This photograph shows a 3 Squadron Rhodesian Air Force Parra Dakota parked on the hard standing outside
the Parachute Training School Hangar at New Sarum. The anti Strella exhaust shields can be seen fixed under the wings and the aircraft is painted with the anti Strella camo paint scheme.
We were a multi-talented bunch in the PTS, and, on the rare occasion when things were quiet, we were given a bunch of other stuff to do. At the time we liked to think it was because of our great ingenuity and enterprise, but now, I suspect, it was mainly to keep us out of mischief.
As an example of the odd jobs we were given, towards the end of 1964, PTS was tasked with guarding a number of detainees. These prisoners were picked up from New Sarum, flown to the low-veld and finally handed over to the police. Many of these men did not understand English, and had certainly never flown in a plane before. They thought they were about to be knocked on the head, or thrown out of the aircraft, which caused quite a lot of anxious sweating on their part. The resulting smell inside the cabin was eye-watering.
We took the parachute door off
the Dakota to let the smell out and the fresh air in. In retrospect this action
would not have helped their nerves and may have increased the adrenalin induced
smell. We never thought about it at the time. We all wore dispatcher parachutes
or safety belts hooked to the overhead parachute cable, and we were armed with
baseball bats for our protection.
These guys had been rounded up by the police and were being shifted into
other areas where it was hoped they could be observed in an environment which
did not allow them to create mischief. To my knowledge, nothing was ever done
to these chaps, certainly not in my presence. But this was our little
contribution to the prison services of Rhodesia.
Another of the sundry tasks we were set, was to organise and run the Annual President’s Medal rifle shooting competition on the New Sarum rifle range, which was also built by the Parachute Training School. I learned to drive a bulldozer, was dragged into being Station Adjutant from time to time, and was also the President of the Mess Committee for a short time. Other members of PTS filled in as Station Warrant Officer and OC Admin Wing, and we did learn to play very good Bridge. On top of this, we were occasionally charged with such tasks as a FAF (Forward Air Field) Commander or FAF Guard Commander and were also involved with building chalets at the Air Force Welfare Site in Kariba.
Whilst in Kariba, we often drove to the township for a few beers after a long day’s work. On this memorable occasion, we were in a truck, with Mike Wiltshire and John Boynton standing in the back, looking over the cabin. As we drove down the main road, towards Kariba, we ran over a Black Mamba snake, lying, stretched across the road. It was a big bugger. Mike, always a font of useless information, said, with great authority, “Do you know, John, snakes sometimes wrap themselves round the back axle of a truck. Later they come up through the floor and bite somebody in the back of the truck?”
“Shut up,” said John, “I don’t want to hear that sort of crap. I hate
snakes.” (I’m pretty sure Mike knew this already). And so the seed was sown.
About half an hour later, there was a mighty, high-pitched scream, followed by a lot of jumping and stamping in the back of the truck. We pulled over quickly, concerned, judging by the racket, one of them was having a major seizure. What we saw was two hysterical men – one with laughter, and the other with anger.
Mike had allowed the seed he had planted to germinate for a while. Then, just as John was beginning to relax, he got two matchsticks and jabbed them into the back of John’s leg. Convinced he was under attack from a partly squashed, very angry snake, he almost jumped off the back of the truck.
A murder was almost committed when he realised what had happened. We entertained ourselves for many days, maybe even months afterwards, teasing John. Soon everyone in PTS greeted him with, “Seen any snakes today John.”
Another job we were tasked with happened after an attack on New Sarum by an enemy mortar team, who fired a number of 60 mm mortar rounds at the station. Fortunately, they weren’t very good at it, and missed by about 1000 yards.
When I arrived at the gate to carry out early morning parachuting, I was
told we could not parachute that day as there may be unexploded mortar bombs on
the DZ. “Don’t worry,” I said, “If we find any, we’ll call you to remove them.”
So, parachuting took place that morning as usual. Afterall, a 60 mm mortar bomb
is a very small target for any parachutist to hit, and, luckily, we never found
any.
But, after this incident, it was decided the Air Force would be responsible for guarding its own airfields. The Army could no longer guarantee the security of the airdields due to the escalating terrorist problem, and therefore, the Air Force, had to provide sufficient personnel from its own resources to carry out this task. Approximately 80 technicians were trained to be combat ready to carry out this security. Of course, as the PTS had the only trained soldiers in the Air Force, this task had to be allotted to us.
We asked for 20,000 rounds of 7.62mm ammunition per week, 10 MAGs, 20 NATO grenades, 10 AK 47s and 2000 rounds of AK 47 ammunition, a number of thunder flashes, some terrorist stick grenades, and various other things that went bang. In an indication of our limited resources, Air Force headquarters nearly had a fit. I’d asked for more than a year’s supply of 7.62mm ammunition for the entire Air Force for one week’s training.
The only thing we’d teach these men was to patrol as quietly as
possible, and to shoot at terrorists and not each other. With a MAG firing at a
rate of approximately 1000 rounds per minute, this allocation would only give
each man one minute’s training. They eventually gave it to us, but then there
was another issue.
The armaments people thought the PJIs were not qualified to instruct in the use of small arms and grenades. Max Caton the WO/IC the armaments section came to PTS to test the PJIs. I tossed a grenade to Charlie Buchan and said “Sergeant, please tell us about that.” Charlie gave, a completely off the cuff lecture on grenades and on how to prime and use them. Max was most impressed – it was one of the best explanations he’d ever heard. He let us get on with the job and we never heard from the armament section again.
Of course we knew what we were doing. At times there were more explosives inside the PTS hangar than there were in the Air Force Bomb Dump, especially when parachuting operations were about to take place and hundreds of troops were involved. If the PJIs did not know how to handle weapons or explosives, then PTS would have been a very dangerous place to be in.
Mike Wilsthsire was the absolute master of our famous, can-do attitude. It was not beyond him to modify anything – even, as it happens, a Dakota. Whilst on one Fire Force, it was necessary to drop resupplies to a number of SAS call signs operating over the border inside Mozambique, but every time they flew these missions they were fired upon. Our Mike was not about to accept this! They would just have to turn the ol’Dak into a fire-breathing fighter plane that could definitely shoot back.
He, the Dakota crew and his RLI mates, turned the plane into their own version of Puff the Magic Dragon. They made up a steel frame, and mounted four MAGs onto it. This contraption was positioned in the parachute door, secured to the floor, then, when needed, all four guns were fired together, with a high mixture of tracer rounds in the belts.
Apparently, the performance was something to behold. The pilot had a mark on his side cockpit window which he lined up on to the target then ordered the PJI in the rear to open fire. He then flew the tracer stream onto the target.
The only problem was to ensure a decent supply of ammo and to prevent
the cartridge cases from damaging the aircraft or creating a hazard in the
cabin. I never saw it myself, and at the time thought it best not to
mention it to anyone else. But this was the sort of thing these guys would do
and I often wonder what other things they got up to without my knowledge.
I couldn’t really say anything though, because when it came to not exactly following protocol, I set the tone. Once, for example, I was the FAF Commander of FAF2 at Kariba. Things were very quiet so I decided to fly on a reconnaissance trip down the Zambezi River to Kanyemba. The aircraft was to fly low and slow, down the river to check sandbanks for human footprints, which could indicate a terrorist presence.
In order to make life a little more interesting, and also because it was very hot, I removed the door and sat in the second pilot’s seat.The pilot was a South African, and did not know I was a parachutist. He just assumed, justifiably, that I was a fellow pilot. After about an hour of flying at 50 feet above the Zambezi, looking for tracks, he asked if I would like to drive for a while. I couldn’t believe my luck! ‘Sure,’ I said, pretending it was an absolutely routine question, ‘Not a problem.’
Of course, I’d never touched the controls of an aircraft in flight before. But hell, I’d seen it done hundreds of times. It looked simple enough – and really, what could possibly go wrong? I eased the stick back a little, until we were flying at approximately 100-200 feet and basically taught myself how to fly! On the approach to Kariba, the pilot asked, “Have you landed one of these tail-draggers before?” After a moments hesitation, I decided I’d better answer truthfully, so said “No.” “Well, okay, follow me through.”I supposed he meant me to keep my hands on the controls and follow what he did without taking any action. Everything went fine and he plonked it neatly on the runway.
After we taxied in and shut down, I said “As a matter of interest, I’m not a pilot, I’m a parachutist, and that was the first time I ever touched the controls of an aircraft in flight. Thanks very much.” The blood drained from his face. But we’d survived and that night had a few beers together. He offered to teach me to fly legitimately but, unfortunately the war returned, and I had to get back to the PTS.
Then there was that time, very early in my career I have to say, that a
number of stupid instructors, including myself, decided we would have a race to
the ground. We’d jump out in a stick of four instructors, and the last man on
the ground would buy the beer! We were geniuses!
The idea was to pull the rigging lines down until we had the canopy in hand,
collapsing the parachute. This, of course, enabled you to hurtle ground-ward.
At a crucial moment, we would let everything go, the parachute would fully
open, and we would have enough time to slow down before actually hitting the
dirt.
Being young, stupid and
(theoretically) bullet-proof, I did not look in the direction I drifted. Just
as I decided I was close enough to the ground to let everything go, I collided
with Mercer Thompson. I was the low man and slammed into the ground flat on my
back. I heard the DZ Safety Officer shout “Is he dead? Is he dead?” I was so
winded, I could not reply, but managed to sit up to indicate I was still,
miraculously, in one piece. I did not buy the beer but it did teach me I was
not bullet-proof. Just incredibly stupid. I never made any reckless wagers
again. At least not any involving parachuting.
As the war escalated we did not have the time to mess around, and our
job became less varied, but more exciting.
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