As far as guardian angels are concerned, he wasn’t much to look at. Not really the type one visualises as personal heavenly bodyguard. Least of all on the shooting range I found myself at, when Sergeant-Major Masson introduced him as my machine gunner. Our unit had been divided, as usual, into four-man teams, for the top-secret operation we had, as yet, no clue about where and what. Being the fearless leader of such a huge fighting outfit, I was seemingly entitled to one of the new lads fresh out of training troop. The operation coming up seemed to be really something, what with everyone they could get their hands on called up and our ranks swelled to the unbelievable total of over a hundred men, never before seen together like this, not by me anyway. In the process they must have really scratched the bottom, cutting the recruits’ training short and sending them off to the range to be allocated, one each to a team. That is how I met Doug Tapson for the first time. Once again as usual, our machine gunners were given RPD’s, the nifty, light-weight Soviet machinegun of which enough had been captured from the terrs over the years to equip our unit, at least. Firing the same round as the ubiquitous AK 47, it was our machinegun of choice. And Doug, with the strong build of a typical farmer’s son, seemed, by the looks of him, to be my gunner of choice. So I was rather baffled, when, on his first shoot with the RPD, he missed the target altogether. I mean, that’s something I had come to expect from yours truly, - not from a real farmer’s son like him. So I had him shoot again, even though I could see the range officer raising his eyebrows. But, if anything, it was even worse. The safest place for an enemy would be right in front of him, there where the No 8 target was, it seemed. The Sergeant-Major came up and suggested I get myself another gunner, - “this one is useless”. He would help me swop someone around. For some reason, I still don’t know to this day why, I asked him to wait and give me a chance to check this out first. Telling Doug to aim at the target again, I squatted behind him, squinting along the line of sight. And that is when I noticed his aim with the weapon was all wrong. “Have you not shot an RPD before?” I asked him. It turned out he hadn’t, what with the training having been ended prematurely. To cut a long story short, once he had been shown how, he shot as one would expect a Rhodesian farmer's son to shoot, ie a tight grouping in the middle of the target. He was happy, and I was happy. How very happy, and how very lucky, I'd soon find out...

I have written about the operation before. What made me think of it again was a discussion about medals and our unit’s attitude towards the very principle. In the end, medals were given, mostly to officers, something still rankling with some of our best NCO’s. And being commented on by squadron wits like Rick Norad. A commander who shall remain nameless had told his troop that the medal he had just received was actually awarded not for him alone, but for his whole troop, - to which Rick, never one to hold back, retorted: “So when is it my time to wear it, Sir?”… Normally I do not take sides, keeping my mouth shut, for the very good reason that medals for bravery are not exactly my thing. Let’s put it this way: I was a good runner… I did have the privilege, however, to have experienced and seen extreme bravery on occasion. Not by officers, but by lowly troopies. One specific one and this is what this is about. Following the incident on the range, the day arrived that we kitted out and moved over to the New Sarum air force base, where we were promptly isolated and told to wait for orders. No move out, no telephoning, no contact was allowed with the outside world at all. Midday on 22 November 1977 we trooped into a big hanger, together with RLI troops and air force pilots and PJI's and a whole bunch of other officers and men and sat down on teared benches round a huge model on the floor in the middle. With our mouths hanging open. They didn't really get much of a chance to close for the duration of the briefing and orders, as the whole thing was, to us, so unbelievable. And exciting, for madmen I suppose. My innards were rumbling as I wondered whether it had been such a good idea to join the army and get caught up in an insane undertaking like this. Chimoio, or New Farm, we were told was the name of this nice little place we were going to attack. With only 200 of us altogether, against 5000 of them, possibly up to 8000. All armed and bushy-tailed and supported by heavy machine-guns, Ack-Ack and all sorts of support weapons. With a Frelimo garrison and tanks and armoured cars and Tanzanians and Cubans just 17 kilometres away in Chimoio town. To our surprise, we realised there were about fifty RLI troops who were also going to jump in, as there were not enough of us to fill the available six Dakotas, - about all the transport aircraft our airforce had, - plus forty troops who were going to go in by chopper from the Lake Alexander forward base next to the border. It slowly dawned on us that this was the biggest airborne operation ever done by the Rhodesian forces in this war. Every single offensive plane and helicopter our air force had was to be thrown in, one way or the other. Seven Hunters, leaving one on stand-by in reserve, to shoot up the HQ buildings and the parade ground; four Canberra bombers, to drop hundreds of Alpha bombs onto the whole central terrorist complex, and 21 Alouette helicopters to drop troops, ferry personnel and log in and out, and act as gunships and one command chopper. Which left only three choppers in the whole of Rhodesia. Just before the operation started, the South African Defence Force sent up another ten Alouettes, - probably behind its own goverment's back. Even the six ancient Vampires, first flown just after the end of World War 2, were pulled in to fill the gaps in between the Hunters, and to rev the recruits' camp about seven kilometres to the north-east. It all sounded unreal. But it got worse. After the tea break, when we returned to the hanger, there was a second big model on the floor to gaze at. After Chimoio was over, we were to fly across the Cabora Bassa dam all the way to another huge terrorist base called Tembue, over 200 kilometres north of the border, so far that our choppers couldn't even reach there without re-fuelling stops inside Mozambique. Well, I shut my mind to that one. Chimoio, at 70 kilometres inside Indian country a mere little Sunday jaunt, was more than enough for me to deal with for now. Anyway, Ian Pringle has written an excellent account of the run-up to, execution and aftermath of Operation Dingo, as this whole undertaking was called. The book 'Dingo Firestorm' gives a far better and more complete picture than I would ever be able to give. I'll just concentrate on my little part in it, which came to a rather premature end anyway.

After the briefing, we had something to eat, and then bedded down in a hanger, trying to absorb the magnitude of the task ahead, and attempting to get some sleep. The conversation was muted, as each one of us fought his own private battle with fear, - some able to hide it, some more inclined to let it show. And some refreshingly honest, telling everyone within hearing distance, in true Harry Flashman tradition: " Hey you guys, I'm shitting myself!" I was so glad I was not the only one... Early in the morning, we trooped into the hanger, where 144 parachutes were lined up and ready, each numbered and marked. Everyone knew where to go, and we put them on, the straps going over the bulky webbing with all our ammo and equipment. The rifle or machine-gun came last, being wedged in and tied down behind the right shoulder. After the obligatory, thorough checks by our mother hens, the PJI's, we marched out to the waiting Dakotas and climbed aboard. Any remaining doubts about the reality of this operation were dispelled when the big old Pratt and Whitney engines fired up and six Dakotas full of para-troops roared along the runway and slowly lumbered into the sky. We were on our way to cut off Zanla's and Zanu’s heads. Only three months before, the whole political and military leadership group of our main terrorist enemy had been staying at New Farm, aka Chimoio, for more than a week, as was later confirmed (Ian Pringle). We had been told at the briefing that all the big baddies, whose names we had come to recognise as terror and evil personified, were regular visitors: Robert Mugabe, Josiah Tongogara, Rex Nghongo. Trained, armed and mobile, Rhodesia's best would now take them and all their thousands of commie comrades out. Yes, that's how we saw ourselves. With some justification. In spite of all our faults, and human failings, and stuff-ups, and occasional flutters, still Rhodesia's best. Such heroic thoughts might have gone through our heads as our ancient transports droned eastwards through the early-morning sky. As it was, I have a nasty suspicion that most of us were, indeed, only shitting ourselves...

H-Hour was 07.45. That's when one after the other we launched ourselves out the door into the air and floated gently down to earth, while smoke and explosions from the concerted, devastating air strikes marked the target about a kilometre away. On the ground, we got out of our parachute harness in double-quick time, looked for our mates, and got more or less into a line facing the target. Shitting time was over, now it was time to try and do what you are supposed to do in the army, ie shoot the enemy. I had found a tree and lay behind it, - some would say hiding, lol, - having checked that my little call-sign was all there and next to me. Then we watched and waited, as ordered, while I listened on the radio. Our team of four was part of Ken Roberts' stopper group, Stop 5 if I remember correctly, which had jumped in on the south-eastern side of the target, forming part of a long extended line of over sixty troops blocking off any escape by fleeing enemy in that direction. Everything went according to plan, it seemed. Soon, shooting started somewhere in front of our line. Then there was movement in front of us. As soon as we could make out a target, we aimed and fired. Enemies dropped. But they kept coming, all over, as contacts erupted on all sides. One terr had gone down behind a smallish tree, I thought, peering at something sticking out the side. My FN barked and an arm flopped over, proving my theory that an FN, while heavier and less robust and more inclined to give stoppages, can punch through a tree, if the tree is not too thick. Then they stopped coming. And we stayed in our position for what seemed like hours. The noise of air strikes, bombs exploding and gunships shooting in front of us never died down, it just carried on and on. The battle must be fierce, we realised, and I started clenching certain muscles again. Maybe we can stay here all day and let the others sort out those bastards, I was beginning to hope. Since they seem cheeky enough to shoot back… However, my hope was dashed when Ken at last gave the order to advance. We got up, I checked my wrist compass to confirm our line of advance, and we started walking towards the target in an extended line. Weapons pointing forward, eyes searching the grass and trees in front, every now and again flicking to the sides to make sure we kept in touch with the call-signs on our left and right. Suddenly, Doug opened up with his RPD, giving me the fright of my life, because I hadn't seen anything. I was just about to crap on him, when I looked at where he was pointing, and promptly crapped myself: A terr right in front of me had been firing from behind a tree. Specifically aiming at me, as Doug told me. With all the firing and explosions and ordinance flying around, I never even heard anything either. Mmmmh, my machine-gunner had just saved my life... We carried on. Then, there was a bush line coming up. A little stream we had to cross we were told. The intensity of contacts everywhere had increased, but we couldn't see anyone in the thicket in front, just heard rounds zinging over our heads. Firing into likely cover, our line kept advancing. Then I got a hell of a smack and went down. Fuck, I've been hit. So that's what it feels like. No pain, really, just an incredibly hard, solid, penetrating smack. Until later, that is. But I was still alive, and it's only my leg. Or, hang on, both legs. The other members of my team rallied around, literally. Larry got the medics pack out and went to work on my legs. But it was difficult, as we were totally pinned down. As soon as you raised your head, you got blasted, so everything had to be done crawling around on the ground. As he opened up the trouser legs, we saw one round had gone in and out the upper right, and another one had hit the lower left leg. Damn lucky, I was, just flesh wounds, missed the main arteries. In the past, we had lost quite a few guys who had bled to death through the femoral artery. But I couldn't get up and walk and had to be casevaced, obviously. Ken sent over another team, Vossie's. They made up a make-shift stretcher and rolled me on it. But as soon as they tried to lift and go, they had to drop down again. The enemy fire was just too heavy and too close and too accurate. And the gunships were busy, far too busy. Frans Nel had been killed, about the same time as I was hit, and I think our whole line was up against the same river line 'trench'. We called in an air-strike, throwing a white phosphorus grenade to mark our own position. The strikes went in, but we stayed pinned down. By this time, Larry had patched me up, inserted a needle into a vein, and connected me up to a drip. That is, I thought Larry did everything, being our team medic. in the meantime I have been told that Allan from the neighbouring team actually got the drip into me. Which is plausible, as I know my veins look easy, - but aren't. Like their owner... He must have come over to help. Anyway, when they put the drip up, they had to yank it down again or end up with drip and hand full of holes. In the end, they just shoved it under my body, so pressure alone would make it flow. All the time, Doug was watching us, from where he was keeping guard behind his RPD. We were still wondering what to do next, when he crawled over, pushed the drip into my hand, and got his arms under me. The next moment, I felt myself lifted up and hanging over his shoulder, head flopping on his back, legs dangling in front, body jolting up and down as he was running, flat out, through the hail of bullets, back to the rear, where Ken had his temporary HQ position. There he dumped me rather unceremoniously on the ground, and I didn't even have time to properly thank him before he was off again, back to his RPD. My so-nearly-swopped-for-someone-else machine gunner had saved me again....

The rest is rather a haze. Probably because I was on Sosegon or whatever someone had injected into me to keep the pain down. They moved me to a LZ, a chopper eventually arrived to take me on board, we flew to Lake Alexander, then to Grand Reef, and from there by Dakota to Salisbury. Some or other big brass was on the same plane, pressed my hand and made me feel like the conquering hero. But that night, lying in the Andrew Fleming hospital, in the old Rhodesia, where the medical care was excellent, the doctors were brilliant, and the nurses were beautiful, I knew someone else who was a hero. A real hero. Someone who never got a medal. Not that I know of, anyway. My personal guardian angel for a day. But then guardian angels don’t go in for medals either, do they?