braking when the aircraft had slowed to a safe speed.
The agony he was to endure over the next six months first came to him as he was extracted from the Provost cockpit. The pain that comes with a shattered femur and a useless dangling leg moving in uncontrolled directions is impossible to describe and one never to be forgotten by Pete Simmonds. It was a pitch-black night with no horizon but Peter Woolcock flew Pete Simmons to Centenary in an Alouette. Alf Wild then took him on to New Sarum in a Trojan and the Station Sick Quarters ambulance completed this ‘impossibly painful’ casevac to Andrew Fleming Hospital.
Flight Sergeant Benji
THE GRASS STRIP AT CENTENARY had become very worn and dusty from high-volume traffic when it was decided to lay down a tarmac runway, so all personnel and aircraft moved to an airstrip on Eureka Farm, just a short distance away. The tented camp at Eureka suffered terribly from dust stirred up by every helicopter and fixed-wing movement. Whenever the wind blew from the flight lines to the camp, it brought dust that penetrated bedding, clothing, radios and kitchen; not that this dampened the spirits of the men.
An over-supply of camp toilet seats, nicknamed ‘thunder boxes’, provided an answer to the shortage of seats for a pub the technician constructed from scrounged materials. Elevated to barstool height, they gave the option of hollow or solid seating at the bar counter of ‘The Thunderbox Inn’.
One of the Eureka Farm dogs, a scruffy terrier named Benji, took to the Air Force in a big way. Benji was returned to his owner many times but he simply ran back to the camp. He was always in evidence lying on anything that was elevated, such as the sandbag walls around the camp. When the Centenary Airfield tarmac runway was completed and the Air Force returned to comfortable accommodation, Benji followed. The farmer felt there was no point in returning Benji to the farm every day and was happy to pass the scruffy little mutt into Air Force care.
Benji stayed with Air Force for years. In October 1973 he was inducted into the force with the rank of corporal. Later he was posted to FAF 4 at Mount Darwin. Having risen to the rank of flight sergeant Benji disgraced himself by peeing on the Camp Commandant’s cap and was demoted back to sergeant. When he regained his rank for outstanding service and devotion to duty, Benji was posted to FAF 7 (Buffalo Range) in mid-1978 where he continued service to the end of the war. When FAF 7 closed at the cessation of hostilities, Benji was taken by car to New Sarum but, probably sensing the changing times, he died before reaching his new home.
Another Aloe Festival
AT THE END OF JUNE 1973, No 4 Squadron was given clearance to withdraw most aircraft and crews from operations to participate in Umtali’s annual Aloe Festival. It was wonderful to have the majority of our squadron together for the first time in eighteen months and to sense the spirit and esprit de corps that existed throughout the ranks. The technicians were an incredible bunch of men whose wide-ranging characters and talents too often manifested themselves in impish acts.
The officers and wives stayed at the Wise Owl Motel whilst the technicians all booked into the Flamboyant Hotel. This was not a case of rank separation but was the consequence of insufficient accommodation for everyone at either location.
At a civic function on the first night, I presented the mayor with a 4 Squadron plaque that, between deployments, I had personally crafted for the Umtali City Council.
Just after sunrise on the day of the flypast and Aloe Ball, I received a visitation from the Police who reported that a whole bunch of my technicians had been seen running down Main Street totally naked save for Air Force caps, black socks and shoes. Few people were around at the time and none of the surprised onlookers had lodged a complaint. The Police had gone directly to the hotel only to find every tech ‘fast asleep’. Of course everyone who was questioned knew nothing about a mass streak and since no complaints had been received, no charges were laid; but the Police felt I should know of the incident to avoid trouble in the future.
Having been warned to behave themselves at the Aloe Ball, all squadron members were on their best behaviour. I crowned the Aloe Queen, everyone enjoyed a great meal and good music had brought most people onto the dance floor when Henry Jarvie started an impromptu act that stopped everyone in their tracks. I knew Henry would be the instigator of something unusual because of his naughty nature, but I had no need to worry about him being crude or destructive.
The band was playing ‘Hey Girl’ when Henry climbed onto the stage with a pint of beer in his hand. He placed the beer on a stool at one end of the stage and, moving his lanky body to the rhythm of the music, proceeded across stage sliding off his jacket, which he then twirled above his head on one finger. At stage end he placed the jacket neatly on the floor and, mincing to the music, returned slowly to his beer. He took a great swig, turned about and repeating the first act, this time removing his wristwatch, again twirling it over his head before placing it on the jacket. The band clicked with Henry from the outset and just kept repeating the very catchy theme of ‘Hey Girl’. All eyes remained on Henry as he made pass after pass, never once using the same style of dance and always removing one item of clothing. It took two passes just to remove cuff links. Ripples of laughter passed through the crowd who loved Henry’s facial expressions and lanky body movement, everyone wondering just how far he would go. I knew he would not push the limits.
Following the removal of his shirt with Superman poses to show off scrawny muscles, Henry was left with slacks and socks. The removal of the second sock gave Henry opportunity to demonstrate his sleight of hand by giving the distinct impression of filling the sock with beer and straining it into his mouth as he crossed the stage to lift his clothing and disappear as women yelled, “Encore! Encore! You haven’t finished yet!”
The next day, Sunday, the squadron was invited to join the mayor and senior town counsellors for tea at Leopard Rock Hotel in the Vumba mountains. Beryl and I, together with other officers and wives, were having tea with the mayor and mayoress on the hotel lawn when Henry Jarvie appeared at the top of the hotel stairway high above us. He was resplendent in full chef’s regalia, high cap and all.
On the open palm of his left hand he held a silver salver with a serving towel perfectly draped over his forearm. Down the steps he came, stiff as a board, looking straight ahead with a fixed expression. He came directly to our table and placed the salver in front of me, bowed and turned towards hotel guests seated under umbrellas. As he moved away we spotted the full beer glass held behind his back.
The silver tray contained a note and a sandwich. The note read, “Boss PB is in need of nourishment”. The sandwich consisted of two tomato toppings between very dry crusts of butter-less bread.
Facial expressions of hotel guests to whom Henry moved showed he was up to no good. Initially they thought he was the hotel’s senior chef. At one table Henry warned that there would be a slight delay in serving lunch because all meat stocks had “gone off slightly due to refrigeration failure but a good soaking in vinegar will solve this problem”. To others he told of stale bread rolls that only needed a good soaking and re-baking to make them good and fresh. One group learned that the speciality of the day, crayfish, was giving the entire kitchen staff a major headache following their escape from the refrigerator. They had run off into flowerbeds and the fishpond
