by Mike Edwards
Eleven
Spreading Wings, Clipping Wings
‘You will not last long on this Station, Flying Officer Harjinder Singh.’
‘You have a great part to play in India’s future.’
As Harjinder travelled by boat to India, another armada of boats left the shores of the UK. It was the 6th June 1944, D-Day; when the British, American and Canadian forces fought their way ashore into France. In his Fighter Control Ship, organising all of the 104 different Fighter Squadrons operating over the French beaches, was Air Commodore Cecil Bouchier, the man who had first commanded the IAF with their 4 Wapitis. One of the Squadrons descending from the unseasonably heavy skies onto pre-arranged targets, was No. 268 Squadron, RAF. Normally, a new pilot would carry out weeks of training with a new Squadron, in a new aircraft, but Bouchier’s apprentice, Karun Kanti ‘Jumbo’ Majumdar, DFC, flew his first operational mission over the deadly beaches of Normandy. In the same area, his countryman, Pilot Officer Sayanapuram Doraiswamy Thyagarajan, from Pondicherry, was flying daily strafing and bombing sorties in his Typhoon with No. 263 Squadron, RAF. Below them, in one of the landing craft on the angry, choppy sea, was Glen McBride. The Officer who’d destroyed Lashio as Harjinder and Jumbo retreated, had found his way from China to the UK, to become a part of RAF 101 Beach Squadron. He was the only man with a Royal Australian Air Force uniform to take part in D-Day. Jumbo and Glen both had their wish for action fulfilled, and they had it in spades.
Jumbo continued with No. 263 Squadron in to the next year, flying one of the mysterious aircraft types Harjinder had noticed lurking in the shadows, clouded in a veil of whispers, in the Hawker factory. The Typhoon, as the aircraft was known, is the aircraft that Jumbo took into the firestorm that was the Falaise Gap. They took their Typhoons down to low level, an area Jumbo thrived in, looking for German troop concentrations and military vehicles. Pierre Clostermann, one of the RAF’s top-scoring aces, thought that the Typhoons were the stars of the RAF following the Normandy landings. He wrote; ‘again and again, they rescued Allied units from situations of dire peril by taking on the German Panzers.’
The Typhoons’ frantic attempt to minimise the terrifying effect of the German tanks on the Allied armour and infantry alike, attracted the full fury of the Wehrmacht’s flak; Squadron losses in that world of flak, tracer rounds, explosions and obstacles, were horrific. Clostermann wrote of a whole Squadron diving into the attack, but only half, sometimes less, resurfacing. Jumbo not only survived this hell, but earned a bar for his DFC, the only Indian to do so, before he finally followed Harjinder’s tracks and headed for home.
Pilot Officer Sayanapuram Doraiswamy Thyagarajan wasn’t to make that journey home. He was killed on the 25th August 1944, the day Paris was liberated, shot down at La Lande St. Legere, where he is now buried.
The news of D-Day exploded all over the world with headlines heralding, very prematurely, the beginning of the end of the war. However, the pilots and crew of the IAF’s No. 1 Squadron overhead Kohima, were a little pre-occupied to pay much attention to the blood spilt on the sands of France. The Battle of Kohima and the Siege of Imphal were nearing their own bloody climaxes. The order was to hold the position at all cost, to stop the Japanese pouring through the valley and into the open plains beyond. Hold they did, but at a terrible cost. D-Day rightly grabbed the world’s headlines but it consigned this immense achievement of human endurance to a mere footnote of the World War II.
News on board the ship was patchy, but the information grabbed from the HF radio was all positive. The news from the combat zone was pouring in through the IAF grapevine. The Japanese had been stopped; did it mean that India was safe? The Japanese had actually been pushed back from Kohima and Imphal by the very troops they’d tried to surround there, and on the 22nd June 1944, the leading troops of the British 2nd Division fought their way down the Valley. Constantly operating overhead were Arjan Singh’s Hurricanes, flying in pairs, pinpointing and often “softening up” the enemy in front of them with their four lethal 20mm Hispano cannon. Those Hurricanes reported back on the historic meeting between the drawn faces of the 5th Indian Infantry Division breaking out from Imphal and the relieving force of the 2nd Division. The 79-day Siege of Imphal ended just 48 km South of Kohima. 79 days of continuous fighting in the shattered landscape, kept alive by the pilots above them. The unstoppable Japanese had been stopped through grim determination, by constant supply and attack from the air, and the most basic of desires; to survive.
Today, 60 years on, the green slopes around Kohima and Imphal are once again lush with trees, its terraced fields bow under the staggering weight of another season’s bountiful yield. Garrison Hill is covered with ever spreading urban sprawl, but the scene of the Battle of the Tennis Court in Kohima, remains tranquil, now an Allied cemetery, it is untouched by time, a gentle reminder of the ravages wrecked on this haven by the war. The Epitaph carved on the memorial has become world-famous; the Kohima Epitaph.
‘When you go home, tell them of us and say,
For their tomorrow, we gave our today.’
During the battle, the British and Indian forces had lost 4,064 men – dead, missing and wounded, in the most appalling of conditions. Against this, the Japanese had lost 5,764 men in battle casualties. India drew breath; but only those at the top knew how close it had been. If the Japanese had fought through to the more open ground beyond Kohima, the outcome might have been vastly different. The astounding execution of D-Day captured the imagination of the world, so the eyes of the world hardly rested on Kohima.
Lieutenant General Renya Mutaguchi’s grandiose plans for taking Kohima, and, thereafter, India, were obliterated.
Harjinder’s No. 1 Squadron IAF had been in the major part of the battle. Without the constant air attacks and air re-supply, the battle would have been lost. Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten, Supreme Commander of all Allied Forces in South-East Asia, flew into Imphal to meet up with No. 1 Squadron. In dramatic fashion, he climbed onto the wing of Arjan Singh’s Hurricane to give a speech to the assembled personnel. When he jumped down, a hollow square was formed by the men, and Arjan Singh was called forward. Mountbatten pinned the Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) medal on to the chest of Squadron Leader Arjan Singh’s working jungle uniform, which he was still wearing, ready to fly again later that day. This was only the beginning for No. 1 Squadron, as they continued chasing the Japanese back through Burma until Arjan and his men had been on operations for a continuous, record-breaking, 14 months. A British military publication, ‘An Account of the Air Operations in South-East Asia’, called No. 1 Squadron; ‘outstanding amongst all the Allied Squadrons in South-East Asia for its fighter reconnaissance work and its high standard of aircraft maintenance.’
The Officer Commanding the Air Group went even further; ‘Ground crew have set a record for serviceability of aircraft, averaging 99 per cent, which is second to none in any Air Force in the world.’
The ethos cultivated by Harjinder obviously continued throughout the wartime operations of the engineers. The pilots had the foundations laid by Jumbo, and cultivated by Arjan Singh. However, that reputation, forged in war, was at great an expense of the 20 pilots who originally went with Arjan Singh in No. 1 Squadron to Imphal, only 4 came back. Of them two, B.R. Reddy, and Nanda Kariappa, were killed shortly thereafter in Civil aircraft crashes. It was a bloody time to be involved in aviation.
However, for Harjinder, it was not the long yearned-for return to No. 1 Squadron and combat operations in Burma. In July 1944, he was posted to Kohat, his old stomping ground in the lawless North-West Frontier, but it was not the Royal Air Force Station Kohat he had left. It was now called Indian Air Force Station, Kohat. All air operations against the tribal warriors had been handed over to the IAF, with the RAF personnel now working for the IAF. Were the tribes going to stop ‘being troublesome’, just because a World War was on? Quite the contrary! Understandably, the tribes attempted to take advantage of the British pre-occupation
with the war. And so, it was back to policing the North-Eastern wasteland from age-old forts, using the basic, rocky, dirt landing strips; back to the barren brown landscape and back in the old atmosphere of rivalry and obstructionism from the increasingly reluctant RAF personnel based in India. Here, Harjinder still found some examples of the British at their worst.
On arriving at Indian Air Force Station Kohat, with its stunning backdrop of mountains, like enormous brown shards of glass thrust into the ground, Harjinder was greeted by the Station Commander. It was not only a reunion with harsh conditions, but it was also a reunion with the now Wing Commander, Subroto Mukerjee, in that landscape so well-known to the both of them. However, their first exchange about Kohat was not one he had expected. Harjinder’s opinion of the British had changed following his time in the UK; the IAF had more than proved how capable they were, and the war was turning in the Allied’s favour on all fronts, but, however, back here in the North-West Frontier, it seemed that little had changed. Mukerjee was the Station Commander, technically in-charge of the whole base, but Harjinder was the only other Indian in the Wing Headquarters. All the others were British. Mukerjee suspected that instead of working for, and with him, they were all actually reporting directly to the Group Headquarters at Peshawar. They seemed to be making decisions over his head, circumventing him and leaving him out of the policy-making. Mukerjee’s parting comment on that first meeting was not encouraging; ‘So, Harjinder, watch your anti-British talk. What you do will reflect not only on you, but also on my capability as an Indian Station Commander and, therefore, the future of the IAF.’
Harjinder hated this defeatist attitude; he always tackled issues head on, leaving the politics to others. He did, however, promise Mukerjee that he would be tactful. Harjinder; tactful? How long do you think Harjinder could be tactful?
Squadron Leader Kennenworthy was responsible for that promise lasting for less than one day. Kennenworthy was actually the Station Adjutant Officer, there to sort out the day-to-day running of the Station for Mukerjee, but he had elevated himself into the self-proclaimed position of ‘Deputy Station Commander’.
The next morning, Harjinder went to see Mukerjee in his office. He found Kennenworthy standing in front of the Commander’s desk, one foot on a chair and his hands clasping his knee, in an informal, patronising, attitude. When Kennenworthy walked out of the office with a casual ‘Righty-ho’ tossed over his shoulder, Harjinder’s blood was boiling. ‘Sir, this officer’s manners are preposterous. If we do not put the British Officers in their correct place, who else will?’
Mukerjee’s mild and conciliatory tones didn’t satisfy Harjinder, so he went straight into Kennenworthy’s office. He stood outside for a moment to compose himself, then deliberately sauntered in, placed his foot on a vacant chair, and took up the pose. At once, Kennenworthy shouted, ‘Flying Officer Harjinder Singh, stand to attention before a Senior Officer. Where the hell did you learn this un-officer-like behaviour?’
You can see where Harjinder was going with this!
‘Squadron Leader Kennenworthy, I am an officer always willing to learn from his seniors. You taught me only a few minutes ago how to stand in a Senior Officer’s office.’
With that he walked out without saluting, as Kennenworthy exploded; ‘I shall put you under close arrest.’
Over his shoulder Harjinder retorted, ‘Righty-ho!’
Seconds later, Harjinder was summoned into the Commander’s office where Mukerjee tried his utmost to convince Harjinder to demonstrate the respect for an Officer of a higher rank. Harjinder would not relent, ‘If a British Officer does not respect his Indian Commanding Officer, I would rather face a Court Martial and give him his dues in his turn.’
Mukerjee was not convinced, and looked miserable, knowing that his hitherto calm life was at an end. Luckily, Kennenworthy decided to stomach the insult, rather than make an issue of it this time.
Kohat; welcome to Harjinder Singh!
Naturally, that was not an end to it. Every Saturday, the Station used to carry out a parade drill, but Harjinder noticed that the British Officers of Station Headquarters did not attend the parade. Harjinder decided to keep away too. He knew full well that it would be noted, and trouble would ensue. Sure enough, it was the self-appointed Deputy Station Commander, Kennenworthy, who once again met him the following morning and asked, ‘Why were you not on parade when all other IAF Officers were there?’
Harjinder was ready and waiting, and, pulling himself up to his full height, he replied, ‘Why were you not on parade as well as the others? Is it a Station Parade or is it confined only to Indian Air Force personnel? Moreover, my predecessor, the British Station Engineer Officer, never attended it either (a guess from Harjinder, but a correct one).’
Kennenworthy’s face turned an interesting shade of red. ‘You will not last long on this Station, Flying Officer Harjinder Singh’, and with that, he stalked away fuming.
Kennenworthy was in Harjinder’s office the next morning, looking for revenge. ‘Why did you drive in through the Aerodrome Gate instead of the Main Gate? Don’t you know your Standing Orders?’
Harjinder looked up from his desk; ‘Because it leads straight into my office and I save half a mile that way. I have indeed not read the Standing Orders, for the simple reason that there aren’t any.’
Kennenworthy went out of his way to never cross paths with Harjinder again. To give him a modicum of credit, he did take what Harjinder said on board. After a month of serious hard work he produced, the first ever, Kohat Station Standing Orders, including orders prohibiting the use of the Aerodrome Gate. Was Kennenworthy motivated a sense of duty or revenge?
Harjinder was aware that these clashes were petty and ridiculous when, in the wider world, people were fighting, and dying. The Germans troops were being pushed back towards the borders of Germany, and the IAF were helping to push the Japanese back, through Burma. There was now an end in sight to the war, so perhaps, this was reflected through the attitude of some of the British in India. It had been a long, hard, fight, and the British were war-weary, longed for home, and for a normal life; whatever ‘normal’ would now mean. It was now clear that the Brits on the Station considered Harjinder to be a ‘bolshie’, and who can blame them, when only a few years earlier, the IAF was openly discussed at the most senior levels by the British in India, as being inferior and incapable.
Trouble continued when he investigated why his phone was never being routed through the exchange. When summoned, the Sergeant in-charge casually wandered into Harjinder’s office and informed him, ‘I have strict instructions from the Station Signals Officer not to worry about what you may, or may not, wish to do.’
Harjinder gave the Sergeant a piece of his mind and wanted to take it further, but once again, Mukerjee counselled patience and forbearance, believing that discretion was the better part of valour. Harjinder felt let down by Mukerjee. Was this really an Indian Station, or just a puppet show?
The telephone incident escalated when the Station Signals Officer, Flight Lieutenant Bruce, followed the Sergeant’s lead by wandering into Harjinder’s office without the customary formalities. ‘What do you mean by threatening a Sergeant of my Section? You must not forget that they are British Airmen of the Royal Air Force.’
Harjinder had anger, but mixed in with amusement, at this comment. He assumed that this Officer must be new in country, and so, pointed out, for his benefit, that a King’s Commissioned Officer, irrespective of his nationality, exercised authority over all ranks working under him.
Bruce wasn’t new; ‘I am a regular Royal Air Force Officer, and I will not tolerate any Indians bossing it over my Airmen.’
Harjinder felt his amusement drain away, replaced by anger rising from the pit of his stomach. He stood, and once again pulled himself up to his full height like a cobra about to strike; ‘I have worked with RAF Officers in peacetime, and seen them at war, here, and in England. You are a very poor copy of an Officer of the RAF. Why
did you not salute when you entered my office?’
‘Salute you! I feel like punching your nose.’
That did it! Harjinder strode over to him so they were face to face, a few paces apart:
‘I give you exactly one second to get out of my sight, or it is I who will punch your nose.’
Instead of turning tail, Bruce menacingly advanced one pace closer. For the first, and only, time in Harjinder’s life as an officer, he put to good use the noble art of boxing, taught to him by Henry Runganadhan at Drigh Road. His fist shot up from his side, taking the Officer completely by surprise. He had told Bruce the target, and the target was duly struck. His nose bleeding, Bruce ran out of the office saying, ‘I will see you before the Station Commander.’
This example of inter-service love and harmony could easily have proved the undoing of Harjinder’s career, and a very black mark against the IAF. Harjinder knew he had done wrong and saw that the only way to limit the damage would be to avoid the fast-approaching political explosion. He quickly rang through to Mukerjee; Harjinder’s phone was working for a change!
‘Sir, I have just had a dust-up with the Station Signals Officer. His nose is bleeding and he is walking, over to see you. Please leave your office immediately to save yourself the embarrassment.’
Naturally, Mukerjee was most disturbed, but he knew what was good for all, and so he got up and left.
On finding the Commanding Officer out, Bruce barged into the Adjutant’s office, and there, met Flying Officer Bose, the Orderly Officer for the day. When he told Bose what had happened, Bose ‘refused’ to see the blood. He patted the Signals Officer on the back and said; ‘There! There! You must have been to a late party last night. You are all right. I can’t see any blood on your nose.’
