Spitfire Singh Read online

  It was not long before Harjinder’s hardening principles clashed head-on with authority.

  The city echoed with ‘Long live the Revolution’, motivated by the imprisonment of Bhagat Singh and Dutt, the two freedom-fighting heroes of the Punjab, in Lahore. The All-India Congress Committee held a session on the banks of the River Ravi, where a resolution proposing the celebration of the first, self-proclaimed, Indian Independence Day on the 26th January 1930, was met with little opposition.

  The president of the Young Engineers Association called a meeting of the Executive Committee. It was unanimously decided to buy 250 Independence flags and distribute them among all Maclaghan Engineering College students, to be worn on what was planned as the glorious first day of Independence.

  The next day the flags were worn by most of the students. These flags were miniature Congress flags with what Harjinder later described as ‘the somewhat childish inscription: Up Up with the National Flag; Down Down with the Union Jack.’

  At 11 am Mr Berry, the Professor of Mathematics, came to the 3rd Year Class and read the inscription on one of the flags. He was furious, and exploded, ‘I do not mind your flag going up, but I expect you to have respect for mine. I refuse to teach you unless the bottom line is struck off.’ Naturally, the adrenalin-fuelled students refused to do this, and so he marched out of the class and reported the matter to the Principal. Captain Whittaker gave Harjinder a direct order to remove the flags, warning him that if they were not gone in 15 minutes, he would be removed from the college. Harjinder was taken aback by the heavy-handed response, and requested the Principal to be reasonable and not too hasty, because the feelings of the students had reached fever pitch. In spite of this plea, the Principal ordered the immediate suspension of all the students wearing the flag.

  And so the strike began.

  A majority of the students walked out, leaving only a few remaining in the class rooms. An Indian professor, Brij Nath, came out to reason with the strikers but was shouted down and called a ‘British toady’. More Indian professors came out, probably at the insistence of the Principal, but returned without results. The students’ blood was up, and they moved to take over the college.

  This was it; onward to the glory of an Independent India!

  On the second day, there was no let-up in the passion. Harjinder and his fellow students settled in for the new beginning of the Indian State. They moved out of their college and into the streets of Lahore, shouting the most popular slogan ‘Long Live Revolution’. As they progressed into their first whole week of action, it seemed as if all weapons in their arsenal were used to gather the last few non-striking students on to their side. Looking at Harjinder’s diary, it seems that the main weapon was the Student President herself.

  ‘The President, Miss Manmohini Zutshi, was a charming, beautiful, tall and majestic-looking girl. Her fame had travelled ahead of her even before she arrived. We, the strikers, sent word to the few students who were still in the class rooms. The non-strikers saw her in the College premises and they also came out to join us, perhaps just to ogle at this enchanting beauty. On the opposite side of the College, the road was crowded with hundreds of students. In the middle stood Miss Zutshi, addressing us like a general would his Army, with her chappals and ‘swadeshi’ (home-spun) sari adding to her elegance and charm. She avoided the inquisitive and admiring glances by shyly looking down at the ground and trying to raise a piece of grass with the toe of her chappal. At the same time, she displayed considerable self-confidence. After an eloquent speech she presented us with this proposal: “Yours is a professional college; you may find it impossible to continue your studies elsewhere if expelled. Are you ready to go through with it?”

  All students present answered with one voice: “Yes, we are.”

  She welcomed and applauded our resolve.’

  The 4th February was Harjinder’s 21st birthday, and eighth day of the strike. At the meeting in the Hall, the Committee felt like heroes as they were clapped and cheered. To their youthful minds, independence was almost at hand, brought about merely by chanting ‘Long Live Revolution’, the boycott of British goods and non-cooperation with the civil administration. Messages of support arrived from Calcutta, Bombay and Madras with students all over the country pledging to come out on strike in sympathy. The next morning, Mr Whittaker, the Principal, sent for Harjinder at his beautifully appointed bungalow, standing separate in the grounds. That afternoon, in Harjinder’s own words he, ‘strutted into his drawing room like a victorious general and gave him an arrogant greeting’.

  Harjinder refused the tea and the chair kindly offered by Mrs Whittaker, preferring to stand tall in front of the Principal. Unexpectedly, Mr Whittaker started by asking if he knew how to shoot. Slightly thrown by this bizarre question, Harjinder blurted out that yes, he did. The Principle moved back in his chair, and opened his deskdrawer. He stood and Harjinder felt something heavy, metallic, cold and oily drop into his hands. Confused, he looked down to see Mr Whittaker’s military revolver sitting heavily in his palm. When he dragged his eyes back up, Whittaker said: ‘I have been hearing “Long Live Revolution” for the last seven days, yet there is no revolution. Here is a revolver, and here is an Englishman. Now let’s see you start the revolution.’

  Harjinder wrote in his diary:

  ‘If ever words failed me in my life, it was then. I was non-plussed, but I collected myself quickly and muttered, “The revolution does not mean shooting the British. We want a peaceful revolution, when India shall be ruled by us, right from the Viceroy downwards.” Whittaker stood up, led me to the window of his drawing room and pointed to the Lancashire boiler outside the Heat Engine Laboratory and said: “See that boiler? If we keep on shouting ‘Long live the boiler’ for the rest of our lives, we would still not get any steam out of it. We have to work hard, dirty our clothes and hands, fill it with water and burn coal to get it to produce steam. You Indians want freedom merely by shouting for it. You can keep doing that for a century and you still won’t be any nearer it.”

  I stood my ground by saying: “Revolution means a complete change of Government. We want Indians to be the Viceroy and the Commander-in-Chief of our Army.”

  The Principal’s retort: “Why not an Indian Principal?”

  “No”, I replied. “We would willingly pay you double salary till we find an Indian with the requisite qualifications.”

  The Principal smiled. “So you are trying to bribe me! You know the Viceroy is only a figure-head. The real Government of India is in Whitehall in London. The day Indians are fit to rule themselves, all the might of the British Empire will not be able to hold India. The Commander-in-Chief can be an Indian, although it is difficult to find one today. Anyway, the Indian Army is an out-of-date weapon. We, on the other hand, have the latest and most modern force; the Royal Air Force. Have you not read the Hunter Commission’s Report in the newspapers?”

  I had not, so I later made a point of reading it. It was an eye-opener for me; it made me think that we were missing the wood for the trees. The Hunter Commission had come to the conclusion that the British Government could put down any revolt in India just by the use of aeroplanes, like they did in Gujranwala on 13th April 1919. The people on the ground would have no choice but to submit to this aerial terror.

  Although I made a vain attempt to contradict Whittaker, in my heart of hearts I knew that he was absolutely right. He convinced me of the futility of slogan-shouting.’

  Harjinder realised that he and his fellows had been looking at things on a micro scale. The shouting and chanting of students made them feel good, but ideals were not enough. Whittaker was right. The sheer size and scale of India dwarfed the British and given the extremely small percentage of the population that was actually from the mother country, there was more to their hold on power than first seemed. Something more than a flag was needed if they were to rule their own destiny. They needed to be able to control, develop, educate and rule on their own.

 
He returned to the students knowing what had to be done. For eight days he had been at the forefront, calling for change, and for everyone to stand firm behind him. Now, he left the Principal’s bungalow to walk back to his followers, who were all waiting eagerly to hear how Harjinder had driven home their demand, and cut Whittaker down from his lofty perch. But instead, he stood in front of them, head briefly held down before rising up to full height, to announce the strike was to be called off. There was uproar at this with, quite understandably, with some students even accusing Harjinder of being bought over. The words of Whittaker, and Harjinder’s need to convey them successfully to the student population, was the major turning point in his adult life. Harjinder was converted and, as he admitted himself in his diary:

  ‘Converts are always great fanatics, they say. Looking back, I often ponder over the wisdom of Principal Whittaker’s advice. How right he was. It dawned on me later that we Indians are the greatest speech-makers in the world. We are builders of castles in the air, but we leave the real foundation-laying to others.’

  After the strike was called off, Miss Zutshi played a leading role in parleying with the Principal. There was to be no victimisation; there would be no Union Jack flown on Foundation Day; and the Governor would not be invited. All felt greatly relieved and once the collective blood pressure had been allowed to settle, the general feeling among the students was they had won their battle after all. Of course, this was a long way off from any movement towards Indian Independence. There was another World War still to come to fuel that.

  After everyone went back about their business, Bhagat Singh and his party in the Lahore jail were executed. Mahatma Gandhi, who had been parleying with the Viceroy, Lord Irwin, had failed to save their lives. There was no mistaking the fact that British rule still held India in a vice-like grip.

  As a consequence of Mr Whittaker’s talk, and his new-found knowledge of the Hunter Commission report, Harjinder became more determined than ever to join the Royal Air Force. If the British could stop a revolution of the vastly superior numbers in India with airpower alone, surely the way ahead was to be within that system, learn how it worked, and form a force to represent India.

  The die for Harjinder’s future was cast.

  On 15th February Harjinder travelled to the Royal Air Force Park in Lahore Cantonment, where he was ushered into the office of Flight Lieutenant G.H. Mills, the Station Adjutant, a smart, tall and pleasant gentleman. Harjinder told him about his desire to join the RAF as a pilot. Mills smirked into his moustache and asked why he wanted to join. When Harjinder told him about his talk with the Principal and even mentioned the Hunter Commission Report, Mills’ demeanour suddenly changed. Twisting his moustache he said: ‘So you are a Gandhi-wala?’

  Flight Lieutenant Mills ripped into Harjinder to grind these ‘ideas’ out of this petulant Indian. Finally, he took him outside of his office and pointed to the glittering aeroplanes lined up outside and barked at him: ‘You are not even allowed to go near those aeroplanes, leave aside fly them. To be a pilot in the RAF you must have English blood flowing in your veins. We cannot trust Indians who follow Gandhi in his madness.’

  Harjinder returned to the college frustrated and demoralised, but his ambitions had not been ground into dust, as Mills had intended. The RAF, and in particular, the lines of aeroplanes, had fired his imagination and his ambition.

  ‘The wrecked piles of crashed aircraft I had seen suddenly assumed great importance in my life.’

  Later that the same year, Lloyd George spoke during the Indian debate in the House of Commons: ‘Gentlemen, to teach Gandhi the meaning of Home Rule, we should withdraw the RAF squadrons from the North-West Frontier of India for a period of six months. You would find not a single ashrafi (a gold coin), nor a single virgin left in North India.’

  Long heated discussions in his college followed these remarks but it was not until 1937, as he sweated in the forts and the landing strips in that province, that Harjinder came to know how right Lloyd George had been. Even in Lahore, the population was sheltered from the realities of the lawless North-West.

  Harjinder had taken to getting his hands on any aeronautical literature he could, and devouring its contents. Then one day he came across an article which caused him to take a different approach to his future plans. It was to directly affect his, and most probably, India’s future.

  The opening paragraph grabbed his attention:

  In view of the fact that so many Indians are securing their certificates as pilots, the suggestion is timely, that it takes more than pilots to create an Air Force. The backbone of any air force really lies in the efficiency of its mechanics.

  The whole article was indeed forward-looking and destined to be very close to the truth. However, if the first paragraph caught his attention, the final sentence infuriated him:

  But the average Indian mechanic is very casual and untrustworthy.

  The Skeene Committee’s report, in which it was suggested that the Government of India should experiment with a squadron of Indians in the RAF, found more favour with Harjinder. He knew this was his golden opportunity and since this was his final year in college, he had decisions to make. The next day he requested an interview with the Principal. Naturally, Whittaker would have recalled his comments to this ringleader of the strike, but here Harjinder stood again in his office talking of military service. Was it surprise or satisfaction that Whittaker felt when he went on to complement Harjinder on his fitness, and the suitability of his aeronautical engineering training for joining such a Service? He was most sympathetic, and offered all possible help.

  Things then seemed to happen suddenly for Harjinder, as a few weeks later, the scheme was to be put into force. The Government of India had decided to conduct the experiment by starting with a whole squadron of Indians. The group of six already sent for officer and pilot training at the RAF College, Cranwell, in Britain, were diverted from entering into the RAF to form the start of what would become the IAF. It was decided that the ground staff would be trained in India within the system the RAF had in place. Air Headquarters, New Delhi, saw the Railway Board as the natural pool to draw expertise from, and so a list was requested with the names of selected ‘D’ Class apprentices. They would be paid thirtyfive rupees per month whilst under training and once in employment, it would rise to the dizzy heights of forty-five rupees. They would then be termed ‘Hawai Sepoys 3rd class’, no term of ‘Airman’ like their British cousins. These ‘D’ Class apprentices were mainly illiterate boys, 14-18 years of age; the sons of railway workers. These boys would have very little theoretical knowledge, and could only be trained in basic practical jobs. In the railway apprentice system they were paid less than five rupees a month. It was felt in Delhi that a large number would volunteer when offered thirty-five per month; who wouldn’t? However, this starting wage was still in sharp contrast to the ninty rupees per month Harjinder was paid in his final year as an engineering student.

  This financial disparity did not stop Harjinder, far from it. He used his ever-increasing skills as an orator to call upon a number of his class fellows, to form the would-be Indian Air Force. He gave them a lecture on the defence of the North-West of India, repeating Lloyd George’s statement from the Commons. Destiny, rather than financial reward, was what the individual should strive for. Considering what these men were possibly giving up, he was highly successful, because four of his classmates followed his lead. Remember Harjinder’s thoughts: ‘If you have enjoyed the real pleasures of life you can settle down to austerity without regret.’ Well, austerity was on the way if they made it into the IAF.

  Harjinder spent time constructing his letter to Air HQ Delhi. He described how he had followed the debate on Indians joining the RAF as technicians; he knew he was very qualified; he was completely convinced this was the future for him, and India. However, the reply from a Squadron Leader Ardley was not what he had expected. The letter dryly stated that the RAF was not looking for qualified persons like
Harjinder and his classmates, they preferred untrained apprentices. Ardley, however, had not taken Harjinder’s persistence into account. Harjinder continued to pester him on a daily basis, until he finally caved in and wrote to the Railway Board who had responsibility for Harjinder and his fellow converts. It would do them no good, but he summoned them to attend an interview.

  Anybody who has been interviewed by a military selection board will always remember the ordeal; fearsome officers in their finest uniform, with seemingly endless worldly knowledge. However, for Harjinder it was distinctly remembered, but not as an ordeal. He thought during the technical examination that some of the candidates knew more than the Board members! Following the interviews, their spirits were soaring, but then followed the now-familiar put-down by the RAF officers. Squadron Leader Ardley addressed ten of the educated candidates with the words: ‘You must be told some home truths. You college-boys are too soft and will not be able to last the pace. You have had a misguided education. Do you know that you will now have to travel third class, eat the same food as the sepoys of the Indian Army and, what is more, wear boots and putties and the kullah turban?’

  Before Harjinder could speak a word, two boys answered for all of them: ‘Sir, we might die in the attempt, but we are determined to form an Air Force of our own.’

  Abdul Rashid Khan Malik also remarked: ‘Leave aside third class, we will even travel in a goods wagon.’

  Malik was not from Harjinder’s College, he had trained in Calcutta as an engineer, but never seemed to take his profession seriously. His family were well-to-do and he carried a rich man’s airs. His eldest brother, Ghulam Muhammad, later became Governor General of Pakistan. Malik was very keen to join the Air Force, there was no need to coerce him, for his was an unflinching belief that the future lay in Indians serving in an Indian Air Force. These beliefs merged with Harjinder’s, and this friendship formed at selection was to last over the years.