dESPair THC 013

Story of the Normandy Sword

It was one of those typical Africa hot and humid summer days. dESPair SOAS (Special Operations and Air Services) was doing one of our usual spes op missions.. and no, nothing illegal.

We were contracted to provide pilots for flying relief operations. Not wanting to draw undue attention to the organisations involved, let us not mention any names.

Why did "they" want to contract pilots? Well, there was a lot of these crazy buggers running around with Kalishnikov assault rifles, one of the traditional weapons in today's Africa. "They" wanted pilots who are prepared to fly an assortment of planes (Herc's, Porter's and so in) into certain areas. The task, hauling a huge quantity of relief cargo, medical supplies and even flying the odd medical doctor and CIA spook around.

So that was where dESPair SOAS fitted into this picture. The pay was good. The adrenaline levels high. Old style African bush flying. Beautiful country. Cheap beer. What more can a pilot want? Ok.. maybe smaller size mosquitoes and AK-47's with uncalibrated sights, but then we seldom get everything we want. Right?

One of these flights in a Porter took me into very rough jungle country to a small dirt strip nestled close to a mountain range. I had a two member medical team with me, medical equipment, a few sacks of maize and some other odds and ends.

The approach was one of that interesting real bush pilot ones. Once on the ground, the locals were there in full force, helping us to unload the plane. Since we were going to spend most of the day there (the whole village was to be vaccinated by the medical team), I scouted around and explored the area to keep myself busy.

Some distance away from the village I ran into "something". It is difficult to explain those first fleeting moments as with mouth agape, my brain desperately tried to process and make sense of the extraordinary sight it was seeing. Underneath some tarpaulin, bushes, branches and poles covered with markings, was the unmistakable outline of a DC-3. The way the DC-3 was covered was eary..as if it was some kind of sacred burial site.

I thought it best not to approach the DC-3. It looked a lot like a special type of site and the last thing I want to do was to get the natives upset with me. Must admit though that I was very tempted though to have a closer peak. I headed back to the village to make some inquiries.

I asked the doctor, who spoke passable Swahili, to inquire about the DC-3 for me. I was quickly introduced to the village chief. To my surprise he spoke some English. Even greater my surprise to learn that he learned his broken English when he fought alongside side Mike Hoare and his mercenaries against the Simbas, many, many years ago. Fate is strange in many ways, as I too worked with "mad Mike" on occasion a few lifetimes ago.

I was taken to a big hut in the middle of the village. Some of the older men joined us in the hut. It seemed like some kind of council and I was a little bit uncomfortable, having no idea what to expect.

Seated in a circle around some pots and stones in the hut, with the village chief speaking in broken English, I pieced the story together of what happened.

From what I could determine, the DC-3 landed back here in the 60's. At the same dirt strip I landed a few hours ago. It sounded that it ran out of fuel. There was a single white pilot. Some cargo of an unknown nature. Whatever it was, it was good enough for the pilot to use to convince the local tribesmen to hide the DC-3. With great effort, the DC-3 was somehow "moved" to the site I found it. Then, all traces of the DC-3 and its landing were obscured.

The pilot stayed with the tribe for a few weeks before he left, attempting to make it back to civilisation. Whether the pilot survived and made it back, was a mystery. As it was a mystery who the pilot was. What his flightplan was.. or even why he wanted the DC-3 hidden.

The DC-3 stayed there through the next 20 odd years. It was never vandalised by the locals. They said the spirits of old warriors still lived in it. On a quite night he said, when you sit near it, you can hear the warriors talking and moving about. Hear them getting their equipment and weapons ready. The local witchdoctor also had dreams in which the warrior spirits spoke to him. The tribes of Africa always honored the spirits. The witchdoctor told the villagers of his dreamtalk with the spirits. The village decided to build a type of shrine or resting-place. Probably with the thoughts of keeping the spirits happy and staying in their good graces.

The witchdoctor had more dreamtalks with the spirits. In these dreams, they told the witchdoctor to wait for someone. With that, the old man wrote something in the dust. Then he stopped and looked expectantly at me. I suddenly realised that it had become deathly quite in the hut, with all the men staring intently at me. Even the normal village sounds were not audible. It was as if the jungle was holding its breath. Waiting for something..

I looked at what the old man wrote in the dust. UTINQUE. Then it clicked. The regimental motto of the of the 1st UK Parachute Regiment. I wrote PARATUS next to it. UTINQUE PARATUS. "Ready for anything". I have met the men of 1st Para, or 'Red Devils' as they were called by the enemy in Word War II, on a number of occasions during my travels in Africa and the East.

The old village chief smiled and nodded. Suddenly the men in the hut began to hum the first few bars of Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries. Despite the heat of the day, icy cold fingers clutched my spine. Ride of the Valkyries was the regimental song of the 1st Para Regiment.

The village chief nodded and smiled. The he told me that they have been waiting for me. The witchdoctor was given these signs in his dreams he said. The warrior spirits told the witchdoctor that someone would come to take them home.

Then he pointed his gnarled bony finger at me and said with his strange African accent in broken English that I was the man.

Needless to say I was confused, excited, scared.. Different emotions ran through my mind. How could these jungle men know the regimental motto of the Red Devils? Or the regimental song? It did not made a single bit of sense. Unless of course you believed in this mumbo jumbo about spirits, dreams and witchdoctors..

For now, my story ends here. Maybe some day I will complete it. Tell of how the impossible happened in the middle of the African jungle at a small little village. Of how a DC-3 left in the jungle for 20 odd years did not rot into pieces. How a DC-3 was restored over the period of many months with parts that just miracously seemed to drop in my lap. How the DC-3 was flown by yours truly, out of a small dirt strip somewhere in Africa to the UK. How in honour of the men of the 1st Para Regiment, it was used once again, for the last time, to drop Red Devils from the sky.. Maybe putting the spirits of those whom came before, finally at rest.

Captain "Crazy Vilk"