I wanted to wash my hands but the basins were so filthy that I started to scrub one clean. When one of the officers noticed this he summoned an airman to do the job. From then on this basin remained spotless in a line of otherwise filthy ones and, in Portuguese, was marked ‘Visitors Only’.
The toilets were just as I had expected-bloody awful. Apart from the seats and bowls being filthy, the boxes that were provided for used toilet paper were full to overflowing. Peter and I nicknamed them ‘skid boxes’. To avoid using the loos, I attempted to go off into the bush beyond the earthen wall but was disallowed from going through the security gate because, apparently, FRELIMO snipers often operated close by.
Other than the ablutions, the base was clean, the food was fantastic and the Portuguese were as friendly as ever. Having Peter and me around was great for those wanting to practise their English. This was both heavy going and amusing. One officer complained of his sleep being regularly interrupted by a colleague who suffered ‘bad night horses’.
On our second night at Mueda my sleep was interrupted at around midnight by the sound of heavy explosions. Artillery shells then howled low overhead from the Army camp and exploded in an area just beyond the end of the runway as FRELIMO mortar bombs exploded in our base. I leapt out of bed so fast that I cut open my forehead on the steel bar of the bunk above me. I was first in the crude mortar bunker with Peter Cooke right behind me. The Portuguese officers were obviously used to the noise of artillery and incoming mortar bombs because they stopped to light cigarettes in the lighted passageway leading to the dark bunker then moved slowly down the steps into cover and safety.
No serious damage was caused in this short exchange and I was the only casualty on base. However, we had seen the burnt remains of two Harvards, one twin-Dornier, an Alouette III helicopter and a store showing that FRELIMO attacks had been successful in the past. At Mueda it was very obvious that the Portuguese Army’s war was separate from the Portuguese Air Force war. Not one Army officer was seen at the air base during our stay and we only got to visit the Army side because Peter and I requested to be taken there.
We were called to an operational briefing following lunch on our first day. I cannot speak for Peter Cooke, but I was in an alcoholic haze following a welcoming lunch that included too much Manica beer, wine and aguadente. The black-on-white map on the Ops Room wall looked as if it had been produced in the previous century because it was so basic with limited contour information and river-lines appeared only to approximate their true paths. Photographs taken the previous day by a Dornier recce pilot of a camp assigned as target for the following morning were handed out to six pilots. Shadows of trees and the angle at which the photographs had been taken made me realise that all had been taken during one close range low-level orbit.
A red arrow on the map pointed to the target. This was about fifty kilometres northwest of Mueda on the eastern bank of a prominent river. Destruction of the makeshift shelters (bashas) that covered a relatively small area under trees was to be by napalm. We learned that take-off was for “06:00 as usual, weather permitting”. Peter and I were told which pilots we were to accompany to observe the action.
The fact that 06:00 was the standard time for first sorties shook us because all FRELIMO camps must surely be abandoned by then as a matter of routine, particularly following low-level photo-recce sorties. As it happened, low thick radiation fog delayed take-off to around 08.30. Whilst we waited, breakfast was served on a verandah next to our billets. It consisted of a bowl of light-coloured soup in which a fried egg floated. A Portuguese bread roll (pao) and a lump of butter came on a side plate. Ignoring how others tackled this unusual meal, I put the fried egg into my buttered roll, consumed the soup then ate the delicious egg roll.
The rear cockpits of the Harvards in which Peter and I flew were almost totally stripped of their instruments. An inspection of other rear cockpits revealed a similar situation, the instruments having been removed to replace unserviceable ones in front cockpits. The Portuguese pilots nicknamed their Mk52 Harvards ‘F110’ because they climbed, cruised and descended at 110 knots. Immediately my pilot was airborne in the third position he turned steeply to port and, following the lead aircraft, orbited the airfield and Army base until over 2,000 feet above ground. This was to avoid flying near the lip of the high ground where FRELIMO’s anti-aircraft guns were sited. The guns were considered to be too dangerous to be taken out by the Air Force and the Army passed them off as an air problem. Unbelievable!
I had not been in a Harvard before and enjoyed flying with the hood rolled back because it made photography easy. As we were approaching the target there was excited babble between the pilots with much screeching in earphones due to overlaid transmissions. This was so different from the limited crisp procedures of my own force. The aircraft were positioned in long line astern with canopies closed when a steep dive was made well short of the target for low-level deliveries of two napalm bombs per aircraft.
Looking along one side of the cockpit past pilot and aircraft’s nose, I saw the first napalm tanks ignite in trees. About half a kilometre ahead the lead pilot was already in a climbing turn starboard to look over his shoulder to pass correction to the next in line. Both napalm bombs from the second aircraft landed with a splash and sent lines of flaming fuel along the surface of the river on which they landed.
I watched closely as we dropped our tanks and saw bashas in the area where they ignited. It was only possible to get an idea of the camp size when we pitched up in a climbing turn to watch following strikes land in the target area. Out of twelve bombs released only the latter eight were on target. We made one orbit climbing for height and noted that about one third of the bashas were burning, adding white smoke to the columns of black smoke from napalm gel that was still burning in patches along lines of fading red flame. No person or anti-aircraft fire was seen.
Back at base a steep spiral descent over the Army camp placed us on short finals for the runway. The aircraft turned off about two-thirds of the way down the runway’s length directly into camp through the rolled-back security gate, which closed behind the sixth aircraft.
At 10:00 we declined the offer of whisky. At 10:30 the offer was repeated and again declined. At 11:00 we accepted but asked for Manica beer instead. By lunch at 13:00 I was feeling on top of the world and this was heightened by wine for each of three courses, the main one being piri piri prawns. Lunch ended with aguadente. It was only then that Peter and I learned that we were to accompany a recce pilot on a post-strike assessment flight.
We flew in a Dornier piloted by a short stocky officer with a permanent smile on his round merry unshaven face. Peter sat next to him but I had to stand and brace myself using the front seats as anchors because there was no seat in the rear. My legs had to be set wide apart either side of a crude sprung-loaded door through which target markers and other small items were dropped. It ran along the centre of the rear fuselage floor and required very little pressure to open. Should I step on it or fall down, I would immediately fall free of the aircraft. I did not like this one bit but could not see any real problem so long as I retained my braced stance; but I did not know what lay ahead.