CHAPTER 13 THE FIRST HALO OPERATION (PART ONE)

In war time, with the best preparation, training and forethought, risks are minimized. They can never be eliminated. This was made painfully apparent on our very first HALO drop into hostile territory. It was the task of the PTS to ensure that the paratroopers were delivered onto the ground, at the right place, at the right time, and, above all, safely. This time we were not entirely successful. Decades later I still wonder what went wrong to cause the death of young, and brave, Sergeant Wilmot.

January 19, 1973, I was doing the usual, never-ending paperwork when the phone rang. It was New Sarum Ops Room/Com centre, advising of a signal for me. This was unusual. Most signals were delivered by messenger and were usually requests for suitable dates for the next basic course or continuation training. Puzzled and curious, I arrived at the Ops room in station headquarters and signed for the top secret signal. It was just the first of many dozens of such signals I would receive over the next six and a half years.

 Immediately I opened the signal, the adrenaline started to pump. It was an Air Task. To drop two sticks of Pathfinders at last light that day. The signal detailed the map references on which the two separate sticks should land. These Pathfinder Teams would find suitable DZs for follow-up static line troops which would be dispatched either that night or the next. Everything we had been training for was about to be put into practice.

 Palms sweating and heart still thumping, I went straight to OC Flying to discuss this operation and to express my concerns about the lack of practice the eight HALO troops involved had received. I suggested it would be a good idea if Frank Hales, my second in command, and I jumped with these Pathfinder Teams. This was not going to happen.  OC Flying told us, if we jumped on this Op we would be court-martialled. And, as if reading our minds, that if for some reason we “fell” out the same fate would await us on our return. Anyway, with only eight tactical assault, free fall parachutes, some members of the SAS Pathfinder Teams would miss out if we jumped, and there was no way this could be allowed.

Soon after we developed the technique of inserting troops into hostile territory, I made the ruling that all operational HALO drops must be led by an officer PJI. They were never delegated to the SNCO PJIs. In the early days there were only two officers in the PTS, Frank Hales, and myself. We shared the HALO tasks and often flew together, many times accompanied by a SNCO PJI who joined us to gain experience. Frank was more than just my right-hand-man, he was my entire right arm in organising this and future operational drops. For this first Pathfinder Op we also had the SAS boss, Major Brian Robinson, along to observe the two HALO drops.

The first thing to do was to plot the area where the Pathfinder Teams were to be dropped, so I acquired a 1:250,000 map of the general area and a 1:50,000 map of the exact target area. With my office door locked, Frank and I spread the maps out on my desk and had a good look.

 The target was easy enough to find as it was on the Southern bank of the Zambezi River, over the border, inside Mozambique. There were a couple of notable bends in the river just before the first drop point, and it widened out at the second point. That should not be too hard to see, even at last light. We marked this point on the map.

To make sure, we asked the photographic section if they had aerial photos of these two spots. The Canberras of 5sqn had taken photographs of just about the whole of Southern Africa, and excellent maps and photographs were available. Of course the guys in photographic section were curious as to why we needed them. I told them it was none of their concern and was never asked for a reason to procure an aerial photo of a specific area again.

These operations were top secret, but we required information and equipment from outside sources which could lead to similar unwanted questions. In the early days we were often doing silly things and could get away with odd information or gear requests without too much speculation. If one of the SNCO PJIs went to collect a piece of equipment on my or Frank’s behalf, it was easy for him to shrug and say, “Ask the Boss,” to stall further discussion. When it came to operations, there was always one rule, strictly enforced, -if you did not need to know, you did not get told.

With the aerial photographs in hand, we returned to my office to compare them with the 1:50,000 map. There was a reasonably flat area to the south of the Zambezi, not far from the first drop point. We marked this on the map with a pencil for the second drop point.

The next trick was to get a meteorological forecast for the area, especially the wind speeds, for the ground wind and every 1000 feet up to the drop height. This would allow me to plot the exact drop point, or close to it, and hopefully not have the Pathfinder sticks ending up in the Zambezi River.

 Whenever the PTS did parachute drops we’d phone the Met Office at Salisbury Airport for the information we needed to land on our usual DZ. This time, however, we needed to know the forecast for an area across the border, inside Mozambique. As it was supposed to be a top secret drop, this was a problem. I arranged a private chat with the Chief Met Officer.

 Although Id spoken to various Met Officers over the phone for years, it was the first time I’d personally called on them. This would change. From now on members of PTS would be calling. Often. I asked for a forecast for the area near Kanyemba, the closest point inside Rhodesia to our destination.  I also wanted to know the forecast winds for every 1000 feet up to 12,000 feet ASL, as well as twilight time and the last light time.

Having obtained the necessary information from the Met people, Frank Hales and I plotted the exact drop points onto the 1:50,000 map and the aerial photographs. We then had to work out a way to get to that precise point. Flying in from the West along the Zambezi River was obviously the most logical. This would put the setting sun behind us and make it easier to see the exact release point.

At about 2pm, the two Pathfinder Teams arrived in the hangar with all their gear and were sent down to the Safety Equipment Section to pick up their parachutes.

All the PJIs were called into the lecture room and briefed, as up to this time, only Frank Hales and I were aware of what was happening. We didn’t have a course at that time and most of the PJIs were catching up with paper work or doing maintenance on the training equipment. Suddenly they were all required to carry out ground training for an operational static line drop into Mozambique that night, onto DZs chosen by two Pathfinder Teams who would soon be dropped HALO at last light.

Aircraft had to be checked, static line parachutes picked up from Safety Equipment Section, and weapons and ammunition drawn from the armoury. And, it all had to be top secret. There was the usual nonsense at the armoury when the duty armourer wanted to know why PTS was drawing their personal weapons with lots of ammunition but it was soon sorted out and we never had a problem again from the armourers. PTS was a hive of efficient activity and all the staff was involved.

Just to be safe, I also went down to the camp hospital and borrowed all their portable oxygen sets, which were loaded onto our Dakota and spread out down the cabin. One set was made available to the flight crew. Additionally, we brought with us a special UHF radio for communications with the two HALO sticks after the drop.

At about 3pm, the pilots strolled across from 3Sqn to ask when we’d be ready for the Pathfinder part of the drop. I asked how they proposed to do the operation. They showed me what they’d done, which was to draw a line on a 1:250,000 map from Salisbury to a point inside Mozambique, just south of the Zambezi River. “OK,” I said. “When we get over that exact spot will you just turn the Green Light on?” That was when they realised there was more to this op and perhaps a little more detailed planning was required.

I showed them what we, at PTS, wanted them to do. Fly from Salisbury to Kanyemba, climb to 12,000 feet ASL, turn onto an Easterly heading and map read our way to the two spots, at which time I would do the drop from the back of the Dakota. I wanted the take-off time which would get us to the first spot just before last light and to the second spot right on last light.

At about 4pm the HALO teams were kitted up and checked. Frank Hales and I went to Safety Equipment to draw Para Commander parachutes, and to the armoury to get our weapons. On return to PTS we equipped ourselves with our webbing and collected an altimeter each.  All that was left was to brief the two HALO sticks on the free fall formation and pull heights. And, most importantly, to set the altimeters, not only my own, but also those of the HALO Pathfinders. The leader of each stick had a modified aircraft altimeter, so that the QFE at the chosen DZ could be radioed to the static line dropping aircraft to ensure a correct drop height on the follow-up drops. 

 We took off from New Sarum with an altitude of 4896 feet ASL, and were to drop the Pathfinders near the Zambezi River inside Mozambique with an altitude of 1000 feet ASL. As we were already 3896 feet above ground at the proposed DZs the altimeters would have to read nearly 4000 feet before take-off. Was this correct? Nerves made me double-guess everything I knew to be right.

The troops were trained to pull the rip cord when the altimeters read 2500ft or, if in a big stick, at various altitudes but never below 2000ft AGL. If I made a mistake with the altimeter setting it could easily kill a whole Pathfinder Stick.

It was also my job to instruct the two sticks on the free fall formation they were to adopt during the approximately 50 second plunge down to opening height. On exit, the No. 1 in the stick would hold the aircraft heading for 10 seconds, do a 180 degree turn, and fall to his pull height of 2000 feet on the altimeter. This was 500 feet lower than normal and his job would be to select a place for the whole stick to land as they followed him down.

No. 2 would hold the aircraft heading for 10 seconds before doing a 180 degree turn. He would locate No.1, turn 90 degrees to the right, adopt the track position for five seconds, and remain on that heading to his pull height of 2500 feet on the altimeter. After opening his parachute and doing all his usual drills he would turn his parachute and follow his No.1 to the ground.

No.3 would hold the aircraft heading for 10 seconds, do a 180 degree turn and to find both No.1 and No.2, do a 90 degree left turn, then a five second track and remain on that heading to his pull height of 2500 feet on his altimeter. Again, after opening his parachute and doing his drills, he would follow his No.1 down to the ground.

No.4 would maintain aircraft heading for ten seconds, do a 180 degree turn and look for the other members of his stick. He would then maintain his position, pull his ripcord at 3000 feet, and follow his leader down to the ground.

These manoeuvres were designed to avoid collisions during the free fall phase of the drop and to provide separation on opening, as well as stacking the parachutes so they could be manoeuvred to land close together on the ground. I reminded the stick to always be aware of their position in relation to the other members of the team, especially at pull time, as it would be very embarrassing to have somebody else’s pilot chute in your face at terminal velocity.

 Finally I reminded them if they got into trouble there was always that D ring on their right hand side. I wished them a good jump, and told them it was not luck, but skill that counted. Turns out – luck, especially bad luck, can play a part too.

 At approximately 5pm the pilots arrived and we boarded the Dakota for the first operational HALO drop into hostile territory. By this time the various maps, and aerial photos were stuck to the cabin floor, and we were ready. I felt an enormous sense of responsibility; it was my job to get all the men down safely and I wouldn’t relax until this part of the job was complete. I hoped I hadn’t forgotten anything.

 It had taken about eight solid, stressful hours to plan this HALO drop and there was no way of doing it quicker. This timeline became the standard for all HALO operational drops at later stages in the Rhodesian Bush War. On all future HALO drops we would also carry out at least one practise drop with a minimum 40 second delayed opening.

 As soon as we took off we headed in a Northerly direction at a steady climb rate, and soon levelled off at 12,000 feet ASL. I checked all the troops’ altimeters were reading the same as mine and confirmed this with the Skipper, Flt/Lt Bruce Smith. The parachutists’ altimeters were all reading 11,000 feet, which was the height above ground level at the chosen spot.

 We were very lucky with the weather; we had only a little cloud at about 7000 feet, hardly any wind from ground level up to the drop height, and there was not enough haze to obscure the ground. In other words it was perfect. All I had to do was drop the guys in the right place, return to New Sarum and fly the static line sticks into the DZs chosen by the Pathfinder sticks. Piece of cake. Things appeared to be going well for the first operational HALO drop. Things are not always as they appear.

 We flew along steadily as I tracked our position against the map stuck to the floor, poking my head out of the door periodically to check land marks. It soon became clear that on future flights I’d have to wear a lot more clothing especially if we were going higher. The aircraft heaters were on full blast, which kept the pilots and the HALO teams relatively comfortable. But I was at the back end in the cold draughty bit. I took a few breaths of oxygen every now and again to ensure my vision was not impaired.

 The sun was heading for the Western horizon and soon I could see the Zambezi River and the police camp at Kanyemba. I ordered the skipper to turn onto the previously calculated magnetic heading, almost due East. The first stick stood and checked their equipment. Frank Hales, the No.2 dispatcher and oxygen monitor, double- checked the first stick and gave the thumbs up.

 The two sticks were to be about eight or nine minutes apart, but we knew what it was like to stand with a very heavy load at altitude, so the second stick remained seated but ready, with all equipment in place. The shadows grew longer on the ground, but I could see the first spot very clearly. This would be a breeze.

The Skipper slowed down to a decent drop speed and gave me a half flap, as per the usual HALO dropping configuration.  I called the first stick to action stations, gave Lt Chris Schulenberg a thumbs up, and indicated the DZ to him.

On my instructions the Skipper made a few small corrections and, at the appropriate moment, I gave Schulie a smart smack on the leg. He immediately jumped into the slipstream, followed by Corporal Danny Smith, Lance Corporal Dave Cale, and Sergeant Frank Wilmot. I stuck my head around the edge of the aircraft door, hoping to see the stick as it went down, but could not see anything.

Frank Hales had positioned himself at the front of the door for a better view and didn’t appear too concerned, although he indicated that No.4 seemed to be a little wobbly. Brian Robinson had strapped himself into the rear-most seat so he could also see his men on their way down and he too seemed to be pleased. There was nothing that could be done by us except hope all was going as planned.

We still had the other stick to dispatch, and had to get the aircraft to the right spot. The second stick, lead by Captain Garth Barrett, followed by Lieutenant Ron Marillier, Pete Marshall, and Horse Greenhoff, were stood up and ordered to check equipment. Frank Hales gave the stick a once-over and indicated they were ready.

I waited for the first stick to report in, when there was a call from Schulie on the special UHF radio: “Papa One, Papa One, one of my men has gone straight into the ground!” My immediate reaction was nauseating shock, followed by questions. What the hell had gone wrong? And, were the altimeters set correctly? Could this be my fault? What had I forgotten?

.

It was time for some quick thinking. I had to decide on the spot whether to dispatch the second stick, or cancel the entire operation.

I first talked to Major Brian Robinson; they were his men but I was in command of this operation at this time. The ultimate responsibility was mine.

We decided to carry on but, in case the altimeters were incorrectly set, I ordered the second stick to pull at 3500 feet. I returned to the door of the Dakota and calmly, (on the outside at least,) carried on with the dispatch.  I was lucky, because just as I got back to the door, the dispatch point came into view and there was no time to second guess my decision.

I called the stick to action stations and pointed out the spot to Capt. Garth Barrett. After a few small direction changes to Bruce the skipper out they went. About four minutes later Garth Barrett came up on the radio - all his stick was OK. I also got the good news - the altimeters were reading zero. Huge relief. Massive relief. My calculations had obviously been accurate.

But what had happened to Frank Wilmot? Unfortunately, we will never know the exact circumstances and can only guess at what may have occurred. After many years of painful consideration, I am still unable to come to a satisfactory conclusion.

The follow up of the static line drops and the outcome of Sgt. Wilmot's death will be told next week.

CHAPTER 12 D.Z.SELECTION BY PATHFINDER TEAMS AND FOLLOW UP STATIC LINE DROPS AS TAUGHT BY PTS

 These days Drop Zones (DZs) can be selected with the help of satellites, or even good old Google Earth. The skipper of the dropping aircraft can simply dial in the GPS co-ordinates and fly straight to the DZ, even if it is thousands of kms away. But in the 1970s, with practically no aids other than common sense and the use of our eyesight, or as we called it, the Mk1 eyeball, DZ selection, and the subsequent guiding of an aircraft, required a large amount of skill.  

While the staff at PTS was in the process of  learning  how to do HALO parachuting, we also gave a lot of thought about how to teach Pathfinder Sticks the necessary skills for the selection of suitable DZs, and how to then direct the aircraft safely onto them.

As mentioned in the previous chapter, the first free fall courses were designed around the concept of inserting a Pathfinder Team into hostile territory, usually at last light. The Pathfinder Team was a stick of 4 SAS troops -their task was to locate a suitable DZ for a follow up static line drop at night. They would guide the static line-dropping aircraft to this DZ and position it so it could fly up the length of the DZ and carry out an accurate drop at the correct altitude.

The selection of the suitable DZ was always  at the discretion of the stick leader and depended on the military situation at the time. However a few fundamentals were always kept in mind: the DZ should be about 1000 metres long by 1000 metres wide and as flat as possible, mainly to enable the troops to rendezvous more easily – especially on a dark moonless night. Although low trees and scrub were considered acceptable, the area should be clear of rocks, tall trees and other hazards.

 Not only did we not have GPS or Google Earth, but our Dakota aircraft did not have any modern day systems to prevent them flying into the ground. Again we only had the good-old-fashioned, but not always reliable, Mk one eyeball. The Pathfinder sticks needed to select areas which could be reached from a safe aircraft flying position. We didn’t want the dropping aircraft flying into something hard, either on the approach to the DZ or on the way out. Therefore, the fly in approach and the fly out departure to the chosen DZ should be clear of hills for at least five nautical miles (10km).

 For an accurate drop, the stick leader had to assess the ground wind and allow for the drift of the parachutists. He needed to allow approximately 150 metres of drift for every 5 knots of wind. It was therefore better to choose, if possible, a run in where the dropping aircraft would fly into the wind.

 Once the DZ was selected, the stick leader positioned himself to have an unrestricted view of the direction from which the dropping aircraft would appear; in other words, there should be no tall trees in the way. As soon as the dropping aircraft made contact, the stick leader passed on the QFE (barometric pressure) so the dropping aircraft altimeters could be set to achieve an accurate drop height of 1000 feet AGL.

This was done by zeroing the aircraft type altimeter used by the Pathfinder Team, reading off the millibar scale and radioing this to the dropping aircraft. The magnetic bearing required for the drop to be along the length of the DZ was passed onto the dropping aircraft. The leader then positioned himself on the chosen spot and talked the aircraft in on the correct heading, calling for the red and green lights to be turned on as the aircraft passed overhead.

Most of the night jumps done on the static line courses were carried out on a large, clear, flat area close to New Sarum (where the PTS was located). The method we used for marking the DZ was a hangover from the Second World War, with a number of ground lights to indicate the direction, start point, and end point of the drop. This was how the RAF did it, and it was the method we used for many years. But, what worked fine in peace time, in an area well known to the pilots and on the same altitude as the take-off airfield was, absolutely useless for a hostile area, different to, and at a lower or higher altitude than, the normal DZ.

The first time we tried what we thought would be a typical Pathfinder type drop and DZ selection, was towards the end of 1969 at Oxford Ranch, which was 100kms from New Sarum, and just happened to belong to my family. The Pathfinder Team consisted of only two PJIs and we jumped late in the afternoon without any problems. We carried an A60 radio for ground to air communications and also had torches to mark the DZ as well as aircraft altimeters to set the QFE. We’d arranged for the SAS to provide us with a few volunteers to do the follow-up static line drop onto our chosen DZ.

At about 8pm the Dakota took off from New Sarum and headed towards the DZ. It was not long before we picked up their call sign on our A60 radio requesting us to give them a bearing. We duly confirmed our presence on the DZ and held the transmit button down for about 10 seconds, which enabled the skipper to hone in on us using the Dakota’s homing device. This also was done without too much trouble.

The pilot could see the lights. The altimeter setting in the aircraft was satisfactory. With all this information they were able to fly at 1000ft AGL. Yet it was not easy to get the aircraft to fly precisely over the DZ in the correct direction. It proved confusing and difficult for the pilots to decipher the correct run in direction and the start and stop drop lights on the ground.

The aircraft flew around for some time making unsatisfactory passes over the DZ, with each pass rejected. Finally, I as the PJI Pathfinder Team Leader, decided to take control and gave the dropping aircraft verbal instructions, simply telling the pilot to, “Go left”, “Go right” or “Steady” and finally the order “Red Light On” and “Green On.” This arrangement worked surprisingly well and became the standard for all night drops, both operational and training from that time onwards.

The techniques for guiding in the aircraft were initially explained in the lecture room, and then practiced on one of our night drop DZs. At first, some of the younger troops found it difficult to give firm instructions to the dropping aircraft, especially if the skipper was impatient and  questioned their instructions. The odd comment from the skipper like, “Make up your bloody mind, are you sure you’re not talking to a star?” could really get the young soldier stuttering. This sort of comment would bring a blast from me as it was inclined to make things worse. As more Pathfinder sticks were trained and more and more troops were given instruction on how to direct the aircraft, the better and smoother the drops became. In parachuting, as in most things, practice makes perfect.

This technique, manually guiding the aircraft, solved the accuracy problem for the follow-up static line drops. But we still had an issue with the initial HALO drop. How do you drop the Pathfinder Team, onto more-or-less the right area, from great height, into hostile territory, using only maps and photographs? Accuracy was made even more difficult because the position of the pilots in the cockpit prevented them from seeing the ground directly beneath. They could only see the ground at an angle out of the cockpit windows, which distorted their perspective, and the higher the aircraft the greater the error.

When we were taught by the RAF, they trialled a system called CARP, which stood for Calculated Air Release Point. This method, for the accurate dropping of paratroops onto strange or hostile drop zones, involved gathering all available meteorological and drop zone location data and displaying it on the dropping aircraft instruments. This was supposed to enable the pilot to fly to the destination DZ and carry out an accurate drop. Great in theory.

The aircraft used by the RAF at that time were the Beverly and the Hastings and both were fitted with the CARP system. These may not have been the best parachuting aircraft around at the time but they gave us Rhodesians an understanding of the problems when trying to do accurate drops.

 During our PJI course at RAF Abingdon, I once jumped as The Drifter for a basic course night jump out of  a Beverly aircraft, fitted with the CARP system. It was a disaster from an accuracy point of view as I landed way off the DZ and it took me a very long time, with a lot of swearing, to walk back to the check-in point.

We found the only way an accurate HALO drop could be more or less guaranteed was for the PJI to freeze his face off. He had to stick his head out of the rear door and direct the pilot to the jump spot.  But first it was necessary to convince the pilots. Fortunately the 3 Sqn Airframe Drivers were very skilled and sensible people and it did not take much effort to prove we were right. But what really sold it was, if there was an error of a few miles, they could not be blamed.

For the PJIs, the greatest problem was always the cold. With his head stuck out the Dakota door, breathing portable oxygen through an uncomfortable oxygen mask, he directed the skipper on which magnetic heading to fly from one landmark to the next. This was where we really earned our 25 cent per day flying pay. The Dakota had an outside temperature gauge which went down to minus 40 degrees celcius and on many occasions it was stuck on the stop.

Head out the door, we plotted a course over easily seen land marks, which we used as navigation points on the way to the target area. In the early days, when we were just doing displays and showing off, it was relatively easy to fly down the main road and then turn in for the run up to the spot. It was a much greater problem when we started to actually perform HALO operations. Then the aerial photo, the 1:50,000 map, and the 1:250,000 map were stuck to the floor of the Dakota so we could map read our way to the target via specific features. Our only navigation aids were eyesight and the aircraft compass and stopwatch.

In order to assess the exact spot to drop the HALO sticks at our home DZ we would obtained a meteorological forecast of the wind at the opening altitude. Using an aerial photo of Salisbury airport we would plot the exact point we wanted the parachutes to open, so they could  be steered downwind to the DZ. Again, this would be simple enough in this day of  Ram Air type parachutes which have a very good glide capability. It is far easier now to land on target than it was in the days of 28-foot flat canopies with a few holes cut out of them and it took a lot of practice to get it accurate.

This photograph shows a PJI on his knees looking down the edge of the parachute door. He is talking to the Skipper through his headset and giving instructions to "Go Left or Go Right or Steady." At the appropriate time he would disconnect his headset and indicate to the PJIs jumping, to exit and he would then tag onto the end of the stick. This photo shows Sgt Ralph  (The Rat) Moore doing the despatch,  the author hanging onto the cable and Sgt Iain Bowen looking towards the cockpit.

Firstly, the PJI had to ensure the pilot was pointing the aircraft in the right direction; bringing it over the DZ and going into the wind if possible. We did this lying on the floor of the aircraft, to the rear of the open door, head out into the slipstream in order to see forward as well as directly down. Then, like the “Bomb Aimers” did it in the Second World War, we gave the pilot the run-in instructions.

These were simple enough; “Go Left,” “Go Right,” or “Steady”. Then, as the aircraft got closer to the drop point, the PJI asked the pilot to slow down and give a half flap. Then he knelt and brought the troops to action stations. Now came the tricky bit, especially if it was from very high altitude. He looked down and along the vertical edge of the door and, whilst still giving directions to the skipper, brought the aircraft directly over the dispatch point. At the appropriate moment he indicated to the troops to stand in the door and gave them a smart smack on the leg to exit.

Whilst we were teaching ourselves the skills required to get the old Dakota to fly over the correct spot, we found out a few things about drift in free fall and how much this could affect the accuracy of the drop.

Before doing a HALO parachute drop from the higher levels we would obtain a forecast of the winds for every 1000 feet up to our proposed drop height. We averaged them out for speed and direction, to plot the most suitable drop point on the aerial photo and the 1:50000 map. It is very surprising how far the human body will drift during free fall – for example, with an average wind speed of 15 knots on a delay of 60 seconds drift is about 460 metres. This could mean the difference between landing on the bank of the Zambezi River, or in it.

Another calculation we took into account was the throw forward of about 350 metres. When the PTS put on a display, either for a function or to show some dignitaries how clever we were, we’d plot the landing spot on a 1:50,000 map of the area. It was during these early days we realised that a man jumping out of a Dakota flying at about 95 knots doing a HALO drop exceeding 30 seconds would follow the path of the aircraft for about 350 metres before going down vertically. This little point could mean the difference between landing in front of the crowd to much applause, or looking foolish and having to hitchhike. So this became another factor for consideration when we plotted drop points on operations at a later time .

This photograph shows Sgt Ralph (The Rat) Moore getting ready to throw out a streamer to check the wind speed and direction for a H.A.L.O. demonstration at one of the many public displays we carried out in the early days of Free Fall parachuting

For these demonstrations, we’d fly over the DZ at the parachute opening altitude and drop a piece of broom handle with a streamer attached to it. This gave us an indication of how strong the wind was and in which direction it was blowing. The skipper then applied power and we climbed to the drop altitude – as high as we could go in the time allotted. On many occasions it was in the region of 10,000 feet AGL which would give the PJIs time to fly like a bird and do anything except go up. All these displays and demonstrations gave us practice for the time when we at the Parachute Training School would have to drop very special soldiers a very long way from home.

As more and more HALO drops, both demonstration and operational, took place we became better at gauging the exact release point for the troops. During the Rhodesian conflict, we developed these techniques to a very high standard. The PJI, doing the HALO drop was responsible for the accuracy of that initial HALO drop and the Pathfinder Leader, for the accuracy of the follow-up static line drop. Generally, the two systems worked very well. But even we got it wrong on rare occasions, and although, fortunately, they never unduly messed up the operation too much, they sometimes resulted in a long walk for the troops involved.

CHAPTER 11 THE FIRST FREE FALL COURSES

Who would've thought a broken typist chair could be an invaluable parachute training tool? The centre of gravity on the human body is the belly button, and a curved surface will always face the airflow. Therefore, to fall in a stable position face down, the body must be arched with legs spread and slightly bent at the knees, and arms stretched out and slightly bent at the elbow. We removed the chair back on an old, wheeled secretarial chair, got the student to lie on the seat in a free fall position - back arched, head up, arms and legs spread.  From there the PJI could spin him around and correct his technique - simple but very effective.

Another training tool we invented, was nick-named The Ball-Basher. It was a parachute harness rigged to a block and tackle which allowed the student to be suspended in a horizontal position, as if he was in free fall. On the command from the PJI “Two Thousand Five Hundred Feet – Now,” the student would pull the ripcord, which operated a suspension device and allowed him to swing under the frame into a vertical position. This was very like the real thing but without the cold wind blowing into your face. How did it get its name? Well, if the harness was not fitted correctly, it could be painful to one’s manhood, especially when cutaways were practiced and the student would drop a further 300 mm simulating a reserve opening shock.

All drills could be carried out on these two pieces of equipment including all the emergency scenarios likely to be encountered such as a complete main parachute failure, a partial failure, and damage to the main canopy which would result in the necessity to cut away and operate the reserve parachute.

With the PJIs fully trained in free fall jumping, suitable parachutes selected and obtained, and our highly sophisticated training apparatus invented, we were ready to start training others. But it was not until October 1971 that PTS  began to train SAS Pathfinder teams

Pathfinder Teams: a stick of four men dropped into an area, from high altitude, towards last light. Their task? To find a suitable DZ for a follow-up drop of static line troops a night or two later. These  HALO (High Altitude Low Opening) sticks of SAS men were called Pathfinder teams.

The four-man stick was the normal size for Rhodesian Forces. But it also suited the training capacity of the PTS at the time. We only had eight TA parachutes and a small number of TU modified 28 foot parachutes available for training. There was also a similar shortage of altimeters and we had no automatic opening devices. I repeat - we had NO automatic opening devices. For these practical reasons alone, it would not have been possible to train larger groups.

All free fall trainees had to be volunteers, already fully trained, through the PTS, in static line jumping. In our optimism, we anticipated the course, with willing, and able recruits, would only take about a month. This turned out to be unrealistic. Military HALO parachuting was in its infancy and we were doing it by on the job training.

The course we initially devised was to contain the following elements: ground training, then the free fall training itself, and finally advanced techniques.

The ground training phase was expected to last three days during which time the soldiers would be taught the aircraft drill, the exit drill, the free fall drill, the flight drill under a manoeuvrable canopy, and how to turn into wind for a soft landing.

Also included in this phase were all emergency drills, including the cut away (jettison of main canopy) and the operation of the reserve parachute. The soldiers were also shown how the various parachutes worked and had them demonstrated. Altimeters were also explained in detail by myself . As an aircraft instrument fitter I was well qualified to explain the workings of these delicate instruments.

In the second phase there would be 20 free fall parachute jumps. The first and second jumps would be for a five second delay from 3000 feet AGL and both of these jumps would require the parachutist to count the seconds before pulling the ripcord. These paratroopers were carefully observed by PJIs, both on the ground and also from the rear port seat of the Dakota. The third jump was from 3500 feet AGL with the parachutist required to watch his altimeter and pull the ripcord at 2500 feet. This delay was approaching terminal velocity. After this, all jumps would be from higher altitudes.

In what proved to be our first error, we assumed all the troops would be able to fall in a stable face to ground position. We made this judgement based on our trials with the PJIs. But the PJI was a professional parachutist, whilst, for the soldier, parachuting was a part time occupation.

In our initial training plan, we anticipated after the third or fourth free fall, the soldier would not have any problems going to higher altitudes with longer delays. Up until the fifth descent the soldiers were required to hold the aircraft heading in free fall, and it was only after this descent that turns in free fall would be introduced. Or so we assumed.

After the sixth free fall we thought the soldiers would be able to carry out turns to the right or left and to hold given headings as briefed before each jump. Because, we as PJIs had little trouble doing these various tasks, we assumed the soldiers would also be able to manage them. Again this was an error.

We thought, after approximately eight or nine free fall descents, it would be appropriate to introduce the soldier to the Delta or Tracking position which would enable him to move around the sky whilst in free fall. The reason for these manoeuvres would be to avoid other parachutists in the stick as they were falling. Once again we compared the soldier’s ability to that of the PJI and, once more, we were mistaken.

This photograph shows Sgt Iain Bowen during one of the early experimental  HALO parachute jumps whilst carrying a small suspended load behind the knees and below the main  parachute. Later these loads were much larger and weighed up to 70 kgs. The parachute looks like a T.A. and the reserve can be seen with the later "sky dive" altimeter mounted on top

 Once the tracking phase was mastered it was time to introduce weapons to our students. We thought this would be at or about jump number ten or eleven.  The first weapons jump was with an FN.762 rifle fitted to the left hand side of the body. This made very little difference to the free fall parachutist. It was anticipated that the soldiers would be given three or four jumps from 8000 feet to 10,000 feet AGL carrying just the rifle and we hoped any stability problems could be sorted out during this period.

From about jump number 15 to the end of the course, which we thought would be 20 jumps, the soldier would be loaded up with increasingly heavy suspended loads, until he was jumping with his normal battle load. But we at PTS were expecting too much from the soldiers who were sent to us for this new form of parachuting.

In the final phase of training, once the various free fall procedures were mastered, the instructor could teach advanced flight techniques including: the dive exit, turns in free fall, tracking, somersaults, watching the altimeter, always watching the altimeter, pull of the ripcord position, and all the drills required after the ripcord pull. These drills were practiced over and over, again and again, until the PJI was satisfied every contingency was covered.

We tested our optimistic plan during our first free fall course in October 1971. Fortunately, the soldiers sent to us by the SAS were very capable and it was completed without injury or real stability problems. But even at this early stage it was obvious - the free fall courses would have to be extended with training jumps added. In the end the course was increased to about 6 weeks and approximately 45 jumps - more than double the number we originally allowed.

We also eliminated the slow progression of 5 second and 10 second delays.  From the third free fall course, the soldier's first free fall parachute jump was a 45 to 50 second delay to parachute opening. This allowed them to learn how to fall in the correct position - a more effective  learning curve.

It was also evident the soldiers could not be watched properly either from the ground or from the aircraft during the free fall phase of the jump. This meant they could not be properly debriefed and corrections could not be made to their technique.

For this reason we had a free fall qualified PJI follow each soldier on all delays exceeding 10 seconds. The PJI  landed next to the trainee and immediately corrected any faults as delays in the debrief and fault correction analysis reduced their impact. It also meant lots of jumps for the PJI's and an increased workload for those wonderful Safety Equipment Workers. The only drawback was the cold wind blowing down the dispatcher's neck as he directed the pilot to the drop point, minus 40 c was often encountered.

In order to assist the PJI responsible for the course, the follower PJI also had to write up a critique of the jumper’s performance as soon as possible after landing. Again, we found that a delay in this assessment, as often happened if there were a number of jumps in quick succession, could, and often did, give the wrong impression of the trainee’s performance.

Due to the shortage of parachutes in the early days of free fall training, the course was restricted to about two jumps per day which, in those times, was considered to be the maximum a soldier could do without a rapid rise in the injury rate. This ruling was a hangover from the original PJI course at RAF Abingdon in the UK, where we were told quite emphatically, that a parachute jump was equivalent to eight hours of hard work. If more than two jumps in a day were carried out, the injury rate would soar out of control.

This was later proved to be a figment of some expert’s imagination, especially during the days of Fire Force when up to three jumps a day, into battle was not uncommon. At first, however, the main restriction was a lack of parachutes. Safety Equipment was always responsible for the packing of all our parachutes and was kept extremely busy with a limited staff in the early days.

HALO jumping was just the means of getting the Pathfinder Team onto the ground. From there, their real work started - to find a suitable Drop Zone for a later deployment of paratroopers. It was also the job of the PTS to teach them how to find this DZ, and then how to guide aircraft in for an accurate drop of static line parachutes. Details of this will be covered in the next chapter.

CHAPTER 10 THE QUALITIES REQUIRED TO BECOME A RHODESIAN AIR FORCE PARACHUTE JUMPING INSTRUCTOR

This photograph  shows the Royal Air Force Parachute Jumping Instructor (PJI) aircrew brevet and it was awarded to the original five Royal Rhodesian Air Force PJI's on 25th August 1961 at  No 1 Parachute Training School RAF Abingdon

In March 1970, Britain removed the Royal title from the Royal Rhodesian Air Force; because of this new flying wings, minus the crown, were issued. The pilots’ wings and other aircrew half-wings remained the same size but, much to our disgust, the Parachute Jumping Instructor half-wing was made approximately three quarters of the size. Letters of complaint were forwarded to Air Headquarters but it was a wasted effort. The order came back for all the PJIs to replace the RAF half wing with the new, smaller half-wing.

This Photograph  shows the much smaller Rhodesian Air Force Parachute Jumping Instructor  (PJI) Brevet The depiction above is of actual size and it is much smaller than the other Air Crew Brevets.

There and then, the staff of the school decided, despite its smaller size, this parachute wing would be the largest in terms of excellence. We were determined to make it the most prestigious badge in the world. It is certainly amongst the rarest, as only 38 were ever presented.

Before this, the five original Royal Rhodesian Air Force PJIs, trained at RAF Abingdon, were awarded the RAF PJI Brevet. The RAF PJI Brevet is a half-wing, depicting a parachute. It is exactly the same size as all the other RAF aircrew Brevets and is worn on the left breast just above any medals. 

On August 25 1961, the 5 Rhodesians were presented with the RAF PJI Brevet in the School at RAF Abingdon. It must have been truly earned, because they allowed us to train two more courses of the famous Parachute Regiment before we flew home to Rhodesia.

So exactly what kind of person was worthy of wearing our coveted new brevet? Some would say we were just ordinary airmen or soldiers.... with a lot of screws loose in the cranial cavity. Others, (usually ourselves,)  would say we were brave and fearless supermen.  I came to believe the men I worked with, were the finest. Instructors and leaders who gave others the confidence, and skill, to hurl themselves out of an aircraft, without question, to an uncertain outcome. This took a rare and special person.  

It did not do my Air Force career any good when I told a number of very senior officers  it was far easier to find people to drive aeroplanes than it was to find those willing to abandon them mid- flight. The ideal candidate would be a 25 year-old, exceptionally fit school teacher with the wisdom of middle-age and the bravery of youth. 

In the early 70s, we were suddenly tasked with finding a herd of these rare beasts.  In early 1970 a number of  staff changes took place in the Parachute Training School: Boet Swart left the Air Force and returned to the Army. I  was promoted to Sqn/ Ldr and appointed to C.O. PTS.  Bill Maitland was commissioned and posted to the General Service Unit. Frank Hales was commissioned and appointed as the Chief Instructor / Training Officer. And Trevor Smith was promoted to W.O.2 and became the school Warrant Officer. Now there was a severe shortage of Sergeant Parachute Jumping Instructors, especially as Tony Hughes, the only Sgt PJI, was injured. Another drastic shortage was experienced in 1973 when the Rhodesian Bush War escalated.

So how did we overcome this?  The senior PTS staff members brain-stormed in the crew room and wrote a number of questions to be posed to all new applicants. Other than the obvious “Are you crazy?” they went roughly as follows:

1.                 Have you ever watched a parachute jump?

2.                 Have you ever done a parachute jump?

3.                 Have you had any military training, and if so where was it?

4.                 Have you ever taught or instructed anybody, on anything, and if so what was   it and where?

5.                 What makes you want to teach people how to jump out of a serviceable aircraft?

6.                 What makes you think that you will be able to teach soldiers how to parachute?

7.                 Do you have a problem with instructing African Soldiers?

8.                 Can you communicate with African Soldiers?

9.                 Do you have any training with explosives and if so what type and where?

10       Do you have any technical or mechanical training?

11       Do you know how to shoot? If yes what weapons did you use?

12      Have you had any medical training or first aid skills?

13      Why do you want to join this crazy bunch of misfits?

The last was the most important. We were looking for calm, capable instructors. Previous parachuting was not essential, but the school was definitely not after thrill seekers. We wanted people who could show very frightened men how to control their terror and, no matter what the situation, still do all the correct drills. The correct drills had to be carried out by the PJI as well; even when he was terrified and distracted, he had to remain calm, focussed and in control.

 Fitness was also crucial and a number of applicants were rejected immediately because of their fitness levels. All candidates had to pass an aircrew medical before acceptance onto the PJI training course and every PJI had to pass this very stringent aircrew medical check on an annual basis.

 As mentioned earlier, attitude was everything. A number of applicants came from the lower ranks of the Rhodesian Army; some thought they would have an easier time at the School than in their current military jobs and some were bored with their present occupations and were looking for excitement. These were rejected immediately.

Adverts were placed in the local press, and I approached the SAS to ask them to transfer their best junior N.C.O.s  to PTS as there were a number of vacancies for sergeants.

Initially, only one suitable applicant, Mike Wiltshire, came from the press adverts.  But in later years we did get a few others, including Kevin Milligan, Mike Wiltshire, Paul Hogan, Chris Pessara, and John Early. Most of these men had served with the armed forces of other nations, though Paul Hogan and Mike Wiltshire came straight from civilian life and required basic military training before starting their actual PJI training.

From the SAS Denis Buchan, Ralph Moore, and Ian Bowen were willing to transfer to the Rhodesian Air Force. We were also pleased to get John Boynton from the Army. All of these men became highly regarded PJIs and proud wearers of our brevet.

Having observed a number of PJIs hobbling around with crutches and plaster casts, not many Air Force members were willing to risk their lives and limbs. One exception was Senior Aircraftsman Ian Douglas, a Safety Equipment Worker who managed to make the grade and became an excellent PJI. Ian was later commissioned and now sells parachutes around the world.

Our PJI course was different to the one we were given in Abingdon. In the RAF, parachute instructors were selected from the physical fitness branch of the Royal Air Force. They were basically PE teachers with extensive experience in this field. A basic teaching ability was assumed. The five original Rhodesian Air Force PJI trainees were not taught how to teach; we were basically tradesmen who had to learn this particular skill on the job. This was one area where our PJI training differed -  the course at the Rhodesian PTS focused on teaching methods as well as parachuting techniques.

Once selected to start the PJI program, the trainee was required to complete a basic static line course. There were no exceptions to this rule – those with previous training had to do it again. However a very close eye was kept on these men and they were expected to perform better than the other trainees. This was no easy task, especially if they had to keep up with the fit, young, tough soldiers from the SAS or the RLI (Rhodesian Light Infantry).

After completing the first basic static line course, the Under Training Parachute Jumping Instructor (UT/PJI) was paired with a senior PJI who showed the hopeful candidate the progressive steps in training military parachutists. The qualified PJI would take a section of troops on the next course and the UT/PJI would have every minute step explained to him as they progressed. The UT/PJI would then instruct  the class and, under the watchful eye of the PJI, carry out what he had just been taught. The UT/PJI was expected to reach a standard of proficiency by the end of this second course.

During operations, the back end of a Dakota was a very busy and stressful place. It required absolute attention to detail and the ability to make fast, accurate decisions. The UT/PJI was expected to master all dispatching duties with absolute confidence, and to be aware of the massive responsibility with which he was entrusted.

Not only did he have to give orders to the paratroopers, some of whom could have high rank, but he also had to advise the skipper on the selection of drop zones, and the necessary configuration of the aircraft for a safe drop. Depending on the circumstances it was sometimes necessary to slow the sticks down or to speed them up and, on rare occasions, stop a stick completely. All these possibilities were taught and practiced by the UT/PJI at first in the Dakota mock-up in the PTS hangar, and then on actual training drops.

For this reason , we tested the confidence, sense of authority and ability to think on the run of all UT/PJIs. Not only did they have to deliver the lectures which formed a part of every static line course, but they were also given a few public speaking tests. The potential PJI was required to give the PTS staff a lecture lasting at least ten minutes on a subject of his choice, as well as one on a subject of the training

officer’s choosing.

The UT/PJI was given a couple of day’s notice about his subject of choice, and was then expected to give a top lecture and to answer any questions from his audience of senior PJIs. Some of these lectures were of extremely high quality. The lecture by Mike Wiltshire on his days as a London bus driver was hilarious and was talked about for years. Another memorable lecture was delivered by one of our Americans about his days as a Houston cop – it certainly put our little war into perspective.

The other lecture, on a topic chosen by the training officer was of much shorter duration. The UT/PJI was given only 10 minutes warning and was expected to improvise. This was to see if the potential PJI could think on his feet. I had to talk about cigarettes at my PJI course at Abingdon, an easy task for me as my parents had grown tobacco on the family farm in Rhodesia. Most of these lectures bore little resemblance to the subject as it was usually twisted to suit the individual’s particular expertise.  This was always an interesting way to determine whether a potential PJI could make the grade or not, as he was required to produce something at short notice and project confidence to his peers.

One of the possible scenarios practiced in the Dakota mock-up included what to do if a paratrooper refused to jump as the stick was going out of the door. It is testament to the authority of the PJIs that this never happened on an operation. But if it had, the despatchers would have smacked his arms down and the rest of the stick would have pushed him out. Once the stick started to exit the aircraft it was very hard to stop as the men at the back were always pushing forward to get out as quickly as possible.

On training, if the same thing occurred, the soldier concerned would have been pulled out of the stick by the no.1 and no.2 dispatchers and tossed into the toilet at the rear of the Dakota, whilst the remainder of the stick carried on exiting. This was practiced in the mock up in the hangar but I don't think it ever happened.

Another scenario discussed, and where possible practiced, was what to do if a soldier was wounded during the run over the DZ. It was the PJIs job to ensure all his troops arrived on the ground in the best possible condition to carry out their primary function- to fight. All the UT/ PJIs and dispatchers were taught combat first aid, and on a number of occasions had to treat injured soldiers on the way back to the more sophisticated medical facilities. The Rhodesian Air Force medics showed us how to fix saline drips, to stop bleeding, to administer morphine, and generally how to keep wounded soldiers alive. The PJI and the Dakota Tech were also responsible for cleaning out the back of the aircraft which at times looked like a bloody butcher shop

The final stage of the UT/PJI’s training was being allocated a section on the next Basic Static Line course. During this he would be carefully watched by a qualified PJI . He would also be watched by every PJI on the staff, and at the end of every session a debrief would take place where improvements on instructional techniques were made. Later when  John Boynton became the School Warrant Officer (Sergeant Major as far as the Army was concerned)  he had the task of ensuring the UT/PJIs reached the required standard. As far as John was concerned there was only one way to do the job and that was the right way.

Once the UT/PJI mastered all the necessary skills to teach a section on his own to the complete satisfaction of the Training Officer/ Chief Instructor and the rest of the PJIs, the new man would be awarded the coveted PJI Brevet. This was usually done by the person awarding wings to the soldiers at the end of their course. The new PJI was also immediately promoted to sergeant. And became entitled to a whole extra 25 cents per day parachute pay!

These two Photographs show Sgt Denis Buchan on the left and Sgt Iain  Bowen being awarded their Rhodesian Air Force Parachute Jumping Instructor Brevet's by Rhodesian Army Commander Lt/ General Keith Coster  1971. 

Thousands of troops were trained by PJIs at the school; they came from every unit in the Armed Forces of Rhodesia and from all ethnic backgrounds. These men could be mixed into aircraft loads and would all carry out the correct drills. Every time. Without exception. This can only be credited to the skill and professionalism of the Parachute Training School Staff. They were without doubt the best Parachute Jumping Instructors in the world and they jumped from one of the best aircraft ever made, flown by the most skilful pilots.