Russian Knights arrive at Scampton - Tony Cunnane's Life and Times

From time to time I introduced other station personnel to be interviewed by Chris. He is a master at this sort of thing; he can always think of something useful or sensible to say when his interviewee dries up.

It was a warm early autumn morning but the visibility was rather poor - anticyclonic gloom the meteorologists call it. The Red Arrows' Hawks were drawn up along one side of Echo Dispersal. The pilots stood around in their red suits waiting expectantly. Our Commander-in-Chief was there with all the usual hangers-on. The security and intelligence men kept themselves to themselves trying, and failing, to look inconspicuous. The forty odd professional musicians of the Band of the RAF Regiment marched onto Echo Dispersal playing the official march of the Central Flying School, 'Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines' followed by the Dam Busters' March and took up their allotted position close to the dais. They were resplendent in their ceremonial uniforms. Almost 100 members of the media were on hand to record every historic second, while roads outside Scampton were blocked with countless sightseers who filled every lay-by and vantage point for miles around. Families and excited children lined the route to the dispersal.

The first surprise was that the IL-76 transport aircraft carrying the ground support personnel landed first. That was not part of the plan! So I had already imparted wrong information to the radio listeners but at least Chris Jones and I had something new to talk to the listeners about. As the moved giant aircraft moved slowly and cautiously past the CFS HQ building and along the taxiway in front of the hangars, it was expected to turn left and park at the northern end of Echo Dispersal. That is exactly what the marshaller indicated with his wands but, inexplicably, the giant aircraft turned to the right and nosed in between numbers 1 and 2 hangars. It came to a rather abrupt halt, rocking slightly on its enormous undercarriage, as the pilot suddenly realised he had turned into a dead end. What is more, not only was there no way out, there was insufficient gap between the ends of the two hangars for his aircraft.

"I wonder if he has reverse thrust so that he can taxi backwards like the Hercules?" someone asked of no-one in particular, but no-one volunteered an answer.

Someone else opined that it was the marshaller's fault. "Everyone knows that the Soviets turn towards the moving wand - exactly the opposite of what we do." A bit of a sweeping statement that! We learned afterwards that he was wrong anyway. Why is there always a know-all on such occasions? What possesses some people to swear blind that something is so when they know full well they have just made it up?

After a few minutes, when you could almost see the 'thinks bubbles' emerging from the cockpit of the aircraft, the engines wound down and a curious silence descended on the airfield. Everyone standing around realised that the Ilyushin had turned the wrong way but, broadcasting live on the radio, I merely informed the listeners that the Russian transport aircraft was now in position. There seemed no point in causing embarrassment for our visitors. A few minutes later a Russian officer, who turned out to be an air traffic controller, descended from the aircraft and was met by one of the RAF Russian interpreters. They had no time to sort out what was to be done about extricating the Ilyushin from its spot so they drove off to Air Traffic Control in some haste, presumably leaving the aircrew to ponder their future careers. Fifteen-love to the RAF.

As the Sukhois' scheduled time of arrival was rapidly approaching, Chris Jones and I continued our live chat peering continuously towards the north east. We had by then been broadcasting on and off for almost an hour and I had used up all the pearls of wisdom I had prepared. Time passed and still no news. Even Chris Jones ran out of things to say and so he temporarily handed back to the studio for a musical interlude. Eventually word reached me that the Soviets were thought to be approaching the east coast close to Spurn Point, not far north east of Scampton, and we were quickly back live on air.

'The Russian Knights will be with us very shortly,' I said confidently on the radio. 'The RAF air defence radar has them on the screen descending near to Cleethorpes. Four F3 Tornados from RAF Coningsby that had flown halfway across the North Sea to the United Kingdom boundary are providing an escort. At the speed they are travelling they will be with us, overhead Scampton, in two or three minutes."

It was more like six minutes before the six gleaming red, white and blue Sukhoi Su-27s of the Russian Knights appeared through the autumnal gloom overhead Scampton, flying in a very tight formation. The four Tornado F3s from Coningsby had split themselves, two onto either flank of the Sukhois, in traditional escort formation. The Sukhois performed a very low, very slow, and very tight orbit over Scampton airfield. This was obviously one-upmanship on their part because they were able to manoeuvre more slowly than the F3 Tornados in the tight turn. The two Tornados at the bottom of this impromptu flypast were barely 100 feet above the ground and, as the airspeed reduced perilously close to their stalling speed, the Tornados were forced to break formation and accelerate to a more sensible speed. To the experts on the airfield it all look rather shambolic - which is, presumably, exactly how the Russians intended it to look. With the possible exception of the Tornado crews, we all thought this was a brilliantly cheeky move on the Russian Knights' part. Fifteen all!

We learned afterwards that the arrival over Scampton was late because the Russians had deliberately ignored air traffic control instructions and hand signals from the Tornados. Just as the Red Arrows had conveniently failed to correctly interpret Air Traffic Control instructions on the approach to Leningrad a year earlier, the Russians were now playing a similar game. They had obviously planned in advance to deviate from the approved route in order to make a low flypast directly over the Tornado base at Coningsby. There had been confusion and alarm when, a for a short while, controllers at Coningsby thought the Sukhois were intending to land there. However, having made a spectacular low flypast, the Russians obediently joined up again with their escorts and continued towards Scampton. Thirty-fifteen to the Russians!

The SU-27s taxied into their positions facing the Hawks and their pilots disembarked. The Russian pilots stood by their aircraft facing the Red Arrows pilots. Lt Gen Nikolai Timofeyevich Antoshkin, Commander of the Air Force of the Moscow Military District climbed nimbly down from the single seat of the leading SU-27. Air Marshal Sir John Thomson escorted General Antoshkin and politely motioned him to mount the dais first. The Bandmaster raised his baton, the musicians moistened their lips, ready to play the traditional General Salute. General Antoshkin, with his own interpreter close by his shoulder, had other plans. He moved quickly up to the microphone, while Air Marshal Thomson, his aides and interpreter were still getting themselves into position. The Russian launched straight into his welcoming speech, his voice booming out over Echo dispersal. I made a surreptitious gesture to the Bandmaster and the band quietly stood at ease. Talk about one-upmanship.

"Russian fighter pilots do not fly in transport aircraft", said General Antoshkin to the assembled VIPs and media. Our Air Marshal had arrived at Leningrad as a passenger in a rather elderly transport aircraft. Forty-fifteen to the Russians!

"We were not sure we would be welcome," continued the General in what must have been the understatement of the year. There was spontaneous applause from all sides and the General beamed appreciatively. "You will note that we have replaced all the Soviet symbols on our uniforms and on our aircraft with Russian symbols." I must admit I had not noticed and I doubt if many others had. The photographers pointed their cameras at the Russian aircraft and started clicking away. Game to the Russians.

One furtive looking guy dressed in an old anorak, really and truly, sidled up to me and half pulled a small 35mm camera out of a bag. "I'm from you-know-where - I'm just going to try and get a few cockpit shots while everyone is meeting and greeting. OK?" He might as well have had 'Spy' tattooed on his forehead. I shrugged my shoulders. "Be my guest," I said to him in a non-committal way. I pointed towards one of the Sukhois. "One of the aviation magazine photographers has beaten you already."

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