by Mike Edwards
The return to the North-West Frontier for operations at Miranshah was marred when they learned of the imminent loss of their greatest supporters – Warrant Officer I.A. Hickey, was to be repatriated to England. He had served with them since the formation of the first Flight in 1933 and he was indirectly responsible for taking them into operations in 1937. In later years, after Independence, the IAF was lucky to have him back in the rank of Group Captain as Director of Technical Services.
As so often in life, the replacement was the opposite in all respects. Physically, Flight Sergeant Cooper was poles apart, his bulk being so large that he could hardly move, his colleagues wondering at the last time he had seen his own feet. The differences were just as marked in temperament too. It was difficult to reason with him, and his main job appeared to be to teach junior NCOs how to contradict their superior officers. He set a very bad example. He constantly hammered out anti-officer propaganda. He even demonstrated it by shouting: ‘No, No, No’ at his own Flight Commander, before the poor man had even completed a sentence or given an order. It was both a pathetic and an amusing sight to see Corporal Nair starting to pull out aircraft from the hangars. The Flight Sergeant would shout from the office: ‘Push it back’ and the Flight Commander from his office would yell: ‘Wheel it out.’
You could hear the suppressed giggling of Airmen and open laughter from the pilots’ room.
Back in Operations, time flew by. 1938 was soon at an end, and 1939 dawned with Hitler beating war drums in Europe. In Britain, the RAF embarked on an expansion programme. Their total strength until then, had been about 30,000 personnel with around 100 squadrons. The new programme aimed at expansion at the rate of 90 squadrons per year. The training machine went into overdrive and the dilution of experience could even be felt in the IAF. In the factories of Britain, new aircraft poured off the production line. The evocative names of the Spitfire and the Hurricane would all-too-soon become household names. Despite the newspapers being full of the growing tension in Europe, in 1939, the war seemed very distant in India, so it was business as usual. The usual business for ‘A’ Flight IAF was North-West Frontier operations in their antiquated Wapitis biplanes.
So, May 1939, saw them back in action at Miranshah, with Indians taking more control. The Flight was commanded by Flight Lieutenant Aspy Engineer and the pilots were Henry Runganadhan, of air racing success, and Mehr Baba, who hoped he could avoid being shot down, and shot at, this time. This was to be the first time that Ram Singh and Harjinder acted as NCOs in-charge of their respective Engine and Airframe trades. From the outset, determination was writ over the faces of the Airmen and officers. Indians were in charge. They worked day and night, often changing engines by ropes hung from the girders of the hangars, working by torchlight. The pilots flew from sunrise to sunset, breaking all previous records. They logged 410 hours and 10 minutes in the month of May. All, achieved by four pilots, and four Wapiti aircraft, serviced by Indian technicians.
All this was impressive, but, of course, a mere sideshow compared to events in Europe that would spread throughout the world. The second Sino/Japanese war had begun in 1937 but Japanese expansion policies had always seemed even more distant than events in Europe. However, their days in Miranshah during 1939, were to prove instrumental in the growth of this band of brothers, who learned and matured together in the arid desert wasteland. There was a World War brewing on the horizon, the Japanese would soon be coming, and the IAF was about to come of age.
Six
The World is at War; Not that the
Warring Tribes Care
‘We must move heaven and earth, and we will repair the aircraft here. Please try out your magic wand once more.’
On the 3rd September 1939, the Imperial Master of India declared war against the Axis powers. Could it be possible that the Great War of 1914-1918 was not the war to end all wars as they had been told? It should have been an unforgettable date in India, especially their military, but the truth was, that for the majority in the IAF, the European war appeared too remote to have any immediate effect upon them. It would be many more months before they could be considered to be operational as a fully developed Air Force, rather than a subunit of the RAF. There was also the small matter of the job to be done in Afghanistan and the North-West Frontier Province.
The date on which the war was declared became memorable in the IAF for quite a different reason. The news that began to circulate on the 3rd September was not of politicians postulating, but of the promotion for the first Indian Air Force officer to the rank of Squadron Leader. It was a real milestone, an indication that their hard work and professionalism was working. The figurehead was to be the nephew of the World War I ace, Lieutenant Indra Lal ‘Laddie’ Roy, DFC, the youngest child of an outspoken civil servant; Subroto Mukerjee was now a Squadron Leader. Far more important than the rank, was the reins of power he was given to hold. He assumed command of No. 1 Squadron, IAF, at Ambala, so now the IAF had their first fully-Indian Squadron. Harjinder sent a congratulatory signal to the new Squadron Leader in Ambala. On the technical side, Harjinder led the charge to keep up their standard of aircraft maintenance, because now they had one of their own in charge, and therefore, so much more to prove.
The declaration of war was responsible for another feather in the IAF’s cap. The Aircraft Depot at Karachi was the RAF’s most vital airpower possession in India, so steps were taken to defend it. Who did the Senior Officers in Delhi choose to achieve this? The Indian Squadron! It was quite an accolade, when barely four years ago the same pilots were assumed to be a hazard in the air, and ordered to fly coloured streamers on the struts of their Wapitis as a warning to anybody else in the air. Now they were selected to defend Drigh Road, the important Karachi base. The perceived danger of attacks was by bombers from Abyssinia (Ethiopia). ‘A’ Flight, under Flight Lieutenant Awan, was chosen for this task, but the RAF couldn’t stop from meddling. Instead of leaving the name as ‘A’ Flight, they were to be referred to them as ‘Q’ Flight, as if they were still some RAF unit. Somebody in HQ was still having trouble letting go.
Germany may have seemed a world away, but still the order to blackout came, and all German nationals were rounded up, to be interned until the end of hostilities. That applied to all Germans except for one particular technician. When the telephone system broke down, the only person who knew how to fix it was a German. He was cautiously taken to the base to carry out his work, but, as his time working for the British extended from days to weeks, he was given his freedom to roam, which he enjoyed throughout a major part of the war. If ever there was an incentive to never complete your task, this was it! A RAF Reserve Officer on a two week climbing holiday from the UK, had a nasty shock when he received a telegram ordering him to report to the nearest RAF unit for duties His two weeks’ Indian holiday turned into five years of war in India.
It was time for the Indian Air Force to expand like their RAF brothers. The success, and perceived glamour, of the IAF was attracting a number of young Army Officers, who volunteered to transfer into the Indian Air Force (not dissimilar to the sentiments of their fathers in the previous war, to get away from the filth of the trenches, and away into the ethereal incandescence of the sky). From the outside, they had seen how this new section of the military was progressing as an Indian unit like no other, and they wanted to be a part of it. Harjinder’s Flight had its quota of these transferees including Flying Officer Janjua and the blue-blooded Flying Officer Burhanuddin, the Afghan prince from Chitral State. The Flight benefited from the experience and talent of Mehr ‘Baba’ Singh, but new blood was arriving too – a certain Flying Officer Arjan Singh, a tall, slight, fresh-faced youth, was posted in from the last group of Indians to graduate from the RAF College, Cranwell, to join the elite group that now totalled 23. In 2012, as I stood at the party at the Chief’s house, still glowing from having flown in the 80th anniversary parade, it was not at all difficult to see that young man in the face of the 93 year-old Marshal of the
IAF, his eyes twinkling above his white beard, as we compared handling characteristics of Tiger Moths and Wapitis!
During their stay in Karachi, some of the pilots had the opportunity to fly the Audax aircraft. New to the IAF, these were still open-cockpit biplanes, not even close to the Spitfire and Hurricane that equipped the RAF, as they engaged in the ‘phoney war’ with Germany during those first few months of conflict. The Audax looked more streamlined and war-like, with their pointed noses and slender lines, as compared to the shed-like Wapiti. The fact that they always carried live bombs for anti-submarine purposes, and that their guns were always loaded, brought the war a little closer.
The IAF technical staff consisted of Flight Sergeant Cooper in-charge, Harjinder, as the second-most senior, with all the others Airmen, now Indian. The exception was Corporal Hall, an air gunner by choice, and Wireless Operator Mechanic by trade. The IAF still faced shortages in man-power, especially in the field of radios. The IAF Airmen had come a long way from those early days of being the lowest of the low, but pay and conditions were still relatively poor. Having learnt their trade in the Air Force, men were still leaving for more lucrative jobs in the open market, so retaining wireless technicians was proving well-nigh impossible.
The kindhearted Flight Lieutenant Awan was the man chosen as Flight Commander for this war role in Karachi. As the man in charge, his weakness, at times, was that kind heart. The result was that officers often paid little or no attention to his orders. One night, when Harjinder was Orderly Sergeant, he went round the Flight barracks and saw a man sleeping under a blanket using his shoes as a pillow. He woke him up and found, to his utter surprise, that it was none other than their Flight Commander. When asked what he was up to, Awan began by cursing the royal name of Flying Officer Burhanuddin. He explained that this prince ‘fellow’ was the one detailed to be the Duty Pilot for the day. He kept quiet until the evening, before ringing Awan up to inform him of an invitation to the cinema by the Station Commander. Awan felt it unfair to detail another pilot on such short notice; besides, they had all done their bit. So he had borrowed a blanket from Sewa Singh, the Flight Store Keeper, and took the duties himself. When Harjinder said that he should allocate the next pilot on the list, Awan replied; ‘If it was only one day in a month, I would do it, but Burhanuddin has made it a practice to be invited by the Station Commander virtually every duty day.’
Guard duty was obviously not to the liking of royalty!
On 10th September 1939, a one-legged pilot came to visit. It was Group Captain Henderson, the Commander of the entire Aircraft Depot, Karachi. He saw Harjinder directing the Airmen in the erection of a canvas aircraft hangar. If you have ever had trouble with a small family tent, imagine wrestling with the heavy canvas of one big enough to put aircraft in. Apparently, Henderson was very impressed with Harjinder’s management skills. Later in the morning, Flight Sergeant Cooper called Harjinder in to his office to relate his chat with the Group Captain. Having seen the standard of his work, Henderson had requested Harjinder’s transfer to the Aircraft Depot where he would Commission him as an Officer. Henderson had 500 Indian non-combatant section personnel working in the RAF, and it was his plan to put them under an Indian Technical Officer.
Naturally, Harjinder was flattered by this offer. It would be an enormous step up in pay and status, but he felt strongly on the subject, and told Flight Sergeant Cooper that he would never leave the IAF. He had dedicated his life, since college, to make a success of the new IAF, and he told the Flight Sergeant that he did not mind remaining a NCO for the rest of his life. Once again, Harjinder had an RAF man call him a ‘bloody fool’, but the circumstances now were very different. Cooper was being very sincere and he liked Harjinder, so continued to persuade him to accept the offer of a Commission and stop being so ‘bloody-minded’. It was true that Harjinder was an NCO, but he was an Indian NCO. He had inferior status to a British NCO, with no jurisdiction over British Airmen, although, of course, the British NCOs had jurisdiction over him. The IAF technicians were openly told that there would never be promoted to Warrant Officer, the most senior rank an airman could attain, and therefore they would all remain NCOs for their complete careers. Despite the doom merchants, the men didn’t change their views. The esprit de corps of the fledgling service was too strong to break, and Harjinder was not going to desert them for the sake of becoming an officer.
A few days later, Flying Officer Jumbo Majumdar summoned Harjinder for a long talk. Someone from No. 1 Squadron had suggested that he talk with Harjinder to persuade him not to accept the commission he had been offered in the RAF. They felt that he was irreplaceable at this point in the IAF’s early life. Jumbo began by showing Harjinder a copy of the letter Henderson had written to Air Headquarters requesting him to be sent to the RAF. Jumbo told him that without his influence the future of technical personnel in the IAF, would be in jeopardy. He also said that sooner or later the IAF was going to expand, and then, he believed they would commission him as a Flying Officer directly.
Harjinder let Jumbo have his say before stepping in to assure him he had not joined the IAF just to get a thirty-five rupee job and to desert to the RAF at the first opportunity. He had as big a stake in building up an Indian Air Force as anybody else. He told him that he had already turned down the RAF offer. Jumbo was on his feet and all smiles. He shook hands with Harjinder saying; ‘I am proud to be your friend.’
It is probably at this point the two men changed from being colleagues, with mutual respect, to become the closest of friends, both with the unwavering resolve to see a strong IAF serving an independent India. It was the start of a very interesting partnership, now about to be hardened in combat.
Despite the pessimists there was movement on the promotion front. On 1st November 1939, Harjinder was promoted to the rank of Sergeant (Hawai Havildar), finally reaching the rank that was used as a joke by his course mates in training. He discovered that for the past three years, the officers had been recommending him for this promotion, but the British staff in Air Force Headquarters held out with the excuse that they had wanted at least three different Flight Commanders’ recommendations. The promotion created quite a stir in the Aircraft Depot, with several British NCOs paying a visit to ‘Q’ Flight to see what this enigma, this Indian with Sergeant Stripes, looked like! They had never expected to see this in their service life and several of them could be seen peering around corners and door frames to see this oddity in their world. As Flight Sergeant Cooper put it, the Sergeant is the real boss of a Flight. Well, being a Sergeant, he would say that, wouldn’t he?! The reality is that the Sergeant is the lynchpin that keeps the Squadron running smoothly. All of the officers were so delighted, that a party was arranged at Clifton Beach the next day.
Harjinder was allotted a special office containing all the aircraft log books. These books were now his responsibility. Additional responsibilities were to keep the Flight Inventory up to date on behalf of the Flight Sergeant. This promotion wasn’t just a stunt to have an Indian Sergeant; in fact, he took on more duties than a RAF Sergeant would. However, nobody was willing to take a decision regarding the issue of Harjinder’s uniform. A RAF Sergeant wore an open collar tunic with a black tie, like their officers, but the word came from upon high that Harjinder was not permitted to mirror his RAF colleagues. It meant that there would be a very visible difference between the RAF and the IAF. Naturally, then, the RAF Airmen would view the IAF differently from their RAF equivalent. Harjinder was proud of his new rank, but felt that it was devalued by being made to appear different and inferior to RAF Senior NCOs.
Once out of training, Harjinder’s military career involved serving with a majority of Indian Officers. Based upon mutual respect, he had built up very good relationships with them, and those who joined subsequently. Away from the day-to-day formalities, a bond of friendship existed between him, the founding Officers and the new arrivals. For instance, even Flying Officer Burhanuddin, the Prince from Chitral, came to Harjind
er for assistance, not to his fellow officers. He caught Harjinder at his desk and said, ‘Harjinder Bhai, I saw your wife driving about in your Talbot car. This put me to shame because I have never learned to drive, and me a pilot! You must teach me.’
It seems his shame was less about his abilities as a pilot not stretching to driving, than about the fact that a woman was commanding an automobile, whilst he could not!
So Harjinder began giving Burhanuddin driving lessons in a small, secondhand Morris which the Prince had purchased for this very task. However, this pilot seemed to be hopeless. He was entirely without mechanical sense, according to Harjinder. The grinding and shuddering of the gearbox could be heard echoing off the hangar walls. He just could not get the hang of changing gear, and could not understand why the damned gears were necessary, when in an aircraft just one throttle lever was all that was necessary to pick up speed. It took some persuasion to prevent him from running in first gear, engine screaming at full revs, as he tore around the airfield.
The Prince had not completely mastered the idea of changing gears, forcing it through the gearbox as he picked up speed. With this dubious level of skill, he viewed his problems to be at an end, saying; ‘Driving is pretty easy, after all. Even a child can do it. Now I must take my car out on the road.’