Red Arrows on a wire?

This is a little story from the end of the seventies, when the British National Championships were held on a glorious Whitsun at RAF Barkston Heath. For my sins, it had been decided that I had volunteered as one of the event organisers. After signing for the airfield and promptly losing the hangar key (in your pocket, you fool) walkie talkies were issued and work commenced. Sometime into the second day, air traffic control posed a question. The RAF formation team aka the Red Arrows had a little time to kill between displays, Barkston Heath was on route, would we like a free airshow? You betcha we would! All the contest directors were informed, all models on the ground on pain of pain (Is there an American phrase suitable) at an allotted time. This duly happened , all engines stopped, Red Arrows call approaching field, we get ready to watch...then we hear a little diesel engine start up. No worries, only someone warming up a combat wing. Then it gets launched, the guy feels that anything on a mere 40` of line is okay, casually stands there doing figures of eight. Barkston is on top of a ridge and all the Red Arrows pilots did some of their basic training there, they really know how low they can go, and the whole formation curve across the field, the inside man about thirty feet up at 230mph. Right over the top of the idiot with the combat wing. Well, they came from behind and he simply had no idea what the faint extra whine meant until it suddenly changed into a bowel loosening roar. This happened 29 years ago, I can still see it in full colour! Curiously enough, nobody said a word to him on the subject. I mean, what is the use of trying to give someone a rocket when he has already had the benefit of a whole squadron?

Just as a sequel to the above, I have to tell this tale of the clean-up of the airfield after the event. All the civilians have left and there are only the volunteers remaining. The commanding officer has returned and is looking at the state of his airfield. All the plastic cups have been swept up, rubbish disposed of , mobile toilets moved away and generally the whole place looks spic and span. Almost. His eyes fall upon the runway surface, laid earlier in the year and a vast unsullied area of black perfection. He walks over, bends down, looks intently at the surface. I have a nasty premonition. "What are these litle marks?" he asks. Fuel stains. Little rainbow coloured circles on the tarmac. "These will have to be removed before the fuel damages the surface", he pronounces. Intake of breath. This will be fun. So it comes to pass that I commence the task of cleaning a runway with a small scrubbing brush and a large drum of water balanced in the back of my car. It occurs to me several hours later that I will never have another nightmare, nothing I could dream of would be this bad.....eventually the job was finished, although the onset of darkness may have helped the OC decide he could not see any more evidence. I have told this story before, to the people who asked me how I had the patience to use a four inch brush to paint an entire hangar....