Young Rhodesia was a fascinating playground for children. We were still pioneering within our multicultural society, with a unique ability in that most of what we did to entertain ourselves was a pioneering adventure of some sort. For example, my age group was even the first to be pupils in the new and first-ever full junior school named after the then governor of Rhodesia, Sir John Kennedy; we were the first generation to drive on the full-width tarmac main road between Salisbury and Bulawayo, and, most significantly, we invented and made some amazing toys and equipment while also exploring the bounty of our natural surroundings. Sometimes we were drawn back into what was going on in the adults’ world, and for us boys it was usually cars, trains and aircraft that appealed to us. We were truly blessed not to have any digital devices at all. We had to do our own thinking.
For me, the bundu with all its richness in fauna and flora came first on my interests list. Second to that came my love of aircraft. Anything that flew in the air carrying a pilot and maybe some passengers too, caused me to dream of becoming a pilot, but wasn’t that ambition true of most young boys? I think our fascination about flight was the reason why I became a kite builder at a very young age. Nobody taught me how to build a kite and I didn’t have the right material to build them, but I soon improvised and used dry khaki bos (Blackjack weed) stalks for the frames and newspaper for the covering, fixed with homemade glue. Watching raptors like Yellowbilled Kites, Whalbergs Eagles and other varieties in protective territorial mood, inquisitively circling closer and closer to my kites way up in the air, hundreds of feet above, simply added to my enjoyment. But it was the occasional sighting of aircraft in the sky passing over our town that always won in the interest stakes.
Light aircraft have always held my fascination, ever since the day my father took me to the Gatooma Aerodrome and the two of us went for a ten-minute flip over the area in a tiny Piper Cub in, as far as I can remember, 1951. The infrequently used aerodrome was situated in the expansive open vlei (rich grassland usually found between low hills) that later became the site of the town’s abattoir, and until then had been used more for grazing the beef herds of one of the famous local butchers, “Uncle” Jimmy Beatie. That weekend, some private pilot enthusiasts had flown their various aircraft to the ‘drome and had congregated to mingle amongst the town’s interested people to show off their planes and chat about aviation in general. Most of the planes were high-winged (like little Pipers) or they were biplanes (like Tiger Moths), and even one 1930-something de Havilland Rapide (also a biplane) that someone brought in. We marvelled at its six-to-eight-seater capacity, depending on the size of the passengers, and its purported top speed of 250 kilometers per hour! Most of the other aircraft taking people on “flips” only had room for on or two passengers.
With almost all of Gatooma’s entertainment being by need and self-generated by different artists living in the area, an air show, albeit a very small one, was a great attraction and families arrived throughout the weekend to enjoy the rare show and tell experience or even pay for a short flight in one of the aircraft taking off from the newly manicured grass strip. When the two of us went to see the display of parked flying machines, I had no idea that my father had taken me there for a special surprise: he paid the fee which I remember was a whole seven pounds sterling, and helped me settle into the back seat of the three-seat Piper Cub. It was of the more recent series with two seats behind the pilot’s. Dad sat next to me, behind moustachioed Wing Commander Grace who was the owner and had retired from the Royal Air Force after the Second World War. He and his family settled in Gatooma where he was a businessman, prior to which he had commanded RAF Kumalo before being posted to the Middle East.
All of the planes at the show were “tail draggers” that had been given the name because they had a small wheel on their tail that caused the aircraft to sit at an angle on the ground. Before we took off, I wondered how our Wing Commander Grace could see where he was going when we were all facing the sky because of the tail dragger attitude! This was a common layout of undercarriage for large and small aircraft alike – two main wheels positioned on struts below the front seats and then one right under the tails.
But of course, as we gained speed along the grass-covered runway and the Piper began to fly within a few heartbeats the fuselage became level and us passengers could see out of the windows quite easily. Being a summer Saturday afternoon there were many of those invisible thermals that cause aircraft to bounce around in the air and for the first few minutes that day I wondered if I was going to survive my maiden flight. I mean, did people really enjoy spending hours flying high above the ground feeling so air sick? We banked over the Owl Mine road and approached our home at Sabonabon over the Cam Hill. The sight of my mother and siblings standing in the front garden waving at us quickly dispelled the motion sickness and I couldn’t stop grinning. What a wonderful experience I was being treated to!
The greatest thrill of all during our flight was on our return journey when our pilot swooped low over our house and then lined the plane up to fly over the Cam Hill and land. As we passed over the higher ground and the steep hill, the scenery on both sides of us visually dropped away in a split second because of the physical relief of the area. The sensation was a heightened thrill to me. No wonder people become pilots. I remember visiting Jack Kessler’s “The Sports Rendezvous” shop in town the following week and spending all my pocket money on an Albatross glider to build from the balsawood kit of hundreds of tiny parts contained in the box. The three feet wing spanned Albatross took me about three weeks to build, and about three minutes in the air before it nosedived into a tree and crumpled up. The lesson learnt was to be patient and only fly aircraft where aircraft are meant to fly.
The king of our local model aircraft hobbyists was without doubt, John Sapsford. I can’t tell you how many models he built and owned, but he had dozens of them. His perfectly constructed and beautifully painted models ranged from gliders to the free-flight versions of well-known real brands, to what we called control-line models that we used to do aerobatic manoeuvres with, for hours on end. Roger Nicolls, one of my best friends in those days came a close second to John. The Gatooma aerodrome was where we preferred to fly our planes because the open space allowed for fewer casualties amongst our models. We’d usually gather at John’s family home and all ride down to the strip together, carrying our models with us. He was also the best pilot by far and when I bought my first ED 3.4cc engine for my control-line Spitfire, I went to see him first for advice about flying such a fast, powerful model. Every boy wanted to own a model of the legendary Spitfire. I can still remember the day John flew his larger than average free-flight aircraft so high, so far, I was sure he’d never see it again, but he sprinted down the runway with a bunch of other friends in pursuit of the red dot hundreds of feet up, keeping visual track of its flight path. When they returned their smiling faces explained it all: the plane was safe and completely intact with not a scratch on it. None of Jimmie Beatie’s cows had stepped on it or stampeded off into the hills in fright!
Then interspersing the events of our lives during those scintillating years came when exciting aircraft like our Rhodesian Airforce’s Vampire jet squadron passed over town, sometimes flying so high that it was only their vapour trails that indicated their flight path, but there were occasions when they flew low. We were in our science class at Jameson High one morning when a couple of Vampires did an illegal low pass over us and all we heard was what sounded like an explosion and the sound of windowpanes shattering all around the school. Monkey see window, monkey see no window! It happened so quickly that there was no pre-warning of their approach: no familiar whine of approaching jets or their whine fading away afterwards either. I know those pilots were in serious trouble for violating basic aviation disciplines, especially in military aircraft. But sometimes temptation is too strong to resist. Boys will be boys, as the saying goes. In my ignorance I’ve often wondered if one of the pilots wasn’t perhaps from our school.
Another thrill I will never forget years later was in 1959 (if my memory serves me correctly) when Great Britain sent its truly magnificent Avro Vulcan jet “V-bomber” to show it off to all the Commonwealth countries, including Rhodesia. To cap it all, the spectacularly efficient and beautiful new generation bomber carried the esteemed elephant badge of 44 Rhodesia Squadron. The date and time of its fly-over was well advertised in each town, from Umtali on the eastern border and all along the main road connecting the towns from east, to Bulawayo on the south-west end of our proud country. The arrival of the Avro Vulcan over Gatooma was spot on to the scheduled (ETA) time and most of the folk within range of the experience waited outside to see it and what a sight it was as the enormous dart-shaped bomber did two slow turns over us and then accelerated away and quickly vanished into the distance like a very beautiful supernatural spectre.
And with the passing of time I became the husband of Barbara, father of Wayne and Leigh-Ann, and headmaster of my very special young Rhodesians attending Empress Mine Primary School (1974) where the kids made their parents proud as can be for their many remarkable achievements.
Not long after the Ministry of Education announced that they were about to start interviewing potential candidates to assume headship of Riverside Primary School in Gwelo, (a promotion post of note) I received a call from their Linquenda House offices in Salisbury, inviting me to attend a session with the promotion committee. My interview date and time was unilaterally set by them for a forthcoming Tuesday morning. We had already booked seats with friends Ruth and Rob Bester to watch an imported British dramatic production at the Gwelo Theatre. It was being staged on the Saturday night before my interview, so we arranged to billet our young children out with friends at the mine and spend the night in the Midlands hotel in the city, after the show. Due to the prevailing terrorist situation it wasn’t safe to drive back to Empress late at night, even with two cars in convoy and with the men armed. I repeat what I’ve said in previous stories and that is any assault rifle-carrying bastard, black, white, green or yellow, who ambushes innocent citizens who are going about their daily lives is a terrorist. Not a freedom fighter.
On the Saturday night Mother Nature intervened, however, and the area experienced severe thunderstorms throughout the rest of Saturday and Sunday and from within the safety of our hotel we could hear the crashing thunder, with both streak and sheet lightning illuminating our rooms every few seconds. Oh for those fantastic storms that either energised people like us, or terrified others by the simultaneous visual and audio spectacles and the unparalleled, delightful smell afterwards of the country’s wet earth. Just add the trill of the season’s cicada beetles and… It’s heaven on earth!
Those things only seemed to happen in that part of the world. We were accustomed to the reality of the inclement weather situation and as quickly as we were able to be ready on Sunday morning we climbed into our cars and sped back along the main road to Gatooma, hoping to get home before the effects of the local thunderstorms could interrupt our journey, but as we had suspected, when we crossed the Umniati River on the main road we could see that it had become an angry Umniati River. Our fears were ultimately realised when we looped back on the Empress road to where we had to cross the same raging river again. The churning floodwaters many feet above the level of the bridge told us to stay back. So there we were stranded, with our children some miles on the far side of the Umniati, and their parents sitting anxiously in the car on the water’s edge on the opposite side. Barbara needed to get back to our children and home, and, whatever we did, I needed to be able to attend my promotion interview and do so wearing a fresh suit, collar and tie. We were on the wrong side of a river preventing us from satisfying very important, urgent needs.
We had but one option and that was to find someone to fly us back to Empress, collect Wayne and Leigh-Ann from our friends, pack a family suitcase of clothes at home, board our plane and immediately take off to fly back to Gatooma where we knew we could stay overnight with my parents at Matamba, Sabonabon. Barbara had an epiphany and contacted local Chartered Accountant Peter James, a friend of her parents and who we knew owned a six-seat Cessna 210 Centurion which would be ideal if he were available to help us. When we went to talk to him, Peter agreed to be our rescue pilot subject to four requirements: first, we would have to fly early on Monday morning so that he could get back in time to honour his prearranged business appointments; secondly, that the Empress Mine Security guys would check the bushveld landing strip for its ability to take the Cessna’s landing without being stuck in thick, clinging mud, and, most important, thirdly, that there was no sign of landmines having been planted on the landing strip overnight. The fourth prerequisite was that there would be armed security personnel on site throughout the duration of the landing and take off. I phoned the mine head of accounting and good friend Barry Symington and he quickly approached management about our request. They gracefully agreed to all we asked for and things were put in motion.
The two of us met Peter at the Cam and Motor Mine aerodrome very early on Monday morning as arranged and after a routine but mandatory check of every detail of the aircraft we boarded, fastened our seatbelts and took off. Peter trimmed the aircraft for its flight directly to Empress Mine and within about twenty minutes he was circling the strip for the presence of the men assigned to see us in safely. Barbara is a white-knuckle passenger even at best in a jumbo jet on a regular commercial flight, so it doesn’t take much imagination to guess how much she enjoyed our flight that morning. Absolute Zero is the polite answer! The need to hurry in Barry’s car, fetch our children, go home and throw our clothes into a suitcase, secure our home and return to Peter waiting at his Cessna in light intermittent rain took her mind of flying and before she had time to start worrying again, we were shoving our kids into their seats while Peter considered his very limited take off options in worsening conditions.
At the end of his taxiing to the end of the strip just as he was beginning rev up the plane’s engine, turn and release the brakes for his run down the bowl of porridge below us, Wayne who had never flown before and had obviously picked up on his mummy’s nervous state, began to cry “…I want to wee…!” Peter reduced throttle and we dangled our son out of the side of the Cessna so that he could do what nature called on him to do, as quickly as nature allowed him to do. Leigh-Ann sat wide-eyed, fascinated by the goings on and completely at ease about everything while Barbara stiffened like a steel rod when the retractable undercarriage folded away, sounding to her as if the bottom of the plane had blown off!
The rest of our flight back to the Cam and Motor Mine proved uneventful although stressful for most on board and the one compensation was that it was dry there. We compensated Peter for his kind assistance and cost of privately hiring his aircraft before we said goodbye and drove a few miles down the road to our parents feeling more relieved than our son was when we let him out of the Cessna!
I drove myself to Salisbury for my interview where a panel of some eight senior officials questioned me about my ability (couldn’t they read the inspectors’ reports?), my general education philosophy, and how I handled problem children who have problem parents. About a fortnight later I was called out of a classroom at my school by Mr. Dearling who was the Chief Education Officer: he made me feel proud with his words “Congratulations. You’re the new Headmaster of Riverside Primary School!” I was flying.
davidgoelst 