Dingo Firestorm (19 page)

I went to the office very early to clear up some last-minute things. Then I drove out to New Sarum to report for duty. I was hustled into a waiting chopper and sent post-haste to Mtoko. I arrived there just after the departure of the Fireforce, so I dumped my kit on the apron, pumped some gas and joined them. Three and a half hours after leaving the office, I was in a contact, shooting at people.

This lifestyle affected many Rhodesian reservists. McLean recalls:

It was bizarre. You had to do a mental flick-flack, and it had its problems. For example, at FAF 4 in Mount Darwin, there was a Fireforce hooter that was blasted when we needed to scramble. One day, I was sitting in my office at Fox & Carney, having a meeting with two Greek businessmen, when a truck on the road outside sounded its horn. I was on my feet and heading for the door, before I realised I was nowhere near Mount Darwin. I got some funny looks from the Greeks as I sheepishly slunk back to my desk.

On 22 November 1977, McLean was ordered to report to New Sarum by 08:30 the next day for a routine call-up. When the long-haired, bearded reserve pilot drove his car into the airbase and saw scores of helicopters parked all over the place, he knew this was no ordinary call-up.

The ‘secret is secret’ rule also applied to the venue for the briefing – not an easy task because a hangar had to be cleared out, and seating and the massive models of the target moved in. Norman Walsh chose a shared hangar, one half occupied by the PTS, the other by the Radio Section. The hangar was divided across its breadth by offices. The briefing would take place in the Radio Section half.

The personnel in the PTS side of the hangar knew something was up: ‘We noticed that the windows in our crew room, which looked through to the Radio Section, were suddenly taped up and we were told to keep the curtains closed,’ recalls parachute jump instructor Sergeant Kevin Milligan.

On the other side of the taped windows, mapping expert Jacques du Bois and his team got on with laying out the Chimoio model on the floor; they then disassembled it and assembled Tembue in its place. At the main briefing, the switch from Chimoio to Tembue would have to be done during a 15-minute tea break.

The last bit of preparation entailed transporting the grandstands from the rugby field to the hangar to provide a small amphitheatre of seats. All was set for the largest military briefing in Rhodesian military history.

The consequence of concentrating all the country’s firepower in Salisbury, ready to fly externally, meant that there was no Fireforce available to attack insurgents inside the country. ‘We have 25 terrs visual, request Foxtrot Foxtrot’ was a call that would usually have prompted a Fireforce scramble. ‘Foxtrot Foxtrot is not available’ was the disappointing reply. The armed section of the Police Reserve Air Wing (flying Cessna aircraft with a side-firing .303 machine gun), flown mostly by private pilots, became the stand-in Fireforce. The Police Reserve Air Wing crews, particularly the SALOPS Flight, which operated from Salisbury’s small Charles Prince Airport, were inundated with call-outs and saw more action during the week of Operation Dingo than they had probably encountered during the entire war.

The anniversary of UDI was celebrated each year with a glittering ball attended by politicians, captains of industry and civic leaders. The star guest was always Prime Minister Ian Smith. The format was that of a New Year’s party, with dinner and dancing before the prime minister made a short speech, and then, at midnight precisely, he would strike the Independence Bell. Modelled on the American Liberty Bell and donated by Friends of Rhodesia, this large bell hung from a stand made of solid Rhodesian mukwa hardwood, on which there was an inscription: ‘I toll for Liberty, Civilisation and Christianity.’

Some 600 people dressed to the nines gathered at the Harry Margolis Hall in Salisbury on the evening of 10 November 1977 to celebrate the 12th anniversary of UDI. The ball took place as yet another peace deal was emerging. This time, David Owen and Andrew Young were the brokers.

The backdrop to this Independence Ball was an intensifying war. Ian Smith’s speech, broadcast live by the Rhodesian Broadcasting Corporation, was fittingly sombre. He talked of the multiple settlement efforts and the risk of failure: ‘Let me hasten to add as far as we in Rhodesia are concerned, we are ready to show great reason, and if there is a response from the other side I think the world would be agreeably surprised with the amount of reason that would be forthcoming from Rhodesians. But a fatal mistake would be to misinterpret our reason as weakness because that will mean failure.’

What Smith and only a few others at the ball knew was that in just 12 days’ time, Rhodesian forces would deal Robert Mugabe’s ZANLA forces in Mozambique a heavy blow in the largest air and ground attack of the war. Smith ended with a message of caution and hope:

I wish you well in the year ahead; I hope that, as before, Rhodesians will go forward and enter this 13th year of ours in good spirit and with strong resolution. We have got problems; don’t let’s pretend otherwise, but no doubt you have often in the past heard the wellknown saying that no matter how dark the night, there will always be a dawn.

I believe this is very apt as far as Rhodesians in present circumstances are concerned. And, as you all know, the dawn with its fresh, cool, clear air is always the best time of the day and I believe that the dawn is coming to Rhodesia.

To humour the audience, Smith reminded them that the bell was not struck once for each year of independence, but always 12 times: ‘You can imagine what the position would be when one of my successors, in due time, has to ring the bell 100 times,’ Smith quipped to laughter and huge applause.

The party continued with the traditional first song of the new Independence Year, a rendition of the Herman’s Hermits hit ‘A Kind of Hush (All Over the World Tonight)’.

From childhood, Norman Walsh had wanted to be an air force pilot. He was brought up in Queenstown, in South Africa’s Eastern Cape, and attended Queen’s College, a prestigious boys’ school established in 1858 at the foot of the rugged Stormberg mountains. Being youngest in his class didn’t faze Norman, except that it meant he was too young to leave school when he matriculated, so he spent another year doing a post-matric course at Grey High School in Port Elizabeth.

English-speaking Norman didn’t fancy his chances of getting into the South African Air Force (SAAF), so he hit the Great North Road to Rhodesia, hoping to join the Royal Rhodesian Air Force (RRAF).

Why Rhodesia? ‘Many people seemed to be going there, as the prospects seemed better,’ recalled Walsh. But he found once again that he was too young; he also had to live in Rhodesia for at least six months to qualify as a resident before the air force would consider his application.

Norman found a job as a farmhand on Montezuma Farm, a tobacco outfit owned by Aubrey Leeuwen. Montezuma was 15 kilometres southwest of Karoi, a small agricultural town sometimes called the Town of the Little Witch, after its Shona name,
ka
(diminutive) and
royi
(witch). Tobacco farming was not easy work for young Norman, especially as the tobacco-curing barns had to be monitored for correct temperature and humidity at all hours of the day and night.

Soon Norman was old enough to bid farewell to the Town of the Little Witch and join the RRAF selection process in Salisbury. Norman whizzed through selection, and joined the air force in 1953 as a member of the No. 5 Course, Short Service Unit.

In no time, he was learning to fly the iconic de Havilland Tiger Moth, a wonderful biplane made of a Sitka spruce frame covered with fabric and ply; wire anchored the wings together. Built as a trainer, it had two open cockpits with tiny windshields to give the pilots a little relief.

The student sits at the back, so Walsh quickly got used to reading the body language of his instructor, Flight Lieutenant Colin Graves: ‘He would whack the side of the aircraft if one made a major balls-up.’

But as Walsh gained experience, the whacking diminished. Then one day, Graves hopped out of his front seat, saying, ‘Walsh, I want you to do one circuit and land – on your own.’ Graves walked off to dispersal while Walsh bumped along, zigzagging the Tiger Moth so that he could see where he was going beyond the high nose. On a signal from the control tower, Walsh lined up the biplane on the runway centre line, applied full power, keeping the machine straight, with generous bootfuls of rudder lifting the tail up a bit, and soon the Tiger Moth was in the air.

It felt eerie seeing no head sticking out of the front cockpit – Walsh was on his own, but loving every minute of it. In what seemed like no time at all, it was time to land. A good three-point landing completed his first solo and his first major milestone in aviation. His next important landmark came the following year, when he was awarded his wings in August 1954 and later won the trophy for the best student on the course. Walsh was now set up for a brilliant air force career, which would see him go all the way to the top.

Yet beneath this cloak of professional excellence lurked a naughty, funny and rebellious spirit. Norman had the proverbial hollow legs and was renowned to be the last to leave the party – still standing. He also had a compassionate side for those who could not remain on their feet. On one occasion, a young pilot officer by the name of Hugh Slatter had turned 21. After flying duties were over for the day, he and others went to the officers’ mess at Thornhill Airbase to celebrate. Slatter recalled: ‘I don’t remember the details, except that my “friends” mixed some suitable concoctions and in a few hours I was feeling a bit worse for wear. The pub was filling up as other officers came in for a drink after flying or sports, and I desperately needed some fresh air.’

He staggered outside to the car park and collapsed in a heap as the world spun around him. ‘I knew I was flat on my back on the tarmac. I don’t remember how long I stayed like that, but the next thing I remember was the officer commanding of No. 1 Squadron, Norman Walsh, standing next to me with his arm outstretched to pull me to my feet.

‘Although I could stand, I was very unsteady, and Norman helped me to get into his car, whereupon he drove me to the single quarters and told me to get some rest, and drove off back to the pub. I was mortified … here was the officer commanding of the Hunter Squadron, almost a god in pilots’ eyes, helping a lowly pilot officer who clearly could not handle his drink, to recover.’

After the Tiger Moth, Walsh graduated to his first heavy-metal monoplane aircraft, the North American Harvard. Later, Walsh moved on to Vampire jets and then on to the impressive Hawker Hunter FGA9 fighter/ground-attack jet. If the wings are free of external fuel tanks, the Hunter can achieve supersonic speed in a shallow dive.

Walsh notoriously broke the sound barrier in his Hawker Hunter over thousands of people at an air show in Lusaka in 1963, at a time when the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland was coming to an end. The supersonic boom, in reality an extremely loud double crack, was a show winner, but it angered many local residents as their shivering dogs scampered for cover, their hens stopped laying and the odd bit of glass was shattered – at least that’s what the offended parties told their insurers.

Norman Walsh was soon forgiven, and the very next year he was promoted to squadron leader, taking command of No. 1 (Hunter) Squadron.

But despite the responsibility of his rank, the rebel was still in those bones. Hugh Slatter recalled another mess incident involving Norman Walsh:

Friday nights were pub nights, and one was expected to attend and socialise with one’s fellow squadrons and support staff. On this occasion, in the mid-60s, there was a good attendance and everyone was having a good time, with plenty of beer and laughter, and the odd game of bok-bok [a rough type of collective wrestling] thrown in for added fun. Norman, if I remember correctly, was commanding 1 Squadron at the time and was present and enjoying himself like everyone else.

The commanding officer of the station was also present. Something caused the CO to call for quiet at the bar, and he went on to say that although it was good for everyone to let off some steam, damage to the pub was unacceptable and, in particular, the use of fire hoses in the mess for purposes other than fire was forbidden.

Then everyone returned to their drinks, including the CO – except for Norman, who immediately left the bar, fetched the fire hose from the lobby, turned it on full blast and aimed it at those of us drinking at the bar. The blast of water was powerful, and caught the commanding officer squarely on his chest. He managed to hang onto his glass until the blast was shut off and Norman put the hose back in place.

As Norman came back into the pub, the CO slowly put his glass down, and in the sodden silence invited Norman to see him in his office on Monday morning, and then left the mess. I don’t know what happened in the CO’s office on Monday morning, but he was a good man, and Norman still had two arms and two legs next time we saw him, and the incident did nothing to stop him becoming commander of the air force later in his career.

After Hunters, Walsh switched to the other speed extreme, and learnt to fly the slow, but extremely versatile, Alouette helicopter. There was only one problem: the new squadron boss of No. 7 (Alouette) Squadron had never flown a helicopter before. It was an inverted pyramid, with the top man having the least helicopter experience. The pressure was on; Walsh had to learn quickly.

Flying a helicopter poses challenges for fixed-wing pilots, especially when learning to hover accurately. The problem is that any control movement in a helicopter causes a dynamic reaction, necessitating a correction somewhere else. New helicopter pilots tend to tense up and over-control, making the helicopter look like a drunken dragonfly as it bucks and rolls around with increasing severity while the student inadvertently aggravates the situation.