by Mike Edwards
Bhupinder Singh was considered a very able and good officer, but Harjinder always thought him a risk taker. He was fond of spinning the lumbering Wapiti. He would bring the engine back to idle but lift the nose of the aircraft to maintain the height, even as the airspeed washed away, making the wings work harder to keep the aircraft in the air. Finally, the airflow over the wings would approach the point where they could no longer sustain flight.
With his right foot, Bhupinder would push full rudder, causing the machine to yaw. The left wing would move forward slightly, as the right wing slid back. The extra speed was enough to keep the left wing flying, but the loss of lift on the right wing would tip it into a stall condition, where suddenly, all the lift holding it up collapsed. Even this cumbersome aircraft would roll quickly on to its back as it entered into an ever-tightening spin. The aircraft’s nose would then swing downwards until nearly vertical, as the aircraft continued in this whirling rotation, rapidly gobbling up the height, until the pilot made the correct, positive, and full control inputs. In this early age of aviation, some aircraft would not come out of a spin, and many a pioneer died trying to discover this. Bhupinder knew of Harjinder’s dislike of the spinning of his aircraft, and many times he had tried to insist that they fly together. Harjinder steadfastly refused, but Bhupinder upped the pressure by telling Harjinder that he would brand him as a coward to all his relatives. Harjinder welcomed him to do so – but he certainly wouldn’t want Bhupinder to try any of his fancy aerobatics whilst he was monkey-chained in the rear cockpit.
On the 4th September 1933, at Padidan airfield, about 200 miles from Karachi, Bhupinder was again up to his tricks with his cousin, Amarjit, along for the ride in the back. There is little doubt that Bhupinder was showing off, by using a spin, to lose height rapidly from his cruise altitude, only to recover a few hundred feet off the ground and in a position to make a landing. Certainly a spectacular way to arrive but it proved spectacular in a way he didn’t plan. Spinning was not fully understood then (and some would say still, today!) and the recovery is not completely predictable, changing with weight distribution and aircraft rigging, among many other parameters. With the Wapiti settled into the spin, Bhupinder pushed the control column fully forward and pushed the rudder pedal fully forward in the opposite direction to the spin. The rate an aircraft spins around its nose often increases initially when the controls are moved to start the recovery. The spin rate increased but the spin did not stop. Perhaps some equipment had moved in the aircraft, perhaps the rigging was different, perhaps Bhupinder hesitated when the spin rate increased and with the ground so close. At that height, there were only a few seconds left, and no time to re-try the recovery procedure. The Wapiti is a big and incredibly strong machine, but there was nothing this aircraft could do to save its passengers as it rotated into the ground, crumpling up into a tangled mass covering only a very small area. Bhupinder killed his cousin Amarjit, standing in the back with only the monkey chain on, as well as himself.
One third of the first batch of IAF pilots was now dead…
When Pilot Officer Mukerjee passed on the news, he added; ‘This is the last straw, we are determined to see that no more accidents occur amongst our pilots.’
It was very reassuring to hear him make such a bold statement, but it was a wish that was not to be.
The most gruesome of incidents was just around the corner…
On the 15th October 1933, the team arrived back at Drigh Road in Karachi from Quetta. Everybody in the Flight was at low ebb after the loss of the two pilots, and this reunion with their home airfield only seemed to reignite that grief. For the next few months, they worked harder, as their allocated flying tasks were increased. It was seen as an indication that higher up the chain of command, someone had realised that this new unit could actually achieve something of worth, despite the loss of one Wapiti, and, more importantly, two pilots. The fear of all was summed up by Harjinder; ‘lest some amongst us boob technically and become the cause of the loss of another pilot. The reader will find it difficult to imagine the feelings of the Airmen of those days. We had become real blood relations of these young heroes of the skies.’
On the morning of 29th October, 1933, a turbaned Sikh gentleman, with his white beard flowing behind him, came rushing up to the engineers as they waited for their machine to return. He threw his arms around Sukha Singh, jabbering unintelligibly. Harjinder realised it was Sukha’s father. The old man had tears in his eyes, and in front of the astonished group he said; ‘My dear son, it would be better for you to beg in the streets than to be an airman in the IAF. Your mother is crying her heart out and has not eaten food for many days. Your would-be father-in-law has threatened to break off your engagement with his daughter. Since we heard of the flying accident a few days ago, I have been longing to see you. You must come with me to see your Commanding Officer. I will not go from here unless you accompany me home.’
Harjinder and a colleague tried to convince the old man that in this world, danger was everywhere, even in your own bed if your luck ran out, so why worry about the dangers of flying? But the old man would not listen. Despite his begging, he was not allowed to see the Commanding Officer because the Adjutant repeatedly told him it was of no use. Perhaps Sukha was more afraid of his would-be father-in-law than the Air Force, he left the Service by refusing to take the Oath of Allegiance; the one sure way to get out. Another man was gone.
One week later, Harjinder was idly chatting with a RAF Sergeant fitter, an unthinkable thing even a year ago. That conversation took an unexpected turn, and left Harjinder doubting his own future in the IAF. Whilst waiting for his aeroplane L-1297 to land, he casually mentioned to the Sergeant about Quetta and the fact he was commended by the Flight Commander of No. 31 Squadron who had talked about immediate promotion to Corporal. The Sergeant’s reply, said without malice, but as a matter-of-fact, was like a thunderbolt; ‘Even the Prince of Wales cannot promote you because a man cannot become a NCO until he has served at least 9 to 10 years. So forget about promotion for the time being. In fact, you can safely add 50 per cent to the ten years in the case of Indians.’
A promotion appeared to be farther away than the moon. Was there any point in continuing?
The Annual Sports Meet on the 9th December 1933, distracted Harjinder from his depressing mood. Harjinder couldn’t just attend these events. He had to win, and win he did. Five events in total. The 100 yards, 440 yards, 880 yards, long jump and the high jump, even though he had never even tried the high jump before. Also, the team won the one mile medley.
There is some doubt in Harjinder’s mind about the 100 yards, and fairness is something that is at the core of this man. He wrote; ‘I am not sure if I was really the first in 100 yards. When this event was being run, Flight Lieutenant Bouchier was one of the judges. At the finishing tape he caught hold of my arm, pushed me at the judges and insisted that his man was first. The judges were dubious but Bouchier was a man of strong personality and he would not be denied. I have always felt guilty and whenever I look at this prize medal, my conscience pricks me.’
The death of the Singh cousins had risked the existence of the IAF even before it had firmly taken root. Bhupinder’s recklessness had taken 2 lives and opened the IAF to criticism. The team were clawing themselves back when another accident took place during the team involvement in an Army Cooperation Exercise. The mists of time clouds the exact date and place, but the outcome is in no doubt. The survival of the IAF suddenly seemed hopeless.
The local Army unit conceived a plan to practice their skills under a simulated attack from the air.
When the Army spotted the ‘enemy’ aircraft, the troops scattered to find cover; something their present location lacked. The exception was the twenty-man team, trained as the battalion’s anti-aircraft platoon, who stood upright, shoulder to shoulder, point their rifles at the oncoming threat.
Flight Lieutenant Bouchier led the formation of 3 Wapitis, with Sircar as number 2 and Mukerjee
as number 3. They dove down from 1500 feet, one behind the other, pulling out from the dive at 500 feet before dropping down for a second pass. Bouchier knew that this was the tried and tested attack routine, and so, added a twist. When they had completed their two attacks, they headed towards their base. Then, after five minutes, he changed course, stalked their prey and approached from a different direction.
Harjinder wrote that Bouchier criticised the pilots for not coming in low enough. Perhaps feeling that his courage was being called into question, Flying Officer Sircar, the senior-most Indian pilot, was determined to remedy this for his next pass.
Bouchier’s decoy had worked and the troops were settling back in to their columns, but the anti-aircraft platoon was still bunched tightly together, so he picked them as his target.
The first Wapiti swooped away but, just behind him, the second biplane grew in size with the blur of the propeller leading the way. The Wapiti’s nose came up to level flight but there was no sign of it climbing. Imagine the carnage as the propeller, started churning through the rank and file of the men like a circular saw, handled by the devil himself.
The impact of the propeller cutting into this mass of flesh and bone tipped the Wapiti’s nose slightly downwards again; the propeller made contact with the desert floor. The disintegrating propeller threw wooden splinters out, like medieval arrows, felling more men. Fourteen soldiers were killed outright by the propeller, or by the aircraft wings slashing through the ranks. A large number had the most appalling injuries from splinters and flying wreckage. On landing, Bouchier and his pilots jumped onto the nearest truck and rushed to the site, passing 8 army ambulances going in the opposite direction. The IAF men arrived in a flurry of dust, to find that the army had departed leaving just 2 to stand guard. Standing next to the wreckage, which still had a whole arm dangling from the wing, were two figures. It was Sircar and his rear gunner. By some unfathomable twist of fate, both men were almost untouched. As the Army pulled Sircar from the wreckage and saw the massacre around him, it is not surprising that his first words were; ‘I wish I had also died.’
The IAF men immediately whisked Sircar away from the site of the butchery and back to base. Bouchier issued strict instructions that the incident was not to be discussed, mindful of the terrible sights Sircar had seen, and the terrible guilt he must feel. No matter what was held up in his defence at Karachi, Sircar was found guilty and discharged from the Service.
Bouchier slept very little that night, fighting with his own conscious. Before dawn he decided to see Sircar to express his deep sorrow and huge admiration for him as the leader of this founding group of Indians. Despite the early hour, Sircar had already been spirited away and to Bouchier’s deep regret, he never heard about him again. It is interesting that Harjinder obviously wrote in detail about the Sircar incident but there is no mention of his midnight departure. It seems unlikely he would have known nothing, or not thought it worth mentioning unless of course, it was carried out on his instructions or by his own hand.
When it seemed that the gloom hanging over the IAF Airmen could get no worse, they received another blow. They were gathered together and read a signal from Air Headquarters. No Indian Airman was to be allowed to appear for an examination for promotion from Hawai Sepoy 2 (Airman) to Hawai Sepoy 1 (Leading Aircraftman in the RAF) until after two years of their apprenticeship. Their technical colleagues in the RAF passed out one rank higher again.
Immediately after reading this signal, the Flight Sergeant, flanked by Corporal Bennett and Corporal Sherman, took Harjinder and Ram Singh to one side. Corporal Bennett concluded; ‘I know how you must feel about it, but your greatest reward is that you have formed a habit of working hard.’
Harjinder’s reaction?
‘Our reward, my eye! Who cares about our hard work?’
However, as the years rolled by, he often recollected the consolation offered that day.
‘There is something in it; because I have felt rewarded. I have met people of all types and temperaments who were my superior officers; they have all yielded to one common treatment; hard work. So I have always passed on this panacea of all Service ills to my subordinates, and in fact, I have never failed to see the fruits thereof in those who practise it.’
The future of the IAF was in the balance. However, Bouchier had other ideas, and he decided to go on the offensive to move things along in his little command. He knew that the future of the IAF depended on progression, and so it would only be a few weeks later, on 7th February 1934, when he called Ram Singh, Malik, and Harjinder into his office. Harjinder could not believe his ears. He was resigned to the idea that the Indians would be held down to satisfy the blinkered senior officers in Delhi and in the UK, but Bouchier had just announced their appointment as Hawai Naiks (Corporals). OK, it was as acting Hawai Naiks, meaning, there was no additional pay, but Bouchier was publicly fighting the system. He also offered some advice as he handed the stripes out to the two new Naiks; ‘From this moment on, you are no longer privates, but officers, albeit non-commissioned. Your responsibilities are greater; that is, the handling of men. An equivalent of this rank is a Corporal in the RAF, which is a high rank. Your loyalty to the Service should be unquestionable. In case of mutiny, or the disobedience of orders, you have to do your utmost to put an end to it before anything serious happens. If you do not take steps to inform your superiors as soon as you hear about it, you will be punished more severely than the mutineers. I have to give you this additional advice also: In India, religion is practised in commercialised form, you use it whenever it is to your advantage. For you, it must henceforward be different. You should set such a good example to the men that they should never feel that you are partial to your co-religionists. As a matter of fact, in case you have to choose between two men, one of whom happens to be your co-practitioner favour the other man. This may sound odd, but you would be more likely to see that justice is being done.’
Harjinder saw this as sound advice from Bouchier, reasoning; ‘Too many Indians are prone to place religious fanaticism high in their order of values.’
A few days later Corporal Harjinder Singh and team were in Hyderabad for further Army Cooperation exercises when just those very religious matters raised their heads. The IAF personnel were ridiculed by both the Hindus and Muslims serving in the Army, because in the IAF messes, they observed no religious rites, and drank water from a common source. According to the Muslims that made them Kafirs, and the Hindus thought they were Christians. Harjinder could find no way around this hostility, and elected not to fight this battle against his own countrymen; one battle at a time.
The trip to Hyderabad was also to prove humiliating for Harjinder as he tried to exert his authority as Corporal for the first time. One afternoon, when catching the transport returning from the aerodrome, he noticed a British Leading Aircraftsman (and so junior to him in rank) sitting in the front seat of a truck, next to the driver. Harjinder told him to get down and sit in the back of the truck. This he did after much grumbling under his breath. When they had driven about half a mile he saw a Jamadar (an Indian Army Officer of the most junior rank) from the Jat Regiment walking towards his Regimental Lines, having just posted guards on the IAF aircraft. The vehicle was stopped and a lift kindly offered. He accepted, and silently climbed in with Harjinder. The completely ingrained belief that no Indian could hold rank in the Air Force was evident when this Jamadar arrived at his destination. He said not a word to Harjinder but walked to the rear of the wagon to salute the British airman saying; ‘Sahib, thank you very much.’
The British airman was all smiles, glancing at Harjinder to ensure that the humiliation was driven home.
By March 1934, all had returned to Karachi after a successful exercise in Hyderabad, restoring their pride in some small part. On the 8th, once again, the Commander-in-Chief of India, Air, Air Marshal Sir John Steele, inspected the Karachi Aircraft Depot. This time it was not to continue the chess game over the furniture. He was to
make it absolutely clear what he felt about this IAF project. He came over to ‘A’ Flight’s hangar at 11 am and, at a time when the embryonic IAF needed motivation and encouragement, delivered what must stand as the most ill-conceived speech. True, the failures of two individuals caused two terrible incidents, but let us not forget that aviation at this time, especially in the military, was a dangerous place, and crashes were quite the norm. The gory nature of Sircar’s crash made it stand out, but in terms of their aircraft losses the IAF were no worse than their brothers in the RAF. With morale at an all-time low, they looked to those in power to guide the ship through stormy times, but Sir John’s speech to all the Indian Air Force Officers and Airmen only demonstrated his desire to see an end to what he considered an abomination.
‘I am going to give you a straight talk.
We knew fully well that Indians will not be able to fly and maintain military aeroplanes. It is a man’s job; and all you have done is to bring the greatest disgrace on yourselves. You are incapable of paying attention to details, a most essential feature of military aviation. I, therefore, intend to disband the so-called Indian Air Force. So be prepared for the shock.’
Long after the Chief had stopped talking, and taken his leave, the Officers and Airmen continued to stand, stunned, looking straight ahead. It was the young Pilot Officer Mukerjee who moved first and signalled for Harjinder to join him in one corner of the hangar. In whispered tones he said; ‘We have been expecting this. No one wants to part with his bread and butter. The RAF in India would not like us to progress, because then, they would have to lose their jobs and go back. You know that we, the pilots, are not risking our necks just for the pay we get. We, for our part, know that the Airmen are not out here for the meagre forty-five rupees per month, which is the equivalent of a bearer’s pay. We must continue to fight for our cause. Otherwise, there will never be an Indian Air Force. It is sad that we have had this accident and brought disgrace upon ourselves because of one pilot’s error. But we will fight on to retrieve our good name.’