by Mike Edwards
The news of the record of their flying achievement travelled beyond the mud walls of the Fort. Squadron Leader Hancock, who was now the Commanding Officer of No. 1 IAF Squadron stationed at Karachi, flew all the way over to say, ‘Well done’ to his men. However, as he was nearing Miranshah, one of the aircraft in the Flight broke its undercarriage in a heavy landing. Nobody wanted the Squadron Leader to see them in this awkward situation, so they galvanised into action. Harjinder had never seen all hands gathered on one aeroplane before, but here they all were, suddenly, helping to lift it up. All officers and men tugged, toiled and heaved, until the aircraft was jacked up, and from a distance it looked fine, a bit grubby, but fine! The Squadron Leader was hosted and gently steered away from the lame aircraft. None guessed their plight, not even No. 5 Squadron RAF next door. When the coast was clear, Harjinder could work to bring the aircraft back to flying condition. This time he wasn’t sending the plane away. He did all the work within the Fort.
During the three months that they operated from Miranshah, they continued to maintain their lead in operational flying hours. They totalled 1,400 hours in that time, and the serviceability of the aircraft was a record. Every morning the Wapitis from the IAF were wheeled out, fully serviceable, into the new dawn light, having been worked on throughout the night.
No. 5 Squadron RAF, on the other hand, had very bad luck. Of their 12 aircraft, there was hardly one they could fly daily. They lost three aeroplanes in one day, in one of those initial events that snowballs out of control. The day first started to unravel when one of their aircraft had been forced to land about 50 miles South of Miranshah. One aircraft was sent to recover the Wapiti, but somehow lost its way. When fuel was exhausted, and the rough, inhospitable terrain below offered no obvious areas to set the aircraft down, the pilot bailed-out, but Leading Aircraftman Joyce, the air gunner, refused. Who can tell what was going on in the young man’s mind, but he carried on standing there, only his monkey chain to secure him, with no pilot in front of him. The aircraft came down in the moonlike landscape, killing him in the crash. The third Wapiti found the first stranded aircraft and tried to land near him. He misjudged the condition of the rocky ground and the toll of the day ran up to three aircraft. Three planes out of 12 down.
As soon as the news reached Miranshah, the only other serviceable aeroplane from No. 5 Squadron’s original twelve, was hurriedly prepared. It was then that the day went from unfortunate to farcical. In a rush, the RAF ground crew hurriedly pushed the required machine out of the low-doored hangar. As the nose poked out into the sunlight there was an all mighty crack, the propeller, which had been left in a vertical position, hit the girder over the door of the hangar leaving a very sad looking Wapiti with a droopy propeller, and several red faces. The Officer Commanding No. 5 Squadron, RAF, had to go, cap in hand, to the IAF Flight and request a rescue team. It was a task they were more than happy to perform. Flying Officers Mukerjee and Engineer flew their Wapitis to the site and landed without incident next to the stranded RAF machine. They dropped off the necessary plugs and tools; no fuss, no gloating, just inward satisfaction. Thereafter, No. 5 Squadron looked upon them as their equals, if not superiors. They had proved their mettle subtly, but suitably.
The whole team were so happy with their progress, that they requested to carry on with operations, but Air Headquarters felt that they had done their bit, and ordered their return to base at Peshawar. To cushion the blow, they received the welcome news that the Airmen’s scales of pay were now to be doubled!
Upon their return to Peshawar, they found that attitudes had changed. The personnel around the station regarded them as a first-rate Flight. The pilots who had previously worn that hangdog look, now walked about with a swagger and with smiles on their faces. They were no longer just air chauffeurs. The news even reached the Press, but still, India as a whole had not woken up to the importance of what was happening.
A few months later, they were on the move again, this time to Ambala, North of Delhi. On reaching there, the second Flight became operational, and flew down from Drigh Road to join them. During the year 1938, a bit of independence broke out! They had their own barracks, and they started their own internal training to show the RAF what they could do. In the barracks, the Airmen started tending to the grass with their own hands, planting flower beds on the sides of the roads, and generally taking an interest in how they were viewed by the RAF, and those beyond. The ever-present ‘Tich’ Tandon even set up a poultry farm. In the Airmen’s married quarters, a maternity and child welfare section was organised. The morning parade to hoist the colours up the flag pole became a competition of smartness against No. 28 Squadron, RAF. They showed such a spirit of healthy competition, that the local RAF Station Commander, Wing Commander Horsley, eventually championed their cause, lending his approval and assistance to help form an identity for the IAF.
At work, ‘A’ Flight competed with ‘B’ Flight for good maintenance. ‘A’ Flight, whose colour was red, had its aircraft chocks painted red, and all the boxes and desks were marked with red bands. The Wapiti wheel covers were red, and the aircraft also had a one-inch red band running from nose to tail. ‘B’ Flight cowlings were rubbed and polished until they could be used as mirrors. There was not a speck of dust on any aeroplane. Even the hangar floor was polished until it shone.
During this year, 1938, they had an interesting aircraft display at Safdarjung Aerodrome, in Central Delhi, where RAF Audaxes and the IAF Wapitis took part. Not only did Flying Officer Henry Runganadhan participate with his IAF Wapiti, but he won the air race. To put the icing on the cake, he was then declared to be in possession of the bestmaintained aircraft. Ram Singh and Harjinder were presented to the Air Officer Commanding, India, as the maintenance crew of the winning aircraft. Harjinder never felt prouder.
Back to base, back to the mundane, and to mounting guard once in every three weeks. This led to an introduction for Harjinder to the corruption that operated as the norm in India. One night, when he was the Guard Commander, he could not help but notice a sack full of broken cement pieces, sealed and deposited in the Guard Room. Late at night, a contractor sent word from the gate that he wanted to speak to the Guard Commander. The visitor was escorted to the Guard Room, but asked to speak to Harjinder alone, so the others were dismissed. He took out a wad of notes from his pocket and thrust them into Harjinder’s hand. Taken aback, he counted them; there were two thousand rupees in the bundle. Harjinder was astonished and not a little confused.
The man explained his story. He was the contractor who had built the airstrip, but recently, a rival contractor had complained to Air HQ that there was more sand in the cement than authorised. The sack in the Guard Room was a sample dug out of a portion of the runway. If this sample reached Delhi for analysis he would be ruined, as indeed, he had used sub-standard materials; a fact he clearly thought needed no apology. Thinking it would strengthen his case he continued to explain that he would not only be sued in Court, but would be struck off the list of authorised contractors. He pleaded with Harjinder to exchange the sack for another he had with him. When he was told that Harjinder would not dare do such a thing, he asked to speak with the Orderly Officer, and could he please have the money back! Before leaving he said, ‘I wish there had been a British NCO in-charge of this guard. I could have settled this business with a dozen bottles of beer.’
A month later, ‘B’ Flight, under Flying Officer Jumbo Majumdar, took their turn flying operational duties in the North-West Frontier Province. They moved to Miranshah, and immediately set about keeping up the good work that had begun with Harjinder’s ‘A’ Flight, and Majumdar, who had a restless and daring spirit, continually strove to keep the IAF colours flying high. He chose the best pilots, and Flying Officer Mehr ‘Baba’ Singh was one of them. ‘Mehr Baba’, as he was known to his colleagues, had come to the attention of the senior staff as an outstanding pilot.
The day Jumbo left for Miranshah, he took Harjinder to one side and told
him that there was one major goal at the back of his mind: ‘We must better our own flying record and show the RAF what stuff we are made of.’ He more than succeeded in his task.
It was not all about achieving high serviceability and flying hours, though. There was an operational job to do, and the dangers that come with it. On one of the sorties during this tour, Mehr Baba and his Air Gunner, Ghulam Ali, had a narrow escape. When they were strafing a hostile column, they encountered the normal puffs of smoke indicating some rifle fire coming at them. The RAF rear gunner had previously said that having bullets pass through the fabric on the wings was not uncommon, but the laws of average had to catch up with someone, and it was to be Mehr Baba. A single bullet passed between the fuel tank above Mehr Baba’s knees and the engine in front of him. It sliced clean through the fuel pipe leading from the fuel tank. The Wapiti climbed away from the tribal men on the ground, as it used the small amount of fuel left in the carburettor. Then, after a brief splutter, the engine, now starved of fuel, stopped, leaving the propeller wind-milling in the breeze. The rugged nature of those mountains can’t be overstated. You had to fly miles to find even a few square meters of flat ground, let alone a stretch of pastureland. The good news was that Mehr Baba found the only flat area for miles around. The bad news was that it sat perched on top of a spur on the side of a mountain. With characteristic skill, he brought the aircraft around to line up on this small area. There was no room for error, as either side fell immediately away to death in the valley below. The wheels of his Wapiti touched down at the very start of this small clearing. However, this was not a clearing prepared for wheeled vehicles, and one of the many scattered boulders ripped the wheels from the aircraft. The Wapiti may not be known for its looks, but it is a strong beast, and it remained intact, protecting its crew as it slid to a halt on its belly, shedding parts as it went, as a snake would its skin. It was late in the afternoon, and the tribesmen they had just been shooting at were not far away, and clearly not in a good mood. They both sprang out of the crumpled machine but, taking time to collect the guns from the Wapiti, before striding out for Miranshah. They walked the whole night, a hazardous undertaking in the North-West Frontier. Luckily, both were well-built men, and were mistaken for tribesmen, the Sikh and the Musalman, as they stole through the night, guns over their shoulders.
The two grimy, shadowy figures reached the outskirts of the Miranshah Fort as the sun broke the horizon. Their fortuitous resemblance to tribesmen now turned against them. The flat, open, ground around the fort had been cleared by the Tochi scouts to stop the tribesmen from creeping up on them. As Baba and Ghulam entered the clearing, the Tochi sentries in the watchtower opened fire as soon as they saw them approaching. Luckily, on this occasion, and unusually for the Tochis, their aim was poor, only resulting in dust being kicked up around Mehr Baba and Ghulam Ali’s feet. It encouraged them to sprint back to the small trench encircling the airstrip, diving in head first. They felt distinctly put out to be under fire twice in 12 hours, and this time, by so-called friends. They remained hidden until it was broad daylight. Even so, they had a job persuading the trigger-happy infantry that they were friends and not foes! The incident brought Mehr Baba fame within the military, and the successful crash landing, with the walk back through bandit country, added one more laurel to the IAF crown.
Jumbo returned from the Frontier with increased confidence in his own leadership, and a blossoming reputation. It boosted him into the forefront of the IAF. However, they had to wait for another twelve months before they saw the IAF shatter all previous records in operational flying. This time the credit went to the newly-promoted Flight Lieutenant Aspy Merwan Engineer. The natural leaders were coming to the top, and, as they gained experience, they continued to break records.
Meanwhile, Harjinder’s ‘A’ Flight were on the move again, and this time to Lucknow, the heart of British pride in India. The flag of the Empire flew day and night at the Residency in Lucknow, to remind the Indians that they had failed to storm it during the Rebellion of 1857. It was hard to tell if the British troops, with whom they operated, were shocked or surprised to see that not only were the Indians flying, but also maintaining, military aircraft. Harjinder repeatedly had Officers, Sergeants and Corporals calling on his Flight at their base. Their interest was welcome, and it was good to build cooperation between the two military services, but it soon became apparent that they were visiting mainly to satisfy themselves that it was not some joke strung together by a rival RAF unit. Indians flying and maintaining planes? Who would have ever believed it?
Towards the end of 1937 the Flight was invited by the Maharaja of Jaipur to partake in an Air Rally he was holding, to inaugurate the opening of his new airfield. At the time, Air Rallies were huge events around the world, with thousands flocking to witness the excitement of man taking to the air. Several of the Indian Maharajas fell in love with flying, and were responsible for the initial interest in aviation throughout the country. The IAF Flight moved to Sawai Madhopur, a few miles South-East of the mayhem and majestic splendour of Rajasthan’s pink city: Jaipur.
On reaching Jaipur, Harjinder found that the local authorities had lodged the British Airmen in the State Hotel, costing sixteen rupees per room, whereas the Indian Airmen were booked to stay in an Indian hotel in the city, costing three rupees per day. It was the Indian authorities that now treated their own as third class citizens, but it was the British who came to their rescue. Flight Sergeant Jimmie Hickey refused to allow this disparity, insisting that all would be treated as equals. He refused to send them to the accommodation inferior to his British men, saying; ‘They will all stay in one place, as always. They work on the same aeroplanes, and so, they will receive the same treatment.’
The men responded by pulling out all stops to provide serviceable aircraft to the pilots at all times. For three days, the pilots, determined to put on a good show, only left their cockpits for the briefest of moments between sunrise and sunset. On one of those days, Harjinder recorded seven hours, monkey-chained to the rear cockpit of his Wapiti. From that time onwards the Maharaja of Jaipur not only concentrated on his own flying, but also took a great interest in Air Force matters.
January 1938 saw ‘A’ Flight detached back to tents pitched in the barren, sandy outskirts of Hyderabad, on the Deccan plateau. Once again, they were cooperating with the Jat Regiment in helping the Artillery in target-spotting and fire-control, using Airborne Observation Officers in the rear cockpit. After a month, the buzz circulated that ‘B’ Flight was planning to visit too. It was rumoured that Officers were flying down and their wives were following by road.
The men were all agog with excitement, as though waiting to meet members of their own family. They worked day and night, and rigged up an Officers’ Mess by joining two of the heavy tents together. When the officers and Airmen of ‘B’ Flight landed, they were given a welcome to surpass that of a Maharaja. The mess had prepared a veritable feast, and they had a gala night to celebrate the occasion, with officers and Airmen mixing together. The hockey match was the outstanding event, and its importance was evident as the loss suffered by the ‘A’ Flight team couldn’t even dent the very competitive Harjinder’s enjoyment of the occasion. Inspired by the hockey match, they decided to go in for a distinctive Squadron blazer. Harjinder discussed with the officers the type of crest they should have. Since it was unofficial, they agreed unanimously that an eagle, combined with the Star of India, with the motto ‘Heaven’s Light our Guide’, should be the crest. All Airmen in ‘A’ Flight were fitted out with a pair of grey flannels and a navy blue blazer. An unexpected outcome was that every time they passed an Indian Army Infantry guard, the Army Sepoys used to salute them mistaking them for officers! It was very embarrassing for most, though some of the Airmen took malicious delight in keeping the footsloggers on the alert, passing them every half hour. Being unofficial, once they left Hyderabad, they couldn’t be seen wearing the blazers in any official capacity. However, over the
years, despite other sports kit, Harjinder treasured this blazer as a most valued possession.
Life in 1938 was good for Harjinder and his band of brothers. Not only were they were allowed to function as a real unit, but those surrounding their little India enclave treated them with respect, and saw them as equals. Those on high still seemed to look down on the IAF, however, the excellent performance by both the Flights in the North-West Frontier, heralded signs of change even from that quarter. On their return from Hyderabad, the Flights received a message from the Headquarters of No. 1 Squadron in Ambala, congratulating them on their achievements. It was a glowing tribute, as welcome as it was unexpected. The Flight Commander called Harjinder to his office to pass on the praise, leaving him in no doubt that the Flight’s achievements was all due to the efforts of the Airmen. He asked Harjinder to read this message to all of them and suggested they keep the telegram as a souvenir. Harjinder did, indeed, keep the telegram, he reasoned; ‘For later generations of officers, this might seem a trivial matter, but to the pioneers of the IAF, used to kicks in the pants rather than pats on the back, these incidents were the stones which built up the Air Force morale, the foundation of our esprit de corps. Like an architect who selects every stone he uses for his mansion, we carried out our daily duties always. Keeping in mind the contribution, each single act of commission or omission would make to our good name or otherwise.’
