Dingo Firestorm (18 page)

The door was now open for biggest clash of the war.

Brian Robinson did not have sufficient SAS troops to envelop the targets during Operation Dingo; he would have to rely on other corps. He had no hesitation choosing his old unit, where he had received his first commission as a second lieutenant: the Rhodesian Light Infantry. The crack Fireforce commandos would supplement the SAS nicely.

The SAS and RLI had something in common: Peter Walls had commanded both units. He was the first man to command the Rhodesian SAS, although at the time it was a squadron of the British Special Air Services.

In the early 1950s, the SAS was resurrected from David Stirling’s original SAS, which had been disbanded after World War II, to enter the Korean War. Two squadrons, A and B, were formed from volunteers under Brigadier Mike Calvert, who then went to Rhodesia to recruit more volunteers, which resulted in the formation of C Squadron. One of the Rhodesian volunteers was Peter Walls, a Sandhurst-trained officer, who had served with the Black Watch before returning to his native land.

As it turned out, the SAS was not required in Korea; instead, the Far East volunteers were sent to Malaya to fight communist insurgents during the Malayan Emergency, which also became known as the War of the Running Dogs. The SAS unit thus became known as the Malayan Scouts, and later 22 SAS.

The plan was to send the Rhodesians to South-East Asia under the temporary command of Lieutenant Peter Walls. ‘They said to me: “You will be made a temporary captain, and wear three pips with no extra pay. When you get there, a British Army captain will be put in command.”’

With great fanfare, the 100 men in jungle gear marched past Salisbury’s Cecil Square to the railway station, where over 3 000 well-wishers had gathered to see them off. And they had another memorable sendoff when their ship sailed from Durban for South-East Asia.

The men could feel the air getting hotter and muggier as the ship steamed eastwards across the Indian Ocean. By the time they reached the Andaman Sea, the humidity was so high that the sweat never seemed to evaporate, and it got worse as they passed down the Strait of Malacca towards their destination, the island of Singapore, protruding from the southern tip of the Malayan peninsula, just one degree north of the equator.

The final leg of the journey for the Rhodesians was a train ride from Singapore to Dusun Tua, near the Malayan capital, Kuala Lumpur. The train lurched across the causeway linking Singapore to the mainland, the very same causeway over which the Imperial Japanese Army had poured nine years earlier to inflict the worst military defeat Britain had sustained since the Battle of Isandlwana against the Zulus. The causeway was a sombre reminder to Walls and his men that the Commonwealth forces were not invincible. They would be facing a determined enemy – the Chinese communists, who were using terror as a brutal weapon to try to force Britain to relinquish control of Malaya.

At Dusun Tua, Walls learnt that the SAS had decided that these colonials from Rhodesia would not put up with a British commander, ‘so they made me an acting major and I was only 23 at the time, a boy amongst all these decorated and formerly high-ranking officers,’ said Walls.

It was a steep learning curve for the acting major. He learnt how to handle the jungle and manage his men in tough conditions. Discipline was a big issue, not helped by the fact his commanding officer, Brigadier Mike Calvert – a brilliant counter-insurgency officer – was investigated for misconduct. Calvert was dismissed from the British Army.

Walls managed to weed out and send home the bad apples in C Squadron. Slowly but surely, he and his men got to grips with the modus operandi of the Chinese insurgents, which wasn’t easy in such thick tropical jungle.

In 1952, when his squadron was operating in the Cameron Highlands of Malaya, he lost his first man in action. ‘We were advancing on a bandit camp when a sentry spotted us. Corporal Vic Visagie was walking just ahead of me carrying a British Army–issue map case. I think because of the case the sentry thought he was the officer and shot him between the eyes.’ It was an awful shock to Walls, and made him wonder whether he had been too keen to attack the bandits, which may have led to some carelessness. Visagie’s death taught Walls the importance of moving silently – a discipline that enabled his unit to chalk up enemy kills without further losses to C Squadron.

It was in Malaya that Walls noticed a corporal, a former post office signalman, who had potential. His name was Ron Reid-Daly. ‘I promoted him to sergeant above a staff-corps man, who was pretty bitter. Reid-Daly became my right-hand man in many ways; he had a knack that others didn’t have.’ Reid-Daly would go on to command the Selous Scouts in the Rhodesian War.

One of the most uncomfortable experiences for Walls was when he discovered that a blood-sucking river leech had lodged itself inside his urethra. ‘This leech had gone up my whatnot and I tried to get it out but couldn’t. I started getting desperate, as it was going further up. One of the old Ibans [Dyaks] working with us stepped forward, took me off and got it out. I was so grateful to him.’

Walls was awarded the MBE in recognition of the contribution C Squadron SAS had made in Malaya.

Back in Rhodesia, his career continued on an upward path, and in 1964 he was appointed commanding officer of the RLI, a new regiment established in 1961. The RLI was formed during the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland, and its initial instructors were drawn from the British Army. In 1965, under Walls’s command, the RLI became a commando battalion divided into subunits, or commandos. The RLI, also known as ‘The Saints’, became very adept at counter-insurgency, making their mark as probably the best heli-borne troops in the world. They also established themselves as a crack parachute outfit when the Dakota was added to the Fireforce mix. The RLI almost certainly carried out more offensive parachute operations than any other unit in the world. The statistics speak for themselves: the RLI wiped out about 150 guerrillas for each man it lost in action, whereas the average for all Rhodesian forces was about ten guerrillas to one Rhodesian soldier.

‘Commanding the RLI was probably the happiest time of my soldiering career,’ said Walls.

The bad news for Mugabe’s ZANLA was that these two crack units – the SAS and RLI – would be combining to assault its headquarters at New Farm, Chimoio, and the ZANLA Tembue base. The guerrilla movement was in for a torrid time.

‘If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.’

– K
HALIL
G
IBRAN

Operation Dingo relied heavily on the element of surprise. Secrecy had to be paramount. ‘Keeping the operational planning confidential,’ said Norman Walsh, ‘was one of the biggest challenges.’

Both he and Brian Robinson fretted that the plan would be leaked, especially as rumours suggested there was a mole in high places. Their concern turned to relief, however, on the day of the briefing; the secret was apparently still a secret. Norman Walsh recalled: ‘Due to the uphill climb of getting to this point, we were pleased and relieved.’

The top-secret Dingo plan was restricted to a select few, and even then only revealed in parts on a need-to-know basis. Peter Petter-Bowyer (PB) was one of those select few. Norman Walsh had shown him aerial photographs of the Chimoio HQ complex as far back as January 1977 because Walsh needed PB’s advice on the choice of weapons for an airborne attack.

Over the months leading up to Dingo, Walsh met regularly with PB, yet it was not until the last minute that PB learnt that the attack would include ground troops.

‘Norman had not mentioned the use of ground forces until, at short notice, I learnt that I was to be the admin base commander for both operations, and that I was to attend a two-phase briefing at New Sarum on Tuesday 22 November,’ PB admitted.

One problem with secrecy is that those who are kept in the dark become cheesed off. And some did. Norman Walsh remembered one of many cases: ‘Randy du Rand was furious with me that I had not confided in him. He was officer commanding of flying at Sarum at the time and he felt that I should have trusted him. I did trust him, but secret was secret. No squadron commanders were briefed before the major briefing.’

Even in the field, secret was secret. The main helicopter staging base at Lake Alexander was in the middle of an operational area commanded by Major John Peirson, officer commanding of the 6th Independent Company, based in Umtali. Peirson recalled:

One Wednesday afternoon in late November 1977, we had some spare time so my second in command, Captain Gavin Rawson, who was not only a very good fisherman, but a very lucky fisherman too, suggested we go up to Lake Alexander to catch some bass. As we came over the ridge by the lake, I was astonished to see a lot more than the eight helicopters I knew the Rhodesian Air Force possessed. Someone of senior rank came over asking what the hell we were doing in the area. As Gavin and I were in uniform and driving an army Land Rover, I retorted, ‘I am in command of this area, what are
you
doing here?’

Peirson and Rawson were politely asked to leave, without even getting a chance to wet their lures. Said Peirson:

As officer commanding the area, it peeved me that I had not been told of the op. Although I knew there were good reasons for this, I felt that the area should at least have been frozen to prevent my troops inadvertently walking in. My dissatisfaction was compounded by the fact that I had recently presided over two boards of inquiry into accidental deaths due to confusion over frozen areas.

Nevertheless, ‘secret is secret’ applied to everyone, even those having to perform vital functions before the op began. A good example was the helicopter recovery and repair facility at Lake Alexander, which needed to be established before the op started. Leading that effort was First Warrant Officer Charles Penney of the RhAF. ‘My boss, Squadron Leader Derek Utton, told me to take helicopter spares, a full helicopterrecovery kit, tools and ammunition to FAF 8 [Grand Reef Airbase near Umtali], where I would be further briefed,’ recalls Penney. ‘I had no idea why we needed so many spares, which included a number of sets of main rotor blades, tail rotor blades, engines and general spares.’

Penney led the convoy of three trucks out of New Sarum Airbase on 22 November, the day before the operation (D-day minus 1). ‘When we neared Rusape, I overtook a large air force convoy also heading east. We gave them a friendly wave and proceeded to Grand Reef.’

Two hours after Penney arrived, the large convoy pulled in, and Penney was instantly summoned to the ops room. ‘I was crapped all over by Jack Lewis-Walker for passing the convoy. He said I was supposed to have been part of it – which was news to me. Anyway, we were still told nothing other than to leave at midnight for Lake Alexander to be on standby at first light.’

To make sure Penney didn’t overtake any more convoys, his truck was placed at the front, right behind the escorting armoured car. ‘We made camp near the lake in a clearing above and to the west of the public picnic area and then got a few hours of sleep. Just before 06:00, helicopters started landing in dribs and drabs from different directions. I eventually counted 32, yet still nobody would tell us what was going on.’

The answer was simple: Penney’s group was there to recover downed helicopters. A casualty rate of at least 10 per cent was expected, so it was anticipated that his team would have to recover at least two downed Alouette helicopters.

To maintain the top-secret environment of the op for as long as possible, Robinson and Walsh decided that all the key participants would attend one mass briefing at New Sarum Airbase on Tuesday 22 November – the day before the operation. Pulling more than 200 soldiers from their operational areas at short notice and transporting them to Salisbury would most certainly attract attention and add grist to the rumour mill. The strongest rumour, probably planted, was that the raid was going to be on a ZIPRA base in Zambia.

Once the men were in the confines of New Sarum, they would be quarantined, with no access to telephones. The corporals’ mess would be designated for all ranks, and stretchers with blankets would be laid out in the aircraft hangars.

Virtually all the available helicopters would be withdrawn from Fireforce ops and fly in to New Sarum at the same time to be serviced and made ready for Dingo. This meant that 22 Alouettes would arrive at New Sarum on the same afternoon. Another 10 Alouettes, discreetly loaned to Rhodesia by South Africa – probably without Vorster’s knowledge – would supplement them. Then all the operational Vampires would fly in. Anyone just glancing across the runway from the main civilian airport would guess something big was about to happen.

Dave Jenkins, the helicopter technician who was chosen to fly with Norman Walsh and Brian Robinson in the command helicopter, recalled:

I was deployed to Malapati [near the south-east border with Mozambique], flying with Mike Mulligan, Kevin Peinke and Nigel Lamb operating with the SAS. On 21 November, we were recalled to New Sarum and, on arrival, we suspected that something was brewing when we realised that all the choppers appeared to be returning to base, though nothing was let on to us. The first we knew about Op Dingo was when we all attended the briefing.

The same code of secrecy applied to the few reservists called up for Dingo. Mark McLean, a highly experienced pilot, resigned from the air force in 1973 after 10 years of service to pursue his own interests. He did what most young people did in those days – he hopped on a plane and worked his way around Europe for a year. Then he returned to Rhodesia to begin a career in real estate. He worked for Fox & Carney and quickly became the agency’s top residential property salesman.

Working as a civilian, however, did not exempt McLean from military service, and his first call-up was with Internal Affairs, where he spent his time recording all of the personal details of people in the rural villages. McLean was not only an experienced pilot, but a decorated one too. He had been awarded the Bronze Cross of Rhodesia in 1970 for some pretty hairy helicopter flying under extremely heavy enemy fire. Disgusted by the gross waste of his skills as a trained military pilot, he had a word in someone’s ear and was transferred from Internal Affairs to the air force reserve. Call-ups became very regular; McLean recalls a particular one: