Spitfire Singh

by Mike Edwards

  Bruce had nowhere to go, and you would like to think that he could see the fault of his comments, but that does, alas, seem doubtful. He reported sick and applied for two weeks leave, using the time to get posted to Air Headquarters. One can only imagine the stories he told around the Corridors of Power about the ‘useless Foreign Officers’. Back at Kohat, Harjinder received a tongue-lashing of biblical proportions, and quite rightly so. Harjinder knew that he deserved it, and felt that he had let Mukerjee down. However, no British Officer ever tried to elevate himself above the Indian Officers at Kohat after the boxing lesson. He had won a small battle, but Harjinder was drained, disheartened, and at the end of his tether.

  Matters in Kohat seemed to go from bad to worse. The good news from Europe, with the Germans pushed out of Greece, the Soviets entering Yugoslavia, and Strasbourg falling, was of little consolation in the Badlands of the North-West Frontier. Harjinder was to encounter a challenge that would take his mind off the internal conflict, and it would involve the tea urns at full pressure again. On the 15th November 1944, Flying Officer Akhtar, of No. 3 Squadron IAF, slowed his Hurricane down, dropping the flaps and undercarriage, ready to land. He still had too much speed as he crossed the airfield fence, so, instead of touching down, he floated just above the runway, the camouflaged fighter still not ready to give up its lift and land. Even with the canopy slid back for landing, you can’t see around the nose of a Hurricane. With his peripheral vison, Akhtar saw the runway edges disappearing at speed on either side, but he seemed determined to land from this approach. There was no burst from the engine to take the Hurricane back into the air for another attempt, just runway distance being eaten up very quickly as the speed slowly bled away. When the wheels finally touched down, kicking up a spurt of dust from the runway, he had no chance to stop before crossing the track that ran around the perimeter beyond. On that track was transport from another age, unchanged for centuries, a rough wooden cart being pulled by a bullock. The modern world and ancient world collided. The poor beast of burden didn’t have a chance as the Hurricane slammed into it. The death of the ox saved Akhtar, slowing his machine, before it went on to hit the steel perimeter fence. Akhtar was alive but the aircraft was badly damaged, looking like a scene from a horror movie, with bullock blood and flesh draped over it. The cart was shattered, tucked underneath the aircraft belly.

  The RAF pilots faced no charges if a machine was repaired within four days, no matter what the damage, so Harjinder stepped forward to once again save the reputation of his pilots. The usual high pressure repair routine was activated, with the men working day and night, in three shifts, powered by steaming hot tea. By 10:00 hours on the 18th November 1944, the bloodied, battered Hurricane was repaired, cleaned, and back on its wheels; all that was needed was a pilot. There was an army exercise on about 30 miles outside Kohat, where Mukerjee and Squadron Leader Prithipal Singh had gone to participate, and talk Army/Air Force cooperation. It was Prithipal who, as a young Pilot Officer, had crashed his Wapiti in Sandeman, sitting in the wreck with the engine still running.

  So D.S. ‘Dipi’ Majithia, the Flight Commander, stepped up, with a plan to fly low enough for the number on the side of the aircraft to been seen by the Station, and the Squadron, Commander. It was a simple idea. When the senior officers saw the Hurricane flying within the 4-day time window, the damage would not have gone on record, and Akhtar would be saved. The plan was a good one except… Dipi really, really enjoyed low flying. After circling overhead to get their initial attention, he disappeared out of sight, pushing the spade grip on the control column forward to take his solid Hurricane down to tree top level. Jinking left and right around the obstacles, he came screaming in. The senior officers were his target, and he headed straight for them as he eased even lower. They were forced to throw themselves to the ground, believing that their heads were in danger of being removed by the thrashing propeller, a not-unfounded belief. Mukerjee had certainly seen the Hurricane’s LD 486 side number from his position spread-eagled on the floor! Mukerjee’s message was not one of congratulations, but instructions to arrest the pilot. Poor Dipi! Harjinder admitted he did not have the moral courage to face Dipi, he was only trying to save the other pilot’s career, and the good name of the IAF. Harjinder had done his magic with the spanner, and now he did his magic with Mukerjee. It took a while for Harjinder to soothe his commander, but he finally talked him out of arresting Dipi. The incident could not be kept quiet though, and so it was not long before the period of grace following a crash was reduced from four days to two. That did not stop Harjinder, of course. Even within this new time limit, they repaired every crash that occurred at Kohat. Two days was enough to replace an engine, fit a new wing, or replace a propeller. Eventually, the IAF Squadron received the trophy for the most accident-free Squadron in India!

  Harjinder and Subroto Mukerjee had different approaches to achieving the long-term goal of an independent IAF. Mukerjee was more political, and therefore, often more tolerant; concerned that pushing too hard would result in the loss of his command, which would mean an end to their progress. In comparison, Harjinder was more in-your-face and uncompromising. Mukerjee was constantly reprimanding Harjinder in private for his ‘bloody-mindedness’, an accusation he could not deny. When Harjinder found out that Field Marshal Auchinleck was personally planning to invest him with his MBE medal, he told Mukerjee he would return it, as it was a political, and not a military decoration. Harjinder had been thrilled at first with his MBE, but his opinion changed when he heard of another officer being awarded the same decoration. Harjinder considered this man a crook with no outstanding service, and so it devalued the award in his mind. As usual, Subroto talked him out of his resolve by saying that his action would be considered as an insult to the King Emperor and would affect Indianisation.

  ‘All our efforts and sufferings of the past eleven years will have been in vain.’

  Harjinder avoided the issue by taking leave when the Field Marshal visited, an action that wouldn’t have been missed by Auchinleck, but the MBE remained in place. Later in his career, when Harjinder returned to England, he realised just how much the respect the MBE commanded. In several shops, still under supply restrictions, he would get the standard ‘not in stock’ reply to his requests. When they spotted the distinctive red ribbon on his uniform tunic they would apologise for not initially seeing he was a Member of the Order, and the under-the-counter supplies would appear. He came to be very proud of his MBE, even if it was not a passport to heaven, and he continued to use the letters after his name throughout his life as a matter of principle, even when the Government of the Independent India ordered the removal of these awards because they were viewed as part of the old Raj.

  However, back in Kohat, the issues with the RAF continued.

  While Mukerjee and Harjinder’s history went back to the earliest days of the IAF, their personal relationship became even stronger now that they were brother officers. Even though Harjinder held Mukerjee in high regard, they were two very different individuals – this was perhaps the wrong time in the history of the IAF for a fruitful partnership to develop between these two men.

  Harjinder felt that he could no longer take this tip-toe approach, so he took the difficult step to appeal for a posting to Lahore on compassionate grounds, not entirely an untruth, as his wife had still not recovered completely from her surgery. Mukerjee forwarded the application with a strong recommendation, making no bones about his sense of relief at being rid of a black sheep, at what he saw as a delicate time for the IAF. Harjinder wrote; ‘I can’t say I blame him; he was always the mild, middle-of-the-road professional. Who knows, perhaps he was the one who was wiser. But wisdom or no, I had had enough of pandering to the British Officers. I had seen them in England; the RAF, the Army and the civilian. There they were a sterling people. But only the dregs seemed to come out to India; either that or they come here and then sink to the bottom as dregs.’

  So it would seem strange that lat
er, Harjinder would write of the next twelve months in Kohat as the happiest of his service career. That was because the day after requesting his posting, a signal arrived from Air Headquarters announcing a change at Kohat. Mukerjee was moved further up the chain. His tip-toe approach had been successful, for both him, and the IAF base.

  His move up made room for Aspy Engineer to take over as the new Officer Commanding, Kohat. Engineer, one of Bouchier’s original musketeers from the IAF’s early days, the pioneering 17-year-old who won the Aga Khan trophy for his solo flight, was a very different man from Mukerjee. Harjinder ‘jumped with joy, unashamedly’. He promptly withdrew his application, and life changed for the better.

  Aspy Engineer took over the Command in the middle of December 1944. This officer’s reputation had travelled ahead of him, so much so that the RAF officers, with a look of fear in their eyes, started asking Harjinder what was he like; how strict was he? All the other IAF officers took malicious pleasure in spreading exaggerated stories about the tyrant that was Aspy Engineer. Offices were soon being tidied up, and backlogs cleared. The station was getting additional coats of whitewash paint, and there was a whiff of fear everywhere. Even Kennenworthy started paying Harjinder courtesy, with fear in his eyes, if not friendliness. When Harjinder tried to paint a realistic picture of the man, he was not readily believed, as all seemed to think that he was trying to lull them into a false sense of security. Harjinder did have disagreements with Aspy Engineer later in their careers, and much was made of it. However, Harjinder described Aspy; ‘as the finest pilot I had ever come across, and I had come across many, both in the IAF and the RAF. I had never seen him making a heavy landing. He was a very, very, strict disciplinarian and he would not tolerate a “no” to any of his orders.’

  Aspy Engineer soon made his presence felt in Kohat. He didn’t tread softly like Mukerjee. He was in charge, and all those around would serve under him as per the recognised chain of command. This was not management by committee. Ideas and suggestions were listened to, and deliberated, but Aspy would make the final decisions. He was of the same mould as Harjinder, and upsetting the norm was fine with him. He particularly wished to explore ways by which they could increase the efficiency of the Station. He planned a unified servicing/maintenance system, which suited Harjinder, and the two of them took to the task with zeal.

  Working with Aspy was a dream come true for Harjinder but his fate was telling him something.

  The combat role in the North-West Frontier had provided Harjinder and Aspy with a focus to keep the Squadron sharp, but it also served to keep them distracted, as they both felt that the war was being won without them. The IAF was fully involved in the closing scenes of the World War II, now flying Spitfires, as they continued the big push back through Asia that had begun in Kohima. During the first two months of 1945, the news reels gushed with the successes in Europe, with films of troops heading for Berlin. The Americans were taking island after island in the Pacific, although the terrible cost of lives on both sides wasn’t being released to the public.

  Jumbo Majumdar visited Kohat with stories of flying the state-of-the-art Typhoon aircraft in operations over Europe, but also of the terrible cost in lives. He sported the bar to the DFC medal on his uniform and his rank stripes showed him to be back at his original rank of Wing Commander, but it was clear that the events in Europe had had a deep effect on him. He should have been destined for a desk job, but that was not for Jumbo. As the darling of the IAF he was thrust, against his will, into the public eye with lectures and broadcasts all over India. This took him away from the family that he had missed so much during his time in Europe. There was no time to experience some sort of normal life, to relax after such intense experiences. Jumbo was famous, appearing in a Life Magazine article that listed him as one of the twelve best pilots in all the Allied Air Forces. The IAF wanted to cash in on his fame, to encourage more recruitment, and so he was to be the Officer in Charge of the newly formed ‘Display Flight’. They were to fly some of the Hurricane aircraft that were being discarded by the front-line Squadrons, as they re-equipped with the sleek Spitfires. The Hurricane, that had seemed so modern when they first took delivery of them after the Lysander, now seemed very old and dated next to the much developed Spitfire.

  The start of what came to be known as ‘Jumbo’s Circus’ was not a good one. Prithipal Singh, who owed Harjinder his career after the Wapiti debacle, who we last perceived ducking for cover after the assault of Dipi’s low flypast, was now back under Jumbo. On the second day of training, he took a Hurricane up to practice his part of the Jumbo Circus display.

  The report soon came of a crash nearby. Jumbo grabbed a vehicle and headed up to the telltale black, oily, spiralling smoke. He found his close friend scattered about the hillside ‘like butcher’s meat’. Karun had lost squadron friends in Europe but the loss of Prithipal Singh hit him hard. His demeanour changed and his usual zeal for all things IAF began to wane. The situation worsened with a further two accidents in rapid succession and suddenly, the ‘Circus’ seemed jinxed, and Jumbo seemed to feel tired of life in general.

  The show must go on, and so the Display Flight, with their mascot commander, moved around India, drawing the crowds in their thousands. The public had spent five years hearing about the daring exploits of their Air Force, but here were the Hurricanes up close, with that beautiful, sighing-howling Merlin engine noise as they swooped overhead. When they arrived at Lahore to display to some old friends from the Chinese Air Force, stationed nearby at Walton, Harjinder found an excuse to join them for their display. Also arriving at the airfield on that day was Wing Commander Arjan Singh DFC. His desk job had been driving him mad, and his stress relief of flying a Harvard down Delhi Golf Course at exceedingly low level had produced a reprimand, followed a week later, with a posting to Jumbo’s Display Flight!

  Harjinder watched the display by the team. It was an impressive spectacle, and he could see how the general public were lapping it up, but he was concerned when he saw one of the undercarriage legs of these tired, ‘old’ aircraft half pop out from the retracted position, when it was still taking part in the display. Harjinder knew the Hurricane well, and his diagnosis was that the up-lock pin in the wing, that held the wheels in the ‘up’ position, was worn, so he tackled Jumbo about the condition of these aircraft. It was fine as a fighter taking on the Germans, or bombing the Japanese in Burma, but doing aerobatics, low level, in effectively discarded planes, wasn’t a good idea, in his view. Even Mrs Majumdar showed uncharacteristic concern when she heard of Harjinder’s reservations, so she asked him to try speaking with Jumbo again. The next morning was the 17th February 1945, an important day at the Majumdar household. Jumbo’s son, Bambi, turned two that day, and Jumbo had been given explicit instructions to be home in time for the party.

  When Harjinder got the chance in the morning to talk with Jumbo, he merely replied that if all senior officers took to ‘safe’ flying, the younger officers would lose respect for their elders. There was time enough for him to be chair-borne later in his career. He added; ‘Harjinder, promise me that you will propagate the spirit of flying even if I get killed in the next flight.’

  Jumbo did another couple of unusual things that morning. He only ordered 10 meals for lunch even though there were 11 Officers on the team. As they walked to their aircraft, he handed over the small soft toy to another pilot saying, ‘It’s for Bambi. Take it back with you.’

  As Jumbo pulled the Hurricane’s nose up into a loop, the smooth lines of the underside were rudely interrupted as one undercarriage leg and wheel unlocked completely. This time, it didn’t just move out a few inches, but snapped out, fully extended, into the airflow. Who knows if there was a red light that came on in the cockpit to show an unlocked undercarriage leg, but the airspeed indicator would have started to move rapidly anticlockwise. The extra drag on the aircraft destroyed the energy gained in the previous dive, and the momentum was quickly draining away. In a horrific replay
of the RAF pilot over Calcutta three years earlier, Jumbo was left in an aircraft with not enough speed to complete the loop, and not enough height to gain more energy, or speed. When Jumbo still had the nose pointing vertically up, the final energy was being expended; the heavy engine in the nose came swinging down, pointing it directly at the ground. The aircraft yawed as it swung down so the Hurricane flicked into a spin. In front of Harjinder’s eyes, Jumbo’s aircraft rotated into the ground. He stared at the burning crumpled wreckage that was the funeral pyre of his hero, his role model, his closest friend.

  When Harjinder reached the scene of the crash, he picked up the metal remnants of Jumbo’s flying goggles and his harness locking-pin, from the burnt-out debris. He took a solemn oath at the site to carry out his friend’s last wish as long as he lived. Certainly, much of his subsequent enthusiasm for the Service, his single-minded zeal to promote the cause of flying, aircraft maintenance and aircraft manufacture, stemmed from his long and memorable friendship with Karun Kanti ‘Jumbo’ Majumdar DFC and bar, that good-looking, larger-than-life man, and aviator par excellence. In Harjinder’s meticulously kept diary, there was absolutely no mention of Jumbo’s death. Was it disbelief that he was gone, or an inability to accept the fact? It was only when he subsequently wrote an obituary about Jumbo that we know that he was there, he saw it, and that a part of him died that day.

  Bambi Majumdar was getting tired, so the two candles on his birthday cake were lit. He had already been tucked into bed when four pilots arrived, ashen-faced, at the door. Jumbo would not be coming that evening, but the bunny soft toy did. It is still with Bambi in his house in the UK.