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.”
“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.”
“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.
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