Spitfire Singh

by Mike Edwards

  We taxi to the small group awaiting our arrival in front of the small hangar. This will be the home of the Harvard for two weeks before the RAF help to load it into the enormous hold of the Indian Air Force Boeing C-17 transport in the presence of the Indian High Commissioner. My grin could challenge the size of that C-17’s belly when the business of flying is complete, and there is a moment to suck up the feelings of past, present and future. Maybe, just maybe, Harjinder sat in this seat. After unbuckling the seat harness, then the parachute harness, I step up on the seat, out onto the step, down onto the wing and then a hop onto the tarmac of Brize Norton. Woody, from the restoration company is there, along with Will from the UK Ministry of Defence and members of the Brize Norton team. My grin is reflected on their faces too. The Harvard will be going home soon, but not before two of the RAF Battle of Britain Memorial Flight’s Spitfires pay us a visit for a unique photo shoot.

  My meetings back in Delhi, over the past few months, have not only been to arrange for this Harvard to go home to India, but also discuss the next aircraft for restorations. The Spitfire that Harjinder rescued, that Harjinder flew to his own Wings Parade, that still carries the Plumber call-sign as a plaque on the nose, is the next candidate. The questions that crowd my brain now, ‘Did Harjinder sit in this plane? Did he help repair it? Did he take it into the air?’ will become a certainty with his Spitfire.

  In Delhi, that imposing, five storey red sandstone building, just off the Raj Path, is still Vayu Bhawan, the Headquarters of the Indian Air Force. Since 2007, I have been leaving the noise and frantic traffic of the street outside to enter the hushed corridors of the top floor, beautifully finished in Air Force Blue Marble. The first three years involved a squeeze between hoardings to reach the reception room in Headquarters to get my entry pass issued. If it wasn’t raining, I would still get wet from the chuntering air-conditioning units overhead dripping water onto the unsuspecting below. The hoardings gave the building an unfortunate, shabby visage, but, it was all for a good cause. The ambitious metro underground system was passing directly underneath the building with promises to provide a real solution to the traffic gridlock that clogs Delhi’s streets every day.

  After signing another entry log, I entered through the main doors. The bright, white, marble floor looked positively opulent after the basic, paint-peeling, reception room, but the rest of the grand entrance also looked a little tired. I walk to the left of the staircase that dominates the entrance foyer, and come to the two beaten – up lifts that groan as they grudgingly open their doors to let out their captives. Waiting for the lift to arrive became a moment of trepidation for me, the small box could take six people, but eight or nine would regularly pile in. On a previous visit the power flicked on and off several times before leaving the small box stranded between floors, with little air getting through, not the best way to prepare for a meeting! Finally the doors were prised open and a hand offered from above to pull us one by one up to the floor level which started about half way up the door opening.

  Since that incident, as a distraction while waiting for my lift, I took to examining the faces in the pictures on the wall. They were names and faces that I was becoming more, and more, familiar with as I dived into the history of the IAF. Naturally, Marshal of the Indian Air Force, Arjan Singh, took pride of place. There, was Subroto Mukerjee as the first Chief, and Aspy Engineer, the second. There was the grinning face of Jumbo Majumdar, sitting in his Hurricane, moments before his death. Next to him, a picture of Sekhon, who took off in his Gnat fighter when six Sabres attacked his airbase. He had taken off with Ghuman, but, in the misty, early, winter morning, found himself battling the Sabres alone, before he fell to their guns. For his gallantry, he became the only IAF person to be awarded India’s highest gallantry award, the Param Vir Chakra. The obvious absence was Harjinder Singh; whose meteoric rise from Sepoy to the first Corporal, the first Sergeant, the first Flight Sergeant, the first Engineering Officer, the father of Maintenance Command and the Vintage Flight, should have earned him a place of honour on these walls. I first learnt of him when I asked why the word ‘Plumber’ was mounted with obvious pride on the side of the aircraft that was 99 per cent Spitfire and 1 per cent MiG 21. The Commanding Officer of the Vintage Flight I had revived, Wing Commander Mukesh Sharma, explained how Harjinder had found, and rebuilt, the Spitfire he’d found in a rubbish dump. The pneumatic system for the undercarriage was missing, so just as Harjinder had done throughout his career, he had found a way around the problem by fitting a system from the MiG 21. Mukesh’s enthusiasm for the Vintage Flight knew no bounds, and there is no doubt that without his drive and dedication, we would never have seen it reborn. His interest in this man, Harjinder Singh, was also infectious, but he explained to me that Harjinder was out of favour, because of his friendship with the then Defence Minister, Menon, and his apparent clashes with Aspy Engineer. I had no reason not to take these facts on face value.

  In 2014, the metro glides under the still gridlocked streets of Delhi. Until three months previous, I used the new metro to get me to Udyog Bhawan, the station facing Air Headquarters. It not only halved the time of a taxi, but I no longer had the regular battles with drivers who set off, saying they knew exactly where I was going, only to stop five, six, or seven times to ask for directions. The hoardings are down, and the building is back to its former glory, it finally looked like the building that Subroto Mukerjee knew when he first ‘captured’ the top two floors, before descending to take the whole building. The three dusty, and shabby, Gnat aircraft, that had lay abandoned in the corner of the Vintage Flight aircraft hangar I use in Palam Air Base, had been reunited with their wings, repainted to a fabulous silver shine, and now sit in perfect formation on their plinth, endlessly climbing into the hazy Delhi sky, the grass around them luscious green. The walk to the main doors of the building has reclaimed its rightful grandeur. The retina scan security check perhaps has more to do with too many James Bond films, rather than a real need, but through the routine we go. Then it is back into the white marble entrance hall, but now the walls are gleaming white in competition, huge models of IAF aircraft sit on their stands, and even the lifts have been smartened up inside. The size of the lift stays the same, as does the number of people squeezing in; and when I do get in, I idle away the short trip to the fifth floor wondering if the winding machinery is still the same. As I wait for the lift, I notice that the pictures have also reappeared after the building work. They are properly framed to a uniform size, backlit, and the faces have a small written piece underneath to explain, to those who might not know, what amazing deeds these men did. And, at the front of the line of pictures, the first one your eyes drift to, is an officer few people know about; Air Vice-Marshal Harjinder Singh, MBE. He is back. Is this a sign that he is being brought back into the brotherhood of the IAF? Has he been remembered in his true light, or have the rumours just been put to one side, temporarily?

  My usual routine is to come to Headquarters on my newly-purchased Royal Enfield Bullet motorbike after visiting the Head Office of Avi-Oil. The lifts in the Surikiran towerblock have the luxury of a fan to stir the air as they bringing me down from the 6th floor. The office of Avi-Oil was cooler again and there is always a cup of tea waiting for me. The Chairman, Mr Nanda, sits behind his desk with photographs of his grandchildren standing, or sitting, in various aircraft. Behind him, on a table, are intricate, handmade model aircraft. These are Mr Nanda’s prized possessions, having been made by Harjinder Singh from scrap metal pieces. Mr Nanda was the young boy who remembered the turbulent arrival of Independence, with his father sitting on the roof with a shotgun. The same young man who went to live with his Aunt, and her husband, Amrit Saigal, during the time Amrit served as Harjinder’s Staff Officer. On one side of his office is the large safe. It is now a normal event to see him open the safe to retrieve items from within, but the first time was a surprise. There is no gold, or money, inside that safe but instead, endless piles of files and documents.
Since the death of his uncle, Mr Nanda has become the custodian of Harjinder’s life and his memories. It seems Harjinder threw nothing out. Original letters from the 1930s, including papers from his time as an engineering student, right through to the actual correspondence between him and his two Chiefs, Subroto Mukerjee and Aspy Engineer, are the treasures that are protected here, and these are just the most precious of his documents and photographs. Harjinder’s personal belongings and papers line the shelves in this office, and reveal the stunning life he’d led; more lie in Mr Nanda’s house. Time, with Mr Nanda, when discussing the life of Harjinder, vanishes in a flash, and he is responsible for more than one late arrival for meetings at Vayu Bhawan. The amount of information he retains in his head is staggering, and any question is either greeted with an old paper withdrawn from the safe, or a message on e-mail waiting for me by the evening. Without Mr Nanda much of the IAF history would have been lost; the chance to tell the story of Harjinder Singh would have been lost.

  One visit in July 2014, I sat in his office, noticing two red-covered books by his elbow. After a brief catch up, he passed these old books to me, explaining they had been in possession of Jumbo’s daughter until now. The red covers are embossed with the words ‘Lion’s Diary’. One is from 1944 and the other, 1945. I sat there staring at the inside cover of the first book, where, in Jumbo’s own hand is ‘Wing Commander Karun Krishna Majumdar, Indian Air Force: No IND/1555’ in his neat handwriting. The obvious place to start is D-Day, 6th June 1944. All his entries are so matter of fact, listing the missions with calm comments like ‘enemy seen and engaged’ or descriptions of the intensity of flak. Just four days after the cauldron of D-Day, he notes, ‘Feel I can cope all night. Burma was tougher.’

  Having spent some time looking at the missions in Europe during 1944, I pick up the next book. Mr Nanda with a little nod of his head; ‘Look at 17th February.’

  It is a peculiar feeling; I am curious but also wary, do I really want to know what this page holds? I open the yellowing book to approximately half way but there are no entries. I flick backwards until I arrive at the last entry, 17th February 1945. Jumbo has details of the arrival at Lahore at 11:30 am and then his shopping trip to buy the birthday present for his son’s birthday party that evening, and scent for Kooiee, his wife. Then he writes:

  ‘1600 Walton fly past’

  ‘1605. Lord, lettest now thy servant, depart in peace.’

  Just five minutes later he was dead.

  The hairs on the back of my neck are standing to attention. I look up, and get a knowing nod from Mr Nanda. He answers my question before I can even ask them; there are no other religious comments in Jumbo’s diaries, apart from one the year before, when his son was born. Somehow, it seemed as if Jumbo knew.

  One week later, the air-conditioning of the Delhi hotel lobby breaks over me like an icy wave as I climb off my motorcycle and venture indoors. The ride from Vayu Bhawan is always tiring. Already warm from the sweltering heat of the Delhi summer, the slow revving engine of the bike pushes my body temperature further up. Today’s journey also involved juggling another heavy, precious cargo – I had brought with me, Harjinder’s papers in an Avi-Oil bag. Once again, time raced by in Mr Nanda’s office, as we dived headlong into another collection of yellowing correspondence. I knew that Harjinder had been busy after retirement, but it was this consignment of papers that revealed just how broad his involvement in all aspects of life was.

  Having been separated from my phone by security regulations at HQ, followed by the noisy ride to Saket district in Delhi, it is the first time to check messages as I give the nod of a sweat-soaked head to my long-term friend Rajesh, the hotel concierge. I call Woody at the UK restoration company, Reflight. The timetable is tight to get it into RAF Brize Norton to await collection by the IAF C-17 transport aircraft. Before I turn in for the night, to get some rest, before flying back to London, I speak with Air Marshal Kumaria; he is still fiercely supportive of the project. Retirement caught him up before I could bring the Harvard back to India, but we did have our time together when I flew the Tigermoth in the 80th Anniversary Parade. After the parade rehearsal, his staff car flying his flag as the Vice Chief of the IAF, arrived at the hangar. He had a flying suit with him, it seemed after years of planning we were finally going to fly together. He was unaware of the leaking fuel drain I was trying to fix when he arrived. It was time for make one of those split second decisions, knowing that this would be our only chance to fly together in an IAF Vintage Flight aircraft. I decided it was worth the small risk. With a rag wrapped around the fuel drain, I taxied out having promised myself that if the fuel soaked through before takeoff, I would cancel the flight. I knew that once we were airborne, the hot Delhi air, would just evaporate the occasional fuel drip in an instant. It was a short flight. Both of us knew the importance of this old-lady-of-the-skies being seen on parade. Air Marshal Kumaria was concerned about hitting a bird, and I knew we were, albeit very slowly, leaking fuel! I don’t know who had the biggest grin when we landed. Those few minutes above Delhi are one of the most significant in my pilot’s log book.

  After finishing my telephone update with the now retired Air Marshal Kumaria, I get back on the phone with Woody, and finalise my plans to fly the Harvard down to Brize Norton. And then it hits me, in July 2014, I am going to fly in one of Harjinder’s aircraft.

  In 1971, the death of a retired Air Vice-Marshal was not big news in India, distracted as the public were by the war with Pakistan. The Pakistani offensive was spearheaded by the tanks of their Armoured Brigade. The attack along the entire length of the border was stopped by the IAF’s Hunters at a place called Longewala in the Rajasthan desert. Pictures of the desert battlefield show endless spirals as the tanks fruitlessly tried to escape the rocket and cannon fire from the IAF aircraft. It was perhaps the most dramatic example, anywhere in the world, of the use of stand-alone air power, but the IAF’s deeds remain largely unheard of in, or outside, India.

  In East Pakistan the MiG 21s of No. 28 Squadron, IAF, launched pin-point attacks on Government House where the Pakistani military leadership had set up their base. They used a tourist map of Dacca as a guide for identifying targets! Imagine how helpless these men would have felt as rockets came through the window. The unconditional surrender of the Pakistani troops was offered immediately. East Pakistan was liberated, and Bangladesh was formed. As the forlorn Pakistani General, Lieutenant General Amir Abdulla Khan Niazi, MC, signed the ceasefire agreement, the senior most officials of the three Indian Services stood behind him. When he was asked why he gave in with such little resistance, despite the number of troops he had available, he pointed his pen at the Air Force Officer behind him, Air Vice-Marshal H.K. Dewan, and said, ‘Because of them’.

  What would Harjinder have made of this declaration? His beloved Air Force had performed beyond even the wildest expectations in 1947. Simultaneously, they had crushed the opposition on two fronts, but for Harjinder it would have torn at his soul, for they were once again at war with people he had called his own twenty five years before, and over the land that had been his country. Lord Mountbatten took no satisfaction in seeing his two-headed state fail as he had predicted, and the autonomous state he first suggested to Nehru, in Simla, come into existence.

  In Delhi, one particular teenager had his own personal battle on 8th March 1972. DC ‘Tiny’ Kumaria had spent months at the Sadfarjung airfield in the centre of Delhi watching the aircraft from the flying club land and takeoff again.

  After talking himself into any spare joy rides that were available for a flight, his enthusiasm was rewarded with a scholarship to learn to fly. Tiny Kumaria had completed his first, solo, takeoff and landing, but whilst it was fresh in his mind, he was sent up again for a second time with instructions to fly around the landing pattern, practicing his landings and takeoffs. After his second takeoff, the young man turned his plane to parallel the runway, the downwind position, and set up for another landing. He settled his si
lver HT2 at the correct height when his small world, in that narrow cockpit, exploded. All that the youngster knew was the world had erupted in a storm of Perspex shards and wind noise as his head was thrust into his lap, with just a blurred, dark view of the cockpit floor. When Tiny pulled his head up into the maelstrom of wind, he saw the needle of the engine RPM gauge threatening to bend over the stop pin that marked the maximum. The young and inexperienced mind still diagnosed, in that fraction of a second, that he no longer had a propeller attached. That had caused the engine to scream far beyond the designed RPM limits with the threat of the whole engine ripping free too. He flicked the engine ignition off and hauled back on the stick to recover from the screaming dive he found himself in. This fresh-faced pilot, with a grand total of ten minutes solo flying, showed what natural skill he possessed. Not only did he recover the twisted aircraft from a death-dive and into a glide, he steered it for the only open space available, down a dirt bank to slither to its final resting place.

  When the instructor, in another HT2, had incorrectly descended into the same traffic pattern, he had done so right on top of Tiny’s HT2. The wheel of his aircraft not only crashed through Tiny’s canopy, but actually struck him on the back of the head, continuing on to tear the propeller off. It was a fatal mistake for the pilots of that second aircraft. Tiny Kumaria lived that day; if he hadn’t, the Vintage Flight would have not been reborn and this story of Harjinder Singh would have not been told.

  On the 25th June 1979, Lord Mountbatten celebrated his birthday. He became 79-year-old, surpassing, by one year, the man he had come to respect so much; Mahatma Gandhi. Two months later, on 27th August 1979, he too was assassinated. Just off the coast of a small Irish seaside village, the Irish Republican Army detonated the bomb they had planted on his boat. He was targeted not because he was the last Viceroy, or the first Governor General of India; or even for his life in the military. He was targeted purely because he was related, distantly, to the Royal family.