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.