by Mike Edwards
Arjan Singh stepped into Jumbo’s shoes to lead the Display Flight, replacing the man who was surely destined to be the first Chief of the Indian Air Force. What would Jumbo have made of the announcement a month later, on 12th March 1945? A signal from the Viceroy was issued informing the world that the IAF would now become the Royal Indian Air Force. The signal recognised the massive growth of the IAF from 200 people at the start of the war, to 27,000 as the war drew to an end. Jumbo’s vision had been achieved with the No. 10 IAF Squadron being formed. The Viceroy continued, ‘Your squadrons engaged against the Japanese in Burma have done splendid work and earned the confidence and respect of all. Now take your place as one of the tried fighting services of India and the British Commonwealth.’ The final comment was the most telling one; ‘You have a great part to play in India’s future.’ That future probably came much sooner than even the Viceroy could have anticipated.
As the months clicked over, the end was finally in sight, but there was still plenty more blood to be shed. The news of Hitler’s death on 30th April 1945, was greeted with more relief than celebration. Victory in Europe, or VE Day, on 8th May 1945, was naturally welcome, but the Japanese were still fighting viciously, and the RIAF Spitfires were still in action forcing them out of Burma. The final chapter promised to involve huge losses, on both sides, when the inevitable invasion of the Japanese mainland kicked off. All Japanese citizens were ordered to carry a weapon at all times, if even just a stick, to be ready for that invasion. The Indian trainee pilot enlisted in the Azad Hind Fauj, the young Ramesh Sakharam Benegal, who Harjinder had passed in the retreat from Burma, was billeted in his Japanese training establishment outside Tokyo. He saw the fire-bombing of that city, which resulted in the death of 100,000 people, but still the Emperor had decreed that there would be no surrender. Every adult would fight to the death when the invasion came. However, the Emperor knew nothing about the most secret of American plans – Project Manhattan. On the 6th August 1945, the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. On the 9th August, the city of Kokura was to follow Hiroshima. In one of those twists of fate that are difficult to comprehend, the people of Kokura survived because of the most basic of Mother Nature’s offerings; clouds. The bomb aimer had orders not to release his bombs without actual sight of the city, and so, Kokura was saved. Nagasaki was the alternative target; a small break in the cloud sealed the future of that city. With two cities devastated, and the prospect of many more, the Emperor had no option. The Royal Indian Air Force, carried out the last bombing sortie on 11th August, destroying a command post, but just three days later, the unconditional surrender came. The 15th August 1945, was officially Victory in Japan, or VJ Day. The World War II had come to an end.
On the 23rd August, the Senior Air Force Officer in Rangoon received a radio message that representatives of the Japanese forces in South-East Asia wished to come to the city to surrender. At 1400 hours, on the 26th August 1945, the Japanese aircraft, painted white on the insistence of the Allied Commander, were met overhead Rangoon by a Squadron of Spitfires including two from No. 8 Squadron IAF. One of the escorting pilots was Pilot Officer Dougie King-Lee, now Air Marshal King-Lee, settled in Bangalore. At Rangoon’s Mingaladon airfield, Lieutenant General Numata surrendered to Air Vice-Marshal Cecil Bouchier. The man who had started the IAF, with Harjinder as one of his Sepoys, took the surrender. The victory was achieved in part by the IAF, and by ‘his’ No. 1 Squadron.
When Burma fell in 1941, the Government of Burma, and the recently escaped British Governor of Burma, Sir Reginald Dorman-Smith, had taken up residence in the beautiful mountain retreat of Simla, the very same place where the IAF had been gazetted. The town had long been the Summer Capital of British India, a place for the British Government Officials to escape the Delhi heat. Fashioned to resemble a hamlet in Sussex, it seemed like a little bit of home, combined with the best of India.
Motor vehicles were banned in Simla, so rickshaws the preferred mode of transport. These were not the small two-seater rickshaws seen throughout India, but grand, ornate affairs pulled by four men, a fifth running alongside, as relief. Men in the uniform of their employer pulled these rickshaws, many bearing a coat of arms proudly on the side, passed the tea shops of the main broad Mall. However, it was time for the Burmese Government to leave their tranquil haven in the shadow of the Himalayas and take back the reigns at Rangoon. Mr Nanda owned the Imperial Rickshaw Works, turning out these fine machines for the Viceroy himself. His son and daughter-in-law were both practising doctors in Simla. Mrs Nanda was the first woman permitted by the British to practise as a Doctor, and had been appointed Chief Medical Officer to the Burmese. They developed such great relations with the Burmese that the head of the government in exile, Sithu U Tin, invited them to shift to Rangoon and set up a practice. Driven by their love for Simla, and for India, they decided to stay, a decision that would, unwittingly, affect Harjinder’s story as well. One son of Simla would not be returning home. Wing Commander Guy Gibson VC, the leader of the famous Dambuster raid, killed in his Mosquito over the Netherlands.
The world took a huge, collective, sigh of relief as the official end of the war unfolded, but back at Kohat, there were still operational duties to be done. Harjinder and Aspy felt that they’d missed the end of the war but they were still fighting their own small war; little had changed in Kohat since 1939. It was now No. 6 Squadron, RIAF, with their Hurricanes who were posted in. If the new Squadron Commanding Officer thought that he could stretch his wings in his new role, he was sadly mistaken. It was ‘Jangoo’ Engineer, Aspy’s younger brother. If Aspy had high standard of discipline for IAF, and RAF alike, he had impossible standards where his own brother was concerned. Poor Jangoo was chased from pillar to post as Aspy watched him like a hawk, and pounced on him for the slightest misdemeanour. One afternoon, there was a knock at Harjinder’s door and there was Jangoo Engineer standing in his dressing gown. He put a finger on his lips for silence and was asked to come in. He whispered, ‘Harjinder, no one must know about my visit, least of all, my brother. Flying Officer Jolly has just force-landed 40 miles West of Kohat near a river bed. The cause, as usual, was that he failed to switch to the main fuel tank. But we must save him. The poor chap is worried enough as it is because of domestic anxieties. No one knows about the accident yet; you must recover the aircraft and repair it. Don’t say “no”, please.’
The old Hurricanes still being used in the region had a snag that had existed throughout their long sterling service. If the pilot forgot to switch to the main fuel tanks after the takeoff, the engine would cut after 45 minutes of flying. When that happened, all attempts to restart the engine in the air were usually in vain, and a number of aircraft saw an untimely end that way. Air Headquarters issued an order that any pilot force-landing a Hurricane within 45 minutes of takeoff would be court martialled. One would hope that the jury would at least check to see if fuel had any part in the accident, otherwise it does seem a little harsh!
Harjinder assured Jangoo that he would not report the forced landing, but that he felt bound to inform the Station Commander. Jangoo’s reply was brief and mournful, ‘Impossible! I know my brother better than you do. Unfortunately, it happens to be one of my aircraft. He will never agree.’
Harjinder’s heart fell through his boots when he saw one of the sycophantic Squadron Leaders at Aspy Engineer’s bungalow. Harjinder spoke with Aspy about the incident. His response was understandable, ‘How can you undertake such a mad thing, Harjinder? Don’t you know that ever since I have arrived here the British Officers are waiting for a chance to report me to Group Headquarters? They find themselves under a hard taskmaster who does not allow them special privileges just because they are RAF. I don’t let them budge an inch. So how can I allow this?’
Naturally, the Squadron Leader Flying nodded along, like a lively puppy. Harjinder kept his temper under control and asked to be alone with Aspy before explaining to him, ‘If anyone is going to be court martialled, it will
have to be me. I have promised the pilots that as long as I am present on a Station, no IAF pilot will be court martialled, not if I can repair the aircraft. This one I certainly can (brave since he had not actually seen it!). Today is a Sunday. No British Officer will see the crashed aircraft being towed into the camp. We have to do this, not just to save the officer, but as a matter of IAF pride.’
It must have touched a nerve, because, after what seemed like an eternity holding Harjinder’s gaze, the normally unyielding Aspy gave him the go-ahead and agreed to take the responsibility, should he fail. Aspy gave Harjinder 24 hours, but let him know he would have his hide before he himself was dragged off to face a court martial.
Harjinder put a team together and headed straight out, without even stopping for tea. But of course, the hangar would have been issued strict instructions to get the brew ready once they returned! The area of the crash was surrounded by hills. The tribesmen who lurked in those hills were known to appear at a crash site to collect the ammunition and the guns. Harjinder was so intent on not drawing the attention of the British, he left without an armed escort; their only defence was crossed fingers. When Harjinder was told to stop the vehicle because they had arrived at the crash site, he thought there was some mistake. He looked at the deep and sandy riverbed between them and the damaged wreck with horror. He looked up at the hill sides where it was easy to imagine tribesmen shuffling into position, making him feel suddenly naked and wanting that armed escort, RAF or not. He shook that thought from his mind, and started to negotiate the riverbed, just to get a closer look at the damaged Hurricane. Suffice it to say that the prognosis did not look very good. The riverbed showed the furrows the powerless Hurricane had made on its violent, unscheduled stop. The wings had taken a very savage blow and the bolts attaching them to the fuselage had been bent. Harjinder and team had only managed to dismantle one wing as the sun set. To add to his discomfit, Aspy also arrived in his staff car to see if he was looking into the face of a court martial.
‘Sir, it will be only five minutes more before the bolts come off’, was repeated time and again as the hammers pounded against the bolts. Amazingly these repeated thunderclaps of hammer on metal, echoing off the valley sides, didn’t bring any tribesmen. As that fear subsided, Harjinder started to see the darkness as his friend – he could sneak the wreck away from this godforsaken corner of the valley and back to base, right under the noses of the sleeping RAF. At 0130 the bolts finally gave up their fight and they all paused briefly to catch their breath and gather their thoughts. The men had taken turns at beating the bolts with the hammer, but now it was all hands to the pumps. They gathered around each wing, in turn, to push them across the river bed. When it was time to move the grubby fuselage, the aircraft’s design came to their rescue. The wings of the Hurricane bolt on to a centre wing section, upon which sits the fuselage. The wheels are fixed to this 9 foot-wide centre section, so the men could push, heave, cajole and swear at the fuselage, get it over the river bed on its own wheels and then on to the waiting lorry. Even Aspy had to get his hands dirty, pushing with the rest of them, to get this final job done. It was four in the morning when the team stole back to base with aircraft parts crudely covered with tarpaulins. No thought to sleep, it was straight to work. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were taken in the hangar, and those in shifts, too. The following morning, the herculean task of repairing the wings was complete, so along came Flying Officer Sharma to do his preflight inspection. For once, Harjinder had committed a basic error. He had assumed too much. He had assumed the fuselage, being a rugged and strong structure would be fine, and had not given it more than a glance in the darkened river bed. Sharma pointed out the creasing and crinkles in the fuselage fabric behind the cockpit. Now, in the light, with the dust removed, it was easy to see that the fuselage was bent. The damage illustrated that Flying Officer Jolly could thank the strength of the Hurricane’s construction for saving him a broken back, but it did also seemed to imply that all the efforts to save his career had been in vain.
So, did Harjinder give in – Never! Think. Think. Think. They could never carry out the complex repairs to the fuselage. This was no more than junk. Junk! That was the answer. There was a Hurricane in the salvage yard and Harjinder recalled that the fuselage was OK, albeit stripped of everything. He immediately sent for it and a sense of hope, or was that relief, spread over him as he made his inspection and realised that it was serviceable. The engine, wings and every other fitting from the original aircraft’s fuselage was transferred across into the spare. By mid-day, the mass of men stood back – the aircraft was ready. Sharma was summoned again, and the sight of his heels lifting off the ground, saved both Jolly’s and Aspy’s careers, along with the IAF’s reputation.
Jolly’s Hurricane was not the only crash. Several of the new young guns caused damage to the aircrafts in varying degrees, but Harjinder always stepped forward to work his magic. In one incident, a pilot, belonging to another Command, crashed an aircraft at night, while flying in weather conditions he shouldn’t have been sent up in by his Flight Commander. When Harjinder rang up a Senior Air Officer and told him there would be a delay before the aircraft returned, he was quizzed on the circumstances, and the present condition of the aircraft. Harjinder pleaded with him to not go too deep into the matter, but his pleas were not well-received. The conversation took a different turn when Harjinder’s led him down a different avenue, ‘It is all right you telling me that the young officer must be taught a lesson; but have you forgotten your own irresponsible days when you and Janjua were flying low over Clifton Beach in Karachi, vying with each other to see who could splash the water with their propellers?’
The senior officer was stunned, ‘How in hell did you know about that?’
‘Because I was in the rear cockpit of the aircraft!’
The case against the pilot was dropped and the aircraft returned when fully repaired. Another pilot saved.
These events were endearing Harjinder to the new generation of pilots who now saw what their senior colleagues already knew. A special deputation, led by Flight Lieutenant O.P. Sanghi, one of the 24 Indian pilots who’d gone to the UK in October 1940 and survived the war, met Harjinder and another important part of his life began.
‘What can we, in our turn, do for you, Harjinder? Whatever you want us to do, it will be a real pleasure.’
Harjinder was thrilled at this magnificent offer, but there was nothing he wanted in his life. However, when pressed he casually mentioned, ‘I have always wanted to learn flying, but that is an impossible wish.’
‘Nonsense, if that’s what you want that’s what we’ll give you. I have been an instructor. I will teach you flying.’
And so, Harjinder stretched his own wings for the first time and started his flying ‘career’. It was a new chapter that would soon take over his life. Having flown as a rear gunner around some of the most stunning, barren, dangerous and spectacular scenery on the planet, the thrill of cruising high above the trees, or zooming in at low level over the moonscape ground was not new. However there is definitely a bug that gets under your skin when you pilot an aeroplane, when you control it, when it does what you tell it to do (on those occasions when they do as they are told!). That moment when you take the collection of rivets, bolts, panels, cables, pushrods, pistons, con-rods, oil and fuel into the air and, more importantly, bring them back onto the ground with some vague degree of control, is a life-changing event.
Harjinder flew the Harvard. This two-seat, American-designed aircraft was the main Allied advanced flying trainer throughout the war, produced in the thousands. The large round, radial engine didn’t look too dissimilar to that of the old Wapiti, but it had the power to spin the metal propeller at speeds where the tips went supersonic. The trainee pilots flew the Harvard before progressing on to Spitfires, Hurricanes, Typhoons, or any other of the different types of fighters that were rolling out of the factories. Harjinder loved that aircraft and the flying bug well and truly bu
rrowed under his skin;
‘I started flying from the front cockpit (the main pilot’s seat) and enjoyed it immensely. I felt the independence and elation of going out there at the controls, which, as a passenger, I had never experienced.’
It didn’t all go smoothly, ‘I swerved on takeoff and once nearly went into the Flying Control building at Kohat. However, the zealousness with which the pilots took turns to teach me flying made me a very proud man.’
The favourite run was between Kohat and Lahore. In fact, the number of flights to Lahore became so great, that the Station Commander ribbed Harjinder that he had a girlfriend there. The pilots queued up to, in Harjinder’s words; ‘risk their necks sitting in the rear cockpit’, and the two Air Traffic Control Officers also looked the other way as Harjinder climbed into the front seat and spoke with them on the radio. They all kept the flying lessons a secret from the Station authorities. They all wanted to do it for Harjinder.
Of course, it could not stay that way. Harjinder had been flying the Harvards for a number of months when the cat was, inadvertently, let out of the bag by Ganguly. He asked a senior pilot to authorise a flight for him ‘just like Harjinder’ and was overheard by someone outside the group. Within minutes the call came from Aspy, and when Harjinder was welcomed so warmly he knew it spelt trouble, ‘How long have we worked together, Harjinder?’
‘About 14 years, Sir.’
‘We have achieved a lot, wouldn’t you say?’
‘We certainly have, Sir. Why don’t you come to the point?’
‘OK I will. Tell me truthfully, have you been flying from the front cockpit of a Harvard?’
‘I have.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I love flying.’ (Not much of an excuse but straight-forward honesty!)
‘Well, it has got to stop. I know you meant well, but we do not want to lose our senior-most engineer. Promise you will not fly again from the front cockpit.’
