by Ian Pringle
Brand outlined the route, timings, contingencies and other details. ‘Gents, the mess will be open for breakfast from 05:45; we will have a recap briefing here at 06:30. Any questions?’
Back at New Sarum, Dave Jenkins and his fellow technicians had checked and serviced their aircraft; now it was time for a few beers. ‘The corporals’ mess was designated an all-ranks mess for that night. I think most of us had a few chibulies [beers], but without getting too pissed, after which we made our way back to the hangar, where we dossed down on our stretchers,’ Jenkins recounted.
A silence settled over the base. It was a balmy late-November night in Salisbury. After seven months of the dry season, the atmosphere hung heavy with the expectation of rain. Soon, the Indian Ocean monsoon would blow moist air across Mozambique. As the air collided with the solid wall of the Rhodesian Highlands, it would be forced upward, cooling rapidly and forming mountains of white cumulus cloud.
As the moist air spread across Rhodesia, massive late-afternoon thunderstorms were caused by heat rising from the ground. You could almost set your watch by the regular afternoon thunderstorms in Salisbury. At about half past four, just as people were preparing to knock off from work, the ferocity of a storm would be unleashed with surprising regularity.
There is something very special about the first storm after the dry season. First, huge white cumulus clouds grow and grow, towering as high as 40 000 feet. Then it gets darker as the heavily pregnant cloud struggles to hold its water. At this stage, just before the wind starts blowing furiously, the unique metallic smell of fresh rain hits the nose, an indescribably wonderful aroma. Then it’s time to run for cover to avoid getting drenched and, more importantly, to avoid the lightning, Africa’s biggest natural killer on the Highveld. It all ends quickly, then the sun comes back to cast wonderful rainbows and orange glows across the sky. High above, the cloud changes from the shape of a mushroom to that of a blacksmith’s anvil, the death shape of the storm.
Norman Walsh fell asleep at home, hoping Mother Nature would hold off for another four days. It wouldn’t.
Part 2
Zulu 1: Chimoio
27
Short Handle
When each major milestone during Operation Dingo was reached, a code word would be reported back to the command structure. Nine milestones were set, each with a code word derived from cricket, starting with ‘Short Handle’ and ending with ‘Off Spin’, the point at which all troops were safely back on Rhodesian soil.
‘Short Handle’ would let the commanders know that the first major task had been completed, namely setting up the helicopter assembly area at Lake Alexander. This would be the main helicopter transit point, where RLI troops and other support personnel would board the Alouettes. A medical resuscitation unit and a helicopter spares, supply and repair point would also be established at Lake Alexander.
The lake – actually a dam on the Odzani River – nestles in the Stapleford Forest, making it an attractive venue for rowing, fishing, camping and picnicking. The planners chose the largest open camping area for the helicopter landing zone. A gently curving dirt road framed the longest edge of the LZ, providing ideal access for transporting troops and fuel.
Lake Alexander was an ideal compromise, being less than four kilometres from the Mozambican border, yet far enough away from the prying eyes of populated areas, particularly the lovely city of Umtali, 25 kilometres to the south. There was only one problem. At 5 725 feet above sea level, the thin air at Lake Alexander would rob the Alouette helicopters of weight-bearing capability, especially the G-cars, with four fully kitted infantrymen and a crew of two. This meant the helicopters would have to carry less fuel.
Men from the air force began to arrive and stake out 22 places along the edge of the dirt road. A further 10 spots were staked out in a second row behind. Fuel drums would be dropped off at each stake to demarcate where each helicopter should land. The spaces had to be far enough apart to allow the helicopters to land safely next to each other. The rotor diameter of the Alouette is 11 metres, and there was a buffer zone of five metres between helicopters. The distance from the first to the last stake would be just over 300 metres.
Later that afternoon, the growling of a convoy of trucks carrying 160 drums of helicopter fuel interrupted the tranquillity of Lake Alexander. Initially, two drums were dropped off at each stake. Most of the 22 target-bound helicopters (K-cars and troop-carrying G-cars) would land along the edge of the road.
Fortunately, the Rhodesians had managed to borrow 10 Alouette helicopters from the South African Air Force. Known as Polo helicopters, these machines were not permitted to fly near the target; they would act in a support role, ferrying men and equipment between Lake Alexander and the admin base across the border.
Typically, the Alouette G-car would fill up with one 200-litre drum of fuel, enough for about 40 minutes’ flying time, with a small reserve. The helicopters would fill up with fuel to their capacity in Salisbury to minimise refuelling time at Lake Alexander. Therefore, most would only need to top up at the lake to have 230 litres in the tank, which would bring the machine close to its maximum weight limit. This fuel load would be just enough to reach the target, drop the troops and fly to the admin base, leaving a contingency reserve of no more than 10 minutes’ flying time. The lighter K-cars would load more fuel, giving them an endurance of at least an hour and a quarter.
Given its proximity to the Mozambican border, Lake Alexander was certainly not a secure area in 1977. It was vulnerable to attack by ZANLA, so 20 RLI troopers with 81-mm mortars were needed at Lake Alexander to provide protection for the helicopters, personnel and equipment until the operation was over.
By early evening, all the work had been done in preparation for the arrival of 32 helicopters, truckloads of RLI troops and lots of support staff. After a final inspection just after dawn, the RLI protection troop officer at Lake Alexander transmitted the first key radio message of the operation: ‘Short Handle complete. I say again, Short Handle complete.’ The message was received by the SAS radio facility at the Grand Reef Airbase near Umtali and quickly relayed to Salisbury. Robinson and Walsh ticked off the first critical milestone. The next critical stage would be Cover Point.
Cover Point
The admin base over the border in Mozambique would serve a similar purpose to Lake Alexander – a refuelling and staging post for the helicopters, with facilities for repairs, medical resuscitation and initial prisoner screening. There was, however, one big difference: ‘Cover Point’, its code name, needed to be close to the target and, therefore, well inside hostile, foreign territory.
This was a challenge for the planners. The base needed to be within 10 minutes’ helicopter flying time from the target, but away from roads and populated areas. It also had to be large enough to accommodate up to 32 helicopters.
Areas to the west and south were out of the question; these were heavily populated and well defended. The only feasible option was to the north. The planners scanned aerial photographs of the area between the Pungwe River and New Farm, looking for a flattish, open area. Ideally, it would also be near some high ground to allow an army mortar team to take position to protect the vulnerable helicopters from attack.
Some ground near the foothills of a modest elevation called Monte Utumece, 25 kilometres north of the target, looked ideal, at least from the pictures. It afforded a high area to the east; it was 17 kilometres from Highway 102, linking Chimoio and Tete, and seven kilometres south of the lightly populated banks of the Pungwe River. What the two-dimensional pictures didn’t show was that the grass was tall, and so were the clumps of dense bush – not ideal terrain for helicopter landings. Validating the area before the raid, however, was not an option, so if there were obstacles, Peter Petter-Bowyer, the admin-base commander, would have to make a plan.
Ideally, PB would land at the admin base before H-hour, giving him time to quickly familiarise himself with the lay of the land and then supervise the all-important fue
l drop from the DC-7. The key tactical advantage for the Rhodesians, however, was total surprise. Therefore, it was too risky for even a single helicopter to fly across Mozambique ahead of the main attacking force. To reduce the risk of compromising the element of surprise, Norman Walsh modified the original plan and allowed PB’s admin helicopter, flown by Flight Lieutenant Bill Sykes, to tag along with the main helicopter assault force and separate en route to arrive at the admin base a few minutes before the DC-7. This would give PB the opportunity, albeit brief, to assess the terrain and figure out where best to drop the fuel. PB would talk the DC-7 onto the drop zone by means of a portable VHF radio.
28
D-day
‘Dingo was just another op, so I had no problem sleeping,’ Norman Walsh remembered. ‘But I did have to sneak out with my flying gear, as my wife, Merilyn, had no idea I would be flying on an op.’
The bedside alarm clock jangled loudly at 03:15, and Walsh silenced it quickly as he slipped out of bed. He pulled on his flying suit, and slid his feet into the comfortable veldskoens that were standard uniform issue. Walsh grabbed his flying helmet, briefcase and an overnight bag, and sneaked out of the house. He drove off in the dark to New Sarum. The pre-dawn air was fresh and cool; there had been light rainfall during the night – not something the weathermen had forecast.
The New Sarum base slowly came to life. The first people out and about at just after 03:30 were the helicopter technicians, who removed the covers and prepared the 22 helicopters scattered around the base and on the sports fields. Torchlights flashed like fireflies as the techs in poorly lit areas busied themselves in the inky darkness just before dawn.
In the shadows of the west apron stood seven Dakotas and a DC-7; Alouette helicopters randomly occupied empty spaces. On the northern apron stood four giant bat-like Canberra bombers, with their canopy and engine covers in place. Seven Vampire jets were lined up neatly nearby, also still covered.
Norman Walsh arrived at 03:45. After a weather briefing and a quick cup of coffee, he and Brian Robinson set off to find their command helicopter. Dave Jenkins, Walsh’s flight technician, greeted the two commanders as they strode up to the Alouette. In the gloom, Walsh barely noticed that there were strange covers over the machine-gun barrels. Jenkins explains: ‘Henry Jarvie found two cylindrical cardboard containers the evening before, which he promptly stuck over the two barrels of my twin Brownings, saying that the gooks might think it some sort of secret weapon, which would stop them shooting at our command aircraft. Needless to say, the cylinders blew off as we got airborne.’
Henry Jarvie was probably the best-liked No. 7 Squadron technician and one of the funniest. His idea of the secret-weapon joke backfired because, as it turned out, the gooks did shoot at the command aircraft – accurately too.
Walsh and Robinson were strapped in and ready at 04:25. Jenkins remained outside, resting against the Alouette’s fuselage while he waited to check the helicopter during the wind-up process. Walsh flicked on the battery master switch, bathing the cockpit in a soft glow from the instrument lights. He turned on the radio, set it to the check-in frequency and waited.
The brooding silence was broken when the man leading the helicopter armada, Squadron Leader Harold ‘Griff’ Griffiths, called ‘check-in’, which prompted a response from the rest of the first section of helicopters to lift off that morning. The calmness of the morning was shattered as one Turbomeca gas turbine engine after another screamed into life. The noise of the helicopters seemed to act as an alarm, spurring on the base. The Canberra armourers seemed to work faster; the Dakota technicians put more urgency into preparing their ancient machines; and everyone started walking around more briskly. In the rising din, Air Marshal Frank Mussell, the air force commander, strode out of the main building to wave the machines off.
Griff tuned his radio to 118.1 MHz, to talk to the civilian control tower on the other side of the runway: ‘Alpha 7, request lift-off’, to which there was a quick reply: ‘Seven, circuit clear, lift-off at your discretion.’
Anyone monitoring the public frequency, as they often did, would assume this was a routine departure of a helicopter from New Sarum at first light. Little would they know this was the largest helicopter armada to fly into battle since the Vietnam War.
Griffiths lifted the collective lever and started taxiing the heavily fuelled Alouette forward; he then lifted it free of the ground into nosedown forward flight. The horizon was quite distinct by now as the steely dawn lit the eastern sky.
Norman Walsh lifted off with the first section of helicopters. ‘As we left Sarum, I felt an immense relief. Relief that after all the planning and briefings, we were now on our way.’
Operation Dingo had started.
As the last helicopters were lifting off from Salisbury, the man to initiate the attack, ace marksman and leader of No. 1 Squadron, Rich Brand, was just waking up in his home at the RhAF Thornhill Airbase in Gwelo, 210 kilometres away.
29
Brand – the marksman
‘What is your name?’
‘Officer Cadet Brand, sir.’
‘You big dick!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why don’t you play rugby?’
‘Because I don’t particularly like the game, sir.’
‘Do you feel this pace stick on your head?’
Brand squeaked out a painful ‘yes, sir’.
‘If you don’t play rugby, I will stick this pace stick up your arse and give you a double backbone. Understand me?’
The scene was a group of student pilots at Thornhill Airbase in the Rhodesian Midlands undergoing basic drill instruction, the first stage in the process of learning to fly. The victim was Rich Brand, one of the cadets.
‘My first experience was not flying, but drill,’ recalls Brand. ‘Our drill instructor was Sergeant Major Ron Reid-Daly. It was a cold morning. Ron Reid-Daly asked us who played rugby. Most of the guys put up their hands, except me. I had played rugby at school, but it was on dirt, and the game didn’t really appeal to me. Needless to say, after that morning I played rugger enthusiastically.’
Rich Brand wanted to be an astronaut. His ambition was well grounded. His father’s brother, Sir Quintin Brand, had been the first pilot to fly an aircraft from England to Cape Town. Many years after his Silver Queen adventure, Air Vice-Marshal Quintin Brand commanded the South-Western Sector in England during the Battle of Britain in 1940.
Rich was also influenced by his brother Basil, a flying instructor on Harvards at the South African Air Force flying training school at Dunnottar. Rich Brand seemed destined to simply push open the door and enter his chosen career. Instead, the young man would have to deal with deep disappointment and rejection.
Rich Brand descends from Dutch sea captains whose original name was Burgaardt-Brand, who made early contact with South Africa, arriving in the Cape of Good Hope in 1619 as they plied the trade route to the Dutch East Indies. Brand has some famous ancestors. Sir Christoffel Brand, an advocate and passionate democrat, was the first speaker in the Cape Legislative Assembly. Sir Christoffel’s son, Johannes Hendrikus Brand, became the fourth president of the Orange Free State, a position he held for 24 years until his death in 1888. Jan Brand, as he was popularly known, coined the phrase alles zal recht komen als elkeen zijn plicht doet (all will be well if everyone does his duty). This became shortened over time to form the popular modern Afrikaans saying alles sal regkom.
President Brand was asked to become president of a proposed Boer Union, which would unite the Transvaal and Orange Free State. He declined because he strongly believed in a policy of strict neutrality with Britain, knowing the powerful empire opposed the concept of a Boer Union. The Brands’ history of neutrality with Britain and the fact that Quintin, and Christoffel before him, was a Knight of the Realm and chose to speak English may well have had unintended consequences for young Rich.
After matriculating at a school with the unlikely name of the College of the Little Flower, a
Catholic institution run by Belgian monks in Pietersburg, Brand joined the SAAF for a compulsory stint of national service, which was the right place to be to start the application for pilot training. About 200 other aspiring pilots gathered at the SAAF Gymnasium at Voortrekkerhoogte to compete for the few places on offer.
Brand sailed through the medical and aptitude tests, and was confident when he entered the final phase, the interview. A week later, a list of successful candidates was pinned to the Gymnasium noticeboard. Rich Brand anxiously searched for his name, but couldn’t find it. There must have been a mistake, so he searched again. It soon became clear that Brand had been rejected.
Rich’s brother Basil, a serving SAAF pilot, asked a contact in the aptitude section to find out where his brother had come unstuck. To his astonishment, Basil discovered that Rich had achieved the top mark in the pilot aptitude tests. Somebody did not want Rich Brand in the SAAF.
Brand is not an English name, but the fact that Rich was an Englishspeaker was impossible to hide in the interview. This was the late 1950s, when the predominantly Afrikaner National Party was consolidating the power it had won a decade earlier, and moving inexorably towards breaking with the Commonwealth to become a republic.
He was devastated, his dream of becoming an astronaut well and truly shattered. After finishing his national service, he started picking up the pieces. He had to look elsewhere and the obvious place was the Royal Rhodesian Air Force. So he trekked up to Rhodesia and went straight to Quo Vadis, a farm near Umtali in the beautiful Eastern Highlands owned by his famous uncle, Sir Quintin Brand.