Staff College
IN LATE JANUARY 1971 KEITH Corrans and I were sent to South Africa to attend the South African Air Force Staff College (SAAFCOL) course. Prior to Rhodesia’s Unilateral Declaration of Independence, our officers, accompanied bywives and children, underwent Staff College training at RAF Bracknell in Britain. RAF staff courses were designed to run for twelve months with compulsory time-off every weekend for family affairs and rest.
Although the subject matter of the South African course was taken directly from the RAF, a different approach had been adopted. The American technique of pressurising officers was applied by compressing the British course into ten and a half months. This meant having to work seven days a week with only two free days during the entire course; consequently heart attacks amongst older officers undergoing SAAFCOL were not uncommon. Because the South African course was less than twelve months, Rhodesian wives and families were not permitted to accompany husbands, so Sue Corrans, Beryl and the children had to stay home.
For me it was a gruelling experience, particularly as I had been given only three months’ notice to learn Afrikaans having only learned French at school. Keith had studied Afrikaans at Churchill High School so he was better prepared than me. Although we had been led to believe that half of all lectures and presentations would be in Afrikaans and half in English, it turned out to be 73% in Afrikaans. This placed me at a distinct disadvantage, particularly when advanced Afrikaans was being spoken so quickly that I could not even pick up the trend of what was being said. Fortunately, Keith and I were allowed to write appreciations and papers in English.
Because we worked all day every day and late into the night, Keith and I decided to take in a movie every Saturday to get a short break from never-ending studies and tasks. Only once did I go out for a night on the town and this turned out to be a costly error. A notoriously naughty SAAF pilot and an equally mischievous SA Army major invited me to accompany them for dinner at a posh restaurant. At this dinner I drank too much and was introduced to the art of eating carnations and other flowers that decorated our table. Following a good meal and having had more whisky than I was used to, I helped these crazy fellows swallow every one of about twenty goldfish swimming in one of the restaurant’s beautiful fish tanks. Not caring that our shirtsleeves were soaking wet right up to our armpits, we scooped out the highly prized Chinese Fantails whenever nobody was looking. These we swallowed head first and washed them down with a slug of whisky.
The sensation of a panicking fish swimming down one’s gullet before thrashing around for a short while in the stomach is not one I would have chosen. On that night, however, I had no difficulty in meeting the unspoken challenge. Next morning things caught up with us when the restaurant owner pitched up at the college demanding replacement of his prized fish.
The Afrikaans language was a major problem for me even though I could usually follow the gist of lectures. But there were occasions when I became lost the moment professors and other high-speaking lecturers got past the greeting
Blackie was a very tall, slim, balding man who sat in front and to one side of me. With his right hand he took hold of his right eyelashes and, pulling gently, stretched the eyelid forward. When his eyelid sprang back, Blackie brought his fingers to his lips and made small sweeping motions. If he felt a lash tickle his lip he placed it on a matchbox lying next to his pipe on the broad wooden arm of his chair. This he repeated until no more loose lashes came away, whereupon he changed hands to subject his left eye to the same treatment. Next he turned attention to hairs in both ear-holes and the pile of hairs on his matchbox became visible to me. Then came the hairs in his nostrils. These were subjected to fiercer treatment as hand and head jerked in opposite directions. Wiping of eyes to remove consequential tears followed every successful extraction.
When our lecture programme showed that one particular professor was returning, I asked my colleagues if they had noticed what Blackie did when he was bored. None had but all eyes were on him as he went through his strange ritual. None of us dared look at another whilst the lecture was in progress for fear of breaking into uncontrolled laughter.
Sue Corrans and Beryl flew to South Africa to be with us for our end-of-course party. All men were dressed in full mess kit and wives wore long evening dresses. Beryl, dressed in a lovely sari, drew disparaging stares from the older women but my SAAF coursemates and their young wives thought she looked wonderful. Before the party ended Major Paul Nesser had somehow persuaded Beryl to bid the senior officers’ wives ‘good night’ in Afrikaans. His strange sense of humour was typical for his breed and I had suffered from this on a few occasions. But I was not aware of what had gone on until I noticed the horrified expressions on the faces of the ladies as they passed Beryl. I shot across and asked her what she was saying.
“Leave me alone. I am saying ‘good night’ in Afrikaans.”
“Yes Beryl, but what is it that you are actually saying?”
“I am saying ‘harn kark’, which is Afrikaans for ‘good night’.”
“Damn it Beryl, not only are you pronouncing the words incorrectly, the words ‘
It was an enormous relief to get back to Rhodesia and have time to spend with my family.
Debbie and Paul were equally pleased to be home on their six-week Christmas break from boarding school.
Following the successful completion of my staff course, I had naturally expected to be posted into a staff position in Air HQ. So it was something of a surprise to learn that I was to take command of No 4 Squadron at Thornhill.
Deaths of Munton-Jackson and Garden
I WAS STILL ON LEAVE WHEN, on 17 January 1972, Air Lieutenant Guy Munton-Jackson and Flight Sergeant Peter Garden were killed in a very unfortunate and totally unnecessary helicopter accident. From the time Alouettes first arrived in Rhodesia, warnings given by Sud Aviation never to fly these aircraft at night had been ignored. None of our high-ranking officers had flown helicopters themselves and they did not seriously accept that momentary loss of control could lead to airframe failure in flight. For ten years our helicopters had been flown at night with only minor accidents occurring during landings, so the Sud Aviation warnings had continued to be ignored until these men lost their lives.
Two helicopters were tasked to fly from New Sarum to Thornhill to be available from first light to assist police against mobs that had started rioting in the Gwelo townships late that afternoon. It was known that the rioting would resume early next morning.
Storms and heavy cloud in the vicinity of Gwelo forced both helicopters to enter cloud in turbulent conditions. On instruments and with no way around the storm clouds, both pilots asked for a radar-controlled approach into Thornhill. The first helicopter arrived safely; the second disappeared off the radar screen. Guy Munton-Jackson had almost certainly got into difficulties and over-controlled on cyclic causing the main rotor blades to pitch back severely enough to sever the tail boom.
The Board of Inquiry into this accident was conducted by experienced helicopter pilots who recommended that, henceforth, helicopters should only be flown at night in clear weather conditions with a distinctly visible horizon. Air HQ accepted the recommendation and issued the appropriate Air Staff Instruction.
