The article also reminded me of a 2002 naval exercise, where swarms of small, fast boats sank sixteen major warships.
You never forget the first time you see RAF Fylingdales, usually as you’re tootling along the A169 gently in thrall to the natural wonders of the North Yorkshire Moors. Could anything be more incongruous than those vast, dimpled radomes, those eerie ’golf balls’, blistering out of the green surroundings? It’s a sort of rude-awakening, where you’re reminded the world is less a James Herriot novel and more a Noam Chomsky essay. As the comedian Mark Thomas famously said, “It’s like giant Tarby has found his pitch and putt.”
For a 10-year-old, the sight is disconcerting and strange. But when the coach driver passes as close as the barbed-wire and steel allows him and, with a certain devilish glee, slows right down and turns his radio up, revealing a barrage of crackling static, stuck signals and unworldly whistling, strange turns to frightening.