by Mike Edwards
The job was finished an hour ahead of time because after the trial bend, and the use of Harjinder’s own magic box of self-made tools, it was a piece of cake. He was proud of his final product and took pleasure in seeing Nicholas’s disappointed face.
The next day, the results were in. Naturally, the examiners could find no fault, and were more than satisfied. As a result Malik, Ram Singh and Harjinder became the first IAF LAC’s. Hearts soared and the seeds of hope for a future, for themselves and for the IAF, finally started to germinate.
The start of 1935 seemed to provide a new outlook, brushing away the gloom of the previous year. In February 1935 training was picking up pace, with something definite in the offing. Following the damning speech by Sir John Steele, Bouchier had been almost begging the ‘powers that be’ to let the IAF go operational over the lawless North-West Frontier. It now seemed those ‘powers that be’ did, indeed, have plans for ‘A’ Flight IAF. Harjinder was flying more frequently with his pilots, who were focusing increasingly on target practice, by using the front gun at ground targets. These were targets on the ground, made by Harjinder out of boards painted in black circles against a white background. Harjinder was responsible for Wapiti K-1297, and it was in this aircraft that he flew his gunnery practice. Standing in the back with his monkey chain attached, he held on firmly to the cockpit edge, until his knuckles were white, as the Wapiti dived down with an ever-increasing hum from the wires and blast of airflow into his cockpit. When the pilot thumbed the gun button, the aircraft shuddered and shook with excitement as it spat fire from the front. Tiny fountains of dirt followed the progress of the bullets as they walked along the scrub floor and onto the painted target. Then the control column was wrenched back to send the plane climbing with a force that seemed to be trying to push Harjinder through the floor. The Wapiti seemed to resent this manoeuvring, the fabric on the wings looked as though it was going to warp, twist, and wrinkle, while the wires between the wings shrieked and sang out. The speed dropped so quickly that the slats on the front of the wing popped out, indicating to Harjinder they were close to stalling and spinning. A total assault on the senses with joy, fear and pride all tumbling together.
The news just got better and better, when the master of motivational speaking, and clearly the main dissenter of the IAF, Sir John Steel, moved out of his position. On 8th March 1935, his replacement, the new Air Commander-in-Chief, India, Air Vice-Marshal Sir Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt (possibly the officer with the longest calling card in India!) inspected the Aircraft Repair Depot, Karachi. Before his arrival, Flight Lieutenant Bouchier carried out a rehearsal in the hangar. When he came to Harjinder standing proudly to attention alongside Bouchier’s own aircraft he said; ‘I have been writing to Air HQ for the last year and a half about your promotion to substantive Hawai Naik ( from acting Corporal to actual Corporal), but they have turned a deaf ear. Today is our chance. When the Commander-in-Chief comes to you, he will ask you a number of questions. Speak freely to him and look him in the eye when answering.’
Bouchier knew the injustices which were being meted out to the Indian members of ‘A’ Flight, and had been campaigning to for some sort of parity with their colleagues in the RAF. Now the boss was going to hear it direct from the horse’s mouth, and Harjinder wrote about the meeting in his diary; ‘Sir Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt arrived at 11.30 am. When he approached my aircraft, Bouchier whispered something in his ear. Among other questions, the Air Vice-Marshal asked me what my age was, to which I replied that I was twenty-eight. He then asked what I had done before joining the Service. I replied that I had been at College for five years. He then asked: “What were you doing there?” I said, “Studying Engineering, Sir.” This must have bewildered him, because he was used to the RAF Halton School and the uneducated Airmen of the RAF. Anyway, he seemed to have been pleased, and I relaxed.’
In the past, it had seemed that very few beyond the Flight were aware of the calibre of this small unit that made up the entire IAF. Only through direct contact was the information filtering up the chain of command. However, Sir Edgar’s visit was for a reason, and what he saw must have impressed him. He spoke with Flight Lieutenant Bouchier at length. For his part, Bouchier, the committed driving force behind the IAF, suggested an expansion of the IAF. His ‘A’ Flight was a well-trained army cooperation unit and should be moved to one of the Frontier stations under Bouchier’s Second-in-Command, Flight Lieutenant Philip Haynes, to start operations. Furthermore, he had enough personnel, if the aircraft could be found, to form a ‘B’ Flight to take over ‘A’ Flight’s accommodation at Karachi. Bouchier’s earlier request on this theme had been deemed ‘too quick’ by Sir John Steel – unsurprisingly. Now, Sir Edgar’s plans for the fledgling Air Force were inspirational to the IAF CO; ‘Bouchier, I want you to know that I have been told all about your efforts to make a success of the Indian Air Force, in spite of the difficulties and lack of support you have been up against. I want to thank you, and to assure you that from now on, you will receive, from me, 100 per cent support.’
These words could not have been more different from those of Sir John Steel a year earlier. When in retirement, Bouchier was to meet with Sir John Steel and Wing Commander Whitelock at the Farnbourgh air show and at the RAF club in Piccadilly, London, he was more than surprised, and most irked, with the use of the pronoun ‘we’, when both remarked; ‘Bouchier, what a fine job we made of the Indian Air Force.’ There had been no ‘we’, just him and his musketeers, as he subsequently referred to Mukererjee, Aspy Engineer, Awan and Harjinder.
However, Sir Edgar was from a different mould and his words were transformed into actions. ‘A’ Flight, No. 1 Squadron, Indian Air Force was going operational over Afghanistan, and in the infamous North-West Frontier Province, and Harjinder couldn’t be happier. In their early days, death had come to visit the IAF.
In military aviation, and especially when flying combat missions, death is a constant companion as they were to discover.
Five
The North-West Frontier Province
‘This achievement is all due to the efforts of the Airmen.’
Afghanistan, Peshawar, the Khyber Pass; geographical names that have a long history of conflict, linked to the warring tribes like the Wazirs, the Mahsuds, the Mohmands, the Yusufzais, the Afridis, and so many, many tribes and sub-tribes. As the Tiger Moth appears live on TV in 2012, troops from many nations have their soldiers in the area, fighting to try and attain some stability in the region, but it seems nobody ever wants to learn from history. It is sobering to look back to April 1936 and seeing that, except differences in technology, very little has changed. The brown, rugged, inhospitable terrain, slashed with canyons, valleys and gullies, is no different today than it was then. In both 2012 and 1936, the soldiers have boots on the ground, but don’t actually control the fields, the tracks, and the villages around them. They use small fortresses as bases, for their own protection, venturing out on missions to “show their face” or track down reports of the enemy. For much of the time, it is chasing shadows. Aviation is their biggest advantage over the tribesmen who fight these invaders in their land, as they have done before, and will continue to do so, caring not for the nationality facing them. Aviation in 2012 is using unmanned aircraft alongside the high tech jets to take on the AK47 rifles. In 1936, it was with the fabric covered biplanes, with two sets of eyeballs taking on the ancient matchlock guns called ‘jezails,’ deadly accurate even over long ranges.
As the newly-formed IAF arrived to take their part in the history of the North-West Frontier, they stepped straight into an organised uprising against the British Empire. In the autumn of 1936, a serious rebellion broke out in North Waziristan calling for large-scale operations by the Army and the Air Force. At its height, as many as 50,000 troops were required in an attempt to swamp this remote border area and quell the uprising, started by a charismatic tribal leader called the Fakir of Ipi.
Any military unit that has spent years preparing to fi
ght has an air of excitement and anticipation when they are finally given the green light. It is not the desire to fight and to kill, but a desire to put into practice the months, and years, of hard training; to test one’s self, and one’s team. Here with the IAF, we had an interesting situation, possibly not seen ever before or since. Briefly, an entire Air Force was being sent into operations; all 4 aircraft of it! If this whole Air Force was going into operations, then perhaps it was be time to enlarge this force. True, due to two isolated examples of pilot error, there had been 2 Wapitis lost, and a disproportionate death toll linked to it. However, the three years of training had produced a good military unit, and Flight Lieutenant Bouchier’s proposal had found somebody, in Sir Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt, to drive it forward. Now was the time to double the size of the IAF. Not as grand as it first sounds, when it only means taking four more Wapitis from the RAF to form another Flight, but the significance was not lost on the IAF. They were now being viewed as a success; they had survived Sir John Steel, they had survived the Sircar crash. As ‘A’ Flight, Indian Air Force, left Karachi, ‘B’ Flight was being formed in its place soon after their departure.
The growth of the IAF and the move of ‘A’ Flight into the operation saw the departure of Flight Lieutenant Bouchier, the ‘Father of the IAF’. Sir Edgar had asked him to stay for a further two years, but Bouchier wanted to be reunited with his family. His wife and son had been with him for his first year in India as he flew a desk around the corridors of Delhi, but sickness had forced them to return to Britain, and he wanted to end the three and a half years of loneliness. For his historic role in India he was promoted to Squadron Leader, and awarded the OBE. He wrote ‘I knew it would always have a special significance for me, and as the ship chugged along, taking me further away from the India I loved, I realised I was leaving behind a part of my heart there forever.’
He had performed a seemingly impossible job under difficult circumstances, fighting his own Headquarters every step of the way, until Sir Edgar arrived. The IAF’s loss was the RAF’s gain. He was to command a fighter station in the Battle of Britain, plan and supervise the entire fighter cover operation for the D-Day landings, accept the initial surrender of the Japanese in Burma, and to finish his military career as Air Vice-Marshal Sir Cecil Bouchier.
He was to meet Harjinder again in 1959, after which he wrote him a very emotional letter including his thoughts on those early days, ‘The Indian Air Force is what it is today because of one thing only; the imagination, the courage, and the great loyalty of the first little pioneer band of Indian Officers and men, for they were the salt of the earth; they have built up a great fighting Service, and I am proud to have been associated with this wonderful achievement, if only for a little while.’
At last the day came, in the first week of April 1936, when ‘A’ Flight was placed on a combat footing and moved from Drigh Road, Karachi, to Peshawar, capital of the North-West Frontier Province. Harjinder was busied in getting his personal Wapiti into perfect condition. He checked on how the other three aircraft were coming along in their preparations, and finally, that the mountain of ground equipment was all present and correct. This was the IAF’s big chance, they had to perform well to prove to the wider authorities that all the earlier incidents were behind them. The four Wapitis rolled down Karachi’s aerodrome and took to the hazy sky, immediately moving into close formation with each other. It was done more for a suitable farewell than any operational need. However, Harjinder was not in the rear cockpit of his aircraft. He was the Corporal in-charge of moving the ground party and getting all his men through the big bad world out there. It was the first time they had all moved as a unit into the outside world, in uniform, and the train was the main method of transport. Don’t think of the Airmen entering their train carriage in the perfect blue uniforms of the 2012 IAF, with striking white belts and putties. After three years, there were still no proper dress regulations, so, when not in their work overalls, they had to put on army-type dress; closed-collar khaki tunics, boots and khaki putties, and a kulla with a turban. They resented this imitation of the army dress, because they used to look upon themselves as being a cut above the ‘uneducated Army soldiers’. They felt thoroughly ashamed, and to add to their humiliation, they were made to travel Third Class, whereas the British Airmen of the same rank in the RAF, travelled Second. They were left in no doubt that they were seen as 3rd class citizens by the majority.
With the boys from Madras and Bengal, unable to speak Hindi, they started the tradition of speaking English among themselves, something which has continued to the present day. Despite the use of English, to the public eye, they were Sepoys of the Army. The uniform was a motley collection, making them look like a ragtag bunch, and not the educated section of the newest military unit in India. Harjinder’s team locked themselves into the 3rd class compartment at Karachi, and didn’t venture out until after dark. They especially shunned Lahore Railway Station in case any of their acquaintances were on the platform! Regulations forbade changing into civilian clothes and so Harjinder never forgot the dismal feeling he experienced on this first journey, a stark reminder of how far they had still to travel in the minds of the military, the politicians, and the Indian public. However, this move to Peshawar from Karachi gave them the feeling of bidding farewell to their nursery.
At Peshawar, they jumped aboard the sand coloured, camouflaged Crossley trucks, with the red, white and blue RAF roundels on the side standing out from the camouflage. They bumped into base only to receive a slap in the face. They were instantly rechristened ‘D’ Flight of No. 20 Squadron, RAF. Even though on paper they continued to retain their identity as ‘A’ Flight of No. 1 Squadron, IAF, it seemed an insult to the new Air Force to be temporarily swallowed up, just when they intended to make a statement. Perhaps this was somewhat inevitable, given that this fledgling Air Force only had four aircraft. This only temporarily dented the technicians’ excitement. With the journey out of the way, they were now going to prove themselves in the largest, swirling cauldron of tension in the region.
Peshawar was the capital of the North-West Frontier Province, a teeming city, with large, tree-lined areas and roads with many European style buildings. A few miles North, the plain was splintered by the enormous mountains thrust upwards into the cloudless sky, forming the border between this Province and Afghanistan. The Peshawar plain narrowed until it ended at the entrance to the most famous of mountain passes; The Khyber Pass. These Himalayan foothills were inhabited by the Mohmand tribes. Beyond the peaks, was Chinese Turkestan and the ‘roof of the world’. Flying was restricted to two routes, both followed the gorge of the River Indus among the 20,000 feet peaks. A desolate and awe-inspiring place, but in terms of the Frontier, it was relatively friendly.
To the South-West, the central area was less striking but still mountainous, crisscrossed with deep valleys and dried up river beds. This region was the Tirah, peopled by the Afridis, the most lawless in the area, with a reputation for cruelty. An unplanned landing here was a fearsome prospect, not least because their speciality was removing a man’s most treasured body parts and stuffing them into his mouth, after, usually, he had been flayed alive. This led to all crews carrying a ‘Goolie Chit’ offering a five thousand rupee reward to the Afridis if the aircrew were returned intact!
It certainly worked.
When Flight Lieutenant Anderson crashed a RAF Wapiti here, he was dragged from the wreck by the Afridis. The Goolie Chit was read and a string charpoy constructed. With a broken leg the pilot endured the terrible 70 mile journey to Peshawar without any medical treatment. The men received their reward, but so impressed were they by the pilot’s strength of character, that they sent a deputation to the hospital every week to enquire about his progress; the element of chivalry in warfare still existed then!
To the South, was the base of Kohat, and beyond, to Waziristan, home to the infamous Faqir of Ipi. For 40 years he was the scourge of the British, constantly hunted and hounded. He k
new his land, and he knew how to use it. The British never caught him. He died peacefully of old age in his cave long after the British had left India, and this area became Pakistan.
The first job for rear gunners like Harjinder was to accompany their pilots on flying visits to the outlying emergency landing grounds. These were no more than strips of ground, cleared of rocks and boulders. They were to familiarise themselves with the landing grounds, to check the supplies that were held there, to show their presence to the tribes of the area, and to give a morale boost to the poor policemen stationed in these remote areas. There were no two landing strips the same; varying in size, shape, gradient and surface. Some were perched on hill sides, some on the floor of a deep, steep-sided valley, and the occasional one out on the wide open plain. They were normally guarded by a chowkidar (watchman), small, fierce-looking men with black beards, white robes, yellow turbans, an ancient rifle slung over the shoulder and a bandolier of bullets across their chest; Kipling’s vision of an Indian tribesman. Their enormous wooden staff was used to drive his goats away before the landing aircraft touched down!
Sometimes, the landing grounds were viewed from the air as the Wapiti droned overhead, but often, the personal touch was required. A flare was fired from the Verey flare pistol to signal their intent. The chowkidar would get to work with his staff. If there was a police post nearby, then they too, would come flooding out for the spectacle of the big silver bird, raising a cloud of dust as it dropped to the ground. Often, they had to remove the goalposts that were used to put the open area to better use in the absence of aircraft. More often than not, the pilot would keep the engine running when he landed. The Jupiter engine in the Wapiti had the utmost reliability when it rumbled away in the air but it was a monster to start when it was hot. After landing, the pilot would take his Wapiti for a little trundle around the landing site perimeter whilst Harjinder would chat with the chowkidar, checking his supplies of fuel and flares. The first time Harjinder dropped into each of these tiny outposts, he was met with the same reaction. The chowkidar’s jaw would bounce off the ground when he saw a fellow Indian climb down from his machinegun-toting cockpit. When the Wapiti completed its little sightseeing tour, Harjinder would offer his best wishes to the chowkidar, climb back aboard and reconnect to the monkey chain. The Wapiti would then position into the wind and the pilot would open the throttle. The dust plume would rise around the aircraft, but as the machine accelerated, it would slowly nose out of the dirt cloud, leaving it behind as it steadily climbed heavenwards.