A Supermarine Stranraer Takes Flight Over Loch Ryan: 240 Squadron on Patrol

On a cold Scottish day, when a biting wind whipped mist across the rugged hills of Ayrshire, an unlikely bird stirred on the waters of Loch Ryan. It was the Supermarine Stranraer, serial K7295, proudly bearing the code BN-L of the RAF’s 240 Squadron—a relic of the biplane era, yet still a vital guardian of Britain’s vulnerable coastlines and sea-lanes during the tense years before and during World War Two.

At rest, the Stranraer resembled something plucked from a Boy’s Own adventure: a hulking, double-winged machine of corrugated metal, fabric, and braced wire, resting upon a boat-like hull afloat in the chilly loch. Crews affectionately—sometimes ruefully—called her the “whistling sh*thouse” for her distinctive roar and rather basic onboard amenities. But in the shadow of war, even old designs found their place in the relentless effort to protect the British Isles.

As morning fog faded, ground crew in heavy coats and caps assisted the airmen aboard. Engines coughed and thundered to life, sending tremors through the cold lake. The wooden slipways groaned as K7295 was edged into deeper water, her hull bobbing with anticipation. At the pilot’s signal, the twin Bristol Pegasus engines spun up, their propellers whipping the air and churning white foam on the loch’s surface.

With a purposeful surge and the roar of throttles, the Stranraer accelerated, pontoons and hull slicing the gray water. The bulky biplane shuddered as it surged over small waves, spray flying up and hammering the windscreen. Closer to the shore, the village chimneys of Stranraer puffed smoke, silent witnesses to each patrol as the war pressed ever closer to Britain’s coasts.

In that fleeting moment—when water resistance finally yields and the massive airframe hesitates between two worlds—the Stranraer asserts its strange magic. Spray streams from the hull, droplets flashing in the thin sunlight, and, with a last bounce, the lumbering fuselage lifts free. Now more seaplane than boat, she climbs slowly, the biplane wings carving against northern gusts, the loch shrinking beneath.

From above, Loch Ryan is a cold sheet of steel-gray, hemmed by hills and touched with the white lace of windblown waves. The Stranraer, now a sentinel of the clouds, soon banks toward its patrol route—ever wary for submarines, suspicious vessels, or the rare enemy aircraft piercing Britain’s northern skies. Aboard, the crew of six scan the horizon through frosted glass, wireless sets crackling with coded orders, while the air gunner mans his post, peering through the open turret.

As routine as these patrols became, each takeoff from Loch Ryan was a small act of faith. Scottish weather could destroy navigation in moments. Windstorm or fog could turn a flight into an ordeal. And always, the sea itself was a lurking adversary, its chill waters unforgiving if wings failed—or enemy action found its mark.

Yet such moments, repeated countless times by 240 Squadron during the late 1930s and the early years of the war, anchored the community’s wartime rhythm. From shopkeepers in Stranraer to shepherds on distant hills, all would pause and glance upward at the sound of a Stranraer’s engines—a deep, familiar thrum woven into the fabric of home and conflict.

Eventually, the obsolescent Stranraer would give way to newer, faster flying boats. But for a time, aircraft like K7295—old-fashioned, ungainly, and utterly reliable—were lifelines between land, sea, and sky.

Each liftoff from Loch Ryan was not just the clumsy ballet of wood, metal, and wings; it was quiet defiance. The war was there, just beyond the next gray horizon, and these brave crews—bundled against the cold in the belly of their improbable aircraft—rose every day to meet it.