engine start sequence ended, I advanced the fuel-flow lever much faster than normal to wind up the rotors to governed speed before lifting off into backwards flight to prevent the men on the ground from seeing RRAF 503 painted on the belly of the helicopter. Suddenly the reverse airflow caught my unlocked door and flung it forward where it engaged with the lock that normally held the door open on the ground. I had not even strapped myself in but this made reaching the lock possible as I rotated the aircraft with rudder to turn it into forward flight. This caused the door to whip back and strike my elbow with great force.

  Once strapped in and settled in the climb, I headed in the general direction of Livingstone Airport where I told Ewett we might have to take on fuel, at gunpoint if necessary. I scrabbled for my map case, found the appropriate 1:250,000 map and positively confirmed Senkobo and Kananga railway sidings ahead and right of our course. We already had a cumulative flying time of over five minutes since the warning light had first come on, which seemed to place Livingstone Airport beyond our reach, so I kept climbing at eighty knots seeking as much height as possible. Attempts to raise Victoria Falls Airport and the FASOC at Binga met with no response.

  I was mildly concerned about RAF Javelin fighters that had recently been deployed to protect Zambia from imagined aggression from Rhodesia, but decided that they would not be able to respond to a call from the farm or from Livingstone Airport before we were safely out of Zambian airspace. The fuel warning light had been on for more than twenty minutes when we passed over Livingstone Airport at almost 11,000 feet. Below we could see the fuel storage depot and two fuel bowsers parked next to a building close by. The Zambezi River was still just out of reach if the engine quit but there was ample space to make a forced landing where the bowsers stood. A minute later we knew we were safe when the south bank of the Zambezi River was within our reach.

  The flight line was altered to fly directly for the police station at Victoria Falls just three nautical miles ahead. At twenty-three minutes on warning light, I could see the small sports field by the police station and entered into an autorotative descent for a powerless landing on the sports field. We rolled onto the grass exactly where I intended at a little over walking speed. The engine was still running when I applied collective pitch to keep rolling towards the road where police usually dropped fuel for helicopters. We had not quite reached this point when the engine quit.

  Squadron Leader Woodward was the duty officer who answered my telephone call to Air HQ. I had to tell him of our experience in veiled terms that he understood, having already learned from the FASOC at Binga that we were more than an hour overdue. Having shaken up the Police we took on fuel and flew off to Binga. Routing along the Zambezi Gorge, we established why we had not picked up the river in the dark. The water surface was completely covered by Kariba Weed (Salvinia Auriculata).

  When I made contact with him, Gordon Nettleton told me that a Provost was on its way from Salisbury with a replacement helicopter pilot because I was to return to Salisbury with the same Provost and report to the Air Force Commander. Having not shaved and still dressed in flying overalls that smelled quite strongly of fuel, I felt awkward about being hustled from the flight line by Ozzie Penton to see Air Vice-Marshal Harold Hawkins.

  Air Vice-Marshal Harold Hawkins.

  When I entered his office the AVM had a 1:250,000 map laid out before him. He asked me to go through my experience and identify the farm at which I had landed. I told him the whole story and emphasised the sensation of drift, which I had tried to ignore after seeing the sharp bend of what I had taken to be the Gwelo River. In retrospect it was obvious this had in fact been the Shangani River whose line exactly matched the sharp bend of the Gwelo River. Though much further from Thornhill this landmark corresponded closely with the expected flight time to the Gwelo River bend.

  There was no diff
iculty in pinpointing the farm we had bypassed and the one where we landed. Then AVM Hawkins told me that we had been very fortunate to give the first farm a miss. Special Branch had been to see him before me and had pointed out that this particular farm was ZAPU’s ‘Freedom Farm’ where large numbers of trained and well-armed terrorists were in residence.

  Ian Harvey (wearing cap) and technicians taken during a mountain training rest period.

  The Commander had been in contact with the RAF Air Liaison Officer in Zambia to apologise for the inadvertent landing of an RRAF helicopter in Zambia. He told the RAF officer that the pilot of the aircraft had been on a mercy mission and had strayed into Zambia in error. The Liaison Officer had acted in a very friendly way and told the AVM there was nothing to worry about; he would settle any political problems that might arise. None did!

  I took the opportunity to emphasise to the AVM that had my helicopter been fitted with a Becker Homer I would have known that the FASOC transmission from Gordon Nettleton was coming from a point off to my right and that I would have turned starboard to reach Binga safely. The AVM took up the matter personally and Becker Homers were ordered.

  Elephants and the minister

  MARK MCLEAN WAS MY FIRST helicopter student. Flying with him made me realise how great it was to convert a fully qualified pilot to a new style of flying. Apart from the usual struggle to master precision hovering Mark progressed well through all phases of his operational conversion, most of which were done in high weight conditions. To end his course, I received authority to conduct what became known as the end of course ‘around the houses’ training flight. We started with three days in the Chimanimani mountains, which was both essential and enjoyable. All of our flying was broken down into short periods of intensive work with picnic and swim breaks in between.

  From there we moved north along the mountainous border, then east via low country and the Zambezi River line stopping for fuel at police stations and Army bases along the route.

  Mark was a keen photographer who often passed flight control to me so that he could take photos of places that caught his eye. It was late afternoon with the sun about to set behind the western Zambian escarpment when we passed a large herd of elephants spread along a stretch of sand and drinking at the Zambezi River’s edge. Mark asked me to take control. Whilst he prepared his camera I took the aircraft into a long turn-about then ran close to the river whose waters reflected the superb sunset. As we passed slowly by the herd set off eastwards creating an enormous dust cloud that glowed red in the sunset, adding another dimension to colours reflecting off the huge river. I turned around for Mark to photograph this magnificent sight through his open window then turned back again to reposition ahead of the herd.

  We had moved about 200 metres when I noticed people standing on a bank towards which this herd was moving. Immediately I flew ahead of the elephants and came to a hover behind the group of white people to force the elephants to stop moving in their direction. The herd came to a dusty halt short of the group, so we broke away to let them enjoy the sight.

  We continued on for a night landing at the Army camp on Kariba Heights where we spent an evening with the Brown Jobs. The rest of the trip was a resounding success and proved the value of taking new helicopter pilots through the widely varying situations that they would encounter during operations.

  A few days after returning to New Sarum, I was ordered to report to the Air Force Commander. For the second time in seven weeks, I entered Air Vice-Marshal Harold Hawkins’ office. The AVM asked me if I had been flying in the area of Mana Pools at around 18:30 on 9 September. I said I had. The AVM then told me that he had received an angry report from a Member of Parliament to say that we had endangered his life and those of his family and friends by driving elephants directly at them. I told the AVM what had happened and how we had deliberately stopped the jumbos before breaking away to let the people on the ground enjoy the animals at relatively close range. He said he was pretty fed up with complaints that came from the same handful of high and mighty people. More in jest than annoyance he told me to “run the blighters over next time.”

  Ian Harvey (wearing cap) and technicians taken during a mountain training rest period.

  First helicopter engine failure

  TRAGEDY WAS TO BECOME COMMONPLACE in a war that had started slowly. But on 12 October 1966 it struck the Special Air Service badly. The nation was shaken by news of the deaths of Warrant Officer Bouch MCM, Colour Sergeants Cahill MCM and Wright MCM and Chief Superintendent Wickenden who had been killed in an accidental explosion on the banks of the Zambezi River.

  Officer Commanding SAS, Major Dudley Coventry, and these four men had been preparing canoes at the water’s edge before crossing the river and proceeding to Lusaka to blow up ZANU Headquarters. The major had returned to vehicles parked above the high riverbank for some reason or other when an enormous explosion occurred. The force of the explosion was so great that, even with the protection of the bank, the major was knocked unconscious. He awakened to find his hair burning, his scalp peeled back off his skull and his hearing completely gone.

  Regimental Sergeant-Major ‘Bangstick’ Turle of the Rhodesian Light Infantry heard the explosion from his base at the Chirundu road bridge that linked Rhodesia to Zambia. He set off without delay to investigate and found the blood-soaked major staggering along the road on his way to find help. Sergeant-Major Turle immediately called for a helicopter and was badly shaken by what he found below the bank on which the damaged SAS vehicles stood.

  Mark Smithdorff piloted the helicopter sent to uplift the dead and convey Dudley to Kariba where a Dakota and doctor were standing by for his onward flight to Salisbury Hospital. Having just crossed the Chirundu tarmac road a terrific screaming noise came from the engine. Quick as a flash Mark turned back for the road and was in reach of it when the engine casing burst with a bang. He ‘dumped collective’ (reducing all main rotor-blade angles to zero) and made an expert forced landing through the narrow gap between trees overhanging both sides of the road.

  Being deaf, Dudley Coventry had not heard the engine scream or the casing explode. He climbed out of the aircraft and turning to Mark asked in his usual polite manner, “What seems to be the problem old boy”? Pointing to the burst engine casing and using sign language Mark was able to answer the major’s question. Two unhappy incidents in one day did not seem to get the major down. He was a really Tough old bird.

  In time to come we were often left wondering if Dudley Coventry had been blessed with the many lives of a cat. Much of what he did during his incredible life may never be told but, having survived many wounds and dangers, it seems quite unfair that, in his old age in independent Zimbabwe, he was brutally bludgeoned to death by an intruder in his own home. I know of some of the close shaves he had but can only recall details of one.

  This occurred on 26 May 1967 when Dudley was leading an SAS team in an armed roadblock above the escarpment on the Chirundu road some way south of where Mark Smithdorff’s forced landing had occurred. Intelligence had picked up information that a particular pantechnicon, purporting to carry furniture, was entering Rhodesia from Zambia with a load of armed terrorists and war material.

  The vehicle was duly identified and waved to a halt. The driver denied that he was transporting terrorists but refused to open the back doors. As the SAS moved to force them open, automatic fire initiated from inside the vehicle. This, together with intense return fire from the SAS, turned the pantechnicon’s sides into sieve-like surfaces.

  During the exchange, Dudley received a hit high up on his inner thigh. He dived for cover and dropped his pants. Satisfied that his manhood had not been affected, he ignored his heavy bleeding and continued firing into the vehicle. All the terrorists were killed and Dudley recovered from the strike that narrowly missed his femoral artery.

  British military versus

  Labour Government

  FOR SOME TIME THE ARMY had been involved in continuous border-control
operations along the Zambezi River line. This involved what the Army referred to as ‘side-stepping’ between bases to check for tracks of terrorists crossing into Rhodesia. One day all callsigns moved left from one base to the next and returned along the same route the following day. Except for the odd senior Officers’ visits and casualty evacuations (casevac), the Air Force had little to do with Border ops in early times. The Hunter and Canberra boys also flew the river line on odd occasions, but for a very different reason.

  The RAF Javelin squadron personnel were billeted in chalets, which were modified cattle sheds in Lusaka’s show grounds. The squadron leader commanding this British fighter squadron happened to be South African and, like every man under his command, he had a soft spot for Rhodesia. They made telephonic contact with our jet squadrons to offer our men best wishes and suggest that it would be fun to meet in the air. Our pilots needed no second invitation. On a few occasions Hunters or Canberras met the Javelins to fly along the Zambezi River in formation with crews waving and taking photographs of each other.

  Javelin.

  On the pretext of going on Christmas break to South Africa, a number of RAF guys took civilian flights to Salisbury, via Johannesburg (no passports were stamped). They were welcomed and, out of sight of prying eyes, given a great time. I have no idea if their desire to meet Ian Smith was fulfilled. But one can only guess that Harold Wilson and his Labour Party would have been horrified if they had known of these goings-on and especially that the Javelin boys had made it clear that they would never have responded to orders to make strikes against Rhodesians.