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This anecdote covers an incident that occurred some years after I’d left the army and Hong Kong. I was flying for a South African company in South West Africa (now Namibia). The SWA authorities were extending communications throughout the country and erecting rebroadcast stations on mountain tops. This particular one was Paresis mountain which is about 32kms west of Otjiwarongo.

Our task was to lift bags of cement and ballast, barrels of water and all the material the workers would need to build a concrete base and erect a communications mast on the mountain top. All this material was carried slung under the helicopter using the cargo hook.

The procedure was for the load weight to be carefully calculated before being stacked in a net. The corners of the net were then drawn together and attached to a long sling with a loop or steel ring on the end. The pilot would position the helicopter over the load and a man on the ground clipped the ring into the helicopter’s hook. The pilot could release the load at any time by electrically opening the hook. He would do this when delivering the load, of course, but could also do it in an emergency.

I and another pilot and an engineer were to start the operation. After ensuring all was going well, I was to return to Johannesburg and leave the other pilot to finish the job. We set up a camp at the foot of the mountain with the construction workers and a civil engineer. All the material for the mast was stacked nearby, and the helicopter stood out in the open ready to fly.

The region was classed as a malaria risk area, so we had to take medication every day. Like a good little boy I took my anti-malaria pill with breakfast on the first morning.

I took a load up the mountain and dropped it where the workers indicated was most convenient for them. This was as close to where they were going to use the material, depending on what that was. The only place to actually land the machine was a little distant. This was where the empty nets and slings were put into the helicopter, to be taken back to the loading area down below.

With the first load dropped, I flew back down the mountain to the camp (about a minute’s flight) and picked up another net. Back on the summit I was moving to the position the workers wanted when my vision became fuzzy. You need to understand this was a very precarious situation. There was nowhere to actually land. There were men almost underneath me, because there was not enough space for them to keep away from the helicopter, and the ground was strewn with large rocks, steel girders, a cement mixer and other construction material. An engine failure in that position would certainly have resulted in an accident, the machine wrecked and quite likely several deaths – including mine.

I could not focus properly. I was high above the drop point and descending vertically to put the load on the ground, but I was losing perspective – things were distorted. The ground was moving when it should not have been. I had to fight to maintain a picture of the situation. Somehow I succeeded in dumping the load close to where it should have been, so the men on the ground were clear of a possible crash.

The next step should have been for me to land further away where I could pick up the first net (now empty) and sling. But my condition was deteriorating so fast I could not afford to do that landing, and shot off down to the camp. On the way down my head began to ache, the landing zone ahead of me was wobbling, and I seriously thought I was going to lose control.

If, in the days when it wasn’t considered so stupid, you have ever been so drunk that the white lines on the highway divided into two and you couldn’t tell which lane you should be driving in, you will understand what I felt like in the final stage of that flight.

Somehow I managed to land without crashing. The other pilot came over and took my seat. I literally fell out of the helicopter. I had no balance, I could not control my legs. I sat there on the ground with the noise of the helicopter like a blacksmith’s hammer beating my head into his anvil. Our engineer and someone else took a grip of me and half carried me to bed, where I lay for the rest of the day with an astronomical headache, cold shivers and a fever.

I don’t know enough about it, but I had malaria once before, in Kenya. Whether that had something to do with my reaction to the medication, I can’t say, but I have not taken another anti-malaria pill since then.

I did another job in Equatorial Guinea for the mining company, Rio Tinto. Their geologists (who would be out in the field for weeks) told me that they did not take malaria prophylactics because of the damage they can cause when taken over a long period. Instead they carried malaria test kits, and at the slightest sign of illness they were evacuated. I have followed that advice ever since and so far it’s worked.

At last I’ve had my book, Thirty-Four, back from the copy editor and made the necessary corrections. Now it goes to a proofreader to double check for errors. Maybe I’ll be able to publish in a month. Meanwhile, here’s a look at the cover:

The 10th Gurkha Rifles Air Platoon was based at Sek Kong airfield (it is now known as Shek Kong) in the New Territories, along with several other army units. Between us and the mainland city of Kowloon, lies the mountain of Tai Mo Shan. Hong Kong island is another couple of minutes flying time across the harbour. The road from Sek Kong to Kowloon was a winding climb up past the mountain and a long twisty descent. Incidentally, this would cause the brakes on my old American Studebaker to melt halfway down the hill. Strategic stops had to be made to allow the brakes to cool. Note to self: American cars are completely impractical for Hong Kong’s traffic and its narrow, twisty roads, don’t get another one. The safest and quickest way to the city was obviously by air.
As the duty pilot, I was called to take a Gurkha wife from Sek Kong to hospital on Hong Kong island. She was heavily pregnant and accompanied by another woman, whom I took to be a midwife. Both of them were traditionally dressed in saris. The pregnant lady fixed her gaze up to the sky, clearly embarrassed when I showed the two how the four straps of their complicated safety harnesses fastened. I didn’t want to do it for her, as that would mean touching her and causing further embarrassment. Instead I managed to get the midwife to do the necessary. During this long preparation, I was oblivious to the need for speed. No one had told me that the matter was extremely urgent, and I think now that some of the anxiety the two women showed was due to the time it took to strap them in.
I’m sure the women had never travelled by helicopter before. They were certainly nervous. When we took off, I sensed they wanted to scream, but stoic as the Gurkhas are, their expressions never changed. They didn’t even squeak. Our route took us up past Tai Mo Shan with its winding road on our left, then downhill all the way to cross the harbour for the Harcourt Road helipad on the island.
An ambulance was waiting for us, together with some men who knew how to conduct helicopter operations. They got the ladies out safely while the machine was still running. The midwife was nimble, the pregnant one not so. Helping arms encouraged her as she struggled to shift across the seat to the door. I put her awkward movements down to her advanced condition, but she staggered as she stepped to the ground. Some heated discussion took place, which I couldn’t hear, but it appeared that the woman insisted she would make her own way to the ambulance. As she walked away with an unnatural gait and supported by the midwife, a lump in her sari between her legs was plain to see. And the seat where she had been sitting was a mess.
I still have difficulty believing what I saw. Whether it was because I was a man, a Caucasian man, or something else, I don’t know, but she never gave any sign of labour, neither in facial expression nor sound. A European woman would have made a huge fuss, but the Gurkha lady was so proud and so stoic. I used to think I’d gained a passenger on that flight, but I don’t think it was possible while she sat in the seat, it must have happened from the moment she left the machine. But rather than draw any attention to herself, she managed to maintain her dignity at least until they got her into the ambulance.
Did she put her child’s life at risk for the sake of her pride? Were cultural influences so strong that they overcame her maternal instincts? I’m not qualified to answer, but over fifty years on, I still wonder.
Apparently, neither she nor the baby suffered any ill effects from the experience.
Publication news is that Thirty-Four, my latest novel, has been given a final revision by myself and is now with a copy editor. The cover design has been finalised, and I was hoping to show you an image, but I don’t have one in a publishable format yet. Next time.
And finally, if any of you enjoy Jo Nesbo’s books, you might be interested in The Kingdom. This book is nothing like his earlier works involving Harry Hole, the degenerate detective with many personal problems,  who takes on some horrific cases. The Kingdom is excellent and I thoroughly recommend it. It’s complex, mysterious to the end and filled with anti-heroes. Give it a go.

Another month has gone by and it’s time for anecdote number two from my early flying days.
Last month I told you how, in Hong Kong in 1967, we helped build Snake, the triple layered barbed wire fence laid out along the ridge line overlooking the border with China. It was all done in a rush to protect the colony from the thousands of refugees fleeing Chairman Mao’s Cultural Revolution. But there was another reason to hurry – a typhoon was forecast, and the job had to be completed before that arrived.
We flew the coils of wire and other supplies up from the base to the ridge line where the Gurkhas were working. But these chaps had to eat, so it wasn’t only wire but also food and water to keep them going through the day. Such was the pace of work, that the pilots remained in the aircraft with the rotors turning while loading took place. When you’re in this situation, you are technically flying the machine, so cannot leave the controls.
I was sitting there watching the lads at the base loading me up with the Gurkhas’ baht, or meal, some of which was prepared and some for cooking on site. There were all shapes and sizes of containers, including “hay boxes”, insulated chests to keep the food hot.
Finding no suitable stowage for a large plastic bag of curry powder, one loader found a secure place below my feet. I knew it was safe, we often put our own stuff down there out of the way.
We were flying without doors for increased visibility and for the cooling air flow. I mentioned a typhoon. It wasn’t there at that stage, but the wind was getting up, and the flying was bumpy with the helicopter being pushed about by air currents around the hills.
Something sharp must have been below my feet with the bag of curry powder, because either it split or the bag had not been closed properly. The wind was buffeting the helicopter and, without the doors, was blowing into and around the cabin. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture what happens when a gust of wind meets finely ground spices. It went everywhere. Up my nose, in my mouth. It stuck to the sweat on my face and stung my eyelids. I pulled my helmet visor down, but it was too late, and all it did was trap the dust against my face. My lungs were on fire, my eyes were burning and streaming, and I was coughing (taking in deep breaths of curry with every gasp). Somehow I managed to complete that sortie, but I had to stop and wash before doing any more. Honestly, I don’t know why police use tear gas – curry powder is twice as effective.
It’s funny now, but trying to fly a helicopter to a hill top in a strong wind while blinded by cumin and chillies and doubled over in coughing fits, wasn’t so amusing. I believe the vacuum cleaner clogged when they cleaned the cockpit. My love of curry has not been dented though, in fact it’s been enhanced by the experience.
Beer never tasted better than after that flight.
Next month, I’ll reveal how my passenger numbers went up in mid flight.
Publication news is that Thirty-Four, my latest novel, is currently being revised after some suggestions by an editor. My designer has produced a couple of striking cover images, which we’ve discussed and he’s presently working on some modifications to those. I think the cover is going to be great and I hope to show a sample next month and get some feedback from you.
Until then, keep well. And in the future too.

In my efforts to improve my communication with readers, I shall be posting various anecdotes at around one per month in addition to a brief update on the progress of my latest book towards publication. All these memories are true, but as they took place a long time ago the truth may be elastic. You have been warned. Sometimes I might even tell you about the story itself.

Back in the ’60s, I was a helicopter pilot in the British Army. I and the others in our little air platoon were flying for the 10th Gurkha Rifles in Hong Kong and Malaysia. A few memories of those times have stuck with me.

Hong Kong 1967: Mao Zedong, or Chairman Mao, was ruling the roost in China and his Cultural Revolution was well under way, purging capitalists and traditionalists and starving millions of people to death; even some of the bigwigs in the communist party succumbed. Conditions were harsh. The result was that tens of thousands tried to flee China and the best place to escape to was Hong Kong, then under British rule. But Hong Kong was already crammed full of people, it could not absorb the vast numbers that were trying to flee the Red Guards, who were Mao’s enforcers, nor did the authorities want more communists coming in to cause trouble. The army, meaning the Gurkhas and others, were told to erect a fence (named Snake) along the natural barrier between China and the New Territories (the land on the mainland leased by China to Hong Kong and where we were stationed).

A portion of this barrier was a range of hills that overlooked the border, which was heavily patrolled by the Chinese Army. In our helicopters we delivered coils of concertina or dannert barbed wire, which the soldiers stretched out along the ridge line like a gigantic snake. We dropped these coils using the cargo hook under the aircraft belly. Our helicopters were small with skid tube landing gear instead of wheels. Because it was hot we removed the doors. This gave the pilot greater visibility and lots of fresh air. We also had panniers on either side of the fuselage into which more wire, tools and other supplies were put.

The hillside was too steep to land on, so we would drop the coils then move into the side of the hill and put one skid on the ground to help hold the helicopter still while the troops unloaded the panniers. In case that’s not clear, picture a helicopter side on to the slope with the uphill skid on the ground and the downhill skid in the air. The pilot is holding the machine in this position in a sort of stabilised hover.

Gurkhas are little guys (but don’t let that mislead you about their courage, strength and determination), some are only 5ft 2 inches or 1.58m. They are also very athletic. This chap on the downhill side of my helicopter couldn’t reach up into the pannier to unload it. To him, the solution was simple and obvious: jump up into the basket and throw the stuff out.

Now I was in fierce concentration in holding the machine still against the slope in the rising wind. I glanced around to make sure no one was approaching from the uphill side of the helicopter, because the rotor blades, being closer to the ground, would remove a head, or chop a chap in two. The next thing I knew was that the machine was pulled away from the mountain by this soldier who has leaped up onto the downhill skid. It was too much of a lateral load and all I could do was peel away from the hill to avoid a crash. This meant that the Gurkha was suddenly hundreds of feet up clinging onto the skid, James Bond style. I’m assuming this, as I had no idea what had caused the sideways lurch, and he was out of my view until – surprise – he suddenly appeared in the open doorway.

When people get a fright the blood drains from their faces leaving so-called white people even whiter. I learned that day that when a brown person gets a fright, it’s different.

I only realised what had happened when this sickly grey coloured face gave me an embarrassed glance and immediately dropped his eyes to the floor. I don’t know if he had ever been in a helicopter before, but he slid into the seat easily enough. My hands were on the controls, so I couldn’t help him with the safety harness. He sat there, gripping the seat cushion and staring down at his boots, probably feeling too guilty to look at me. To take him back to the hilltop wasn’t possible, because I couldn’t land, so I took him down to the supply base and landed amongst the coils of wire waiting to be lifted up. As soon as we touched down, he again gave me a guilty glance and escaped to a safe distance. I waved at the poor chap to show there was no ill feeling, but he was too shocked or embarrassed to respond. By sheer good luck I had avoided an accident on the hillside, which would probably have resulted in the deaths of other soldiers nearby, and one pretty scared young man had used his gymnastic ability to avoid falling hundreds of feet to his death. It was an incident neither of us are ever likely to forget.

Next time, I’ll tell you how I came to fly a helicopter in a well spiced state.

Publishing news is that Thirty-Four, my latest novel, has come back from the development editor with some suggestions, which I have noted and will make some changes accordingly. The book will then go to a copy editor to scrutinise the absence of commas and other like stuff. I’ve also asked a cover designer to put his ideas into practice.

Bye for now. Talk again next month.

Hello All,

It’s been a long time since you heard from me – probably about a year. Consequently, I’ve decided to improve my communications with the passing of 2020, but you won’t hear from me more frequently than monthly, so relax. In future emails I’ll include an anecdote from my past, things that may be interesting and have happened to me but probably not to you, as well as a sentence on the progress of the latest book.

Confession: I’m not good at social media. I’m a media sloth.

I look at Facebook, but unless there’s something on it from a person I know or group I belong to, it’s not worth my time. Twitter – well the name says it all, doesn’t it? The meaningless chatter of birds at dawn (politicians included).
In spite of these sour comments, I did set up a Facebook page for CA Sole Author, but I last posted on that some 13 months ago! I’m going to try and improve, because they (the experts) say your author platform and visibility grows with exposure, and that’s important if you don’t want anyone to forget you exist. The page has photos which relate to episodes in my books, so it’s not too bad an effort.

I’d love to claim my new novel is ready for publication, but sadly all it’s ready for is a brutal attack by professional editors. First up is a structural editor, a lady who will tackle it in January 2021. She will probably tell me to rewrite the whole thing which I will refuse to do, because I’m fed up with it now. I’ll go ahead to inflict yet another mediocre work of art on unsuspecting readers. However, if she’s not too cruel and it only needs minimal work, it will go for a copy edit where missing commas and typos will be corrected. Meanwhile I’m looking for a cover designer. These good folk are all super-busy, so the exercise will take some time. Publication in x months.

I’m stuck for a title. I don’t normally suffer from so-called ‘writer’s block’. I find a walk, a night’s sleep or anything to take my mind off the subject allows my brain to work something out quite quickly. But with this title, I’m stuck. It’s name at the moment is Thirty-Four, but I’m not convinced that’s the best, and it could change. I’ll see what the editor has to say. On the other hand, Thirty-Four is eternal, so it could suit. You’ll have to read it to see what that means. A subsequent email will divulge a few secrets of the story – I’ll be in touch.
I’ll keep you updated at the various stages of editing. In the mean time, I hope everyone has a far better year ahead of them in 2021 and keeps well and free of the dreaded virus.

It’s done. It’s finally done. Whew!

The Scott Trilogy was launched on the 29th November and is widely available. If you didn’t preorder, then now is your chance to get the books in time for Christmas – several hours of reading pleasure for a very reasonable cost.

To get your copies please refer to the Look Inside Book2Look images on the home page of this site. I’m referring you there, because all the outlets are shown under each image and the list of links would be too long to post here.

Following the links below will take you to your Amazon page for each book, no matter where in the world you are.

Book 1 – Scott’s Choice: getbook.at/ScottsChoice
Book 2 – Nature’s Justice: getbook.at/NaturesJustice
Book 3 – The Pilot: getbook.at/ThePilot

Some people prefer not to use Amazon. If so the Book2Looks allow you to choose your favourite outlet: Kobo, Nook and others, plus all the popular stores for paperbacks.

I’ve already written about 10,000 words of my next book – so far it’s under a working title, which I’ve abbreviated to NTNC. I’ll let the secret out of the bag when I’m more confident of the story.

I wish you all an excellent holiday season and a happy and prosperous 2020.

Best wishes,

Colin