DEREK'S STORY Episode 3 " Landing Sideways"

LANDING SIDEWAYS

Once I persuaded a brave, and luckily for me, very skillful, pilot to land in extremely high winds, in the middle of a thunder storm in the middle of a very dark night. I swear to this day we landed across the main runway at Salisbury Airport. It was, without doubt, the most frightening landing I ever did – with a parachute, or in a plane.

Freefall ops were sometimes mounted from forward airfields. This necessitated me, and whichever PJI was available, to board an Islander and fly with the troops involved, to the forward airfield. Here we would grab the Fire Force Dakota, brief the pilots, stick all the maps and photographs to the floor of the aircraft, and finally carry out the sortie.

This happened quite a few times. On this occasion, the operation was mounted from Buffalo Range, and the drop took place deep inside Mozambique. The only prickle was I had to return to New Sarum for another operation which was due to be mounted the next day (as I may have mentioned several dozen times, we were always frantically busy.)

However, after carrying out the first drop, a line of thunderstorms rolled in between Buffalo Range and New Sarum. This made flying home a difficult, and possibly dangerous, scenario. However, due to the urgency of the op. the next day, I managed to talk the Islander pilot into flying me back to New Sarum and into the afore-mentioned landing. As we skidded across the runway, I said, what I was certain were, my final prayers.  But, somehow, we survived and the next morning, early morning parachuting took place on our training D.Z. as planned. And that night I headed North, this time to drop more H.A.L.O. troops deep inside Northern Mozambique territory. The War waited for no man.

This photograph is of a 3 Squadron Rhodesian Air Force Britten Norman Islander and it is painted with  the usual Anti Strella missile paint of the time. These aircraft were used in the courier type role and I flew in them on numerous occasions to various forward airfields.  I would then use the Dakota on station  for the HALO operations. After I was posted to Air Force Head Quarters I often persuaded a fellow desk bound warrior to fly me in one of these aircraft to visit the various Forward Airfields. On one occasion we flew into FAF1 (Forward Air Field 1) at Wankie and on the return trip we had a full load of passengers in the back. The Skipper fired up the engines and taxied out to the end of the runway. I was looking at the map to see which heading we were going to take for our trip to FAF2 at Kariba when the Skipper said to me "O.K. she is all yours", put his hands on his head and ducked below the instrument panel. I being a cocky PJI said " Fine".folded my map grabbed the throttle levers and pushed them to the stops. I had not locked my seat and it slid back, so I could not reach the rudder peddles,' OOPS'. The aircraft swung to starboard and started to go off the runway. No problem - I just reduced power to the port engine, straightened the aircraft up pointing down the runway before re-applying full power and took off. I might add that  the ten passengers were not amused and a few of them thought their last day had arrived. They all knew me as one of those silly PJI's who jumped out of serviceable aircraft and now one was flying them. What Next??    


 All free fall (HALO) operations were dispatched by an officer PJI, because it was a hell of a responsibility, and the person responsible also had to do the navigation.  As more PJIs became commissioned officers I started to delegate more of these tasks to them and on all occasions they did a magnificent job. As mentioned in an earlier chapter, we were working in the pre-sat.nav days and had to rely on map-reading, common-sense and our eye-sight to get us from point A to point B.

 On one of these freefall operations, the station commander at New Sarum,  Group Captain Len Pink, and Bernie Vaughn, the Navigation Leader  from 5 Squadron Canberra Bombers, came with us clutching a suitcase-sized, black box. I did my usual thing, sticking maps and photographs onto the Dak floor, checking the oxygen bottles and oxygen masks etc. Then, with the pilots up front co- operating magnificently as usual, we flew our course via the various turning points I’d pre-selected.

This flight really sticks in my mind because the temperature outside the Dak was minus 40 degrees C.  With the heaters on max up front, the passengers and crew were relatively warm. But I was absolutely freezing and really hated everyone else on board for the duration of the flight.

After leaving our final IP, we ran in, using our usual method, ie. a good-old-fashioned stop-watch. When we reached our pre-selected DZ, a relatively clear space amongst the trees, 20,000 feet below, I dispatched the free fall box and the troops followed.  Everything went fine, and the troops landed spot- on target with the box conveniently near-by.

It was only later I discovered that the black box was, in fact, the fore-runner of the modern GPS. I received a pat on the back from the navigator and the station commander, and gave myself on too. The troops were delivered absolutely on target. Not bad for a PJI with self-taught navigation skills.

 Did you know we were real greenies in the Rhodesian Airforce? We sometimes flew out of Mabalahuta. This airfield was unusual because there was a large tree dead in line with the runway. Everybody was reluctant to remove it – it was a very nice tree and also provided a certain challenge to the pilots. Aircraft had to dodge around it in order to take off or land.

Soon enough a pilot didn’t dodge quite far-enough and the Dakota actually hit the tree with a wing tip. The tree was fine but the end of the wing was rather dented. No need to panic. Control was maintained and we did the op. Upon return, a tech simply got out and chopped the bent bit of wing off with a hacksaw. The tree was subsequently removed with a small amount of plastic explosive and some det cord. We may have been occasional greenies, but, as usual the PJIs would find the easy way to do things.

DEREK'S STORY Episode 2

 On return to Rhodesia, from the Cyprus tour I was posted to Number 3 Squadron as an instrument-fitter. I also sat, and passed, my Corporal Technician exam and was allowed to turn my two tapes upside-down. It was my job to repair and maintain Number 3 Squadron aircraft, which consisted of DC-4M Canadair, Dakotas (DC-3s), and Pembrokes. After about a year of this, I was bored, so bored I even contemplated applying for pilot training!

Luckily, just at this time, I noticed in station routine orders, that the Air Force was looking for volunteers to become parachute jumping instructors. Even though I’d never even seen a parachute deployed, I decided this might be quite interesting, applied, and was accepted. After completing my training, the other Rhodesians and I returned home as fully trained Sgt PJIs.

As described earlier in this blog, towards the end of October 1961, my fellow PJIs and I built the Parachute Training School from the ground up, and prepared to train our first course - the first troops from ‘C’ ( Rhodesia) Squadron  of  the British 22^nd SAS Regiment.

 As a prelude to the course, and as PR exercise for the school and the Air Force in general, we opted to do a public demonstration. So, on November 1, 1961, we took off at 0530 hours in Dakota No.153 piloted by Flight Lieutenant George Alexander for the very first military parachute descents in the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland.

There was a fitting amount of hoop-la - everybody, including the press, and several VIPs were on hand to witness the occasion. Everyone waited in anticipation, but it all came to a grinding halt because of low cloud. The aircraft returned to base and we, and the crowd, waited until the clouds lifted, the skies cleared and we were finally on our way.

 In this photograph the Royal Rhodesian Air Force Parachute Training School Instructors , (All looking a little tense) are seen waiting for Dakota 153 to get airborne to carry out the first demonstration parachute jumps on 1 Nov 1961. 
Left to right Flying Officer R.Smith BEM RAF, Flt/Sgt R. Robinson BEM RAF, Sgt N. Suttie RRAF, Sgt D.de Kock RRAF, Sgt T. Smith RRAF, Sgt M. Tomson RRAF, Flt/Sgt W. Maitland RRAF. 

I was tasked to demonstrate the PWC (Parachutist Weapons Container) which was basically a lump of concrete weighing approximately 60lbs. The PWC was a suspended load attached to the main parachute harness with two special hooks, and was lowered with a suspension rope 15 feet long after the parachute had deployed.

The idea was for the load to land first, thus allowing the parachutist to land, unencumbered, slowly and gracefully. I was No.2 in a slow? pair. As I plummeted towards the earth I realised there is a difference, a very big difference, in the rate of descent at sea-level compared with the rate of descent at 5000 feet above sea-level. This difference was increased even more when using the 28-foot flat canopy X type parachutes that the British had given us.

It was later determined by me and a stopwatch, that the average rate of descent on the DZ at Salisbury Airport, using these X-type parachutes, was 22 feet per second. This is bloody fast. Nevertheless, everything went smoothly. We impressed those watching, as well as ourselves.

By the end of 1961, I’d managed to do a total of 38 parachute descents. At Abingdon I was surprised to find that few people had done more than 100 military parachute descents, so within the space of a few months, we were well on the way to catching up with the experts.

Also by the end of 1961, we’d already managed to train three courses. Life was hectic. We were training troops flat-out with a new course starting every three weeks. However, I managed to get some leave to marry the love of my life, Chalice, on February 17, 1962.

 During these early days, the end of the parachute course also indicated the final phase of SAS selection, and, as usual in most military circles, was an excuse for a great party. The new members of this elite band were required to drink a yard of ale as quickly as possible. I believe a certain Chris Schollenberg (Schulie) held the record of less than 11 seconds. Never in the field of human conflict has so much beer been drunk by so few.

The Rhodesian SAS Sqn was billeted at Ndola, on the Copper Belt of Northern Rhodesia, (now Zambia) and the Parachute Training School flew up there to carry out continuation training. This was exciting because we were usually dropped into vleis, surrounded by jungle – very boy’s own adventure. On more than one occasion, when I jumped as the drifter, I found myself waist-deep in some very smelly mud. At least it was a soft landing the only drawback was burning off the leeches that decided to snack on my blood; nasty little suckers.

These were the carefree days. Before the Bush War kicked up. Before things became too real. It was pretty much fun, games, adventures and parties, and very little was done to disturb our wonderful existence. 

 In 1963, I was selected for commission and sent to RAF Jerby on the Isle of Man, on No.147 Officer Cadet Course RAF. I arrived there on February 17 1963, my first wedding anniversary, and damn near died of cold. The snow was over six feet deep, and I did not have the clothing for those Arctic conditions. I did survive, however, and was commissioned as a Flying Officer on May 22, 1963. I returned immediately to Rhodesia where I became the Training Officer/Chief Instructor of No.1 PTS, Royal Rhodesian Air Force. At the end of this course I was given the opportunity to transfer over to the Royal Air Force. By this time I had spent many years training with the Royal Air Force. Because of my Colonial/ Rhodesian Farming background I had found the courses I had been on relatively easy. I would have fitted into the RAF with ease. But my home was Rhodesia and I was willing to fight for it. Besides the English weather left a hell of a lot to be desired and Chalice would not have been happy. (Yes, I actually held the Queen’s Commission and the RAF wanted me).

On my return to PTS RRAF, my first job was to teach my new boss Flt/Lt M.J. Swart (Boet) how to become a PJI. Fortunately for him, (and me) he was a naturally good instructor who quickly learned the necessary skills required to maintain our very high standard. Boet had transferred from the Federal Army and, was a tremendous help to me in later years, mainly because he knew how the Army worked and knew everybody worth knowing in it.

 

 This photograph shows the versatility of the parachute training school staff  here we see Frank Hales and Boet Swart taking a breather during a survival course they were running for the Rhodesian Air Force Air Crew/Pilot cadets. 

 Here Boet Swart dressed in his Air Force Uniform is showing the commanders of the Rhodesian Army  and the Royal Rhodesian Air Force the RAF P.T.S. Plaque.

This is a photograph of basic parachute course number 17 and shows the P.T.S. staff seated L.to R. Sgt Frank Hales W.O. Bill Maitland, Sqn/Ldr Boet Swart, F/O Derek de Kock Sgt Trevor Smith

Here Boet can be seen as the P.M.C. of the Officers Mess with the Rhodesian Air Force Commander,  Air Marshal Archie Wilson and the President Of Rhodesia Clifford Dupont being piped into dinner at the Officers Mess New Sarum. I also was appointed  the P.M.C. some time later and was required to host dignitaries from time to time.

Boet had already qualified as a parachutist on No.3 basic static line course and all that was required was to teach him the necessary safety procedures, and how to instruct as a PJI. The very first rule was never to get pressured into dropping troops just to help the Brass show- off because that is how men get injured. On occasion Boet was inclined to ignore this rule which resulted in a few fast arrivals.

At the end of 1963, the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland broke up, and most of the SAS took off over the hill. The Rhodesian SAS were left with approximately 31 other ranks (ORs), the remainder, including all the officers, left the force with most of them going to the UK. Luckily for this story, all the Rhodesian PJIs decided to remain with the Royal Rhodesian Air Force and continued to serve as before.

In October 1969, I become CO of the Parachute Training School. Frank Hales was commissioned and became Training Officer. Bill Maitland was commissioned and posted out to the General Service Unit at New Sarum. Trevor Smith was promoted to Warrant Officer and became the School W.O.

In January 1971, new staff were recruited into the Parachute Training School. As mentioned in an earlier chapter, we’d had to look for new staff all over the place as very few airmen wanted to join the silly people who jumped out of serviceable aircraft. There were a few from the Army who were willing to give it a go and that was where most of our staff finally came from, joined by a small number from civvy street.

I’m unsure of exact dates, but people like John Boynton, Ralph Moore, Charlie Buchan, Iain Bowen and Mike Wiltshire all joined the staff around this time. These men would become the back bone of the PTS staff.

Between 1961 and 1980, there were only 40 PJIs to qualify and serve in the Rhodesian Parachute Training School. These men were dedicated, and driven instructors who carried out an incredible job, often under tremendous pressure. They earned the Rhodesian Air Force PJI Brevet (half wing) -  the rarest combat parachute badge in the world.

CHAPTER 40 DEREK'S STORY Episode 1

DEREK’S STORY

On the first of March, 1956, at the age of 16, I joined the Southern Rhodesian Air Force. I had just signed on for 15 years, (which may as well have been forever to a teenager), on the under-standing  I would be sent to England to train with the Royal Air Force at Number One Technical Training School, RAF Halton. I was to be trained as an instrument-fitter and would be away from home for three years. I’d been to boarding school for the previous eight years so going to England was just another exciting adventure – just a little bit further from home.

At the completion of my training at RAF Halton I returned home to the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland and was posted to the Royal Rhodesian Air Force station at New Sarum, just outside the capital Salisbury. Here I was allocated my first task; a major overhaul of a Vampire FB-9 jet fighter.   When I completed this particular job (the aircraft actually flew without any problems, despite my expertise), I was offered a temporary posting to Number Five Squadron (Canberra Jet Bombers). If I agreed I would be sent on a detachment to Cyprus.

It may appear strange that I was given the opportunity to actually choose to go to Cyprus or to stay at home. However, in those days there was a terrorist war going on in Cyprus and we had to be volunteers just in case we were shot at. Of course, as far as I was concerned it was a silly question to put to a 19 year old, just itching to get involved in a battle, and, if it happened to be in Cyprus, so much the better.

At this time, we, (Rhodesia) were still friends with everybody, and the Royal Rhodesian Air Force was part of the British Commonwealth Defence Pact. We flew all the way up Africa via Entebbe, where our DC-4M Canadair aircraft broke down and we spent the next five days waiting for the spare parts. They put us up in a magnificent hotel on the shores of Lake Victoria and while we waited for the parts to arrive, we were given the opportunity to visit the source of the Nile at Jinja where we also had a tour of the local beer brewery. What a life!

After the repairs we proceeded to Cyprus via Khartoum. Here we saw the junction of the Blue and White Nile, and El Adam, RAF base outside Tobruk in the Libyan Desert. During our tour in Cyprus we astounded the RAF by keeping all eight of our Canberra Bombers flying every day. When independence was granted to Cyprus, 12 Canberra Bombers flew over the parade, eight of these were Royal Rhodesian Air Force aircraft.

 In the RRAF our work ethic was that the work only stopped when all the aircraft were serviceable. It did not matter which trade you were, if a job needed doing you just did it. Later, this ‘Rhodesian’ trait would come to serve us well – during our war sanctions were applied and we all had to become multi-skilled. As an instrument fitter I helped the airframe fitters change the main under-carriage and the armourers to bomb up the Canberras.  We had a wonderful time in Cyprus; the booze was cheap, (a bottle of brandy cost 20 cents), and the sea was warm and beautifully clear.

 Having completed our detachment, we flew back to Rhodesia via El Adem, where, once again, the DC-4M decided to have an exhaust failure on take-off. We spent the next five days in El Adam awaiting spares, which could only be sourced from Benghazi. My suitcase had been filled with various types of liquor obtained in Cyprus, and when it was unloaded from the aircraft I was told by the skipper to “drink it, or get rid of it.” Needless to say, for the next five days, we did not feel too much pain, stuck in the middle of the Sahara desert with very little water but a lot of spare time and an awful lot of booze.

This photograph shows 3 Squadron Royal Rhodesian Air Force 1960 and shows all the pilots in the two front rows with the technical staff standing at the back. Derek de Kock looking very smart is 4 from the left in the first standing row. At the time I was an instrument fitter and maintained DC3(Dakota), DC4M(Canadair) and Percival Pembroke aircraft. At times it was busy but I was getting bored and contemplated applying for pilot training, but the opportunity to become a PJI  occurred and I followed that path.

 On both the occasions when the DC4M aircraft broke down on this detachment, it happened during take-off and was caused by an exhaust failure. The DC4M Canadair was powered by 4 Merlin Engines, the same engines that powered the Spitfire. We used to call these aircraft ‘four Spitfires flying in close formation’. In order to keep passengers calm when observing these mighty engines in operation, especially at night, the inboard exhaust stubs were diverted to the outboard side by a cross over exhaust system. The idea was to hide the red hot exhaust stubs on the inboard side from nervous passengers – a great idea in theory.

This photograph of a Royal Rhodesian Air Force DC4M shows its beautiful lines which are enhanced by the V12 Merlin engines, the same engines which powered the famous Spitfire fighter of WW2. It was the largest aircraft in the Royal Rhodesian Air Force, and if we had kept them after the Federal break up, we would have found a way to parachute from them. What a thought! 

 When the exhaust system failed on my trip to Cyprus, it was on the inboard engine on the side I was seated. Each time it happened just as the aircraft was reaching take-off speed.  Suddenly, before my eyes, the whole engine began to glow red hot, the take-off was abandoned, and with great skill the skipper managed to stop before we ran out of runway. However I was now convinced that the DC4Ms of The Royal Rhodesian Air Force were trying to do me personal harm.

The next time one of these aircraft gave me a fright was on my way to do the PJI course at RAF, Abingdon. Again we flew up the middle of Africa with refuelling stops at Entebbe and Khartoum, then across the mighty Sahara to Malta. This time there was a normal take-off from Khartoum, I breathed a sigh of relief and settled in for a very long leg across the sandy waste below. Too soon.

We had a few Army Officers on board who were also attending various courses in the UK. One was sitting in the Captain’s seat whilst the skipper stretched his legs. Suddenly there as a deathly hush as all four engines stopped. At once. The Skipper grabbed the Army Officer by the collar, hauled him out of his seat, then plonked himself into it.  With a flurry of hands, pulling and pushing various switches and levers, the more normal noise returned as the four Merlins powered up again. Apparently all four engines had been running off the same tank to give us the necessary fuel to make it to Malta with a reserve.We made it to Malta without further excitement. However during the great silence Bill Maitland was heard to say in a loud stage whisper “Grab the Navigator, he’s the only bugger who knows where we are.” PTS humour right from the beginning.

 The next day, we were headed toward London, when the French suddenly decided not to allow a Royal Rhodesian Air Force Aircraft to overfly their air space. We had to dump fuel and land back at Malta. After a further delay we finally made it to the UK but by now I was absolutely convinced the DC4M did not like me. Whenever I flew in one after that, I always had a parachute handy. We never jumped from these Aircraft and in retrospect it could have been an interesting experiment.

CHAPTER 39 WATER JUMPS JAMES BOND STYLE

Now, I’m not saying I was conceited, but I did fancy myself as a bit of a James Bond back in the day. As I was the Training Officer, and, in my mind at least, the so-called expert on everything parachuting, I’d often jump in collar and tie. Then, in true Bond fashion, calmly gather my parachute, fix my tie, and walk off after landing. Smooth.

Whether he decided to cramp my style, or whether it was a genuine error I don’t know, but once, whilst carrying out trials we were dropped onto a bush DZ. The then CO of the parachute school, Boet Swart, was the DZ Safety Officer, and had selected a very nice, although slightly damp, flat area. So damp, in fact, he could float the DZ panels on top of the water amongst the very soggy grass.

As it was early in the morning, and the sun was just rising, I could not tell that this was very wet.  Of course, I tried to get as close to the middle of the cross as I could.  And I did. I landed practically on the middle- in about four foot of smelly, icy cold water. I was now one very soggy, very stinky, and very angry James Bond. I swore revenge.

This photograph shows a very happy looking Toney Hughes being dragged from the water after his jump it was always great to see Toney  jump into the lake whenever possible.

This photograph shows Mike Wiltshire after his water jump being returned to shore by one of the many volunteers who pulled us from the often cold lake Macillwaine Waters.

Water jumps were always a favorite past-time for the PJIs, mainly because it meant we could frighten the pilots. These drops were laid on for aircrew, who’d come to the Parachute Training School for one day’s ground training and then jump into Lake Macillwaine. From here they’d be retrieved by the Police, the Game Rangers, or anybody who had a boat and happened to be around. It was good fun and was enjoyed by most of the aircrew who volunteered to do this.

It also gave the PJIs who’d been too badly injured to jump onto hard ground, the opportunity to parachute into a much softer environment. People like Tony Hughes and Trevor Smith always had a place on these occasions and were always welcome.

In 1969 the Parachute Training School carried out a water jump for most of the staff,  a number of Rhodesian Air Force pilots and some Army VIP's. This photograph shows the people who took part from L.to R. back row  Boet Swart (PJI), Tudor Thomas (Pilot), Derek de Kock (PJI), Peter Walls (Army), Gen Kieth Coster (Army), Ted Brent (Pilot), Norman Walsh (Pilot), Brian Penton (Pilot). Front Row L.to R. Brian Robinson (SAS) Trevor Smith (PJI), Tony Hughes(PJI), Peter Briscoe (Pilot), Unknown (Pilot), Rich Beaver (Pilot). On this occasion I jumped with an X type double blank and landed on the shore from where I acted as the DZ Safety Officer for the water jump. Notice the James Bond look with the collar and tie. Trevor Smith was the dispatcher on this occasion and he and Tony Hughes were the course PJI's. 

It was on one of these jumps I finally had the chance to get my revenge on Boet Swart. As the DZ Safety Officer, it was my job to direct the dropping aircraft from the ground. I carefully guided them, “Left, left, a little to your right” until it was perfectly positioned. Boet landed right on target, on the soggy, stinky muds of the shore. I laughed and laughed. Boet, not so much.  Revenge was sweet but I was always careful after this to make sure I was being dropped in the correct place when Boet was the DZ SO.

 My own first water jump took place in the UK where we jumped into the icy sea off Portsmouth. It was extremely chilly. After I was fished out by the Navy, I was handed a tot of navy rum to warm up my insides. In those days H.M. Royal Navy issued rum on special occasions and this was one of them. After downing it I was all for jumping overboard again. My outside was still cold, but my inside had a nice warm feeling. It was most enjoyable. And would prove even more so in the much warmer waters of Rhodesia.

After the drops at Lake Macillwaine, the Dak would invariably do a beat-up over the water and I would do my level best to hit it with a Vary Pistol. Once I swear, I damn near put a green into the door. The dispatcher, who was looking out, actually ducked.

Another time the PJIs tried to trick me, and chucked a dummy out without a parachute. They then shouted over the radio “We have a whistler.” But you have to wake up pretty early to trick me – the way it tumbled was not like a human being.

Then there was the time Frank Hales jumped with scuba gear. On landing in the water, he operated his Capewells, which jettisoned the canopy and swam away underwater. The cops, who grabbed his canopy and pulled it in, were very concerned when there was nobody on the end. The method of retrieval of parachutists who had landed in the lake was always the same. The parachute would be pulled in first, then the pilot, or parachutist on the end would be plucked out of the water. Parachutes were at least as important as pilots to PTS.  Don’t tell the pilots! 

Men of all ranks were keen to get in on the fun. Parachuting is very democratic – no matter what your station in life, everyone responds the same to gravity, and everyone, no matter their rank, had to go through the same training and procedures before parachuting.

Our first station commander after the PTS was established, was Group Captain A.O.G. Wilson. He was a real character and had the most bone-crushing handshake I’ve ever come across. Now of course, Archie (as he was known to one and all), was not going to miss out on doing a parachute descent onto his turf and insisted we teach him.  I was given the task of training him after hours, and we were all sworn to secrecy. I doubt there would have been any issues with Air Force command, but the feisty and formidable Mrs Wilson, (Lorna) was an entirely different story.

This photograph shows Flt/Lt Smuger Smith RAF our first OC PTS holding the silver parachutist presented to the Rhodesian Air Force Parachute Training School by IRVIN parachutes on the 1000th military parachute descent. Group/Capt A.O.G. (Archie) Wilson with beer in hand helped us to celebrate the occasion. The civilian gentleman was the IRVIN/ GQ rep who presented the Trophy.  

So, when we took-off with the very first course, on 9^th November, 1961, good old Archie was in tow. We dropped a PJI drifter, who landed on the DZ. On the next run in, I called Archie up to action stations. When the red light came on, I yelled “Stand in the door,” which Archie did with great force. I had hold of his parachute harness, and it was a strain to keep him from leaping out immediately. When the green light came on, I just let go and he shot out like a champagne cork, almost taking the door with him.

After we landed, it needed to be repaired before the course could do their first jump. I subsequently found out this was not Archie’s first parachute descent after all. He had an unplanned exit when he bailed out of his fighter aircraft during World War II. He was, in fact, a member of the illustrious Caterpillar Club.

 Sometimes, General Peter Walls would show up at the Parachute Training School at an ungodly hour and would be utilized as the drifter for the basic course undergoing training. Now, the drifter’s job was basically to jump out of the aircraft, float down till he was just above the ground, and then pull down on his lift webs to slow his drift across the ground. I do believe that Number 1 Parachute Training School, Rhodesian Air Force, was the only unit involved in parachute training to utilize the services of a General in order to avoid injuring ordinary soldiers. General Walls was a fantastic supporter of the Parachute Training School and gave us every encouragement.

CHAPTER 38 OUR PRECIOUS PARACHUTES

After the evacuation of the dead and wounded, amongst the first things retrieved from the battle area after every operational drop, were the parachutes. These were usually stuffed into a helicopter and flown out to the FAF, from where they would be sent back to the New Sarum Safety Equipment Section for repair and repacking. Due to sanctions, parachutes and related equipment were always hard to get and were consequently treated like gold.

As almost everything was hard to get in Rhodesia at that time, our soldiers, even the youngest, and most inexperienced, were very aware of the value of their equipment and always made a great effort to collect and care for their parachutes.

This also applied to free fall parachutes which were sometimes used at great distances across our borders. When the troops who’d jumped in from dizzy altitudes, into hostile territory, in the middle of the night, were evacuated back to base, their parachutes invariably came with them. The only time parachutes were abandoned was when they were burned in a fire, (usually caused by the battle), when there was an emergency “hot extraction” of troops or when the distances were just too great to make retrieval a sensible option.

At the height of the war, parachuting, both training and operational, was happening on a continual basis so one of the biggest problems became logistical.  We had to ensure the Fire Forces had sufficient parachutes to carry out their operations. We also had to have enough parachutes for normal static line training, and in addition we had to have a large number of freefall parachutes packed every day for operations and training.

To keep a track of our requirements, the Fire Force PJIs sent in a daily record of what was known as the, ‘Parastate’. This was a log of the number of parachutes available for ops, the number used the previous day and any reserve parachutes approaching their re-pack dates. Things were always tight, and the parachute packers were kept mightily busy.In 1978 the Safety Equipment Section at New Sarum Air Force Base was packing parachutes at the rate of 2000 per month for the various Fire Forces.

Although safety remained the highest priority, use-by dates and other such random niceties had to be ignored. This led to a few words with our industrious parachute packers, the Safety Equipment Workers.  One morning in 1971 I sent the troops down to draw parachutes for their next jump and was told there weren’t any. This was before the advent of the Parra Fire Force and we were still with only the SAS as trained parachutists.

 I, of course, in my usual calm and considered manner, stormed down to the Safety Equipment Section, and demanded to know what the hell was going on.  I was informed that all our X-Type parachutes were now time expired; they had gone past their ten year use-by-date and should be tossed out. I was staggered, and demanded to know from where they got this spectacularly useless bit of information.

The Warrant Officer in charge of Safety Equipment immediately produced a manual, and lo and behold, there in clear type, was stated the X-Type parachute had an approximate 10 year use-by-date.

But use-by dates were luxuries we could not afford. I solved the problem by tearing that page right out of the manual and ordering them to pack the damn parachutes. What complete and utter bullshit. How could a parachute be serviceable today, and without doing anything to it, have it become unserviceable tomorrow. I feel sorry for them now – they were just trying to do a solid job and keep us all safe, but we could not throw perfectly good parachutes away because of some arbitrary date, written in a manual or not.

This photograph was taken in about 1963 before the break up of the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland and shows 3 Dakota's of 3 Squadron Royal Rhodesian Air Force dropping 60 men of C (Rhodesia) Squadron of 22 SAS Regiment. They were jumping with X type parachutes and in one pass they used 60% of our parachutes. Just as well we were just training in those days and we were still thinking and training in WW11  style. All these troops were jumping with suspended loads and they were the old PWC(parachutist weapons container) from WW 2 times. It took hours to prepare for the jump in those days and after landing your weapon was 15ft away and hard to get out of the container. Fortunately we  were re equipped with the SAVIAC parachute enabling us to change our ways completely.

Because the Safety Equipment Section came under the Armaments umbrella, I also had an argument with the Station Armaments Officer and the Staff Armaments Officer at Air Force Headquarters. “You don’t jump with the bloody things,” I said, “ I do, and I say they are okay.” I won the argument. The parachutes remained in use, and, thanks to the job done by our Safety Equipment Section, they stayed safe. Much later the X type was withdrawn from everyday use, but we still used some for PJI training just to give the new staff the experience of jumping with them. The majority of these old parachutes became supply droppers and were used by #3 Air Supply Platoon. In Rhodesia nothing was thrown away. 

When things were quiet on the Fire Force, permission was granted to carry out one training jump per week. It was up to the PJI to dictate the altitude, and the equipment the troops would carry on these “fun jumps” – as a consequence some were done from 2000, or even 3000ft, AGL. These jumps were usually done in the evening with little or no wind and gave the troops a great boost especially if they were in clean fatigue with no weapons or other load. It was a great way to end an otherwise quiet day and it also increased the parachuting skills of the soldiers.

The parachutes used on these fun jumps, as well as those used on operational jumps, were returned to New Sarum on the first available transport, whether by truck or by air, so they could be repacked and returned to a FAF as soon as possible. The troops might have to wait – the parachutes never did. Sometimes we even used a Dakota or Islander to supply fresh parachutes to Fire Forces, and return the used ones to be repacked.

 It was also the PJI’s responsibility to ensure all parachutes on the Fire Force bases were stored in the best possible way, kept out of the weather and dry. The troops could be stuck outside in horrendous conditions, but our little babies were always given the utmost care. In most cases, the parachutes received better treatment than the men.

During our selection process for parachutes, we watched some training films  made during the Second World War. They showed the PT-10 parachute hooked up onto the overhead cable in a Dakota. Of course, we had to try this out, because whenever we used the X-Type parachute we had to use a side cable and a strop about 12 ft long. The overhead cable made it much easier, and neater, and it worked fine.

The PT-10 parachute was of American design and was 35-feet in diameter, much larger than the British, war time X-Type, which was only 28-feet wide. This larger parachute reduced our rate of descent from 22 feet-per-second to approximately 16 feet-per-second – a great improvement. In addition, the PT-10 had a shaped canopy which reduced the oscillation, and therefore was much kinder to the parachutist.

The only problem with the PT-10 was that it was made from rip-stop nylon, which was supposed to prevent it from tearing. However, as with most things American, it was supposed to be used only once and then discarded. We also found that if you hit a tree with it, it shredded quite easily, especially when you tried to pull it off the tree using a Landrover, or other such vehicle. We couldn’t afford disposable parachutes.

As mentioned in an earlier post, we later obtained the SAVIAC parachute from South Africa. This parachute was made from similar nylon to the X-Type. It was much tougher. When you hit a tree with this parachute and then hooked it to the back of a vehicle to rip it off, you might stump the tree, but you would do very little damage to the canopy. This was great for us in little old, sanction-struck, Rhodesia.

I deliberately carried out a few parachute descents into trees, to see what would happen, and found it was better to hit trees than the hard ground. The trees cushioned your landing, and, provided you had your legs tight together and your arms crossed over your face, elbows pushing down on the reserve, fists clenched, the chance of injury was minimised.

 I should say it was mostly better to land in the trees. But it all depended on the height of those trees. One night I’d been involved in freefall operations so my staff were doing the basic training courses back at New Sarum. I instructed them to do the course night-jump onto our usual bush DZ, and left them to it. I was really tired, having been awake for over 24hrs, so I went home for desperately needed sleep.

I was not happy at all to receive a late night phone call. It was Mike Wiltshire, the DZ Safety Officer for this particular drop, and he wanted me to know a parachutist was stuck up a very large gum tree.

 At this time, all night drops were run by people calling out directions from the ground.  The DZ Safety Officer would direct the pilot to fly in over the DZ and then transmit instructions to “go left, go right” etc. until they were in the correct position. They would then give the order “Red light on,” for the troops to stand in the door, and finally, “Green light on” for the troops to be dispatched. This meant that the entire operation regarding direction and the landing of the troops was the responsibility of the DZ Safety Officer. In this case poor old Mike.

He was doing his level best to get the troops to land as close to the trucks as possible. This would make it quicker and easier to get everyone back home again. But he made one slight error and one of the students landed on the top of a very, very high gum tree. And was now well and truly stuck.

This gum tree was pretty close to 300 feet high and it took the Salisbury fire brigade and their very long ladder to get him down. The pupil, on instruction, had bravely pulled his reserve parachute, and climbed out of his harness. He then shimmied down his reserve and was now sitting, hugging the tree, 180 feet above the ground.

I was as mad as a cut snake. My beauty sleep had been interrupted and now our parachute was stuck up a tree! (I was, of course, more worried about the parachute than parachutist.) I told Mike to get the bloody parachute back come hell or high water the next morning. He utilized all his charm and got a 7 Sqn helicopter to help out.