In Nairobi with 53 Squadron Bev’s from Abingdon for flood relief operating out of the brand new Embakasi airport in ‘59 or’60. Understaffed as usual, in the middle of the night I was tasked with refilling the overload oil tank on one A/C. WWII era re-oiling trolley positioned under port wing. Clamber up through freight bay to flight deck, back through Nav/Sig station and out onto port wing. Attach rope near oil filler on wing and throw remainder down over leading edge. Clamber back down and attach rope to trolley hose nozzle. Clamber back up, haul up nozzle and hose, lock the nozzle trigger open with a GS screwdriver and fix in oil filler. Back down again (think Gerard Hoffnung ‘The Bricklayers Story’), start the notoriously unreliable trolley engine and start the oil flowing. Climb back up, check it’s coming through OK, back down off the wing into the inner dog kennel to monitor the oil gauge(s?) on the 120 gallon overload tanks. The flow is painfully slow, due to the ancient trolley operating at over 5000’, and level creeps up ever more slowly, until it eventually stops at about 3/4 full. Climb back down assuming trolley is empty or engine stopped, (did you spot my error there?). Engine still running and trolley not empty. Dawn is now on the horizon, I am absolutely knackered and as I lean on the trolley gazing into the early light in the distance trying to engage brain, I realise that a large portion of the dawn sky is obscured by a black curtain hanging from the inboard section of the port wing. My tired brain could not compute, so I walked back to push the curtain aside. You are no doubt ahead of me here, due a malfunctioning gauge, I had pumped xxx gallons of oil all over a large area of pristine white concrete of Kenya’s pride and joy brand new airport. Cue panic stations, swiftly back to the line office to own up to EngO, Bill ‘Yacker’ Yates, ex-Catalina FE, who quickly organised a working party to move all 3(4?) of our a/c to a clean area a few hundred yards away before it was light, shovel readily available bondu sand on the oil slick, scoop it up and spread it off the concrete in the bushes. Whether the authorities ever realised we were responsible for the eyesore black patch I never knew. Perhaps as we were there on an aid mission, dropping food to people isolated by the floods, they chose to ignore it. As you can tell, the humiliation has stayed with me for over 60 years.