Jeffery Kempson
I stepped out of the Affretair sanctions busting cargo DC-8 at Schipol airport in Amsterdam. It had been a good night flight on the jump seat from Salisbury, with cargo stops at Nairobi, Cairo, and a mid-morning stop at Zurich.
I had sent some cargo business Affretair’s way, and they had rewarded me with a free ride to Amsterdam.
Dutch customs opened my suitcase and asked why there was a King Nav Com radio unit in it, along with a roll of high speed duct tape packed amongst my clothing. I told them I was a ferry pilot arriving to pick up an aircraft to deliver to Africa. No problem.
I heard the tired DC-8 crew discussing taking an afternoon nap, to be followed by a party night in Amsterdam. Getting some good advice from them, I decided a 39 year old, red-blooded bachelor also deserved some recreation in this permissive city. So, I spent two enjoyable nights pursuing commercial legal erotic options. Then I took an airline to Munich and was met by Bob Koroskinsy, the multiple DC-3 owner and aviation spares dealer.
En route to his Schwabing office we had a good chuckle about how I was awarded the delivery contract for Dakotas by the South African Armscor offices on the top floor of the SA French Embassy. I had flown to Paris for lunch with them, and carried the document back to Jhb, leaving the same evening.
The next day I met the other pilot, an elderly fellow I’d replaced on a contract in Khartoum a year earlier. Flight Lieutenant Monty Burton had the distinction of having flown a RAF Canberra from the UK to Christchurch New Zealand in a record time of less than 24 hours. As he modestly mentioned; “Anyone could have done it.”
That afternoon we visited the three Dakotas standing on the far side of the airfield with large oil drums placed under the engines. The batteries had been freshly charged, some fuel loaded, the engines run the day before, and a mag drop rectified.
Then we went to Bob’s office for lunch, and I handed over US$20K in travellers checks and received various related paperwork. In 1981 $20K was equivalent to R13,605 which I paid for the DC-3 with a total airframe time of less than 3,500 hours. Once in SA the airframes would be converted to Turbine Daks, to replace the aged SAAF Shackelton coastal patrol aircraft.
The deal was that I had to purchase the preselected Dakotas. Then the SA Government would provide the ferry fees and pay me for the aircraft on arrival in SA.
That evening we spent a happy couple of hours in the ever-festive café and piano bar Schwabing area. The beer was good, the populace friendly and mostly English speaking. However, a fellow drinker encouraged me to clear my throat and follow his example in venting a tuneful yodel or two. This was not very successful, and Monty (a previous associate of “Captain Fantastic”) cautioned me to moderate my tone, in keeping with an operative embarking on a clandestine mission.
The next morning a friendly Armscor employee stationed in Europe met us in the airport concourse. He had left a message at Bob’s office to tell me that I would recognise him as he would be carrying a Scope magazine. I identified him firstly by his veldskoen shoes, and the Scope magazine confirmed his identity. Over coffee he handed me a sealed brown envelope containing $22,000 in cash for our ferry flight expenses.
This gent was a total contrast to the dour Armscor bunch I’d originally met in their Pretoria headquarters.
Through immigration, we went out to the DC-3 and after a thorough pre-flight, started up and taxied out to the active runway. En-route a couple of airline pilots and a mechanic with a camera kept pace with us, initially taking pictures of the Dak. We’d been warned that the novelty of the vintage aircraft grumbling past modern jet airliners would attract attention. So, without even a test flight, we tried to minimise attention by getting airborne before the airport press representatives immortalised us on film.
After careful run-ups, Monty entered the runway and applied full power; the tail came up and then the old aeroplane lifted off into the morning sunlight. I raised the undercarriage and was gratified to see it fully retracted after having stood outside through several freezing German winters.
At a suitable height we turned toward the Alps gleaming with snow. I said to Monty, “We don’t have a transponder, so if we need IFR they’ll refuse us. So, if we can get over the Alps, it’s downhill all the way home.”
The mountains were spectacular, and so was a B727 descending towards us who, notified of our position, dipped a wing for a better view. We were certainly getting a lot of unwanted attention.
The old aircraft behaved itself, and a few hours later we entered Greek airspace, and landed at Corfu. After parking we gave the Dak a good looking over, but there were no significant oil leaks visible, nor signs of anything coming loose.
We had decided to ferry the best Dak first – and so far so good. After opening the ferry money envelope, we refuelled, then spent the night in a pleasant beach hotel enjoying gourmet Greek lamb.
Next morning I took the left seat, put a couple of lifejackets in easy reach, then flew over the Mediterranean to overnight at a resort hotel at Heraklion in Crete.
The third day saw us crossing the African coast west of Cairo, flying over the Sahara before descending into Luxor in Egypt. It took us ages to get Avgas there, until I bribed the Jet fuel bowser driver to neglect an Egypt Air B737 parked next to us, and return with the Avgas bowser. The Egyptian Boeing Captain scowled from his window and repeatedly pointed at his watch.
An unpleasant medical official came aboard and demanded to see our yellow fever vaccination forms. He pretended to find fault with mine, but could not as it had recently been updated with a cholera shot stamp. Meanwhile Monty was stage whispering to me that “My cholera shot expired last month.”
I said, “Well, pretend you’ve left it in your suitcase at the back, and buy time.” Monty moved aft, and I winked at the medical official. Then reaching up to the green ceiling upholstery I undid the zip and extracted a very vulgar picture book which I showed him. His eyes lit up, as I said, “I give you book, you go away, he show you cholera shot stamp next time.”
The pervy official deliberated and said, “You give me two picture books.” I pretended to consider, then extracted a second lewd book, also recently acquired from a liberal sex shop in Munich. The man took it and said, “Thankee, I see you next time.”
I had been to Luxor before, so was acquainted with the desires of the medical officer. A year before I had flown a Piper Aztec out of Khartoum to a road building project 400 nm out into the Western desert – with no GPS available back then.
When the wind raised the sand it became a challenge. One day at Wadi Mara I’d approached the German camp doctor with my yellow vaccination book and told him my cholera shot was about to expire. He sat me down, and while I rolled up my sleeve, he stamped my book, and said “That will be good for 6 months.” Then he said, “Roll your sleeve down and keep quiet about it. The injection is more likely to give you cholera than protect you from it.”
I thanked him and walked out of the door with a pain free arm.
The Luxor Winter Palace Hotel was a grand establishment, and while Monty phoned his UK home, I took myself off to see and hear the memorable sound and light show at Karnak, which filled my mind with wonderful ancient Egyptian vistas.
I returned to the hotel in meditative mood, clutching my new LP record of the sound track of the enchanting event.
A curious habit existed amongst the young river boat employees on the banks of the Nile. On seeing a tourist strolling about, they often asked if you would please send them a letter once you got home. The receipt of a letter from a foreign dwelling tourist bestowed a degree of prestige when they later showed it to their friends. I mailed a couple but doubted if a letter from Apartheid South Africa would ever actually reach them in Egypt.
We took off in the clear desert air next morning for the longest leg on the ferry, to seaside Djibouti a little over a thousand miles away. We stayed clear of the Sudan, and flew uneventfully down the middle of the Red Sea at a genteel 135 knots, to arrive in good weather after nearly seven and a half hand-flown hours.
Djibouti was hot, expensive and bustling, and as we taxied in, we saw a contingent of foreign Legionnaires boarding a Boeing 737 for parts unknown. The scene was reminiscent of a swashbuckling Beau Geste desert movie.
A few drinks and a meal later we retired to a single room, as no doubles were available. Monty snored and I didn’t, so his recital kept me awake.
Airborne next morning, I turned right to follow the coastline over troublesome Somaliland en-route to my favourite destination: exotic Mombasa. There to overnight at the charming Mombasa Beach hotel.
Flying over Hargeisa we noticed that many of the suburban tin roofs were painted bright blue. A few weeks later, while delivering the third and troublesome Dakota, I was obliged to land there to transfer the fuel from a drum of Avgas we had on board, as our left engine was inexplicably using 23% more fuel than the right one, significantly reducing our range.
We then learnt that the houses had newly painted blue roofs because months earlier a truck carrying a cargo of blue paint had broken down in there and was beyond economic repair. The blue paint did not go to waste.
My spirits lifted turning final for Runway 21 at Mombasa. I had gone to junior school in Kenya and remembered great times on this coast. At one stage in my early flying career I felt I’d be happy to base myself there, and fly any serviceable aircraft that I was offered, just to be able to enjoy this exotic coast, and the company of the often larger than life personalities who lived there. But the urge to fly turboprop and jet aircraft which increasingly appeared on the SA register won out, so I stayed in Joburg.
At the lovely palm-fringed Mombasa Beach Hotel we enjoyed excellent cuisine amongst mostly English speaking guests.
The next morning we took off early for a double leg. First to Blantyre to refuel, thereafter as I had been instructed, to arrive after dark at Lanseria Airport Johannesburg. Our course took us overhead Dar es Salaam to avoid a restricted area, then direct to Blantyre.
When shutting down on the Blantyre apron we were disconcerted to be surrounded by uniformed police. They boarded and searched the aircraft, then escorted us to a terminal lounge and began to question us. Monty sat down, lit his pipe and said, “Look here, I’m just a pilot on this aircraft, employed by this man,” he said, pointing at me. “He owns the aircraft and we’re going to Johannesburg.”
A few moments later a senior police officer walked into the lounge and said, “Everything is in order, you may proceed.”
Which we did after refuelling, paying landing fees and so on. Once back on board I said to Monty, “That was hardly the behaviour I expected from an English officer and a gentleman!”
He shrugged and said; “In Africa it’s everyman for himself, old boy.”
“Good thing I wasn’t worried,” I replied. I’m told the South African government has powerful friends in Malawi.” Presumably a phone call had been made to a senior SA diplomatic official who had cleared the way for us.
Thereafter the flight to Lanseria was rather frosty, but uneventful. We duly landed after dark and were marshalled to a parking area some distance from the terminal.
Nobody approached the aircraft while we chocked it, put the control locks in and carried our bags to the terminal. At the door the airport manager took our passports away to be stamped and my girlfriend met us at the entrance to the restaurant.
The manager said, “No one’s allowed near that Dak, and a SAAF crew is on the way to pick it up and fly it to Swartkop Air Force Base.”
About an hour later the unmistakable sound of a DC-3 taking off reached our ears, I stood up from the dining table and walked to the window. I’m told I waved as it flew past. Returning to the table, I said, “One down, two to go.”
I felt smugly satisfied but little did I know that Dak had given us the only hassle free trip of the three I had agreed to deliver. The next two ferry flights would be fraught with incident and danger.
A couple of weeks later I was taxiing out in a Beech Baron at Rand when the Avex Air survey DC-3 took off. In the left seat was the famous, recently retired ex-chief SAA pilot Capt. Bert Rademan, in the seat next to him sat Monty Burton with his pipe clenched firmly between his teeth. I never saw, nor heard from him again.