We stayed overnight in Dar es Salaam but once in the air-conditioned hotel few of our number ventured out into the oppressive heat. Following an early breakfast, we were ready to return to the airport. Early though it was, the air was muggy and we were all sweating in our flying overalls even before climbing aboard a steamy airless bus.
One was supposed to be airborne with gear raised before turning on the Vampire’s Godfrey air-conditioning unit. However, it was so hot that I am sure I was not the only pilot who rolled the air-conditioner control wheel to maximum cold as soon as we were at full power on the take-off run. The inrush of cold air provided instant relief and allowed me to enjoy the sight of endless palm trees stretching across the vast land that sank away from the climbing formation. Zanzibar Island was in full sunshine as we passed it, still in the climb. Brilliant colours varying from deep blue water to light turquoise over shallow coral reefs contrasted strongly with Persil-white beaches of mainland and island. It looked just as spectacular as the glossy travel magazines showed it. But the view was short-lived.
Back in cloud all the way to Mogadishu, I again suffered the sensation of that damned continuous left turn. About ten minutes out of Mogadishu we picked up the unmistakable and most comforting voice of Flight Lieutenant Peter Cooke. He had pre-positioned at Mogadishu Airport, which ran parallel and close to the beach, with his portable device that gave him the directions he would give us to steer to reach the airfield. Peter told us that the cloud base was down to 500 feet over the airfield that was covered by thin sea mist, but he thought that the cloud base was somewhat higher and visibility better out at sea. Having heard this, Bob Woodward changed heading with the intention of breaking cloud over water east of Mogadishu.
At around 1,500 feet above sea level the descent rate and flying speed had been reduced when we passed through particularly dense cloud and encountered a patch of severe turbulence. Mike Reynolds, upon whom I was formating, lost visual contact with the leader’s wing-tip and immediately pulled up and out of my sight. I broke starboard and reverted to instruments.
In reply to Mike’s call Bob gave his heading, speed, power settings and rate of descent. Mike said he would add five degrees to leader’s heading to ensure safe separation and I advised Bob that I had added ten degrees. Peter McLurg in the meanwhile had managed to hold station on Bob’s port wing.
When Bob broke out he broadcast that, because of dark and murky conditions, he had not seen the sea surface until he was dangerously low and was now turning for Mogadishu. I commenced my turn onto the heading Peter Cooke gave Bob, my descent rate having been reduced from 500 feet per minute to 300 fpm.
Even though I was switching my attention rapidly from instruments to what lay ahead, no distinctive cloud base or horizon came into view. At 300 feet I levelled off on instruments in what looked like smoky-grey cloud when I saw a small fishing boat that appeared to be suspended on its white wake in the grey murk where sea and cloud blended as one. Shortly thereafter I picked up dull white sand dunes directly ahead and in a moment I passed over the beach and runway. Gingerly I eased my way around to land fairly close behind Mike whom I had not seen until I rolled out on runway line-up. Fortunately there was no recurrence of canopy misting when I throttled back. Once out of the cockpit in hot humid air, the technicians plied us with ice-cold Cokes that we gulped down whilst rubbing sore butts and exchanging individual accounts of our hairy arrival.
Mogadishu’s runway was not suited to a full-formation take-off so we took off for the last leg in pairs. Once airborne, Bob reduced power and levelled off until Mike and I had come up on his starboard side. As soon as our climb was established, we entered cloud and remained there throughout the climb to 29,000 feet.
Soon the cloud gave way to cirrus and then cleared completely. It was a joy to open out into battle formation and feel relaxed after flying hundreds of miles in cloud. Below us was endless desert, which I was seeing for the first time in my life. The barren land of sand and rocks supporting a few clumps of brown scrub looked so uninviting that I found myself wondering why so much blood had been shed for this vast desolate land called Somalia.
The desert seemed to go on forever until we reached the mountainous region in the north. We crossed the coast at Berbera with Djibouti visible on our left. Out over the Gulf of Aden a surprisingly large number of vessels, trailing long wakes, headed to and from the Red Sea. Our descent commenced long before the Arabian coastline was visible.
When Aden Bay and the distinctive mass of Mount Shamsham came into view we remained in loose formation, long enough to take a look at the peninsula on which Mount Shamsham, Aden town and the suburb of Crater stood separated from the mainland by a narrow isthmus.
Across the entire width of this isthmus lay the runway of RAF Kormaksar with beach and sea at both ends. The only road linking the mainland to Aden ran right across the centre of the runway with RAF buildings spread out over a large area on the Aden side. Apart from the sea, everything looked just as dismal to me as the brown African desert behind us.
We ran in along the runway in echelon starboard for a standard formation break onto downwind. Whilst in the descending turn for landing, I noticed that the water was shallow for some distance out into Aden Bay. Later I was told that sharks favoured this particular patch, but in all the landings I made thereafter I never spotted one.
The moment I switched off the air-conditioner on landing I became aware of the heat and high humidity that had me sweating during the long taxi run to dispersals. The Commanding Officer of RAF Kormaksar and our ever-cheerful, shirtless sweating technicians welcomed us. The CO then led us to our poorly lit, dull-looking crew-room.
Next we were shown the aircrew changing-room. The stench from the sweat-stained flying overalls hanging on lines of hooks was overpowering. My first impression was that our RAF counterparts were not up on their hygiene but within a week I realised that our kit looked and smelled the same.
It was late afternoon so we were taken to our billets to settle in and clean up. We then went to the ‘Jungle Bar’ adjoining the Officers’ Mess. This was a large area under a trellised canopy covered by creepers where one could sit and enjoy a drink in good company under coloured lights with a gentle breeze coming from banks of electric fans. The RAF officers insisted that this was a cool time of the year and suggested we try Aden in July when sweat ran so freely that one only needed to urinate every third day, no matter how much one drank.
Our accommodation was good; four men sharing a room with plenty of fans and decent ablutions. Apart from the Jungle Bar, there was a large air-conditioned bar where drinks were served at amazingly low prices, Aden being a duty-free port.
It was in this bar that I first acquired a taste for beer because it was inexpensive and I found it to be the most effective thirst quencher. I enjoyed the fact that the beer did not intoxicate me at sea level as it did in Rhodesia at 5,000 feet. Presumably the high rate at which one’s body sweated had a part to play in this.
Some distance from base, beyond Aden town on the southern end of the peninsula was the Tarshayn Officers’ Club where we could take a swim in the sea in safety behind rusty pole-borne shark nets. The beach was clean, the water crystal-clear and tepid but the sun made daytime swimming so unpleasant for me that I only swam at night. Most of my visits to this club were with Bob Woodward who did not seem to be too popular with the other squadron pilots. I never did get to know why because I got on well with him. Bob, a thickset man of medium height, displayed amazing agility by frequently executing a string of seemingly effortless flick-flack somersaults along the beach.