by Mike Edwards
Harjinder was heartened to know that there were some sympathetic officers among the hostile RAF, but he would not even be a LAC let alone a Corporal. When the results came out, confirming they would all be just Hawai Sepoys, lower than the most junior army soldier despite their technical training, there was a wave of resentment. The RAF Warrant Officer, Nicholas, who had started off mistrusting all of the Indian technicians, was now so shocked at the injustice that he advised Harjinder to leave the Air Force immediately. The chance was to come in the next few weeks, he said, in the form of refusal to take the oath of allegiance to the King Emperor. They came into contact with all the British Airmen on the base, many of whom had been firmly against their arrival, who also expressed their shock, and advised them to return home. The skills of the IAF apprentices had won them over during their training.
Newing’s influence on Harjinder had left him in no doubt that the Air Force was the only career for him, even if he was offered a salary outside the military which was ten times his present pay. His Sepoy pay would be fifty rupees per month with effect from 23rd January 1933. When looking back at his life, Harjinder considered this increment of fifteen rupees as the most welcome and hard-earned raise that he had ever worked for. The training their instructor had given them about reducing their needs had worked so well that in their two years of training had turned them into frugal and hardworking combatants.
Any training course ends with the parting warning from the instructor: ‘This is only the start. The learning never ends.’ Their basic apprenticeship was over, and with those parting comments still ringing in their ears they stepped out into their working life in the Air Force. Harjinder’s overwhelming goal in life was to see India Independent, but he stepped up and took the oath to the Emperor ruling his country. That must have caught in the throat a little!
There was no gentle introduction. For the first 3 months, they were attached to the Test and Despatch Flight of RAF Karachi, and much to their immense excitement, each man was allotted a real-life, fully-functioning, aircraft. The very first aircraft that fell under Harjinder’s protection, a Westland Wapiti, didn’t fill him with pride though. The Wapiti was a huge collection of fabric, wires, struts, wheels and cables. His joy at finally getting to grips with one of the RAF aircraft he had admired from afar in his student days was tempered. He formed a very poor opinion of its maintenance because the aircraft was kept dirty with patches of red ‘dope’ (fabric paint), that were seldom repainted to blend in with the overall glorious silver colour scheme. This initial disappointment remained with Harjinder, and whenever possible he kept all the aircraft that would fall under his charge looking their best.
Harjinder’s first Wapiti aircraft was a target towing version, flown at low level with a windsock-type sleeve pulled behind it, which soldiers then took pot shots at. The pilots given this onerous task had to repeatedly inform the troops that they were, ‘pulling the bloody target, not pushing it!’ How many of those patches of red dope were ‘friendly’ bullets whizzing through the machine?
It is easy to see this Wapiti biplane now as a dated, lumbering, museum piece, but in 1932, it was less than 30 years after man’s first ever powered flight. Even so soon after the Wright brothers’ historic flight, this aircraft was already starting to become an antiquated piece of machinery, in military terms, but even with technical progress charging forward so quickly, it was still not an aircraft to be dismissed. Newly arrived in the Indian foothills of the Himalayas was now a British team, financially backed by Lady Houston. The Lady, who had started life as a chorus girl in the renowned Windmill club in London, had become one of the richest women in the world though marriages to wealthy, elderly men who either seemed to die, or who she subsequently divorced, if they hung around for too long. Her sponsorship of the 1931 British entry in the Schneider Trophy seaplane race saved the project that would later develop into the iconic Spitfire. The team gathering in India was to be the first to fly over Mount Everest using two modified, and developed, versions of the Wapiti; its robust nature made it the best machine available in the world for the task. The World War I pilot aces were treated as esteemed guests by the Maharajas, with beautifully adorned elephants paraded in front of them. Without the photographs they took on this death defying, historic flight, Sir Edmund Hillary said his Everest conquering exhibition would not have been possible.
Back in the RAF, for the old hands, it was the first time they had contact with Indians who were actually trained as engineers. Until now, the Indians on a RAF Squadron were the hired help to do the dirty, hard, physical work. This previous British/Indian mix of such a unit was best illustrated by David Lee, a brand new pilot in the RAF in 1933. After training, his first posting took him from the lush green pastures of England to the rock-strewn wasteland of Northern India. His first introduction to the operations of the RAF in India was as his silver Westland Wapiti biplane emerged from the safety of the fort at dawn, pushed by an Indian team. At one side was a British Airmen shouting, waving his arms and cajoling uniform movement from the men. The instructions given by this seasoned RAF Corporal were:
‘Puckaroo that bleeding tail gharry and push the burra sahib’s hawaijahaz on to the mutti bort jeldi’
The English/Urdu instructions were understood by all: Pick up that bleeding tail trolley and wheel the Commanding Officer’s aeroplane out onto the tarmac as quick as you can. The attitude towards the Indian arrivals had to change, but it would take time. This new breed of Indians were engineers, not hired hands, equal to their RAF colleagues in everything except experience. Harjinder said the first thing that they learnt in the ‘real’ Air Force was that although the British Airmen grumbled a lot, they did their duty conscientiously. As he rose in the ranks and dealt with the British Officers of all ranks and status, he found this to hold true with the majority of the British, even if some individuals let the side down.
However, Harjinder had not sacrificed a civilian engineering management career to be an insignificant part of the Royal Air Force. He and his band of Engineers and Technicians wanted to be in an Indian Air Force. The time for an Indian Air Force was coming after the events in British India’s summer capital of Simla, and with it, would come combat, too. The seeds had been sown and not even Harjinder could dream of what they would grow into during his time serving in this brand new Air Force. His major concern was now to ensure that the Indian Air Force survived the pain and blood of these birth pangs.
Three
Eating Off the Floor
‘Have these tables and benches taken out of here at once. These people from time immemorial have squatted on the sand to take their meals.’
‘Not to have an adequate air force in the present state of the world is to compromise the foundations of national freedom and Independence.’
It happened on the 8th October 1932.
The Official Act was passed, and the Indian Air Force came into being, with the Gazette Notification being signed in the Viceroy’s Summer Palace in Simla. In that vehicle-free town, with buildings that would have looked more at home in Sussex, rather than snuggled against the Himalayas, history was made on that crisp, cold October day.
This was the first of many events in Simla that would thread through Harjinder’s life.
Earlier, in March 1932, when the Indian Air Force Bill came up for discussion on the banks of the River Thames, in the Palace of Westminster, there were not even the required members present for a debate.
One observer commented: ‘It is regretted that the house was thin when they were considering one of the greatest measures ever to come before it, which might, in the course of time, prove of decisive importance in the development of India’s Constitution.’
And how very astute he proved to be…
The 8th of October is now considered to be the birth of the IAF and it was 80 years later, in 2012, that I wheeled the pretty yellow Tigermoth over the heads of the surprised crowd at Hindon Air Force base. However, in India in 1932, this date was
not even treated as a minor event, let alone as the major one which it was. No doubt, when the Act was passed in Parliament in London, and then signed in Simla, it was too remote to be seen as the historic event it truly was; many assumed (or at least hoped) that it would still come to nothing. Within the RAF, the Act was considered audacious, to say the least – senior officials saw this as the quickest means to syphon away their power and resources. Initially, little seemed to happen, and it was not until the 1st April 1933 that ‘A’ Flight of No. 1 Squadron IAF was formed at Drigh Road, in Karachi, with real people and real aircraft.
If the 8th October 1932 were to be considered the conception, then the 1st April 1933 was the birth of the Indian Air Force.
The 1st April was chosen to start operations by the British because it coincided with the birthday of the RAF, and it made accounting far simpler.
The Himalayan Eagle was selected as a mascot, and the first six officers already selected to train as pilots in the RAF, already nick-named ‘The Eagles’, were diverted into the new Indian Air Force when they returned from training in England.
This small beginning, with a mixture of British and Indian personnel, might have been considered a sideshow by the British, but it was seen as the seed for the future of an entire country, by the Indians serving in the IAF.
Today, the Indian Air Force is the fourth-largest Air Force in the world and has been called to arms throughout its history, in defence of the old Empire and of Independent India, along with the numerous humanitarian and UN roles in which it has given its usual sterling performance! Some sideshow, indeed!
The Westland Wapiti was to be the first aircraft of the IAF and this aeroplane has been held close to their heart ever since. Four, secondhand Wapiti IIAs were bought for a princely sum of £10 each and were transferred from the RAF Squadrons operating within India. The first Commanding Officer of the Squadron was Flight Lieutenant Cecil ‘Boy’ Bouchier, DFC from the RAF. They couldn’t let an Indian command this unit! For a change this wasn’t an example of racism – it’s just that the Indian pilots and Airmen still had much to learn, and looking back from this millennium, it seems a herculean task to be given to someone with the lowly rank of Flight Lieutenant. However, the choice of Bouchier was an inspired one. He first flew in 1917 in the Royal Flying Corps as a pilot earning a Distinguished Flying Cross in the process, in whose citation he is described as:
‘A very skilful pilot, of marked initiative and courage. Has been brought to notice on many occasions for the determination shown in his attacks. His methods are somewhat original. By flying low, parallel with and behind the enemy’s lines, stampeding convoys and destroying wagons, he has caused the greatest confusion amongst the enemy, to the great advantage of our own forces. Flying Officer Bouchier is a highly competent reconnaissance officer.’
By 1920, he was flying in India and in the North-West frontier, becoming a test pilot and a flying instructor. Much to his disgust, he found himself working behind a desk in Delhi on a ground job at HQ; he desperately wanted to fly again. Without an eye on history, but just an overwhelming desire to be in the cockpit again, he volunteered, and was accepted to be the first Commanding Officer of the new Air Force.
The quality of Harjinder’s work was noticed by his highly competent commander from the very first day, and before long, Flight Lieutenant Bouchier gave him charge of his own Westland Wapiti aircraft. It was an honour for Harjinder, and a bold statement by Bouchier, since several British servicemen would also be in the Flight.
However, one thing was clear to all ranks, British or Indian. This new Air Force was not to be a wholly Indian affair; that was still unthinkable in the RAF of 1933.
Their first aircraft, the Westland Wapiti, was a big, robust, ungainly, fabric-covered biplane with a single Bristol Jupiter 450 horsepower engine. The pilot sat in the front open cockpit and an air gunner/wireless operator in the rear; the opposite seating arrangements to the Tigermoth. Don’t think of the Wapiti in terms of that dainty two-seat Tigermoth biplane which flew 80 years later in celebration over Delhi. The name Wapiti is another term for the North American Elk. It may have been more aptly named after the immensely strong, but perhaps not particularly good-looking, buffalo. This Wapiti was no flighty deer. It was festooned like a Christmas tree with the equipment for a wide variety of tasks, and the pilot was a good ten feet from the ground perched atop this flying garden shed, a master of all he surveyed.
The term multi-role combat aircraft is widely used today, but the Wapiti can be considered one of the first. In total, 517 were built to serve with the RAF and other associated air forces, largely as ‘The Empire’s Police Force’. There was no operational duty beyond its capability, and no part of the Empire untouched by this aircraft. It covered the sands of Arabia, the outback of Australia, the bush of South Africa, China, as well as all the regions in and around India. Harjinder’s first Wapiti was a RAF target-towing aircraft, but there was a seaplane version with floats, an Arctic Wapiti with skis, and a long-range version for desert operations.
The new IAF had their Wapitis designated as an ‘Army-cooperation’ Flight equipped with a long message pickup hook travelling the length of the belly. The rear gunner had to lie on the floor of the rear cockpit and lower the message pickup hook by revolving a reel. The pilot then flew about ten feet above the ground. The poor ‘volunteers’ from the Army would place their note in the message bag, which was tied to a long string that hung between two rifles stabbed vertically into the ground. No doubt there was enough incentive to keep their heads down, as the massive propeller on the Wapiti would come scything through the air just centimetres above them with hook dangling from the belly. It was a sort of extreme fishing!
So no longer would Harjinder merely stand transfixed looking at aircraft from an untouchable distance, as he had done just three years earlier. He was now involved with their well-being, their operation, and their repair.
He had his own view of the Wapiti:
‘Its airframe was partly covered with fabric and the front fuselage was clothed in cowlings of aluminium. The 488 square feet of main-plane fabric needed much washing and scrubbing. The streamlined inter-strut wires acted like a flying net for catching birds. There were no wheel brakes. The engine starting was done by a hand-turning gear, which took a lot of guts and an appreciable amount of patience on the part of two Airmen (as they had to stand only a few centimetres away from the rotating propeller). The alternative was a bag-and-rope system. (This was a bag placed over one of the propeller blade tips with a long dangling rope attached. A team of Airmen would line up to take a firm hold of the rope. On the word of command they set off like some demented tug-of-war team. The propeller would rotate, hopefully sparking the engine into life. The sudden disappearance of the engine resistance as it fired up would normally result in an almost cartoon-like, pile of Airmen in the dust.) The wireless also was of a very primitive type. I remember changing valves in the rear cockpit while in flight whenever the pilot touched his earphones and shook his head at me. The communication between the pilot and the passenger was through speaking tubes, open at both ends. The tubes conveyed all the noises produced by the singing wires and struts, but for human speech it was the most inappropriate machine ever invented.’ It was not unknown for the rear air gunner, when the pilot was annoying him, to ‘inadvertently’ put his mouthpiece out into the full force of the air flow and nearly blow his pilot’s head off. Obviously the pilot could retaliate, when the air gunner was distracted and not watching him, so a mutual stand-off was usually called after a time.
In the rear cockpit that Harjinder inhabited, there was no comfortable airline seat with the type of seat belt we have all become accustomed to. There was a wooden flap that flipped down to enable the occupier to half perch a buttock cheek thereon (fifteen minutes on that hard bench, and you had change to the other buttock cheek to try and cope with the horrid numbness which would necessitate this constant shift!) in an attempt to rest one’s legs on l
ong trips, but standing was the norm. The rear gunner was tied down to the floor of the plane, with what was referred to as ‘the monkey chain’. The gunner wore a leather belt with a substantial chain running through a metal loop then attached to the floor. Popular street entertainment at the time was a musician grinding a musical organ whilst a monkey danced on top with a cup in its hand to collect money. The monkey was chained to the organ with a similar arrangement, and that is precisely how the men in the rear seat of the Wapiti felt: the organ grinder’s monkey!
The wings had a V-shaped wing-tip skid attached underneath, so that in gusty weather the wing tip would not touch the ground. While taxying, with no brakes, the pilot had to depend upon two Airmen holding onto the outer wing struts to help steer the great machine. Harjinder swallowed his whole life’s quota of billowing dust during those earlier Wapiti days.
In aircraft maintenance terms, Harjinder found the Wapiti more complex than later, more advanced aircraft. Since this was the first attempt at constructing an all-metal aircraft; new lightweight metals like duralumin were used in the structure. He found that some daily inspections on the Wapiti took a good part of the day, leaving little time to do the actual flying! However, when the aircraft flew, they proved to be ultra-reliable, and the pilots loved them.
There may have been over 500 Wapitis in circulation during Harjinder’s time, but the one still being displayed in Delhi, parts of it fashioned from scrap tubing and truck wheels, is the last surviving Wapiti in the world. Its engine is a block of wood modelled like the Jupiter engine but the fuselage is surprisingly complete. The 2 cockpits, still with some controls and fittings, would have no doubt seen Harjinder’s boots at some time. The Tiger was the start of the Vintage Flight, but the plans are already underway to bring this sole survivor back into the sky. However, there will be no rolling or looping in this last piece of aviation history and I think the monkey chain may have to be updated.