by Mike Edwards
That global war was one step too far for the long serving Wapiti; the flying shed, the lumbering ox, the festooned Christmas tree, the ultra-reliable collection of wire, fabric, oil and grease which had served them far beyond the wildest dreams of the original designers. However, a new ferocious enemy would surely call for a modern, state-of-the art aircraft wouldn’t it?
Seven
A New Aircraft but Old Prejudices
‘You people think you are superior to the RAF, but you are not. We come from a country which is the pivot of civilisation. Every man there is a born engineer.’
‘I have been in the RAF over 25 years, but I have never before met such a madcap like you, Flight Sergeant Harjinder Singh.’
‘Harjinder; to doubt your technical ability is to doubt one’s own existence. What they have tried to do to you is what I call the last kick of a dying mule.’
After the excitement of their year-long operational duty, it was back to Ambala. But for Harjinder the drudgery of training was partly offset by the chance to finally sample married life. It was unclear what role his IAF Squadron would play in the World War that was closing in around them, since Britain was under the cosh there was no doubt that the IAF would soon be in the thick of it. Their training was taking on a new edge; further heightened by the exciting news that No. 1 Squadron’s aging Wapiti would indeed finally be replaced. One of their Flights had already been equipped before they headed to the North-West Frontier to take over from Harjinder’s Wapitis; the Hawker Audax was a sprightlier biplane with sleek lines that showed the way to future designs. This was a temporary measure with plans to replace those machines on their return from the front. However, not all the Audax aircraft would return from that lawless Province. A certain Flying Officer Arjan Singh left his crumpled aircraft amongst the grey, boulders on that desolate landscape. Like Mehr ‘Baba’ Singh before him, Arjan took a rogue bullet through the forward fuselage that sliced through his fuel pipe as it exited. The rear gunner owed his life to Arjan Singh not once, but twice. Arjan kept death at arm’s length, using his unparalleled flying skills and carefully positioning the fuselage of their Audax between the scattered boulders. He accepted the loss of wings and wheels in the impact to keep him, and his gunner alive within the crumpling framework. The gunner’s second escape from death, came when he correctly fled from the wreckage, away from the chance of fire, and away from what was now a beacon to the tribal fighters. The problem was that he ran directly towards the fearsome, uncompromising, warriors. Arjan chased after him, with blood flowing down his face, throwing him onto the ground before pointing him in the correct direction and setting him off again like a racing greyhound. The scars from that crash are still visible today on Marshal Arjan Singh’s nose, and provide a very tangible link to the IAF biplane days over Afghanistan.
The eagerly awaited, new aircraft would be coming in the second half of 1941, so the men had to prepare for their new mount. The new aeroplane signalled the end of the biplane era, because the new Westland aircraft that they would take to war were monoplanes. The slab-like wings sat on top of the large barrel shaped fuselage. The large, round, radial engine, bolted on the front, was still only a development of the Wapiti’s engine, but it gave more power. This was no slick machine like the Spitfire or Hurricane. The long, gangly undercarriage was fixed, not retractable, with 2 machine-guns in the wheel covers and little stub winglets that could only carry tiny practice bombs. The long glasshouse that extended rearwards from the pilot’s cockpit, under the slab wing to the observer/air gunner in the back, had a sliding rear section to uncover Harjinder’s only, doubtful, offensive capability; the rear facing machine gun. Perched high atop the fuselage, with the wings extending out at his head level, the pilot’s visibility was excellent to carry out the aircraft’s designed role as an Army cooperation machine. This was not a new aircraft in the RAF inventory by any stretch of the imagination, with its poor top speed and complete vulnerability to fighters.
1st April 1941 was another big day for the IAF. Having proved themselves in operations over the past years, and equipped with a training system that was producing sufficient numbers, No. 2 Squadron, IAF, was raised at Peshawar. The command was initially given to Flight Lieutenant AB Awan. You would expect a new Squadron, especially in time of war, to be raised with cutting edge equipment. Not so for the IAF’s second squadron. They had the cast-off, hand me down aircraft from their sister unit, No. 1 Squadron – the now utterly obsolete, Westland Wapiti. It had a unit establishment of 20 officers and 164 men and they took their Wapitis to war as coastal reconnaissance machines. Harjinder had to say goodbye to six officers from No. 1 Squadron who were sent to the new squadron, and hello to another seven arriving from training to replace them. Flight Lieutenant Aspy Engineer, the teenage pilot who flew from London to India to win the Aga Khan trophy, became the commander of this new IAF Squadron in June 1941. The band of brothers, the Musketeers, were being whittled down, but Harjinder found solace in the fact that ultimately, this was what he, and the other founders, had been yearning for; expansion! They had a credible air force, and now it was doubling in size.
In Ambala, Harjinder stepped straight back into a towering wave of resentment from the British personnel. They resented the fact that British personnel had been shunted off the base at Fort Sandeman during the IAF’s stay, even though it was a location which they had previously complained about to anyone who had the misfortune to enquire about the conditions at that outpost. The British Sergeants and Warrant Officers began to shun him as the instigator of the ‘Indianisation’ plan. In Headquarters, Harjinder’s desire to officially continue working with his hands, developing his role, was recognised and a month later, he was detailed to undergo the Fitter 1 Conversion Course he had wanted so badly to enrol in.
Harjinder’s Indian colleagues hinted that he ought to watch his back during the course, but he laughed it off. He assumed that a college education, years of practical experience, the extra work in the Engine Repair Shops, all reinforced by knowledge gained at Aircraft Depot at Karachi, would be all that was required to sail through the course. Why should he ‘watch out’? Harjinder wrote: ‘I was not worried at all. I thought I will teach the Chief Technical Officer (who happened to be the old ex-Warrant Officer Herbert from Karachi, now commissioned as a Squadron Leader) quite a few things, leave aside others below him. My Commanding Officer ( Jumbo Majumdar had taken over as the Commanding Officer) also warned that I would be the target of the whole RAF, being the first, and the only, Indian Flight Sergeant. They would do their best to pull me down.’
Harjinder assured his boss that he could take care of himself.
Harjinder reported to the now Squadron Leader Herbert, at the School of Technical Training, who was far from welcoming, ‘I do not think you will pass out as Fitter 1. I advise you to return to the Squadron under some pretext or the other.’
Harjinder recovered from his shock and, not one to take an insult lying down, retorted that he had joined the IAF only for one purpose; to prove that Indians could do anything which RAF technicians’ could, in fact, they could do even better.
Herbert was enraged. How dare this Indian Flight Sergeant talk back to him like that! His blinkered sensibilities couldn’t conceive of an intelligent Indian airman, he assumed they were all useless and trying to teach them would be a waste of his time. He was about to be proven very wrong. Before Harjinder could even join the class, Herbert wanted to check his basic knowledge, proving that he really didn’t know Harjinder at all! He started by asking him what a Eutectic alloy was. Harjinder smiled and answered correctly. Herbert tried to ask him other complicated questions to catch him out, but naturally, failed. Harjinder had been a theoretical engineer long before being a ‘hands on’ engineer. Herbert became more and more infuriated, and as Harjinder admitted, he became cockier with his replies. Squadron Leader Herbert ended the interview, furious.
Harjinder joined Abdul Salaam, U.K. Nair, Rabbani and Harchand Singh, the other
Indian classmates on the course. Part of the course was elementary mathematics, which Harjinder felt was inferior to his High School standards. However, the despair of going back to basics, and the return of the blinkered RAF personnel around him, was offset by joy in another direction. The Lysander aircraft would soon be arriving into the IAF, so the training programme was in full swing for the technicians. It might not be a fighter aircraft, a Spitfire or Hurricane, or even a light bomber, but the Lysander was a step up from the old Wapiti.
Finally, it was time for the final examination for the fitter’s course. The Indians had worked far beyond the course’s requirements, any doubts they might have had about their performance were banished. On the morning of the exams, Squadron Leader Herbert put in an appearance and asked to see Harjinder. He was taking no chances, and had decided to examine Harjinder himself. Herbert’s excuse, ‘Because you are the senior-most Indian and about to become a Warrant Officer, we must not leave anything to chance.’
Whether Herbert was insulting, or complimenting, Harjinder, remains unclear, but he was predicting that Harjinder would become the first Indian Warrant Officer, so Harjinder played his part in this charade. Besides, he wanted to show off his knowledge to the man who had doubted his abilities right from the beginning. After Herbert had finished the examination, there was little doubt he had been won over by Harjinder.
But he also gave a grave warning. ‘There are higher politics over which I have no control.’
What had he meant by this? Once again Harjinder shrugged off this ominous warning, not taking note of those who knew the system and how the system worked. It certainly seemed as if all was in order because the following week, when the results were published, Harjinder had passed with a ‘credit’.
On the day prior to their departure from the Station, Herbert called Harjinder once again. The Commanding Officer had ordered Harjinder to take the original Sergeants’ Confirmation-in-Rank Test. Harjinder pointed out that he passed all that in 1937, with honours no less, and consequently was appointed an Instructor at RAF Station Peshawar. There were no more examinations for him to take. Herbert seemed happy with Harjinder’s response, so told him just to appear in the Lysander Conversion Course, and impress all the staff with all the new ‘gen’ he had picked up. That would be an end to it all.
Naturally it wasn’t. Harjinder and the others, who were Acting Sergeants, were asked to sit an examination at the end of the course. They assumed it was a Lysander Conversion exam but as they took their places in the examination room, it became clear that the test had nothing to do with the subject at hand. All questions were ridiculously simple and pertaining to Wapiti repairs. We know Harjinder had become the world’s expert in putting shattered Wapitis together even if HQ had little knowledge of it! Harjinder’s first instinct was to walk out of the examination hall. On second thoughts, however, he felt sure of sweeping all the questions before him. He dived into the exam, actually taking some delight in it. He raced through the questions in about half the allotted time. Once he had finished he walked over to the Squadron Leader Herbert’s office, informed him about the ‘mistake’ with the exam, all before the allocated time was over.
However, Herbert had a bigger surprise for Harjinder. He gave him a copy of the daily duty orders, which, unusually, had not been made available to Harjinder’s team that morning. Harjinder read the duty orders, motionless, seething with rage. ‘The following Senior NCOs of the IAF are to appear in the Acting Sgts Confirmation Test today’ was the title with a list of names topped with Harjinder’s. He had been conned into the exam room to sit the Sergeants’ Confirmation Test.
After their previous conversation, Harjinder was furious. He asked Herbert how this could have been allowed to go unchecked, but Herbert, very matter-of-factly reminded him of their previous conversation, this was the higher politics he had warned Harjinder about.
So Harjinder and the others waited, checking the notice board for the results of the completely irrelevant exam. They had sat two papers, each with an expected pass mark of 70 per cent. For two days, their results were held back, and declared only one hour before their departure for Peshawar. Harjinder had scored 96 per cent in Paper ‘A’ and 69.5 per cent in Paper ‘B’. So that was it; a fail – Harjinder would to be prevented from being promoted to Warrant Officer. One can only assume that they didn’t want him repeating the same experiment as he had done with the Flight at Fort Sandeman, with the Indians taking over!
Trembling with rage, Harjinder walked into Squadron Leader Herbert’s Office and demanded to see his answer sheet. The very act of Herbert showing Harjinder, in confidence, the offending examination sheet demonstrated had had been won over by Harjinder’s knowledge and performance. Harjinder scanned through his answer sheet twice. Everything was correct except where the examiner had written in the margin, ‘What is this?’ in red ink, next to a well-known, and widely used abbreviation. Harjinder knew his fight was no longer with Herbert. He politely thanked the Squadron Leader and asked his permission to copy his exam paper. Herbert readily agreed, but asked him to keep it to himself.
Storming out of the base, Harjinder, picked up his belongings and without a word to the other IAF Engineers, all who were awarded passes in the exam, left for the train station. Harjinder with a temper was a fearsome prospect, and so on that train to Peshawar, all the others kept their distance from the volcano that was threatening to blow. At Peshawar, Harjinder burst into Jumbo Majumdar’s office, only to be informed that the Commanding Officer was away on an inspectional visit to Miranshah. He knew that Jumbo was the only one who would feel the depth of rage as he had, and who would take up the cudgels on his behalf, fight the RAF brass, if need be, and see that justice was done. Harjinder was not one to sit and brood, he was a man of action. He requested an immediate flight to Miranshah to see him.
As the Wapiti finished the landing run, and taxied towards the parking area at Miranshah, Harjinder was already released from his monkey chain and swinging his legs over the side. He jumped down onto the hard packed ground before striding out to track Jumbo down. From the moment Jumbo saw Harjinder, he knew something was about to need his undivided attention. Trying to keep his anger in check, and his voice level, Harjinder laid the story out in front of him. Any doubt Harjinder may have had on Jumbo’s stance was immediately dispelled, ‘Harjinder, to doubt your technical ability is to doubt one’s own existence. What they have tried to do to you is what I call the last kick of a dying mule. I promise to fight your case until we win. I shall appeal to the Air Ministry, if required. You leave it to me.’
So Harjinder left it to him, knowing that Jumbo Majumdar was a man of his word. He let the rage slowly drain from his body. Jumbo arranged for Harjinder to fly in the rear cockpit of his Wapiti on the return flight home, the next day. Strapped into the rear cockpit, Harjinder brooded over the events. It seemed that the enemy they were heading towards was no longer the tribes squatting in the ravines and behind the boulders, but the British in Delhi Headquarters. The following day Jumbo, true to his word, had written the letter to Air HQ. It read:
‘Flight Sergeant Harjinder Singh is not an ordinary airman. Before he joined the IAF he had a political trend of mind, but it is fortunate for the IAF that he eventually has followed the right ideas. He is the mainstay of my Squadron, an inspiration to his juniors, and an excellent guide to my junior officers. He has proved his technical abilities time and again. He studied Engineering for five years before he joined the IAF. If the Air Headquarters have any doubts, he is prepared to compete with any technical officer of the RAF in India or abroad in a written or practical test. If he fails to beat him, he is prepared to revert back to LAC rank. I, who know him more than anyone else, guarantee that if he fails, I am prepared to revert back to my substantive rank of Flying Officer.’
It was more than Harjinder could have hoped for. He was fully reassured and left the matter in Jumbo’s hands, throwing himself into his work with renewed determination.
&
nbsp; That letter set in motion a series of events that unfolded at breakneck speed. It appeared that the Commanding Officer of the Training School had also written a letter to Air Headquarters, but to complain about Harjinder’s behaviour. The Group Captain flew to Peshawar and addressed the Indian Squadron’s Officers and men. It seems he may have taken inspiration from Sir John Steel in his methods of man management. He began; ‘You people think you are superior to the RAF, but you are not. We come from a country which is the pivot of civilisation. Every man there is a born engineer. Some of your Senior NCOs have criticised our instructors at school. I am warning you all that we shall not spare any undisciplined man.’
Jumbo, who was standing to this RAF Officer’s right, winked at Harjinder and smiled as the Group Captain unleashed his antiquated ideals.
The Group Captain then asked Commanding Officers of both No. 1 Squadron and No. 2 Squadron to fly to Ambala immediately to see the disputed papers. On reaching, they were on the receiving end of a technical lecture from Flight Lieutenant Harper as he tried to prove that his marking scheme was fool proof. Jumbo could see no logic to what he was being told and so fired back at Harper, ‘Of course, my challenge on Harjinder still stands. I am not going to withdraw that letter. He wishes to send these papers to Air Ministry for marking.’
Having seen the exam with his own eyes Jumbo returned with even greater confidence in Harjinder than before.
Air Headquarters realised they were walking into a minefield, and so suggested that Harjinder reappear in the examination. He dismissed that request immediately, saying it was an insult to his abilities and his moral compass. Air Headquarters took a different line and wrote to Jumbo to inform him that the Technical School had been instructed to send Harjinder’s answer books to the Air Ministry, for marking. However, on receipt of the request, the Training School replied that they were sorry to inform all concerned, that the papers were lost. A very convenient, if desperately unoriginal, excuse! So it was decreed that there was no alternative and Harjinder would have to reappear in the test. No one in the IAF took this retest seriously. A smug Harper unabashedly approached Harjinder, when he was leaving Ambala, to drive home that all their efforts were in vain. ‘If the School of Technical Training does not want to pass a man, he fails. No one in India can do a thing about it, least of all a Squadron Leader of the IAF’ (meaning the outspoken Jumbo Majumdar, of course).