For many years, Piet’s company—Placo (the Pretoria Light Aircraft Company)—was the best-selling Piper dealership outside the USA. Old Piet and William T. Piper would remain firm friends for the next 25 years, until Piper’s death in 1970. But Piet still faced a problem: 300 airplanes in America, and no money to get them to South Africa.
My duties at Placo included making tea, polishing aircraft, vacuuming interiors, and blacking tires. Zingi mentioned I’d occasionally fly with the big boss, who feared a heart attack and wanted another pilot aboard in case he collapsed. I knew my meager skills would do little to delay our demise should Old Piet falter at the controls.
No sooner had I revived my tea-making activities when I heard the Auster start. After some introductory coughing and spluttering, it settled down to a healthy roar. For God’s sake throttle back, I muttered into the teapot. They didn’t. The noise got louder and closer. There was a horrendous clatter and crash, a tinkling of broken glass—and then silence.
Now, when a fuel-injected motor starts dying of thirst, it doesn’t just peacefully expire—it has several false stops interspersed with bursts of power. As an engine gives up, the aircraft swings violently toward it. This is counteracted by a bootful of opposite rudder, which generally coincides with its recovery, causing an even more violent swing in the other direction. When both motors quit simultaneously, the bursts of power, swinging, and kicking of rudder present an unusual spectacle to the casual observer on the ground—and a frightening demonstration of chaos to the less casual spectator aboard.