Dingo Firestorm (27 page)

A frantic call interrupted Brand’s grandstand view: ‘Red 1, this is Delta Zero. Did you hit the target?’ It was Norman Walsh approaching in the command Alouette with Brian Robinson.

‘We had naturally maintained radio silence,’ recalled Robinson. ‘But at H 1 10 seconds, Norman Walsh could no longer contain himself. “What a question,” drawled Rich Brand sarcastically. I cannot describe the relief felt by the group captain and me.’

The perspective was quite different for Chris Dixon, flying his lead Canberra bomber at just 90 metres above the ground. He would not have the luxury of pulling up to a perch to fine-tune his aim. But he did have the benefit of another sharp pair of eyes – those of his navigator, now lying on his stomach peering out of the bomb aimer’s bubble.

Being so low and still five kilometres away when Brand opened fire, the Canberra crews had to rely on precise compass headings, stopwatches and map reading, at least until they saw the smoke rising from the initial Hunter strikes, particularly the black smoke from the frantan attacks, which were the precise markers for Green 2 and 4. Green Lead would drop on the HQ and Green 3 on the Nehanda and Chaminuka complexes lying east of Chitepo College.

The target smoke should have been coming from the right of a hill to the north-west of the target, which had now just come into view. There was no room for error; any rapid course corrections were dangerous in formation and so close to the ground, and any violent manoeuvring could overstress the Canberra’s wings.

As the Canberra formation reached its IP, command subtly shifted to the navigators. Although the pilot was still the commander, from now on he would be told exactly what to do. When the navigator wanted a compass heading of 110 degrees, the pilot was expected to fly 110 degrees, not 109 or 111.

Flying with such accuracy was pretty demanding in an aircraft bumping along in low-level air turbulence. The pilot would also be expected to achieve the precise airspeed called for, and quickly. Chris Dixon’s first major command from his navigator would have been: ‘Acceleration point coming up, stand by … accelerate.’ At this point, the Canberras would accelerate from their cruise speed to their bomb-run speed. Dixon pressed the transmit button: ‘Green Lead accelerating’, giving the rest of the formation notice, so that they would not be caught unawares and be left behind.

All four Canberra pilots moved their thrust levers forward to a position they knew from experience would give them a steady 330 knots with the bomb doors open. The vigorous Rolls-Royce Avon engines nudged the machines forward to the faster airspeed. Norman Walsh heard the acceleration call from his helicopter and knew, with satisfaction, that the Canberras of No. 5 Squadron were also going to be bang on time.

As the speed of the Canberras stabilised, ‘switch and doors’ was the call and response between navigator and pilot. Dixon pressed the bomb-door switch and the doors started parting, extending into the slipstream to reveal the bomb bay, glistening with 300 Alpha Mark II fragmentation bombs in the hoppers. The opening doors distorted the smooth, aerodynamic shape of the aircraft’s belly, causing the Canberra to start shaking and shuddering. The tension was electric.

‘Come right a bit, steady, the heading is one-zero-eight, steady. I can see the smoke. Two degrees right, steady, I’ve got the target, back onto one-zero-eight, quickly. Right, right, steady, steady … bombs gone. Spot on target, fucking grrreat.’

Like a heavy-metal shower, the Alpha bombs from Dixon’s Canberra bounced and exploded around the old Antonio farmhouse, ZANLA’s HQ building, ripping branches from trees and cutting down the ZANLA personnel who hadn’t yet legged it after Brand’s attack. Green 2 and 3 simultaneously carpeted the huge area housing Chitepo College, Chaminuka and Nehanda camps, and Mugabe’s residence, while Green 4 hit the complex housing convalescing combatants.

As quickly as they came, the threatening, bat-like Canberras were gone, leaving behind a massive cloud of dust, smoke and death.

With split-second timing, even as the Canberras were dropping their bombs, Vic Wightman and his wingman, Spook Geraty, were diving their Hunters towards the menacing anti-aircraft emplacements. The anti-aircraft gunners were now switching their aim away from the disappearing Canberras to the Hunters and the big, lumbering Dakotas approaching for the mass paradrop.

Wightman and Geraty opened up on the anti-aircraft emplacements with 68-mm rockets, and then attacked with 30-mm cannons. Wightman’s Hunter took a hit in the port air intake from ground fire on his second attack. John Blythe-Wood’s Blue Section Hunters attacked the other main anti-aircraft pits, following up with attacks on infrastructure targets. These attacks by the Hunters were absolutely crucial. Had they not attacked and reattacked when they did, it is virtually certain that serious damage would have been caused to the Dakotas.

Before the haunting howl of the blue note from Red 1 had interrupted things, the ZANLA HQ was going about its normal business. Some guerrillas were on parade and many more were receiving instruction under the thick tree cover that was characteristic of New Farm. The area around Chitepo College was a hive of activity as instructors lectured guerrillas in various aspects of military theory. Down the road to the east, the vehicle mechanics tinkered away on ZANLA vehicles in the garage.

The dirt thoroughfares around the HQ building, lined with neatly spaced palm trees planted by the farmer who had owned the land, were neatly swept in the African tradition. The atmosphere was calm, the inhabitants oblivious to the impending storm. The passage of the DC-8 flying high overhead did not cause panic, although some anti-aircraft crews manned their weapons. Generally, the inhabitants felt very secure.

Brian Robinson’s key tactic, the element of surprise, had been well achieved.

Oppah Muchinguri, a secretary to the ZANLA high command, was near the HQ building when the attack started. She told the ZBC 33 years later:

We saw planes, about 10 initially, flying towards the camp. We did not suspect anything, as we thought they were Mozambican. We had been attacked before at Nyadzonia. The planes started dropping bombs and parachutes. Rhodesian ground forces had already been dropped and had us surrounded, so the planes were targeting their bombs at our camp. As the bombs fell, those who tried to escape faced helicopters, which were targeting the outskirts of the camp. The camp had about 5 000 people. As secretary, I was responsible for the safekeeping of all party and war documents so I dug a hole and buried them in the ground.

Muchinguri may have taken care of the war documents, but the Rhodesians still managed to retrieve masses of ZANLA classified material.

The oldest aircraft deployed on the raid, the Dakotas, rumbled along at 130 knots (240 km/h) in a loose formation. As the ‘old birds’ crossed into Mozambique, or ‘Indian territory’, as it was called, the dispatchers and parachute jump instructors hooked each paratrooper’s static line to the overhead cable. This was a precaution in case the aircraft was seriously crippled by anti-aircraft fire – at least then those on board could jump out. This routine also served to ratchet up the tension; it was now getting serious.

The Daks were still 17 minutes from dropping – too long for some of the paratroopers, who were feeling a bit nauseous as they descended suddenly from the high ground to the Mozambican lowlands.

Kevin Milligan was standing near the open door of his Dakota. For the first time, he saw the helicopter armada as the faster Dakotas passed the Alouettes. Over his headset, he could hear the Hunter, Vampire and Canberra pilots talking in clipped, tense tones as the aerial attack continued.

Vic Culpan’s voice over the intercom interrupted his thoughts. ‘Prepare for action,’ the No. 2 dispatcher bellowed. ‘Stand up, check equipment.’ The checks were done quickly: static line hooked up, safety pin fitted, helmet secure, Capewells secure, reserve-chute ripcord secure, body band secure, quick-release box secure. The paras then turned to face the open door at the rear of the aircraft, each man checking the parachute of the man in front. Then the dispatcher shouted: ‘Tell off for equipment check.’ Immediately, the furthest para from the door called out, ‘12 okay’, ‘11 okay’, and so on, down to the first man in each stick, who respectively called out, ‘One okay, starboard stick okay’; ‘One okay, port stick okay.’

Bob d’Hotman levelled his lead Dak off at 500 feet and slowed the machine to 95 knots. Vic Culpan followed suit, staying in line-astern formation. The timing and separation had to be perfect to avoid mid-air collision both of the aircraft and the paras. Each trailing Dak positioned itself slightly to starboard and about 50 feet above the one in front.

The 144 paras on board the six Daks would form two sides of the box. Stops 1, 2 and 3 covered the western side, 3.2 kilometres long; Stops 4, 5 and 6 would cover the southern side, 3.6 kilometres in length.

As the Daks started positioning for the run-in, two minutes out, the dispatchers took up their positions near the door of the swaying aircraft. This brought on a new surge of adrenalin in the paratroopers. ‘Will my chute open? Will I land on a rock? Will the gooks be waiting for us?’ were some of the thoughts rushing through their minds.

Then Culpan called ‘action stations’ over the intercom, which Milligan repeated immediately to the No. 2 dispatcher, who, in turn, yelled ‘action stations’ to the ready and poised paras. The stick of 12 men on the port side shuffled to their position, one pace from the door. Culpan flicked the red-light switch, illuminating the bright red light above the open door. ‘Red light on; stand in the door,’ shouted the No. 2 dispatcher. The lead para took up his position in the door while the rest of the stick shuffled up to ensure they were tightly packed for the exit.

In the lead Dak, Derek de Kock counted off the paratroops as they jumped; this was transmitted by Bob d’Hotman over the air. As the second-last man jumped, Vic Culpan flicked the green-light switch in his Dak. Milligan shouted, ‘Green light on,
go!
[slap on the shoulder],
two
and
three
and
four
…’

Unlike in the case of Fireforce deployments, the dispatcher had to pause for a brief moment between jumps to ensure the men would land far enough apart to cover a side of the box. Travelling at 95 knots, the Daks covered the ground at a rate of 48 metres per second, meaning all 72 paras in the leg would be spread over a distance of 3.4 kilometres, exactly what was needed. The paras’ adrenalin was flowing, and Milligan remembers that it was ‘hard to slow them for a slower stick. They were used to exiting in one fast, flowing movement.’

In fact, it was impossible to slow them down. Lieutenant Mark Adams, commanding the southern half of Stop 1, explains:

The RLI were used to jumping from the Dak in Fireforce operations. The key for us was to get a stick [four men] together as soon as we could after landing. The concept of an individual troopie staying where he lands and then fighting on his own some distance from the remainder of his stick was foreign to us. Also, when bullets are cracking around, the infantryman does not like to be in a confined space, be that an aircraft or a vehicle, where he is unable to use his weapon to defend himself.

The powerful slipstream violently snatched each man as he stepped out of the door, the static line now his only attachment to the aircraft. It was a very brief attachment, as the static line quickly reached the end of its length and hauled the pilot chute from the pack before breaking free. None of this was visible to the paratrooper. He waited for the reassuring tug of the parachute opening, and then shouted, ‘Look up, check canopy.’ The ground was less than 500 feet away.

The green chutes mushroomed from the Daks, a sight resembling large mammals giving birth to multiple young in flight. Soon the sky was filled with parachutes, but not for long – as the last paratroops were hurling themselves into the Mozambican sky, the first were already landing.

Derek de Kock was pleased to see that his drops had gone to plan. He was also happy there was good tree cover. This would snag many parachutes and slow the landing speed, reducing the risk of injury – provided the men remembered the golden rule: keep your feet tightly together. This wasn’t simply a gender-saving precaution, but also a good branch-breaking technique, and, of course, the correct position for landing on terra firma.

SAS Captain Bob MacKenzie, an American veteran of the Vietnam War, wrote up his experiences of Operation Dingo, later published in the magazine
Soldier of Fortune
. MacKenzie was commanding Stop 4:

I stood in the door of my Dakota while red and green tracer rounds zipped by, signalling the beginning of the battle for Chimoio 500 feet below. Inside the crowded fuselage of the Dak, my men were already standing and hooked up, and were finishing their pre-jump checks. A last look from the door revealed a landscape billowing with smoke and dust, and I saw the other half of my ‘A’ troop start jumping from a Dak ahead and slightly below the one in which I stood.

With rounds popping like popcorn outside, I gave the thumbs-up to my long-time comrade and troop colour sergeant, Koos Loots, and to my men – silent, sweating, and grim-faced after an hour of flying. The buzzer and green light went on and they started shuffling to the door and out, the 60 to 70 pounds of equipment hanging under their reserve chutes, making graceful exits impossible. ‘Fuck me, get me out of this flying target,’ I thought.

Hanging in my harness, drifting down from 500 feet, I could see terrorists running beneath me through the bush, firing wildly over their shoulders into the air. I gave a brief moment of thanks for the wretched marksmanship and lack of fire discipline exhibited by most African terrorists, and was pleased to see the long line of green canopies descending through the heat haze into the bedlam. My boots crashed through the branches of a Mopani tree and on down, coming to a halt six inches off the ground.