Everything was complete, but for Dad’s signature—I even considered forging it but changed my mind. Instead I returned to Mr Burford for advice and this resulted in a consultation with his lawyer. The lawyer pointed out that the unsigned signature block read PARENT/LEGAL GUARDIAN. He drew a line through LEGAL GUARDIAN and told me to send the forms to Northern Rhodesia for my mother’s signature. Mum signed the form in spite of her deep concerns, having lost two brothers to flying with her only surviving brother already serving as a pilot in the Royal Rhodesian Air force.
Mine was one of over 350 applications received for No 10 SSU (Short Service Unit) training. Of these only thirty-five applicants were accepted for the final pilot selection process at New Sarum airbase. I was lucky to be one of these and even luckier to be one of the eighteen candidates to receive instructions to report for pilot training on 3 January 1957.
Chapter 2
Ground Training School
REPORTING FOR SERVICE MUST BE much the same for everyone. I am certain most recruits suffer intense apprehension and a sense of awkwardness while seeking out anyone in civilian clothing looking as unsure and awkward as they feel. I was delighted to find David Thorne whom I had met some months before during the pilot selection process. Together we felt more confident and were soon gathering in our new course mates.
All Rhodesian schoolboys had undergone Army Cadet training at school and the annual cadet camps at Inkomo Barracks. So we instinctively responded to the bellowed command “Fall in”. Before us was the Station Warrant Officer (SWO) Bill Holden, a large ruddy-faced ex-British Royal Marine. Having welcomed us into the RRAF and, following a few words on what we were required to do over the next two days, sixteen men in civvy clothing were doubled-off’ to sign up for service.
Thereafter, we went to Station Equipment section where we drew uniforms and our flying kit, then doubled to the Officers’ Mess single quarters to check into our billets; two cadets to a room. By midday we were being drilled in our unpressed and uncomfortable new uniforms and stiff shoes. The SWO gave all commands in the typical Army way but otherwise he acted somewhat differently to the drill sergeants we had previously known. He used no bad language and acted in a formal yet non-threatening manner.
We were released to our billets in the late afternoon to find all members of No 9 SSU awaiting our arrival. They immediately set out to subjugate us, a recognised prerogative of the senior course. Since they only had two nights before we would be at Thornhill and beyond their clutches, 9 SSU decided to make both nights sheer hell for us.
This course had been at Thornhill for their training and, like us, had only been subjected to the attentions of their predecessors—No 8 SSU—for two nights when they attested for service. The consequence of this was that they had little idea of how to handle a junior course.
The first ‘directive’ issued was that every one of 10 SSU was to have all his hair shaved off. For a short while they thought they had us under control until it came to cutting Gordon Wright’s hair.
Gordon stood back and said, “There is no way I am taking this. If you want to cut my hair you will have to force it on me.”
From me they received a similar response, which was again repeated by Ian Ferguson. The senior course recognised that someone was going to get hurt if they pressed the issue and found a feeble way of doing away with the mandatory haircut. They decided instead to leave things be until we had showered and dressed for dinner.
In the Officers’ Mess, under guidance of young officers who had recently gained their commissions, 9 SSU first challenged 10 SSU to a schooner race. This is a drinking competition involving an equal number of competitors facing each other in two rows. 9 SSU needed six junior officers to match our number.
In a schooner race each contender is given a full tankard of beer and an umpire verifies this. Upon instruction from the umpire, the first two opposing contenders at one end of the line commence drinking their beer as fast as possible with everyone else chanting “down, down, down”. Once a contender has emptied the contents of his tankard down his gullet, he inverts the tankard onto his head, giving signal to the next in line to start downing his beer. The first team to have all tankards inverted on heads is the winner.
For my course there was no chance whatsoever of winning such a race as none of us was a drinker. Most of us had not even started to drink by the time our opposition was through, but we were compelled to down the beer anyway. Having done so, we were committed to a second and then a third race. Even before the third race started every member of 10 SSU was reeling about, most giggling and one ran off to throw up.
We were then subjected to a number of humiliating activities that were of little consequence until it came to the ‘communal trough’. This was an oversized chamber pot filled with beer. Our course was to remain out of sight until called forward, singly, to the circle of baiting officer cadets and junior officers. There, each of us had to lift the pot from the floor, take four large mouthfuls and place the pot on the floor for the next in line. There was great cheering and jeering from our baiters as each of us was called forward to take his turn.
My time came and as I lifted the pot I saw two turds floating in the beer. Instinctively the pot was lowered until I realised that they were in fact two over-cooked sausages. I took four gulps and put the pot down. The very last of our number failed the test when he puked directly into the pot. At this point our course turned as one and walked away. Commands to return to order were met by somewhat drunkenly uttered “force us if you can” challenges.
We were left alone. 9 SSU had failed miserably to subjugate us and we remembered this when, one year later, 11 SSU became our juniors in very different circumstances.
Our flight to Thornhill next day was by Dakota. My uncle, Flight Lieutenant Bill Smith, whom I have already mentioned, skippered this aircraft. Before the flight Bill had told me to keep our relationship to myself for my own good. This I did. Once airborne he invited all members of the course to go up to the cockpit in pairs where he explained instrument layout and answered many questions. The flight ended all too soon with our arrival in dispersals at Thornhill.
A truck drove up to the aircraft and its driver, a sergeant in Army uniform with a small dog, instructed us to load our kit onto the vehicle. Having done this the sergeant told us to fall in. He then introduced himself in a gentle manner as Sergeant McCone and even told us the name of his canine companion. He said he was our Drill Instructor (DI) for the duration of the course and welcomed us to Thornhill—all very soothing.
We expected to be told to climb onto the truck to be driven to our quarters. Not so! The DI’s quiet voice suddenly switched to that of an Army drill instructor. We were moved off at the double, our standard speed when moving from point to point… for months to come. As we turned to run past a hangar, Sergeant McCone gave the thumbs-up signal to a man, the actual driver of the truck, who had been waiting out of sight.
We ran to our quarters and saw that Thornhill was a neatly laid-out station, with tree-lined roads. Other than a handful of brick buildings, most were constructed of corrugated iron. All the roofs were red and the walls cream. We ran past the guardroom then over the main Gwelo-Umvuma road and rail line running parallel to Thornhill’s long southern boundary fence.