CHAPTER 23 SELOUS SCOUT OPERATIONS IN GAZA PROVINCE MOZAMBIQUE

Gaza Province, Mozambique, is flat and featureless, hard territory to accurately navigate with our usual, head-out-the-door method. Many HALO operations were carried out into this part of Mozambique and it was always very difficult to get clearly visible, and identifiable navigation points.

The usual preferred points were river beds especially during the dry season when the white sand was easily seen even on dark nights but in this flat, arid part of Africa, it was not always possible. Water in this part of the world, is scarce, and most available sources are surrounded by inhabitants. For this reason, every HALO drop was carried out with a HALO box loaded up with water.

Occasionally we would fly into our target by using points on the Limpopo River which meant we inadvertently invaded South African air space. Fortunately for us they did not investigate these intrusions with a couple of jet fighters. We also used the power line, supplying the South Africans with power generated at the giant Cabora Bassa Dam on the Zambezi River as a guide. But many a drop was done simply by setting a stop watch at a given reference point, flying for a certain amount of time, and, as long as there was no obvious habitation, out the stick would go.

 After we obtained KAP3 automatic opening devices we were not restricted to 15,000ft AGL – we could go higher or lower depending on the situation or the clouds.

On one of these HALO operations with the Selous Scouts, we carried out the highest operational freefall drop in our conflict. Dennis Crocamp jumped from as high as the Dakota would go that night– 26,000ft AGL. It would have taken up to 120 seconds to reach the ground from that height. Well done, Dennis. You are a legend! There was no particular reason for going that high on this particular night except that it was beautiful and clear, and for once the navigation points on the Save River were easily visible.

 But we did not always go in at high altitude. In fact, dropping static line troops into this featureless country on a moonless night could only be done by flying very low, low enough that we could make out features against a dim horizon, and low enough that we would become a too fast target for enemy fire. In other words, about 50ft AGL – not much higher than the tree-tops.

We knew the countryside in this area was billiard-table flat and enabled extremely low flight. In addition we were trying to insert paratroops in the most clandestine way possible and the Dakota was much less of a target at treetop height when flying at 150 knots airspeed. On a dark night the Dakota was difficult to see, and, at such low height and such speed, we would pass before the enemy could react. Or so we assumed and hoped.

 On one occasion we had a full load of Selous Scouts, all dressed like the enemy they planned to kill. The pilot was a volunteer Reserve Dakota Captain called Ian Rodwell. His day job was to fly for Jack Malloch’s sanctions-busting freight airline AFFRETAIR as a DC8 Captain.

 I tagged along to see how the PTS staff members were getting along and as usual, was armed to the teeth, and wearing a SAVIAC Free Fall rig, just in case. It would have been absolutely useless at this low altitude, but it just felt comfortable. It was a dark night and I was very surprised, and not a little bit terrified, that we did not climb at all but stayed right on the deck. Extremely low.

Even though I was up front between the pilots and looking directly out of the windscreen I could just make out the horizon, and barely read the dulled instrument lights. The door from the cockpit to the cabin was closed, because the PJI and dispatchers needed a little light to check the parachutes. As we thundered along at 150 knots, less than 50 feet above the trees, we could see any high ground or taller trees against a very faint horizon. Sporadically, the Skipper turned the landing lights on to check the height above the trees – a mere few feet. It made the heart beat faster and my sphincter muscles attempted to pinch a hole in my jocks – literally skimming the landscape does that to you!

After what seemed an eternity, but was probably only about an hour and a half, the Skipper told the dispatchers we were10 minutes out. The troops were stood up to check equipment and sound off, the cabin lights snuffed from dim to out and the stick brought to action stations. The Skipper hauled the aircraft up to 500 feet, put down the half-flap, cut the speed to 95 knots, and as soon as everything was nice and steady, called for the red light and a few seconds later the green. The troops went out, the dispatchers hauled in the bags and we turned to starboard, and the difficult part of the operation.

 First we had to ensure the troops had landed safely, so we orbited a few miles away until we got the all clear. But as we orbited, we slowly lost altitude until we were back at 50 feet. For me, this was the scariest part of the whole operation.

After the stick was dispatched, we would, on many occasions, fly on a bit further and wake up the populace by chucking out a half-dozen ALPHA bouncing bombs. The purpose was not to cause death and destruction, but to make a loud, and terrifying noise to distract attention from the paratroops. Whether this was successful or not, who knows, but it seemed like a good plan at the time.

The Rhodesian ALPHA bomb was round and consisted of an inner steel case filled with explosive activated by an all way detonator with a half second delay. The inner case was surrounded by a larger outer steel case and the gap between the two was filled with high bounce rubber. When dropped the bomb would bounce into the air before exploding. This was a very effective noise-maker when three hundred were dropped at a time from a Canberra flying at 50 ft at 300 knots air speed.  

After checking all the troops had arrived safely the only thing left was to see if we could find somewhere to drop a few ALPHA bouncing bombs. We were told at the briefing if we saw anything on our return flight, up the railway line from Jorge do Limpopo toward the border, we were free to throw these bombs at it. However, we were to make sure we did not get too close to Malvernia, the village on the Mozambique side of the border as the Ters and their Frelemo supporters had assembled a lot of anti-aircraft stuff in that area.

 Of course, as it happens, we did see something on the line and decided to give it a go. The guys in the back got the bombs ready, a simple matter of pulling out a safety pin, and on word from the Skipper, tossed them out the door. It was a casual, if inaccurate, way of doing things, and possibly, a dangerous pastime. But hey, it was good fun and we might actually hit a bridge or something – flukes do happen in war, after all.

 Whilst the men were arming the bombs, it suddenly dawned on me. If we dropped them out of the back door at 50 feet AGL with 150 knots on the clock, and considering they bounced before explosion, there was a good chance we would be in the danger area. Even at the Dakota’s top speed, it was dicey. And to bomb ourselves out of the sky was not a desired outcome. So Ian Rodwell wound the elastic bands a bit tighter and shoved the throttles to the stops. The air-speed indicator moved to 200 knots and just as the target disappeared under the nose, Ian told the guys to “drop ‘em.”

Out the bombs went – six of the bright red round things. Then there was a loud bang about half-way along the fuselage and the sky was full of little green things which flashed past at tremendous speed. We’d stirred a hornets’ nest with a big stick and taken a couple of hits from either 12.7mm or 14.5mm anti-aircraft fire. Fortunately they seemed to hone in on one casualty only; the Aircraft Engineer’s toolbox. The most frightening thing about taking fire whilst in the rear of a Dakota was that there was nowhere to hide. You just had to grit your teeth and take it. The pilots up front were protected by having armour plated seats.

 We decided discretion was the greater part of valour, and headed for Buffalo Range airfield with the Dakota’s tail tucked firmly beneath the under carriage. Fortunately, nothing serious was damaged. We landed okay and taxied in to our dispersal without incident. It was only after the engines shut down that we discovered the batteries had taken a couple of hits. A replacement Dakota was sent down whilst the battle-scarred one entered rehabilitation.

This photograph is of Sgt Mike Wiltshire (PJI extraordinaire) with that determined look on his face. The go to man on the PTS staff if you wanted anything fixed, stolen or just made he would find a way to do almost anything.


 To start the broken Dakota we needed a 24 volt DC power supply, and because the battery compartment was a shambles we had to repair it in the bush. A Dakota engineer removed the broken pieces of battery and managed to make the electrical connections safe, while Mike Wiltshire (PJI extraordinaire), skilfully connected two Land Rover batteries together, and started the engines so we could fly to New Sarum for proper repairs.

 We were lucky on this occasion, but as the saying goes; God looks after drunks and fools.