Spitfire Singh

by Mike Edwards

  Harjinder’s chest puffed out when he heard his Squadron being called ‘The Jumbo Squadron’, a most appropriate name. Less than three months since they left India, and everyone’s perception of them seemed to have changed.

  The praise poured in. Harjinder stayed in the Senior NCO’s Mess with an astounding mix of American, British, Australian, and other nations’ personnel. Every man wanted to talk with Harjinder, and not only did they know about the IAF, but they all raved about the Squadron’s exploits. Harjinder delighted in pointing out that even though he had been ordered out, the pilots were still flying, helping in whatever way possible during the fighting retreat.

  It was only later that Harjinder discovered just how true these words were about the continuing IAF operations. Pilot Officer Rajinder Singh had no problem finding Rangoon, because the main body of smoke billowing from the refinery was like a beacon. He was forced to fly through smoke erupting from fires all around Rangoon; landing there was going to be interesting. The Japanese were flowing through the city and had reached the city’s main airfield. The defenders still had a fingernail hold on the West side of the airfield, as Singh’s Lysander scraped over the fence and abandoned vehicles, to touch down. Somehow, two RAF Hurricane pilots had squashed in to the single rear gunner’s seat. Two Hurricane fighters had been damaged earlier in an air raid, but some of the RAF technicians, clearly wanting to show that they were also as brave as the IAF, had managed to bring them to a flyable, if not pretty, condition. With Hurricanes at a premium, Jumbo had authorised the very risky mission. Singh kept the Lysander’s engine running as the two pilots prised themselves out of the single seat, dropped to the ground, and ran to the waiting Hurricanes as two Japanese aircraft roared overhead. The three machines lifted off together – the last Allied aircraft out of Rangoon.

  Back in the North of Burma, the melee of Magwe was enacted against the stunning beauty of the Burmese sunset. As the sun lowered itself behind the Arkan hills, its rosy glow cast a spotlight over the vulnerable Indian/Burmese border. The mountains seemed to float like clouds amid the dust and flames that signalled the collapse of the British Empire to their South.

  Most of the IAF had left Magwe over the last few days, but it was not until the 8th March 1942 that Harjinder was down to the last few members of his team waiting to get out of Burma. During the night, Japanese bombers had turned up unannounced, and destroyed some of the aircraft on the ground. The airfield was smoking, rubble and metal shards were scattered liberally around. Another shock was when the Japanese field guns announced they were now close enough to throw their deadly shells into the mix. The allied fighters, including the AVG, tried to locate them and keep them silent for as much of the day as possible. It was a hive of activity, but somehow, through the chaos, there seemed to be some order, with aircraft arriving and leaving through the smoke and occasional explosions. The word was already circulating that Magwe was to be abandoned by the end of the day. Harjinder and team assembled to await their turn for a plane ride out.

  The Governor’s retreat from Rangoon, and charge to Magwe, was slowed down by a bridge being blown up prematurely. Harjinder could see the refugees also massing at the airfield in the hope to get a flight home. At the front of the mass was the 16 year-old Ramesh Benegal, his mother, an elderly relative, and his two older brothers, who James Lansdale Hodson had passed on his arrival in Burma only days earlier. James was ahead of the Governor into this nest of humanity, abandoning the car amongst the refugees before finding someone in a position of authority to try and negotiate his flight out.

  Harjinder and his men were ready to depart, but even this retreat could not dampen their spirits. The Parsee boys volunteered to go in the last aircraft with Harjinder, and he spent the time thinking about these boys who had done what was asked of them, and much, much, more. That day he wrote;

  ‘Although we are happy because we are heading for home, in our heart of hearts, we are sad because we are being made to run away from the field of war. The only consolation we have is that we have done our best, and our worth has received due recognition. So, when our turn comes to emplane, we walk up the ramp with smiles on our faces and our heads held high. We have been able to look at our colleagues of the RAF squarely in the face, as though to say, “We have shown our worth. Don’t ever feel superior, again.”’

  In the Captain’s seat of one of the waiting transport aircraft was Indian pilot Biju Patnaik. His orders were to wait for the delayed Governor’s convoy. It was his second trip that day into Magwe and, as he watched the refugees being pushed away, he decided he couldn’t wait idly by anymore. In the smoke, and confusion, he called over a group of the Indian refugees to fill his aircraft. There was only room for the women and the elderly, so Ramesh Benegal, his brothers and his uncle said good bye to his mother, one of the lucky ones to be plucked from the crowd. The pilot must have received the reprimand of his career for not waiting when the Governor eventually arrived at Magweand realised that his aircraft had left without him. He had to continue the drive for a considerable distance to another remote strip, Myitkyina, where the RAF managed to get air transport for him. Meanwhile, Biju Patnaik had saved Ramesh’s mother, along with the plane full of his kinsfolk. His flying career may have been compromised, but later he went on to become the Chief Minister of the Indian state of Orissa.

  Back in Magwe, Harjinder, and 13 of his team, made their way over to the silver-coloured American Flying Fortress bomber. They settled into the belly of the aircraft. The door was closed once, but then briefly flung open for another man to enter. James Lansdale Hodson wriggled his way on to the aircraft. The American pilot called back; ‘All the crap in now?’ He must have got a thumbs up from somewhere because with a shout of ‘Ok. Let’s go!’ the door slammed signalling the end of Harjinder’s Burma adventure.

  When their Flying Fortress touched down, James and Harjinder both went their separate ways. James went to find a train to take him to Delhi, and Harjinder was met by a Flight Lieutenant Shafi, who embraced him in typical Indian fashion. He excitedly told Harjinder how proud he was of the Squadron and about all the press releases on No. 1 Squadron’s exploits in Burma. Harjinder asked to see Flight Lieutenant Rup Chand, but confusingly, he was told that Rup Chand would be arriving the next day! On seeing the puzzled expression on Harjinder’s face the story of Rup Chand’s narrow escape was told. The aircraft made an emergency landing and had to be abandoned; Rup Chand finished his journey by sea. So much for the ‘favour’ Harjinder did by sending him out first!

  Jumbo and team flew until the 11th, covering the retreat, but eventually, they were ordered to hand over the majority of the faithful Lysanders to the Burmese Communications Unit. Four Lysanders did make it back to India. The final aircraft, P9180, was the Lysander Harjinder first rebuilt after the landing accident a lifetime ago in India, before fitting it with his first of his wooden tail-wheels.

  An IAF pilot and an air gunner had been lost but the rest of No. 1 Squadron, IAF, was back in India.

  At Magwe, Ramesh Benegal’s relief at his mother’s safety was short lived. Magwe was not to be his gateway to freedom. Ramesh, and his brothers set off to try and walk to India, but were unsuccessful. The Japanese overtook them, but through a combination of good luck, and quick thinking, their lives were spared. They were briefly held by the Japanese soldiers before being ordered back to Rangoon.

  Although much younger, Ramesh was very similar to Harjinder and their paths would cross again. Ramesh was also driven to see an Independent India and, like Harjinder in 1932, he also thought that air power was the key. Ramesh believed it would be through the Japanese that India could gain Independence. Ramesh decided to join the Indian National Army, the Azad Hind, being formed in Burma by the Japanese. He became one of only ten Indians who were selected to travel to Japan to train as pilots, and serve in the Japanese backed Air Arm of the Indian National Army. The trip to Japan became a marathon, involving being torpedoed in a troop ship, abandoned on the railway
system, narrowly avoiding starvation, and by the time he arrived in Japan, he found that the war was already on the turn. He finished his basic soldier training, and started flying training, when he witnessed the firebombing of Tokyo. The next time Harjinder crossed paths with Ramesh, it was not over the battlefield, as could so easily have happened, but when they were both pilots in the Air Force of an independent India!

  The last words on the retreat through Burma have to go to Harjinder:

  ‘It has been a great experience. It was a great hour to live through.’

  He had lived through the ‘great hour,’ but there was the small fact that the Indians, the British, the Allies, were losing the war. The Japanese had moved on to Indian soil.

  Ten

  To India: To England: To Jail?

  ‘Actually, we came to arrest you.’

  ‘In the past we have met some of your countrymen who claimed to know everything on earth, but on discussion we found their knowledge limited and shallow.’

  The Squadron was reunited in India. Jumbo and Raza were the last out, almost overtaken by the Japanese; it had been a close call. The enormous emotional crash after the intensity of combat, and the jungle, was partially cushioned by the men experiencing the bliss of reunion with their families after the life-changing events in Burma. The families had little warning of their menfolk’s departure, although they knew it was only a matter of time. The news that came out of Burma during their separation was infrequent, and delayed, but as the exploits splashed across front pages, it left no doubt that they were in the thick of it. As Burma crumbled to the Japanese, the anxiety must have been unbearable; constantly building and building. However, out of Burma came all of the ground crew, and all bar one of the flight crews (Deuskar and Dhora). No mean feat against the ‘unstoppable’ enemy in the unforgiving conditions they’d fought in. Now, for a time, the families were back ogether. Harjinder’s wife was on the mend, if still not fully recovered; Jumbo was back to his wife and young daughter. It may have been a retreat, but the pride of the ‘Jumbo Squadron’ knew no bounds.

  The achievements and accolades of the Jumbo Squadron were known far and wide; a heartening story of resistance in a sea of bad news. Jumbo was held up as the figurehead, but Harjinder was becoming a well-known figure too, not only because he was the senior-most Technical Warrant Officer in the Service, but also because Jumbo, and other well-wishers, had heaped praise on him The Public Relations department of the military went into overdrive to disseminate this positive twist on what was, in reality, a disaster.

  As the rest of the Squadron were enjoying their brief period of leave, the Indian Defence Secretary sent for Harjinder and Jumbo. When the Secretary heard Harjinder’s story, he was visibly stunned with the details of his early days, and immediately ordered production of a film to depict his life for use in the IAF recruitment drive.

  Jumbo and Harjinder would come together to make the film, but in terms of No. 1 Squadron, IAF, it was time for the two men, to part. Their partnership was special, for a special time. In 1949, K.N. Dutt wrote about that Jumbo/Harjinder relationship as they emerged from the jungle combat:

  ‘The intrepid Harjinder Singh served with Jumbo as an air gunner. He attached himself to Jumbo body and soul, with such affection and admiration as are quite exceptional. Karun ( Jumbo) himself reposed great trust in Harjinder’s qualities as a man and as a technician.’

  In a subsequent meeting, Harjinder told Dutt; ‘the inspiration of that great man is the motive power in my life.’

  Jumbo was posted to Head Quarters in Delhi. He was now the most senior man in the IAF, jumping ahead of several of his IAF pilot colleagues, and it was felt that he could best serve his country at the helm of the IAF. Flying a desk was not in Jumbo’s nature, but he understood that this was from where he could fulfil his dream of ten squadrons in the IAF. His thirst to be in the thick of things would not let him inhabit an office, at least not for long. His office needed to be a cockpit.

  Harjinder, along with No. 1 Squadron, was stationed to Hyderabad in Central India. The Nizam of Hyderabad became increasingly jittery when the Japanese occupied the Andaman Islands, raided Calcutta, Kocanada and Madras, and with their aircraft carriers found in the Indian Ocean. The Nizam had begun to suspect that the Raj, under which he and his forefathers had flourished to amass astounding wealth, was not invincible. He wanted air cover, so re-equipping the Squadron directly under the nose of the Nizam made sense. He wanted fighters, but, for the moment, he got Lysanders. However, it was the Lysanders of the famous Jumbo Squadron and that seemed to allay his fears for the short term. He clearly didn’t know that the Lysanders were now completely obsolete.

  As the command of No. 1 Squadron, IAF, passed from Jumbo, a tragedy befell Flight Lieutenant Rup Chand when one of his sons died. It was a grievous blow to him, and it also seemed to him that No. 1 Squadron IAF was now apparently finished with fighting for some time, so he resigned his commission and went home.

  The sudden departure of, not one but, two of their fearless leaders, left the Squadron feeling lost without their leading lights. A team that has served together in combat finds itself bound together in their deep knowledge of each other, this was going to make life very difficult for Jumbo and Rup Chand’s replacements.

  It was a reunion with Mukerjee for Harjinder, but as the new boss, Mukerjee was obviously going to find it hard to become part of that tight knit team. Rup Chand’s replacement was, as Adjutant, a bit of a ‘stick-in-the-mud’ and believed in following King’s Regulations to the absolute letter. Mukerjee understandably seemed to begrudge the cocky attitude of the members of the Squadron, feeling that they put on too many airs about having seen active service.

  The new Adjutant made his position felt early on. It resulted in many Airmen being severely punished on minor charges, confined to camp, and carrying out marching drill in full battle dress in the Hyderabad mid-day heat. Worst of all for Harjinder, he was detailed to supervise these punishments. Harjinder took a few days’ leave to spend some time with his wife, only to find on his return, the irrepressible Parsee Gang locked up in the adjacent Army camp, sent there by the Adjutant.

  Next on the Adjutant’s list was ordering the Airmen to dig slit trenches, allocating an area which was known to be very rocky. Harjinder appealed for a more sensible site, but to no avail. The results were obviously slow, and when the Mukerjee came to see the progress, which had amounted to only 3 inches for a morning’s work, he vented his anger. He laid the blame on the senior Airmen, including Harjinder, claiming they had been slack in supervision. Harjinder knew that arguing would get him nowhere, so he requested the officers to supervise the digging. When they saw the picks bouncing off the layers of rock, the idea was finally abandoned. Life after combat can be difficult, but this pettiness justly caused Harjinder’s mood to spiral down.

  One event descended into comedy, but also showed how the men feared the Adjutant. Harjinder was forced to supervise four men whose punishment was marching drill, at double time, in the scorching heat. The sweating bodies were running up and down, turning on Harjinder’s orders given with as much sympathy as he could muster into his voice. There was a strong wind blowing that day, and during one particularly strong gust, Harjinder’s order to about turn, and head back towards him, was rendered unintelligible by the breeze. Harjinder was known to have a voice that would command whole parade grounds, so this must have been a veritable hurricane. Not hearing any order the men continued, in good military fashion, exiting the parade ground and carrying on at break neck speed through the dust. Harjinder initially shouted for his bicycle but realised he would lose them forever without immediate action, so set off after the men. By the time he reached them, they had run nearly a mile, across a ditch and over several hedges, and were bathed in perspiration, and scratched from head to foot. Harjinder felt terrible and thought this was ‘punishment’ enough for one day, so ordered a stop to the proceedings. However, all four told him not to do so in case he
got into trouble. ‘We are prepared to carry on until the time is up. If the Adjutant comes to know of our being let off, he would report you to the Commanding Officer.’

  Things improved during April and May, returning to the job at hand to do some intensive training. The pilots once again had focus as they took to the air again. Most were now seasoned veterans; there were also a few new boys who had to be brought up to standard. They took the battered Lysanders with which they had been re-equipped, up into the clear sky above Hyderabad to carry out dive-bombing, flight formations, dog fight procedures, camouflage observation, army cooperation, reconnaissance and low level attacks. Harjinder could also get back to his old tricks and it wasn’t long before the tea would soon be required in large quantities. He spotted a No. 20 Squadron RAF Lysander lying in one of the canvas hangars. The sorry looking aircraft had crashed on the 20th January 1942. After five months of no progress, a RAF Flight Sergeant finally came over to ask for Harjinder’s help. It was literally in a thousand pieces, the parts spread out all over the hangar floor like the intestines of some grotesque beast. On inspection, however, Harjinder discovered that the actual damage was not so extensive. He further enraged the RAF Sergeant telling him that instead of ‘playing about with it for four months’ it was a four day job for the IAF to fix the machine.

  The Flight Sergeant first thought that Harjinder was joking, but on realising that he was serious, he threw down a challenge; always a mistake with Harjinder. Harjinder asked the RAF Flight Sergeant for complete control of the hangar, to withdraw all his men, and to come back on the fifth day. He agreed, but went away shaking his head in disbelief at this obviously deluded Indian.

  Harjinder called Flight Sergeant Siddique, showed him the job, and told him to get cracking. As per their usual practice, the Airmen were soon working away, busy as bees, with Harjinder ensuring that they remained fortified with the IAF Engineer’s elixir of choice, tea.