While doing Telstar for RAR c/s 42, I was tasked to go overhead c/s B13 SAS and help them out. Difficulty was experienced in getting to their location i.e. UT 368920 because of low cloud but once in the area I was able to maintain 1500 ft AGL. c/s B13 were manning an OP and they directed me to attack a small valley at UT 364914 from where they had been fired upon. I did two strikes from north to south using front gun and SNEB. They then asked me to attack an area around a mealie field some 200 yards to the west of my first attack. This was done using SNEB. They then indicated a suspected ter camp at UT 358905 adjacent to a mealie field. I did one attack from south east to north west using front gun and SNEB. They then indicated a further suspect area at UT 353888 which was to the east of two mealie fields. I did a north to south attack using SNEB. At this stage it was at last light and I proceeded back to Macombe as the Musengezi airstrip was unserviceable and I did not have sufficient fuel to get to Centenary. The weapons were on target and it was later learnt that my rockets had destroyed part of a camp complex although everything had been concealed in thick bush.
STOP PRESS. When the c/s was recovered from the area it was confirmed that three people had been killed and buried at the point UT 364914 where the strike had gone in on the camp complex.
There was always concern for single-engined aircraft operating alone deep inside Mozambique, as in this case. Antiaircraft action or engine failure might force a pilot down; a situation that was fraught with peril. If a pilot survived the landing, whether hurt or unhurt, his chances of survival were very low unless he was close enough for anyone to pick up his radio distress call. However much of the time was spent beyond ‘friendly forces’ radio range.
Personally I was petrified by the work I did over Mozambique and worried that others might notice this. As I write, a quarter of a century later, it is easy for me to admit to this failing. At the time however, I was annoyed by my inability to overcome the tight knot in my stomach and having to relying on four stiff whiskies after dinner to help me get some sleep. If I was on internal work, I always enjoyed a good breakfast that set me up for the day’s work; but before recces over Mozambique I could not face a meal knowing that I would be operating for over five hours beyond radio range of any Rhodesian.
Everyone knew that if I ran into trouble this would not be known until too late and that a search and rescue attempt would defer to the following day. So, to assist searchers, I carried a small emergency radio beacon which, when switched on, transmitted a continuous low-powered coded distress signal. This device also had a voice and receiving facility that was limited to a very short duration before its battery was drained.
I think it was Captain Mick Graham of SAS who flew one Mozambican sortie with me. He enjoyed the experience because it allowed him to see for himself what he had read in my recce report signals. But the main purpose of his flight was to assess the feasibility of an SAS soldier accompanying me on future missions to keep me out of trouble if I went down. My hopes were dashed when Mick said that, having seen the ground we had covered, this was simply not on. A single, super-fit, SAS soldier might evade hostile forces on his own, but not if he had to take care of me as well.
An alternative solution was offered. It involved eight recently trained RLI paratroopers loitering at height in a Dakota close to the area over which I was operating. The experiment failed within the first two hours when Squadron Leader Peter Barnett told me all the paratroopers in the back of his aircraft were so airsick that they would be of no help if I needed them. I thanked Peter for trying and told him to take the men back to base. There was no alternative; I had to work alone. In the meanwhile Air HQ was looking into equipping 4 Squadron aircraft with HF/SSB to provide long-range communications with Air HQ and FAF Operations Rooms.
I always briefed the FAF 3 commander (mostly Peter Cooke) on my intended outward and inward routes with details of the area to be covered, but those horrid butterflies in my stomach only slowed down when I was strapped into my seat with the engine running. Flight over Rhodesian soil felt quite normal until I reached the border. At this point the engine always appeared to be running roughly. Once across the Zambezi River the engine seemed to be running so roughly that I feared it might break from its mountings. This phantom situation continued until I reached the area over which I was to operate. As soon as I started searching the ground all fear vanished and I no longer worried about the engine purring away at low-cruising power.
Unlike American and Canadian aircraft designers, those of British, French and Italian aircraft did not cater for pilots’ bladder needs. As early as 1939, Canadian and American designers provided aircrew with what was crudely known as ‘the pee tube’. This consisted of an extendible funnel on the forward edge of a pilot’s seat that connected to a tube leading to a low-pressure point on the underside of the airframe. Considering the restraints of harness, parachute straps and flying overalls, it was awkward to get one’s twin to the funnel, but at least it catered for minor misdirection and there was ample suction to take the urine away. Our Trojans did not have this luxury, so I had learned to manage seven-hour recce flights. But there was one day when things did not work out too well.
In spite of the normal pre-flight precaution of ‘emptying the tank’, on this particularly cold day I was in need of a pee even before I crossed the Zambezi still flying outbound. Two hours later with much ground yet to cover, I could not hold out any longer. There was no bottle or similar receptacle in the aircraft and, though I thought about it, opening the door in flight was fraught with peril. However, next to me on the right hand seat was my bone-dome (pilot’s crash helmet). There was no option but to use it. The weather was particularly turbulent when I undid my seat straps, opened my fly and raised my body against the rudder pedals to get things into position. Head-support webs within the bone-dome compounded the problem of turbulence and fully stretched legs. As soon as I let go, the high-pressure stream struck the nearest web, spraying urine all over my legs and onto the instrument panel. I managed to change direction, but in no time the shallow basin of the bone-dome was close to over-flowing. Forced stemming of the steam was essential but at least my discomfort had been reduced. The next problem was how to get rid of urine in the bone-dome. To allow it to spill inside the cockpit was simply not on because urine is highly corrosive to aircraft surfaces.
My window was always open during recce, so I decided to hold the bone-dome firmly and spill the urine into the outside airflow. As I did this, my arm was almost ripped off as the slipstream sucked the bone-dome through the window. The disturbed airflow blew back most of the bone-dome’s contents into my face, wetting half of my torso and the whole instrument panel. I managed to hold on to the bone-dome but the rest of that long flight was miserably cold and uncomfortable.
Chifombo Base
GOING AHEAD IN TIME, I was operating deeper than before and close to the Zambian/Tete border averaging about 3,000 feet above ground. Cloud build-up was making coverage difficult and I could only read ground where the sun was shining. I had just started picking up the signs of considerable human activity in the heavily treed region and was plotting this on my map when a loud crack on my right side made me look up at the starboard wing. I was astounded to see hundreds of green and red tracer rounds flying upward at differing angles but all appearing to emanate from the aircraft itself. I had seen tracer many times before but never so densely as the 12.7mm, 14.5mm and, possible, 23mm guns whizzing past. I immediately entered a vertical dive.