by Mike Edwards
Climbing on to the trailing edge of the Spitfire’s wing, to walk up to the cockpit, you know this is something special; the rounded lines of the wing as they taper into the famous crescent shape at the wing tips, the smooth curves of the metal fuselage leading up to the flattened top cowl of that long nose, housing the 12 cylinder engine, the bubble canopy, the small door on the left side of the cockpit; all scream beauty and perfection. Harjinder had worked on Spitfires, had sat in the cockpits to do engine runs in Spitfires, but this time it was to fly a Spitfire. This was a completely different generation of aircraft from the open-cockpit, buffalo-like Wapiti. It was similar to the Harvard, but the Harvard’s cockpit seemed vast compared to this snug, close fitting single-seater that you pull on like a jacket. The Merlin engine ran very smoothly, the sound from the exhaust stacks, and the vibration, transferred to the seat of the pants communicating a visceral power, almost a desire to be turned loose and hunt. His little fabric covered L5 seemed a child’s toy in comparison, his present Beech Bonanza more like a family car. Harjinder strapped in and joined the elite ranks of Spitfire pilots. It is no surprise that this reclaimed machine soon became known as Harjinder’s Spitfire, as he flew himself to meetings throughout India. A generic nickname for Engineers at the time was ‘plumber’ so Harjinder not only used a radio call sign of ‘Plumber 11’, he also fashioned a name plaque himself to affix to the engine cowling of this Spitfire, just below the jutting stub exhausts. The silver script ‘Plumber’ plaque is still firmly in place over five decades later.
Harjinder was an established civilian pilot, but now, more than ever, he wanted to be an Air Force pilot; the pride of having the innocuous winged brevet on a uniform with the deep meaning that lay behind them. This desire was further driven to new heights after an argument with Aspy Engineer. The New Pay Code had placed the pilots’ pay on a scale higher than that of technical officers. Harjinder thought this most unfair and aired his opposition frequently. One day, Aspy said that Harjinder would never be able to appreciate the risks and responsibilities of a flying man; ‘If you could fly, you would understand.’
This was a red rag to a bull, as Harjinder considered himself a pilot already, so he fired back; ‘All right, I will learn to fly.’
Air Headquarters were considering a scheme to encourage technical officers to learn to fly, believing that it would help them appreciate a pilot’s difficulties, mechanical restrictions, and the psychological limitations of the job. Harjinder nearly blew the door at HQ off its hinges when he got a whiff of the proposal. His persistence was already legendary, so any resistance was futile, anyone who thought to obstruct the man on his mission, quickly put the idea out of his head. It was to be a reunion for Harjinder and the Harvard advanced trainer, although his previous training never officially happened, did it?
The original letter ordering Harjinder to commence flying training still exists, in a safe, in an office in Delhi. He was instructed to travel from Kanpur to attend flying school in Ambala, where he would first start ground lessons, and take the exam on the theory of flight, and the rules of the air. Under the heading ‘Transport’ it simply says; ‘by own Spitfire’! This must be the only example anywhere in the world where a trainee military pilot was ‘ordered’ to arrive by Spitfire to commence his pilots training course!
With or without recognition of his previous experience, there was never any doubt of the outcome. On the 15th April 1950, the young officers, all in their early twenties, prepared for a life defining moment. As the families gathered, it would be a day they would remember for the rest of their lives as the coveted wings were pinned to the chest of their pristine uniforms, and thoughts turned to the front-line Squadron they would be joining. Whether Harjinder had intended to make a statement, or the theatricality of it all eluded him and it was simply a matter of convenience, he certainly made a grand entrance on the day of the Parade. The young Pilot Officers formed up on the Parade Square for the Wings Parade, as the 41 year-old Group Captain Singh, MBE, landed from Kanpur. He taxied up in his own Spitfire, parking it next to his own Wings Parade. He left his flying helmet in the cockpit, climbed down off the wing and took his place in the parade.
As time went by, and Harjinder flew more as a military pilot as well as a civilian one, he became firmly convinced that the pilot faced more risks and accepted greater responsibility then his earth bound colleagues. Aspy ultimately won the argument over the addition pilots’ pay. I wonder if the fact that Harjinder was now receiving the extra pay as an IAF pilot, may have softened his ideals!
From now on Harjinder would sport those coveted wings on his uniform, but it was not his flying abilities that would be examined by the military, it was his skill as a commander. The Brigadier who raised a toast in Delhi to his Muslim colleagues before partition, who as a Lieutenant General led his men against those same people in the relief of Poonch in the 1947-48 war, was now the first Commander-in-Chief of the Indian Army. However, General Cariappa had a poor opinion of the discipline in the Air Force after seeing Airmen in their working overalls as he flew around the country, courtesy of the RIAF. On Mukerjee’s request Cariappa was invited to Kanpur. Cariappa’s reaction to Mukerjee was, ‘What can I see in the blue-eyed boys of the Government of India, except tilted caps and swaggering walks?’ Nevertheless, he went, and Mukerjee chuckled inwardly, knowing the sort of reception Harjinder would provide.
On landing, Cariappa was taken on to the dais, from where he reviewed a parade of 2,000 men, Airmen and civilians, all smartly turn out. The young women who worked as secretaries, dressed in their smart blue uniforms, headed the march-past of the civilians, they were followed by the technicians, clerks, storekeepers and sweepers. Cariappa was quite taken aback by the discipline and smartness of this Air Force Station and said, ‘Harjinder, you are in the wrong Service. If you had been in the Army, with your drive and administrative ability, you would have been a Major General by now.’
Harjinder didn’t realise that it was in fact a compliment being paid and instead retorted, ‘Sir, I would never exchange my blue uniform for khaki whatever the rank offered. I am proud to be a Group Captain in the Air Force.’
Cariappa rose to the occasion, smiled, and patted Harjinder’s shoulders: ‘Well done, you are a real airman.’
Cariappa was not put out by Harjinder’s unintended rudeness, but his tall, Sikh, Army Staff Officer looked to have murder in his eyes with the perceived slander to his beloved Army.
Cariappa subsequently issued instructions ordering several senior Army Officers to go to the Air Force Station at Kanpur to study what he called ‘Efficiency in Man-Management’. This included a gruff old Lieutenant-General. The gentleman in question was sure that he could be taught nothing by this upstart of a Group Captain, and he would not have the wool pulled over his eyes like the General before him. To prove he could not be fooled, he ordered the band to be assembled, and then he drove around the base, choosing men at random to assemble on the parade square. The hundred odd civilians comprised of clerks, technicians, servants and sweepers marched to the tune of the brass band as if they were a bunch of seasoned soldiers on a ceremonial parade. The stunned General started shaking Harjinder’s hand even whilst the parade was on. Later he talked to many participants. His one common question was; were they ordered to wear uniform? ‘No’, they all replied. From then on he never ceased to praise the Air Force for having achieved something miraculous.
When the King bestowed the prefix ‘Royal’ to the Indian Air Force, it was meant as an honour, to show appreciation of a hard fought campaign in World War II, but now, as an Independent nation, divorced from the collapsing British Empire, the term ‘Royal’ seemed out of place; from another era. On the 26th January 1950, India became a Republic and it was the opportune moment to drop the ‘Royal’ prefix, and the Air Force returned to its original name coined in 1932. The IAF was back. It was time for more flypasts down the main Kings Way, now to be called Raj Path, in Delhi. Once again, it was Moolgavkar who
led the formation in his silver aircraft. However, it was not the big, brutish, silver, propellerdriven Tempest that Moolgavkar was leading the formation in. Not only was the IAF back to their original name, they were back to achieving firsts. They were the first Asian country to use jet aircraft, the superb De Havilland Vampire, and the first silver examples of this propeller-less wonder celebrated India becoming a Republic.
The IAF were working towards establishing more permanent bases throughout India, especially in the North, where the threat from Pakistan seemed ever-present, but the IAF still only really had a few established stations to work from. Kanpur, with all the technical expertise, was the logical place to base these new jet aircraft, and Harjinder’s arrival in Kanpur coincided with the arrival of the IAF’s newest aircraft. The De Havilland Vampire was capable of speeds in excess of 500 mph, and operating at heights far beyond its propeller driven cousins. However, it had just missed out on front-line service in World War II, and then India’s Kashmir war, by a few months. The fuselage was a small, egg-shaped pod just big enough to squeeze a single pilot’s seat into. The pilot’s head protruded out the top of the pod into the streamlined sliding canopy above. Without the cumbersome piston engine and propeller in front, as in the fighters before, the visibility was excellent. In this new piece of technology the jet engine was bolted on to the pod just behind the pilot. The metal wings sprung from the pod, starting with air intakes in the wing roots to feed the hungry engine. Then, two thin fuselage booms stretched back on either side of the engine. This allowed the hot exhaust gases to blast out of the fuselage in the shortest distance producing the thrust from the engine in the most efficient way. A slab-like tail-plane linked the two small fins at the end of each boom. It was a clever, compact design, and in the all-silver colour scheme, they looked very space age and futuristic. However, if you gave the fuselage pod a tap with a knuckle it wasn’t the clang of metal you would hear but the supressed thump of wood. The wings and tail were all metal but the pod was constructed from a balsa and plywood sandwich, which was still covered in canvas; this machine’s only link back to the venerable Wapiti. That fuselage design was taken directly from the incredibly versatile De Havilland Mosquito of the last war.
The first three Vampires were flown from the UK directly to Kanpur in 1948, to the newly-established Aircraft Testing Unit (ATU). Soon the distinctive sound of piston engines from the aircraft parking line was replaced by the crack, crack, crack of fuel igniters in combustion tubes leading to the thump, then roar, of the Vampires’ jet engines as the fuel ignited. Occasionally too much fuel would cause a twelve foot long tongue of orange flame to blast under the tail on start-up. Initially it caused Airmen to dive for fire extinguishers, but they soon realised these flames would soon disappear into the shimmering heat haze behind the jet exhaust. The roar of the jets, even at idle power, left the observer in no doubt of their potential.
After the first three were delivered, the subsequent Vampires were shipped in component form to be assembled in Bangalore. Life Magazine ran a series of pictures showing the jarring collision of old and new. The new, sleek, silver Vampires, with their lovely rounded features and futuristic twin fuselages, sat outside the hangar as they came off the production line. The oil, fuel, final fittings and ground equipment was brought up to the aircraft by two-wheeled carts drawn by oxen. When the final assembly was completed in this way, they were then flown up to Harjinder in Kanpur, to be tested in the ATU.
In January 1949, the battle weary No. 7 Squadron IAF left their tents in the sub-zero temperatures of the Kashmir region to move to the more temperate climes of Delhi. As the Commander of Kanpur, Harjinder had supervised the training of the pilots and Engineers at his base on this new, cutting edge aircraft. When the training was complete, No. 7 Squadron became the first jet fighter unit in India, and in Asia. In February, Wing Commander Moolgavkar had also left his duties in Kashmir and formed a display flight of three Vampires. He travelled around India to show the public their new deterrent, with the highlight being the first Republic Day flypast. The county-wide tour also gave Harjinder’s maintenance personnel the opportunity to practice working on unfamiliar airfields in a wide variety of climates. After all, the Vampire could get from one end of India to the other in a few short hours.
This was all very interesting for Harjinder, but, having seen these aircraft at his station for two years, he now wanted to start the new decade by getting his hands on this new jet fighter. He couldn’t hold himself back one day after a ‘daring test pilot’ from the ATU came to see him. The pilot was testing his newly assembled Vampire when he taxied it into a barbed wire fence. He tried to tell Harjinder that this new jet was not easy to handle, harder than Harjinder’s own Spitfire (he clearly didn’t know the technical details of both aircraft since they both used the same braking system; compressed air, controlled by a lever on the control column, which inflates a bag in the wheel hub to push pads onto the wheel). Harjinder knew he was bluffing, trying to cover up his error. Harjinder just held out his hand, telling him to hand over the aircraft checklist. Half an hour later the pilot was standing next to his machine as Harjinder snapped shut the harness buckles of the brand new jet. The cockpit sides curved in around the shoulders not dissimilar to his Spitfire. With the nose curling down around the feet there was nothing of the aircraft to see beyond the front windscreen. Harjinder completed the checks and pressed the button to start the engine. When the engine RPM was sufficient, he moved the fuel cock to the open position and he heard the familiar thump as the engine roared to life. He turned the handle above the throttle on the left side of the cockpit. The bicycle chain moved over the cogged wheel to slide the slender Perspex canopy shut. With no big propeller on the front there was no need to have the plane sitting on a small tail-wheel to give the necessary clearance. The Vampire had a nose wheel and sat in the flying attitude. For the first time, Harjinder could actually see down the runway as he lined up for takeoff. He gingerly pushed the throttle forward, not too fast, otherwise, too much fuel would pour into the combustion chamber and extinguish the flame in the engine. Just before reaching 100 mph on the runway Harjinder gave the control stick a gentle pull rearward, and, as he tucked the undercarriage up into the wings, he started his first flight in the Vampire, his first flight in a jet. From rear gunner in the back of a silver Wapiti biplane, to the pilot in the silver streamline jet fighter.
He left a stunned test pilot back on the ground. It is not the recommended military technique of converting onto a new aircraft; take the Pilots Notes, wander out to the jet – your first ever jet – strap in, start the engine and get flying! Aspy Engineer, understandably, once again flew off the handle on hearing what Harjinder had been up to. Harjinder tried the old excuse of, ‘I was testing the brakes when it just leapt of the ground,’ but Aspy wasn’t having any of it; he knew Harjinder too well. He warned him that the Ministry would have him hung, drawn, and quartered, if he crashed their expensive new machines. It will be no surprise that Harjinder continued flying the Vampire with his theory being; if he did crash a Vampire he wouldn’t be alive to hear what the Ministry thought. However, when he once used a Vampire to fly to his meeting with Mukerjee, blatantly disregarding the orders issued by his superiors, Mukerjee launched at him, but Harjinder batted the comments straight back at him. He said that all senior officers with pilots’ wings should fly a Vampire otherwise the younger pilots would not respect their bosses. Mukerjee was stung by his remarks, and off he went, quietly, to give the Vampire a go.
India’s need for the small, fast, agile Vampire jets and the lumbering, leviathan Liberators, had increasing urgency. The eyes of the world had turned away from Kashmir, when on 25th June 1950, North Korean forces stormed across the 38th parallel to drag the United Nation forces into the Korean War. Western forces streamed into the region, and they wanted bases, and general political stability in the Asian region. Pakistan was happy to provide bases and accept military aid from the USA but they made it clear that
they wanted a conclusion to the Kashmir issue, no prizes for guessing what that conclusion that should be.
The Pakistan Government made a big play of promising that there would be no fighting on Indian soil, but quietly, in a move not unnoticed by the Indian Government, they refused to recognise Kashmir as Indian Territory, thus keeping the door open to move into the disputed region. Throughout 1951 and into 1952, it appeared that invasion was looming once again. Pakistan was taking delivery of American F-86 Sabre jets, and yet, Harjinder was spending day after day supervising the patching together of increasingly obsolete propeller aircraft like the Tempest, and even the Spitfire. The Vampires were now being built by HAL under a licence agreement, and Harjinder saw these aircraft as they passed through his hands en-route to the Squadrons. However, even the Vampire was a generation behind the Pakistan Sabre aircraft, and the British were restricting the supply of engines to the IAF because of the political situation. The Indian Government turned to France who, as usual, had no issues about supplying arms to anyone with the requisite cash. In 1952, Moolgavkar was part of the IAF team that flew the latest French fighter, the Dassault Mystere, a plane he flew in a dive beyond the speed of sound whilst testing it. Negotiations in France soon concluded, and India was provided with a second avenue for combat aircraft procurement, which reduced the IAF’s reliance on a single country. India was taking a step up on to the world stage, through the United Nations, and the world would soon know all about it. Krishnan Menon had left his post as Ambassador in London, to take command of the Indian delegation to the United Nations, a position he would hold until 1962. Both superpowers, the USA and the USSR, initially courted Menon, but they soon came to understand the stubborn, quick-witted orator. India stayed firmly placed between the two Superpowers and Menon coined a new term; non-alliance.