Gunship Over Angola

Perhaps I should have increased the height above them to 30 to 40 feet (9 to 12 metres), but I figured that might put me in a dangerous position should the engine fail at that point, so I flew over the departing parade at a height of no more than 12 feet (3.6 metres) or so. The resulting chaos, as berets were scattered to the four winds and the well-ordered ranks of young soldiers disintegrated, did not please the general.

Malicious Damage to State Property, count 2.

As I slowed to a crawl in preparation for landing in front of the VIP platform, a cloud of tinder-dry flakes of Kikuyu grass mixed with fine red dust swept up by the rotor wash instantly robbed me of any visual references whatsoever. To avoid a serious situation from developing in the vertigo-inducing conditions, I immediately reduced engine power and thumped the Alo onto the ground, still in one piece and not hard enough to damage it.

My brother, who had managed to scramble to the edge of the rugby field, where he had a clear view of the events unfolding in the stadium proper, later told me that the cloud of grass and dust completely filled the stadium. From my vantage point in the cockpit I could see little, but deep down I knew then that I was unlikely to get away lightly with what had just happened.

As the choking fog of dust and grass slowly cleared, I espied the general making his way to the aircraft, coughing and spluttering madly. I knew it was him only because I recognised the spectacles on his face and the murderous anger in his eyes. Gone were the shiny rank insignia, the buffed shine on his shoes; the rest of him was just red dust and tiny flakes of Kikuyu grass. Even his teeth were red…

Malicious Damage to State Property, count 3.

I could clearly hear his roaring tirade above the screech of the Alo’s engine, and I knew instinctively that he wasn’t complimenting me on my skill at landing the aircraft in zero-zero conditions (when a pilot cannot see his hand in front of his face, but the sun is still shining).

Under the circumstances, Johnny Smith really shouldn’t have let the general near the aircraft, let alone allow him to board, but in Johnny’s defence, I don’t think he could have stopped the general if he’d shot him with a portable G5 cannon. The general launched himself into the Alo’s passenger compartment and grabbed me by the throat, pulling me against the back of my seat and trying his level best to throttle the life out of me. His aide quickly intervened and pulled him away.

Startled by this conduct unbecoming of a senior rank, I half-turned in my seat to prevent further attack and observed the colonel, fortunately a man of some physical stature, with his arms wrapped around the general, restraining him from resuming his assault on me.

How it got there I do not know, but when I looked at my right hand I observed a large number 1 socket wrench in it, probably placed there by Johnny. I may then have waved it in a marginally threatening manner in the direction of the general, but I felt justified in doing so as my feelings (and throat) had been hurt.

Insubordination, count 7. If I’d pushed things, I believe that the general’s assault on me might have made the charge count 13–1.

Then I looked at the colonel’s face and saw that he was trying hard, but unsuccessfully, to suppress hysterical laughter. His shoulders were shaking. Tears formed in his eyes and then leaked out, making squiggly furrows through the red dust caking his face.

I started to giggle, Johnny started to giggle and the colonel, turning away from the general, began shaking with laughter, unseen by his boss. The general was still focusing all his energy and vehemence on me. Before I could lower the visor on my helmet sufficiently to shield my face, the general uttered the final words he was to say to me on that fateful day:

‘Wipe that fucking smile off your fucking face!’

This I was unable to do, which brought about Disobeying a Lawful Command, count 3, taking the final tally of charges to 14.

Then, without warning, the general collapsed, utterly spent, on the back seat of my little helicopter, from where he stared at the passing scenery for the next two hours as we flew back to Pretoria, no doubt carefully plotting his revenge.

*

Two days after returning from my eventful day trip to Amsterdam, I was telephonically requested to drop by the AFB Swartkop legal office for a ‘chat’ with the legal officer – generally a national serviceman with a law degree – with the proviso that I ‘make time to do so today, please’.

Mildly perturbed, I headed down to the base legal office on auto-pilot. I’d been a regular visitor – there was a very pretty girl who worked there – and knew the way in my sleep. On the way, I got to thinking that perhaps the colonel from the Amsterdam trip had spilt the beans on his anger-management-needy boss and that I was required to make a statement as a witness.