Other than the ablutions, the base was clean, the food was fantastic and the Portuguese were as friendly as ever. Having Peter and me around was great for those wanting to practise their English. This was both heavy going and amusing. One officer complained of his sleep being regularly interrupted by a colleague who suffered ‘bad night horses’.
On our second night at Mueda my sleep was interrupted at around midnight by the sound of heavy explosions. Artillery shells then howled low overhead from the Army camp and exploded in an area just beyond the end of the runway as FRELIMO mortar bombs exploded in our base. I leapt out of bed so fast that I cut open my forehead on the steel bar of the bunk above me. I was first in the crude mortar bunker with Peter Cooke right behind me. The Portuguese officers were obviously used to the noise of artillery and incoming mortar bombs because they stopped to light cigarettes in the lighted passageway leading to the dark bunker then moved slowly down the steps into cover and safety.
No serious damage was caused in this short exchange and I was the only casualty on base. However, we had seen the burnt remains of two Harvards, one twin-Dornier, an Alouette III helicopter and a store showing that FRELIMO attacks had been successful in the past. At Mueda it was very obvious that the Portuguese Army’s war was separate from the Portuguese Air Force war. Not one Army officer was seen at the air base during our stay and we only got to visit the Army side because Peter and I requested to be taken there.
Mortar-damaged Portuguese fuel bunker.
We were called to an operational briefing following lunch on our first day. I cannot speak for Peter Cooke, but I was in an alcoholic haze following a welcoming lunch that included too much Manica beer, wine and aguadente. The black-on-white map on the Ops Room wall looked as if it had been produced in the previous century because it was so basic with limited contour information and river-lines appeared only to approximate their true paths. Photographs taken the previous day by a Dornier recce pilot of a camp assigned as target for the following morning were handed out to six pilots. Shadows of trees and the angle at which the photographs had been taken made me realise that all had been taken during one close range low-level orbit.
A red arrow on the map pointed to the target. This was about fifty kilometres northwest of Mueda on the eastern bank of a prominent river. Destruction of the makeshift shelters (bashas) that covered a relatively small area under trees was to be by napalm. We learned that take-off was for “06:00 as usual, weather permitting”. Peter and I were told which pilots we were to accompany to observe the action.
The fact that 06:00 was the standard time for first sorties shook us because all FRELIMO camps must surely be abandoned by then as a matter of routine, particularly following low-level photo-recce sorties. As it happened, low thick radiation fog delayed take-off to around 08.30. Whilst we waited, breakfast was served on a verandah next to our billets. It consisted of a bowl of light-coloured soup in which a fried egg floated. A Portuguese bread roll (pao) and a lump of butter came on a side plate. Ignoring how others tackled this unusual meal, I put the fried egg into my buttered roll, consumed the soup then ate the delicious egg roll.
The rear cockpits of the Harvards in which Peter and I flew were almost totally stripped of their instruments. An inspection of other rear cockpits revealed a similar situation, the instruments having been removed to replace unserviceable ones in front cockpits. The Portuguese pilots nicknamed their Mk52 Harvards ‘F110’ because they climbed, cruised and descended at 110 knots. Immediately my pilot was airborne in the third position he turned steeply to port and, following the lead aircraft, orbited the airfield and Army base until over 2,000 feet above ground. This was to avoid flying near the lip of the high ground where FRELIMO’s anti-aircraft guns were sited. The guns were considered to be too dangerous to be taken out by the Air Force and the Army passed them off as an air problem. Unbelievable!
I had not been in a Harvard before and enjoyed flying with the hood rolled back because it made photography easy. As we were approaching the target there was excited babble between the pilots with much screeching in earphones due to overlaid transmissions. This was so different from the limited crisp procedures of my own force. The aircraft were positioned in long line astern with canopies closed when a steep dive was made well short of the target for low-level deliveries of two napalm bombs per aircraft.
Looking along one side of the cockpit past pilot and aircraft’s nose, I saw the first napalm tanks ignite in trees. About half a kilometre ahead the lead pilot was already in a climbing turn starboard to look over his shoulder to pass correction to the next in line. Both napalm bombs from the second aircraft landed with a splash and sent lines of flaming fuel along the surface of the river on which they landed.
I watched closely as we dropped our tanks and saw bashas in the area where they ignited. It was only possible to get an idea of the camp size when we pitched up in a climbing turn to watch following strikes land in the target area. Out of twelve bombs released only the latter eight were on target. We made one orbit climbing for height and noted that about one third of the bashas were burning, adding white smoke to the columns of black smoke from napalm gel that was still burning in patches along lines of fading red flame. No person or anti-aircraft fire was seen.
Back at base a steep spiral descent over the Army camp placed us on short finals for the runway. The aircraft turned off about two-thirds of the way down the runway’s length directly into camp through the rolled-back security gate, which closed behind the sixth aircraft.
At 10:00 we declined the offer of whisky. At 10:30 the offer was repeated and again declined. At 11:00 we accepted but asked for Manica beer instead. By lunch at 13:00 I was feeling on top of the world and this was heightened by wine for each of three courses, the main one being piri piri prawns. Lunch ended with aguadente. It was only then that Peter and I learned that we were to accompany a recce pilot on a post-strike assessment flight.
One of the Venturas taxiing out for the attack we witnessed.
Photo by Peter Cooke of PB in back seat of Harvard after the attack.
The recce Dornier with 37mm Sneb rocket pods.
We flew in a Dornier piloted by a short stocky officer with a permanent smile on his round merry unshaven face. Peter sat next to him but I had to stand and brace myself using the front seats as anchors because there was no seat in the rear. My legs had to be set wide apart either side of a crude sprung-loaded door through which target markers and other small items were dropped. It ran along the centre of the rear fuselage floor and required very little pressure to open. Should I step on it or fall down, I would immediately fall free of the aircraft. I did not like this one bit but could not see any real problem so long as I retained my braced stance; but I did not know what lay ahead.
Three PV1 Venturas (twin-engined bombers) came into our view as we approached the target. They were flying long line astern at about 6,000 feet and we were at 2,000 feet. We saw them enter into a steep dive and release six 500-pound bombs from around 3,000 feet. All the bombs exploded in an area of large trees, creating visible shock-waves that radiated outwards from the bright orange flash of each explosion. The resultant bangs that reached us in the noisy Dornier were dull; like the thud of footballs bouncing on concrete.
As the third Ventura pulled out of his dive our bonny pilot bunted into a dive that had me hanging on for dear life. He levelled out with high ‘G’ that almost collapsed my legs. The pilot then flew below the overhang of high trees either side of a long curved passage through a forest, firing pairs of 37mm Sneb rockets as he made a casual visual inspection right and left into forest where the bombs had exploded.
My eyes were wide open with fear of striking the overhanging branches or being hit by shrapnel from the 37mm Sneb rockets exploding just ahead of us. I saw nothing else in that first pass. Two more ‘dicing with death’ low passes were made through the same passage terrifying me no less than the first but at least I saw something of what our pilot was interested in.
It looked pretty dark under the forest of huge trees that flashed by and many bashas were evident along the entire length of our run. It surprised me that not one was burning and no soul was seen.
We accompanied the Harvards on further attacks but declined offers to ride with the crazy Dornier pilot again. Nevertheless we were interested to know why such a dangerous method of checking out strikes was necessary. The answer was simple; the Army had no interest in assisting the Air Force to establish the effectiveness of its airstrikes. Unbelievable!
The most interesting aspect of our visit to the Army base was the huge vehicle park, half of which was a graveyard for many destroyed vehicles. Serviceable vehicles, mainly Berliot and Unimogs, were adorned with a variety of emblems. One Berliot had affixed to its front grill the longest pair of ox horns I have ever seen. Its driver was a coloured man who spoke good English and was happy to tell us about ‘Hell’s Run’, the route from Mueda to the coast.
It took a whole day for each resupply convoy to reach Moçimboa da Praia. The following day was used to load and the third day to return to Mueda. Receiving double pay to compensate for the danger they faced on every trip were volunteer drivers who made the round trip on a regular basis. Officers were required to remove their rank tabs so as not to draw FRELIMO sniper attention to themselves. The aggressiveness of the Makonde operating against the Portuguese convoys had been enhanced by devious techniques taught them by the Chinese instructors in Tanzania. We were given two examples.
A Portuguese Army boot, filled to overflowing with chicken blood, had been placed in the centre of the road with a trail of blood leading off beyond the verge. The lead vehicle stopped to investigate. The investigating soldier then hurried down the line of vehicles to show the boot to the convoy officer who wore no rank insignia. BANG! The sniper had waited for the officer to be identified then took him out with one shot.
A particularly nasty incident involved a horrible trap the Chinese had dreamed up. The lead vehicle in an unusually large convoy was brought to a halt by a command-detonated mine. Typically the convoy bunched up as all following vehicles came to a halt. All the soldiers and drivers had debussed to take up defensive positions when a ripple of small explosions ran down the edge of the road along the entire length of the convoy. These small charges released millions of angry bees from the plastic bags in which they had been held captive. Not one person escaped multiple bee stings that resulted in the death of a huge proportion of the men due to their distance from medical facilities. We were told that the ‘bee ambush’ was responsible for Mozambique’s greatest number of casualties from a single incident.
Separate written reports submitted by Peter and me on our return to Rhodesia were surprisingly similar to those submitted by six Rhodesian Army officers who also visited Mueda. In particular the information we had gleaned emphasised the seriousness of the threat posed to Rhodesia from FRELIMO’s second front in the Tete Province.
Back in JPS I asked John Shaw one day if I could submit a paper I had written on my personal opinion of what should be done about the Mozambique situation. He read the draft and burst into laughter saying, “This will get the OCC pretty excited.” Nevertheless, he agreed that he and I should present it to Mick McLaren. Mick did not read far before he asked angrily what right had we to say the Portuguese would collapse, and who the hell were we to suggest that Rhodesia and South Africa should take over friendly Mozambique’s territory south of the Zambezi. The paper found its way into the shredder but I retained a copy for many years beyond the time the Portuguese did finally collapse. We were given a not-too-unkind telling-off and asked never again to waste time on work not tasked by OCC. John Shaw took the telling-off with a fixed expression on his face and never let on that I had written the paper.
Medical hitch
I BECAME CONCERNED ABOUT A NASTY-LOOKING black growth on the mid-upper thigh of my right leg. If subjected to sunlight when swimming it would subside and turn red but it became bigger and blacker in no time at all. I was sent by the Air Force doctor to see a specialist who would not even allow me time to go home for pyjamas and toothbrush but committed me to hospital immediately. The specialist surgeon told me the growth appeared to him to be a malignant melanoma that had to be removed without delay. He explained that he would have to remove the entire upper muscle from knee to hip together with the glands in my groin. “Don’t worry, you should learn to walk again within nine months.” I was horrified, believing this spelled an end to my flying career.
When readied for theatre and very drowsy from the pre-op drugs, a very brash individual accompanied by two nurses came to my bedside. He demanded to see my decorations. In my dopey state I said, “I don’t wear decorations on pyjamas,” whereupon Doctor Gregg, a radiologist, pulled back the bed sheet and pointed to my leg. He inspected the growth from every angle and reaching for a marker pen said, “If you do have a problem here I do not want to have to deal with a large wound.” He then drew a line around the spot in the shape of an eye, saying this was the limit of the muscle section that would be removed down to bone level. He departed saying, “Do not be concerned, you will fly again.”
In a small passage outside the operating theatre I had been waiting for ages on a wheeled trolley when a matron passed by and slapped a file on my chest. More time went by so I decided to see what my file said. I was amazed to find that I was Mrs Somebody-or-other and that I was about to have a hysterectomy. I called a passing nurse and, showing her the file, offered to prove I was not a woman.
When I was coming around from the anaesthetic, I felt my leg and groin and was delighted to find a relatively small dressing where Dr Gregg had done his artwork. For the next three days I walked without pain or limp going up and down the passageways visiting people, three of whom I knew. Squadron Leader Rob Gaunt was in for cartilage removal, Reverend Frank Mussell, father of Frank and John, was in for cancer treatment and Flight Lieutenant Paddy Rice was suffering the indignities and pain that accompany a piles operation.
It was only when the dressing was removed that I realised I had a really deep hole in my leg that had been filled with some special gunk. When I got up to walk it hurt like hell and no matter how I tried I could not help limping. Laboratory tests proved the growth to be benign—an enormous relief.
I had not been out of hospital long when Beryl and I attended a ‘Roman Night’ at the New Sarum Officers’ Mess. It was one of those lovely parties that went through the night, ending with a superb pre-dawn breakfast in the dining hall. At the end of this Christine Nicholls, just out of hospital with leg in plaster, Rob Gaunt with leg in plaster and myself heavily bandaged were all lifted onto the table to give the gathering reasons for sporting apparel ‘unbecoming to our Roman dress’. Rob Gaunt had started speaking when fire hoses were turned on us. The whole place was awash with everyone slipping around before the culprits were overpowered and the hoses switched off. With Roman togas and flimsy dresses soaked through, everyone ended up in the swimming pool where we were treated to some unusual diving exhibitions.
Dawn was breaking when we heard the pounding of hooves and saw Phil Schooling galloping through the trees with cloak flying as in a Roman movie. When we all repaired to the bar, Phil brought his horse to the counter. The floor was slippery from wet bodies which caused the horse to slip, panic, fall and vacate its bowels before being led to a safer environment. I ended up at the doctor’s rooms to have the hole in my wound mended because its over-stressed stitches had failed. But, all in all it had been a great party.
Aircraft accidents 1970-1971
MY ROUTINES IN JPS WERE interrupted from time to time to retain currency on helicopters and conducted Final Handling Tests on pilots trained by Hugh Slatter and Harold Griffiths. Norman Walsh handed over No 7 Squadron to Squadron Leader Gordon Nettleton in early 1970 but his command terminated in a freak accident on 1 July 1970.
Lieutenant Mike Hill (left) and Squadron Leader Gordon Nettleton (right).
Gordon had been ‘under the
hood’ on instrument flying practice with Flight Lieutenant Mike Hill as his safety pilot. At the end of the flight a radar talk-down onto the grass runway 14 was completed and, so far as could be judged, control must have already passed from Gordon to Mike. At this point observers saw the helicopter pitch up and roll sharply to starboard. The roll and pitch continued in a tight descending path that ended when the aircraft impacted belly down on the main road verge against the airfield security fence. Both these fine men died instantly.
Assisted by French experts from Sud Aviation, the Board of Inquiry realised that mechanical failure of the cyclic controls system would have resulted in a roll to port so only pilot action could have been responsible for the starboard roll. This being so, there could only be one conclusion; Mike was suffering from ‘flicker vertigo’ before he took control.
Flicker vertigo in helicopters is an unusual condition caused by rotor blade shadows that are seldom noticed. Put very simply, flicker vertigo is to do with synchronised frequencies in which the frequency of shadows perceived by the eyes, consciously or subconsciously, divide perfectly into the brain’s functioning frequency to produce a whole number. This upsets normal brain function causing mesmerism and haphazard muscular movements as in an epileptic fit. Such a condition is known on roadways where the shadows of trees interrupts direct sunlight during early morning and late afternoon. Motorists can go off a roadway when impaired by flicker vertigo.
On 28 October 1970, Flying Officer Al Bruce was on a pairs formation exercise when his Hunter started venting fuel. He turned for Bulawayo Airport but his engine flamed-out short of the runway leaving him with no option but to eject. Al suffered bad bruising of the spine but otherwise he was fine. For the Air Force, however, the loss of our first Hunter FB9 was a major blow, reducing the fleet to eleven aircraft.
Winds of Destruction: The Autobiography of a Rhodesian Combat Pilot Page 39