This led us into the large married quarters, which we could see were all brick-under-tile homes set in well-treed grounds. We then wheeled into the driveway of No 1 Married Quarters and were brought to a halt in front of the verandah where Flight Lieutenant Parish stood waiting to address us.
He introduced himself as the Officer Commanding Ground Training School (OC GTS), responsible for all our activities during the first four months of our Initial Training School (ITS) phase. He said that once flying training commenced in May, we would fall under OC 4 Squadron for the Basic Flying Training School (BFS) but he would continue to be responsible for all our ground schooling throughout our two years of training. We were told that Vampires were scheduled to arrive at Thornhill for the Advanced Flying School (AFS) in January 1958), twelve months hence.
The house before which we stood rigidly to attention was being used as the temporary Officers’ Mess. Four houses back from the Mess were our quarters. Flight Lieutenant Parish read out our names and the number of the house to which each of us was allocated. It being Sunday, we were instructed to go to our quarters, sort out our kit and return to the Mess for lunch in casual attire. The afternoon was free.
I shared a house with David Thorne, Bill Galloway and Robin Brown. How he had managed it I cannot recall, but Dave Thorne’s MG was parked outside the house. He invited us to accompany him for a look around Gwelo town, some four miles away.
During my apprenticeship in Umtali I had met, and thereafter dated, Pat Woods. For over two years we did everything together and spent much time exploring the mountainous eastern districts on my AJS 500 motorcycle. Her family always made me feel very welcome in their home.
When Pat went off to Teachers’ Training College in Grahamstown, South Africa, I felt pretty lost riding alone down back roads and through forests. Then one day a tubby blonde female who was at college with Pat told me that Pat was having a gay old time with the college boys in Grahamstown. I was shaken but, believing what I had heard, immediately wrote to Pat terminating our association. Pat made many attempts to get me back, but I stubbornly refused.
Because I had been very distressed over Pat, I vowed to myself that I would not get involved with a woman until I had completed pilot training. Looking back on events it still amuses me that I met my wife-to-be during that very first visit to Gwelo on that very first day at Thornhill, not that I realised this at the time.
Gwelo was the fourth largest town in Rhodesia and on this Sunday it appeared to be deserted. Having driven around a while we spotted a place called the Polar Milk Bar and dropped in for milkshakes. The pretty redhead with a big smile behind the counter was very pleasant and introduced herself as Beryl. Once I had received my drink, I went to a table and looked out of the window onto the dismal street while my three course mates engaged Beryl in conversation.
About two weeks had passed when we heard that a major dance was to take place in Gwelo. Dave, Bill and Robin were keen to go but needed to find dates for the occasion. They decided Beryl was the person to help and that I, being the oldest member in our house, should do the talking. Even knowing that I had no desire to find a date or to go to the dance, they cajoled me into helping them.
We went to the Polar Milk Bar but found another lady there instead. Cleo Pickolous told us that Beryl Roe was a hairdresser friend who had been standing in for her on the afternoon we had met, so she gave us directions to Beryl’s home. Mr and Mrs Roe met us at the front door and seemed to be incredibly pleased to see us. I was taken through to the lounge to talk to Beryl while my younger mates stayed in the sun lounge chatting with her folks.
Beryl, whom I judged to be about twenty-six years of age, seemed mildly perplexed by my request to find dates for my three course mates—yet not asking her for a date myself. Nevertheless, she was helpful and all was duly arranged. We left and I thought no more about the matter.
Our day at Thornhill started at 5:30 a.m. with a walk to the Mess for coffee, after which the week’s course commander, a duty we all took in turn, formed us up. We then doubled off to collect weapons for morning drill, which commenced at 6 a.m.
Sergeant McCone was always standing to attention awaiting our arrival, his dog sitting patiently close by. Without fail, he consulted his wristwatch as we came to a halt in front of him. For a solid hour we responded to his bellowing and binding which, happily, reduced in proportion to improvements in our standards of drill and dress. At 7:30 we handed in our weapons and were always ravenously hungry by the time we had run back for an excellent breakfast.
With the exception of Ian Ferguson, all my course mates were either directly out of school or had gained Matric Exemption twelve months earlier. So, from Day One I realised that my premature removal from school, with three years out of an academic environment, would present major challenges for me. My problem areas were essentially mathematics, English grammar and spelling. The practical subjects of engines, airframes, instruments, radio, airmanship, meteorology, navigation and so on, were fine.
The pass mark required for every examination paper was 70%, providing the average for all subjects was over 75%. I met these criteria at the end of each month, but only just. Many years passed before I gained access to my personal training file at Air HQ and found that Flight Lieutenant Parish, insofar as my weak subjects were concerned, likened me to a tube of toothpaste: “Press Petter-Bowyer here and a bulge appears in a different place.”
We were in our sixth week of training when I broke my right ankle on our way to morning drill. As with most days, the dawn was quite splendid. All colours of the rainbow painted the early morning cirrus stratus, adding a special dimension to the crisp, clean, highveld air. I diverted attention for just a moment to look at the sky while we were running next to the service railway line that brought fuel trains into Thornhill. In so doing I failed to see the displaced rock that twisted my ankle.
In agony I was taken to SSQ where the doctor found that a section of bone had broken away from my heel and was being held apart from its rightful place by the ligament of the calf muscle. After treatment and with my leg in a plaster cast, I was ordered to bed for one week. Of all the members of my course, I was the least able to handle a full week off lectures. I feared that my misfortune might result in my failing ITS, even though Dave Thorne did his best to keep me abreast of what was being covered.
I had been laid up for a couple of days when Flight Sergeant Reg Lohan, the Officers’ Mess caterer, came to my room to say that a young lady had called and would be visiting me that afternoon. I went into a cold sweat believing Pat Woods had tracked me down again and I lay wondering how I was going to a handle this unhappy situation.
When Beryl Roe breezed into my room with Flight Sergeant Lohan, I was very relieved. She was an easy person to relate to and we discussed all sorts of things without any loss for words or subjects. Flight Sergeant Lohan sent us a tray with tea and cakes, which Beryl said was “so sweet of him.” Then the guys came back from classes and, without consulting me, they suggested to Beryl that we all go to the cinema that evening. Beryl accepted and persuaded me to go along. What an awful night! I was in agony with my foot on the floor, so Beryl insisted I lift it, plaster cast and all, onto her lap. We both agonised through the show and I was happy when the evening came to an end. Thereafter Beryl and I saw each other regularly, but only after she had shown me her passport to prove that she was nineteen years old and not twenty-six as I had thought.
