I am changing the name of the Jaguar to Woeful. After seven months of trouble-free motoring with a brand new engine, it decided to break down for the second time. On leaving Han and Yasmin in Spain we set off South to Michele and Scott von Memerty in South Western Spain allowing us a break and chat on the long drive to Olhão in the Eastern Algarve of Portugal where we had arranged to meet John Tidy for a day’s, not cheap; marlin fishing. On arrival the day before we were supposed to fish, I received a call that the fishing had been cancelled due to an approaching severe storm. As an alternative, we decided to do an extra day bass fishing on the Odeleite Dam North of Taveira, some 3 km from the Spanish border.
Luckily, as we had already planned some bass fishing before returning home we had some kit, very limited, but no local knowledge. We eventually tracked down a guide in the form of Fernando who turned out to be a fishing fanatic and took us to some very isolated hot spots, out of cell phone range. Looking back if the car had broken down there, I do not know how it and us would have been recovered. We all, Rozanne, John and myself caught bass, Fernando, the guide, many. I did tell him in our company, guides who caught more bass than the client better be good swimmers. He ignored this threat. A beautiful dam in an isolated location some 142 km2 in area when full. As is the case with all the dams in Portugal, due to recent dry years of scarce rainfall, the dam was very low. We travelled over fairly rough roads to get to Fernando's spots, maybe this was the cause of the problems with the car later.
The next day we set off to our planned bass fishing with Ricardo of Bass Catch Santa Mara, on the larger Santa Clara dam in Monchique. Also very low, some 21 metres below the high water mark. We had fished with his father previously with success. Ricardo proved he was just as professional as a ghillie using his brand new NITRO bass boat from America with a 200-hp engine. Once again the guide caught more bass than us. For Europe, the bass are big here attracting many Northern European fishermen, with bass up to 4 kg. Not us! Both guides commented, the bass do not get larger as local fishermen all hook and cook. That evening we stayed at his very well-appointed bed and breakfast in the village. I highly recommend both his accommodation and him as a guide.
The next morning, a drive to the launch point and thrashing the water until midday with Rozanne and I planning to return home that afternoon, a five-hour drive. John was now joined by his wife Margaret who planned to explore the area further. Unfortunately, Rozanne decided not to come as she had caught a stomach bug and felt it prudent not to spend the morning on a small boat. No facilities there or on shore.
Returning to the car disaster. On clicking the unlock button, no release. Obviously, for some reason, the battery had gone flat. In theory, if the battery is run down, the car switches off everything electrical to hold enough for a start. We had noticed a fan had come on after switching off in the early morning, presuming it would stop once the engine cooled. It appeared dead and with the help of John we got into the vehicle with the emergency key. Urgent call to the ladies for their help hunting some jump leads to allow us to try starting with their car connected to ours. Meanwhile, calling Jaguar, to no avail with instructions to press either 1 to 8 for the service required, whereupon the line would go dead. Familiar?
Successfully, we got the car started but noticed all sorts of warnings appearing on screen including surprisingly, water present in the fuel. As we could only return the jump leads to a local storekeeper at 3 pm we decided to drive to the village of Saboia for lunch. We thought by driving there with the jump leads, we should be able to start the car easily. After lunch, the battery was stone dead and would not start even with jump leads. Suspicious now, that the vehicle computer had now got brain damage. Jaguar still wasn't much help but the insurance company agreed to send a breakdown vehicle to take the car to our Jaguar agents in Coimbra, some 350 kms and send transport for us in the form of a taxi. John and Margaret bade their farewells thinking we were sorted. They were a great help, also kept my spirits up as I could not believe for the second time this F-Pace had left us stranded.
After an extended wait, the breakdown vehicle arrived but as the computer had shut down, we could not get the vehicle in neutral nor the brake off, both requiring battery power or at least a functioning in-car computer. We tried his emergency power kit to no avail, the local garage owner even brought his brand new one, also to no avail. At this point, the local garage owner suggested I should burn the car and get a new one, preferably not a Jaguar. Very good for morale. Rozanne searched the internet and found out how to manually override the electrics to get the damn thing in neutral and with the auxiliary charger, we released the parking gear. At 1900hrs with the car loaded, all, including the local garage owner and the breakdown truck driver proceeded to the local restaurant whose proprietor now knew us well, for a beer while we awaited our taxi. The taxi arrived two hours after the breakdown truck. Why, do I ask myself? On arrival of the taxi, we then departed at speed finding ourselves at Lisbon airport at 10 pm picking up a hire car organised by insurance. Who says insurance is not worth it? Rozanne then drove us home as I had enjoyed a beer with our assistance in Saboia. Midnight snack on the motorway and home at 1am. Who said retirement is boring?
“Insurance is expensive until disaster strikes. Relief may be in the form of services such as transport in remote places, not just monetary benefits. While I have often complained about the cost to my business and private life, it has rescued me from difficulties on numerous occasions.” - Peter McSporran
The question is what to do with the Jaguar, with its new engine under guarantee? See what the problem is, have it fixed and replace it with a scooter I think?
"Set fire to this car, claim on the insurance and buy a new car, not a Jaguar."- Advice from the local Portuguese garage owner who came to our assistance.
Retreat
After securing our position following our initial contact and repeatedly calling for support, we learned a police reserve stick was on its way. While they carried out security duties, especially guarding convoys and guarding farms, they were not exactly first-line troops. Mainly older farmers including some townspeople willing to do their bit for the country. As I said last week, due to an indication of the large numbers of CTs in the area, we were sitting there waiting for further attacks which we felt were sure to come. Normally after a contact, you move to another location close by as the CTs had a habit of sending mortars into your last known location. The voice at the end of the radio informed us to stay at our present position and only follow-up on their arrival. As it was, we still had not searched all our previous contact areas feeling sure we had hit some of the enemy. I thought the individual firing at me had been hit, either by myself or Gerald. Probably Gerald, he was a much better shot than me.
As evening drew in we came under fire again, from a number of directions, from a few hundred metres. We were glad they started shooting from afar, as mentioned previously, their aim was always suspect, made even worse by firing on automatic. We were in an unhappy position of being under fire from a superior group who had the confidence of numbers and benefit of the approaching dusk. Added to this, one of our best weapons, surprise, was long lost. I then realised the people coming to our rescue would be more vulnerable than us, slow vehicles are favoured targets for ambush, especially at night, and as they were coming to join us along rough tracks, they were at crawling speed. In fact, since leaving, they had already been on the road over two hours so their progress was very slow. With darkness approaching their lights would be a dead giveaway making an ambush easy. I, therefore, decided to stop them and send them back fearing their safety, after all, they were old toppies. We would then retreat back across the river for the night to Gerald’s brother, Budgie Breytenbach’s farm about 5km away, where we could resupply with ammo and return in daylight. It seemed extremely difficult for the voice in Sinioa to understand exactly what I wanted him to do.
It was now nearly six hours from our first sighting and three hours from our first contact, so our adrenaline had long worn off. I would not say the heads were calm, perhaps very focused would be best. With the heavy fire we were receiving, our ammunition, while not desperate, would not last the long hours of the night, nor did I think we could hold our position. Attack was no longer an option as their numbers were much superior to ours and they were spread out over a wide area firing at us from three sides by then. Normally a situation which would have been bread and butter for Fireforce or an airstrike if they had been available.
By this time in the war, the regular army and many territorial army units were involved in externals, with great success in numbers killed, although our own casualties were also mounting. 1979 was a particularly bad year. Unfortunately, at home, the CTs were now in full indoctrination status mainly having to contend with PATU sticks and Support Unit, a police paramilitary combat unit known as the Black Boots who were very thin on the ground without army support. We were on our own and survival became an important priority as we observed green tracers flying over our heads, increasing as a number of RPDs (Russian-built machine guns) joined in with the sound of AKs.
Our plan was to escape under the cover of darkness. As dusk fell, the voice, better known as arsehole by us, by then, in Sinioa had halted our relief. Simultaneously, we suddenly came under fire from a heavy weapon, I do not know what. In a Nyamapanda contact, we once recovered a 12.5mm anti-aircraft gun, which had not been fired. Surely they had not managed to get one down into Zwimba? Whatever it was, we never learned, it was slow firing and showed no respect for huts, walls or small trees. Time to go. We slipped back into some dead ground and set off, it took them several minutes to realise we were on our way whereby they got their courage up to run to the edge of the dead ground and fire on us in the gloom, which made us difficult targets. Although high, those rounds with green tracers were like a swarm of bees zooming over our heads. The difference is bees buzz, rounds crack. Every now and then a few bursts from us enhanced their poor weapon skills.
Once we were well in the next tree line, they stopped firing. On reaching Budgie’s house, much to our relief we loaded our empty magazines and spoke to Sinoia on the landline as they had difficulty hearing us on the radio, they claimed. Every farmhouse had stocks of 7.62 FN rounds by then. Budgie made us a meal, while I talked to Sinioa who informed me they wanted us back across the river by daylight. Off to bed, do not know how many slept, I think all of us, we were exhausted and up at 4 am retracing our steps, I must say somewhat nervously, from a different direction while expecting fresh encounters at any minute. Nothing. Going through the previous day's contact area we picked up equipment and one dead CT with his weapon. If there had been more or any wounded they would have been taken by their comrades. I do not know how they missed this one lying in a field contour, they could not have searched very hard. Back-up arrived from Sinioa at 10 am, one of them in the form of an old cattleman friend, Allan Williamson. They thanked us for stopping them the previous night. For us, a debrief back in Sinioa and then redeployed back to the same area. When we finally retired to Darwendale, my, at that time unbeknown to me, future mother-in-law, Shirley Cary, was manning the radio at their reaction base. All she said was, “Why did you kill only one?” Even the women were battle-hardened. That was my final serious contact in the war and my worst as we were offered no suitable back-up on request. Similar scenarios were being replayed all over the country.
Funnily enough, I never recall discussing any combat incidents with family and friends at the time, only with comrades in arms who better understood how it was. I think this was the same for all of us. Unfortunately, all the others involved in this action, all friends, are now past while their spouses are alive.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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