Well, if we’re telling anecdotes……….
Location: RAF Linton-on-Ouse, North
YORKshire. Circa 1993.
Situation: HRH The Duke of
YORK (get the connection?), aka The Prince Andrew, is on a Royal Visit to York – at a weekend. Now, being a Flying Training Unit, although V busy Monday to Friday, LOO is not usually open at weekends. Therefore, the potential for ATC-related screw-ups is large (eg local GA aircraft poncing through the area getting in the way - unaware of the establishment of Purple Controlled Airspace - gliders using the runway for safe land-outs, people walking around the airfield ‘cos “those gits in ATC won’t be there and because I CAN", etc). All this can be extremely career-limiting for the Senior Air Traffic Control Officer (SATCO), so I am in the Tower overseeing the departure of the Royal Flight. The Royal Aircraft is all manned, pre-starts complete, awaiting the entourage in about 30/40 minutes.
Telephone rings: It is my Best Beloved:
Her: “Dog’s gone walkabout!”
Me: “What? Where?”
Her: “Dunno. She was out the front a minute ago, sunbathing,
(mental picture of Large Furry Hound (LFH) in a deck chair, parasol up, Pimms in paw, applying sun-screen…)
and now she’s not. I think she’s headed up towards the Airfield in search of you.”
Me: “Christ! I’ll go look…”
I ‘handover watch’ and jump in the ATC Landrover and go back to my Quarter; no, she’s not returned in the intervening 6/7 minutes, so I start quartering the Technical Site in search of LFH.
No sign.
Then, just as I am turning down a one-way street, I see out the corner of my eye a familiar black-tipped bushy tail disappearing around the side of a Hangar onto the Manoeuvring Area! Damn – got to continue down the one-way street (180º the wrong way of course), back-track, and enter the Apron from a different point. Do so.
And there, pacing towards the Royal Aircraft, with a purposeful gait, is LFH. Her whole demeanour is: “I scent Corgis! Must investigate! And chase off intruders from Dad’s patch! It is my Role In Life.”
Visions of uncomfortable invitation to the Station Commander’s Office on Monday - complete with Hat On, no invitation to sit down and no complimentary free tea, coffee or biscuits - loom large; as does incarceration in the Tower of London ‘At Her Majesty's Pleasure'. I catch- up with LFH just as she reaches the bottom of the Airstairs and with, obviously, every intention to going aboard to see what’s what….
“Just picking up the Apron Security Dog, Captain….”
I explain helpfully to the Aircraft Captain, who is staring down at me and LFH, from 'on-high'.
“Apron Security Dog? – never heard of that before. Still, can’t be too careful these days”
No, I haven’t heard of one of those either, I think to myself.
As I exit stage-right, with disgruntled LFH in the passenger seat, head out of window staring in general direction of Royal Aircraft, HRH enters stage-right coming the other way and, I swear, waves at LFH, who – ears flapping in the slipstream – gives him, free-gratis, best Paddington-Bear Stare and large “Woof “ to send him on his way!
Still the aircraft got away on time and no one was the wiser. I hope!
What is the world coming to?
Linear Mode
