by Mike Edwards
The majority of the technicians were chugging along on a train somewhere between Harjinder and Burma. The remaining personnel were mainly pilots and rear gunners. However, they had to start somewhere so Harjinder borrowed a wrecker vehicle from an Army Motor Transport Company and dragged the three aircraft out of the mud and into a hangar. What was next in Harjinder’s arsenal of doing the impossible? As usual, he arranged a tea stall, with plenty of sandwiches and cakes. If there was magic running through Harjinder’s engineering fingertips it was powered by tea.
The tools were distributed to all the air gunners and pilots Jumbo placed at his disposal. In Harjinder’s opinion; ‘This was the most risky technical operation which I ever undertook in my whole life in the Air Force, because three crashed aircraft were to be repaired for war service with nontechnical labour, with myself as the sole supervisor. I planned my work on paper and, subdivided my crew into teams consisting of a pilot and an air gunner, allotted each a task. We took on one of the aircraft first, and each gang was given instructions as to how to go about their allotted job. As the operation progressed, I moved from gang to gang, checking and guiding. Wherever an operation needed finer adjustments or technical touch, I took over. I found that Pilot Officer Malse showed a great technical bent of mind.’
No one slept that night. The tea-powered crews hammered, riveted and bolted all through the night and the next morning so that by the next afternoon, the first Lysander was fully serviceable. Harjinder pushed the aircraft out into the daylight, but when he rang up Jumbo with the good news, he found him, emotionally, in pieces. However, the Commanding Officer, upset as he was, said that he would come round and test it himself.
Jumbo had already earned his reputation as a fearless pilot, but even Harjinder thought he went too far whilst testing the aircraft. When he was happy that all things were normal, he dived the Lysander down, pulled it up into a perfectly vertical climb continuing until the speed was almost zero. He then kicked in full rudder control to bring the nose to swing to the left through the horizon to point vertically at the ground; he had just performed the aerobatic stall turn manoeuvre at low level; in a Lysander. He then pulled up from the ensuing dive to zoom across the parade ground at tree top height; all over the heads of No. 28 Squadron who were on parade. Not only was this a sign of relief, but it also served to attract the attention of the RAF; to show the side number on the aircraft to the RAF. After he landed, he looked like he might actually embrace his Flight Sergeant. The grin threatened to split is face in half, and then the words came tumbling out. The aircraft flew better than new. Harjinder didn’t need these words of encouragement, but they found their target; his pilots and air gunners worked like they never had before.
The team all broke off for a bath, and a few hours of sleep, but then got to work again in the evening. Harjinder’s theory was heavy dinners made them lethargic and sleepy so the men’s diet was tea with pastries. He needed them to be sharp and alert. The pilots vied with the air gunners in their technical chores, and with the help of this friendly competition, by the next morning, the second aircraft was rolled out, serviceable, in to the sunlight.
With work going well on the last Lysander, Jumbo called Air Headquarters to let them know that no replacements were required. If the desk pilots in HQ were surprised when they first heard about the three consecutive crashes, they couldn’t bring themselves to believe that all were flying again. They were probably starting to doubt Jumbo’s sanity, and not for the first time.
The third aircraft had come off the worst in that mad ten minutes, so it took a little more time to repair. Again Jumbo was the one to take the Lysander up for the test flight. Less than thirty-six hours after the crash and it was an optimistic Jumbo who parked the last aircraft to make twelve once more. The Squadron was back to full strength, and ready to go to war to prove their worth. It had been an extreme, and very productive, example of team building.
When Jumbo bounded up to Harjinder, he suggested that they celebrate another of his miracles by promoting him to Warrant Officer, but Harjinder balked at this. He had made up his mind not to accept a promotion to Warrant rank. He believed there was unjustifiable discrimination between the IAF and the RAF. Indians could only be promoted to Warrant Officer Class II, while their RAF equivalents were made Class I Warrant Officers. Not for the first time, Harjinder took a stand. He preferred to remain a Flight Sergeant, where at least the ranks in the two Services were equal. He realised, of course, that his continued refusal would mean that eventually some of his juniors would be promoted to fill Warrant Officer II vacancies, and would supersede him, but he was quite prepared for that, and told Jumbo so. But Jumbo too was a man of principles. He managed to find a temporary solution to this problem by promoting Harjinder to ‘Acting (Unpaid) Warrant Officer I’. He also allowed him to wear the blue RAF uniform, even though Nanda, as Stores Officer, objected to this unauthorised issue. In the end, Jumbo paid for the uniform himself.
Harjinder had to wait another nine months to win the legitimate rank of Warrant Officer Class I, after three of his juniors had accepted the rank at Class II. So it came to pass that just as Harjinder was the first Indian Corporal, Sergeant, and Flight Sergeant, he was also the instigator for the introduction of the rank of Warrant Officer I in the IAF. He was told at a later date, that if he had delayed any further, he would have stayed a Flight Sergeant for the rest of his life. With the events that would unfold after the war, that seems unlikely, but in 1942 they feared that they were going to be on the losing side of this World War.
Throughout the world, the women behind the troops were united in worry as husbands, brothers and sons fought, or prepared to enter the fight. The wives of the IAF had been used to their husbands disappearing for months on end into the North-West Frontier, there were risks but happily a fatality was rare, but this conflict was a completely different prospect. Causalities were growing alarmingly, the Japanese seemingly unstoppable, and rumours of their cruelty abounded. We know that Harjinder’s wife was something special. She stood shoulder to shoulder with him from the time he was the lowly rank of Hawai Sepoy. He was now the most senior IAF airman, and clearly would be in the thick of it, when the time came, but he would travel with her full support. She had willingly taken on the role of counselling the other Airmen’s wives. However, just before his departure for Burma, Harjinder’s wife had a serious operation. The doctor recommended that she be confined to bed for three weeks. Under normal circumstances, Harjinder would have taken leave, and looked after her, but they were ready to move at any moment. He knew that if he didn’t leave now he would be left behind for good. The IAF, and the war, would go on without him. That just wasn’t an option for Harjinder. This was his Squadron, his responsibility, his family. Harjinder’s wife knew all of this, and there was none with greater bravery and understanding as her. She told Harjinder that he must go with the Squadron. ‘I can look after myself and there are so many friends here. Don’t worry about me.’
Harjinder wrote of his admiration for his wife. However, he could not report the same of a small minority in his charge. The vast majority had embraced the endless training, and now they wanted to put these skills to the ultimate test; combat. Some, like Harjinder and Jumbo, were even looking beyond the advancing Japanese in Burma, towards an Independent India. Harjinder wrote; ‘It is sad to record that one or two of our pilots seemed not so enthusiastic about going to fight in Burma; probably it was their parents who had put them off. The air was such an uncertain element for most Indians that many people assumed that going to war with the Air Force meant certain death. I remember, during our stay at Kanpur, a good number of prospective pilots had confided in me that their parents were opposing their plans for taking up flying as a career. For some of those parents, I arranged flying experience, after which they were more amenable.’
Jumbo was a man to motivate, although his bullishness made some nervous. Harjinder singled out another man to raise morale. This simple, shy, unassuming m
an was Flight Lieutenant Rup Chand. He had taken to flying in his youth, having flown in Germany and England. At the time the war broke out, he owned his own aeroplane, a Vega Gull. He promptly gave his aircraft to the Air Force in India for use as a communication aircraft and joined up in the Volunteer Reserve of the IAF, and was posted to Karachi to command one of the Volunteer Flights. There he met with a very serious flying accident during night flying, after which he was posted to No. 1 Squadron at Peshawar as Adjutant. However, he was so determined to go into action with his Squadron that when the order came to move to Burma, he approached Jumbo and asked him if he could go as a pilot. Jumbo knew that his medical category did not permit operational flying, and dodged the request very tactfully. Rup Chand was not so easily put off. He came to Harjinder and begged him to persuade Jumbo to change his mind. Harjinder tried, but failed. Rup Chand, however, kept on appealing to Jumbo. On the trip back from War Week in Calcutta when they dined with Rup’s father at his house, he told Jumbo; ‘If you do not take my son to Burma, it will break his heart. Please do not disappoint him. The IAF, and your No. 1 Squadron, means everything to him.’
Finally, Jumbo’s resistance crumbled. He caught Harjinder when he was alone and explained that he had decided to let Rup Chand come with them; ‘but do not let him know as yet’, he added. ‘We will tell him when we are about to takeoff.’
Quite why Jumbo wanted to keep it a secret is not clear but it remained a secret until they were actually in their cockpits. When Rup Chand was told, he started jumping with joy. That was what it was like, in those early days of the Indian Air Force. Each man was dedicated to his job, and desperate to do his bit. Rup Chand’s excitement at the prospect of seeing action in Burma exemplified the spirit of the IAF.
It was February 1942. A big part of IAF history was about to be written:
‘The day we left to go to war was like any other day. The sun rose from the East just the same, and the same old noisy crows ushered in the morning. To the pilots and air gunners of No. 1 Squadron, however, it was one of the most momentous days of their lives. The excitement of going into action for the first time showed on everyone’s face. There was one common point I noticed in them: they were all proud to belong to this famous Squadron. On talking to these youngsters, I also felt happy and proud.’
Jumbo, who thought of everything, called Harjinder aside and said: ‘Keep an eye on Henry. He lost his brother in an air crash at Miranshah recently and is emotionally upset. He has a premonition that he is also going to go the same way. He is a good lad, but needs an eye kept on him.’ (Henry’s brother was not in the IAF, at least, no confirmed records tell us so. Aviation historian, Mukund Murty, suggests it might be a corruption of another, very poignant story. In a weird juxtaposition of the dates, Anandaraj Samuel Gnanamuthu, died on 11/7/41 and his younger brother Bhaskar Daniel Gnanamuthu, died 7/11/41. Anandaraj was in No. 32 Squadron RAF when he was killed. Daniel was with No.1 IAF. Could they have been related to Henry? Or even friends from Madras, where Henry had learnt to fly at the Madras Flying Club, and where he still holds the unrivalled record of going solo in an aeroplane after just one hour of flying training!)
Their Station Commander and Air-Officer-Commanding No. 1 Group were there to see them off from the base. The pilots of No. 2 Squadron IAF also came to wish them good luck on their mission. There was of course, the disappointment of not to be in that first group to put their skills and character to the test, but also a hint of relief to be out of harm’s way, but they were all filled with an overwhelming sense of pride to see the IAF going into action.
The first refuelling stop was at Lahore, where they met more Indian Airmen who crowded around them with different emotions passing over their faces. Their countrymen ushered them over to the offices of 60 Squadron RAF who had recently arrived from the front. It wasn’t to be what Harjinder hoped for. The Anglo-Indian Airmen they met were all very demoralised. Being the most senior airman, Harjinder was singled out by one of the senior RAF Airmen; ‘Your Squadron is committing suicide by going into Burma with Lysander aircraft. You haven’t a chance against the Jap Zeros (the nimble, Japanese, fighter aircraft). Our Squadron had Blenheims (a twin engine light bomber) and even then, they were all shot down over Bangkok. Our Commanding Officer and Adjutant were the only ones to escape, because they were smart enough to stay on the ground (so much for leading from the front!). The RAF know all this and are sending you instead, to be sacrificed.’
It would have been understandable for Harjinder to take these comments at face value. But we know he had a low opinion of the senior RAF people in India, so he was having none of it. He told the RAF man to stop being so defeatist and also forbade them all from spreading this unhealthy defeatist talk among any of his IAF pilots.
Next, the crews flew over Delhi, looking down on the grand buildings stretching along the Kingsway, leading to the Viceregal Palace. They touched down at Palam air base on the outskirts of the capital, only for the news to break that they were one aircraft short. Somehow, Pilot Officer Padam Gill had been separated from the gaggle. Jumbo was disheartened and took on some of the responsibility himself. He said to Harjinder: ‘If this happens while we are still in our own country, what will happen when we reach Burma?’
Harjinder did his best to give Jumbo confidence. ‘These are our teething troubles, Sir. We will soon overcome them.’
Later, they learned that Padam had got himself lost and force-landed at Meerut, they sent Malse to escort him back. When they took off from Meerut, they were separated again. Ultimately, Padam ‘pranged’ his aircraft on this flight. This was not the time, or place, for Harjinder to go into action breathing life back into the damaged aircraft. The war wasn’t going to wait. There was nothing more to do except to send Flying Officer Raza, and Ghulam Rabbani, to bring another aircraft from Lahore. This close to combat, and with a, ‘all hands on deck’ cry from the war in Burma, the RAF were too distracted to score points against the IAF.
Things continued to go downhill, when on the next hop in Kanpur where Andy Ananthanarayanan burst the inner tube in the main-wheel tyre while landing. Yes, the Lysander had a big inner-tube like an oversized bicycle tyre! The resemblance didn’t stop there. The designer, having fixed the wheels dangling out in the breeze, decided to streamline the main-wheels with very thin inner tubes. This was the first, and last time, Harjinder had seen such a design on an aeroplane. Although his tubeless wooden tail-wheels had become almost accident proof, the main-wheels were now a problem. These slim line tubes used to burst when they were pinched between the tyre edge and rim as soon as slightest sideways pressure occurred. Harjinder took the bull by the horns again and decided on a bold course of action. The wooden tail-wheels were working well, so it was time to redesign the main-wheels before going into combat. He purchased a number of 32×6 inches thick, heavy, truck tubes and fitted them to all the IAF aircraft at Kanpur. Unfortunately their valve nozzles were too long and stuck out awkwardly, but that could not be helped. Thereafter, with these industrial tubes squeezed into the tyre and the nozzle flailing around in the airflow, there were no more cases of tyreburst in any of their aircraft during the whole of the Burma Campaign. What would have been the fate of the IAF Lysanders in combat, in Burma, if he had not replaced the maker’s flimsy tubes?
The next halt was Gaya where they met a stranded RAF Sergeant Pilot of No. 25 Squadron. Harjinder could not quite believe the attitude of his RAF cousins. This RAF pilot had suffered engine trouble but their Squadron technicians had been brought up in the RAF tradition to follow a rigid maintenance schedule. Even in this time of all-out war they were making no allowances to get these valuable assets to the front-line. The pilot, and his aircraft, had been abandoned. Harjinder had a quick look around the aircraft and within an hour diagnosed that there was no spark getting through to the engine; there was clearly a problem with the magneto. A quick look in the magneto showed that the contact breaker needed replacing. He changed the contact breaker points, synchronis
ed them, measuring the required gap using cigarette tin foil to gauge the thickness required. Harjinder stood back and let one of his pilots fire the engine up and run it through the full power checks. The Sergeant Pilot was amazed to see how easily Harjinder and team blitzed the job. He told them that his Squadron engineer had spent hours looking for a lamp and battery for synchronising the two magnetos. He used a few choice descriptions of his own technicians before volunteering to accompany the IAF as the thirteenth member! Thirteen was fast becoming a lucky number for No. 1 Squadron.
They pushed on, landing next at Calcutta, but with more pressing requirements than the last time. No air-shows this time. Harjinder had already decided this was where he would carry out the servicing of his aeroplanes. With all the required routine maintenance completed, it would leave the aircraft clear to fly plenty of hours when they arrived in Burma. Harjinder was up until midnight with his technicians, doing the required servicing chores, but on their return to the billets, he discovered that the windows of their room had not been blacked out. They could do nothing at that unearthly hour, and they were staying only for one night, so they decided to turn in for the night.
They had hardly gone to bed when Harjinder heard a commotion outside. He got up and saw a drunken RAF Pilot Officer, standing with his face inches from Sergeant Ghulam Ali, asking for the senior man among the Indians. Ghulam Ali replied; ‘I am the senior.’
