I could hardly hear anything she said that night, but the sheer comfort of knowing she was connected to me, albeit by a telephone line, remains one of my most treasured memories of her.
The days that followed were a jumble of tests, prods and probes with little worthwhile outcome other than the expert deductions of the specialists diagnosing the causes of the ‘16 000 AGL (above ground level) incident’, as it became known. They were of the considered opinion that an unknown impediment had prevented the sinus cavities in both my forehead and my cheekbones from equalising their internal air pressures during the rapid descent. Furthermore, it appeared that my Eustachian tubes, which connect the middle ear to the throat, had also been blocked, causing a similar pressure differential between the inner and outer ears and causing both eardrums to rupture.
Either way, I was forthwith grounded and would be sent to 1 Military Hospital in Pretoria for further tests. I left for Pretoria the next day. I cannot recall the name of the ear, nose and throat (ENT) specialist who examined me at 1 Mil but he was definitely not chosen for his sparkling bedside manner nor, it turned out, for his diagnostic or surgical skills.
In the ‘discovery’ part of his examination, I had told him that, six months or so before, I had had my nose broken while playing soccer, and also how my dental work had been totally messed up during an ill-fated cricket match, during which I had been struck in the face.
‘Aha,’ said the ENT specialist. ‘It is my opinion that the combination of these two incidents caused bone shrapnel to lodge in your nasal cavities at the entrance to your sinuses and basically plug them tight, preventing the degree of equalisation required when descending rapidly from high altitude in a non-pressurised jet, like the Impala.’
He proceeded to hold my head in a vice-like grip and thrust an implement that looked like a stainless-steel knitting needle, the tip covered in spirit-dipped cotton wool, up my nose, into my throat and almost out through my bum.
I squealed like a suckling pig about to be dispatched for the Sunday roast.
‘Aha! You see, there is an obstruction!’ he trumpeted. ‘We will conduct a sub-mucus resection with an intra-nasal ethmoidectomy. SME/INE for short!’ The expectant glee dripped from his voice.
He offered no opinion as to the reasons for the blocked Eustachian tubes, however. Had he carefully considered this aspect, and referred me to someone with skills in that field, it might well have prevented a lifetime of sinus problems for me and even helped me make a full recovery.
Nevertheless, at the end of his cursory five-minute inspection, the esteemed surgeon pronounced that I was to report back to 1 Mil the following day for surgery to remove the bone shrapnel. Being a compliant young soldier (at least in this context), I didn’t argue and presented myself for the suggested butchery the following day.
The pre-med administered in those days had quite a number of unwanted side-effects, and its primary effect on me was to loosen my tongue even further than normal (which is saying something, believe me). As I lay on the stretcher waiting to be taken into theatre, the anaesthetist asked me if I had any questions. I replied: ‘Just one. Ask Dr Mengele why my ears are also fucked?’
Little did I know that the Mutilator of 1 Mil was standing right behind me.
I woke up in a distressed state a few hours later with my hands tied to the sides of my bed to prevent me from again pulling the metres-long gauze plugs out of my nostrils. I felt claustrophobic, and it took a number of the other patients in the ward to calm me down. The chap in the bed next to mine told me that the nurses were all angry with me, and were ignoring me flat as I had been extremely disparaging of them while they were putting me back in my bed after the op. Of course, it was a side-effect of the anaesthetic drugs.
Discharged three days later, I spent a week recuperating at home (with a night back in hospital after a bout of nasal haemorrhaging). Suitably repaired, or so I thought, I drove the 1 500 kilometres back to FTS Langebaanweg in my VW Beetle.
It was another week or so before I was given the all clear to get into an Imp again. Off we went, me and another instructor, for a low-level flight down the Atlantic coastline from Langebaan to AFB Ysterplaat in Cape Town, where we landed and had a cold drink.
The plan for the return flight was for us to take off from Ysterplaat, climb to 25 000 feet (7 620 metres) and do the normal (relatively rapid) descent before landing at Langebaanweg. It was a beautiful day as we climbed out over the Cedarberg, with the expanse of the western Cape spread out below us as far as the eye could see.
‘Are you ready for the descent?’ asked the chap in the rear seat, all too soon.
‘Sure, sir,’ I replied, and he reduced power and we started losing altitude.
I watched the altimeter wind down… 24 000… 23 000… 22 000… 20 000… 17 000… 16 000… I was starting to smile broadly as we approached 14 000 and I still felt great when, like a switch being activated, the acute agony, the muck, the blood and the mucus struck again, filling every available nook and cranny in my head, my helmet and my oxygen mask.
When we finally landed at Langebaan after a gentle descent, it was clear that the likelihood of my flying again was exceedingly small. The despair I felt that evening is palpable to this day.
Fortunately, my guardian angel got involved again.
While the powers that be decided what to do with me, I was posted to SAAF Training Command Headquarters in Pretoria. At Training Command, my job entailed meeting with and advising aspirant pupil pilots, most of whom were still at school, on the conditions they were likely to encounter during the pilot selection process, medical examination and selection board, as well as on the course itself.
Soon after taking up my new appointment, I was contacted by a Dr Van der Laan from the MMI in Pretoria. He had become aware of my predicament and asked to see me for an evaluation.
Dr Van der Laan was known far and wide by everyone who’d ever been through a medical exam at the MMI, which was where aspirant SAAF pilots began the pilot selection process by undergoing psychological testing, a thorough medical examination and psychological and vocational evaluation. The MMI was also where all Pretoria-based aircrew underwent their annual medical assessments and where aviation-medicine-related issues were tackled and solutions to problems developed. Dr Van der Laan was a leading specialist in aviation medicine, and many pilots, both military and civilian, owe their careers to the insight, skill and intellect of this remarkable officer. I am honoured to be one of those.
After a detailed recording of exactly what had happened to me, Dr Van der Laan seemed quite certain that the ‘shrapnel’, while possibly being a contributory factor, was by no means the cause of my problems, and he set about getting to the bottom of the matter. This involved conducting testing whereby I was subjected to 15 or so allergenic agents. These were injected just under the skin on one arm, with the same 15 agents being rubbed into small incisions in the skin of the other arm.
Within minutes, hives were breaking out all over my body, mucus was streaming from my nose and eyes, and sensitive areas became inflamed. Mercifully, heavy doses of anti-histamines were administered and someone found me a bed in the Institute. I slept for the next 24 hours.
Dr Van der Laan discovered that I was hyper-allergic to dust, grass and feathers. All these allergens abounded in the environs of Langebaanweg in particular, but also throughout southern Africa. The treatment regimen he developed for me involved my having to undergo twice-weekly injections thereafter of a substance he concocted in a laboratory. It turned out to be a successful way to desensitise me to the agents to which I had developed such a strong allergic reaction. The measures quickly took effect, for which I am eternally grateful.