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The complete story of the Rhodesian Viscount disasters as told by a SAS operator.
indicate our positions with smoke grenades and remain static at all times. Anyone wandering around is not one of us." "And this crazy system has worked before?" asked the cynical airman. "Indeed it has. We have good information to work on and the tables against Zipra are being turned, but they are now becoming wary of being ambushed in the early mornings." The airman still had some attitude but was easing up over my bogus rank. He must have realized it was part of something unusual going on.
nice girl who he had met at the farm and with whom he had sneaked some passionate moments in the back seat of Bertus Viljoen's luxurious Pontiac Parisienne. There would be no time to see her and he would be far away from Karoi for some months, for 'further education', he had written. She would understand exactly what that meant, for sure. They all did, including the police. Eventually an old 40 seater bus arrived and after collecting his fare, the driver crunched the gears and the dilapidated
attempt at inhalation had the same ghastly effect and his coughing started all over again. Martin became anxious. Mashaya looked disgusted and would kill him for not being man enough to smoke the weed. He moved a short distance away, ostensibly to have a pee, broke the twist in half and put the burned portion into his pocket. The rest he buried in the sand; a move he hoped that neither Mashaya nor Satan would notice, especially Mashaya who was sitting nearby and armed with an RPD machine
other passengers who would also be anxious to get home. Their relatives and friends would be at Salisbury airport awaiting their arrival. There was no reason for them to believe otherwise. Nobody suspected that fate might have very different plans for flight RH 825 or that its ugly course would be revealed within the next six minutes. Viscount ‘Hunyani’ – VP-WAS Viscount Cockpit Chapter Two Flight RH825 Captain John Hood strapped himself into the cockpit seat of the fourengine Vickers
rocks scattered about. Hardly any escaped painful sprains and swellings. With few exceptions, many hobbled in agony all the way back to camp. Noticeable was the absence of chains and beads around their necks of which many got hooked up in the bushes along the chosen route and judging from all the vigorous scratching going on, the fine hairs of the buffalo beans had also done their job of convincing them to button up their shirts in future. Their day of reckoning had arrived, like it or not, and