Dingo Firestorm (24 page)

Help was at hand. The inventive Peter Petter-Bowyer was developing yet another new weapon, the Golf bomb, which would give the Hunter a lot more clout. PB had been studying fuel-air explosives, which the Americans were using to clear large areas of landmines. The massive blast pressure of the fuel-air bomb detonated unwanted mines over a wide radius. The American version used ethylene oxide, an expensive and unstable explosive.

PB, always driven to make something effective but more cheaply, decided to test an alternative: ammonium nitrate and fuel oil, known as ANFO. After many tests and modifications, PB and his team perfected an extremely good high-pressure weapon, which exploded and then imploded, causing lethal damage to any living thing in an area 95 × 135 metres. Anyone surviving the blast and the shrapnel would have ruptured eardrums and be badly stunned and disorientated.

Rich Brand was involved in the development of the Golf bomb, in particular in the aircraft bombing profile. The typical dive profile was to release the bombs at 4 500 feet, but Brand wanted to improve accuracy, which meant dropping them at a lower height. The solution he developed was known as the glide profile. This was a technique of approaching the target in the Hunter at 10 000 feet. Then, at 10 nautical miles from the target, the pilot throttled back to idle, in effect turning the jet into a silent glider. The descending Hunter would then pinpoint the target, turn in and commence a 60-degree dive, releasing the bombs at 3 000 feet above ground level, followed by a six-G-force pull-out, which gave just enough margin for the aircraft to avoid flying into its own bomb blast.

‘The advantage of the glide attack was that the aircraft would not be seen or heard until the pull-up, by which time it was too late to escape,’ said Brand.

Dive-bombing accuracy without modern technology is largely proportional to the steepness of the dive and how close the aircraft can get to the target. In other words, the steeper the dive and the lower the pull-out, the better. However, this has obvious dangers because while the pilot is concentrating on keeping the target in his bombsights, it is very easy to inadvertently pay less attention to the altimeter. The most serious case of this scenario is known as target fixation, when the pilot flies straight into the ground.

Fortunately, this problem is usually spotted and resolved early during training. Nevertheless, the risk of pulling out late at only 3 000 feet in a 60-degree dive is high: a few seconds too late, and the pilot will almost certainly overstress the aircraft during the ‘oh shit’ pull-out.

Brand had a brilliant solution. He asked the instrument technicians to install a small additional altimeter next to the sights. Coupled to this altimeter was a light that would start flashing at the optimum altitude. This enabled the pilot to focus more closely on accuracy without having to constantly scan the altimeter. This invention – an early type of head-up display now common in military aircraft – greatly increased dive-bombing accuracy.

No. 1 Squadron often performed fly-pasts, a wonderful spectacle. The sight of a squadron of Hunters approaching rapidly, silently and in tight formation would impress even the most aerophobic observer. The first sound to reach the audience on the ground is the howl of multiple ‘blue notes’, the term used for the sound emanating from the 30-mm cannon ports, like a greatly amplified version of blowing over the mouth of an empty Coca-Cola bottle. Following the blue note comes the sound of the jet tearing through the air and then, finally, the deafening roar of the Rolls-Royce Avon 207 engines as the formation passes by – a truly memorable show.

On 27 June 1977, at the height of the war, No. 1 Squadron was asked to do a fly-past for the opening of Parliament. Very few realised at the time that this would be the last opening of the Rhodesian Parliament. Coincidentally, the fly-past also commemorated Squadron Leader Rich Brand’s 1 000th hour of flying Hunters. The proud squadron leader briefed his team, Mark Aitcheson, Cocky Benecke, Dave Bourhill, Martin Lowrie, John Annan, Chris Abraham, Jock McGregor and Mark Vernon: ‘Gentlemen, the mission is to fly a diamond nine at the opening of Parliament in Salisbury at 11:00 local time. To polish up, we will route to Bulawayo in tight formation, do a fly-past over the city, then proceed to Salisbury.’

In a wartime economy hampered by economic sanctions, this was an expensive way to celebrate, but it did have two spin-offs. Firstly, it showed the world that Rhodesia was still capable of putting up a formation of nine Hawker Hunters, a feat deemed impossible by some RAF ‘experts’ in Britain. Secondly, it gave Brand and his pilots a chance to practise precise timing over ‘target’ and brush up on their formation skills.

The people of Bulawayo rushed out to see the perfect diamond nine formation go by. The Hunters then flew north-east for 28 minutes to Norton, a farming town south-west of Salisbury named after the family brutally massacred there in the First Chimurenga. As the formation passed over the Umfuli River, Brand called: ‘Red Section, tighten up, three minutes to IP.’ Norton was Brand’s initial point (IP), the final turning point to bring the formation onto a magnetic heading of 085 degrees and straight over Cecil Square, the park in front of Parliament, with its gardens designed in the form of the Union Jack. This was the spot where Rhodes’s pioneers first hoisted the Union flag and named the place Salisbury 81 years earlier.

‘Lead turning right … now,’ Brand called as the formation approached Norton, and he eased slowly into a right turn. Leading a formation looks like the easy job, as everyone else has to work hard to stay in position, but it’s not. The leader must fly very smoothly with accurate speeds, positions and altitudes. Any sudden corrections are amplified, causing the formation to become ragged and untidy.

‘Target one minute ahead, nice and tight please’ was Brand’s final command. At precisely 11:00, the Hunters, in a perfect diamond nine, flew directly over Cecil Square to the delight of the large crowd gathered to witness the formal opening of Parliament on that clear winter’s day in 1977.

Just three months later, the same aircraft, armed to the teeth, would open the attack on Robert Mugabe’s ZANLA headquarters in Mozambique.

As the crow flies, the distance from New Sarum to the helicopter assembly point at Lake Alexander is 198 kilometres to the south-east. The Alouettes were fully fuelled to save time at the rendezvous, which meant the helicopters were heavy and slow, initially managing to fly at only 130 kilometres per hour. But as fuel burnt off, the machines became lighter and faster. Allowing for dog-legs to provide deception, the total flying time to the lake would be about one hour and 20 minutes.

For Dave Jenkins, peering over the barrels of the twin Browning machine guns in the command helicopter, the flight to Lake Alexander was ‘like any other call-out’. For Norman Walsh, piloting his first operational flight in many a year, the feeling was similar: ‘It felt as if I had never been out of it.’

The sun was quickly changing from a red ball to a brilliant spotlight in the sky, shining into the Perspex bubbles of the Alouettes and causing some discomfort to the pilots as they headed south-east. Twenty minutes after lifting off, the first gaggle of helicopters passed over Longlands Dam, just north of the thriving town of Marandellas. After a similar interval, the helicopters crossed the main Salisbury–Umtali road a few kilometres north of Rusape. Soon, the topography started changing from hilly, rolling farmland to larger, bald granite features. The mountains of the Eastern Highlands were looming in the distance. This was territory both Robinson and Walsh knew well.

As the formation skirted the highest terrain near Osbourne Dam, Walsh could see the deep green of the Stapleford Forest area; he knew they were close to their refuelling point. He also noticed something he did not want to see: low cloud hugging the mountains in the distance towards Mozambique.

Keith Samler, accompanied by his SB colleague Ken Milne and the head of SB, Mike Edden, drove to Lake Alexander in Samler’s car. The Triumph 2000 pulled into the lakeside picnic area just after 06:00, as the last section of helicopters was landing. Samler took out his Super 8 movie camera and filmed the landing helicopters in the early-morning mountain air. Samler would film parts of both phases of Operation Dingo, the only moving record of the raids.

The last trucks bringing in the RLI 2 Commando heli-borne troops arrived. The clatter of rotors, whine of turbines, revving truck engines and people milling about in the dust gave the impression of absolute chaos, but there was order in the din. The RLI troops were positioned in front of their specific helicopter landing spot, in the same order they would be dropped off at the target. The SB men and other support staff were told which helicopters they would be flying in. Things quietened a lot once the last gaggle of helicopters had landed at 06:15 and wound down their engines.

The long section of gently curving dirt road at Lake Alexander that the planners had chosen as the assembly point worked well, except for one thing – the helicopters were spread a long way apart. The first helicopter was nearly half a kilometre from the last. This in itself was not a problem, but while the techs were refuelling the Alouettes, the pilots needed to gather around their squadron leader’s machine for a final briefing. This meant some serious jogging to get to and from Griff’s helicopter.

Mark McLean, flying a K-car, was one of the unfortunates who had to make up a lot of ground to catch up with the lead helicopter: ‘All the helicopters went to Lake Alexander and filled the LZ. I was parked well back, and had to cover quite a distance. We then got together for a chat, smoke and nervous pee. It was one of those situations where everyone was pretending to be casual, but they were quite tense.’

Harold Griffiths delivered his final briefing, essentially a high-level recap, and he once again emphasised the need for precise timing. He warned them that the low cloud would get worse as they crossed the higher ground between Lake Alexander and Mozambique. ‘Right, gentlemen, let’s go.’

It was 06:45, plenty of time for the pilots to reach their machines, strap in and be ready for the call to start at 07:00. Griffiths had allowed enough time for the wind-up and sequential take-off, with a little extra added for insurance, taking into account the old adage that losing time in the air is easy, making it up can be impossible.

The enormous number of brooding Alouette helicopters in the tranquil picnic ground was quite a sight. It was just before 07:00, and the tension was electric – this was the real thing. The 40 RLI attack troops and officers sat in the 10 trooping Alouette G-cars; the 10 K-cars and command heli were also ready.

In the command helicopter, Brian Robinson waited quietly; Norman Walsh chewed frantically on his pencil as he cast a worried eye at the low cloud hugging the mountains to the east. These 21 helicopters were the attack force, which would fly straight to the target area. The 22nd helicopter tagging along carried the admin base controller, Peter Petter-Bowyer. The remaining 10 Polo helicopters, the borrowed machines from South Africa, were on standby to fly men and equipment to and from the admin base; they were not permitted to enter the target area.

For the second time that morning, the lead helicopter’s banshee whine shattered the silence as it started, catalysing the others into action. Soon there was a cacophony reverberating off the trees and cliff faces. One by one, the rotors started turning as all 22 helicopters wound up. They were all ready when Griff lifted the collective lever, bringing the lead K-car into a hover. After a few vital checks, he eased the cyclic stick forward, countering the increased torque with his pedals.

The morning coolness gave the thin air a bit more viscosity. The helicopter started moving forward, flying low over the ground, initially above a dirt road and then skimming over the treetops of the deepgreen forest – not a good place for an engine failure. One by one, in strict order and at precise intervals to allow for safe separation, the rest of the armada lifted off and followed the squadron leader.

Seeing such a vast number of helicopters flying off was a magnificent sight, something etched forever into the minds of those on the ground. Watching the departure somewhat nostalgically was Wing Commander Rex Taylor, who, a few days later, would be manning a major refuelling point deep inside Mozambique on the second phase of Operation Dingo.

Taylor was told to drive to Lake Alexander with his flying kit to be on standby as a reserve helicopter pilot. ‘Before dawn on Wednesday 23 November, I drove to Lake Alexander and floated around waiting for Wing Commander Ted Stevenson to send me off in a chopper.’

With the mixed emotions of badly wanting to fly, yet not wanting to have to replace an injured pilot, Taylor watched the last of the helicopters depart, and waited … and waited.

An hour passed, and then the sound of Dakota engines invaded Taylor’s thoughts: ‘I was overwhelmed when I counted every Dakota that we’d sent out earlier, now flying low over Lake Alexander on their way home. My emotions were high; I even shed a tear. Knowing the anti-aircraft weaponry at Chimoio and the low altitude at which the Dakotas flew, I had believed that the chances of survival of the whole squadron were slim.’

Taylor’s mood changed quickly: ‘I was suddenly fired up and buoyant – if the Daks could get away with it, the rest of the aircraft would too! By midday, it was apparent that my services in an Alouette would not be required and I set off in my service Renault 10 to Mount Darwin.’

What Taylor could not have known was that the departing helicopters were having trouble crossing the border. Squadron Leader Griffiths knew that the cloud would be covering the high ground, so he needed to find a valley deep enough to reach below the cloud base. Griff had already marked out a valley on his map, one that was deep and required only a minor deviation from track.

Skirting the highest ground, the line of helicopters, resembling a gigantic snake, followed the leader into the valley. Griff noticed with mounting concern that the low cloud was getting worse. As he flew down the valley, the cloud closed up, shutting the doorway into Mozambique. Griff had no alternative but to turn back. He banked through almost 180 degrees, and, like a snake’s body following the head, the Alouettes followed his path.