by Mike Edwards
Even before Radcliffe had put pen to map, Simla had been the venue for the haphazard definition of another of India’s borders. In 1804, Sir Henry McMahon had inked in India’s Northern borders. India flowed into the Himalayas, butting up against Tibet, but the Chinese seemed indifferent to the British cartographers. The British feared that the Russians would take advantage of the void that was Tibet, and move into India, so McMahon was charged with formalising India’s North-Eastern border, and consequently the outer reaches of the Empire. Where no obvious watershed existed he used ‘a thick broad pen’.
In 1947, India inherited their political relationship with China from the British. The ambiguity to the mainly barren areas suited India, and, with instability rocking their newly-drawn boundaries to the North-West, it seemed sensible to keep this particular neighbour sweet. In 1950, India was one of the first countries to officially recognise the Peoples’ Republic of China (PRC). In return, India was slapped in the face when, a few days later, the PRC Government announced its plan for ‘the liberating of three million Tibetans from imperialistic aggression.’
The Chinese army moved into Tibet, and there followed nine years of political wrangling alongside the ebb and flow of Chinese troop movements within the country. Any plans China may have had in the early part of the decade were interrupted by the Korean War. India continued to extend the hand of friendship but, in 1959, tension broke in Tibet with a widespread anti-Chinese rebellion. The Dalai Lama was finally forced to flee, and chose to seek refuge in India. The rebellion was brutally crushed by the Chinese Army, and, for the first time, the Government of the Peoples’ Republic of China questioned the validity of borders drawn over the accepted map of the world; India was in trouble.
Menon preached calm, and despite the increasing number of border clashes, he insisted that a political solution was possible. He reasoned that the Chinese had enough on their plate with their own internal problems. In October 1962, all of Menon’s assumptions came crashing down around him. Chinese troops moved into India, smashing through the line McMahon had smudged on the map. The exact happenings of the conflict will never be known since the military never formally declared war and so their record keeping was still carried out in the peace-time mode. Also, Menon took the very unusual decision for a defence minister in a country in conflict, forbidding any minutes to be taken during meetings, a decision that would cost him dear.
The news broke that the army was short of ammunition, and it really seemed that Menon was intent on destroying his career. The Ordnance Corps were not rolling out bullets and shells from their factories, but were producing the coffee percolators much loved by Menon! Subsequent inquiries were not made public, the Henderson-Brookes report only seeing the light of day in 2014.
Harjinder’s IAF were restricted to a transportation and reconnaissance role. Even as his Army was being cut down, Menon refused to use the Air Force in an offensive role. Any number of factors could have contributed to his fateful error.
The Defence Minister certainly had no time for Aspy Engineer, so he dismissed any advice from him out of hand. The American Ambassador to India, J.K. Galbraith, had feared a war that would drag his country into another conflict. Galbraith warned the government that the Chinese would retaliate to any Indian bombing by launching aircraft against Delhi, Calcutta, and even Madras in the South. Nehru accepted this absurd suggestion, and requested the Americans to send their Air Force to protect Indian cities. So began a most bizarre period in Indian military history, India was trying to fight an invading army, but desperately trying to avoid enraging them. Menon claimed that he was trying to control the intensity of combat, and there is no doubt that his thinking was flawed, especially his perception of the Chinese Air Force as superior to India’s.
Harjinder and the Maintenance Command found themselves, for the first time ever, bringing helicopters into operations, and in double quick time. The helicopters arrived for assembly at Maintenance Command and were hurriedly dispatched to the front. This is how a newly arrived small Bell C-47 helicopter, ended up in the mountains, with Indian pilots, but still with Mexican markings! Soon Harjinder was in Canada placing emergency orders for the De Havilland Caribou transport aircraft to increase their transport capacity; Avro were still dragging their heels to deliver vital materials, still hoping for some direct aircraft orders.
When Harjinder returned to India he found Moolgavkar beating down his door. Moolgavkar only had to have a whiff of action before he wanted to be part of it. He remembered their wartime escapades in the jungles of Burma, how Harjinder had converted obsolete Lysanders into bombers. As Moolgavkar stood in his office, he found himself reminiscing, and saw Moolgavkar as a young man, always complaining that he wasn’t getting his fair share of combat missions. He implored Harjinder to modify the now obsolete Tempests to carry napalm, so he could use them as bombers in the tight valleys of the Himalayas. Harjinder assured him it was possible, but this was a war being fought based on political, not military decisions. Menon continued to decree that the IAF would not go on the offensive.
The war was short, swift, and traumatic for India. Nehru forgot his policy of non-alignment and went directly to the Americans for help. On 7th November 1962, All Indian Radio announced that the Prime Minister had accepted Menon’s resignation. It was inevitable; the Army was suffering a string of humiliating defeats. Harjinder called Menon, and in all honesty, said to him, ‘You have done far better than any Defence Minister ever did.’
He must have been referring to the Defence Minister’s string of victories in his time in office before the conflict began, because Menon had completely misjudged the Chinese Government in this war.
India was united in a way she never had been before, travelling roadshows, put together to raise funds, were being showered with donations from across the religious, and sectarian, divide. On 17th November, the Indian position at Se La was overrun. In 1944, Arjan Singh had flown in support of the troops in Kohima, who refused to let the Japanese pass. Now Air HQ was ordered to evacuate that area just to the North of Kohima, leaving Assam and Nagaland to the Chinese without a fight. As the Chinese troops approached the Indian airfield of Tezpur, all serviceable fighters were flown out, and those in maintenance were prepared for demolition. The invaders captured the nearby town of Chaku, and, with characteristic Chinese drama, they unexpectedly declared a unilateral cease fire. The war ended on China’s terms. The IAF had been forced to remain silent throughout.
American defence analysts put pen to paper, and when those documents became public years later, they left little doubt; if the IAF had gone on the offensive it would have produced a resounding victory for India, with long term repercussions for India-China relations. In their limited capacity, the IAF had once again acquitted themselves admirably, within the limited scope they were given. They used rudimentary airstrips for takeoffs and landings, at heights up to 16,000 feet, breaking world records; and demonstrated expert use of helicopters in combat. These records, however, meant nothing to an utterly humiliated India.
Menon had been moved to the post of Minister of Defence Production, with Nehru himself taking on the Defence Ministry for a few weeks. Menon’s new appointment was just a stay of execution; his career was finished. Once again Menon called Harjinder, but this time to say that he was no longer in the Government. There was too much opposition to him in Parliament, among his colleagues, and in the Armed Forces. His abrasive, and aggressive manner, had made friends, and enemies, in equal measure. However, the blame for China’s resounding victory had been laid squarely with him, he had nowhere to hide, and any friends he still had were reluctant to come out in his support. It was inevitable that after Krishna Menon’s departure, many of his pet schemes would come under attack as the new broom swept through the ministry. On the 27th November, less than a fortnight after Menon left the Government, Harjinder got a call from Aspy. It had been decided by the Cabinet that the manufacture of Avro 748 would be taken out of Harjinder’s hands, and ha
nded over lock, stock, and barrel, to HAL in Bangalore.
Harjinder’s team finished the second Avro 748 and as it rolled down the runway, again with Kapil Bhargava at the controls, it had different name painted on the side. This Avro was called Jumbo. It was Harjinder’s final nod to his old friend; his role model. The plane was handed over to the IAF where it served in the VIP role for many years.
Harjinder had only one goal left to fulfil; not bad when you look back at the almost impossible dreams of a young, idealistic, Engineering student. He still wanted the IAF to design, as well as build, aircraft. Harjinder was losing control of the 748, but he had been designing a bigger version of the Kanpur-I. This new design was with a bigger, 250 horsepower, engine; perfect for the contract to provide an Army Air Observation aircraft. HAL had already announced their plan to build the Aeronca Sedan under licence, calling it the Krishak. Harjinder’s design was once again built by the technicians under his control, and it was Kapil who was chosen as test pilot for Kanpur-II.
The pilot designated to carry out the evaluation testing for the Government was Group Captain Ramachandran, AFC. This Indian pilot had not joined the IAF, but he was one of the few Indian’s to join the Royal Air Force during the war, where he served as a test pilot before coming back to his home country. He had attained notoriety as a test pilot after a particularly interesting incident occurred while he was test flying a brand new twin engine aircraft in UK. After takeoff, he made a split-second diagnosis that the ailerons, controlling the roll of the aircraft from left to right, were connected the wrong way. Many a pilot before had, and has since, died in these circumstances. The moment the pilot tried to lower a wing, caught by the first air current, makes the roll worse. The pilot would put in bigger, and bigger, control inputs to counter the situation, until, in a flash the aircraft is on its back, at low level. A fiery end to aircraft and pilot is guaranteed. It is possibly the only time in history when a pilot was not only quick enough to realise what was happening, but then fly the aircraft in the most unnatural way, by putting the stick over to the left to go right, and right to go left! Ramachandran’s skills were put to the test by the ailerons in Harjinder’s machine as well, when the linkage in the plane snapped, leaving him with no roll control. This time, he kicked the rudder pedals hard to slew the aircraft uncomfortably around the sky and eventually brought it down onto the runway. The problem was fixed, and the testing continued. Harjinder’s Kanpur-II had a higher ceiling, as well as a higher cruising speed, than the Krishak. When the Evaluation Committee visited Kanpur on 13th March, Harjinder’s plane was shown off to the esteemed team led by the legendary JRD Tata. Not only was JRD well on the way to forming the Tata empire that would stretch around the world, but he was also a record breaking pilot responsible for the first commercial flights within India, that led to the formation of Air India. He had even been hot on the heels of the 17-year-old Aspy Engineer during the race to claim the Aga Khan Trophy. JRD had an eye for aircraft and sure enough, he fell for the Kanpur-II after he insisted on taking her up and testing it out. Thereafter, he raved about it but to no avail. Aspy once again cornered Harjinder in Delhi to tell him that the evaluation team had pronounced HAL’s Krishak superior to his Kanpur-II.
The IAF had manufactured four of the 748s, Harjinder’s Kanpur-I, and Kanpur-II, prototypes, but it was the end of building aircraft for the Air Force. The equipment, manpower, and experience, however, did not go to waste. In the hands of HAL, the 748 production line continued to churn out more aircraft. In total 85 were made, including 17 for Indian Airlines. The IAF aircraft are still carrying out their duties today, and the trusty machines take their place in the flypast for the Air Force Day Parade every year. As I looked over my shoulder in 2012, once the Tigermoth engine had kicked into life, it was two examples of Harjinder’s handiwork that were trundling past, before the thundering crashing of jet fighter engines.
Another blow came when Aspy finally had his way and the Aircraft Manufacturing Depot was moved out completely. Harjinder had been fighting against it, but he was a lone voice in a sea of indifference. He knew what was next on the horizon, and, as expected, the decision to move the whole of Maintenance Command was announced on 26th April 1963. It had been discussed for many years and illustrated the respect, or perhaps fear, so many people had for Harjinder. Nobody wanted to confront him directly on the matter, so the general consensus was, to let Harjinder be on his way, before implementing the change. Harjinder surprised his colleagues when he made no fuss about the future plans for Maintenance Command. In some ways, he could see the logic. The Command was headed for Nagpur, where there was some excellent Government accommodation. However, it also had to do with the fight ebbing from Harjinder after 30 years of endlessly fighting the system.
There was one bright, little, episode amid these depressing developments. Kanpur had a visit from the senior politician, Pandit Kunzru. It was the same gentleman Harjinder had met in Rup Chand’s house, some 17 years earlier. Harjinder caught Pandit Kunzru at a quiet moment, and reminded him of the derogatory remarks he had made concerning Indian’s technical capabilities, in comparison to their old British masters. Full marks to the old war horse; he apologised handsomely, and asked to take back what he had said, even after nearly twenty years. As they shook hands, Harjinder was filled with pride.
Looking through Harjinder’s mountain of carefully-preserved documents, it seems he had one last step back into his early days of spanners, hammers, and rivets. A single letter, almost lost, in the reams of correspondence collected and preserved religiously, was a letter from the United States Air Force dated April 1963. It was to thank Harjinder, and his team, for the tireless two weeks of work they dedicated to the repair of the American C130 Hercules, which was stranded with structural damage. It was an aircraft type unknown to Harjinder, or the IAF; in fact the IAF would not have that aircraft in their inventory for another 45 years. Perhaps the team powered through one last time, fuelled by an unending supply of tea and confection.
There were a number of changes in Air HQ during 1963. A new post was created for a Vice Chief of the Air Staff, and the Deputy Chief was to report to him. Nanda was appointed the first Vice Chief, and Arjan Singh was to report to him as Deputy Chief. Arjan Singh was on his way to taking up the post of Chief, a position he would hold for five years before he became the only Marshal of the Indian Air Force. . It would still be another 50 years before I would sit with him in his front room, his hair and beard now snow white, as he reminisced about Sergeant Harjinder Singh and his Wapitis; memories brought on after witnessing the Vintage Flight’s Tigermoth return to the sky.
In 1963, as Harjinder’s date of retirement approached, Aspy and Harjinder were to complete the healing process of their friendship, returning to something more akin to their pioneer days. During one of their final days in the IAF together, Aspy sat Harjinder down and told him that regardless of all that had happened over the last few years, he had always liked him, and that the Air Force would never forget him. As Aspy and Harjinder spoke, Harjinder was overwhelmed with memories from all their years of friendship. In his diary, he confessed that there were tears in his eyes as a thousand different recollections ran through his mind. Aspy’s remarks were heartfelt, but they were wrong. His assumption that the Air Force would never forget Harjinder was sadly misplaced.
The final days saw a flurry of activity, aimed at trying to hold on to Harjinder. Aspy wanted Harjinder to take on the mantle of Controller, General Aircraft Production. Harjinder went to see Aspy, and left him with no doubt that he would do anything in an honorary capacity, based in Chandigarh, but would not take up a paid position. Even as late as 17th June 1963, the Prime Minister wrote to the Punjab Chief Minister;
‘I have a very high opinion of Harjinder Singh, and I do not want him to retire from Government Service. I should like him to continue for some more years…’
As Harjinder wrote in his diary;
‘What greater reward can any man desire? What gr
eater testimonial to pack in your bag when finally you wend your way homewards?’
On 27th July 1963, Aspy was once again on the phone with Harjinder. This time, the Ministry of Defence wanted him to accept a further extension of service. This was a nice parting gift, but Harjinder had made up his mind. The envelope containing his heartfelt regret at not being able to accept the offer, was duly sealed and sent off by Express Delivery, and thus signalled the end of his 30 year long, illustrious, bottom to top, career in the IAF.
Harjinder entered into a very reflective period, and he looked back on the man he had known as the teenage prodigy from back in 1930. Of Aspy he wrote; ‘he was the one person in the whole of the IAF who has gone up the ladder demanding the very best from himself and other people around him. He drove his subordinates hard, but drove himself harder. I can confidently state that the IAF owes a lot to his love for the Service and his hard work. Being an excellent pilot, an officer and a leader, he won admiration from all and sundry. He was acknowledged as one of the finest officers that ever stepped into Air Force uniform. If there is one pilot in the IAF who has never made a heavy landing in his life, Aspy is that man.’