Spitfire Singh

by Mike Edwards

  Then started the battle of where to build the Avro 748. The obvious destination was HAL and, with a whole raft of people who had their own personal agendas, the pressure was intense. Harjinder, Menon and Mukerjee all wanted to take a radical direction and let the IAF do the work; no prizes for guessing where that would be, and who would be in-charge. Harjinder told Menon that he only required an additional 1,000 men to be posted in to Kanpur. He finished his pitch with a request for all the moral support the military and Government could muster! The Defence Secretary, the Navy Chief; in fact all the men, bar one, with an interest in the project, gathered together in one room to thrash the issue out. The destination for the manufacturing was batted back and forth in a verbal tennis game. The conversation seemed to tie itself around and around in knots, and Harjinder’s frustration bubbled to the surface at the lack of progress. He cut through the conversation to bring a moment of quiet before suggesting that Mukerjee, as IAF Chief, call the man who was not present in the meeting; Aspy Engineer, the Chairman of HAL. The call was made; the call was short. Without hesitation, Aspy sided with Harjinder and so the issue was closed. Harjinder and his men were to build a brand new aircraft for India. India would now manufacture its very first large plane, and it was Harjinder’s Maintenance Command that would do it.

  On the 10th August 1959, a delegation of six officers, under Harjinder’s leadership, flew to the UK. He was met by a familiar face. Moolgavkar, appointed the Indian Air Attaché, had arrived in London in April. Menon had called Moolgavkar to inform him of Harjinder’s arrival, or ‘Kanpur Singh’ as he now called Harjinder.

  Stepping into a British summer’s day was a total contrast to Harjinder’s earlier wartime visit with the greyness of winter, and war, being replaced by colour and the promises of a new decade. However, Harjinder had an unpleasant reintroduction to something he thought he had left behind years ago; how poorly a few of the British Officers who had served in India, could behave. His contact man in Avro was a retired Group Captain who had held an important instructional post in an Indian Air Force Training College. Soon after Harjinder arrived in London, his contact appeared in his room at the Cumberland Hotel in Marble Arch. He began by sneering at the £ 4 room, in what he considered a second class hotel. Harjinder told him that he was wrong; he was staying at the Cumberland rather than at the Savoy at his own request, so that he could be with his team. This officer continued in the same vein but a little more cryptically, ‘You Servicemen can’t look after yourselves. You yourself remain what you always were; just a good airman.’

  ‘That’s all right with me’, Harjinder replied, his blood starting to simmer.

  ‘Now come on Harjinder! You know what I am getting at. You are nearing retiring age. I know that your pension rates are pretty meagre. Why not lay by something against your old age? I can arrange it; a numbered account in Switzerland. If you play ball with us we will look after you. What the Ministry of Defence wants, is that besides the right to manufacture, you should also order 30 British-made 748s from us to get you started. This is not an unreasonable proposal, and I know that one word from you, and the order will be through. We shall, of course, credit you with our 2 per cent commission on the deal.’

  Harjinder’s blood should have boiled over, but instead, he started to find the whole event very amusing. ‘I look at India’s requirements from a different angle to yours. I am on India’s side, not Britain’s. We want to save exchange; so we will not buy a single aircraft from you. We will produce even the fuselage in India. So let’s forget about it.’

  ‘You are a fool. Think it over. Your future will be secure if you take my advice.’

  Harjinder’s closing comment left no room for doubt, ‘My future is secure even if I retire today. Look at my rank. From an airman I have risen to the second highest rank in our Air Force. What more do I want?’

  Harjinder had come into contact with many RAF Officers from Indian Service, in ever-increasing seniority, and knew that they were not all like this. In his capacity as Chief of the IAF, Mukerjee attended the Farnbourgh air show which coincided with Harjinder’s visit. Harjinder caught up with him and they dropped into the Savoy to meet with the now retired Air Vice-Marshal Sir Cecil Bouchier. When the three men had last met, Bouchier had been the boss of the tiny, four aircraft IAF, Mukerjee was a brand new Pilot Officer, and Harjinder was Bouchier’s tail gunner as a lowly Sepoy. Here they were, with Sir Cecil and Harjinder on the same rank, and Mukerjee heading the entire Air Force in India as Chief. The letter Sir Cecil wrote to Harjinder before their meeting was heartfelt enough;

  ‘I am delighted beyond words that you should remember me and our early struggles at Karachi to found, and build up, an Indian Air Force on a firm basis of high standards.

  Yours must be one of the most romantic careers of any man in any service anywhere in the world.’

  The letter after their meeting, dated 14th September 1959, went further.

  ‘My Dear Harjinder,

  I am writing direct to India to thank you so much for your most kind and generous hospitality at the Savoy, and to say how immensely I enjoyed it, particularly the thrill and joy it was for me to see you and Mukerjee again, after so many years. You both looked so well and not a day older. Throughout lunch, I kept looking at you and thinking it is just not possible that this young man is Harjinder Singh; the first airman, the No. 1 rigger, the first Naik (Corporal), at the very beginning of the Indian Air Force! What a wonderful life yours has been, full of endeavour and achievement and crowned with success as few men achieve entirely by their own efforts. Words cannot describe my joy to see and talk with you again and to find, old friend, that you were still the same old Harjinder I knew 27 years ago, not a whit changed by success-still the same loyal, upright, humble and kindly person, which is the hallmark of all great men.

  Most of all, I want to thank you from my heart for your unbelievable kindness in remembering us and wanting to see us again; the one or two of us who, over a quarter of a century ago, were privileged to form part of that happy band of brothers who, at Drigh Road, set out on the great adventure of forming and training the spearhead of a great new Fighting Service…

  Like all big men, in the best sense of the word, it was also like your generous nature to give so much credit for the success of the Indian Air Force to the insignificant efforts of a few of us in those early far-off days…

  I shall never forget your kindly words, old friend, over lunchhowever undeserved, they warmed my heart as few words have ever done and made me still feel a part of your great Service in which, when I left you, I left behind in Karachi a little of my own heart.

  No, old friend, the Indian Air Force is what it is today because of one thing – the imagination, the courage, the loyalty and the great quality of that first little pioneer band of Indian Officers and Airmen, for they were the salt of the earth. By your own efforts alone, by teamwork and hard work, by adopting the right standards in all things, by determination, loyalty and by devotedly putting your whole hearts into the job, you and they have built up a great Fighting Service and I’m terribly proud to have been associated with you in this wonderful achievement if only for a little while in your early days.

  When I look back to those early Karachi days, I recall that there always seemed to be a star shining above the head of Mukerjee pointing the way; and how wonderfully over the years he has trodden that path, fulfilling his appointed destiny as the leader and creator of this great Service. But there was no bright star shining above your head, old friend. You made your own, and followed it to your everlasting credit. Your career is a poetic one, an epic one shining bright as any star for all young men in your country to see and to follow…

  What a lovely face does loyalty bare? I shall always retain that of the meeting with Mukerjee and you a few days ago, which was your close and real regard of friendship for each other; to have travelled the long road together; completely unchanged and unchangeable. What a world of difference it makes. Truly, rea
l friendship and loyalty bears a lovely face. I’m sure that is why, in spite of all the problems you have faced and continue to face, neither of you look a day older; still the same charming, simple and unaffected men that once I knew so many years ago, with warmth in their hearts, and a smile never very far from their eyes and lips. How sweet a thing, old friend, is success and, in finding it, never to have changed.

  Bless you again, dear friend, my kindest wishes and thoughts will always be with you.’

  Harjinder’s would have to get back to India to read those words. There was work still to be done in the UK. The team spent six weeks in England to familiarise themselves with the manufacturing schedule of the 748 at A.V. Roe & Co of Manchester, the makers of the world-famous World War II Lancaster bomber. Even then, in the midst of all this, Harjinder had a visit from a Vice President of the Lockheed Corporation, a Mr Chapman, with a very lucrative offer if he changed his mind on the aircraft type.

  It was still not until 23rd January 1960 that the foundation stone of the Aircraft Manufacturing Depot at Kanpur was laid by Mukerjee. Later, when they walked round the hangars, all more or less empty, Mukerjee remarked, ‘Harjinder! How do you think you can produce an aircraft here in two years? There isn’t so much as a bench or a tool box in these hangars. I have believed whatever you have said during these last 28 years; but now I am beginning to have my doubts.’

  Mukerjee returned to Delhi for an official function where Nehru would be in attendance. Delhi was growing at a phenomenal rate, and taking its place as a capital city of world status. The Rajpath, the Kings Way, is the ceremonial centrepiece of New Delhi. The tree-lined boulevard, flanked by canals and lawns, runs from India Gate, which arches over the tomb of the Unknown Soldier to the former Viceroy’s Residence, now the Rashtrapati Bhavan, The President’s Estate. In Mountbatten’s time the land surrounding Rajpath was almost clear of buildings, except for a few important Government buildings nestled close to the Viceroy’s Residence. In 1959, the city of Delhi was encroaching on the ceremonial splendour, and more and more of the area directly adjacent to Rajpath was being eaten up by the same red sandstone used in building the Edwardian Baroque Palace. An increasing number of Ministry buildings were springing up in a huddle around the central Government district. The first few new buildings replicated their predecessors’ splendour, Agriculture and Commerce both securing magnificent buildings, as did the Railway Headquarters, close to Rashtrapati Bhavan. K Block, which stands to the South of Rajpath, lacks the grandeur of its contemporaries. It would be entirely unremarkable, were it not for the red sandstone, clad around the windows, making them seemingly stand out from the red brick work.

  In 1960, this building still had not been allocated to any ministry. As the conversation flowed between Mukerjee and Nehru, the Air Force Chief brought up the dilapidated state of his HQ to the Prime Minister. In a very offhand comment, Nehru suggested that Mukerjee take the top floors of K Block. Mukerjee made sure some of the Prime Minister’s aides had heard that comment before he launched into action; within two weeks, he had a skeleton staff working out of the building. The IAF now had a Headquarters to be proud of, in a prime location overlooking the Presidential Palace, looking onto Rajpath. It didn’t take long for the IAF to take over the floors below them, until the whole building became Vayu Bhawan, Air Headquarters; a building I would get to know very well, and that top floor is where the rebirth of Harjinder’s Vintage Flight would be first discussed in the office of Air Vice-Marshal Kumaria, Assistant Chief of the Air Staff, Operations.

  The acquisition of impressive buildings as offices were not top of Menon’s list, and his exasperation began to show. As delays on the Avro started to build up, he suggested that they order three complete aircraft from the UK. Harjinder met Mr Egerton of the design staff from the UK, who informed him Avro had three aircraft on the production line ready to be sent to India. It was then that Harjinder realised that Avro were still pushing hard for some complete aircraft to be purchased directly from the UK, and, therefore, he surmised that Avro had been slowing the dispatch of raw materials and other components required for the IAF production line. Whether this was true or not, Harjinder would cast Menon’s suggestion aside. They would manufacture every single Avro in India.

  On 12th May 1960, they started manufacturing the first aircraft, and Harjinder was photographed by the press putting the first four rivets into one of the bulkheads. Some parts like undercarriage legs and propellers could not be built in India, so they were airlifted from Chadderton, Manchester and Woodford Airfield, Cheshire. Harjinder could hardly contain his excitement, another of his dreams was being fulfilled; it was admittedly only a small beginning for a very big adventure, but they had started upon a unique project. They must have been one of the few, if not the only, Air Force in the world to have turned to aircraft manufacturing; they were creating history.

  On 17th October 1960, Mukerjee paid a visit to Kanpur to see how the project was progressing. His visit was an occasion to discuss the progress of the project at hand, and also to reminisce about old times. As they toured the workshops, he bubbled over with enthusiasm to see their progress. The teams in Kanpur were working round the clock to get the production line formed, just as Harjinder spent every possible moment ensuring each tentacle of the project, every aspect of the supply chain, operated smoothly together. Harjinder wasn’t beyond a bit of showmanship though. When they passed a Sergeant having problems with a screw, Harjinder asked him to step aside and took the screwdriver from him. With the screw firmly driven home in a flash, the group moved on. Only when the Sergeant returned to his work did he notice that Harjinder had screwed in an adjacent screw to the one causing the problem.

  On a visit by Menon, later on in the process, Harjinder was concerned that they were behind schedule, and so, ordered the men to hammer at metal pieces in the background for all they were worth. Confronted by the cacophony of noise, Menon hardly paused for breath in the assembly workshop.

  The visit on the 17th October 1960 was an absolute pinnacle for Harjinder and Mukerjee’s relationship. They had started their careers together in the IAF, their goal to form a strong Air Force to lead India into Independence, and then to find its feet. This goal realised, their next joint ambition was to achieve a certain degree of self-reliance. It was all coming together.

  Less than a month later, Mukerjee was on hand to publicise another big event for India. Along with many journalists, he took Air India’s Boeing 707 inaugural flight to Tokyo. On the evening of 8th November 1960, he dined out in Tokyo with a friend from the Indian Navy.

  The 1960s had started well. Harjinder had an even closer friendship, and working partnership, with his old friend Mukerjee, and a new, blossoming, friendship with Menon. The IAF was firmly in the jet age, and they were now manufacturing modern aircraft. All seemed right with the world on 8th November 1960. Life seemed to stop the next day.

  Fifteen

  Reuniting Old Friends

  ‘Mr Harjinder, you have had honour in the Air Force. Here in the Punjab you will have affection.’

  On the afternoon of the 9th November 1960, Harjinder was travelling from Nagpur to Amla. The train rattled through open country, small collections of dwellings appearing at regular intervals clumped around the track. The rhythmic sway of the train lulled some into a ragged sleep, their slumber punctuated by the regular, sharp, sideways jolt, as wheels passed over a set of points, or an ill-fitting rail. Harjinder used this time to look through the various papers he had assembled for the journey, not for him the luxuriant half-sleep of railway travel. The brakes squealed as the train slowed, not an unusual event in the rural areas where livestock, vegetation or any manner of obstacle could impede progress. Looking out of the window, Harjinder could see the train slowing down at a small, insignificant, station. It really only consisted of a small platform with a makeshift shack that functioned as the Station Master’s office but the train was definitely drawing to a halt. This was not a scheduled stop, and the
mystery deepened when the Station Master, in his well-worn uniform, came down the line banging on all the carriage doors, shouting up to each window in turn. Harjinder’s mild interest changed to concern when the Station Master approached his door, and he realised it was his name being called out. The Station Master repeatedly mumbled apologies for stopping the train, as he placed a message into Harjinder’s hands. The message was short, but it took Harjinder a while to fully comprehend its contents.

  Mukerjee was dead He had survived years of flying military aircraft to their limit, and beyond, in those early days when crashes, and death, were your constant companions. But now, the star described by Sir Cecil Bouchier as shining above Mukerjee, was snuffed out. The yin to Harjinder’s yang was dead, and in such a wasteful, ridiculous way. The great man had been killed by a small piece of food; he’d choked to death on a fish bone in a Tokyo restaurant, with his colleagues unable to help him.

  Harjinder had lost Jumbo when their vision of the future was close to being realised, and now he lost Mukerjee during a similar time of promise and euphoria. Once again, Harjinder’s loss plunged him into the dark abyss of despair. He had certainly not always agreed with Mukerjee’s methods in the 1940s, but he saw him as a great man. Mukerjee had been a very keen, energetic, and daring flier during his earlier career, and had retained that enthusiasm throughout his life. He was called upon to be the guardian of the IAF when he was still a young man, and he had acquitted himself admirably. Jumbo may have made the world take notice of the IAF, but it was Mukerjee who steered them through turbulent times. He was one of a few people without whom the future of the IAF could have been in jeopardy. He had the qualities of a diplomat, peace-maker and outstanding pilot, all rolled into one. He was also a great psychologist; his disarming smile could melt anger, and opposition, in most situations. However, it seemed fate was determined to take the best officers, and Harjinder’s closest friends, before their time; Jumbo Majumdar, and Subroto Mukerjee, were gone.