Gunship Over Angola

‘Aha,’ said the ENT specialist. ‘It is my opinion that the combination of these two incidents caused bone shrapnel to lodge in your nasal cavities at the entrance to your sinuses and basically plug them tight, preventing the degree of equalisation required when descending rapidly from high altitude in a non-pressurised jet, like the Impala.’

He proceeded to hold my head in a vice-like grip and thrust an implement that looked like a stainless-steel knitting needle, the tip covered in spirit-dipped cotton wool, up my nose, into my throat and almost out through my bum.

I squealed like a suckling pig about to be dispatched for the Sunday roast.

‘Aha! You see, there is an obstruction!’ he trumpeted. ‘We will conduct a sub-mucus resection with an intra-nasal ethmoidectomy. SME/INE for short!’ The expectant glee dripped from his voice.

He offered no opinion as to the reasons for the blocked Eustachian tubes, however. Had he carefully considered this aspect, and referred me to someone with skills in that field, it might well have prevented a lifetime of sinus problems for me and even helped me make a full recovery.

Nevertheless, at the end of his cursory five-minute inspection, the esteemed surgeon pronounced that I was to report back to 1 Mil the following day for surgery to remove the bone shrapnel. Being a compliant young soldier (at least in this context), I didn’t argue and presented myself for the suggested butchery the following day.

The pre-med administered in those days had quite a number of unwanted side-effects, and its primary effect on me was to loosen my tongue even further than normal (which is saying something, believe me). As I lay on the stretcher waiting to be taken into theatre, the anaesthetist asked me if I had any questions. I replied: ‘Just one. Ask Dr Mengele why my ears are also fucked?’

Little did I know that the Mutilator of 1 Mil was standing right behind me.

I woke up in a distressed state a few hours later with my hands tied to the sides of my bed to prevent me from again pulling the metres-long gauze plugs out of my nostrils. I felt claustrophobic, and it took a number of the other patients in the ward to calm me down. The chap in the bed next to mine told me that the nurses were all angry with me, and were ignoring me flat as I had been extremely disparaging of them while they were putting me back in my bed after the op. Of course, it was a side-effect of the anaesthetic drugs.

Discharged three days later, I spent a week recuperating at home (with a night back in hospital after a bout of nasal haemorrhaging). Suitably repaired, or so I thought, I drove the 1 500 kilometres back to FTS Langebaanweg in my VW Beetle.

It was another week or so before I was given the all clear to get into an Imp again. Off we went, me and another instructor, for a low-level flight down the Atlantic coastline from Langebaan to AFB Ysterplaat in Cape Town, where we landed and had a cold drink.

The plan for the return flight was for us to take off from Ysterplaat, climb to 25 000 feet (7 620 metres) and do the normal (relatively rapid) descent before landing at Langebaanweg. It was a beautiful day as we climbed out over the Cedarberg, with the expanse of the western Cape spread out below us as far as the eye could see.

‘Are you ready for the descent?’ asked the chap in the rear seat, all too soon.

‘Sure, sir,’ I replied, and he reduced power and we started losing altitude.

I watched the altimeter wind down… 24 000… 23 000… 22 000… 20 000… 17 000… 16 000… I was starting to smile broadly as we approached 14 000 and I still felt great when, like a switch being activated, the acute agony, the muck, the blood and the mucus struck again, filling every available nook and cranny in my head, my helmet and my oxygen mask.

When we finally landed at Langebaan after a gentle descent, it was clear that the likelihood of my flying again was exceedingly small. The despair I felt that evening is palpable to this day.

Fortunately, my guardian angel got involved again.

While the powers that be decided what to do with me, I was posted to SAAF Training Command Headquarters in Pretoria. At Training Command, my job entailed meeting with and advising aspirant pupil pilots, most of whom were still at school, on the conditions they were likely to encounter during the pilot selection process, medical examination and selection board, as well as on the course itself.

Soon after taking up my new appointment, I was contacted by a Dr Van der Laan from the MMI in Pretoria. He had become aware of my predicament and asked to see me for an evaluation.