I have to share this story from my friend Hugh Termorshuizen Thanks Hugh! Quote..... It took us no longer than 48 seconds from the time that Anton Raaths and I were lying atop a vehicle, sun-tanning with brake fluid and cooking oil under the Kavango sky, to the time that we were fully kitted and seated, giving our condition and response over the radio. A pilot was coming in with landing gear problems. Arthur Piercy’s face in the cockpit struck me as memorable, I’d imagine, because we were on standby halfway down the runway, and his wheels hadn’t hit the tar yet. And, also, I’d imagine, because there appeared to be nothing wrong with the landing gear, but everything wrong with everything else. The tail of the Mirage CZ had been shot to pieces, and whatever it was that shredded it had removed his drag-chute as well. He was in the process of landing halfway down the shortest runway in the world … and he was doing so on an airfield that had an inoperable catch-net. As Anton revved the engines in pulling away, his disheartening irony could be felt in his words, “Ja! Thank God he has no landing gear problems.” We motored a 16-ton vehicle down a runway dominated by a Mirage that was fast getting away from us … and then it disappeared altogether. It shot clean through the catch nets and the sand trap designed to slow it down, and disappeared into the Earth somewhere ahead of us. My fears of everything involving fires made one for a apparent realistic one that had the plane headed directly for the Kavango River, which was only complicated by the fear I harboured of crocodiles and drowning. And then we saw the thick black smoke billowing upwards. I reached instinctively behind me to retrieve the 7 pins that needed insertion into the cockpit’s seat to prevent the pilot from ejecting during his extraction, when suddenly, everything I was taught completely forsook me. I stared at the pins, trying my best to remember their insertion points, and was struck by how unfamiliar they all looked. “The main gun. Drogue gun ... Christ!” “Main gun. Drogue gun” I start again “… how many pins are there? Where do they go? How do you do this again?” They train you for this, I’m sure. “But I know this, man. I remember these guns.” Or, maybe you’re just never ready. I felt the utter helplessness of panic engulf me; the fear of failure contaminate me … and it was at a time that I needed it least. It was something that until then had never crossed my mind. I always knew that it was never in my nature to take the life of another, and therefore I never truly gave much thought to the affects that my actions would have on others during the Border War, but I also never considered, despite the training I was mustered for, that the life of another would have my actions determine their fates. It was always someone else who got these tasks. Better people who, simply put, knew just what to do. The fear of my actions had turned dramatically to one of omissions. I was catapulted from that vehicle, and ran towards the fuselage, which was banked to its left, leaning on its left wing, which was in flames. And while I stood there, in that short period of time (hours, at least) I could understand why tall men didn’t make pilots. You could stick both arms straight down into the cockpit, and you would touch the bottom before your elbows reached the canopy lock … and you could extend both arms sideways, and not get further than the width of your shoulders. The cockpit is small. And that is without the cockpit seat, or pilot. He just wasn’t there. The fears of omission give way very quickly to the most immediate one. I saw him land. He had to be there. I mounted the fuselage, because the smoke and flames were blocking almost all visibility, and mounted the fuselage for any sighting of his apparent ejection. And as I signalled to Anton I was shot back with so much white force that I thought that the armaments of the plane had been detonated. But it was the water from the canon that Anton discharged to protect both Captain Piercy and I that hit me with that force. I hit the sand almost squarely on my back, and in turning to my right, came eye to eye with the heart-stopping realisation that a missile was still lodged beneath the burning wing. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THE PILOT! THE PILOT!” someone shouted at me. “Where?” “There!” he says, pointing to something glistening some 80 meters in front of the plane. My knees turned to rubber, and my boots to lead as I sprinted for the downed pilot; feverishly praying that someone else get there ahead of me. From the moment (which felt like hours since) that I retrieved the pins, I felt nothing but the debilitation of failure. I don’t recall much of happens from there on in, and having spoken to Arthur about the incident so many years after the incident, have some idea now. It’s nothing spectacular, but over the years I’ve realised that in trying to put the pieces together, I run the risk of using the ‘forgetfulness’ to my advantage in making bastions from bivouacs. .........Unquote see link igg.me/at/project-dreamwings/x/3540964
Posted on: Tue, 18 Jun 2013 14:20:23 +0000