Steve Joubert - Gunship Over Angola - The Story of a Maverick Pilot

It is often said that ‘writing about it’ is one of the most cathartic things that human beings who have undergone extreme trauma can do. I firmly believe this, and can personally testify to the truthfulness of that statement. Often, while writing this book, I sat down at my laptop to continue writing but nothing of any substance was forthcoming. I’d try in vain for ten minutes, 20 and sometimes even longer until suddenly, like a veil being drawn back to reveal the scene, I was back in the cockpit and the sights, sounds and smells were as they’d been more than 35 years ago.

As I’ve aged, I have felt compelled to tell some of the story of my life and, by doing so, to end my family’s practice of stoically avoiding telling its own history and forcing those who might be interested in the subject, like me, to delve into obscure inscriptions in centuries-old family bibles and piles of sepia-tinted photographs to decipher our origins.

I have five children, a son-in-law, a daughter-in-law and three granddaughters who, I must admit, haven’t yet become avid fans of my writing, but who I hope, in years to come, might spend some time reading my story.

The plastic chair stood in the centre of a sprung wooden floor in a large room in a nondescript building at the South African Air Force Gymnasium in Valhalla, Pretoria. Spread around it in a semicircle were 13 office chairs, in which sat an intimidating collection of 12 senior officers of the South African Air Force (SAAF) and a single brigadier representing the South African Medical Services (SAMS). In front of each officer was a desk.

Outside this room, waiting for the command to enter, was me, 74257684BC Private Stephen Pierre Joubert, national serviceman (NSM) and aspirant military aviator.

The door opened and a voice, with a clear tinge of sadism, said, ‘It’s your turn. Go!’

My heart, which was already thumping like a V-twin Harley-Davidson at full throttle, immediately tried to burst free from my pounding chest. I stepped gingerly onto the threshold, aiming, as I’d practised over and over again in the days leading up to this moment, first to pause for a second or two, calmly gather my thoughts, and allow my eyes to adjust to the comparative gloom before I entered to face the inquisition within.

But, in my blind panic, all I saw was the empty chair, and like a condemned convict fixated on the noose that will shortly change the direction of his life, I headed straight for it without hesitating. Six inches from the chair I realised with morbid certainty that I had miscalculated the distance and impact was unavoidable and inevitable. When my right knee, while crashing to a military-grade halt, thumped into the back of the chair, the concomitant transfer of kinetic energy caused the fragile piece of furniture to launch dangerously towards the general sitting directly in front of me.

In a moment of surprising eye-hand coordination, my right hand shot out in a partially successful attempt to prevent the chair hitting one of the innocent observers, but in doing so I upended the wretched thing. It crashed thunderously onto the wooden floor.

The noise echoed around the sparsely furnished room.

Flustered, I bent over to set the errant object right side up, but in so doing my cap fell to the floor. I frantically jammed it back on my head while still bent over and only then stood up.

In a moment that I will remember forever, I came face to face with General Bob Rogers, decorated veteran of the Second World War and the Korean War, legendary aviator, then Chief of the SAAF and the chairman of the SAAF Pilot Selection Board.

I lifted my right hand to salute him, just like I’d been trained to do.

But instead of the peak of my cap being at eye level, it was pointing steeply skywards at a 45-degree angle, like that of a bus driver. The intended salute (touch the tip of your right index finger to the peak, my boy) couldn’t be completed correctly under the present conditions. I compromised, but in doing so only served to make the picture even more ludicrous. My hand hovered in the space between where it should have been and where the peak was, making my attempt at paying respects look like a watered-down Heil Hitler.

I stood there mortified, my mouth slightly agape and changing colour like a chameleon on a box of Smarties.

Inside my chest, feelings of despair were already oozing out. It was the most important day of my young life and I’d blown it… and I hadn’t even opened my mouth yet.

Blinking furiously, I tried to gauge the situation, my desperate gaze seeking a hint of encouragement from any one of the assembled brass, but in vain. In addition to General Rogers, there was at least one more general, perhaps two, a bevy of brigadiers and a collection of colonels.

Their faces stared back, deadpan. No one cracked even the slightest smile, despite the unintentional vaudeville farce being enacted right in front of them. Instead they all looked at me as I imagined they would a blob of sticky dog turd accidentally attached to the toe of their perfectly polished shoes.

After what seemed like an age, General Rogers finally spoke.

‘Have you finished?’ he asked brightly.

He was answered by a voice that sounded vaguely like mine, had I just been punched hard in the larynx.

‘I think so, sir.’

‘Then try to pretend for a moment that you’re not driving a tram, take off your cap and sit down,’ he said.

I sat forlornly in that seat, certain that I’d just tossed out the window the career that I’d dreamt about since I was a small boy.

In anticipation of facing the selection board that day, I’d had my formal uniform dry-cleaned, pressed to a parade-ground crispness, I had polished my shoes to a mirror-like sheen, and shone my brass buttons and cap-mounted eagle so bright that one risked eye damage looking directly at them.

The preceding weeks had been a whirl of medical examinations, with assorted specialists probing and prodding every nook and cranny and psychologists trying to establish if I was psychologically equipped to be a flyboy. I’d seen 90 per cent of the guys who’d started the final selection process with me get eliminated for even the slightest aberration. Some, on hearing the news of their rejection, had stood rooted to the spot, sobbing with frustration and disappointment before being led away by friends and colleagues.

We were told, and I didn’t know if this was fact, that 7 500 young men had applied to become SAAF pilots in the current intake (at the time the SAAF selected pilot trainees twice a year). Only 700 of them had been invited to the medical evaluation process, and there were just 115 of us facing the final stage, the Pilot Selection Board.

All I’d done and all I’d experienced had led up to this moment, and in a matter of a seconds I had misjudged the distance to the chair and set this career-terminating disaster in motion.

In that situation, I reverted to the only defence I knew – I’d make them laugh.

So, when the General asked the first question, ‘How long have you wanted to be a pilot?’, instead of giving the expected answer, ‘Ever since I can remember, General’, I said, ‘Since I stopped wanting to be an ice-cream seller, sir!’