by Mike Edwards
The crowd at the parade in October 2012 were a good representative cross-section of India. The different regions, languages and religions of this massively tolerant nation were represented, both in the crowd, as also within those serving in the IAF. Back in 1933, things were different, ably illustrated by Pilot Officer Tandon one evening when he joined the Hawai Sepoys in their barracks, as he often did. He openly criticised a certain religion in front of all Airmen. He said, ‘To my way of thinking this religion is nothing but barbarism.’
The effect of his words was volcanic and the Airmen professing that religion (Harjinder does not specify which religion it was in his diaries) were close to taking matters into their own hands. Harjinder took up the cudgels on behalf of those boys and then channelled the argument into less drastic lines. The following morning the incident was mentioned to Warrant Officer Newing who unfortunately reported the case to the Station Commander. He, in turn, put the Sepoys’ barracks out-of-bounds to Tandon. This, of course, drove a wedge between officers and the Sepoys, but Harjinder learnt a lesson from that, too. ‘Never have I criticised a religion in front of my subordinates. It can lead to mutiny.’
The first batch of five Indian pilots had started their military lives as part of the RAF, were now transferred into the embryonic IAF. In terms of seniority there was Pilot Officer Sircar, next was Pilot Officer Subroto Mukerjee, then came Bhupinder Singh and Amarjeet Singh, and, lastly, Pilot Officer A.D. Awan. Pilot Officer Sircar, a very intelligent, cultured and athletic sort of man, impressed everyone immediately. Pilot Officer Mukerjee gave the impression of being a middle-of-the-road man, but one who was most humane and understanding, a person in whom you could confide all your worries. Pilot Officers Amarjeet and Bhupinder Singh were of a reserved nature, and they carried an air of snobbery about themselves. Awan was friendly and was extremely supportive of the Indian men serving under him. All the Sepoys viewed these new arrivals as firstrate officers and gentlemen.
Harjinder wrote, ‘The training at Cranwell had given them a quality of leadership which could be imbibed only in that Sandhurst (the British Army Officer training academy) of the Air Force. There were times when their elevated status made us wistful and we suffered feelings of injured pride because of the injustice of our being kept down as ordinary Airmen; but these five young men played a commendable role in this respect and made us feel important and wanted. Although they were commissioned officers, a very high status for an Indian in those days, they proved to us that they were Indians first. Their attitude to us from the very beginning was “all for one and one for all.” I remember the day when they went to see our Commanding Officer and offered to buy sports gear for their Indian Airmen. They were rebuffed by being told: “You are fraternising too much with Airmen.” We felt the insult at once, but the efforts of the Indian Officers on our behalf made us feel content and proud.’
Without the understanding, sympathy, and patriotism of these young officers, Harjinder believes, many, himself included, would have abandoned the uniform of the IAF Hawai Sepoys.
Their generosity made him feel like he and the other Hawai Sepoys were the real captains of the team that would form the future IAF.
All the hardships among the ranks were forgotten, and then men lent these young officers their full support. This close knit team was the foundation of the IAF, and an incredible amount of teamwork was needed if they were to survive the first few years.
Harjinder had started off by staring at aircraft, then he had learnt how to work on aircraft, and now the time came to fly in one. We have got this far in Harjinder’s life knowing about his burning desire to see India with an air force of its own, to further the cause for independence. However, it now comes to light in Harjinder’s diaries that he was afraid of heights!
Came the day when he was treated to his first flight. He was strapped (he would have preferred the word ‘entombed!’) into the harness by Corporal Sherman, who then proceeded to frighten Harjinder out of his skin, as he trotted through the drill about bailing out with a parachute. By the time he entered the rear cockpit he was shaking. The bumping of the Wapiti stopped as the wheels lifted off and the ground seemed to drop away. All was fine until the aircraft started rolling to make a turn. Harjinder put his head inside the cockpit like a pigeon which, after seeing the cat, closes its eyes to feel secure. All of a sudden he felt a great rolling movement. His heart nearly stopped beating. He opened his eyes and risked a look forward, only to see the big grin on Flight Lieutenant Bouchier’s face. He was pointing down at the hangars below. To get Harjinder’s attention he had yanked the stick from right to left causing the aircraft to lurch through the air. Harjinder forced out a feeble smile but cursed him under his breath. However, when he did pluck up the courage to peek over the cockpit side, he looked down and saw the beautiful sight of fields below laid out like a map. His fear evaporated, and was replaced with the joy of being up in the air. So, was this the start of the flying love affair? Well, not quite, thanks to Flying Officer Broad who, a few days later, looped the loop without warning. It was a terrifying experience as the G force first squashed him into the rear cockpit and his restricted view turned from blue sky to green fields and back again. Also, don’t forget that Harjinder was not strapped into a seat by the several harnesses you now get even on a small roller coaster ride in any amusement park in the world. He was standing in the back only attached to the floor with a ‘monkey chain’, whilst Broad had his fun doing loops. Perhaps this was one of those times to put the voice tube in the airflow and blow his head off? Harjinder discovered that if a passenger is not taken into confidence before any out-of-the-ordinary manoeuvre, it can destroy forever what should be a fantastic, life affirming experience. He never forgot this when, as a pilot, he carried passengers himself twenty years later.
1st April 1933 was a big day for those serving and they were all taken up in the air by Flight Lieutenant Bouchier, one by one. While the rest of India was, by and large, unaware, one of the most important events in the country’s military history was taking place; and all the Sepoys waited with excitement to shake the surly bonds of earth for a short time. The British Government misjudged the Indians. They had thought that giving them only the impression of forming an Air Force would suffice. They thought that the young educated people of India of those days were too soft and easy-going and that they would quit once they found military life difficult. They hadn’t factored in people like Harjinder and his colleagues who understood the importance of this, not just for the Air Force, but for the future of an independent India.
An incident took place in the first few days of ‘A’ Flight, No. 1 Squadron IAF, which brought that initial euphoria crashing down. On 5th April 1933, Flying Officer Broad was sitting in the cockpit of Wapiti K-1297. The normal method of starting a large, 9 cylinder Jupiter engine was by manually winding the 2 large starting handles placed in the slot that were on either side of the fuselage, behind the engine, and connected to the engine flywheel. The flywheel was spun up to speed by the airman on each handle, until the pilot engaged the flywheel to the engine, hopefully bringing it to life. Harjinder was asked to help with winding-up the starter handle on one side, with a British airman named Gillhooly on the other. It was Harjinder’s first attempt at this task and, with his nose only centimetres away from the propeller, he was more than a little nervous. A combination of the exertion and fear made his hands sweat; the handle slipped. Gillhooly leant over the fuselage to face Harjinder and said: ‘You bloody fool, don’t you know how to keep the handle in?’
This was the first time Harjinder had been called a fool by a colleague.
He was furious and, when no pithy reply came to his mind, he responded by calling him a bloody fool in return. It would have been fine if it had stopped there, but unfortunately, Harjinder saw the red mist of anger cloud over his eyes. He pulled out the long starting handle and took a swipe directly at Gillhooly’s head. Luckily, he saw it coming and ducked as the handle swept harmlessly ab
ove the fast moving airman. The pilot, who was witness to all this unfolding shouted ‘Switches off’ as he shut the engine down. He made no attempt to address Harjinder directly, but strode directly towards the Commanding Officer’s office. Airman GilIhooly also left the arena.
Soon afterwards, the Indians were asked to fall in before the Commanding Officer’s office and were given a stern lecture by him. The Commanding Officer had an interesting approach to this matter, and Harjinder not only remembered the lecture for the rest of his days, but he said it changed his outlook on life. Bouchier began:
‘I have been informed of an unfortunate incident just now. It has happened because you are all new in the Service and very sensitive by nature. Although Indians are known to be very emotional, it is something which we have to guard against in the Service. In the RAF when we call a man a Bloody Fool he takes it. He knows it as a rebuke only and he does not take it to heart.’
Of course, there is plenty of truth in this. The banter of the British military is legendary and their light-hearted insulting of each other is part of the day-to-day life. Bouchier’s solution to this difference in culture was arguably somewhat obtuse.
‘I have now instructed the BOR’s (British Other Ranks, in this case the 12 British servicemen who were Sergeant, Corporals or basic Airmen) posted to “A” Flight to season all of you. From now on any time you are called by name by any BOR, even if he is only an airman, you are to double up to him; halt three paces in front of him; and say “Yes, LAC”. You are to carry out his orders as if he is your superior officer. And I have instructed the BORs to use the choicest RAF slang on you as often as possible.’
The official invite to abuse the Indians was taken up with great enthusiasm. The BORs probably couldn’t believe that their boss had invited them to use the Indians as their own servants, and sling abuse at them at every opportunity. Harjinder took the guilt on his shoulders because he had opened the door to ‘this hell’ that was let loose. From then on, they became the pawns on the chess board and the BORs the players. They were pushed around mercilessly, called all the names imaginable, and the sly chuckles behind their backs were all the more galling. One day, Flight Sergeant Hills, a very kind-hearted and gentle-souled man, gave a talk which finally made sense to Harjinder. He said: ‘You must not misunderstand the CO’s action. He is training you to fit in with the worst situation you are likely to meet in your future career. A man who cannot take a rocket or stand Service slang is not fit for our Service. Sooner or later he will come to grief.’
Harjinder, in his later years in the Service, found these words of wisdom to be very true and, what is more, he practised the same principle with his subordinates. Later, as Harjinder rose in the ranks he was known to be a fair, but fearsome character. Were Harjinder’s legendary tongue-lashings in later years fuelled by these months of his ‘hell’?
The treatment of the Indians was not limited to the Sepoys. The Indian pilots were faring little better. A slightly heavy landing and the pilot had to carry the considerable weight of his parachute on his shoulder for a forced stroll around the outside perimeter of the aerodrome in the baking Indian heat. Many of the pilots used to avoid their British colleagues by resting in their cockpits after their labours, under the pretext of polishing the brass magneto switches. It was the responsibility of the Indian ground crew to alert them, when the need arose, by shaking the wing or tail control surfaces. One Saturday, Harjinder saw the Commanding Officer appear unexpectedly and panicked at the sight, thrashing the elevator on the tail up and down a little too forcefully. The poor officer came out of the cockpit, hand pressing hard on his rapidly reddening cheek, as if he had just been butchered in the dentist’s chair. The joystick had nearly knocked him out in the cockpit.
Needless to say, Flight Lieutenant Bouchier, the Commanding Officer, was not a popular man with the Indians at first.
Another event which didn’t help relations in those early days happened when he was flying a mission that involved cooperating with local Indian army units in the Karachi area. He found that he was unable to use his wireless, missing all the calls intended for him. After his landing it was discovered that he had not plugged in to the wireless, but he refused to admit to his mistake. Instead, he ordered all Airmen be confined to the camp for a week to pay for the ‘wireless failure’. However, this view of Bouchier did not last long. Later, for his early role with No. 1 Squadron, he was referred to by many as ‘the father’ of the Indian Air Force and Harjinder confides ‘years later we were to be grateful to the very man whom we then disliked’.
Flight Lieutenant Bouchier was definitely on the side of his Indian men.
On one occasion, he overheard a conversation between Harjinder and a British Sergeant in the Orderly Room. The Sergeant was updating his records and had to ask for any qualifications the Sepoys held before their military service. When told they were all qualified engineers who had spent five years each in the leading institutions in India, he refused to believe it. He had no knowledge of India and to him engineers and India just did not go together, and so, refused to record their degrees. Flight Lieutenant Bouchier gave instructions that the engineering qualifications be recorded, and told Harjinder, ‘However, I would like you to remember one thing in your Air Force career. That is, even if you possess all the engineering degrees in the world and are a gold-medallist to boot, it will not matter the least bit. What I want to see is your application to hard work and the results in the maintenance of aircraft. I do not wish to see airy-fairy engineers floating about in the hangars, but mechanics in overalls that clean and repair aeroplanes. However, if you also have theoretical knowledge, do apply it; do not store it in your brain.’
Harjinder was not afraid of hard work, as he had proved to Newing. It was now time to show his skills within a Squadron, but he knew it was always going to be a fight against the entrenched prejudices around him.
Harjinder’s patience was tested further, when a few days later, Sardar Gurdial Singh, an Aerodrome Officer from the Civil Aviation, dropped in to see Harjinder. When a British sergeant was told that the Sardar Sahib had been Harjinder’s old college mate, he snorted with disdain: ‘Really! The Prince of Wales was my classmate.’ These incidents and the superiority complex of the British attitude towards Indians caused Harjinder to re-evaluate himself. He came to realise that although he was determined and capable enough to be an airman, he was, at this stage, most unsuited mentally. Some of the Airmen around him started to quit the Air Force. A dozen of them deliberately failed their trade tests and were discharged.
Harjinder was being dragged lower and lower, and even discussed leaving the IAF with Malik. Apparently, Malik scoffed at Harjinder’s sensitivity and said: ‘Let us sink or swim together.’
Malik’s attitude and Harjinder’s recollection of his college days, using publicity, persuasion, and faith to convince his colleagues of the importance of the IAF, changed his mind. Harjinder also believed that the five Indian pilots were suffering a worse fate than they, and this also inspired him to continue. He considered the treatment of the pilots by their own Commanding Officer, to be inferior to that he afforded the sweepers. They were King’s Commissioned Officers, but were not allowed to live, or even dine, in the RAF Officers’ Mess. They had inferior quarters on a little hillock known contemptuously as ‘Gandhi’s Hill’. At the time, Harjinder was unaware that the biggest ally they had for their Air Force was Bouchier himself, fighting hard for their corner behind the scenes.
On just the second day of his new job position as Commanding Officer of the entire Indian Air Force, Bouchier was summoned by Wing Commander Whitelock, the Karachi Depot Commander. Without introductions or pleasantries he began; ‘Bouchier, I am not going to have your Indian Officers in the Mess.’
Bouchier replied: ‘Sir, with respect you cannot bar my Indian Officers from the Mess. They hold the same King’s Commission you and I hold, and they are entitled to live in our officers’ mess anywhere else, as, indeed, they were at
Cranwell. If you bar them from our Mess here, Sir, you automatically exclude me out of the Mess as well, for I am their Commanding Officer, and where they live and take their meals, there I will also live and take my meals.’
The Officer’s Mess Committee had decided even before these Indian pilots arrived that they wouldn’t actually mix with these men! ‘Bouchier, I don’t want to hear any more about it. Your Indian Officers are not going to be accommodated in the Mess. You will find some alternative accommodation.’
Bouchier continued to argue for the inclusion of the Indian Officers into the RAF Officers’ Mess. His reasoning, beyond outright fairness, was that these first few Indian Officers were to become the bearers of a standard for a completely new fighting service. The RAF officers had the opportunity, perhaps even the responsibility, to teach them the high standards kept in an officers’ mess, otherwise how else were they to learn? He insisted they were officers and gentlemen and that he would act as guarantor for their impeccable good manners and behaviour.
Eventually, it was Flight Lieutenant Bouchier’s threat to write a petition to the RAF Headquarters for a ruling by the Air Officer Commanding on this ‘vitally important matter’ that won him a probationary period for his Indian Officers. He gathered them together to emphasise that they were the standard bearers in everything they did; the responsibility lay with them. He briefed them on the etiquette of the time but also had to warn them they may be on the receiving end from some ‘misguided’ Mess members who might have ‘reservations’ about the influx of Indian Officers. Within two weeks, every officer in the Mess made it a point to approach Flight Lieutenant Bouchier and say how much they admired the appearance, bearing and courtesy of his Indian Officers. The hearts and minds campaign had worked its magic.