by Mike Edwards
‘All right, Sir, if you insist. I promise I will not fly from the front cockpit at IAF Station, Kohat.’
This conversation was followed by a long sermon from Jangoo Engineer telling him all about the strict rules of flying training. However, when the station pilots heard about it, they held a hurried conference amongst themselves, where a fresh scheme for Harjinder’s training was hatched. It was unanimously decided that henceforth, he should go to the Fort and airstrip at Miranshah and fly. His promise to the Commanding Officer would thus be honoured in the letter, if not in the spirit! No flying at Kohat.
Harjinder held Aspy in very high regard, so it shows how strong his draw to flying was, if he was willing to bend the meaning of Aspy’s instructions, if not actually break them. Also, Harjinder had been around military aviation for fourteen years, and he knew that accidents were part of the scenery. The inevitable happened on 18th October 1945, when Harjinder arrived at Miranshah in Harvard FE-372. With the whole weekend available and his instructor, Flight Lieutenant Sanghi, now in Command of the Detachment at Miranshah, he thought he could get plenty of flying time. At 0900 Harjinder went through the routine of an experienced Harvard pilot: Climb onto the wing walk way; turn to face the tail; place one foot on the projecting foot rest half way up the fuselage; swing the other leg over and on to the front cockpit seat, to end up facing the front; drop down into the seat and start the strapping in sequence. Once he was firmly attached to the aircraft, he operated the hand fuel pump watching the fuel pressure gauge. Then he moved that hand up to the magnetos (ignition) switch. He pushed the starter switch and heard the flywheel spinning up in front of him. The noise transported him back to the Wapiti days when he had to be joined by another airman to handcrank the flywheel for that big, cumbersome engine. Here he was, now as the pilot, a battery replacing the labours of two sweating Airmen. He then moved the start switch in the other direction to connect flywheel to engine. The propeller turned over and first one, then the rest of the cylinders, fired to bring the engine to life.
Meanwhile, in the rear cockpit, Sanghi was still strapping in. They were in a rush to get going. As Harjinder taxied a little faster than he should have, he noticed all officers of the Detachment were out watching, and little did he know, they were about to watch a real show. They watched the bright yellow aircraft lift off from the dusty strip and the undercarriage legs, and wheels, tuck up into the centre section, much like the Hurricane. Harjinder brought the Harvard around in a large circuit to do some practice landings. He lowered the flaps to slow the machine down. He lowered the wheels again and lined up perfectly on the runway. As the wheels gently bumped onto the ground Sanghi announced on the intercom that his first approach was marvellous and the landing good too, however, the devil with these aircraft with a tail-wheel is what can happen after the touch down. Having the main-wheels in the front, and a small wheel on the tail, is just like pushing a two-wheeled luggage case in front of you instead of dragging it behind; the luggage, or the aircraft, wants to spin around to swap the front end with the back end. The Harvard tried to do this and Sanghi shouted, ‘I have got it.’ He stopped the swinging aircraft by opening up the throttle to full takeoff power, thereby, blasting additional air over the rudder control surface on the tail. Harjinder noticed that the engine was not responding to the full throttle as it should. Here they were stuck in a dilemma. The aircraft was increasing in speed and now couldn’t stop before the fast approaching fence, but neither was it gaining speed as fast as it should to start flying. Sanghi yanked the stick back to try and get the Harvard back in the air which it did with the help of a hump on the rough runway. The nose was high in the air with the tail only inches off the ground. There was not enough airflow over the wings to keep them in the air, so they stalled and the Harvard dropped. The wheels slammed into the ground followed by the starboard wing tip. The undercarriage legs compressed and then sprang the aircraft back into the air. The good news was that it hopped over the big drainage ditch, but the bad news was it slammed down once again. Back up into the air again, this time, the Harvard staggered and waffled, but stayed flying with the propeller clawing at the air. Elated with his recovery from this potential disaster, Harjinder was completely oblivious to the danger ahead, until, shaken out of his dream-like stupor, he saw the large wall of the firing range up ahead. The engine wasn’t producing enough power to take the aircraft clear so Harjinder pushed the stick forward and switched the ignition off without any great plan, or knowledge of where they were heading. The aircraft dropped like a stone, from an even greater height this time, into the circle used for practice bombing, luckily piled high with sand. Inside the aircraft there was a large bang and both heads were thrust down towards the cockpit floor by the impact. From the outside, the aircraft was seen to flop to the ground and come to an immediate halt amid an ever-increasing column of smoke. All those watching assumed that the aircraft had caught fire, and felt sure that the two coffin boxes which were always kept in reserve in Miranshah Fort would now need replenishing.
Harjinder dragged his head up as the shuddering stopped, his mind still reeling. Time slowed as he forced his hands to do what his brain instructed. Flick the catch on the aircraft straps, turn the buckle on the parachute, unplug the helmet, grab the canopy lever on the left-hand side, pull it inwards to unlock and drag it back. It all seemed to take an eternity, but eventually he put his hands on the cockpit side and dragged his body up so he could stand on his seat. As he swung his leg over the side he pivoted around to face backwards, and there in the back was Sanghi, frozen in his seat and shouting, ‘Fire, Fire.’
Harjinder jumped down onto the wing and back up onto the small step alongside Sanghi’s rear cockpit. He pushed down the outside catch and dragged his canopy forward. Harjinder could smell no fire and correctly identified the billowing cloud around them as the brown dust of airfield dirt. He told Sanghi to shut up and get out, there was no fire. However, the ghostlike face in the back just stared ahead. Just because there was no immediate fire didn’t mean the whole thing couldn’t still go up like a torch, so Harjinder unstrapped Sanghi and dragged him out. As Sanghi regained control of his senses, he finally uttered his first coherent words, ‘Never again in the rear-cockpit of any aircraft, and no more instructing.’
The dust settled and Harjinder looked around. It seemed the aircraft had picked the only safe spot around. They were surrounded by piles of stones and boulders, and to one side was the 12 foot-wide ditch that the Harvard, as if a sentient being itself, had so expertly circumvented. A miracle had happened, but more miracles would be needed if careers weren’t to end. Understandably, the shaken Sanghi kept talking about court martials, but Harjinder tried to reassure him that he would not allow the machine to lie there for long and that no harm would come to him.
Harjinder reviewed the damage and approached Flying Officer Bose, asking if he would risk flying the aircraft with him. Harjinder pointed out, probably unnecessarily, that the undercarriage legs were bent, so not only would his takeoff and landing have to be the sweetest of his career, but the flight would have to be done with the undercarriage left down and not retracted. Most pilots would tell you, in no uncertain terms, where to go with an ‘offer’ like that, but Bose said, ‘If you can risk your neck flying with me, I don’t mind flying anything, whether it has legs or not.’
Such was Harjinder’s reputation as an engineer, if not so much as a pilot at this stage!
Records don’t show if he thought of changing his mind when Harjinder set to work on the propeller. These finely balanced pieces of machinery whizz around at 2800 RPM, they require not only a specialist, but an artisan to work on them with their small files to remove any small nicks or dents to get the balance perfect. That day, the specialist was Harjinder, with a large hammer and a wooden block. You can only assume that Bose wasn’t in the vicinity when Harjinder’s hammer rang out, as he battered the bent tips back into position. That said, when he fired the engine up he found it ‘reasonably vib
ration-less’ (it is the term ‘reasonably’ that concerns me!) and the original engine problem was cured. Next, he removed the wing tips and patched up the wing’s aileron control edges with red dope and fabric, leaving the machine looking tattered and semi-abandoned.
While they were carrying out these repairs, the sound of an approaching Harvard caused them all to tense and search the skies for the approaching machine. If this was the Commanding Officer from Kohat coming to see what was cooking then the game was over. As the aircraft taxied to a halt, the canopy slid back to reveal Flight Lieutenant Killick, the new Adjutant Officer. He was quickly whisked away for a welcome drink in the Officers’ Mess. Around him, four pilots gathered, offering him glasses of beer and asking for news from Kohat. The drinking and chat kept him clear of Harjinder’s work outside and left him under the impression that these were the friendliest pilots ever!
The tea kept the technicians at work through the night, but the Militia guardsmen had also been hard at work completing a causeway over the ditch by filling it up with stones. Meanwhile, Harjinder strategically avoided a number of telephonic calls from Kohat enquiring about his whereabouts and requesting an estimate of his return. Aspy even called the Air Traffic Control Officer, enquiring sarcastically whether some pilot had crashed and if the Station Engineer was busy repairing it on the quiet. How close to the mark he was, little did he know it was the Station Engineer himself who was the culprit on this unauthorised flight!
In the morning the bent, tattered and forlorn looking Harvard took to the sky, timed perfectly to arrive when the boss, and his sly Squadron Leader Flying, would be at their tables having lunch. The next day was Saturday, and Harjinder took the whole weekend, with his supply of spares, to bring the aircraft back into service for the Monday morning operations.
They got away with it, but his flying instruction had to pause for a while with Sanghi badly shaken and more than a few suspicious glances back at base. The time had come for Harjinder to move away from Aspy and his other IAF colleagues. Harjinder wanted to serve in the IAF but that couldn’t continue indefinitely. He was now flying up the ranks and had been promoted, briefly through Flight Lieutenant, to Squadron Leader. The year in Kohat with Aspy had been a dream for Harjinder. He felt that they had pushed the IAF further along the road to being the self-sustaining force he had dreamt about with Jumbo. But in January 1946, he was posted to Peshawar as Chief Technical Officer of the RAF Operational Training Unit. They trained IAF pilots, but the ranks were made up of 800 British, and only 250 IAF Airmen. All the officers were British except two Junior Officers.
Harjinder was willing to make the most of his new posting but, as seemed to be the standard pattern for him when he arrived at a new base, he was disappointed. The British Airmen were not on his side, but this time, there was a reason for their gripe, beyond xenophobia. He heard the rumours of discontent among the Airmen because of the number of Indian pilots who had left the IAF directly after training to go straight into the civil airlines on fat salaries. They felt that these officers had not really played the game. Naturally, another major factor for the British men was that they wanted to go home. The war was over, and every man was anxious to return to England. Some had been away for the entire duration, and the expected repatriation after victory in Japan was not the instant affair many had thought, and dreamt of. The process was painfully slow, and so morale was low, this was reflected in a shockingly low standard of maintenance.
In the first week, Harjinder took the bull by the horns, as was his way. He assembled the 1,100 Officers and men and introduced himself. As soon as he mentioned the lack of interest shown in the training of IAF pilots, a voice piped up from the parade, ‘Of course not! They run away to earn big money elsewhere.’
He thanked them for their honest and frank remarks; then offered some of his own. He talked about how his Squadron had fought in the outdated Lysander in Burma when, in his opinion, the RAF were quick to leave. He continued, pointing out the huge expansion the IAF had carried out, going from one, to ten squadrons, all through volunteers joining the military, conscription was not required. They won more decorations, squadron for squadron, than the RAF, and the King offered the IAF the title Royal. ‘Had I, or my compatriots, known that after the war the RAF would repay this debt in the manner you are doing, I assure you, I would have been the last person to do what I did. (A murmur of approval rumbled through the ranks). I am very happy to note that most of you agree with me. Let me, therefore, appeal to you to start afresh. We have 90 aeroplanes. Serviceability has been only 30 per cent against 75 per cent in the IAF Station at Kohat. I expect every man to work hard so that we can reach the same 75 per cent figure.’
He message was received, and the men certainly knew who Harjinder was now! The next Saturday a weekly conference was held in the Station Commander’s office with more medals around the table than you could shake a stick at. Enter Harjinder:
Group Captain Campbell Vallaine opened the proceedings, talking about the low serviceability of aircraft, which seemed to be accepted by all in the room. Harjinder could not contain himself any further, and so interrupted the meeting to point out that in Burma they achieved over 90 per cent serviceability continuously whilst being shot at and bombed. He finished by stating that at Kohat, he didn’t accept anything less than 75 per cent. It was not awe, or respect, that greeted his outburst, but a wave of laughter; the officers shook their heads, some even turned to each other and winked. The boss had to quieten the room down before he could address Harjinder; ‘Squadron Leader Harjinder Singh, an ounce of showing is equal to a pound of talking. If you can raise the serviceability to 50 per cent, I would be mighty pleased, but if you can go to 66 per cent, I would be staggered. If, however, you can go to 75 per cent, I would faint as that would be a miracle.’
All eyes turned to Harjinder. It will now come as no surprise to know that he would take on this challenge, ‘I will cross the “miraculous” line and keep it there.’
Not only did he accept the challenge, he started accepting bets on his ability to deliver. From the Commanding Officer he took a bet of one thousand rupees that they would reach his target; the Chief Flying Instructor added five hundred rupees into the bargain. Hardly had Harjinder reached his office, when his Warrant Officer, Mr Simms, walked in with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and threw his one hundred rupee bet into the ring. At the door a queue was forming, starting with a British Flight Sergeant. The money was stacking up! Such faith!
The bet with British Officers was only three days old when luck entered the fray; bad luck, of course. Two Harvards crashed on landing, followed by Pilot Officer Mehta hitting a labourer’s handcart on the takeoff roll in his Spitfire. The labourer had run out of the way when he saw the Spitfire, the pilot saw the man clear out of the way and assumed he was the only obstacle. The long nose of the Spitfire pointing skywards in front of him completely blocked the view of the abandoned handcart. Harjinder asked a RAF Flight Lieutenant Engineer how long he needed to repair the machine. ‘Repair?’ he questioned, ‘I would not attempt to repair this machine at all!’
When Harjinder pushed Warrant Officer Simms, he said, ‘It will take a fortnight with all our men working flat out on it.’
What seemed like bad luck was actually a chance for Harjinder, with the aid of tea, naturally, to show what he, and his IAF technicians, could do, ‘Give me two IAF Airmen and we will see this aircraft in the air in 24 hours.’
Once again it was laughter that greeted his statements. Warrant Officer Simms added: ‘You can take a hundred and four hours, if you like, Sir. If at the end of that you succeed, I will relinquish my coat-of-arms (Warrant Officer rank) and revert back to being an airman.’
Harjinder took Cadet Officer, and trainee fighter pilot, Suranjan Das, as his Assistant, and they set about knocking out the hundreds of rivets to remove the panels that had pieces of handcart thrust through them. They worked the whole night and the following day, with tea running through their veins. I
t seemed as if Harjinder had discovered a secret weapon to add to his arsenal. Cadet Officer Suranjan Das’s technical ability was as good as any technician’s, and, he was willing to learn. Harjinder learnt more about Dasu, as Suranjan was known to his friends. He had also started with a degree in engineering, pushed into it by his parents who told him he wasn’t clever enough to be a pilot! During the war, he was accepted into basic pilot training, completing it in Canada. On his return, proudly wearing his pilot wings, his parents and assorted aunts in the family jointly declared that if he could get his wings, they could not be very difficult for anybody to get! Luckily, his senior officers saw what his family couldn’t. Later in the decade, he was one of two pilots selected to attend the Empire Test Pilot School in Britain. He went on to become the Chief Test Pilot at Bangalore many years later, combining his pilot’s skill and engineer’s intelligence. His achievements were so well-respected, that the authorities in Bangalore named a road after him. Harjinder would call on his talents again, later in their careers.
The Spitfire was ready in exactly 22 hours. The Flight Commander was summoned, and asked to get airborne within the next two hours in order to beat the self-imposed deadline. He took a long look at the aircraft on the ground but could find no fault. As he climbed down from the cockpit after his test flight, smiling as he came, he reported it as good as any other aircraft on the station. Simms reported to Harjinder’s office in his overalls, no rank badges on, and said; ‘Sir, as long as you are the Chief Technical Officer, I am Airman Simms and will do anything you order.’
He kept his word and the story spread around the Station like wildfire. Any aircraft which Harjinder pointed at was serviced, ground tested, and flown. The Station Commander and Chief Instructor came to know about the serviceability shooting up, so sent for their Pilot Instructors to carry out mass formation practice to test how many aircraft could really fly. During the next few days, they flew hundreds of hours, but the serviceability remained at 80 per cent. Instead of the expected plummet as the aircraft were pushed, repeatedly, into the air, the serviceability rose to 90 per cent and Harjinder’s reputation was sealed.
