Looking down towards the ground I saw what appeared to be a lesser number of tracer rounds coming my way but, when I looked towards the sky again, they were just as thick as before. Another crack sounded behind me by which time I was weaving left and right in a high-speed descent towards a huge terrorist base that spread outwards in every direction I turned. When I levelled off at tree-tops, the Trojan, still taking hits, slowed down horribly and there were hundreds of people firing small arms so close that I knew I was about to die.
Twice I passed across open patches and saw big guns flashing. For what seemed like a really long time I was locked in a terrible slow-motion nightmare as I passed over row upon row of small and large thatched buildings under tall trees, all the time under fire. Unlike all I had read about people facing death, my whole life did not flash before me as I looked at point after point ahead believing I would surely die there. The ground tearing past me registered in my brain as the aircraft took hits in a mixture of sharp cracks and dull thuds.
Suddenly I was clear. It felt as if I had dived into cool water from burning-hot flames. Bullet holes in the airframe and windscreens were generating a strong whistling sound but the motor sounded fine.
I had been looking for the big FRELIMO-cum-ZANLA base known as Chifombo but had not expected such a hot reception when I found it. Still breathless I held a straight course for some time before coming to my senses inside Zambia. It took a little while longer to pull myself together and register that the flight control instruments had all been rendered useless. Having turned southwest, as judged by the sun’s position, it took more time to gather courage to commence a climb for height. Only when established in the climb did I realise that I was bleeding from many places, making my overalls and face cold and sticky, but there was absolutely no pain. The fuel gauge for both left and right tanks worked fine and I could see no fuel leakage, nor could I smell fuel vapour. Every minute or so I flicked from one tank to the other to check for fuel loss and after ten minutes knew I would get back to safety, providing the engine kept going. I set power by ear and knew from engine response that the turbo-charger was working; but there was no way of knowing if engine oil was being lost, so I followed a route as far removed from human habitation as possible. I had considered going into Macombe to get first-aid from the SAS but then decided to press on to Centenary when I realised that, although there was a lot of blood about, the wounds to my face, chest, arms and legs were no more than shallow penetrations from bits of metal and broken glass.
During an earlier recce deep inside Mozambique I had been feeling distinctly lonely and afraid when suddenly I became acutely aware that I was not alone at all. This was an experience I find impossible to put into words because the sudden knowledge of the presence of God is awesome, powerful and exciting all at the same time. Now, having survived passage over Chifombo Base and heading for home, the immediate presence of God overwhelmed me again. The feeling I experienced this time was different but just as impossible to explain by words alone.
It was in this amazing state of comfort that I looked down at the ground as I climbed through about 5,000 feet and realised that I was seeing pathways with the clarity needed for over-border recce. I should have known this before but, being a typical creature of habit, I had stuck to the level I first thought was right. From that day onward I never flew recce in Mozambican territory below 5,000 feet.
At about 8,000 feet radio contact was established with the Army relay station on the high Mavuradona mountain inside Rhodesia. I told the operator that I had sustained damage but expected to make it back to Centenary safely. I could see my left main tyre and knew it was fine but I was prepared for difficulties if the nose or right tyres had been punctured. Fortunately there was no problem on landing and I taxiied into dispersals to find Peter Cooke and a couple of TF soldiers waiting for me with a stretcher. I recall FAF 3 being almost deserted because Mount Darwin and Mtoko had become the operational focal points.
I had set off on this flight from Bindura where I received a briefing from an SB officer who wanted more details on Chifombo. My reason for recovering into Centenary was that I knew there were spare beds there. But I cannot say why Peter Cooke was also there because he had left FAF 3 when operational activity moved east with Centenary passing into the care of a VR Camp Commandant. He may have been helping out as a (retread) helicopter pilot because I do not recall seeing another pilot for the only helicopter parked next to my Trojan. Anyway there were certainly no 4 Squadron personnel or aircraft around.
Initially I declined to lie on the stretcher but the sharp fragments in my legs made walking so painful that I was forced to accept the lift to an Army medical tent. Having the bits and pieces removed without any anaesthetic by a very young TF medic was an unpleasant experience made easier by slugging neat whisky. I was very sore, stiff and covered in bloody dressings when Flamo Flemming, and I think Jungle Forrester, came to me in the medical tent with a request. “Boss PB, please come with us to your Trojan. We want you to explain something to us.” With the foreign bodies removed and being somewhat anaesthetised by whisky I was able to limp along with them.
Using long ‘spear grass’ that grew along the airfield fence line, these two technicians had lined up all the bullet entry and exit holes. There were 123 strikes of which four were from heavy-calibre rounds that had failed to explode (guns too close to target), yet not one had struck the fuel tanks or any other vital part. This in itself was a miracle but Flamo wanted me to explain why I was not dead considering one bullet’s path appeared to have gone through my left flank.
One length of spear grass ran from the port side of rear cabin through the backrest of my seat and into the instrument panel. Not bothering to prove to myself that the bullet line was correct I foolishly choked up and simply pointed heavenward. When I regained composure I was able to tell of my terror over Chifombo and how God’s powerful presence had overwhelmed me.
This incident persuaded me to turn back to Christianity. I had abandoned the Anglicans at age twenty, swearing never to return to a church that laid emphasis on the pomp and ceremony I had experienced as an altar server. Now, some eighteen years later, I decided to find a church that practised biblical Christianity. This led Beryl and me to the Methodists in Waterfalls, simply because Beryl preferred we go to the pastor she had watched on TV. He was Reverend Gary Strong who, in his youth, had been a rough and tough ‘Main Street Cowboy’ biker.
New offensive trials
OUR ASSOCIATION WITH THE SOUTH African Air Force strengthened over time and much of the increased helicopter effort in 1974 had come from the SAAF in the form of machines and aircrews. This was as much for SAAF’s benefit to gain ‘on the job’ experience as it was for Rhodesia. It was for this reason too that Captain Kapp was sent to fly recce with me to assess the value of sending other pilots at a future date. Captain Kapp must have turned in a good report because SAAF sent four young pilots for recce training in 1975.
Whilst I was instructing Captain Kapp, Chris Weinmann and Brian Murdoch continued to find CT camps inside the country and had initiated air and ground operations on them; but not once were terrorists in residence, all camps having been freshly vacated. The CTs had obviously become wise to the fact that the Trojans they saw flying in their area of operations were the same ones that brought trouble to their camps. This forced us to rethink tactics.