by Mike Edwards
Then the British came to settle their debts. The Station Commander came to Harjinder’s office with a cheque for a thousand rupees. Harjinder politely declined the cheque, but instead, asked him for an autographed ten rupee note. Right until the end of his days Harjinder held on to this note, along with signed ten rupee notes from all the others. It marked the change on the station. When the Station Adjutant started calling him by his first name, he knew that he had broken the barriers down.
The British were respecting Harjinder and his IAF technicians for their abilities, but something else was becoming obvious. The British Empire was finished, and the days of the British ruling India were coming to an end. India had fought in another World War for the British Empire, but the Empire was in its death throes. The dreams that Harjinder and his colleagues in the IAF – Jumbo, Mukerjee, Aspy – had nurtured for so long, were about to be turned to reality, but at what price?
The three men who emerged from the embers of the World War II to shape the future of India were Gandhi, Nehru and Jinnah. Mohandas Karamchand ‘Mahatma’ Gandhi stood above all, his unrivalled ability to communicate seemed to speak for the country’s soul. However, the passage of the World War II had seen his influence diminish and he drifted apart from many of his followers in the Congress movement with his unswerving belief in nonviolence. As Churchill had broadcast his blood and guts speeches to the Free World during the height of the Blitz on London, Gandhi had suggested another course. ‘Invite Hitler and Mussolini to take what they want of the countries you call your possessions. Let them take possession of your beautiful island.’
When Italy invaded Northern Africa he urged the Ethiopians to; ‘allow themselves to be slaughtered’. He then followed this up with a plan for ranks of disciplined, nonviolent Indians to march forward onto the bayonets of the approaching Japanese until that catalytic point when the enormity of their sacrifice would overwhelm their foes. When it became clear how the Japanese press had been making celebrities from the swords of their officers, keeping a running total of the highest ‘scoring’ blade in terms of heads removed, it is difficult to believe that that point would have been reached, ever. On 8th August 1942, Gandhi suddenly had sent out the word ‘I want freedom immediately, this very night, before dawn if it can be done… We shall either free India or die in the attempt.’ What Gandhi and the leadership of the Congress party got before dawn was jail, where they crucially stayed for the duration of the World War II. It is at this point that many historians believe that Gandhi lost some of his influence. However, he was still a mighty figure in Indian politics.
Gandhi’s choice of leader for the Congress Party was Jawaharlal Nehru. He was a product of seven happy years spent in the British learning establishments of Harrow and Cambridge, until he came to realise that the colour of his skin would keep him from the inner circles of British life. He turned against the system, a decision that cost him 9 years in prison, often in solitary confinement. His beliefs, while not concurrent with, were influenced by, Gandhi’s teachings. However, Gandhi became his Guru, re-Indianising him on his return to India, and a father-son relationship built up between them.
Mohammed Ali Jinnah studied law in Britain just as Gandhi had done before him; he was even from the same Kathiawar peninsula as Gandhi. If Jinnah’s grandfather had not converted to Islam, they would have been from the same cast. However, Jinnah returned to India from Britain as an Englishman, complete with a monocle and clean-cut linen suits, a successful lawyer who naturally moved across into the world of politics. He had preached Muslim/Hindu unity, but would not entertain the idea of casting his fine clothes to one side for a loincloth as Gandhi preached. He also felt let down by the Indian Congress party in 1937, when they refused to share the spoils of the Indian provinces with a substantial Muslim minority. With Gandhi and the Congress party officials locked up during the war, the British Government turned to Jinnah’s Muslim League to negotiate with. It raised their standing far beyond the minority status it had been, and placed Jinnah on the top table of talks about India’s future. Now Jinnah only wanted one thing for this land; a separate Muslim state.
‘Quit India’ was still the cry, but it was no longer a question of would Independence come, but was only a question of when. Harjinder, Mukerjee and Engineer would see the Independence they strived for, but it was to come at an unimaginable price.
Twelve
Independence! But at What Cost?
Winston Churchill:
‘Our Imperial mission in India is at an end: we must recognise that. Someday justice will be done by world opinion to our record there, but the chapter is closed… Sorrow may lie in our hearts but bitterness and malice must be purged from them.’
‘If the RAF is withdrawn out of India, the RIAF cannot maintain their existing squadrons in the Air… The RIAF has not the technical personnel even to man one Squadron.’
India would become Independent, that seemed obvious; but it didn’t stop the ‘Quit India’ campaign from continuing at full strength. Indians wanted results immediately; no more waiting. The dreams of Harjinder, Jumbo and the musketeers of the 1930s were of the country they called India being Independent. What had started from Jinnah, and the Muslim League, as a small subplot in the great thrust towards Independence had grown in favour with the war-weary British Government. Gandhi’s idea of a transition to a one multicultural state was falling apart in front of him and he was spending more time in the troubled Muslim areas around Calcutta trying to quell the surge of religious violence.
Jinnah’s goal of a separate Muslim state would not be realised without new lines being drawn on maps based on religious beliefs. To many, that seemed an impossible task, but Jinnah had said; ‘We will have India divided or we shall have India destroyed.’
For Harjinder, and others in the Air Force, this was a cause for concern – what would happen to the IAF they had dedicated their lives to; if the country was to be divided, would the Air Force be broken up, too? Would they become a small unit under the Army; could they exist without British personnel? The struggle for Independence had gone on for years, but as the dream became a reality, it left so many unanswered questions, much nervousness and much unrest.
On 26th February 1946, Harjinder, erstwhile leader of the student revolt at Maclaghan Engineering College, had an interesting job to do; one that brought life full circle for him. He received a disturbing telephone call from Aspy Engineer, back in Kohat; the Indian Airmen of the Station had gone on strike. They had heard that the IAF might be used against the Indian Navy ‘mutineers’ in Bombay. The ‘mutiny’ had nationalist undertones, the Navy men sought redress for their grievances – lower grades of pay and unequal treatment, in comparison to their British colleagues. Aspy had already called in the Ghurkha troops to block the aerodrome gate, giving orders to open fire on the strikers, his own men, if they tried to force their way out. He was tackling the problem head-on, with no compromise.
Harjinder approached Group Captain Campbell Vallaine, his Station Commander, and without offering any explanation, he asked permission to fly to see Aspy immediately. With Harjinder hunched in the back seat, Flying Officer Glandstein managed to wrestle a Harvard through the dark, heavy rain clouds covering the entire area. As they popped out of the atrocious weather, Harjinder unfolded himself from the protective posture he had subconsciously taken to see that they were directly overhead Kohat. More importantly, looking down through the rain-streaked canopy, Harjinder could see the Airmen amassed in the open ground near the airstrip. There, in the middle of this ant swarm, stood a man in the midst of the clearing, clearly addressing the men. He assumed it was Aspy, but on his arrival, he discovered that it was one of the leaders whipping the men up into an emotional frenzy.
When Harjinder found Aspy in his office, it soon became apparent that they had very different views on the situation. Aspy said the men would not let an officer near the group, so the army were on standby; he was not tolerating any nonsense from his men. Harjinder felt the
legacy of Kohat, as the first Indian Air Force station in Indian, would be ruined, if this situation wasn’t resolved soon, and dealt with a sympathetic touch. As he moved towards the group Aspy tried to stop him, ‘I will not be responsible for your life, Harjinder.’
As Harjinder approached the strikers, someone among them shouted, ‘Don’t let this officer come near, because he will finish off the strike.’
Then another few voices called, ‘No, no, it is Harjinder. He must come.’
An idea leapt into Harjinder’s mind; a way to show the men that they were in control of their destiny at this precise moment. He called for those in favour of him remaining should raise their hand. It was a gamble, and he later admitted it surprised him when most hands flew up.
It was clear that the two very energetic and persuasive Airmen, in the centre of the circle of men, were the ring leaders, so Harjinder addressed them directly in front of the crowd, and let them speak. Emotions at fever pitch, they all started to speak at the same time. When they managed to quiet down a little, Harjinder was told the whole story – the strikers had requested the Station Commander to signal the Commander-in-Chief in Delhi to inform him that the Indian Air Force Station Kohat would not cooperate in the bombing and machine-gunning of fellow Indians. The men were lost for words when Harjinder paused, and said; ‘Is that all?’
It seemed a reasonable request to Harjinder and he had the advantage of knowing that HQ in Delhi had no intentions to that effect. Crisis averted, Harjinder didn’t hold back on his disappointment in their behaviour. They had disgraced themselves by striking and they should report back to work before it was too late. Sensing that he had regained control, he took a gamble and issued an order. When the two ring leaders immediately obeyed by forming up in parade ground order, the rest of the men smartly followed up. He marched them all to the Cinema hall where they were to await Aspy Engineer. He told them to accept, without hesitation, any punishment the Station Commander dished out, and when asked, they should say it had not been a strike. An eerie silence spread throughout the cinema, where the men collected, and Harjinder left to speak with Aspy. To be fair to Aspy, he did back away from the head-on tackling of the situation, and wrote the signal along the lines demanded by Harjinder before addressing the men. The men shouted ‘No!’ with one voice when asked by Aspy if they were striking, and all accepted the one month of afternoon parades without a murmur. The strike was over; Aspy received a sound dressing down from HQ over his signal and Harjinder, the scourge of Maclaghan College, suddenly acquired notoriety as a ‘trouble shooter’. His carrot and stick approach worked, the men listened to him, and his seniors had full confidence in him.
In Delhi, too, the Airmen staged a strike, but Mukerjee, who had shown his soft hand-approach at Kohat earlier, had done a fine job calming the waters until the RAF sent their intelligence branch. The intelligence branch demonstrated their lack of intelligence by arriving like bulls in a china shop. They drew up a ‘discharge from Air Force’ list of those involved, including Warrant Officer Verghese, who had been pivotal in settling the Airmen’s fears! Trouble flared up, and Harjinder, on the back of his Kohat success, was sent for by Mukerjee. He arrived and soothed the beast that was the RAF Intelligence branch and brought the Airmen back into line.
Another station was Secunderabad, where the ‘strikers’ were Sergeants attending the School of Technical Training. They had been arbitrarily made to remove their Sergeants’ stripes during their training course and were being treated as Airmen even though many were soon to be officers. Once again Harjinder spread calm. But these little rebellions, in tiny pockets, were not isolated incidents – the whole country was caught up in a storm of uncertainty, which fed these micro events
Harjinder’s and Jumbo’s dream of an Independent country and an Independent Air Force was going to come true. Both believed the degree of severance from the RAF would depend mainly upon the capability and quality of technical maintenance personnel. Harjinder felt that Delhi was the place to be to make this happen, and so went up to Delhi to urge the now Group Captain, Subroto Mukerjee, that it was time to start a separate RIAF Headquarters, and thus gradually become independent of the UK. Mukerjee’s reply showed that not all were confident of the future; ‘Don’t you believe it. The British are far too clever and powerful to leave India.’
This did, however, illustrate Mukerjee’s complete lack of understanding of their Imperial Masters – with industry crippled, their exchequer bankrupt, the Sterling on life support from the Americans and Canadians, the British were left with no appetite for further conflict. He may have had his doubts, but he agreed to have Harjinder attached to Air Headquarters, working directly under him again; but this time as head of Technical Training for the entire Air Force. Their difference in opinion, and in approach, seemed inconsequential in the face of the task ahead, and a strong bond was quickly established.
Their old friend from No. 1 Squadron’s Burma days, Rup Chand, was now in politics, he showed Harjinder extracts from a paper written by Air Vice-Marshal Walmsely, who had taken over as Chief of the Indian Air Force in November 1946. It seemed to hark back to Sir John Steele’s ‘greatest disgrace’ comments in 1924, doubting the Indians’ ability to be involved in aviation. He had written, ‘If the RAF is withdrawn out of India, the RIAF cannot maintain its existing squadrons in the air. As a matter of fact, the RIAF has not the technical personnel even to man one Squadron.’
Harjinder leapt from his seat, paper crumpling in his tightening grip as he read the report. He saw this as an attempt to sabotage their goal of setting up an independent Indian Air Force; to leave India defenceless. His response was predictable; ‘If anything, the IAF maintenance is superior to that of the RAF as was amply proved during the war in the South East.’
As it would turn out, it was not just the British they were fighting. Indians, even at the highest level, regarded aircraft as an instrument of mystery, and assumed that only white men knew the art of aircraft maintenance. Rup Chand invited Harjinder to a lunch with Pandit Kunzru, a senior politician, a meeting that left Harjinder completely disillusioned. It seemed that the British had succeeded in producing a sense of inferiority in many politicians. Mukerjee, and even Aspy Engineer, counselled patience but Harjinder invoked the memory of Jumbo, the daring and dauntless leader who, were he alive, would have kicked the applecart over in his own inimitable way. He saw such allegations as an affront to Jumbo’s legacy, and as an attempt to belittle the IAF’s engineering capability; he wanted no part of it. He wrote out his letter of resignation, placed it on the table in front of Subroto Mukerjee and walked out.
When the newly promoted Group Captain Aspy Engineer heard about Harjinder’s resignation, he claimed that Harjinder was playing into Walmsely’s hands. Aspy said Walmsley would accept it in an instant, and with a smile on his face. They could not have been more wrong. Instead of being told to pack his bags, Walmsely asked for Harjinder’s demands to remain in the Air Force. Harjinder replied, ‘Since the Air Marshal has commented upon the inability of the RIAF to overhaul aircraft and aero-engines I would like to prove him wrong. I demand that the Maintenance Unit at Lahore should be completely nationalised and then you will see what we can do.’
To Harjinder’s further surprise, this was agreed to immediately. This was an unimaginable step forward for Harjinder’s dreams, so he wasted no time, despatching his technical Officers and men to Lahore, the moment the authorisation arrived. He withdrew his resignation with a happy heart. If only Harjinder had an inkling of how little time they had in Lahore. The assumption was that Lahore would be part of the new India, and any form of Independence was still several years away. When the partition did come, the majority at Lahore had to re-establish the nucleus of the RIAF at the Aircraft Repair Depot in Kanpur; a place Harjinder would get to know very well.
The year 1947 was going to a momentous one, but as the year began, few could have believed how it would unfold. On New Year’s Day, a black Austin Princess drove
down the drab, deserted streets of London, slipping past shops with messages scrawled on their windows; no coal, no logs, no potatoes, no cigarettes. As the car passed Buckingham Palace, the man in the back seat looked at the home of his great grandmother, Queen Victoria. The present King, George VI, still presided over the 560 million people of the Empire; over Africans and Australians, over Canadians and New Zealanders, over Indians and Chinese, over Arabs and Borneo headhunters. When the Austin arrived at its destination, Number 10 Downing Street, the man who pinned the DFC onto Arjan Singh’s working shirt in Burma left the warmth of the car and rushed through the famous doorway. Viscount Louis Mountbatten of Burma was 46, and no stranger to this doorway. It would not be his close friend Churchill who waited to greet him on the other side. Clement Attlee, and his Labour Party, had come to office publicly committed to the dismantling of the Empire; Mountbatten knew why he was here.
The man who had recommended Mountbatten to Attlee was the outspoken, left wing Indian, Krishna Menon. In 1924, Menon had arrived in the UK, to attend the University of London, where he earned a First Class Honours degree. Professor Harold Laski described him as the best student he ever had. Menon became a passionate proponent of India’s freedom, working as a journalist and, as secretary of the India League, he formed the very close friendship with Nehru that would flourish after Independence. Menon was notorious for his brilliance, and his arrogance, he was eloquent orator and possessed a razor sharp wit, which he put to regular use on friend and foe alike. When the novelist Brigid Brophy expressed surprise at the quality of his English, he immediately retorted: ‘My English is better than yours. You merely picked it up; I learnt it.’