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.