Oink being given a drink of beer by Air Force Radio Technician, Ray Hooper.
The Kariba Heights base had a variety of animals over time, two of which were confirmed alcoholics. A dog and a baboon visited the pubs every evening and wandered around begging for beer. The young soldiers poured portions of their drinks into bowls from which these two animals drank. It did not take too much to make either the dog or the baboon drunk yet they continued to be plied with beer until they disappeared into the night to sleep it off. Badly hungover next morning, these animals behaved differently but their plight was all too obvious. The dog slept in the darkest places indoors whilst the baboon spent much of the morning hunched up in the shade of a tree with his hands over his eyes emitting occasional grunts. By midday they were fine and in the evening they returned to the pub.
Fish may not necessarily rate as animals, but I found one fishing incident amusing. It involved an NCO of RLI who was a dedicated and capable fisherman. He invited another RLI colleague who had never fished before to accompany him in a small boat to do some fishing on Lake Kariba. This novice experienced all the frustrations of ‘bird’s nest’ tangles and hooking himself whilst attempting to cast his lure. Then, more by accident than skill, he hooked a small Tiger fish. The experienced fisherman warned him to be careful in boating his fish because of its razor-sharp teeth, but in his excitement the novice lost his top dentures, which flip-flopped down through the clear water until lost from sight in the dark depths. With first success having been achieved, the experienced fisherman let his friend continue as he prepared to fish for vundu. When he landed a medium-sized vundu, he hit on the idea of pulling his friend’s leg. He stuck the vundu a lethal blow to the head and placed his own dentures in the vundu’s large mouth. “Hey look, Charlie, this vundu has your false teeth.” His friend’s eyes lit up as he took the dentures saying, “Gee that’s great.” But then he looked at them again, and said, “No these aren’t mine!” and threw them over his shoulder. Flip-flop, down they went to join his own dentures in the watery depths.
Death of Don Annandale
SOUTH AFRICAN POLICE HELICOPTERS HAD been operating in Rhodesia ever since they first appeared during Operation Nickel. With further SAANC incursions giving rise to Ops Cauldron and Griffin, their numbers were increased to six SAP Alouettes, all of which were flown by South African Air Force pilots. Peter Briscoe had been one of these until, in January 1969, he became the first SAAF pilot to join our Air Force on direct entry. More were to follow his lead in later months. I ran Peter through the entire range of helicopter flying exercises to ensure that he was totally au fait with Rhodesian Air Force methods and standards. Since he was experienced on helicopters, this was an easy and pleasant task.
Along with SAP helicopters there were a few Cessna 185 aircraft (named Kiewiets—an African bird belonging to the Ground plover species) that undertook light communication work. SAAF pilots, some of whom were very junior, also piloted these aircraft. One of these young pilots was a menace because he was way too sure of himself. He delighted in beating up various locations, always coming down too low for his level of experience. Within his own service Lieutenant van Heerden was known as ‘Odd Job’—a nickname that suited him well.
The Makuti Hotel was sited on a hill with a steep drop away from the edge of the swimming pool. I was standing there in the late afternoon having a beer with Lieutenant Fanie Coetzee when we saw a low-flying Cessna coming straight towards us across the low ground. This was Odd Job who left his pull-up to clear the hill so late that his aircraft’s tail wheel touched a small tree, barely four metres from Fannie, as he zoomed past in a steep climb. The matter was immediately reported to the Officer Commanding FAF 2 who had received similar complaints before mine. But the admonitions given him by the SAAF Air Liaison Officer, on this and other occasions, seemed to go straight over his head.
Some time passed when Odd Job, then operating out of Thornhill, was tasked to fly the Station Armament Officer to Kutanga Range. As well as being the S. Arm. O, Flight Lieutenant Don Annandale was responsible for administering Kutanga Range, whose staff he visited regularly. When he had completed his work and was ready to return to Thornhill, Don learned that Odd Job had told the range staff he would be showing them a slow roll before heading for Thornhill.
Don refused to board the Cessna saying he would use road transport to get home. Odd Job assured Don that he had only been pulling the rangers’ legs and that he had no intention of rolling his aircraft. Relieved by this, Don climbed aboard.
Once the aircraft was airborne, Odd Job climbed for height and dived for a fast, low-level run past the master quadrant hut. This was standard practice and Don did not worry about it. But when the aircraft was climbing away from the pass, Odd Job commenced a slow roll. He reached the inverted position all right but then scooped into a steep dive in the second half of the roll. The aircraft was too low and struck the ground in a high-nose attitude with wings level. Odd Job died instantly.
Don was thrown through the windscreen over the propeller and flew through the air surrounded by burning fuel that followed him to where he came to rest. By the time the three black crew of the fire Jeep reached him, Don’s rich red hair and his clothing had been burned away and his skin was hanging in sheets from his blackened, bleeding body. Amazingly Don was on his feet and got into the front seat of the Jeep unassisted. He urged the shaken driver, “Get me to hospital—I’m dying.”
The driver set off for Que Que, which was forty minutes away. He drove as fast as the Jeep would go but fifteen minutes out from Que Que the vehicle failed to negotiate a road bend, left the tarmac paving and went into a broadside before flipping over as the wheels struck soft sand. Once again Don went flying and crashed down in soft sand and rolled to a halt with sand and dust embedded in his suppurating flesh. The three black firemen were unhurt.
A farmer driving from Que Que came upon this awful scene and immediately turned around to take Don to hospital. On his admission it was clear to attending doctors that there was no hope of his survival because Don had third degree burns to over 90% of his badly battered body. He survived a couple of agonising days during which time he bravely briefed his lovely wife Pat on exactly what she must do when he was gone. Don’s grieving family and the Air Force were badly shaken by the loss of this superb officer through the harebrained actions of a stupid pilot.
Recce training and Willie de Beer
GROUP CAPTAIN DICKY BRADSHAW RETURNED from a liaison visit to Portuguese forces operating against communist terrorist factions in Angola. Whilst there he was given a briefing on the visual reconnaissance methods the Portuguese Air Force had developed for slow fixed-wing aircraft operating at 1,500 feet above ground. Dicky was taken on a recce flight to see for himself and was very impressed by all he saw and learned. Upon his return to Salisbury he lectured a number of pilots in the matter of visual reconnaissance. But only in me did he find a pilot who was genuinely interested in all he had to say because I had already experienced some recce successes, albeit conducted at low level in helicopters.