Three PV1 Venturas (twin-engined bombers) came into our view as we approached the target. They were flying long line astern at about 6,000 feet and we were at 2,000 feet. We saw them enter into a steep dive and release six 500-pound bombs from around 3,000 feet. All the bombs exploded in an area of large trees, creating visible shock-waves that radiated outwards from the bright orange flash of each explosion. The resultant bangs that reached us in the noisy Dornier were dull; like the thud of footballs bouncing on concrete.
As the third Ventura pulled out of his dive our bonny pilot bunted into a dive that had me hanging on for dear life. He levelled out with high ‘G’ that almost collapsed my legs. The pilot then flew below the overhang of high trees either side of a long curved passage through a forest, firing pairs of 37mm Sneb rockets as he made a casual visual inspection right and left into forest where the bombs had exploded.
My eyes were wide open with fear of striking the overhanging branches or being hit by shrapnel from the 37mm Sneb rockets exploding just ahead of us. I saw nothing else in that first pass. Two more ‘dicing with death’ low passes were made through the same passage terrifying me no less than the first but at least I saw something of what our pilot was interested in. It looked pretty dark under the forest of huge trees that flashed by and many bashas were evident along the entire length of our run. It surprised me that not one was burning and no soul was seen.
We accompanied the Harvards on further attacks but declined offers to ride with the crazy Dornier pilot again. Nevertheless we were interested to know why such a dangerous method of checking out strikes was necessary. The answer was simple; the Army had no interest in assisting the Air Force to establish the effectiveness of its airstrikes. Unbelievable!
The most interesting aspect of our visit to the Army base was the huge vehicle park, half of which was a graveyard for many destroyed vehicles. Serviceable vehicles, mainly Berliot and Unimogs, were adorned with a variety of emblems. One Berliot had affixed to its front grill the longest pair of ox horns I have ever seen. Its driver was a coloured man who spoke good English and was happy to tell us about ‘Hell’s Run’, the route from Mueda to the coast.
It took a whole day for each resupply convoy to reach Moçimboa da Praia. The following day was used to load and the third day to return to Mueda. Receiving double pay to compensate for the danger they faced on every trip were volunteer drivers who made the round trip on a regular basis. Officers were required to remove their rank tabs so as not to draw FRELIMO sniper attention to themselves. The aggressiveness of the Makonde operating against the Portuguese convoys had been enhanced by devious techniques taught them by the Chinese instructors in Tanzania. We were given two examples.
A Portuguese Army boot, filled to overflowing with chicken blood, had been placed in the centre of the road with a trail of blood leading off beyond the verge. The lead vehicle stopped to investigate. The investigating soldier then hurried down the line of vehicles to show the boot to the convoy officer who wore no rank insignia. BANG! The sniper had waited for the officer to be identified then took him out with one shot.
A particularly nasty incident involved a horrible trap the Chinese had dreamed up. The lead vehicle in an unusually large convoy was brought to a halt by a command-detonated mine. Typically the convoy bunched up as all following vehicles came to a halt. All the soldiers and drivers had debussed to take up defensive positions when a ripple of small explosions ran down the edge of the road along the entire length of the convoy. These small charges released millions of angry bees from the plastic bags in which they had been held captive. Not one person escaped multiple bee stings that resulted in the death of a huge proportion of the men due to their distance from medical facilities. We were told that the ‘bee ambush’ was responsible for Mozambique’s greatest number of casualties from a single incident.
Separate written reports submitted by Peter and me on our return to Rhodesia were surprisingly similar to those submitted by six Rhodesian Army officers who also visited Mueda. In particular the information we had gleaned emphasised the seriousness of the threat posed to Rhodesia from FRELIMO’s second front in the Tete Province.
Back in JPS I asked John Shaw one day if I could submit a paper I had written on my personal opinion of what should be done about the Mozambique situation. He read the draft and burst into laughter saying, “This will get the OCC pretty excited.” Nevertheless, he agreed that he and I should present it to Mick McLaren. Mick did not read far before he asked angrily what right had we to say the Portuguese would collapse, and who the hell were we to suggest that Rhodesia and South Africa should take over friendly Mozambique’s territory south of the Zambezi. The paper found its way into the shredder but I retained a copy for many years beyond the time the Portuguese did finally collapse. We were given a not-too-unkind telling-off and asked never again to waste time on work not tasked by OCC. John Shaw took the telling-off with a fixed expression on his face and never let on that I had written the paper.
Medical hitch
I BECAME CONCERNED ABOUT A NASTY-LOOKING black growth on the mid-upper thigh of my right leg. If subjected to sunlight when swimming it would subside and turn red but it became bigger and blacker in no time at all. I was sent by the Air Force doctor to see a specialist who would not even allow me time to go home for pyjamas and toothbrush but committed me to hospital immediately. The specialist surgeon told me the growth appeared to him to be a malignant melanoma that had to be removed without delay. He explained that he would have to remove the entire upper muscle from knee to hip together with the glands in my groin. “Don’t worry, you should learn to walk again within nine months.” I was horrified, believing this spelled an end to my flying career.
When readied for theatre and very drowsy from the pre-op drugs, a very brash individual accompanied by two nurses came to my bedside. He demanded to see my decorations. In my dopey state I said, “I don’t wear decorations on pyjamas,” whereupon Doctor Gregg, a radiologist, pulled back the bed sheet and pointed to my leg. He inspected the growth from every angle and reaching for a marker pen said, “If you do have a problem here I do not want to have to deal with a large wound.” He then drew a line around the spot in the shape of an eye, saying this was the limit of the muscle section that would be removed down to bone level. He departed saying, “Do not be concerned, you will fly again.”
In a small passage outside the operating theatre I had been waiting for ages on a wheeled trolley when a matron passed by and slapped a file on my chest. More time went by so I decided to see what my file said. I was amazed to find that I was Mrs Somebody-or-other and that I was about to have a hysterectomy. I called a passing nurse and, showing her the file, offered to prove I was not a woman.
When I was coming around from the anaesthetic, I felt my leg and groin and was delighted to find a relatively small dressing where Dr Gregg had done his artwork. For the next three days I walked without pain or limp going up and down the passageways visiting people, three of whom I knew. Squadron Leader Rob Gaunt was in for cartilage removal, Reverend Frank Mussell, father of Frank and John, was in for cancer treatment and Flight Lieutenant Paddy Rice was suffering the indignities and pain that accompany a piles operation.