We were immediately ordered to ‘inspect the perimeter fence’ and, having barely had time to park our cars, set off on a ten-kilometre run. No changing into PT kit and takkies; we ran in our step-outs, comprising tunic, long-sleeved shirt, long grey trousers, tie and brilliantly shined black shoes. Not quite running gear.
The rest of the day was an unending assault of instructors screaming insults and threats, coupled with physical punishment, the combination of which was intended to bring 1/77 into line and destroy once and for all the independent spirit that burnt so fiercely in the chests of each of its members. Mercifully, at about 19h00 the instructors’ screaming stopped and they went home, leaving 1/77 to contemplate its folly in daring to challenge an order.
The instructors’ parting shot, delivered with great vehemence at a high decibel level, promised us that we would not see the world outside the FTS Langebaanweg gates for at least six weeks. So, after washing the day’s accumulated grime from our bodies, we all got in our cars and went to the Panoramic bar in Langebaan-by-the-sea, some 20 kilometres away. Unfortunately for us, a group of FTS instructors chose to go there as well that night. Believe it or not, this was not such a coincidence as, in 1977, the Panoramic was one of only two nightspots in a radius of 50 kilometres from Langebaanweg.
As a consequence, the following day our gating was extended to eight weeks.
The first six weeks at FTS Langebaanweg were all about ground school and the theory of flying jet-powered aircraft. During this time, there were no flying activities and we watched our senior course, Pupil Pilot’s Course 2/76, complete their training and pass their wings tests, something each and every one of us hoped passionately to do in ten months or so.
Running around the base in so-called half blues (short-sleeved shirt, long trousers and black formal shoes) became a regular, if not very enjoyable, punishment for errant behaviour, and I stacked up as many miles doing this as anyone else. We had been denied weekend passes for the duration of the ground school phase, which necessitated some creative arranging on the part of anyone who wanted to leave the base during this time.
Roll call was regularly held during these weekends by the officer on duty or his nominee. Theoretically, the roll caller could arrive at any hour, order 1/77 outside, try to get those present to stand in a semblance of order so that they could be counted and then he would call the roll by shouting the names in alphabetical order.
The means to overcome this procedure and prevent absentees from being caught called for each intended absentee to twin with a stay-at-homer, prior to his departure for the bright lights of Cape Town and its surrounding settlements. If a roll call took place, your ‘twin’ needed only to remember to answer for you when your name was called. This required some subterfuge on the part of the stay-at-homers, with voice-changing and constant moving around while the roll was being taken, but the tactic worked surprisingly well.
If I remember correctly, my salary at the time was about R139 per month, out of which I needed to pay a mess bill (R35), make a car hire-purchase instalment (R45), fill the car with petrol (R30) and still buy a daily packet of cigarettes and food and drink when away from the base. Toiletries and civilian clothes, as well as money to date a girl occasionally and service the car were all to come out of this stipend. It didn’t take much to work out that I was going to be well short and totally broke by lunchtime on the mid-month payday.
A distant cousin of mine who lived in Somerset West stepped into the breach and made an arrangement whereby, if I could get there by about 04h30 on a Saturday or a Sunday morning, I would secure a spot on a commercial fishing boat out of Gordon’s Bay catching snoek and yellowtail. As I desperately needed the additional income, I pleaded with some of the stay-at-homers to cover my tail and departed for Cape Town at the first available opportunity.
Most of the weekends during our ‘imprisonment’ saw my arriving at the Gordon’s Bay harbour in the wee hours, changing from my uniform into more appropriate dress, and catching a few hours of sleep in the car before boarding the boat and catching snoek with hand lines until just after midday.
Upon our return to Gordon’s Bay there was an old coloured gentleman who would meet the boat when we docked, and once we began unloading the catch onto the quayside, which generally attracted a crowd, he would auction off our fish. Two-thirds of the catch belonged to the skipper, and you could then choose whether to keep the share of the third that you had earned or get the old guy to auction it off as well. More often than not, I chose the latter, which generated about R70 each time I went out, making the trip from Langebaan well worthwhile.
