CHAPTER 16 NIGHT H.A.L.O. TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS

As I lay back, injured, waiting for help to arrive,  I pondered life and lessons learned:

1. High Altitude Low Opening (HALO) jumping on a pitch black night is, after all, not a good idea.

2. Torches would be useful, enabling the DZ staff to find injured parachutists instead of them having to yell out as I had.

3. High performance parachutes are no good if you cannot see the ground for landing.

4. And finally, HALO jumping on a pitch black night is NOT. A. GOOD. IDEA.

27th March, 1974,  the first of the night HALO trials. There was no moon and in addition there was cloud cover at 5000ft AGL. There was no light at all. It was absolutely pitch black, we literally could not see our hands in front of our faces. Today, night vision goggles would make this not an issue, but we didn't even have a decent torch.

John Boynton  had to light a small fire on our DZ so we could find it and, hopefully, drop onto him. We rigged up lights to shine on our altimeters and added lights to our helmets, shining backwards, so they could be seen from above during free fall. For these first night jumps we also had a red light on our left hand and a green on our right, shining up along our arms. The idea was to see if we could determine which way the man below was facing.

We planned to carry out four jumps, with two pairs of PJIs, on separate runs over the DZ. I jumped as #2, following Mike Wiltshire, who became the first person in Rhodesia to carry out a night, military, HALO jump. Because of cloud cover, we were limited to about a 20sec delay, but felt this would give us sufficient time to observe the other man in free fall. We found the DZ and Mike jumped with me close behind. I had absolutely no difficulty spotting him - he was lit up like a Christmas tree, and made the mental note that in future, only the helmet lights would be necessary.

At 2500ft I pulled my ripcord, felt the flutter as the parachute pack opened and the sleeve deployed, then got the usual severe smack as the Parra Commander canopy stopped my earthward plunge. I  did all the drills: check the canopy,  hell it was dark but the canopy seemed fine; take a good look to spot Mike, I couldn’t find him so called out and he answered; I then looked down and saw the fire on the DZ. We were going past it at a hell of a rate and even when I turned my parachute into the wind we were still going backwards very fast.

 I shouted down to John Boynton on the DZ and asked him what the wind on the ground was like. He answered there was no wind on the ground. Hmm! I found that hard to believe! The light shining on my altimeter, although dim, still prevented me from seeing my feet so I turned it off. This didn’t help. I was still unable to see anything. But I did know which way the wind was blowing and it was strong because the PC parachute had a forward speed of 15kts and I was, definitely, absolutely, going backwards.

 OK what now? The only option was to set myself up for a backward landing. I clamped my legs tight together, turned my feet off for a back right landing, forced my legs back hard and waited for the hard stuff to smite me.

Smite me it did. There was no wind. I wasn't going backward. I was going forward in still conditions. Even after hundreds of jumps,  I’d made a silly mistake. I’d  ignored those on the ground and assumed I was going to land going backwards. I should’ve listened to my sergeant DZ safety officer and just hung under my parachute in position. My only excuse is the night was absolutely black.

 My right leg was unable to withstand the impact and decided to break. So there I was. Deep in the bush. On a pitch black night. With a broken leg. Fortunately, due to the adrenalin, it was not very painful at the time, but, because the bottom half was wobbling about I couldn’t stand. I could however shout and was able to attract John Boynton, inform him of my dilemma, and ask if he would please grab a stretcher and find me. I managed to get out of my parachute harness and pulled the canopy into a bundle to use as a pillow- may as well make yourself comfortable while you wait for the gang to arrive.

Soon I heard John Boynton calling, “Boss, where the hell are you?” I managed to sit up and, using the light on my altimeter and a lot of loud swearing, attracted them to my position. The ambulance could not be driven up to me but they had brought a stretcher along. John was all for filling me up with morphine but I told him not to as I had to report to OC Flying and I needed to find out how the others had managed.

Mike Wiltshire was limping but claimed it was only a slightly twisted ankle. The other two had also suffered what they called minor injuries, both had bruised heels caused by fast hard landings in an unsuspected direction. We'd learned a valuable lesson - parachuting on very dark nights with high performance parachutes was a dangerous game.

In fact, high performance parachutes were no good if you could not see the ground. They drive you forward, very fast, and, if  visibility is low, they can effectively spear you into the ground. This was borne out during trials - out of  22 night jumps using PC type parachutes, 17injuries occurred amongst  experienced PJIs. Including me.

We returned to the PTS hangar where a very worried OC Flying and the two pilots waited for news. Hell, I was the C.O. of the parachuting business and yet I was the  broken one. I made my report and suggested no Para Commander parachutes be used for night HALO jumps and we should not jump on pitch black nights. The lights were fine and the altimeters could be easily seen. I recommended trials continue until we had solved all the problems; we still did not know what it was like to carry equipment at night nor how to determine if one was in a spin or upside down. 

Finally I could head for the hospital, and, for your information, my leg was now very sore. The ambulance took off with me clinging to the stretcher in an effort to

stop my leg from moving about. After all that, they, my PJIs, decided I did not need morphine but could wait until I arrived at the hospital. I am still considering whether or not to forgive them for this.

On arrival at the Emergency Department, the doors of the ambulance were flung open and two small young nurses started to pull the stretcher out. The ambulance was a four wheel drive military van, and the stretcher was not on wheels, and these two little ladies were going to carry me into the hospital? No way. No bloody way. They were not strong enough and I did not need to be dropped. I grabbed onto the inside of the vehicle and did not let go until two beefy men arrived and carried me into the emergency area (editors note: what a big drip!)  I was placed on a trolley and somebody cut the laces on my parachute boot and removed it. All could see there was something very wrong with the bottom part of my leg and I was sent off to the X ray department.

Up to this time everybody had been very sympathetic and gentle. But when I got to the X ray dept things changed. Firstly I was again moved onto another bed under the machine and this was painful (editors note: what a wuss!) Then the radiographer looked at my foot which stuck out at a strange angle and said, “I can’t take an X ray with it like that.” She grabbed my foot and tried to yank it straight.  I let rip with a few expletives and explained to her  it was at that funny angle because it was broken, and please, please, (I may have used a different word,) do not move it again.

I had a Potts Fracture. The fibula was shattered and the foot ripped out from the ankle. Surgery was necessary and a nut and bolt was inserted to hold the ankle together. I had to remain in bed until the swelling subsided. There was absolutely nothing I could do except, get a few good books and make myself comfortable.

 Because I was the CO of the Parachute Training School I was in a private ward and was allowed visitors at any time within reason. On the second night in hospital at about 9 pm there was a little disturbance in the duty room. Somebody demanded to see me and all my notes. They were going to take me out to the camp hospital immediately. Then a number of my PJIs barged into my room complete with wheel chair and white coats doing their best impressions of TV doctors. Their plan was to take me to a pub and fill me with beer. Alas it was thwarted by the sister in charge who called the night super and the Air Force hospital at New Sarum.

Luckily it was all taken as a great prank although they did sneak a couple of cold beers in, which were consumed with gusto. It took about six weeks for me to recover, but I still have problems going through the scanners at airports.

Another cartoonish incident occurred during this period of experimentation. Frank Hales slammed into the ground and was consequently a little disorientated -imagine cartoon birdies flying around his head. He shouted to his No.2, “Where are you?”  Charlie Buchan, who had jumped with him, yelled “Over here, sir!”  Stumbling around in the dark, Frank turned towards Charlie’s voice, and stepped towards him. Off into space. He had landed on top of a large rock and was unaware that he was about three meters above the ground. Luckily he  was only bruised - in both body and ego.

The night HALO trials proceeded without me. My suspicions were confirmed. It was very dangerous to jump on dark nights except with ordinary PT 10/ SAVIAC canopies modified to TU or double blank gore status.  Use of high performance parachutes was not advised on pitch black nights, but were acceptable with a reasonable amount of moon-light which permitted the parachutist to gauge his landing. Parra Commander parachutes were not used for night military parachuting after this time. It was just too expensive for the good health of the PTS staff.

During the next few months whilst  I was recuperating I was relegated to despatching or DZ duties whilst the rest of the staff did the experimenting. I often wondered which was more dangerous standing on the DZ having unguided missiles dropped onto you or following those missiles down. Methods of fitting a strobe light to the top of a HALO box so it could be seen during free fall and also to give the stick of HALO parachutists a point to aim for when under canopy. The box parachute was always set to operate at a lower altitude than the parachutists which made it easy to follow and  land close to it. Another item we found useful  was a large chemical light tied to the apex of the box parachute, which glowed at the top of the canopy, giving off a ghostly look to the uninitiated. It  also helped if something nasty happened to the strobe on the way down. I do not recall ever having a box failure during the many dozens of operational deployments especially after we received the KAP 3 A.O.D. Life in PTS during this period was at times painful but never dull.  

This photograph is the only one I can find which shows a box with a 24ft supply dropping parachute fitted to the top. I realise that this photo is not very clear but it gives an idea of the size of the HALO boxes we used during Rhodesia's terrorist war. In addition this box is about to be launched out of Jack Mallock's DC7F which is another story and it will be covered later in the Blog. I apologize for the quality of this photograph but hope the reader realizes that it was taken over 40 years ago and because of sanctions film was hard to get.

CHAPTER 15 HALO BOX OR BLOWING UP BRIDGES AND THINGS BUGS BUNNY STYLE

A post script to last week's chapter: A trusty correspondent, (John Peirson)  informs me that, Robert Warren-Codrington was also known as "The Hitch-Hiker."  Apparently the name Fingers was already taken, and Bob still had his hiking thumb! I have to say Bob was an extremely tough and hardy man - he became so adept at managing his remaining digits, that he could still handle his weapon, and eventually nagged me into allowing him to parachute again. Keep the extra info coming people, I enjoy hearing from you, and will add your anecdotes as I receive them.

In the old Bugs Bunny cartoons, Willey Coyote always tried to blow things up, misjudged the fuse time, and ended up on the wrong side of the explosion.

The PTS was responsible for dropping, not only humans, but also supplies and, in order to do so, we also played around with fuses and explosives. Luckily, we never blew ourselves up.

The SAS parachute deployments into the Tete province of Mozambique had a dramatic and deadly impact on the routes taken by opposition groups into the North Eastern part of Rhodesia. The concept of dropping a Pathfinder team to look for a DZ to take a static line follow-up drop worked well, and the roads and paths leading to the Rhodesian border became very dangerous for the enemy to traverse. The number of incidents in the North Eastern border area reduced dramatically. And so too did the number of operational parachute drops.

But at the PTS we still carried out continuation training with the SAS, and it became evident we would have to find a way of dropping much heavier HALO loads; supplies of explosives and their bits and pieces, landmines, fuel, canned water, extra rations. Basically, things which were too heavy, or too scary for the troops to cart down with them.

The staff of the Parachute Training School who helped to develop the Free Fall or HALO box L to R Sgt Kevin Milligan,Sgt Iain Bowen, Sqn.Ldr. Derek de Kock (The Boss.) Sgt Mike Wiltshire, Sgt Ralph (The Rat) Moore, Flt/Sgt John Boynton School Warrant Officer, Flt/Sgt Dennis (Charlie) Buchan, Flt/Lt Frank Hales Training Officer/ Chief Instructor. Lower Down Sgt Bar Bear Mascot. These PJI's became the senior staff of a much larger Parachute Training School a short time later when it was decided to parachute train almost the entire Regular Rhodesian Army. All the members of staff shown here with the exception of Derek de Kock and Mike Wiltshire were ex Army and Mike had joined after being a London Bus Driver. 

We opted to stick with the well-tested KISS method. Keep It Simple, Stupid. We had six problems to solve:

1.  Get a box or suitable container we’d use in the future.

2. Decide what we could put into it.

3. Decide how much it should weigh, remembering it had to be easily moved into the open door of the Dakota by two PJI dispatchers.

4.Pick a parachute  that could take the boxes and handle the strain of a terminal velocity opening shock.

5.Finally, get hold of an automatic opening device which we could throw away after use as, deep in hostile territory, we would be lucky to get any of our equipment back.

 6. It should cost next to nothing.

 Major Tom Gentleman of # 3 Air Supply platoon helped in providing an air supply box and harness, as well as the necessary information about its weight limits.  #.3 Air Supply Platoon thought 350lbs(160kg) was a useful weight, and could be tipped out of the Dakota parachute door without too much trouble, provided one did not have to shove it around inside the cabin too much. Most importantly, these boxes cost next to nothing, and Air Supply had stacks of them.

They were approximately 1200mm high and 800mm square when opened out and could even be fitted with a crush pad on the bottom, if they needed to carry delicate stuff. The harness wrapped around the box was made of flax webbing with a breaking strain in excess of 1000kgs, and it had suitable steel D rings for attaching the parachute.

Four problems solved -  by simply talking to #3 Air Supply platoon. The next issue was to get hold of a suitable parachute. There were a reasonable number of 24-foot diameter reserve parachutes which had reached their use-by dates, and there were also a large number of emergency aircrew parachutes past expiry. All these parachutes were of the 24-foot diameter flat canopy type and were supposedly capable of withstanding terminal openings with  loads in excess of 450lb(205kg).The parachutes used by No.3 Air Supply Platoon were mainly of a supply dropping type; always deployed with a static line, and always in the canopy-first mode.This method was used so the aircraft could do supply drops from a very low altitude and reduce the opening shock factor, but at terminal velocity they had to be strong because the opening shock was high.

Unfortunately, we no longer had the option of dropping supplies from low altitude.

Shortly before we started to develop the HALO box, it was discovered that the terrorist groups had obtained SAM 7, or Strela, hand-held anti-aircraft

missiles. These were heat-seeking devices and would probably go for aircraft engines. One thing was certain: the old Dakota could not outfly them. But the missiles did have an Achilles heel. They were unlikely to get above 12,000ft AGL. Thereafter, all HALO drops in hostile country would be from 15,000ft or higher if at all possible. All supplies would also be dropped from great heights if the aim was to remain clandestine.

So the issue remained. How could we get the parachute to open at the correct height. Having tipped it out of the Dakota at, say, 10,000 feet AGL, we might need it to deploy at 1500 feet AGL. We needed an automatic opening device – one that could be set to go off at 1500 feet AGL at any place we chose.

At this time we’d obtained various automatic opening devices, but none of them had the capability of  being set to go off at different altitudes. They were meant for the civilian sky divers, who would usually land on the airfield they took off from. The only other automatic opening devices were fitted to ejection seats, and those would not be made available to people silly enough to jump from a serviceable aircraft.

In the PTS, if there was a problem it could usually be solved in the crew room. All the PJIs were encouraged to come up with outlandish ideas – nothing was too outrageous to mention. Flt Lt Frank Hales happened to be in this room, idly listening as someone expounded a plan to use a timer and an explosive charge to blow the parachute open, when a different idea struck. In the school, we had available to us a reasonable quantity of explosives, cortex, safety fuse, detonators and – most importantly – electric fuse igniters. Frank grabbed a reserve parachute and sent one of the UT/PJIs down to Safety Equipment Section to get a few yards of 50lb and 150lb breaking strain ties, used for packing static line parachutes, and a big needle from the parachute repair shop.

He slowly pulled the ripcord out of the reserve. Normally when this was done, the elastic bands on the reserve would pull the cover open and expose the spring loaded pilot chute, which would pull the 24-foot canopy out. This time, however, he undid the elastic opening bands and, keeping the cover in position, replaced the ripcord with a piece of 50lb nylon string. Then, using the needle, he poked a hole through a short piece of safety fuse and threaded the string through that as well. He tied the string up and, bingo – there was a parachute held closed by a piece of string which would hopefully be severed when the safety fuse burned through it. The opening elastic bands were reconnected and all was ready for the first trial. As soon as the fuse burned through the 50lb thread the parachute burst open perfectly, and there was  no doubt  we had solved the problem, a bit like a Bugs Bunny cartoon, but it worked.

The next step with the HALO box was to find out how long it would take to plummet  to 1500 feet, test the burn rate on a piece of safety fuse, cut it to the correct length, fit it to a parachute, and drop the box.

The PJIs were sent off in various directions to get boxes, parachutes, and stuff to fill the boxes to the required weight. I went to OC flying to keep him in the picture, and to request the loan of a helicopter from No.7 Sqn for a couple of hours. The idea was to take a truckload of about eight boxes out to one of our favourite testing spots in the nearby Seki tribal area, a sparsely populated place with a large, flat, and almost treeless area.

The Alouette III chopper was one of the few helicopters which could climb to 10,000 feet ASL with a load of 350lbs and a man to toss it over the side. As soon as it was pushed out, the pilot would tell us over the radio, I would start the stop watch, and when the first box hit the ground, stop it. By comparing that time with the burn time on a piece of fuse, we could calculate the time for the parachute to open seven seconds before it hit the ground.

Very scientific and near fool proof.  Or so we thought. Like all clever chaps who play with fuses, we used a back-up – there were two fuses piercing the string holding the parachute closed, and two electric fuse igniters.

The box was loaded onto the chopper which climbed to execute what we thought would be a perfect HALO drop. The chopper flew in and I started the stop watch. But the box slammed into the ground sans parachute. Back to the drawing board.

The safety fuse was re-tested and found to be satisfactory. Safety fuse does not need a source of oxygen to burn, as it generates its own supply chemically, and is even capable of burning underwater. What could be the problem?

It eventually dawned on us that when we flew higher there was less air pressure, and therefore the fuse would burn slower. The box had taken 30 seconds to fall the 5000 feet from its drop height. We had cut the fuse to burn for 23 seconds, yet it still hit the ground. We cut the fuse to 18 seconds and repeated the drop. This time it worked. The parachute deployed at about 1000 feet AGL and landed softly. The idea was good, it worked, and it cost next to nothing.

The next phase of this experiment was to throw the box out of a Dakota flying at an operational height, and have the PJIs follow it down. This would help calculate the correct fuse burn time to use on operations. After that, we could invite the SAS to come out and play with us, and seek their advice on any modifications.

On the first jump I followed the box. It tumbled and slid all over the place, and it was necessary to track away from it for a good distance. It did however remain below me for the entire time. The last thing we wanted was to overtake the box on the way down, and find ourselves directly under a 350lb missile. Or, for that matter, to be directly above it and have its parachute deploy early. Neither was conducive to a long life.

Being on the ground during these experiments was also dangerous, as we could not guarantee the dispatcher would be accurate. It was easy to miss the actual target by 1000 yards or so, and it often seemed as if the box was coming straight at you and you did not know whether to run, or dive under the truck.  Fortunately, the powers that be in Air Force Headquarters did not know what we were doing and left us alone as long as we did not do too much damage or kill anybody.

We had to stop the box wandering all over the place during the freefall phase of its drop and came up with a plan to have a pilot chute from a reserve parachute, which was spring loaded and easily folded and tied to the harness. When the box was pushed out of the aircraft, a static line would break the string and the pilot chute would deploy and hold the box steady. It also meant there was less chance of a parachute getting fouled by a tumbling box.

The fuse idea worked well, with only one restriction: the drop height needed to be 15,000 feet AGL. Always. Calculating the burn time of the fuse as it passed through different altitudes was too unreliable – and we wanted to keep well out of range of the Strela/SAM 7 missiles.

On one of the early operations using the HALO box, the SAS stick were not jumping in to look for a follow-up DZ, but rather to do something nasty to a bridge in the Tete area of Mozambique. This drop was to take place towards last light. We were told to drop the box, “As close as possible; on the bridge if you can get it. We don’t want to carry that stuff too far.” The box was packed with various types of explosives, tinned water, and other useful items, to a weight of 350lbs by the No.3 Air supply platoon.

I rigged the parachute, carefully tested the safety fuse for burn time, and fitted the electric fuse igniters. The two pilots were briefed in the usual fashion, shown the initial target points and told we needed to be at 15,000 feet AGL over the target - a narrow concrete structure spanning the river.

Before take-off we’d done the usual preparations; obtained the best possible Met forecast for the drop, and selected the exact point for the dispatch. As we drew closer I could see the spot and called the troops down to the door to point it out to them. We pushed the highly explosive box into the door and hooked up the static line for the pilot chute. After a few final instructions, the pilots flew over the exact point, I lit the fuses with a six-volt lantern battery, and Mike Wiltshire and I shoved the box out, which was immediately followed by the stick.

We carried on in the same direction for about ten minutes, awaiting the call from the stick to tell us they were OK. The all-important call came soon enough. "Congratulations! The box landed on the bridge." I was extremely pleased with myself and the pilots, and entertained thoughts about turning the Dakota into a bomber.

But one should not jest about such things. We were eventually asked to throw bombs out of the back of the jolly old Dakota, as a diversionary tactic to draw attention away from parachute deployments.

A few days later, PTS was tasked to carry out another HALO box drop, a little further into the Tete province of Mozambique. This time we were told to drop the box close to a small outcrop of rocks in the middle of a large open space. The same Mazoe River junction was used as the IP again, and once more we ran in at 15,000

feet. The dispatch point was easily seen from our spot in the sky, and the drop was exactly as planned.

 For the second time in a row I managed to hit bullseye. The box parachute was draped over the biggest rock of the outcrop. I really thought I had this HALO box dropping business all wrapped up. A short-lived opinion. I was brought back to Earth with a jerk when I missed the next drop by nearly three nautical miles.

We made HALO box drops on at least sixteen different occasions using the fuse and string method without a single failure. We tried many automatic opening devices but they were either unsatisfactory or were unavailable because of sanctions.

 Eventually, we managed to obtain a Russian-designed automatic opener called the KAP 3. It was ideally suited to our needs   because it was robust, easy to set, difficult to break and could be set to work at any altitude regardless of take-off height. It was designed to operate the main parachute or any parachute with a ripcord and could be fitted to the HALO box with ease, thus giving us far greater flexibility with regards to drop heights. Add to this, we were able to get a large number, they worked 100 per cent of the time, and could easily be serviced and checked by the instrument section at New Sarum. These openers were copied by a South African manufacturer specifically for our needs.

Another item HALO dropped using both the fuse and the KAP3 methods was the 44 gallon fuel drums of Jet A1. These were used by the Alouette III helicopters of No.7 Sqn if they were on a recovery mission beyond their range. The big problem we found with these fuel drums was that the two ends would bulge and start to leak around the seam. Not an ideal situation if the chopper boys were relying on the fuel inside to get them home.

 The bulging effect on the drum was caused by the opening shock of the canopy-first deployment of the 24 foot parachute, combined with the hydraulic effect of the fuel inside the drum moving about. To overcome the hydraulic effect we filled the drums to the absolute brim and screwed the bung down tight to ensure there was no air space. We also had two pieces of 25mm thick plywood cut to fit inside the top and bottom rims, with a small space cut out for the bung at the top. These

two pieces of plywood were kept in position with steel strapping. A webbing harness was attached around the drum and a 24 foot parachute was fitted to the harness, complete with KAP 3. A.O.D.

When it was tipped out of the door it fell in a horizontal position, at very nearly the same rate as the human body. A small radio beacon could be fitted to the drum so it could be located in the wilderness. Before we fitted the plywood ends, a mist of fuel would emit from both ends after the parachute deployment blew the lids open. Later, I wondered if this could be a weapon of some kind, but never proceeded with that line of thought. Which is probably a very good thing - cartoonish experiments can go too far.

CHAPTER 14 MORE AND MORE CROSS BORDER HALO AND STATIC LINE DROPS OR HOW "FINGERS" GOT HIS NAME

In almost any other Air Force, Ivan Holshausen, would have received a medal, or at least a very hearty, well-done. I certainly recommended him for a commendation. But the problem with the Rhodesian Air Force was that our trusty Dakota aircraft were considered to be little more than a three ton truck and our pilots little more than fancy truck drivers. In fact, our pilots were extremely skilful and brave and flew us into and, more importantly, out of many tricky situations.

One in example springs to mind. On the night of March 18, 1973, we had a three aircraft follow-up drop onto a DZ which had been selected by a Pathfinder Team the previous night. By this time HALO drops, followed by static line operations, were so successful in wreaking havoc amongst the enemy, they became an almost weekly task for PTS. We quickly became adept at dropping more troops, more often, often onto drop zones of variable quality. 

On this occasion, it was a long drop zone, long enough, according to SAS HQ to take full sticks of twenty men. It was such a big deployment, almost every SAS soldier was sent out, and there were very few men left in camp. As a consequence every PJI was utilised and even then, there were only enough of us to have two PJIs per aircraft. This meant a lot of hard work for everybody. 

Starting at midnight, the troops saddled up and the first aircraft headed North into the night. The second aircraft took off half an hour later and, because I was to coordinate any casevac,(casualty evacuation) I was on the third and final lift which took off at 0100.

Ivan, the Skipper, was one of the flight commanders on 3 Sqn. And, luckily, as it turns out, a very experienced Dakota driver. It was a clear night, under a half moon, which made for a pleasant flight, and I watched the countryside pass under us with unusual clarity. So far so good. 

Soon we passed over the Zambezi escarpment and descended into the valley, and into enemy country. We headed for a landmark close to our assigned DZ inside Mozambique, called the Train, named for a row of hills resembling carriages.

We made contact with the Pathfinder Team and, in what was becoming almost routine, did the drop. As always, as soon as the stick jumped we pulled in the bags and climbed to orbit nearby, awaiting the all clear from the PF team to confirm there were no injuries. Unfortunately, this was not to be the case.

A short time after we started our orbit, the PF team leader requested a helicopter casevac for an injured man who’d lost the fingers on his left hand. This could be serious – with the extreme pain and blood loss, shock could set in and the man could die. The SAS were tough, battle hardened men and did not call for a casevac without good cause.

I got hold of the forward airfield where the chopper was on standby, and asked them to pick up the injured SAS soldier.  Aware of the urgency, we took a closer look at the map - it showed a grass strip very close to the border and reasonably close to the DZ. If we could find it, we could land there, wait for the comparatively slow chopper to bring us the injured man, and then transport him to a major hospital in the shortest possible time. This could mean the difference between life and death.

We told the helicopter pilot what we planned to do and flew off in search of this ‘airstrip’ - in the middle of the bush, close to the border, potentially damaged by the enemy, riddled with landmines, and in who knew what condition.

The moon was high in the sky and there was no cloud cover to diminish the light. We soon found the airstrip; overgrown with grass, it had clearly not been used for some time, but still looked viable. More or less.  I spoke to Ivan. He was the captain of the aircraft and although I was in command of the operation, I could not, and would not, order him to land on this bit of dirt. It was in the middle of nowhere, and there was every chance we could be shot at. Without hesitation, Ivan agreed. If I was willing to go down there then so was he; we had to do something for the injured Brown Job.

We did a slow and low pass over the bit of dirt, before lining up for the softest and shortest, text-book perfect, Dakota landing ever undertaken. Immediately the other PJI and I jumped out of the aircraft and took up defensive positions whilst we waited for the casevac chopper.  Ivan did not to shut the aircraft down - in a place like this, we could not afford to have a starter problem with the engines, and if someone decided to investigate this strange aircraft, and possibly point explosive things our way, it might be for the best if we could just open the throttles and go away.

We heard the thump thump of an incoming chopper. It settled down next to us, and we soon had Lt. Warren- Codrington, (forever afterwards known as “Fingers”) in the back of the Dakota; this time for the shortest Dakota take-off ever attempted. We got this soldier into Salisbury Hospital before the sun came up - a magnificent effort on the part of one of our outstanding Dakota drivers.

As mentioned, we were becoming very experienced at dropping troops onto all kinds of drop zones. Only the previous month, we had another hair-raising experience. This time with a very short drop zone and again, the skill of our pilots came to the fore.

 On February 27, 1973, I was once more airborne with maps and aerial photos stuck to the Dakota floor, heading towards the northern border of Rhodesia. Again, it was a last light drop from 12,000 feet ASL. This time the follow up static line drop would only take place the next night, to give the Pathfinder team a reasonable amount of time to find a suitable DZ. The follow up drop could only happen if they managed to locate a decent DZ.

As per the now standard operating procedure, the dropping aircraft flew in a straight line for ten minutes after the HALO drop and then orbited until we received a radio call giving the all clear from the stick leader. After this we went home whilst they looked for a suitable DZ. Just another day at the office.

 Fingers crossed, we continued on as usual. The next day, the SAS static line troops arrived in the PTS hangar and went through the usual ground training, accompanied by the usual moans and groans. In the meantime, we heard, the Pathfinder Team had found a suitable DZ but it was a little on the short side, and the maximum length of the stick it could take was only five parachutists. This had its own complications as the dropping aircraft would have to go around three times to drop all 14 men.

 This was not too much of a problem from the actual parachuting side of the operation, as by then we were used to dropping small sticks on night jumps. However, it was supposed to be a clandestine jump into enemy territory. An aircraft buzzing round and round a specific piece of country could certainly raise a little suspicion. We would have to circle the DZ at least three times at low altitude and then orbit nearby for a further 10 minutes – definitely an issue if you did not want to attract enemy attention.

This was not strictly a PTS problem. It was the choice of the SAS, and they knew exactly what they were doing. But these things were going through my mind as we emplaned at about midnight and took off heading in a North Easterly direction.

 When I briefed the two pilots, one of whom was the new 3 Sqn Commander Sqn/ Ldr George Alexander, I didn’t mention that the DZ may be a bit tight, and we may need to go around a few times. After all, George had received the DFC (Distinguished Flying Cross) during the Malaya Campaign for dropping supply parachutes into tight DZs and was by far the most experienced parachuting pilot in the Rhodesian Air Force. He could definitely handle it. But, for all that, George could get a tad excited and was inclined to intimidate some poor soldier if things became uncertain.

Luckily for our nerves, the SAS paratroopers had  remembered not to fit the small gas cans to their stoves, so I gave the all-clear to smoke and passed a couple of empty cans up the cabin for use as ashtrays. Soon enough I gave the order to prepare for action, and the troops hooked up their static lines and fitted their suspended loads to the lower D-rings on their parachute harnesses.

 As we approached the DZ area, the Skipper called on the radio, “Papa One, do you read. Papa One, do you read?  Over.”

 There was no reply, so we just kept flying in the general direction for a few more minutes. Again, George called, “Papa One, Papa One, this is Alpha Three. Do you read? Over.”

Now there was a reply from the Pathfinder leader, “Alpha Three, Alpha Three, I have you strength two, over.”

George immediately came back with, “”Papa One, give me a homing signal, over.”
“Roger. One, and two, and three, and four, and five. How was that?” The aircraft turned onto a new heading, and George replied, “Wonderful, Papa One, we are now heading directly for your loc and we will be with you soon. Advise when you can hear us.”

 “Alpha Three, Alpha Three, the DZ is very short and we can only take sticks of five. I repeat; DZ is short, can only take sticks of five max.”
“Shit,” said our George, “Give me the QFE.”

The Pathfinder Team leader read off the millibar scale on his altimeter and gave the direction for the run, a bearing that was very nearly in the direction we were heading. George asked how many drops we were going to have to do.  I told him three, and then an orbit to make sure all were okay.

The night was clear as George descended and turned on the navigation lights, well past the Zambezi escarpment. On these early operational deployments, the drop height was still 1000 feet AGL. But even this is too close to the hard stuff. Especially when you’re flying through a valley, surrounded by hills.  Especially when that valley is in hostile territory. Yet, somehow, the drivers up front always managed to avoid a grinding halt. This is a testament to their skill and their iron nerves.

 As we flew by, we could see that some of the hills appeared to be higher than us, and the tension inside the aircraft started to rise. The first stick was stood up and checked by the PJI, the lights in the cabin were turned down to a very dim glow. There was just enough light to see the static lines hanging down from the overhead cable and to collect them as the stick went out.

 Soon there was a clear radio call from the PF team, “Alpha Three, Alpha Three, Papa One I have you visual. Please flash your landing lights to verify.”

“Roger,” said our Skipper, and flicked the landing lights on and off - very quickly as we did not want to become a target.

“Thanks,” said Papa One, “Steady. Go left. Steady. Stand by the lights.”

George called for a half flap, the power came off, and he slowed the Dakota to the drop speed, which in those early days was about 80 knots. I pointed to the lights and the No. 2 dispatcher yelled action stations. The five man stick did their half-step shuffle to the door.

The next radio call from the PF team leader was, “Red light on. Stand in the door.” The stick did the half-step again, and the first man put his hand out the plane with his left foot on the sill of the doorframe. “Green on,” and out the stick went in a perfect display of professional military parachuting.

 As soon as the last man jumped, the PF team leader came on the radio with the order, “Alpha Three, go left.” In the mean- time our Skipper had called for flaps up and opened the throttles. The aircraft turned to port, and soon the call from the ground came with the order to steady. The aircraft leveled off and the next stick stood up and did their equipment checks.

  The PF team leader was very good on the ground; he kept the aircraft in sight and made sure it was headed to the right spot for the next run in. He kept talking every now and again, saying the odd encouraging word like, “That is spot on Alpha Three, keep going like that.”

 Soon we got the order, “Alpha Three, go left.” A short time later, “Steady. Go left. Steady” then,“ Stand by the lights.” Again I pointed to the lights and the next stick was brought to action stations. The Skipper throttled back and called for half-flap. The red light came on, followed shortly by the green, and the second stick was dispatched. Perfectly. The circuit was carried out again according to the instructions from the ground, and the third stick of troops were sent on their way to join their comrades.

 This operational drop was carried out perfectly, especially considering the DZ was so very tight. The instructions from the Pathfinder Team leader, Horse Greenhoff, were precise and accurate, and our Skipper, George Alexander, was calm and encouraging. It was a shining example of great teamship and communication.  

But our job was not yet complete; we still had to climb to a safe altitude and wait in case we had to organise a helicopter to casevac an injured soldier. We flew away for about ten minutes and went into an orbit for about half an hour until we got the all-clear from Papa One. All the troops had landed without incident. With a sigh of relief, I wished them luck and ordered George to go home. And not to spare the horses.

 These anecdotes demonstrate, not only the skill and bravery of the Rhodesian Air Force pilots, but also how the PTS was a part of well-oiled machine.

SGT. FRANK WILMOT C SQN. (RHODESIAN) SAS

MORE ABOUT FRANK WILMOT

After last week's post, I received a response from John Peirson with some personal information regarding the late Frank Wilmot. Unfortunately, I never got to know the man personally, although, as a Sergeant in the SAS, I know he must have shown remarkable resilience, courage and intelligence. John has given me permission to republish his words about Frank, a man he knew and respected. Thank you John. Please read on:-

At the time of Sgt Frank Wilmot's unfortunate death he was temporarily detached away from C Sqn SAS to Llewellyn Barracks as an instructor. At the time l was OC C Coy. Owing to operational requirements the size of the intake of trainees had been increased considerably. As the platoons were larger than the normal allocated number that platoon sgts could handle effectively, Army HQ had temporarily attached regular instructors to assist. Among these was Frank Wilmot. He was small in stature, good looking, and quietly spoken though self confident. I liked him immediately, as did all my instructors who had not met him previously. He fitted in and it seemed he had always been with us. In fact it was less than a month later when l received a signal from Army Headquarters instructing Sgt Wilmot's return by train to his unit that night. As no reason had been given, Frank approached me and asked for permission to phone the SAS officially, which he did from my CSM, the incredible Jock Hutton's office. Immediately afterwards Jock asked me if Frank could have an interview. Frank told me he was returning to do a night time operational HALO jump. He said he had really enjoyed his HALO course, but as he had done no continuation training for nearly two years he was not happy as there was no time for even one practice jump.. He actually used the word 'foreboding'. He asked me for my advice as he knew l was an experienced freefaller. I pointed out that l knew nothing at all about freefalling at night with a weapon and very heavy equipment. He then asked me, "Putting yourself in my place what would you do?" The best advice Jock and l could give him was to return to his unit, who after all were the experts and sort it out there. He thanked me and left but l could see he was disturbed. As one does l put the matter out of my mind. I was shocked to read of Frank's death in a sitrep a couple of days later, but thinking the matter through l realised there was nothing l could have done. As the reason for his death can never explained l hope he became unconscious in a flat spin, as he would have known no fear and felt no pain.

CHAPTER 13 THE FIRST H.A.L.O. OPERATION (PART 2)

Our very first operational HALO drop had resulted in tragedy - the parachuting death of Sergeant Frank Wilmot. We were devastated and, as we had no idea of what had gone wrong, very worried. Were other young men at risk due to an error in equipment, or strategy? We had to put all these concerns aside. We still had a job to do. The Parachute Training School was only halfway through its day; we still had to drop two more loads of SAS into hostile territory. It was vital we remained alert, calm and confident. Major Brian Robinson, CO of the SAS, and I decided to keep Frank Wilmot’s death a secret from those about to be dropped into the bush. There was no point in adding to their anxiety.

As soon as we landed back at Salisbury, Brian Robinson, Frank Hales and I rushed into the PTS hangar to check on the static line troops. As we entered, the Army Padre was handing out bibles and doing his best to give comfort to the steely-eyed SAS heading for battle. Both Brian and I were stunned; this sort of thing had never happened before, and we both thought the Padre had somehow found out about Frank Wilmot. However, this was not the case. He was just trying to offer comfort to troopers on their way to battle.

As usual, the always reliable PJIs had done their thing. Both sticks had their kit ready and their parachutes laid out and ready.  Ever practical, the PJIs had even organised sandwiches for Frank and me, and there was the usual mug of sweet tea to go with it. Not that we were hungry, but we needed to keep our energy levels high.

For the static line follow-up drop there were two Dakota loads of paratroops. Each was to be dropped on a DZ chosen by a Pathfinder stick. At least, that was the plan. Take-off for the first load was to be at 23.30, with the second at midnight. The first stick would drop on the DZ chosen by Schulie’s team with a call sign of Papa One. The second stick would drop onto the DZ chosen by Garth Barrett with a call sign of Papa Two. Frank would fly with the first stick, and I’d do the drop onto Papa Two. The plan called for the second aircraft to orbit approximately 10 minutes away so we could be in a position to summon a casualty evacuation helicopter from Musengedzi if needed.

The two 3 Sqn flight crews came into the PTS hangar and were briefed  on the operation. They’d carried out many night drops where the dropping instructions were given by the Pathfinder team on the ground. The only difference was this time they had to descend into the Zambezi Valley after they’d flown past the escarpment. This meant they were flying very low, in total darkness, whilst surrounded by hills - a testament to the skill, and iron nerves of the pilots involved. The Pathfinder teams expected us to approach the DZs from the West, so it would be a good idea to fly to Kanyemba and then turn East.

At about 22.45, the first load of static line troops were ordered to saddle up and line up outside the first aircraft for the Gypsy’s Warning. This was delivered by the No.1 Dispatcher as follows: “The red light constitutes an order to stand in the door. The green light is an order to jump. Failure to carry out these orders or the verbal orders of the PJIs will result in a court martial. Any questions?’’ This was always the routine before a jump by trained paratroops in Rhodesia. It was probably unnecessary - we never had a trooper refuse to jump.

The troops emplaned, passing their packs up to one of the PJI dispatchers who then helped them into the well-lit aircraft cabin. The kit these chaps carried was extremely heavy, and without help they would have found it nearly impossible to get it into the aircraft. Once all the troops sat down the Skipper wound up the elastic bands, started the engines and taxied out to the end of the long Salisbury Airport main runway. I watched the first aircraft take off and as soon as it was airborne it was time for the second load to saddle up.

I kept the tragedy of Sgt Wilmot's death to myself and tried to carry on as normal. But it was anything but normal and a million possible scenarios went round and round in my head.

I had to focus. We were going into hostile territory in the middle of the night, with a take-off altitude of nearly 5000 feet ASL. At the appropriate time we would descend to an altitude of 2000 feet ASL (1000 feet AGL) and drop 20 young men, in rapid succession, onto a piece of African bush which had been selected by four other young men only hours before.The DZ drop height would be 3000 feet lower than our take off height, very scary stuff on a dark night. The only navigational aids we had were a magnetic compass, a Becker homing device and the trusty Mk One Eyeball. Hopefully the Pathfinder Teams had found a suitable DZ and we could find them without making a mess on the hard African soil.

At this stage I was unaware that Schulie, as Papa One, had been unable to find a suitable DZ and all the troops were now to be dropped onto the barely passable DZ selected by Garth Barrett as Papa Two.

This did not affect us as we were supposed to drop on Papa Two anyway, but it had affected the first aircraft load who switched to Papa Two instead. This was only discovered when they called Papa One for dropping instructions and a homing signal.  Schulie, ever the absolute professional, told the first aircraft, “Negative DZ at my Loc. Proceed to Papa Two.” Ivan Holhausen, the first Dakota load Skipper, and another true professional, simply said, “Roger Papa One. Over and out,” and proceeded to call Papa Two for his run in instructions. The drop was carried out in the usual, precise way.

Meanwhile, the second stick were saddled up, given the Gypsy’s Warning, emplaned, and at midnight, took off, heading into the hostile Mozambique countryside. We allowed the paratroops to smoke on our Dakota aircraft unless there was a reason not to - the main one being the smell of gas leaking from a propane cylinder inside a soldiers pack. The troops were issued with gas stoves which took small gas cans. If the can was fitted to the stove it could start to leak when the aircraft gained height.  It was not a good idea to light up a cigarette inside what could be a flying bomb. 

I can still remember being highly irritated by the smell of gas soon after take-off. I smoked in those days and was dying for a cigarette. However, there was no time to worry about that, or anything else, I had to get the troops ready to jump.

When we were approximately ten minutes out on our dead reckoning, the Skipper, Flt/Lt George Alexander, began calling, “Papa Two, Papa Two, this is Bravo 3. Do you read over?” Immediately came the reply “Bravo 3, Bravo 3, I have you loud and clear, how do you read me?”

“Fives,” said George. “Please give us a homing call.”

“Roger,” came the reply from Garth Barrett, and he held his transmit button down for a ten second count.  Asked if it was satisfactory, George replied, “Fine. You are now dead ahead. Can you hear me and please can I have your QFE?”

George could become quite excitable in these circumstances and was inclined to want all the information at once. He’d also turn the volume on the radio and intercom to the max, which was painful on the ears. Garth, however, wasn’t fazed at all, and gave him the QFE and the preferred heading over the DZ.

I followed this conversation from my position at the rear of the aircraft, stood the stick up and ordered them to check equipment. The other two PJIs also checked to make sure all was satisfactory for the impending drop. The stick told off for equipment check. They were ready.

In the meantime George kept asking Papa Two if he could hear the aircraft. Eventually, we got the call from Papa Two, “Bravo 3, Bravo 3, I can hear you now, please turn on your navigation lights.”

“About time,” said our George, and turned them on. “Do you have us in sight yet?” asked our skipper, getting agitated.

“Sorry,” said Papa Two. “Please turn on your landing lights and I should be able to pick you up.”

“Roger,” said George, and turned the landing lights on. Immediately the call from Garth as Papa Two came: “I have you in sight, you can turn your landing lights off.” Followed by “Go right, go right.” Then, “Steady.”

The aircraft banked to starboard and levelled off. I called the stick to action stations and Charlie Buchan took up his position as the No.2 dispatcher, with John Boynton in the No.3 dispatcher position. Papa Two came on the air again to give the final instructions: “Go left. Steady. Stand by the lights.” I pointed to the lights. Everyone tensed.

“Red on,” Charlie yelled. “Stand in the door.” The whole stick took the half-pace forward. #1 stood in the door, his left hand outside, in the perfect position. “Green on.”

The stick went as I counted them out, “One and two and three....”  up to twenty. “Stick gone.” The PJIs grabbed the static line bags and pulled them in. I relayed to the skipper, "Bags in, you can put the power on." Up went the power and we went into a max climb. Playing around at 1000 feet, on a dark night, with hills around us higher than we were, was scary stuff, even for the most seasoned aircrew and definitely not for the faint hearted.

I unplugged my headset, moved to the cockpit, plugged into another intercom point and asked George to climb to a safe height and orbit until we got the all clear from Papa Two. The call came. He had one casualty with a broken ankle, and needed the casevac (casualty evacuation) chopper to pick him up at dawn. The rest of the soldiers were down safely, ready to begin their part of the job. It is testament to these young men, the aims of the operation were successfully achieved.

The message about the injured trooper, was passed onto the chopper positioned at Musengedzi Mission for just such an eventuality. At last we could go home. We had no concerns that he would be properly cared for.

 It had been one hell of a day. On top of all the planning and preparation, I’d been airborne for a total of seven hours, fifty minutes. I was exhausted, both mentally and physically and retired to the back of the aircraft and lay down on the seats to sleep. Hell, those seats were not the most comfortable things to lie on, but I couldn’t have slept anyway. I was still thinking about Sgt Frank Wilmot, trying to work out what had gone wrong.

 As soon as we landed I called the PJIs together and told them about Frank, but warned them to keep it to themselves until it was announced by the Army. They were then all stood down and sent home.

 I arrived home at dawn, had a shower, and tried again to sleep. But I was still wound tight. My job wasn’t done. After only a few hours rest I reported the incident to my bosses at Air Force HQ. Dressed in civilian clothing I nonetheless passed quickly through the security area when I showed my ID card, and proceeded to the office of the Director of Operations.

I requested a board of inquiry into the parachuting death of Sgt Frank Wilmot. It was imperative we discover exactly what had happened in order to avoid similar disasters in future. The answer was in the form of a question, “Did you do your job?” 

I didn’t hesitate, “Yes, Sir.” Then, a bit of advice which, although sad is very true, “This is war. Go home. Get some sleep.” I went home and, at last, I slept.

A day later I was called down to Safety Equipment Section to inspect the parachutes which had been used, including the parachutes used by Sgt Frank Wilmot. There was no obvious reason for his parachutes not opening. After much analysis, thought and debate we finally reached the conclusion that Frank got into a flat spin and probably became unconscious soon after he left the aircraft. Without automatic opening devices there could be only one outcome. Death.

The Rhodesian Parachute Training School maintained an enviable safety record. But Frank’s death was a stark reminder – we were playing a very high-stakes game. Any lapse in concentration, any break with mandated procedures and a young man, or men, could pay the ultimate price.