The flying boat that didn’t make a splash

SERVING with the RAF in 1953, I was stationed at Gloucester Air Traffic Communication Unit as a wireless operator. We had to use a special pad on which to jot down the incoming Morse-code messages, line after line in the proper order.

The first line was for the aircraft number, followed by what type of aircraft it was. Then came the name of the pilot, and after that the next line was for where the plane took off from. The fifth line indicated the destination — and finally the time of arrival.

One day, I started taking down a message from an approaching aircraft. The wireless operator on board gave me the aircraft number, then the type of aircraft, which was a Short Sunderland, then came the pilot’s name, then the place from where they had taken off, and their destination was Boscombe Down. The message ended with their expected time of arrival.

Something clicked in my brain. I opened the hatch between our radio room and the controlling officer’s section and called the duty officer over to me.

‘Sir... I’ve just received this message from a plane coming in to land at Boscombe Down.’ ‘All right, airman, thank you.’ ‘Wait, sir’, said I, ‘Boscombe Down is near Stonehenge in the middle of the countryside, and the plane heading there is a Sunderland . . . isn’t that a flying boat, sir?’

The duty officer immediately contacted his counterpart at Boscombe Down, saying: This is ATCU Gloucester here. Could you arrange to get all of your lads outside pronto, and get them to pee on the runway? You’ve got a flying boat coming in!’

A great sense of humour. Needless to say, the Sunderland aircraft was diverted to a suitable coastal station.

Griff loydd, ottery st mary, Devon.