Gunship Over Angola

Although I was not yet aware of it, at this early stage of my career there was already ample evidence of my discomfort with the military way of doing things. Consequently, I often ran up against the military’s strict protocols, and faced censure for it. Perhaps I have my mom to thank for this, as she raised me to question everything that I didn’t understand. The result was that I was never able to swallow the military’s ideological story. My personal political principles, as poorly developed as they were, rebelled against the prevailing conservatism. Although I had learnt to keep my beliefs strictly to myself, I found it difficult to hide my contemptuous expression when confronted with orders and opinions that I disrespected.

This is not to say that I was a raging liberal masquerading as a military officer. I just felt that there was more to life than the military and that I, rather than they, should determine the path I followed. I had read Ayn Rand’s novel The Fountainhead for the first time in my mid-teens, and had come to the conclusion that, like the novel’s protagonist, Howard Roark, I was an avid objectivist. To me, this meant that you cannot control much of what happens to you in life but that you are totally responsible for how you respond to life’s challenges. So, I would hoe my own furrow and accept the consequences of doing so.

But I was totally ignorant of how hard it would be to do so in the South African Air Force.

*

I arrived at AFB Ondangwa – my home for the next three months – for the first time just after lunch on an early November day in 1979. The temperature stood at a steaming-hot 38°C.

I was 21 years old.

The Flossie that had brought me there had approached AFB Ondangwa, still called 95 TAU (Tactical Airfield Unit) at the time, after a brief pit stop at AFB Grootfontein, 200 kilometres to the south, at an altitude of around 25 000 feet (7 620 metres). Once over Ondangwa, the Flossie pilots closed the throttles on the aircraft’s four Allison turbine engines and flung the aircraft into a steep, left-hand spiral turn. In just two of these gut-wrenching circuits, at almost breakneck speed, they lined up the large aircraft on a short final approach to Runway 06 and smoothly ‘greased’ the wheels onto the 2.4-kilometre-long tarmac. Once the wheels were on the ground, the pilot slammed the propellers into reverse pitch and stood on the brakes to bring the shuddering white-and-orange Hercules down to a speed safe enough to turn off the runway and taxi to the enormous concrete hardstand situated just to the south of the main runway.

When the engines had all been shut down, the cavernous jaws of the cargo loading ramp at the rear of the aircraft opened and loadmasters began to discharge the on-board freight. A crew member opened the small door near the front of the aircraft on the left-hand side, from which most of the passengers aboard disembarked.

I exited into the brightest sunshine that I’d ever experienced. The first thing that struck me was not the rows of parked and armed combat aircraft and helicopters stretching off into the distance, but rather the cornea-incinerating glare from the white sand that covered every unpaved space. It was impossible to see without sunglasses, and I immediately understood the foresight of some Ondangwa predecessor in convincing the SAAF to issue high-quality Ray-Bans to all personnel.

Before I could follow the other passengers, who were making their way towards a large arrivals hall, I was approached by an Air Force major in a nutria-brown uniform.

‘Baz Newham,’ he introduced himself. ‘I am the Ondangs CO. You must be Joubert. Please show me which bags belong to you.’

Startled, I followed him as he moved towards the cargo pallets that the loadmasters were unloading. A cursory search produced my only piece of luggage, a kitbag, which contained a few work and casual clothes and some basic toiletries.

‘Is that all?’ he asked, and I showed him my Nomex flying bag in which I had hand-carried my flying helmet, boots and gloves in the passenger cabin.

‘I travel light, sir.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Come with me,’ and he set off towards the line of parked Alo III gunships that I could see about 400 metres away.

On the way there, he briefed me.

‘I am told that you do not yet have the required 500 hours which you need for an ops command. How many do you have exactly?’

‘Uhhhhh… 499 and a quarter, Major,’ I said, somewhat tentatively.

‘Then you will have to get into that Alo there,’ he said, ‘and stay airborne, within the confines of this airbase, for at least 45 minutes.’