by Mike Edwards
Due to Harjinder’s new role in the IAF, a new role model was set to walk into Harjinder’s life. That person would destroy his legacy.
Fourteen
Kindred Spirit or Dangerous Liaison?
‘Why not lay by something against your old age? I can arrange it. A numbered account in Switzerland, so that the law can never catch up with you. If you play ball with us, we will look after you.’
Harjinder was summoned back to Delhi in January 1955 for another important meeting. Harjinder had come to know the Headquarters intimately now. Those leaky, H-shaped huts that had been thrown together as temporary accommodation during the build-up to World War II, were still the nerve centre of the IAF. Harjinder had seen the various Chiefs come and go through these doors. His first Chief had called him, and all his colleagues, ‘The Greatest Disgrace.’ Sir Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt had come next, and spoken directly to (acting) Corporal Harjinder Singh as he stood to attention in front of his Wapiti. As the World War II came to an end, Harjinder had walked into the Chief’s office, now occupied by Air Vice-Marshal Sir Hugh Walmsely, to offer his resignation, then he crossed swords with Sir Thomas Elmhirst. He had sat in the Chief’s office with Sir Ronald Ivelaw Chapman, and then, Air Marshal Gerald Gibbs, on the opposite side of this same desk to discuss his progress in Kanpur. This day he walked into that same basic office, with the ill-fitting windows, and the ornate table, to meet a new Chief. This time he was greeted by his friend Subroto Mukerjee; Chief of the IAF.
The Air Force that Mukerjee now commanded was still operating in the original RAF format. Maintenance units were scattered all over the country, each running independently of the others. This visit to see the Chief was to arrange a radical shake up. It was immensely logical to form a brand new Maintenance Command; bring all the workshops, supply points, repair depots and other maintenance units under one functional command. There was only one choice of who would sit at the helm. The madness of the duplicated effort was pointed out to all the relevant Officers around the country, but the plan from Headquarters would require those men to lose some of the power from their own small fiefdoms; that didn’t go down too well…
Harjinder had his friends at the summit of the IAF, but a number of men, who sat in offices at Headquarters, or at the individual bases, saw Harjinder as an upstart, and a possible threat to their own advancement. Harjinder was only a Group Captain when he took over command of the whole maintenance of the IAF and he was ‘stealing’ from the mini empires of more senior officers. Normally, a Command Officer has a Staff Officer to assist him in HQ and, as Harjinder shuttled back and forth from Kanpur to Delhi, he brought Amrit Saigal with him. Those senior officers who felt they were losing out to this Group Captain even raised objections to Amrit Saigal wearing a Staff Officer’s armband. They wanted to deny Harjinder the staff car, and other privileges normally lavished on a Command Officer.
They hadn’t taken into account that the trappings of such a position meant nothing to Harjinder. Kanpur was made the home of Maintenance Command, and remained Harjinder’s home for the rest of his time in the IAF. The flight from Kanpur to Delhi became a well-known route for Harjinder, Amrit, and sometimes, Beant Kaur, but it was soon time to start venturing further afield.
In 1955, the cold war between the East and West was at full chill, with fingers hovering over the launch buttons of nuclear weapons. In the United Nations, Krishna Menon had introduced the term ‘non-alignment’; India would deal with the East and the West. It was partly a desire to remain on trading terms with both sides, but also out of geographical necessity. When the Soviets paid a high profile visit to India they endorsed India’s claim to Kashmir. There was little doubt they were thinking more about future military hardware sales than seeing fair play in the region. A return visit was hastily organised, and it was to be an interesting group who represented the IAF. Mukerjee, the ultimate politician with the disarming smile, was to lead the team. He was accompanied by the charming Arjan Singh, DFC, who wooed people wherever he went. Group Captain Erlic Wilmot Pinto, the man who had run the station at Ambala with Arjan Singh, one of the 24 pilots trained in England in 1940, was back by his side. If Arjan Singh was already being considered for Chief, Pinto would perhaps be his successor. Also on the team was the powerful frame of Group Captain Moolgavkar, who had the look of a powerful wrestler, capable of taking on any Russian bear. His stature was partly the result of a terrible Spitfire crash, where he’d overturned and broken his back. His father, a surgeon in Bombay, had saved his life. Then there were the broad shoulders and booming voice of Harjinder, whose presence filled the room when he entered. The drab colours and grey faces of Moscow were suddenly lifted by the arrival of the colours, characters and charm of the IAF at its best. The blue uniforms, indistinguishable at a distance from the British Royal Air Force, caused great confusion, some of those who caught a glimpse of the visitors, feared an invasion. However, this distinguished group of Indians left the Soviets in awe when they led a parade to lay a wreath at Lenin’s tomb.
Back in Kanpur, the base continued to grow; and as the number of aircraft increased, so did Harjinder’s responsibilities. The only Spitfire left flying in IAF colours, if not technically part of the IAF, was Harjinder’s own Spitfire. The Hawker Tempests that sprang into action in the Kashmir war were also being retired. The next three years were going to see some massive expansion, with the Government agreeing to increase the size of the IAF to sixteen squadrons by 1957. These squadrons were filled by foreign aircraft, mainly British. The IAF fighter squadron were becoming an all-jet operation. Harjinder also received the responsibility for the first aircraft to be designed in India, which required a whole new maintenance regime to be set up. In 1948, the Indian Government had requested designs for a basic trainer, so HAL took the De Havilland Chipmunk, the successor to the De Havilland Tiger Moth trainer, and designed a simplified version to ease production in India. It was the same tail-wheel design as a Chipmunk – the pilots still in tandem, and the square, lines of the machine may have made building simpler. The military test pilot assigned to the project was Harjinder’s old friend, the talented flying cadet from Hurricane days, Suranjan ‘Dasu’ Das. Harjinder also knew HAL’s test pilot, Mr Jamshed K. Munshi, who had ferried the Liberator bombers out of Kanpur during those hectic early days. The HT2 must have felt toy-like to Munshi, and he only thought it necessary to fly the prototype for 45 minutes before declaring the new aeroplane fit for military service. After a demonstration flight in Bangalore he handing it over to Dasu, and the IAF, and washed his hands of the project. After the HT2 had the old Tigermoth engine replaced by a more powerful, but heavier, Cirrus Major engine, he still thought it unnecessary to fly again.
Over 50 years later, when I broke into the IAF hangar containing the abandoned Vintage Flight aircraft, I had my first chance to get up-close and personal with a complete HT2. Having flown many hours in the delightful Chipmunk (fondly known as the ‘poor man’s Spitfire’) and knowing its flowing lines very well, there was something that instantly struck me about the HT2; the fin and rudder at the back were tiny! In any tail-wheel aircraft, you need a large fin area on the tail to keep the aircraft running straight when it is in that tricky phase of changing from a flying machine into a ground-based machine. I thought, ‘this is going to be a handful on landing’. Dasu saw the rear of the HT2 in 1952 and had a slightly different reaction, he thought, ‘getting this aircraft out of a spin is going to be interesting!’ He was told by Munshi that spinning was no problem, although Dasu had suspicions that it had never been spun. He then requested for an anti-spin parachute to be fitted, like those he had used during his time as a student in the British Empire Test Pilots School in Boscombe Down, UK; this request was denied. The test flying had to go ahead, so he set out his own set of limits for his first test flight: At a suitable height, he would put the aircraft into a deliberate spin; after it had rotated twice, he would do the standard spin recovery of full opposite rudder to the spin rotation and then c
ontrol stick fully forward. If the HT2 failed to stop, and continued to spin for another 4 turns, he would bale out: And that is exactly what happened! The prototype was lost, Munshi left HAL soon after, and the project didn’t come into Harjinder’s hands, and wasn’t ready for IAF service until 1955. Throughout its career, the spin remained an issue, recovery depending upon the various weights of the two pilots and the amount of fuel being carried. Despite reservations, there were 169 HT2s built, and they flew in IAF service for nearly three decades. The strength of the machine was never in doubt. This strength was to do a great service and save one young man’s life on 8th March 1972, and this young man was to be a key player in the rebirth of Harjinder’s Vintage Flight.
There were more aircraft types to prepare for, but Harjinder was not one to stay in his office and orchestrate things from an ivory tower. He would regularly pounce into areas of the Kanpur base, unannounced. Whilst the civilians may have voluntarily lined up to form their own quasi-military units, there should be no mistaking the fear that Group Captain Harjinder Singh’s visit could induce. Harjinder had seen life in the Air Force from the very bottom, so there was no opportunity to pull the wool over his eyes. He set himself very high standards and an impossible work rate, which he expected his men to strive for. Cat-like stealth was not one of his attributes. The men would hear of his approach and scatter around the unit shouting a warning to all working there. The thump, thump, thump of his purposeful, striding feet would be the final signal of the impending whirlwind. Some of the junior men were known to shake with fear as Harjinder seemingly blocked out the sun. The fear was well-founded. If anything was found amiss, his verbal avalanche left the individual quaking. It was that feeling of a pent-up volcano inside Harjinder that gave him the aura when he was in the room with you. However, there was not a man in Kanpur who would not tell you about Harjinder’s deeply caring side. If Harjinder left a man shredded after one of his tongue lashings, he would often meet up with him in the evening for a drink. If Harjinder came to know of a compassionate case, or found a project in which he saw merit, he would work tirelessly until there was a happy conclusion; just like the crashed Wapitis and Hurricanes of his early years. Those men who worked hard, and showed promise, found that they had the backing of their boss, pushing them up through the system to further their careers.
Harjinder had already seen talent in Parashar far beyond his role as Harjinder’s personal driver. When Harjinder’s aircraft burst a tyre, sending him careering, harmlessly, off the runway, the news filtered down to Parashar of a terrible crash. When Harjinder strode into the medical bay Parashar was already there, fearing the worse. When he saw Harjinder he passed out on the spot thinking he had seen a ghost. Seeing his unswerving loyalty, Harjinder commissioned Parashar as an officer on the spot. No other officer would have been able to push through an instant commission through Headquarters like that. Parashar went on to become a well-respected Wing Commander.
Harjinder had enough to keep him busy in Kanpur, but that didn’t stop him from keeping an eye on global politics. In 1955 the Soviet Union brought all their Communist neighbours into a single political club, which they called the Warsaw Pact, in order to face the NATO forces in the West. Egypt was very much in the same boat as India; an ex-British colony with feet in both East and West camps. Their leader, Gamal Abdel Nasser, had swept into power as the charismatic champion on a wave of post British-rule nationalism, but had become increasingly dictatorial. He was doing a fine job in playing the Americans off against the Russians to enrage the global superpowers, when he stepped over the line. On 26th July 1956, during a speech in Alexandria, Nasser deliberately pronounced the name of Ferdinand de Lesseps, the builder of the Suez Canal – it was a codeword for Egyptian forces to seize control of the Suez Canal. That stretch of water, linking the Mediterranean to the Arabian Gulf, was vital to Britain’s ability to move troops and materials into Asia. France also felt the pinch on her Asian colonies, and the two countries joined together, mobilising their military in the old colonial style, and on the old colonial lines.
It was Nehru, and Krishna Menon who led the call for calm and remained even-handed with the two sides. As the British and French troops moved into Egypt, it was Mountbatten, now in-charge of the British Royal Navy, who wrote to Eden, the British Prime Minister. It is clear Mountbatten’s opinion on the situation was in close alignment with Nehru’s – a military invasion was politically unsound, it was an endeavour that was doomed to fail.
The spectator nations watched the flexing of the old Imperial muscles, until the Americans finally stepped forward to agree with Nehru. Political pressure increased, with increasingly severe sanctions threatened, until Britain had no choice but to bring an end to their military action. Eden lost his job, and the New World Order was confirmed.
The Americans only had one year to sit back and preen themselves as holders of the balance of power, as they surged ahead with their political and technological lead over the Soviets. In October 1957, they received a rude shock. The uninspiring ping, ping, ping sounding around the world on radio sets didn’t come from American hardware. The Soviets had taken the first steps into space with Sputnik. Non-alignment suddenly seemed a very good idea.
If the Government of India were taking their place in the new World Order, the IAF too had to develop into a world class operation. Any country worth their salt should be close to being self-sufficient, in military terms. It was to become Harjinder’s role in life.
Amrit Saigal and Harjinder formed an unbreakable team; moulded into a single piece of machinery as they operated, and thought, as one, to achieve that self-sufficiency. That is, except for one particular occasion after a summons back to Headquarters in Delhi.
They flew down together, assuming that it was another meeting on the routine events of Maintenance Command. The first surprise was a second offer for Harjinder to go to HAL as the Chairman; the second surprise was that it came from Mukerjee, who should have known better.
Mukerjee knew that neither rank, nor pay, would tempt Harjinder, so he tried a different strategy. ‘Harjinder, you are a visionary. I have often heard you say that you would like to see the day when India begins to export aircraft. Well, now you have a chance to get India started along that road. Government has suggested that you take over at HAL. You would not only be helping the IAF by strengthening its repair and overhaul base, but you would also start India on the road to aircraft production.’
Decades of friendship had indeed schooled Mukerjee in the ways of Harjinder, he certainly knew how to push his maintenance commander’s buttons. Harjinder became more and more excited about the opportunities being presented to him. As morning turned to afternoon, he found himself agreeing to the Air Chief’s suggestion. It was only then that he was told that it would involve promotion to Air Commodore, and a salary of three thousand rupees per month, far more than the actual pay of that rank.
Harjinder was taken into the Defence Secretary’s office, where another speech on self-reliance to achieve the nation’s goals was designed to further stoke his enthusiasm for the venture. Amrit Saigal was not with Harjinder during these meetings, and received the message to arrange the return flight to Kanpur. Harjinder was not piloting the aircraft, for a change, which gave him the chance to sit back and ponder the swirling emotions of the day. After some contemplation, Harjinder spoke. He told Amrit that he had agreed to take over the running of HAL. There was no response from his friend, so Harjinder pushed him for his thoughts. The answer was typically short and terse; ‘Sir, when you have already accepted the post, there is nothing left to discuss.’
Harjinder told him that doubts were now bubbling inside, and he was quite willing to be persuaded to change his mind. It was clear from Amrit’s reply that he strongly opposed this idea.
‘In that case, Sir, I can honestly say that I do not think you would be happy in HAL. I have always heard you say that we can create a HAL in Kanpur. Why not do just that, if you want to manufacture aircra
ft?’
Amrit’s words brought Harjinder to his senses, he could now see clearly through power play that was used to massage his own ego. Harjinder was an Air Force man, and that is where he belonged. They were still 30 minutes out of Kanpur, but he sent a message to be relayed to Mukerjee; he would refuel and return to seek another interview with him and the Defence Secretary, that very same evening. The second attempt to get Harjinder into HAL was foiled thanks to the man who knew Harjinder better than he knew himself; Amrit Saigal.
There was no doubt that this was the right decision for Harjinder, but there was to be an unforeseen consequence. That decision was the first step in a series of events that started to divide opinion about Harjinder, within the IAF; one that prevailed right into the 21st century. When Harjinder refused to take the job at HAL, another Senior Officer had to be selected; the ‘honour’ fell to Aspy Engineer. Aspy was not happy about having to leave the IAF for a job he believed that Harjinder should have been made to take. This started the early heat of friction between the two comrades from the North-West Frontier. The public view of this friction was blown out of all proportion with some individuals seemingly enjoying the opportunity of making more from it than actually existed. Behind closed doors, their friendship continued, with great respect flowing both ways, albeit with a slight frosty coating.
In April 1957, Krishna Menon became the Minister for Defence in Nehru’s cabinet. Following his earlier, record-breaking, eight-hour speech defending India’s stand on Kashmir, he’d earned the nickname ‘Hero of Kashmir,’ and was expected to be the darling of the armed forces. Harjinder and Menon soon met in an official capacity. Both men were outspoken, driven, uncompromising, but above all, yearned with all their heart for India to take great strides forward in self-reliance. From that very first meeting, a new friendship was formed, and Harjinder felt he had found a kindred spirit, someone who not only listened, but also helped him develop his own ideas. There had not been anyone in Harjinder’s life to fill the huge void that Jumbo had left; that of mentor and role model. There had been a natural power gradient between Harjinder, the Sepoy, and Jumbo, the Officer and pilot. Now as a Senior Officer, Harjinder could look up to Menon, his Defence Minister, in the same manner.
