The exercise was a great success in so far as proving the VR. On the flying side it had also been a success save for the loss of the Canberra and the exercise finalé. This finalé included a series of airstrikes on the Army Weapons Range at Inkomo. Almost every weapon-carrying aircraft was involved, all approaching from different directions to conduct independent squadron attacks on targets assigned by grid reference only. Mistakenly, Air HQ invited top brass from Army HQ and Police General Headquarters to witness these strikes. The position selected as an ideal observation platform for the ground party was the wall of a small dam that would obviously be one of the reference points some pilots would need to confirm their targets. It so happened, however, that there were other dams of similar size close by.
The Hunter and Canberra strikes went off fine. 4 Squadron was next in line but had the big brass diving for cover when the formation erred by attacking a point very close by. The strike leader had selected the correct point relative to the dam wall— but this was the wrong dam!
All the spectators were up on their feet laughing nervously and dusting themselves down when they were forced to dive for cover again as Vampires unleashed rockets close by. Never again would Air HQ dream of exposing other services to exercises intended to test the force. There were many red faces that day but, when the crunch came, Air HQ would have every reason to be proud of all squadrons’ performances.
Staff College
IN LATE JANUARY 1971 KEITH Corrans and I were sent to South Africa to attend the South African Air Force Staff College (SAAFCOL) course. Prior to Rhodesia’s Unilateral Declaration of Independence, our officers, accompanied bywives and children, underwent Staff College training at RAF Bracknell in Britain. RAF staff courses were designed to run for twelve months with compulsory time-off every weekend for family affairs and rest.
Although the subject matter of the South African course was taken directly from the RAF, a different approach had been adopted. The American technique of pressurising officers was applied by compressing the British course into ten and a half months. This meant having to work seven days a week with only two free days during the entire course; consequently heart attacks amongst older officers undergoing SAAFCOL were not uncommon. Because the South African course was less than twelve months, Rhodesian wives and families were not permitted to accompany husbands, so Sue Corrans, Beryl and the children had to stay home.
For me it was a gruelling experience, particularly as I had been given only three months’ notice to learn Afrikaans having only learned French at school. Keith had studied Afrikaans at Churchill High School so he was better prepared than me. Although we had been led to believe that half of all lectures and presentations would be in Afrikaans and half in English, it turned out to be 73% in Afrikaans. This placed me at a distinct disadvantage, particularly when advanced Afrikaans was being spoken so quickly that I could not even pick up the trend of what was being said. Fortunately, Keith and I were allowed to write appreciations and papers in English.
Because we worked all day every day and late into the night, Keith and I decided to take in a movie every Saturday to get a short break from never-ending studies and tasks. Only once did I go out for a night on the town and this turned out to be a costly error. A notoriously naughty SAAF pilot and an equally mischievous SA Army major invited me to accompany them for dinner at a posh restaurant. At this dinner I drank too much and was introduced to the art of eating carnations and other flowers that decorated our table. Following a good meal and having had more whisky than I was used to, I helped these crazy fellows swallow every one of about twenty goldfish swimming in one of the restaurant’s beautiful fish tanks. Not caring that our shirtsleeves were soaking wet right up to our armpits, we scooped out the highly prized Chinese Fantails whenever nobody was looking. These we swallowed head first and washed them down with a slug of whisky.
The sensation of a panicking fish swimming down one’s gullet before thrashing around for a short while in the stomach is not one I would have chosen. On that night, however, I had no difficulty in meeting the unspoken challenge. Next morning things caught up with us when the restaurant owner pitched up at the college demanding replacement of his prized fish.
The Afrikaans language was a major problem for me even though I could usually follow the gist of lectures. But there were occasions when I became lost the moment professors and other high-speaking lecturers got past the greeting ‘Goeie môre here’. Following such lectures I was surprised to find that my South African colleagues had experienced great difficulties in understanding new words and phrases of the still-expanding Afrikaans language. It was during one such presentation when I noticed that Major Blackie Swart dealt with his boredom in a very strange way.
Blackie was a very tall, slim, balding man who sat in front and to one side of me. With his right hand he took hold of his right eyelashes and, pulling gently, stretched the eyelid forward. When his eyelid sprang back, Blackie brought his fingers to his lips and made small sweeping motions. If he felt a lash tickle his lip he placed it on a matchbox lying next to his pipe on the broad wooden arm of his chair. This he repeated until no more loose lashes came away, whereupon he changed hands to subject his left eye to the same treatment. Next he turned attention to hairs in both ear-holes and the pile of hairs on his matchbox became visible to me. Then came the hairs in his nostrils. These were subjected to fiercer treatment as hand and head jerked in opposite directions. Wiping of eyes to remove consequential tears followed every successful extraction.
When our lecture programme showed that one particular professor was returning, I asked my colleagues if they had noticed what Blackie did when he was bored. None had but all eyes were on him as he went through his strange ritual. None of us dared look at another whilst the lecture was in progress for fear of breaking into uncontrolled laughter.
Sue Corrans and Beryl flew to South Africa to be with us for our end-of-course party. All men were dressed in full mess kit and wives wore long evening dresses. Beryl, dressed in a lovely sari, drew disparaging stares from the older women but my SAAF coursemates and their young wives thought she looked wonderful. Before the party ended Major Paul Nesser had somehow persuaded Beryl to bid the senior officers’ wives ‘good night’ in Afrikaans. His strange sense of humour was typical for his breed and I had suffered from this on a few occasions. But I was not aware of what had gone on until I noticed the horrified expressions on the faces of the ladies as they passed Beryl. I shot across and asked her what she was saying.
“Leave me alone. I am saying ‘good night’ in Afrikaans.”
“Yes Beryl, but what is it that you are actually saying?”
“I am saying ‘harn kark’, which is Afrikaans for ‘good night’.”
“Damn it Beryl, not only are you pronouncing the words incorrectly, the words ‘gaan kak’ mean ‘go shit yourself’.”
It was an enormous relief to get back to Rhodesia and have time to spend with my family.
Debbie and Paul were equally pleased to be home on their six-week Christmas break from boarding school.
Following the successful completion of my staff course, I had naturally expected to be posted into a staff position in Air HQ. So it was something of a surprise to learn that I was to take command of No 4 Squadron at Thornhill.