A Sailor’s Story An Autobiography Arjun Krishnan
বিশেষ দ্রষ্টব্যঃ কপিরাইট সমস্যা যাতে না হয় সেকারণে সকল লেখা শুধুমাত্র ‘only Readable’, ‘non-downloadable’ ও ‘non-clickable’ রাখা হয়েছে। সংগ্রামের নোটবুকের সকল নথি-পত্রিকা-দলিল-সংকলন-বই থেকে নেয়া তথ্য-ছবি-ভিডিও শুধুমাত্র গবেষণার কাজে ব্যবহার্য। বাংলাদেশের স্বাধীনতা সংগ্রাম ও মুক্তিযুদ্ধ গবেষণার জন্য সংগ্রামের নোটবুক একটি অলাভজনক অবাণিজ্যিক স্বেচ্ছাশ্রমে গড়া প্রচেষ্টা।
Prologue
Vice Admiral Nilakanta Krishnan (1919 – 1982) was one of the most decorated officers in the Indian Armed Forces, with 17 medals adorning his broad shoulders earned after 40 years of distinguished Service in the Indian Navy, including the Padma Bhushan and the Distinguished Service Cross for gallantry in World War II. Known as the ‘Sailors’ Admiral, his love for his beloved Navy was surpassed only by his love for his Country. We, his family came a close third in the pecking order.
Flamboyant, charismatic, and a dynamic leader of men, this is his story, told mostly in his own words, and is inextricably linked to the story of India, from pre-independence to post independent modern India, spanning some of India’s most tumultuous times, seen through his eyes, his experiences, his part in building India’s Navy, and culminating in India’s greatest military triumph, in which he played such a pivotal role.
Joining the Royal Indian Navy at the age of 16, he was in the thick of battle for the entire period of the Second World War from the age of 19, earning the Distinguished Service Cross for gallantry a few years later, one of only two Indian Naval officers to ever win that honor. He was involved in every sea faring action in post independent India, culminating in the greatest moment of the Indian Armed Forces, the signing of the surrender ceremony by Pakistani forces in Dacca, Bangladesh in December 1971, heralding the birth of a new nation, and for which he was awarded the Padma Bhushan by a grateful nation.
As part of that war, his brilliant strategy to lure the Pakistani submarine P.N.S. Ghazi and sink her at the mouth of Vishakhapatnam harbor on the eastern seaboard of India, made him a national hero, and still ranks as one of the greatest sea faring victories in the annals of Indian Naval history.
A lesser known fact is that he was involved in the only other naval action prior to the 1971 Bangladesh war – the liberation of Goa, Diu and Daman from the Portuguese in 1962. As Captain of the INS Delhi, he was responsible for bombardment of Diu from the Sea, and supporting the Indian Army, resulting in the un-conditional surrender of Portuguese forces on land, and resulting in Goa, Diu and Daman finally joining the Indian Union.
His life was a fascinating one, which most people would only dream about. He rubbed shoulders with Royalty, Presidents, Prime ministers, Politicians, Military brass, war heroes, the famous, the not so famous, extra ordinary and ordinary people, in the course of his life and every encounter has left a fascinating tale behind it. From Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, Indira Gandhi, Sardar Vallabhai Patel, V.V. Giri, Ace fighter pilot Guy Gibson of second world war dambusters’ fame, Queen Elizabeth the Queen mother, Lord Mountbatten of Burma, Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding of Battle of Britain fame, Russian Grand Admiral Gorshkov, to even an encounter with a mafia Don and his moll in downtown San Francisco – they are all part of the tapestry that made his life’s story so interesting.
As his son, I was privy to the telling of his adventures and stories of his life, having heard them many times over, with his characteristic humor and wit. After his retirement, as Chairman and Managing Director of Cochin Shipyard in 1979, he wrote and released his first book, ‘No Way but Surrender, an account of the 1971 Indo-Pak war in the Bay of Bengal’, published by Vikas Publishers. I encouraged him to write the story of his life and he proceeded to do so.
I had just got married then, and I was fortunate to get a job in Hyderabad, where he had settled, and I could spend the last three years of his life with him. After I went to work, my wife Latha would go over to ‘Kangeya’, my father’s house, and diligently type the manuscript of ‘A Sailor’s Story’ as he dictated or wrote down for her to transcribe. They completed most of the manuscript, but before we could go to a publisher, sadly, he passed away in January 1982, after a brief illness. The original typed manuscript has been preserved, albeit dog eared.
I got busy with my life, raising a family, and building a career. And now many years later, I am finally fulfilling our dream of sharing his stories for all to enjoy and take great pride in a fellow Indian and patriot, who would often say to me, “If you cut open my chest, in my heart you will find embedded there four letters – N-A-V-Y!”
Here then is “A Sailor’s Story,” mostly in his own words, edited where necessary, and with my commentary, explanatory notes and references where applicable given in parentheses, with minimum revision to the original text.
Where relevant, I have also included material from his previous book “No Way but Surrender’ and other publications that refer to his life – Sit back and enjoy the voyage!
Arjun Krishnan
Chapter 1
The Sea Beckons-Joining the Royal Indian Navy
I have been informed by usually reliable sources that I was born at the stroke of the midnight hour. There is thus some ambiguity regarding the date of my birth. There being twelve strokes to the bewitching hour, the exact stroke makes a difference between whether it was the eighth or ninth day of June 1919. I have chosen the former because a ship is launched and is deemed born when the champagne bottle (or coconut in India) is dashed against its hull in dry dock, and not when she finds her moorings out at sea. The date was also an official birthday of British royalty, and the Empire celebrated the date everywhere. Thus, without a drop of blue blood in my veins, my birthday was celebrated as a public holiday!
Astrologically I was a Gemini baby, and it seems, from an early age, nature had blessed me with the weight of both the celestial Gemini twins. As I ranked eighth in a family of twelve brothers and sisters, my parents must have had to think a bit for a name for me. Krishna in Sanskrit means dark. My natural color must have blended with the darkness of the time of arrival, and the resulting name fixed my individuality for life, and the several others that I have been called since were strictly unofficial.
My childhood days had nothing out of the ordinary about them, if one does not count the numerous battles for survival in a household swarming with children. We were living proof of the Darwinian theory of evolution, a fact attested by our clan name, the Kapiks, whose ancestors were the great big monkey. However, this is not a treatise on juvenile delinquency, and the many scraps and misadventures of the first fifteen years can be left out of the scrapbook of a sailor. In those days, the only avenues open to anyone were the respectable, recognized, and run of the mill professions like Medicine, Law, Accountancy, and the Civil service. In spite of India’s long maritime tradition, the song of the Sea no longer struck a sympathetic chord. Entrenched orthodoxy aided and abetted the deliberate policy of our British rulers to keep the youth of India landlocked. The first glimmer of hope came in 1928, when the Indian Mercantile Marine Training Ship Dufferin was established at Bombay. But in order to gain admission, there was a highly competitive allIndia examination, an interview with some crusty old Sea Dogs and a stiff medical examination. The first fifty would qualify for the executive and engineering branches, each. I joined the Dufferin in 1935. It was not because I was showing early manifestations of saltwater in my veins, nor did I have the sailors’ swagger; I joined by pure combination of circumstances which I will choose to call “destiny.’ It happened thus.
Stoically, my father agreed to my trying my luck at the preliminaries. His theory was that if God had other ideas, I would fall down somewhere by the wayside. As it was, I passed the examination with distinction and, quite incredibly, I topped the list at the interview for my branch. (Poor Idli Jr. did not make it, but I understand he did quite well for himself elsewhere in civilian life). I had a near miss at the medical exam and the doctor made my selection conditional on my having my tonsils out and a circumcision done. I readily agreed and submitted both my inlet and my outlet to the surgical skills of Dr. Raman Pillai of the Trivandrum General Hospital. I have not missed either piece since. That, in short, is how I became a sailor!
Did I say ‘became’ a sailor? However devout was the wish for consummation, there was still a long haul ahead – three years on the training ship Dufferin. Here everything was new, and there were so many rough
edges to me that had to be smoothed out. A whole new world was opening up to me, and it took quite a while for me to fit myself into the new environment.
The biggest problem as always with me was food. When I took the big plunge, I had decided to go all the way, accepting the rough with the smooth. It was this decision that made me opt for a non-vegetarian diet. Having been brought up on South Indian delicacies like Sambar, Rasam, Vadas, and Dosas, the food that faced me seemed colorless and tasteless but, alas, not odorless. Initially, it was nightmarish to stare at a piece of liver that miraculously stared back at me from its surroundings of thick and oily rings of fried onions. You started to nibble at what appeared to be very tender mangoes but the whiff that you got was reminiscent of the amber liquid that some of our politicians claimed was the elixir of life! In fact, the deceptive dish was kidneys before dialysis!
It was an agonizing ordeal to watch the vegetarians tucking into poories and potatoes or chomping on chapattis dipped into delectable curries. I consoled my rebellious stomach that we have set ourselves loftier ideals than mere ‘grub.’“We have come here,” I said, “to learn to be a sailor, so kindly cooperate, so that we can do just that.” It did not occur to me that you can actually be a sailor and be a vegetarian – lots of them
are!
The sailors’ jargon is a language of its own. On board there are no walls, only bulkheads. Lunch is called dinner and dinner is called supper. You do not go to sleep, you ‘turn in.’ The lavatory for some unknown reason is called ‘heads,’ The list is a very long one and quite complicated, but one learns fast.
All life on board the Dufferin seemed to revolve around a large number of bugle calls. Since each was different in tone and molten substance, it made the young recruit’s confusion thoroughly confounded. The morning ‘Reveille’ was the rude awakening that started your day. There was no time for lolling or the extra wink. The next bugle call was due in fifteen minutes – precious time in which to make up my bed, perform ablutions, change into overalls, swallow a mug of delicious but boiling coffee, and be ready for the next call – ‘muster for scrubbing the decks’.
The Dufferin’s upper deck was one vast plinth area of wood and this had to be scrubbed with broom, sand, and saltwater till it gleamed. To youngsters who had not done a stroke of manual work in their erstwhile lives, this was hard labor with a vengeance. A refinement to this new dignity of labor was on Saturdays when the whole forenoon was devoted to “holy stoning the decks’. There was nothing holy about the stone except for the fact that you had to adopt the attitude of the praying mantis when scouring the deck with this piece of soft sandstone. You try to wear out the deck whilst the sand wears out your knees.
The morning chore as described above was just the ‘warming up.’ The next bugle call had you lined up for physical training. Weird movements, contortions, press ups and downs made a mockery of your muscles. The ritual of ‘through the bath and change’ followed. A large tank brimful of saltwater was the receptacle for dozens of us cadets, jumping into it at one end, speeding across and out at the other end. The saltwater ensured that the freshwater bath that followed was thorough, unless you wanted to be sticky and miserable the rest of the day. Something else that was quite new to me was the gentle art of trying to bash each other’s brains out – boxing. There was a compulsory tournament at the end of the first term when you ‘drew cadets of your weight group, to try and reach the finals through a series of bouts, then go on to win your weight. Though you only had to fight your own teammates, many of them had boxed before in their fashionable north Indian schools and were very nifty on their feet and equally fast with the swift uppercut. My problem was that in spite of all the physical training and holy stoning, I could not shed off the extra poundage and this always put me in a group of antagonists with longer reaches and bigger shoulders. And there was the psychological warfare. I had drawn a cadet named Makkan Barua (Bless him, he went on to run a shipping line), and every day as the tournament drew nearer he seemed to be growing taller and stronger. Coming from a fashionable school up North, he had several Anglo-Indian friends (boxers all) who never seem to get tired of commiserating with me on what was coming to me on D-Day. I came to believe that as far as I was concerned D-Day could be read as doomsday. The choices open to me were, (a) to fall down and break a leg or something like that, (b) to make a deal with the devil, or (c) fight him to the death. After much soul searching, I decided on the last course of action.
When the big day came, I went into the ring absolutely convinced that I was not coming out alive. I remember it to this day – a strange feeling of exaltation came over me. I have experienced this feeling many times since then, in moments of imminent danger. I went totally and completely berserk. I only remember shaking hands, and then there was no science, no art, no footwork, no dancing around and leading with your left, as taught by our patient boxing instructor Mr. Pardiwallah. It was him or me, and I went for Makkan (Please forgive me, Makkan, but I was really afraid of you up to that time.) with only one thought – kill him before he kills me. I heard the roaring of the oceans, the thunder and lightning, the call of the wild. The explanation is simple enough. The audience is expected to be completely silent while the bout is on, but this was not boxing but a bull fight, and they were on their feet acknowledging the salute of one who was about to die. The fight was stopped well before the allotted span of time, and I was totally unaware of the victor’s green light going on above me in my corner declaring me the winner! When I could think straight again, I swore to myself by all that was holy, that I will never be afraid of another man as long as I live.
My performance in the ring was mistaken by the gallant Captain Digby Beste as an extraordinary show of courage with the makings of a world champion. He directed Mr. Pardiwallah to keep a special eye on me. The illusion lasted and Mr. Pardiwallah tried his best. But, alas, a few days later, I took the severest beating of my life at the long reaches of P. Parameswara Prasad, a good friend then and now. I proved beyond all doubt that I was to be no Joe Louis after all. I was quite delighted to fade back into mediocrity, thus saving myself many a black eye.
We had a wonderful system in regard to crime and punishment. Any senior cadet (second- or third-year vintage) could give you any order he liked and at the slightest sign of insubordination it was either Capstan Bar Drill’ or the Court of Honor.’ In the former case you reported to the punisher with a Capstan Bar (a very heavy wooden piece used to turn the capstan to weigh anchor). He made you do every possible caper imaginable, after dinner, holding the bar in every conceivably painful position. This torture could come to an end whenever he felt like it, or when the bugle sounds for you to stop sweeping decks before
‘rounds.
As for the ‘court of honor,’ I became a defendant fairly early in my new career. It happened during the week when I was in the ‘crew section’ which meant doing every type of menial job the human mind can conceive of. To hasten the toughening process, you also abandoned your cot and slept on deck with only a pillow. Though this may sound terrible, we actually used to enjoy the spell of duty, manning beats’ while others were at studies, and we could slip away from Mazagon Dock pier and buy some delicious bajjias with lovely hot mango pickle from local roadside food stalls. One night, I was dog tired, and had just gone to sleep, when a human foot prodded me in my ribs and none too gently. I recognized its owner, whom we had all learned to fear as a particularly vicious specimen. Our guess was that this gentleman blossomed forth from a family tree in which there hadn’t been a marriage for generations. “Go down to the lower decks and get a piece of cloth to wipe my feet” was his astounding order in the sequel to getting me awake. I ignored him, and again came that prod, except that this time it was a kick. I grabbed the offending leg and yanked, and he came tumbling down. In a split second, the pillow was over his face and me on top of the pillow. So help me God, I would have killed him that night but for the timely intervention of some of the other cadets, awakened by the sounds of the scuffle.
He ran away screaming vengeance on me, and then and there I decided I would write to my father asking him to take me away from this hell hole. Soon the summons came. The messenger (another cadet) came and told me that I was to report to the Court of Honor.’ This was held nightly in the senior cadet captain’s study-cum-dormitory at the aft end of the ship – a sort of holy of holies. The chief cadet captain for the week was Jaswant Singh, a tall, wiry and very tough-looking Sikh, and he was the chief judge while around him sat the other judges – the judicial robes being lungis and pajamas. The plaintiff was also there, his ardour having been somewhat cooled by his recent episode of oxygen deprivation. The trial began and went thus:
Chief Judge: What is the charge?
Plaintiff: I found this cadet using the Senior Cadet Captains’ bathroom. I tried to explain to him that this place was forbidden to juniors. Without any provocation, he attacked me. Chief Judge: Well, Krishnan, do you plead guilty or not guilty? Me: Not guilty Chief Judge: Are you calling the (plaintiff) Senior Cadet a liar? Me: Yes, because he is one. After that there was a brief wait outside, re-summons, a verdict of guilty, and the punishment was given – ‘six cuts with the rope end.’
Punishment is not always as severe as above, and I knew that the Court of Honor is usually fair and objective in their deliberations and findings. Nevertheless, my belligerent attitude gave the court no leeway for clemency I was definitely angling for trouble because mentally I had decided to leave the Dufferin anyway. Let no one underestimate the potency of the mild and innocent looking piece of cordage with which the punishment is meted out. Well plaited and dipped in saltwater, when it is wielded by a master such as Jaswant, it could really sting, especially when only a thin pajama cloth separated the descending flagellant and the victim’s nether regions. I was determined not to flinch, but it was pretty hard going. When the corporal punishment was over, one of the judges gloatingly asked, “And how did you like that?” My gander was really up and at the grave risk of another half a dozen lashes, I breathed defiance and replied, “I am not sorry. It was worth it.” Jaswant’s features formed themselves into as near a smile as his august office would permit, and he ordered me to wait outside. He told me outside the courthouse, “You are a cheeky little bastard, but you seem to have some guts. Did you really choke that other fellow?” and he roared with laughter. I could take the roughing up, but not the kindness and was very near tears, and I told him of my intention of quitting, and that made him really furious. He told me not to be a sissy, and called me many other names besides, but I could see that he meant everything kindly.
It was the first time I had met a Sikh, and he made such a good impression on my troubled mind that I’ve always had a soft corner for those lions of the Punjab.
It was Jaswant, who put the idea into me of joining the Royal Indian Navy. A quota was reserved for entrance into the Navy, and if you did well in your first two years you’d join the Navy class in the third year and, if successful in the Navy examination and interview, you were in.
My imagination was fired at this new and fantastic possibility and gone were all thoughts of quitting the Dufferin. I decided then and there that I was jolly well going to make a go of it, and the letter to my father the next day was quite different from the one I had planned originally, and I promptly got a highly enthusiastic response in agreement from him.
It was amazing how once you decide to like something it grows on you, and soon I was thoroughly enjoying myself on board, even including Friday’s fish cakes. I enjoyed polishing the decks, the physical training, the boat pulling, the surreptitious cigarettes on the foʻc’sle, [The forward part of a ship with the sailors’ living quarters, and is also called the forecastle] and the midnight raids on the ship’s galley for the leftovers of delicious ship’s company chicken Biryani. I even enjoyed the chickenpox epidemic and isolation ward, the wraps on the knuckles if the captain’s wife who used to sneak up upon you while you were eating, found your elbows on the dining table.
And I worked hard to qualify for the Navy class and even harder for the ensuing examinations. There was a voluminous exchange of letters between my father and myself; he used to send me a series of problems to solve – a sort of correspondence course between father and son. And being an engineering cadet, I immersed myself in engineering manuals, practical mathematics, and mechanical drawings that kept me fully
occupied, and as the exams approached, I was reasonably sure I would succeed. We had been told that two vacancies, one for the executive and one for the engineering branch, had been reserved for the Dufferin cadets. Imagine my horror when at the very last moment in the examination hall an officer in naval uniform came in and said ‘I’m sorry gentlemen – the government has decided that both the vacancies are for the executive branch. Engineering cadets can either go back or sit for the executive exam and fail – He was a man with a real good sense of humor – I don’t think! I decided to sit it out without any hope. In college three years ago, I had done some trigonometry, and dabbled in shooting starts and working out the co-ordinates out of sheer interest as a sideline. With this flimsy background, I charged into the professional papers. The others like English, mathematics and general knowledge presented no problem.
When all the others had gone on Christmas Eve, I had no heart to go home and asked if I could stay on board. The chief engineer agreed as a special case. But it was a very short special case, as a miracle happened. I was soon informed that I had topped the class in the examination. The interview hurdle was no problem, as I had already received the governing body prize, runner-up of the Viceroy Gold Medal given by the popular vote to the best all-around cadet. Jal Cursetji got the second vacancy. [Jal Cursetji, a close and lifelong friend of Krishnan, rose to become the 6th Indian Naval Chief in Independent India – see Epilogue] Cursetji and I were all set to go to England! The sapling had grown in the three years. Would it continue its growth in the future?
Time alone would tell.
Chapter 2
An Uneasy Peace – Prelude to War
Keep smiling laddie’- Captain Lord Louis Mountbatten to Midshipman Krishnan on their first meeting aboard the
flagship HMS Kelly.
On the fourth day of the voyage to England, during one of the deck games, I managed to crack a bone in my ankle, and Jal, in trying to massage the same, widened the crack slightly. Thus I limped into the Royal Navy, putting on as brave a face as possible and joined the Battleship HMS Erebus, permanently moored in Portsmouth harbor. [The Battleship class of warship is of the largest size, carrying the greatest number of weapons and clad with the heaviest armor.] It was one of the monitor-class battleships built during the First World War, primarily for bombardment of shore targets. Now she was being used exclusively for the training of Cadets. I could not hide the limp for long, especially from the First Lieutenant, Jimmy Jessel, who himself had a pronounced limp from an accident when he tried to save some Royalty from a watery grave.
He peremptorily ordered me off to Haslar, the Royal Naval Hospital, where they X-rayed the crack, now perceptibly widened, and encased my left leg in plaster. I hobbled about on board for the next couple of months missing everything except class work. For an Engineer-turned-Executive, this was not exactly the most auspicious start. But then, all the other British Cadets were new from schools, and colleges and most of the outdoor activities – boat pulling, sailing, signaling, etc. were quite new to them, whereas I had had three years of it in the Dufferin. Being “excused” many of such activities, I had the opportunity of spending more time for poring over Seamanship, Gunnery, and Navigation manuals.
I loved every minute of it in the training ship. I found the other cadets extremely friendly and at no time did I have any feeling that I didn’t “belong.” At the beginning, I had difficulty in following the various accents with which the British treat King’s English – the Yorkshire drawl, the cockney’s “Cor Blimeys,” and so on made it awkward, but I have a good ear for imitation and this soon helped me to overcome the difficulties. I was even emboldened at the end of term concert to mimic most of the officers and petty officers and take the “Mickey” out of them.
Besides Jal Cursetji, there were three other cadets under training for the Royal Indian Navy – Dick Colls, a tall strapping lad with blue eyes and blonde hair, ever ready with a smile, Ronnie Edwards a slim and wiry youth, handsome and full of monkeyish pranks and Keith Simcock the sober, staid, and rather prim type but saved all the same by a terrific sense of humor. These three had drawn the Royal Indian Navy (RIN) by virtue of having passed out at the bottom of the list of the Special Entry Exams held for the Royal and Commonwealth Navies! In my view, they were a splendid lot and we had some wonderful times together over many years of service life. Amongst the rest of the cadets, I made friends fairly easily and in a relatively short time. I did not know then, that several of these friendships would be short-lived and at least half of my term-mates were destined to die in the war that was already looming ahead.
The Britain that I saw in 1938 was totally different in every way to the country in the years during and after the war or for that matter, today. I have been in and out of England and have seen the changes taking
place from time to time. That first year of my acquaintance, the people never had it as good. Rulers of half the world, blithe in their opulence and confident in their power and their glory, they owned the world and didn’t seem to have a care as to who knew it. Their complacence was infectious. That most famous of British institutions, the “pub” was a place for barter and beer, darts and tarts. The dogs at the White City (that Citadel of Greyhound racing) was a more important topic of conversation than the Dogs of War straining at the leash waiting to be released by a megalomaniacal man who thought he had a mission – to wrest the world for himself. A lone voice had been crying in the wilderness, trying to wake his country from their self-deluding euphoria. In Parliament and outside, the warnings of Winston Churchill were waved aside as the outbursts of a warmonger.
And yet, as the year wore on, I saw the transition taking place, of people beginning to wonder if they might have to fight after all. The gay mood was changing as gas masks began to appear. The tavern was still very much the tryst but trenches also began to take a place in the order of things.
As for the Navy, it was the darling of the nation. Having finished preliminary training in the “Erebus” we had moved on to the mobile training ship “Vindictive” more affectionately known as “the VD.” We did a summer cruise of the Scandinavian ports and Finland. We were lucky to have visited Helsinki and Stockholm, but as though in keeping with the times, German measles broke out on board, and the rest of the cruise had to be abandoned. We returned to Plymouth to wait for the epidemic to waste itself out. Soon after, mobilization orders came through but petered out with Munich and “peace in our time” as the ‘umbrella-man’ put it! [Reference is to Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain who negotiated and parlayed with Adolf Hitler and practically handed over Czechoslovakia on a plate to the latter in return for a piece of paper – The Treaty of Munich.] But the mood in Britain had definitely changed and I don’t think anyone seriously believed in the piece of paper that Mr. Chamberlain waved about. One started seeing signs of a country seriously beginning to prepare for war. For us in the VD, it was business as usual, neither German measles nor the Germans could stop the inevitable – Examinations!
On completion of our training as cadets, w1 were duly promoted to the rank of Midshipmen and awaited orders of our posting. The cadets of the term would be distributed to the various ships of the operational Navy. Since the RIN was to be a small ship Navy, we would do the bulk of our time in Destroyers. [In naval terminology, a Destroyer is a fast and maneuverable, yet long-endurance warship intended to escort larger vessels in a fleet, convoy or battle group and defend them against smaller, short-range but powerful attackers, originally torpedo boats, later submarines and aircrafts.]
We drew the eighth Destroyer Flotilla of the “F” class. Jal and I joined the “Foxhound,” Dick Colls the “Firedrake,” Ronnie Edwards and Keith Simcock the “Fearless.”
Having pried out a reasonable sum of money from our parsimonious official guardian (who was holding our own money in trust for us) on the grounds of wanting to “travel the countryside, stay with British families and broaden our minds,” we repaired forthwith to London and found ourselves ‘digs’ in one of its more disreputable parts – Paddington. There we fell in with a young Indian who seemed to have unlimited amounts of money, an equal capacity for whisky and whose “working hours” were from 4 p.m. to 4 a.m. He seemed to know every pub and every night club in London and everywhere he was greeted as “good ole” Jackie as he bought drinks all round. With Jal and me in tow for the ten days of our leave we toured them all. It was living it up with a vengeance. If we had any twinge of conscience over our letters to our guardian about Scotland and Wales we didn’t speak of it. It was a calculated risk that we decided to chance on his not seeing the London postmark!
On New Year’s Eve we received our orders to repair on board His Majesty’s Ship “Foxhound” at Chatham by noon of the second day of January 1939. The London Times carried an announcement, as was usual those days to the effect that HMS Foxhound was due to sail on the fourteenth of January and we had dark thoughts as we rode the last train for Chatham on that first day of 1939. Why should we have to be cooped up on the ship for twelve whole days when we could just as well have had a few more days in town?
We had been warned of the scramble for taxis at Chatham but by a division of forces, Jal had cornered a taxi while I saw the luggage through. Just as we were about to drive off, the door was wrenched open and a polite voice said, “I say, if you chaps are going to the dockyard, could you drop us at the officers’ club?” We said, “Sure, hop in” and proceeded on our way. Jal and I kept up the conversation on the subject uppermost on our minds – getting some more leave. More to impress our co-passengers than anything else I said, “We will line up before the captain tomorrow and put the thing squarely before him. I expect he is a crusty old bastard and is sure to turn our request down.” Jal, not to be outdone said, “In that case, we will have to give them the “treatment” – you know, the Indian Rope Trick one!” and much more along those lines! The great moment of reporting on board our first operational ship was somewhat of an anti-climax as we were met by the officer of the day, one of the tiniest men I have seen in uniform, “Little Tommy Patch” who imperiously ordered us to get below and out of sight as the Captain and First Lieutenant were expected any moment.
Reporting to the Captain next morning – you have guessed right – we found the passengers in the taxi of yester-night! The sight of Lieutenant Commander Phillip Haddow (Captain) and Lieutenant Bill Beloe (Number one) froze us in our tracks and I have never wished so much to be elsewhere as at that moment! Before we could stammer out any sort of apology, the Captain said, “Welcome aboard, gentlemen. ‘Midnight,’ (to me), you are assigned to work with Lieutenant Patch. ‘Five-to,’ (Jal) you go to Lieutenant Carter. We don’t need you on board till the tenth unless you wish to stay on board and practice the Indian Rope Trick. If you have any problems tell Number One here. See you in the wardroom at 12:30 for a gin.” That was all, just like that.
We did not go back to London but got down to our duties. The year that followed in the Foxhound was certainly one of the happiest in my life and serving under these two very gallant gentlemen was a great privilege for me, personally.
Phillip Haddow was a swarthy, rugged individual, very handsome and was always immaculately turned out. He was immensely liked by all on board and, in fact, the sailors worshiped him and would, I felt sure,
give their lives for him without question. He was a highly competent seaman and the way he used to handle the Destroyer was real pleasure to watch. He was fun-loving without being in any way vulgar, and the Foxhound’s hospitality was a byword in the Fleet.
[A fleet, or naval fleet, is a large formation of warships, and the largest formation in any navy. A fleet at sea is the direct equivalent of an army on land.]
In spite of an unhappy marriage, Phillip had a quick wit and a ready smile. His dubbing of Jal and myself as “Five-to” and “Midnight” was an example of his puckish humor (Jal being not as dark as me!) and we lapped it up because we knew there was not a trace of prejudice in it. From this Captain we learnt a lot because he was worthy of emulation. I learned that a ship can be very happy and efficient by the personal charm, leadership, competence and human considerations of the Captain. I learnt that sailors need affection and will respond to it like little children. Yes, there is no doubt that I learnt a lot of idealism from this gallant Captain. I was not to know then that within three years, he would be dead – his life crushed out of him as he fell between ship and jetty while helping a sailor with rope-work!
The First Lieutenant, Bill Beloe, was a lean and rather gaunt looking individual, with long blonde hair and slight stoop. This rather unimpressive exterior hid one of the warmest hearts that ever beat in a man. Like everyone else on board, he worshiped the Captain and ran the ship’s administration with verve and astonishing energy and zeal that was breathtaking. In him, I made a friend for life and we kept up our contact for several decades till he died suddenly of a heart attack in Washington where he was serving with the Americans and holding the rank of Vice Admiral. I attended his memorial service in 1966 at the St. Martin’s Chapel off Trafalgar Square and it is a tribute to his popularity that the entire Navy seemed to be there. That was twenty-seven years later, but we are still in 1939 and the Foxhound.
I used to write long and detailed letters to my father and he, God bless him, used to preserve them and for purposes of record, I reproduce one of them below, dealing with my work on board the ship.
“My dear father,
Before I proceed any further, I had better answer all the questions in your last letter. The cadets are all now split up into little groups of two or three and sent to the various battleships, cruisers, destroyers, etc. with the rank of midshipmen which is one step higher than a “cadet.” To qualify for this ‘glorious rank’ one has not only to pass all the exams of the “Vindictive” successfully but thoroughly satisfy the captain and officers that you are the “goods.’ A very high standard of efficiency is expected, and I don’t blame them because the Navy, though it is the grandest, finest and best organization under the sun, is still very selfish and requires one to give his all and more. Well, I was lucky enough to achieve this and hence the high-sounding ‘midshipman’ in front of my name. Though we cadets have been separated to various ships, very close contact is kept up and we constantly run into each other and exchange ‘how-do-you-dos.’
Now regarding the active service – of course the period of midshipman service doesn’t count as active, as I do not hold a Commission yet. I’ll start regular service from about the middle of next year when I have my thick stripe on the arm, as a sub-Lieutenant.
What kind of work do we do? Well, at sea, I keep watches up on bridge as midshipman of watch for eight hours, i.e., 4 to 8 in the evening. During this period, I assist the officer of the watch in keeping station when sailing in company with other ships. I keep the chart up-to-date, and by taking sun, moon, or star sights, to enable the Officer on Watch to know the exact position of the ship on the ocean. During my watch, I on
as would enable a “court-martial” at a future date, if necessary, to ascertain what, where, why and how the ship was at any time, date or month at sea.
Besides keeping watch, I have various other special duties, a few of which I’ll write about here. As Navigator’s “Doggie” I am responsible for all books concerning navigation, and for all the various instruments including the gyrocompass. All the charts (about 300) come under my personal care and it is up to me to see that they are in the highest state of cleanliness. Every week, I get “notices to mariners” containing corrections, deletions, additions, or changes in the charts and this means a solid twelve to fourteen hours work ahead.
For disciplinary organization purposes, I’m attached to the starboard division which consists of about 40 men, two Petty Officers, me, and a senior Sub-Lieutenant. The latter is the authority and I come second. Our job is to maintain, practice and cultivate the discipline, smartness and efficiency of the division, with due regard to the comfort, health and recreation of the men under us. I take charge of these men in the absence of my senior officer, drill them in various evolutions and report on their progress to the authorities concerned. It is our duty as “gentlemen officers” to place the interests of those under us first, above everything else.
You see, I’m under Destinies or whatever they call themselves, their money’s worth … sorry I did not mean to wax all sentimental so don’t laugh at my idea.
Well, that is the life of me in a nutshell. We have an exam at the end of this year, and I hope to do very well in it, so help me God. I think I’ll sign off now, as there are signs of writer’s cramp developing. I request you to reciprocate by writing a long and detailed reply, please. My love to everyone at home.
Yours as always, the affectionate son.”
We did a spell in the Mediterranean base Gibraltar. The combined Mediterranean and Home Fleets were exercising together, and we were out at sea most of the time. But the weekends in harbor were absolute heaven. We used to put in at various ports like Malta, Algeria, Gibraltar, etc. Since the fleet were together, most of our old friends from the aircraft carrier HMS Vindictive days, were there in various ships and there was a lot of wining and dining and sweeping stories. [An Aircraft Carrier is a large naval vessel designed as a mobile air base, having a long flat deck on which aircraft can take off and land on.] I think, by now, the writing was fairly clear on the wall that before long we would be at war and once the holocaust came, the Navy would be in it from the very beginning and would have to bear the full brunt of the fighting. This awesome knowledge lent a certain amount of feverishness to the gaiety and laughter.
On completion of the exercises, we had by way of rest a short spell at Setubal, a small port in Portugal. The Foxhound, I believe, was the first British warship to call at his port over a long period of time and the local population put themselves out in a really big way. We made a trip to Oporto and Lisbon where we were made to drink large quantities of “Muscatel” supposed to be a famous Portuguese wine. I met several people who spoke fondly of Goa in India. Since we were under the British Yoke, the fact that the Portuguese also had a foothold in my country failed to make any impression on me. [Reference to Goa, Diu and Daman] Not having my crystal ball with me, I could not see into the future, that some quarter of a century later, I would have a short sharp skirmish with these same people and help in removing the tiny but ugly wart that spoilt the otherwise fair face of Mother India.
As the year advanced, the tension mounted and we were ordered to rejoin the Home Fleet at Scapa Flow. [Scapa Flow is one of Britain’s most historic stretches of water – located within the Orkney Islands, off the northeast coast of Scotland. Its sheltered waters have been used by ships since prehistory and it has played an important role in travel, trade and conflict throughout the centuries – especially during both World Wars. The Home Fleet was the Royal Navy’s main battle force in European waters during the Second World War. It comprised the main battle squadrons and the fleet carriers. Its chief responsibility was to keep the German Navy from breaking out of the North Sea. For this purpose the First World War base at Scapa Flow was reactivated as it was well-placed for interceptions of ships trying to run the blockade.] Here I met a person who made a considerable impression on me – Captain Lord Louis Mountbatten. As the years went on, he would soar to astronomical heights. But I was not to know, at that time, that our paths would cross again and again over the years and his name would come into this story of mine several times.
I first met Captain Mountbatten in 1939, when he was commanding HMS Kelly, the Home Fleet’s Flagship [the ship that carries the commander of a fleet or subdivision of a fleet and flies the commander’s flag ] He stood head and shoulders over everyone else, his handsome face radiated vitality and his clear blue eyes twinkled with good humor. In the stagnant pre-war era, to become a captain at the age of thirty-nine was no mean achievement. One of the officers told me who he was, and added quite unnecessarily, some bits about “high connections” and “royal blood” – the innuendoes of the green-eyed monster. Captain Mountbatten was gracious enough to talk to me and, face-to-face, I was quite convinced in my mind that this Apollo in Naval uniform was a born leader of men. The few words that he spoke were kind and cordial. He showed the same affectionate concern for my country in later years as he did that day, expressed to an Indian midshipman, some forty years ago!
“You must be finding it damn cold here,” he said, “make sure you are well kitted up. The North Sea weather can be really cruel.” His parting words were “Keep smiling, Laddie.”
When I returned to the ship Foxhound, I told my captain of my meeting and also the ungracious tidbit I had heard about Captain Mountbatten. Phillip Haddow was known throughout the Fleet as a dashing seacaptain and a thorough gentleman. He said, “Dick Mountbatten is one of the finest Seamen. If the war doesn’t get him first, he will reach the top by sheer professional merit.”
Chapter 3 War at Sea
On the first day of September 1939, we were already at sea at our war stations when Germany invaded Poland. Great Britain and France had given solemn assurances that they would immediately go to her help if attacked by Germany. Neville Chamberlain, the chief architect of Munich was still the Prime Minister. Would he really take his country to war against Germany? There was no hope whatsoever of saving Poland. Geography was on the German side. A new kind of war was being waged. German tanks and artillery, in conjunction with massive air attacks were being used with a terrifying and lethal efficiency. The Blitzkrieg, as this type of warfare was called, was upon the Poles and they never had a chance. They fought valiantly and died honorably. Poland would surely go the same way as the other small countries – Czechoslovakia, Austria, into serfdom and slavery under the self-declared Master Race!
Many of us wondered if the British and French governments were really serious about what was bound to be the start of World War II. We had been reminded again and again by that maverick leader, Winston Churchill, of the lack of preparedness of his country. Even so, public opinion had been thoroughly roused by Hitler’s latest attack. The feeling was that Germany had to be stopped else she would gobble up all of Europe, bit by bit. The delay in the British and French declaration of war was being regarded as a grave breach of faith and consternation by the British and they would have swept away any government that developed cold feet at that stage. Two days later, with Poland reeling under the most ruthless exhibition of brutal and naked attacks, a state of war existed between Britain and Germany. France soon followed with their declaration.
Winston Churchill became the First Lord of the Admiralty and the entire fleet was thrilled to receive the signal “Winnie is back.” This war that started to the chiming of Big Ben’s eleven strokes on the morning of the third of September 1939, would during the next six years spread throughout the entire world. Casualties would be suffered in the millions. The bestialities of the Concentration Camps would send several million to their graves. We would see man at his very worst. There would be the subjugation of entire nations through sheer tyranny. There would be destruction and devastation on a titanic scale. And finally, it would hasten the perfection and tryout of the “Ultimate Weapon” that would forever keep mankind and indeed all life on earth in a state of deadly and a constant peril of annihilation.
But the coming events did not cast their shadows on the land or in the air for the first seven months of the war. This period was termed the phony war. As one wag put it, “Blimey! The safest place in this ruddy war is on the Western Front!” Winston Churchill described this period as the “Twilight War.”
However, there was nothing “phony” about the ar at sea. The British Home Fleet main base was Scapa Flow, a bitterly cold, windswept and bleak place from which the ships operated. At the outbreak of the war, the ships were already at their war stations. The curtain raiser to the Sea war was the sinking by submarine of the passenger steamer Athenia. This was on the very first day of the war and there was a heavy loss of life. The Athenia was torpedoed whilst she had all her lights on. There could not have been any doubt in the U-Boat captain’s mind that she was a trans-Atlantic passenger ship. Being the first act of piracy at sea, it naturally caused consternation everywhere. To us sailors, it was more than shocking. It was a clear and unambiguous warning that the Fuhrer intended to play it rough on the seas – no quarter asked and none given.
In September, some forty ships, merchantmen, were sunk. This was perhaps understandable at the outbreak of the war. Single and unprotected ships scattered all over the seas were bound to fall prey to the carefully planned submarine offensive. But the loss of the Aircraft Carrier HMS Courageous, when she was actually hunting for submarines, was a bitter blow. We had been conditioned to think that the “ASDICS” –
submarine detecting device carried by destroyers to detect and attack submarines – had considerably reduced the hazards from submarines. In the case of the Courageous, they had penetrated the ASDIC screen of destroyers and got away with it. My ship, the destroyer Foxhound had a similar experience, but we were more fortunate. Britain’s newest Aircraft Carrier, the HMS Ark Royal was on a similar mission, operating off the Irish Sea, with the Foxhound and other destroyers of the eighth Flotilla were providing the screen. The “strategy” was that the Carrier would fly off aircraft to make visual contact with any surfaced submarine and direct the destroyers to attack the submarine.
It was not at all a sensible method of using a Carrier. To fly off aircraft she has to steer a straight course and in a submarine infested area this was surely courting disaster. However, such was our faith in the antisubmarine measures with us that we never doubted that the screen could be pierced. That is exactly where we were wrong. A U-Boat got through quite easily and gave the Ark the greatest scare of her young life. Fortunately, the torpedo aimed at her, did not find the target but exploded harmlessly astern of the Carrier. The Ark put on high speed and was off like a scalded cat, nearly running her escorts down in the process.
The U-Boat had penetrated the screen and now it was the job of the escorts to hunt her down. Attack after attack was carried out. Contact was gained, contact was lost. Like a pack of hunting dogs (appropriately my ship, it will be remembered, was the Foxhound) nosing out the quarry, the Flotilla was in its true element. The training of all these months in the Mediterranean was now being put to the test, and this was the real thing. Somewhere close by lurked around a dangerous enemy, and he had to be destroyed. After almost two hours of hunting, the quarry was at last flushed. The black monster surfaced and survivors abandoned the boat. It was the U-39, and she had been mortally wounded. She slowly settled down into the deep, to fight no more. But it had been a very near thing. We heard from the skipper of the boat that he had, in his settings for the torpedoes, underestimated the “Ark Royals” speed!
True, the first submarine of the War had been bagged. But the fact was that the Destroyers’ ASDICS had not stopped her from getting through. It was a somber thought to us that we had put so much faith in this new weapon. The sinking of the Aircraft Carrier Courageous just three days later, and under similar circumstances, only served to increase the grave misgivings.
Another myth was to be exploded the very next month. The Home Fleet had to suffer the bitter humiliation, the ignominy of being boarded in its lair – Scapa Flow. After feverish preparations of defence, it was generally believed that the base was an impregnable fortress impervious to underwater attack. When this subject came up for discussion in the Wardroom, I heard one of the officers say, “That is what they thought in the last war. And yet, just two months after its outbreak, a German submarine managed to sneak into the Flow. I hope they have learnt from history.” But no, they evidently had not. This much vaunted citadel was far from perfect. By an incredible lapse, one of the entrances to the Flow had an unfinished Block Ship Barrier (ship sunk deliberately to close the entrance). There was enough room for a good seaman to take his craft through. To a submarine captain who possesses the audacity, cold courage, high degree of professional competence, such a breach in the defence is too much to be ignored, an open invitation to attack. Such a man was Gunther Prien, Ace Submariner, in command of the U-47. By a judicious use of the enemy’s weakness, superb seamanship and exceptional skill at maneuvers, coupled with luck (fortune favors the brave), he entered the Flow and was soon among the Armada of ships that lay peacefully at anchor. They felt secure at their sanctuary, blissfully unaware of the deadly peril that was amidst them.
Gunther Prien struck. His target was the Royal Oak, a Battleship of the “Revenge” class, displacing some 30 thousand tons, mounting eight 15-inch guns and a host of secondary armament. No one, including those in the doomed ship knew what was happening even when the torpedoes hit. The sleepers woke to some dull thuds and saw their world literally crumbling down around them. Chasms yawned as decks collapsed, sucking victims in. Then followed violent explosions that turned the ship into a roaring inferno. Thus, died upwards of eight hundred men.
Ships came to sudden life, there was panic in the anchorage, utter confusion. Showing the same adroitness and audacity, the U-Boat took full advantage of the situation and slipped out of the Flow and returned to Germany to a hero’s welcome.
At home, the Fleet had to shift its base to Loch Ewe while the defenses were being mended. This was a repetition of history from the First World War. Whilst the defaulters came in for severe criticism from the First Sea Lord, I was immensely pleased that Mr. Churchill had words of praise for the redoubtable exploits of Gunther Prien. It is what one would have expected from an indomitable leader like Churchill. I could not understand it then, and I cannot understand it now, why Prien chose the Royal Oak as his prime target. He had many more valuable prizes within his grasp to choose. The Royal Oak had fought in World War One, and in spite of modernization, could hardly count as a front-line battleship. Whatever it was, we all felt very humiliated. It was a truly devastating blow to Britain’s pride. Men of war are expected to fight; warships are bound to be lost in battle. It is an occupational hazard, one that has to be accepted. Even so, to my way of thinking, being caught napping is almost as bad as striking One’s Colors in Battle. Sir Francis Drake’s “Singeing of the Spanish Beard” still had its romantic place in Naval history. Prien’s exploit is no less audacious and in writing about it, I am paying homage due to a very brave man
If the submarines were taking their heavy toll and posed serious threats, there were other surprises in store for us during the ‘phony’ war. A really nasty one was the ‘Magnetic Mine’.
With this new weapon, there did not seem to be any defence. These mines were sown from the air and from submarines, all over the place. The diabolic novelty of them was that they floated about, and they were activated by the passing ships’ own magnetic fields. Proximity was enough and contact was unnecessary. There was no way of telling when and where you would encounter them. There were several constraints in the laying of the “contact” mines. The depths have to be predetermined. They were capable of being swept by minesweepers. We had defence in the form of “para vanes.” These were wires streamed that would sweep the mines clear of the ship, out of their moorings, and when the mine comes to the surface, they can be sunk by rifle fire. The existing defensive measures were totally ineffective against the new menace – the magnetic mine. Ultimately, a way of defence was found by an elaborate process of demagnetizing the ship by a method called “degaussing.” But a heavy price had to be paid before counter measures could be implemented. The
British Cruiser Belfast broke her back over one of them. Britain’s powerful and new Battleship Nelson was another serious casualty. She managed to survive but was out of the War for quite a long time. Incidentally, this was a very well-kept secret and the Germans were never aware of it.
With the war but two months old, we were taking beating at sea. I doubt if the public had any idea of the lambasting that was being borne by the “Silent Service” – the Navy!
Britain might ultimately rule the waves, but bureaucracy ruled Britain! We had finished our “Small Ship” time and must now go to big ships, as a prelude to our examinations! So, I was transferred to HMS Suffolk, deemed to be a “heavy cruiser” because of her 10 thousand tons. She mounted eight eight-inch guns for surface action, four four-inch guns and several smaller quick-firing guns for anti-aircraft action. She also had a steam-driven catapult for shooting off an aircraft called “Walrus,” into the air. She had a designed speed of 32 knots from two engine rooms developing 80,000 horsepower. Instead of just the two of us midshipmen in the Foxhound, we would have a gun room of our own, a midshipman’s chest flat, our own bar and our own messing. It was, nevertheless, a wrench to leave the Foxhound where we had made many friends.
The Suffolk’s fuel carrying capacity was high, giving her long range and endurance. This, combined with her high speed made her ideally suited for the operational role given to her – The Northern Patrol. A patrol line had been established between Iceland and the Faroe Islands in the North Sea. This stretch of water was the most likely avenue through which the German surface ships were likely to break out into the Atlantic. There they would stalk the seas, sinking unprotected merchant ships. The euphemism for this was “Commerce Raiding.” Ships of the Northern Patrol were to act as watchdogs and give timely warnings of any such attempt, shadow the enemy, send enemy reports, so that heavy units of the Home Fleet could bring the enemy to battle
Besides Norfolk and Suffolk of the County Class, the patrol had some light cruisers and armed merchant cruisers. The latter were fast passenger liners of the P&O and other lines, specially armed for war. We thus formed the “thin red line,” the light brigade “whose was not to reason why, but to do and die.” The visibility these winter days was almost always extremely poor. The Germans had the powerful Battle Cruisers Gneisenau and Scharnhorst, the Battleships Bismark and Tirpitz, and the Pocket Battleships Admiral Graf Spee, Deutchland, each one of which outgunned and outranged us and in the visibility described above, there was always the possibility of one of them suddenly looming upon us. The development of Radar was in its infancy. In such an encounter, any of the above ships could sink us out of hand before we could get them in our own gun range. There was evidence that at least one, and probably two Pocket Battleships were already out in the Atlantic, positioned there before the start of the War. They were certainly in on the merchant ship marauding spree. They might be returning to base at any time.
I am not trying to sensationalize the serious threats that beset us at sea. They were facts of life and death. Indeed, such a drama was actually played out when the German battle cruisers made a foray into our lines. The Armed Merchant Cruiser HMS Rawalpindi ran smack into them. She fought a vastly superior enemy with suicidal valiance but went down within a matter of minutes of the encounter.
The odds against us were, no doubt, great. What is more, in the area we were operating, the climatic conditions were appalling. The cold was bitter and excruciating. I used to wrap myself with old copies of newspapers, put on layers of clothing, a duffel coat, balaclava cap, mittens, but nothing seemed to stop the insidious, creeping cold that froze me bit by bit. The decks were invariably covered in ice and snow. Blinding snowstorms were becoming part of everyday life as the winter advanced. The howling, shrieking wind smote one like a blackjack. It was heavenly to get below decks and the warmth. But such periods of relief were too short. Life on board was a very strenuous affair. Our lives depended on our not being caught“napping.” We just could not afford to relax our vigilance even for a second.
The routine was therefore worked out that half the armament was permanently manned, many lookouts posted, steam maintained for immediate “full speed.” Thus, the ship was always ready to engage the enemy immediately on sighting. By constant practice, when “Action Stations” were sounded, the entire crew would close up to bring the entire fire power to bear on the enemy in a matter of minutes. Half-manned, the ship was at “defence Stations” and fully manned, at “Action Stations.”
There was an acute shortage of experienced regular officers in the service. Merchant navy officers (Royal Naval Reserve) were needed to man merchant ships, and there were only few available. Recruits were being given intensive training as Royal Naval Volunteer officers, but they were mainly in the pipeline of training. The direct result of this shortage was that, we midshipmen on board were given duties and responsibilities that were out of all proportion to our training and experience. We naturally were happy over this. There is nothing like training “on the job.” These circumstances imbued me with the desire to seek and accept greater responsibilities throughout my service career.
On board the Suffolk, my action and defence stations were in the “Fore Control” – an enclosed iron superstructure in the uppermost part of the ship, above the Bridge. The latter was the place from where the Captain handled the ship and fought her. The Fore Control was the fighting “brain” of the ship. It was from here that all the big guns were controlled. I was the “Spotting Officer.” The range, the estimated speed, the course, the rate of change of bearing, etc., of the enemy in sight, was fed to the guns. When salvoes are fired, the fall of shot is visually spotted (of course, through very powerful binoculars). Depending on whether the shots fall beyond or short of the enemy, to the right or left of him, spotting corrections are applied till the shells straddle the target. Once the target has been accurately “found”, broadsides of all the eight eight-inch guns fire simultaneously. Later in the War, Radars had made such progress that they were used in gun actions. But the method in use at the period I am describing, were no more modern or better than those used in the Battle of Jutland in World War I!
The most dangerous periods in the day were considered to be at dawn and dusk. It was also necessary at these times to affect change over settings for night fighting from day action and vice versa. Thus, as a matter
of routine, the ship used to go into action stations for about45 minutes during the twilight periods of the morning and evening. The rest of the period was at defence stations and thus the seven watches that the day was divided into kept us, in addition, on our toes, “watch on – watch off.” It was a very strenuous and fatiguing business as will be seen from a typical day’s routine at sea:
4:00 a.m. – 6:00 a.m. Morning watch 6:15 a.m. – 7:00 a.m. Close up at Action Stations 7:00 a.m. – 8:00 a.m. Off 8:00 a.m. – 12 noon Forenoon watch noon – 4:00 p.m. Off 4:00 p.m. – 6:00 p.m. First Dog watch 6:45 p.m. – 7:30 p.m. Close up at Action Stations 7:30 p.m. – midnight First watch midnight – 4:00 a.m. Off
Thus, even without the alarms and excursions of scurrying to action stations, purely as routine, we would be holed up at our places of duty for something like 15 hours every day. So it went on, day after day, night after night, week after week. We used to put into harbor for two to three days every 20 days or so, and then back again on patrol. This was War in the raw, nothing of the glamorous, no frills, no trappings. It was monotonous, dreary and weary, the cold, the lack of sleep, the gnawing thought of the enemy “round the corner.” Strangely, it was this last factor that kept us going – the prospect of “action” unless we erred into him and be caught by surprise. Moreover, human beings can put up with quite incredible hardships provided morale is good. When a thousand men share common danger, suffer the same hardships, experience the same fears, there springs a spirit of camaraderie, a common bond of friendship and a sense of togetherness of “shipmates” and “buddies” that transcends much of the mundane weaknesses. Youth has many compensations and the love of fun and frolic is one of them. Within the bounds of good order and naval discipline we enjoyed a degree of latitude that was free and easy. Gun room life was particularly enjoyable. All the Royal Indian Navy midshipmen of my term – Jal Cursetji, Dick Colls, Ronnie Edwards, Keith Simcock – were there. The batch of Royal Navy Snottiest (slang for Midshipmen) were also a high spirited and funloving set of boys and we lived fully and well in a happy-go-lucky merry-go-round! There was never any talk of the danger that lurked around. Britain went to War without being prepared for it. She was paying a heavy price for it through terrible losses at sea. But the extent of the appalling toll during these winter months was little known to the public. Strict censorship kept a thick pall of secrecy shrouded over the dreadful happenings at sea. The most popular ditties in the music halls of Britain were “Run, Adolf, Run, Rabbit, Run, run, run” and “we’ll be hanging our washing on the Siegfried Line.” There was even some speculation that the War would be over by Christmas!
Even to us, actually in the operations, the overall picture was not very clear. But the glimpses through the occasional chinks were enough to show how over-stretched we were at sea. Invariably, the main strategy of Naval Warfare is one of the attrition – the application of inexorable and relentless pressure on each other with the aim of decimation of the enemy. Germany’s strategy was to sink as many merchantmen as possible, thus crippling Britain’s war effort, and try to starve her to her knees. This strategy did not allow for any deliberate attempt at seeking action against British Warships. Britain, on the other hand, had to give maximum protection to her trade on which depended her National survival. Every item of her strategic war material had to come by sea – mostly through the Atlantic, the United States being her biggest supplier. This meant that she had to contain the heavy surface units of the enemy off the high seas or bring them to battle when any of them broke out in a game of hide-and-seek. She must stop the submarine from sinking their ships with their precious cargo and in the process sink as many of the U-Boats as possible.
So far, in the War, the War of Attrition seemed to be tilted heavily in Germany’s favor. She was putting to the fullest use, all the four aces that she seemed to be holding – Mine Warfare, Aerial attacks, Underwater attacks, and Surface raiding. We have seen how the battle cruisers had sallied forth, trailed their coattails, sank the Rawalpindi and returned home unmolested. The U-Boats, besides their successes against warships, had already sent more than a hundred ships to the bottom before the year was out. The Pocket Battleship Graf Spee was having everything her own way. Her happy hunting grounds were the various trade routes in the South Atlantic. She reached out with impunity for forays into the Indian Ocean. In a little less than two months she had accounted for nine ships.
Suddenly, the curtain went up on one of the most dramatic sagas of the sea. Captain Langsdorf of the Graf Spee sank the Doric Star on the second of December 1939 between South Africa and Madagascar. But before she sank, the ill-fated ship had managed to wire her position, and details of her encounter. This fact was not known to the Captain of the ‘Spee’. Adding two more freighters to his list (and having picked up survivors – Captain Langsdorf was meticulous about this), she sailed to keep her rendezvous with her supply ship Altmark for fuel and stores and the transfer of prisoners.
There is a Sanskrit saying ‘Vinaasha Kaale Vipareetha Buddhi’ which, loosely translated means “when it is time for destruction, the mind is beset with loss of wisdom.” The ship had been out at sea for a long time, he would have been perfectly justified after his great successes, to return home for Christmas and a hero’s welcome. But the stars that map the courses of men’s destinies led him to decide on a fling off the River
Plate which enters the sea between Uruguay and Argentina in the southern part of South America.
Commodore Henry Harwood, flying his flag in HMS Ajax (light cruiser, six-inch guns) had picked up the distress signal of the dying Doric Star. In the company with him were the HMS Exeter (eight-inch guns) and the HMS Achilles. Let me introduce the latter because we will hear much more of her as the INS Delhi which I had the honor to command for nearly three years and also take her into battle. Quite fortuitously, her captain at the time I am relating was William Edward Parry who, a decade later would become the Commander-in-Chief of Independent India’s Navy!
The above British force, immediately on getting the news, set about the task of interception. At dawn on 13th, December 1939, came the exhilarating signal “Enemy in Sight-One Pocket Battleship.” Heavily outgunned and outranged, the three ships were going to take on a goliath and the whole of the British Navy held its breath. In the fantastic battle that followed the Graf Spee concentrated her entire fury on the Exeter and all but put her out of action. With indomitable courage, the British cruisers had closed the range to as little as seven thousand yards. They registered hits on the battleship individually and severally. After nearly an hour of heavy punishment and with the Exeter practically out of the action, there was a real danger of the other two smaller cruisers being smothered. Harwood withdrew his cruisers to shadowing distance with a view to renewing the action after dark with torpedo attacks.
Incredibly, the Graf Spee now broke away and started steaming at high speed towards the neutral ports astride the River Plate – Montevideo in Uruguay, or Buenos Aires in Argentina. The Exeter was too wounded to follow, but the Ajax and Achilles gave the chase. The Graf Spee entered Montevideo at midnight of 13/14th December.
Heavy units of the Royal Navy were concentrating. From various points of the compass, they were steering towards the River Plate. The Ark Royal (aircraft carrier) and Renown (battle cruiser) from the North East, two heavy cruisers from Eastwards, heavy and light cruisers from the North and South, all steaming at their best speeds towards Uruguay. But they were still very far away and if the Graf Spee broke out, she would have had to contend only with light opposition.
We, of the Northern Patrol, were convinced that the time had arrived for the German fleet to foray into the Atlantic. In the Suffolk, we were all keyed up that the great Fleet Surface Action was in the offing. The British Home Fleet was also at sea. We were continuously at action stations now and the atmosphere on board was electric with excitement and great expectations. We braced ourselves for an early encounter with the enemy.
But unbelievably, what started off with a bang ended in a whimper. Hitler ordered that the Graf Spee should scuttle herself. On the 17th of December, she weighed anchor, slowly steamed to a position south of the town, anchored again. To the utter astonishment of the huge crowds that had gathered ashore, the Spee’s crew was taken off to a German tanker standing by. Then a great explosion was heard in the bowels of the ship and the onlookers saw the ship settle down in her suicidal grave. Captain Langsdorf then retired in his hotel room, spread out an old pre-Nazi flag of the German Navy and shot himself. He had left a suicide note that he wanted to share the same fate as his ship. From all accounts, the Captain was a brave and chivalrous man who treated his prisoners well and with empathy. This was not the way for an illustrious Sea Captain to die. I have no doubt that he scuttled his ship against his conscience and under very great personal pressure from Hitler.
The British were, naturally, jubilant. The naval action had also captured the imagination of the world. Winston Churchill described the action as brilliantly conceived and superbly executed that “warmed the cockles of the British heart.”
Many more battles would follow; many more ships and the men who sailed in them would be destroyed. There would be many more periods of delirious jubilation alternated by abysmal despair before this war would be through. But what came to be known as the “Battle of the River Plate” was the very first success at sea for the British, therefore, a sensational one.
Chapter 4 Baptism of Fire
An incident happened on HMS Suffolk, which caused me a certain amount of embarrassment. The opprobrium was, fortunately, for a very short time. It happened thus.
One morning, when we were at dawn action stations, smoke was sighted over the horizon. At sea, where there is smoke, there is a ship. At once the captain ordered full speed and set the ship on an interception course. We were keyed up to the highest note and pitch as we raced towards her. The silhouette gradually took shape and we saw that she was a large freighter flying Norwegian colors. We stopped her by a shot across her bow. When we had closed to within half a mile of her, with all our guns trained on her, and stopped our ship to send a boarding party. Her name was in keeping with the flag – Skagerrak. When she realized that the game was up, her false colors were lowered and up went the German ensign, and her crew began to abandon the ship. Sitting up at the Fore Central, and watching the ship wallowing in the sea, I had very great doubts in my mind over the wisdom of stopping ourselves so close to her. The thought in my mind was of “Q”-ships that the Germans had used to such good effect in the last war. They were merchant ships with guns and torpedoes very cleverly disguised. When within range, they would bare their teeth at the unsuspecting foe. I voiced my fears to the Gunnery Officer on the bridge. He shut me up by saying, “Don’t be silly. By pressing the fire gong, I can blow her clean out of the water.” I was still far from satisfied. What was the use of blowing her out of the water after she had launched torpedoes at us? When I saw streaky movements in the water between us and the other ship, I shouted through the voice pipe, “Bridge! This is Fore Central. Torpedoes to Starboard approaching.” The effect of my report was, to say the least, quite sensational. The Captain ordered “Emergency full ahead! Hard-a-port.” There was pandemonium on the bridge as the ship leapt ahead and went careening across to the left. Surprisingly, the panic subsided within a matter of a minute or so, and we completed a full circle we came to a stop almost where we started from!“Screaming Seagull,” as the Gunnery Officer was called in the lower decks, (i.e., by the sailors), nearly pierced my eardrums with, “Midshipman Krishnan, the torpedoes that you reported are a shoal of fish!” and added, quite unnecessarily I thought, “you blithering idiot!” The Skagerrak had by now scuttled herself beyond redemption. Boats were sent out to pick up the survivors and that was that.
But I was plagued by the thought that but for my hasty and wrong report, we might have captured her as a prize. Naturally, I came under much ridicule from my shipmates – some of them friendly badinage, others not so genial. However, my Captain, “Ginger” Durnford sent for me the next day and in the hearing of everyone present, including the Gunnery Officer, said, “You did the right thing to make your report. Better to be sure than be sorry. I thought, when you reported the torpedoes, that the ship was a decoy for a lurking submarine.”
“Do you think that was probable, Sir?” I asked. “Of course anything is possible in war. But the submarine had ample opportunity to fire her torpedoes without the necessity of the ship scuttling herself,” replied the captain. But I was still far from satisfied. “If I had not fouled things up,” I asked, “could we have captured her alive, Sir?” He smiled and said, “Set your mind to rest, Laddie.” She had started settling down even before you saw your torpedoes. We could not have saved the ship.” That night we had fried fish and chips for supper. There were no ribald comments from my messmates, and I knew that I was forgiven.
“Ginger” Durnford was a very gallant and humane sea-captain. He survived the war and when I was Naval Advisor in London, nearly a quarter of a century later, I ran into him and had him over at our home for a meal. He recalled the incident and related to my wife with great relish, the whole story including a passable imitation of an Indian voice “Torpedoes approaching, Sir.” In a more serious vein, he related to me how
in World War I, Admiral David Beatty had missed a golden opportunity of winning a great battle with Admiral Scheer’s Fleet that might have changed the entire course of that War. Beatty thought that he had seen a periscope ahead and thinking that he was being led into a trap had turned his fleet away and thus let the enemy out of his sure grasp. But sea war is a game of chance, and a wrong decision cannot be easily put right again.
However, to return to the Suffolk, on her Northern Patrol, the ship got orders that we should send a small Reconnaissance party to the Faroe Islands, which was at the North Eastern end of our patrol line. The Islands owed nominal allegiance to Denmark, but somebody at the Admiralty wanted to check up where the islanders’ sympathy lay. The ship anchored off the Islands. Major Porteus was in command of a small party of Royal Marines and would be taken ashore in our “Fast Motorboat No. 1.” Since my harbor duties were to have charge of this boat and to run it, I was filled with exhilaration as I supervised the fitting of the necessary close-range quick firing guns in the boat and at dawn we were off. It was a long and choppy haul to the shore. The Major agreed to my suggestion that we approach without the White Ensign, till we come close enough to have the jetty within our gun-range. We could tell by their reaction when we actually showed the flag, whether they were friendly or hostile. If they fired on us, we could retaliate and also have a sporting chance of making a getaway.
The dramatic moment came when with a swagger we could feel, the Ensign was put up – and just nothing happened! We could clearly see a crowd ashore watching us coming without the slightest of emotion. This was an absurd situation, for which we had not planned. If they fired or cheered we would know how to react. But the uncanny, ghastly silence from row upon row of gaunt and weather-beaten countenances was, quite frankly, unnerving in the extreme. We secured alongside and Major Porteus ordered his Marines, “Alright, lads! Out you get and fall in on the jetty.” This broke the spell. Someone shouted, “Inglees!” The cry was repeated and taken up by the others. I looked at them with awe. They were towering giants, handsome in their own rugged way, and they carried themselves with the same verve as their forebears – The Vikings of Norway.
All the good intentions of the Major of Marines of parading his men ashore with decorum and discipline disintegrated, because the Leathernecks (naval slang for marines) were being welcomed by the islanders with backslaps and bear-hugs. Their leader, one of the tallest men with the clearest blue eyes I have ever seen, could speak some English. He said to the Major – “You Inglish, Ja, I welcome. We think you German. Flag no good. He play many trick.” Turning to me he said, “You Indish, nein? Very goot! You dreenk with me.” He produced a bottle of some very strong liquor, which burnt our throats, but acted like adrenalin as it coursed through our half-frozen bodies.
In sending the wireless message to the ship, of our findings, I could not resist the temptation and indeed insisted on it “The Natives are Friendly” and signed myself “David Livingstone.” The return journey to the ship was a little longer in period of time due to the somewhat erratic course – proof of the proof of the Faroe Fizzes! I do not know if any Indian had visited Tórshavn, the capital of the Faroe Islands, then or since. Anyway, I felt like the cock-of-the-walk!
Entering the river Clyde, one dark and showery night, the Suffolk became involved in a collision with a merchant ship that suddenly loomed on our port-bow. She hit us just about where the forward gun position was. The impact was considerable and, but for the strong iron shield round the gun, I believe she would have sliced through us. As it was, our ship suffered heavy damage and there was a gaping hole on the side that had to be patched up by the use of a collision mat. There was also much structural damage inboard which required a lot of shoring with wooden battens. The affected mess decks were in complete shambles with crushed and mutilated bodies everywhere. It was altogether a very nasty business and we practically limped into port.
After the ship was safely docked in Glasgow, we had the first spell of leave and naturally made a beeline for London. Coming from the bleak wastes of the North Sea, it was pleasant to take in shows, cinemas, dances, and so on. Because in London, it was “business as usual”. Apart from the profusion of uniforms and the bloated balloons of the barrage overhead (these were to prevent enemy aircraft coming too low through the threat of them getting entangled with the wires by which these balloons were moored to the ground) there might not have been a war going on at all. I suppose one cannot blame them, because the phony war was still on. Without their own war to worry unduly about, interest had shifted to Finland which Russia had invaded. Everyone was exulting over the fanatical defence that the gallant Finns were putting up against fantastic odds. Field Marshal Mannerheim was giving the Red Army a very severe drubbing. I must confess that I also rejoiced over the David-Goliath heroism of the defenders of their hearth and home. I had visited Helsinki, the capital of Finland before the war. I had been much impressed by the unaffected and forthright friendship of the people there. Finland is one of the most northerly countries in the world. Part of her lies in the Arctic Circle. Perhaps, at the time of this record (late 1938), very few Indians, if any, had visited their country. I was probably even more of a novelty to them than they and their country were to me. We were taken to many Art Galleries and museums. I particularly remembered the free and easy atmosphere of the Tapiola Garden City where I was treated to beers and subjected to many friendly questions about India and Indians.
I was not surprised at the ferocity with which these very same people were fighting for their country. The Russians had annexed their country in the early part of the eighteenth century. There was never any love lost between the conquerors and the vanquished and at the first opportunity the Finns threw off the Russian Yoke, on the outbreak of the Russian Revolution in 1917. Now, in November 1939, the USSR was at their throats again. However, valiant the defence, the result was a foregone conclusion. The Russian Juggernaut was bound to prevail and did. In defeat, Finland fades away from my narrative. But the Russo-Finnish War had its relevance in what was to follow.
There had been rumors of the British sending an expeditionary force to help the Finns. The speculation about this had also appeared in the Press. I did not believe it, because, even though the Russians had a treaty of friendship with Germany, Britain was not in war with her. Was she likely to provoke them by any quixotic adventurism? I could not help feeling that all these talks of going to the help of Finland were just so much eyewash.
Truth, however, is stranger than fiction. Evidently, the British were quite serious about going to the aid of Finland. When the need no longer existed, they would switch to planning the mining of Norwegian territorial waters and effecting landings in Norway, using the resources that had been gathered for Finland. Thus, they hoped to forestall Hitler in the Scandinavian countries. If this were so, the Royal Navy would be heavily committed. Perhaps it was wishful thinking that made us give credence to the rumors afloat on the subject. In war, the “buzzes” are aplenty and one could and should discount much of them. But this one turned out to be true. The British did act – but too late! By one of those bizarre coincidences, all her plans went quite awry. The British plan was to be put into operation on the 8th of April 1940. But the Germans also had a plan. It was much wider in scope – the total occupation of Norway and Denmark. I do not know whether the British knew that the Germans thought on the same lines as them, but Hitler put his plan into operation on the 7th of April 1940, just one day ahead of his enemy!
Since almost all the landings were made by sea, one can but guess what could have been the outcome had the tardy British laid their mines beforehand, or, on the other hand, if the German attack had taken place a little later. But such speculation is idle in War. Several ferocious Naval battles were fought off Norway with heavy losses on both sides. The British Army landed and contested ground in Norway. The “Phony War” was over. Gauntlets had been thrown and the “Real War” had started. The Army, without air cover, had little chance against the Germans and had to suffer the ignominy of evacuation by sea. The Admiralty decided that a diversion should be effected to cover the operations.
We had just returned to harbor after a long spell of the Northern Patrol, when we were ordered to top up with fuel and proceed to sea with the utmost dispatch. We sailed with the escort of three destroyers and set off towards Norway at high speed. We were told of our mission only after we cleared harbor. We were to proceed to a place called “Stavangar” and put out of action a seaplane base there by bombardment. Some 30 of them were based there. We were also informed that a British Submarine Seal would rendezvous there to assist us in navigation through the ill-charted waters.
I heard this news with considerable satisfaction and enthusiasm. My station at Action was in the tower controlling all the eight-inch guns. When we fire at the target, I had to “spot.” This meant that I had to watch the shots fall and give corrections for range and angle to the guns until actual hits were obtained on the enemy. This was called ‘Visual Spotting’. Another method was by using Aircraft, which would approach the target, watch the fall of shot and radio back the necessary corrections to be applied. We had an ancient aircraft on board called Walrus and not one of us had any hope that this craft could last more than a few minutes against the latest German fighters. But in fact, they returned safely but without fulfilling their mission.
In the event of an air attack developing against us, my duty was to stay on top and relay to the Captain on the bridge the most up-to-date information by visually observing the enemy aircraft movements. This was essential because the ‘Bridge’ where the Captain handled the ship was an enclosed one and he had no view above.
Early on that crisp April morning, we arrived off Stavanger and had the first disappointment of finding no trace of the submarine that was supposed to be there. She had vanished completely and even now I do not know what happened to her except that she had probably been destroyed. The next setback was that we lost communication with our seaplane Walrus. Our Captain, was a tough little ginger-haired man, and he was fighting mad at the turn of events. He said, “To hell with it! I am closing the coast as near as I can, and we will hit them by ‘visual””. (I did the same thing, years later, when I closed my own cruiser INS Delhi to within one mile off the coast to hit the enemy positions during the liberation of Goa, Diu and Daman).
On our way in, we saw two torpedo tracks (being propelled by engines, the torpedoes leave a telltale wake unless running very deep). By adroit and timely evasive action, we were able to clear these and they passed us quite harmlessly about 100 yards astern.
When in quite close, the Captain ordered fire to be opened. Broadside after broadside (i.e., all guns firing together) crashed inshore. The din of battle as the guns thundered has to be heard to be believed. Soon, the entire foreshore seemed to be on fire. The action was over in about half an hour and as we set course to return, I had a feeling of an anticlimax that it had all been too easy. Little did I realize what was about to follow.
We had stuck our necks out and had stirred the veritable hornet’s nest. The next eight hours were to see the first major battle between aircraft and a surface ship. There had been a school of thought before the war, that the advent of fast bombers had made the gunships obsolete, a theory that had many adherents as well as opponents.
Reich-Marshall Hermann Goering had often boasted that his Air Forces would sweep the ships off the seas. And here we had gone into his very lair and destroyed more than thirty seaplanes! Accompanied by the taunts of Hitler, Goering gave orders to his Air Force based in Norway that the Suffolk should be attacked and annihilated.
The fight started at 8:30 a.m. that morning with the first reconnaissance plane hovering on the horizon and relaying their messages to base. It was a brilliant morning, a clear sky, and a radiant sun smiling down in all its pristine glory. It was the sort of day that made one wonder if the Gods wished to witness the forthcoming battle and created perfect conditions for it to be waged.
A little after 9:30 a.m. the first of the waves of German aircraft appeared. They were Junkers 88 Dive Bombers that had wreaked havoc in Warsaw, Rotterdam and elsewhere, and had proved their deadliness in
battle. Their tactic on that day against us was to come in from all four directions and each one climbed directly towards the Sun and once having reached the desired height, flicked the Dunker out of the vertical climb and came streaking, shrieking towards the target – us. Since we were at “Air Action Stations,” I had moved out to the wing of the tall superstructure of my ship and began my message relay to the Bridge in the form of steady narration. I could tell the climb because the aircraft left a very clearly defined vapor trail – “Aircraft climbing to attack, Sir.” When the plane began to dive, I could make out a flash as the Sun caught the wings – “Commenced the dive now, Sir.” By the time the aircraft was nearing the offload position at the end of the dive, I had her visual in my glasses and could call out the exact moment that the bombs were released. Watching the missiles screaming towards us was an ordeal of dreadful fascination and it was all I could do to stop myself from shutting my eyes very tight.
It was now up to the Captain. With the ship doing more than 30 knots, he would order full rudder. The ship would heel over dangerously as she started the turn and everyone heaved a sigh of relief as the bombs fell, uncomfortably close, but not on us. In the meantime, the ship was retaliating with a terrific gun barrage, using all our four-inch anti-aircraft guns. Near the end of the dive, all our close-range weapons opened up against the aircraft. Some of the bombs, of the shrapnel type peppered the ship’s side with hundreds of small holes through which water started coming in. The above tactics were repeated by wave after wave of aircraft. At one point of time, I thought I saw one aircraft hit – she was leaving a trail of smoke. In great excitement, I waved my tin helmet and shouted, “We have got her, we have got her.”
Somebody walloped me from the back and shouted, “Duck, you stupid ass, he is machine-gunning us.” I think I must have broken all previous records for getting flat on my face. Sure enough, after dropping his load of bombs, he was spraying our decks with a hail of bullets. I saw with horror the young sailor who was manning the Pom-Pom (a quick-firing close-range antiaircraft multiple-barreled gun) decapitated.
To add to our discomfiture, a Dornier Minelaying Aircraft arrived on the scene and was dropping floating mines at a distance, of course, but in the path of our progress. This naturally limited very severely the evasive action that could be taken by our captain against the rain of bombs that were continuously pouring down on us. At 10:37 a.m. we received our first and only direct hit. It was a one-ton bomb that tore through the deck and exploded inside one of our two engine rooms. Those who work below in the ship at action, die a thousand deaths, because they do not know what is happening above. In the enclosed space of the engine room, the roar of the explosion must have been deafening. Mercifully, many of the men there probably never even heard it because they died instantaneously. Some others were not so lucky. Caught in the webs of broken and twisted steel, the fiery inferno enveloped them and burnt them to death. None of the dozens of men that formed the crew of the engine room escaped.
To those of us on deck, the question was, “How mortally have we been hit?” Dense clouds of smoke and scalding steam were pouring out of the funnels. The ship had gradually lost all way and came to a stop. With glee of victory, the marauders of the sky came screaming down, intent on finishing us off. That did not seem necessary as our damage control parties reported that the fire in the engine room was spreading. It could only be a matter of minutes before the fire reached the magazine carrying hundreds of rounds of live ammunition. We would be blown out of the seas into smithereens.
Working desperately and against time, our damage control parties did a magnificent job of work and brought the fire under control. The stricken engine room was isolated. Incredibly, we got underway again, but with our speed reduced very considerably.
I learned a lesson that day that a ship of war should not only be capable of meting out punishment but should also be capable of taking the same. In subsequent years, when I had my own commands, I insisted that all drills of controlling and meeting battle damage were painstakingly carried out as an integral and important part of battle preparations.
There was absolutely no letup in the attacks. Having inflicted a near-mortal wound on us, the attacks took on the form of frenzy of hellish intent. On board, every man jack was well and truly angry. We fired at them with everything that we had. We were letting loose a tremendous barrage of fire, as though spreading an iron curtain between the ship and the sea. The shrapnel bombs had taken their toll. Many of our men were wounded. Even the roar of the guns and the screaming of the bombers could not drown out the most piteous of all noises – the groans of the wounded and the dying. This was a baptism of fire the like of which I had never known before. I thought of God quite a lot during those eight hours of harrowing battle. I have heard it said that in the heat of the battle, one has no time to think. This was not true. The thoughts come crowding in upon you, stumble over one another, the past gets mixed with the present. At a time like that, the “future” as such, ceases to exist.
One thought that specifically occurred to me that – “here I am praying to my God, the man beside me is praying to his God. Everyone on board must be praying – all of us for the same thing, survival. Surely there cannot be several of Them, each answering the call of their particular flock?” This question has affected me all my life. I have, since that day, found solace to my troubled mind and soul in a temple, church, mosque, or any place of worship.
I saw many a ghastly sight that day. Since then, I have seen many more provided by the hands of war. However much of suffering one sees, never can one get inured to the sight of those roasted on the racks of combat, torn, miserable human wreckage doomed to intolerable pain.
It was well into the evening before we could get away from the range of Germans and seek the haven of our own port. The previous nine hours had stretched our nerves to breaking point, but at least the trial by ordeal was over. We limped into port; we were all but sinking because we had over three thousand tons of sea water that had slipped in through the several hundreds of splinter holes below the water line through near misses. By all logic, we should have foundered at sea, but our ship was a well-constructed one, capable of taking the punishment. (This lesson was well remembered by me when many decades later I was given the task of building ships!) [Reference to taking over in 1973 as the first Chairman and Managing director of India’s first and Asia’s largest Greenfield ship building yard – The Cochin Shipyard.]
We entered dry dock to effect repairs to battle damage, working round the clock, so that the ship may rejoin the battles that were raging all around us at sea.
Our time as midshipmen was nearing conclusion – provided, of course, we passed the examinations. Orders soon came that we were to join the Battle Cruiser, HMS Repulse. If the Suffolk had appeared to me as big in comparison to the Foxhound, my latest home looked gigantic!
Britain had three Battle Cruisers at the beginning of the war – Hood, Renown, and Repulse. I have always felt that these ships were the most beautiful warships in the world – a view that was widely accepted. Their speed coupled with eight guns of 15-inch caliber and ample anti-aircraft batteries gave you the feeling of security and safety. One needed this thought because the sea battle off Norway was still on. The Renown had engaged Germany’s Gneisenau and Scharnhorst and had obtained three hits on the former and the two ships had run away from the Renown! I was allotted my old ‘Action Station’ of Suffolk but this time, of a formidable battery of guns.
On one of our forays, we sighted from our position aloft several planes approaching us and I reported, “Alarm Starboard. Enemy aircraft in sight.” I was taken aback when the reply came from our bridge, “Disregard! Aircraft friendly.” Having recently had to go through sustained air attacks, I had no doubt at all that the aircraft were Germans – this was also confirmed by Jal Cursetji, who was in the after control and in direct communication with me. I repeated to the Bridge, “Consider Aircraft definitely enemy.” The Duty Lieutenant Commander assured me, “We are expecting some British Blenheim’s – Aircraft friendly.” I had no personal satisfaction when the Aircraft came serenely overhead and I could report, “Friendly aircraft dropping bombs!” Fortunately, none of them found their mark and I lived to tell the tale. The Germans went on their way because their bomb-bays were empty!
Big ships used to spend longer times in harbor than the smaller ships. This was all to the good because the examinations were fast approaching and we had a chance of “swotting.” But all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy and being midshipmen, we were up to all sorts of monkey tricks. But the snotties from the Renown played one that was both dangerous and perhaps (in the end) amusing.
Our gun room was ‘dining in our Captain William Tennant. We were just about to toast His Majesty the King when the door of the gun room burst open and in rushed half a dozen German parachutists armed with machine guns. The leader said, in a heavily accented guttural voice, “The ship has been taken over. Resistance is useless.” To say that we were struck dumb would be an understatement of the century until one of our snotties recognized one of the “Germans” under his disguise as a midshipman from the Renown! He let out the gun room war-cry “De-bag them – Renown snotties!” We overpowered them, took off their pants and hoisted them on the Main Mast Halyards!
Bill Tennant, our Captain, was a perfect gentleman and a great sailor. So were the officers and men that formed the company of this gallant ship. There is no armor against Destiny. Many of them made the supreme sacrifice when, in December 1941, off Singapore, wave after wave of Japanese torpedo bombers attacked the Repulse and Prince of Wales. When Captain Tennant realized that his ship was doomed, he ordered “all hands on deck” and thus saved many lives. But alas, his was not one of them. When I heard of the sinking, my heart was full of grief. Sailors form strange and strong attachments to ships and other seamen. I have written elsewhere that “there is nothing so desolate as a sailor’s mind and heart when the sea claims any old shipmates as victims.”
That old war horse, Winston Churchill, has succinctly recorded his own emotions on hearing of the disaster. “The telephone at my bedside rang. It was the First Sea Lord. His voice sounded odd. He gave a sort of cough and gulp, and at first I could not hear quite clearly. ‘Prime Minister, I have to report to you that the Prince of Wales and the Repulse have both been sunk by the Japanese – we think by aircraft. Tom Phillips and William Tennant are dead.’ ‘Are you sure it’s true?’ “There is no doubt at all.’ So I put the telephone down. I was thankful to be alone. In all the war, I have never received a more direct shock.”
I was not in bad company.
Chapter 5 Blitz over Britain
Having successfully passed the Midshipmen’s examinations, I was promoted to the rank of Acting Sub-Lieutenant in the summer of 1940. We now had to go through a variety of technical courses in different training schools situated at Portsmouth, England. One’s ultimate seniority as a sub-lieutenant depended on the results of the various examinations – gunnery, navigation, communications, etc.
It was whilst at Portsmouth that the “Battle of Britain” broke out in the skies all around us. Having conquered the whole of France with lightning speed, Hitler was assembling his legions across the English Channel for his assault on the British Isles. To do so, however, the Germans had to have daylight mastery of the air. This in turn meant that the Luftwaffe had to destroy the Royal Air Force on the ground and in the air. That suddenly became the “crux of the war” on which hinged the ultimate victory. One man had the foresight to anticipate that the survival of Britain might well depend on the fighter command of the Royal Air Force and did not allow his aircraft to be squandered away in a futile effort to halt the German advance in France. He was Air Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding (whom we will meet later). Throughout those summer months came the Luftwaffe bombers, wave after wave, Herman Goering’s vast armadas in the air. The Royal Air Force’s (RAF) Fighter Command sent up their Spitfires and Hurricanes to give battle. I had made several friends among these fighter pilots and many were the jolly evenings we spent together. Their zest and gusto in enjoying life were as infectious as the utter disregard with which they faced death. One by one they went, ending their young lives in a blaze of fiery glory. Because of strict censorship, we did not realize that it was really touch and go. Rightfully did Churchill pass verdict for history – “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few,” referring of course to the brave fighter pilots of the RAF.
War or no war, our training in the schools went on unabated. Whale Island (in Portsmouth) was the repository of all the traditions of Naval Gunnery. Steeped in its conservatism, we were training to a pattern that was probably set a century ago! The only difference was that instead of marching about the parade ground breathing the gases of the man in front of you, we did so now using gas masks. The lenses of the mask would keep clouding over. Once I missed an order for “about turn” and found myself marching on along like John Brown’s Soul, while the rest of the squad was increasing the distance in the opposite direction! This was always a risk for me because I was the shortest and was invariably placed at the tail-end of any line! On the parade, the instructors were tyrants and their eagle eyes never missed the slightest mistakes when the hapless errant could expect a verbal volley of abuse, sometimes quite witty – at the defaulter’s expense. On one occasion, we were doing “Funeral Drill.” There was a fierce air battle going on the overhead with the British and German planes weaving fantastic patterns in the sky. I could not resist the temptation of looking up and within a second came the roar, “Gentlemen, your drill will soon be put to good use. Number twelve of the front rank (me), if he doesn’t take his flaming eyes off the sky, I am going to murder him and dance on his grave (of course, I have left out the interspersed four-letter words that peppered his sentence!).” I have never been able to understand why we had to learn sword Drill, fixing Bayonets by numbers and ceremonial funeral drills at a time when sailors in their hundreds were being sent to their watery graves daily, in a grim battle of life and death at Sea! I suppose there must be some reason, because the British are always supposed to win their wars in the end!
On 15 September, 1940, the turning point was reached in the struggle for the mastery of the air with the Royal Air Force decisively proving to the Germans that daylight attacks on British airfields and strategic targets would not pay. The Germans then started night bombings of ports and industrial towns and, of course, London, in what became known as the ‘Blitz’.
Not very long after, I met, at a luncheon party hosted by one of London’s leading Socialites, a gentleman who aroused a feeling of antipathy in me for the clothes he was wearing. A Black coat, striped trousers
and on top of that what seemed to me a supercilious expression. It conjured up in my mind an impression of a man who was obviously making much money out of the war – a detestable profiteer. Perhaps he sensed my hostility and singling me out for conversation, asked searching questions about where I was stationed, what I was doing, and so on. Now my mind’s eye pictured him as a possible spy. Burning with indignation I said, “I don’t know why you are asking me all these questions that relate to highly classified information. Perhaps you have forgotten that there is a war on. I am damned sir, if I am going to give you any information – classified or otherwise.” There was a sudden hush and everybody was staring at me, aghast. He said, but without any rancor, “Here, steady on, old boy! I was just being friendly. I happen to like India and Indians.” Not to be outdone, I said, “I was not being unfriendly. Seeing as how you are in civilian clothing, looking, if I may say so, like a prosperous banker, and not knowing who you are, what other answer could I have given?” The lull was broken by a stormy outburst of laughter and my gracious hostess said, “It was my fault. I should have introduced you, Lt. Krishnan, meet Air Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, Commander-in-Chief of Fighter Command, Royal Air Force!” I was flabbergasted and was barely able to stammer, “Good Lord! You are the man who has turned the tables on the Luftwaffe and have won the Battle of Britain?” The humor that I had mistaken for superciliousness came out, “Thank you. This has really made my day!” For the rest of the time, the great man was absolutely charming to me and even congratulated me on my securitymindedness! [In 1940, the Battle of Britain was fought and won by Great Britain. This was the first major air battle of World War II and the British victory was attributable to the Fighter Command and its Commander-in-Chief, Air Chief Marshal Hugh Dowding. Dowding’s remarkable career was marked by controversy and political intrigue. He was dismissed from his post in the same year despite his role in winning the crucial Battle of Britain. Dowding’s achievements may not have received the recognition it ought to then, but the course of history has vindicated him. It is now generally accepted that Dowding had received unjust treatment. In the film Battle of Britain inspired by the Battle, which starred Laurence Olivier and was released in 1969, Dowding’s full story was told, and his worth recognized. He died the following year, on 15 February 1970, aged 87.]
I have said that the German Bombers had decided on night attacks on ports and harbors. Portsmouth and Southampton nearby were lucrative targets and engaged their special attention. The banshee wail of the sirens would send us scurrying into air raid shelters. I used to hate this part of it. It always reminded me of rodents and rat-holes. Besides, I have always had an aversion to being hemmed in, and suffer from a sort of claustrophobia. In fact, I used to welcome my turn of duty of roof-watching. The idea was that from the vantage point of the roof, one gave warning of the dropping of incendiaries (fire bombs) and alert the Fire Squads under shelter. The great danger even from near misses (explosives, not the fairer sex!) was from flying glass and shrapnel that could decapitate one like a guillotine. I used to quip, “no matter, if your number is up and if you have to go, then, like to the lavatory, you’ve got to go!” And less flippantly, “anyway you are that much closer to heaven from the rooftop!”
Suddenly one night at dusk, all the church bells in Portsmouth started ringing furiously. No, we had not won the War. This was a prearranged warning signal that Britain was being invaded. The threat of an invasion from across the narrow Channel had loomed for quite a while now. Winston Churchill in his broadcast to the French people had said, “Here in London, we are waiting for the long promised invasion – so are the Fishes!”
All the sub-lieutenants were rushed out to the main Parade Ground of the Naval Barracks where we found hundreds of sailors already formed into squads of 24 each. They were in full battle dress, so incidentally were we, having been issued with these earlier on during the “scare.” Several senior officers were moving about, all very businesslike and all very grim. One particularly dour Scotsman was reading out from a list of names and each sub-lieutenant was allotted a squad of men to command. The squad was known as a platoon. It was thus that I suddenly found myself transferred into a platoon Commander. I was allotted a sublieutenant, Boltham, as second in command. One look at the men I was to command convinced me that they had obviously been interrupted in their carousels in the local bars. I suddenly recalled John Donne’s “I am involved in mankind, therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
There were a large number of buses drawn up all around the parade ground. Platoon after platoon embarked and the buses pulled away to unknown destinations. My thoughts, as we raced away into the darkness, were not very comfortable. If Hitler had gambled on the invasion in spite of the Royal Air Force and Navy which were potent forces, then the invasion would have to be a very powerful one indeed, if it was to have any chance of success. The British had rationalized even a defeat into a victory. Dunkirk was undoubtedly a brilliant National effort. Everyone who had a boat, large or small, had ventured forth and some 80 thousand men of the Army had been brought across to safety after being trapped on the beach in France. But the fact remained that the remnant army was without adequate weapons, having lost it all in France. To augment the regular forces, therefore, the “Home Guard” had been formed. It was a common sight, during the invasion scare, to see old men, parading in their civilian clothes, wielding pitchforks and sickles to fight the invasion when it came. It was during this period that the new British Prime Minister, that great orator Winston Churchill, made some of his most soul-stirring broadcasts to the British people. Two pieces of his oratory at this dark juncture were worth remembering:
“Today is Trinity Sunday. Centuries ago words were written to be a call and a spur to the faithful servants of Truth and Justice: ‘Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valor, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our altar. As the Will of God is in Heaven, even so let it be.”
Again, “We shall go on to the end. We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be; we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.”
But can the “foulest and the most soul-destroying tyranny” be warded off by the oration however, eloquent? If Hitler’s legions had crossed over, it would mean that overwhelming force would be used by the most
modern and the most ruthless Army in the World.
But there was no time for any further musings as an hour after embarkation the bus came to a halt at a weeded area, the location of which at that time, I did not have the faintest idea. We disembarked. The Battalion Commander (I had never set eyes on him before or since) had comforting words for us. “The invasion is on. The Germans have landed. The situation is not very clear. Your orders are to defend this area.
“Make yourselves at home, gentlemen. This may well be your final home, because your orders are to defend it to the last man. Good night.” With these parting words of good cheer, he got into the bus, roared away to dump other platoons God knows where!
I ordered the platoon to fall into line. They did so with an unruly truculence which made it clear that they regarded me with barely concealed hostility. I knew then that I was going to have trouble in the clearest possible terms. “Listen, you bastards,” I told them in my best Gunnery school voice, “I don’t want to be with you any more than you with me. You heard what the officer said. Jerry [The Germans] has landed. This is your bloody country. If we are all going to be dead tomorrow, we are certainly going to take some of the enemy with us. So you better do exactly as I tell you to do.” Sub-Lieutenant Boltham, the second-in-command pitched in, “Hear, Hear! It is not my bloody country either. I am an Australian. I agree with you hundred percent. Give us your orders, Sir.” It was a grand gesture and I really appreciated it.
I am no soldier; my knowledge of deployments, defensive positions, encirclements, and enfilades was absolutely none. Boltham and I had to go by instinct rather than experience. There was a thick hedge running round a deserted farmhouse by the road. In front of the farmhouse and flanked on one side by the road and fence of a thick shrubby hedge on the other was a large open ground. Our aim was to prevent the enemy from using the road. So we quickly threw a road block across it through improvisation with cart and other odds and ends, we found about the farm. The men, we positioned along the house-side hedge of the farm, covering the road and the open ground. Somewhere I had read that a military genius would send a patrol ahead to “reconnoiter” the ground. Since we were but a few, I decided that it should be a one-man patrol and chose myself for the job of nosing around. Making my way slowly along the hedge, I could have sworn that the ground was full of tanks and other vehicles, of Germans. The darkness of the night plays strange tricks on man’s imagination and this particular darkness of the night was certainly having a whale of a time creating a lot of mental images for me. Suddenly, I heard a movement in the hedge a little further up. Like they say in the movies, I called out, “come out with your hands up, or I will shoot.” My German obviously did not savvy the King’s English. Unseen, he was creeping towards me. Taking careful aim, I opened up with my revolver at the source of the sound. Even though I had given no orders to the effect, my trigger-happy friends took the sound of my shots as the signal to commence hostilities. Volley after volley of riflefire thundered across the lawn. Caught thus, I could not return to our lines without getting shot up by our own side. When I looked for the dark objects that had but a few minutes ago been all over the lawn, there was no sign. The one-sided firing ceased and I rejoined my comrades, jubilant that we had beaten back the Germans even before they could launch their attacks. We settled down to await further developments, each of us with his private vision of the Victoria Cross. [The Victoria Cross (VC) is the highest military decoration awarded by Britain, for valor “in the face of the enemy”.]
Alas! Our little war was over even before it began. Dawn broke on a lovely, peaceful countryside. The casualties of the night were one hedgehog and two cows. The “tanks” had returned and were grazing with a tranquil unconcern for the events of the previous night. They were not the only animals about. We were all feeling thoroughly sheepish ourselves. But soon I had another battle on my hands. The grounds and the livestock had belonged to a retired Naval Commander, too old for active service who, however, had sallied forth in the night to meet the invasion in his own way, as a member of the “Home Guard.” The death in action of two of his best Jersey cows coming on top of a night of futile false alarms was too much for him. In a towering rage, he wanted to see the color of my entrails and would have succeeded but for the immense tact and painstaking explanations of Boltham. Fortunately, no naval officer is angry for long and he even invited us over to his house yonder for a cup of the most delicious tea I have ever tasted and more than made up for the Victoria Cross I was not to have.
Our only consolation, as we slunk back to our barracks, was that practically everyone in Britain was feeling the same way – a strong desire to bleat out “Baa.”
The night bombing raids over London were on in their full fury. Having seen what he could do from the air to the cities in Europe, Hitler and Goering were certain that they could, by saturation bombing reduce London to ashes. He would cow and break the morale of the people into surrender. But blitz or no blitz, we young blades lost no opportunity to run up to London, there to squeeze as much out of life as the wartime metropolis could offer. The fact that the Blitz was always at its fiercest never deterred us. “Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live” but we saw no reason why it should necessarily be “full of misery.” Having been forced down into the shelters at Portsmouth as a matter of duty, we shunned these caverns that opened their dark lips and swallowed up tired humanity and there to afford sanctuary against death. For those that chose, London over ground still had plenty of amusement to offer. Men and women in uniform still crowded the dance halls, beer was still aplenty, cabarets and night clubs had sprung up everywhere. People gave themselves up to the frenzy of gaiety and abandon, trying to forget the devastation and death all around with the philosophy, crude but satisfying, that when your number is up, you go and that is all!
I remember one particular night; a reporter friend and I were doing a familiar pastime of those days known as the “pub crawl.” Charging around in his battered Morris Minor, the idea was to visit as many public houses as possible before closing time. Business with pleasure as Bill (from the Evening Standard) collected “human stories” as he put it. It was a night to remember, when Hitler ordered London to be burnt down. Several thousand incendiary bombs had been dropped and uncontrollable fires were raging everywhere making night into day. The city’s fire services had completely broken down and because of the very low water in the Thames, suction was lost and even water was not available to put out the fires. It really was a fiery hell, an awesome sight and I discreetly suggested to Bill that it might be a good idea if we visited one of the airraid shelters where he was bound to pick up a really good story or two! Much to my relief he readily agreed and after parking his jalopy, we made our way down into one of the shelters. We were in the East End of
London which took one of the worst beatings of the aerial bombardment. The shelter was packed to capacity, cockney voices were joined in unison in community singing “she was pore, but she was ‘onest, victim of a rich man’s whim,” and so on.
The shelter was already overcrowded when we arrived, and the air was stifling and suffocating. I think I have always suffered from a touch of claustrophobia and am uneasy even in a moderately crowded underground tube [subway] train. Here, I felt that if I stayed a moment longer my lungs would surely burst. I said to Bill, “Look, I completely forgot that I have half a bottle of whiskey in my bag in your trunk. Don’t you think we might kill that rather than choke to death here?” He responded to the call like the true warhorse that he was, and it was sheer delight to come out once again into “daylight!”
I believe that it is I who had the charmed life because Bill sadly bought it in the desert a couple of years later. Anyway, hardly had we moved off in the Morris (affectionately but inaptly named “the water wagon”) when all hell was let loose, flying glass and rubble, a cyclone, an earthquake, a thunderbolt, a volcanic eruption – like the daring young men on the flying trapeze we flew through the air with the greatest of ease, not having the faintest idea of what hit us. When the calm descended after the storm, we knew. The shelter that we had left but a few moments ago had sustained a direct hit. We returned to the scene of unbelievable horror and spent the next few hours in helping with the salvage. It was easy enough to force a laugh at danger, to put on a brave front and try to be happy in hurrying through life’s most trying times. But when you are face to face with the gaunt, grim and utterly pointless carnage, the hideous spectacle of lifeless limbs, of tattered torsos, when you see the unspeakable horror of the bloody mass of those that were singing but some seconds ago and who, but for the grace of God could have been you or me, when you see all this and more than can hardly be described by words – you feel numb, you are bewildered, you are angry and you are bitter, you are thankful that you are alive and you are sorry that you are not dead. You thank God and you curse Him. You are touched by the poignancy of the scene before you, and yet you smile at the ludicrous – the blond bomber, whistling his Wagnerian tune as he wings his way back to his fatherland, secure in the smug satisfaction at having done his duty!
Such were the memories of the London that I left soon after, bound once again for my native land. It was a long, slow, lazy voyage with little or nothing to do all day as we ploughed through miles that brought me nearer and nearer home. Before leaving England, a friend had presented me with a book on Mahatma Gandhi called, “Out of Dust” written by D.F. Karaka. In the hustle and bustle of life at Sea, I had been largely unaware of the tremendous upsurge of Indian Nationalism that was sweeping over the country of my birth and infant nurture. But now, in the tranquility of an enforced holiday, I was introduced in vivid clarity to the little man who was the greatest in generations, the “one time Inner Temple Lawyer and now a half-naked fakir” setting on fire the minds and hearts of my countrymen in a supreme effort to “make us, out of dust, into men.” I read the book over and over again. I wanted to get hold of more books on my country. I was lucky. There were some Indian students on board. I sought them out to learn of what was happening in our country. When they found me deeply interested, they lent me books, many of them proscribed in India, but which they were smuggling home. I read avidly, voraciously, as never before. I had always been fond of reading, aided and abetted by my father from a very young age. By the time I finished school, I had gone through the entire works of Charles Lamb, Robert Louis Stevenson, and several of Shakespeare’s plays. It was a ritual that I would read my father to sleep. Some of it I understood, most of it I didn’t. But that was impersonal reading. Somerset Maugham says of reading: “Some people read for instruction, which is praiseworthy, and some for pleasure, which is innocent, but not a few, read from habit, and I suppose that this is neither innocent nor praiseworthy.” Well, during those days of my awakening, I graduated from the last to the first category. Praiseworthy or not, I read for instruction because I wanted to know and learn.
Belatedly for me, rose over the horizon a star that had already been shining over the Indian firmament for some time now – Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, the darling of the millions, the catalyst of the youth, the hope of New India. I read his letters to his daughter, I pored over his speeches, I memorized them, I repeated them as though they were invocations to God Himself! Since then, I have heard many speeches, political, trite and common place. But who has the confidence and the supreme bravery to say to himself, “I am a symbol of Indian Nationalism resolved to break away from the British Empire at all costs …”and then as if he had said too much added, “I don’t matter-When my time is up, I too shall be gone. But India matters.” I was not to know then that I would have the privilege of serving Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru after he became free India’s first Prime Minister, as military secretary to his cabinet. This then was my political education, the sudden confrontation of the mind and soul to something that stirred both of them to the utmost goal. I learnt in those days at Sea of the other stalwarts of resurgent India – Sardar Vallabhai Patel, Govind Ballabh Pant, Sarojini Naidu, fondly called the Nightingale of India. Above all, I met, saw and understood, for the first time, though still somewhat hazily, my people and their sorrow, of being a subject Nation.
Our ports of call included Cape Town and Port Elizabeth in South Africa and I came face to face with what I had only vaguely heard about – the color bar. In both places I assiduously sought out the local Indians to try and add to my education and new interest. Everywhere it was the same sordid story – racial arrogance and blind prejudice, segregation, humiliation, personal and public indignities all being targeted against a section of humanity whose only sin was that they were not pigmented the right hue. All in all, it was a nauseating and humiliating spectacle that haunted my thoughts for a long, long time.
My homecoming, after three long and eventful years, was touching and surcharged with emotion. It was so good to meet my father again, with his clear eye and broad shoulders, his piety and puckish sense of humor. My mother shed tears of joy and could hardly speak for relief that I had come back alive and in one piece. She had resigned herself to losing me and at best she thought I might return maimed and she spent a long time inspecting my limbs, eyes, face, reassuring herself that nothing was missing!
The month of leave passed all too quickly and the time had come, to rejoin duty. I was appointed for duty in the Survey Ship called HMIS Investigator – the very definition, survey, charting the seas, did not sound very exciting and certainly no chance of action. But we knew little of what lay ahead, as destiny would, as always, play her inexorable hand.
Chapter 6 An Hour of Battle – A Medal for Life
“In the first list of awards of bravery made to the Royal Indian
Navy, the Distinguished Service Cross is awarded to Sub-Lieutenant N. Krishnan for dash and daring in the capture of a ship at the beginning of the Iranian operations last August.”
-His Majesty’s Government of Great Britain, April 1942
During 1941, relations between Britain and Iran were getting considerably strained as the latter was showing obvious sympathy to the Axis Powers. A decision was taken by His Majesty’s Government that force would be used to make Iran toe the Allies’ line.
On 20 January 1941, I sailed in the HMS Investigator from Bombay and three days later, the ship came under the orders of the Senior Naval Officer, Persian Gulf, and from that time onwards we were doing what was known as Khor, Kuwait Patrol. The ship, commanded by Commander Paine, Royal Indian Navy, had all British Officers except for Sub-Lieutenant Alavi (who later opted and went to Pakistan) and me.
It is not generally known how difficult an atmosphere it could be when we had to live in an almost alien environment. Though there was no blatant act of discrimination as such, the behavior of some of the British officers, especially towards our sailors, left much to be desired. Having served an earlier part of the war in the Royal Navy, and having seen the friendly comradeship that existed between officers and men in the Royal Navy, it came somewhat as a shock to see and experience the feeling of contempt that some of these British officers had for our men. In some ways, perhaps this traumatic experience was to the good, as I started forming a genuine liking, affection, and friendship towards the sailors on board and came to think of various ways and means of counseling and helping them. The men were also aware that life was not very easy on board for us, Indian officers, and in many ways they tried to reciprocate with their sympathy towards me. All this created a true bond of friendship between us and made life worth living. Besides watchkeeping and divisional duties, I was also the Gunnery Officer on board. The Khor Kuwait Patrol meant a constant and monotonous steaming up and down on a straight line with short spells at the lonely and deserted anchorage at Khor Kuwait Island. Totally uninhabited except for mountain goats, the spells in harbor if one can call it that, were even more dreary than being at sea. I tried to break the boredom by taking the ship’s landing parties ashore and have fun playing at-land warfare. This bit of training came in very useful a little later.
Early in August 1941, the ship had shifted to patrolling along the bank of the Shatt-al-Arab and south of Basra. It was quite obvious that things were heating up and the showdown with Iran was not far off. Whilst here, the Captain sent for me and told me to take charge of a party of a dozen sailors and proceed to Basra to take further orders of Commander Martin St. Leger Nott, R.I.N., who was working on the staff of the Senior Naval Officer, Persian Gulf operations.
The journey to Basra by a three-tonner [army truck] had one rather unpleasant incident. Not knowing my way around, I had picked up an Iraqi guide and he was in the front seat between the driver and me, whilst my sailors were in the back. At one of the check posts, we were stopped by a British Sergeant, who was a nasty piece of work and was positively rude. He said, “Don’t you know the bloody orders that no more than one passenger should sit in the front seat?” I tried to explain to him about the need to have a guide, as well as my mission. He, however, said, “Look here, I am not having any lip from any bloody Indian.” And
continued, “if you want a guide to ride with you, why don’t you sit in the back with the other black bastards,” and he leaned across me and started dragging the guide out. I was furious. Whipping out my revolver, I pointed it at him and said, “Sergeant, you are talking to an officer of the Navy and one more word out of you, so help me God, I will blast you all the way to Hell.” In the meantime, Petty Officer Mohammad Akram and my other boys had jumped out and said, “We will look after him, Sir.” It was a pleasant feeling to watch his belligerence ebb out of him and to hear the words “Very sorry, Sir!” I have a suspicion that he never called any Indians “black bastards” after that. On arrival at Basra, I reported to Cdr. Nott who said, “You are to take command, along with your men, of a Tug, which will act as a tender to the Australian Frigate HMAS Yaara.”
For several days thereafter, we were tied to the stern of the Yaara and cooled our heels, living under extremely cramped and unhygienic conditions. My request to the Executive Officer of the Yaara to let my sailors sleep on board that ship had been turned down, and I politely declined his offer to my availing of the wardroom and messing facilities. We had, fortunately, a good cook who worked wonders with the rations we had with us, and it was a never-to-be-forgotten experience of actually living, sleeping, and eating with my men, sharing and feeling the discomfort and joining in the singing and all the other activities that go towards making up ship-board life. After some ten days of thus acting in “isolation” as a tail to the Yaara, at last we received orders to move.
Several operations had been planned to move into Persia (Iran) in unison, in a surprise attack on that country. Our own part was to occupy the Persian Naval Base at Khorramshahr on the banks of the river Karun. Alongside the jetty, there were known to be four gun boats and the plan was for a Combined Fleet consisting of the Frigates Falmouth (Royal Navy), Yaara (Royal Australian Navy), and Investigator (Royal Indian Navy) to appear off the entrances, sink the first of the enemy by gunfire and then the ships would proceed alongside the other three and capture them by overwhelming force of boarding parties. As for me and my little tug, I was to proceed in advance, and under cover of darkness, approach the enemy base and report any activity indicating their awareness of the impending attack. Once the battle was joined, I was to stand by and assist as necessary, the big ships maneuvering alongside their quarries.
The success of my mission depended to a very large extent on stealth and secrecy. Apart from 12 rifles with my men, a service revolver and a .32 Colt pistol of my own, we had no armament of any sort and the tug offered no cover worth speaking of. The craft was slow and difficult to manage in the fast currents one meets in these rivers. We were expected to get there full two hours before the Fleet came in. If we were caught, they would have made the short shift of us and what was worse, the whole operation would have been jeopardized by the loss of surprise on our side.
All these thoughts weighed heavily on my mind as we edged along through the inky darkness, hardly daring to breathe, let alone whisper. Lights or even smoking was out of the question. The shores seemed dangerously close and the lapping of the water as we ploughed through sounded like the knell of impending doom!
We arrived off Khorramshahr at about 2:00 a.m. having diverted from the main river and navigating behind the lee of a large island in front of the town. We literally lowered the anchor hand-over-hand for fear of making any noise and awaited the arrival of the main body of ships. I could see the jetty and the ships alongside quite clearly silhouetted against the lights on shore. It was an eerie thought that all the stillness of the night into which even the sonorous murmur of the flowing river seemed to blend, would soon be shattered by the roar of guns spreading death and destruction among the unsuspecting human cargoes on board these sleek ships that lay so peacefully alongside. I could make out four of them – all gunboats, painted gleaming white and lying stem to stern in a neat and inviting row alongside. According to the plan, the first of these was to be destroyed by gunfire and the remaining three boarded in quick succession by our three sloops and overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers and taking the fullest advantage of the element of surprise. As far as I could make out, mine was to be a passive role with a grandstand view of others’ fighting. However, this, it turned out, was not to be, and destiny had other plans for us! Out of our side, the Investigator had dropped out, suffering grievous harm resulting from extensive damage to her boiler, leaving only the Yaara and Falmouth for the ensuing battle.
Precisely at 4:00 a.m. these two ships loomed into view, and with a deafening crash, opened thunderous fire on the leading Persian gunboat. I had weighed anchor by then and started closing in, to enter the Karun River. I certainly had a grandstand view as the salvo after salvo crashed into the unfortunate leader alongside, hardly a thousand yards away from where I was. Pandemonium reigned everywhere as sleepy gun crews tumbled out to take up Action Stations. Within minutes, the first ship was on fire and burning furiously. I could see the men scampering over the side and running about ashore as the two sloops closed in and commenced their approach alongside. I positioned my tug upstream of them, standing by and on call, to render any seamanship assistance as required. This position brought me roughly abreast of the fourth enemy ship. From then onwards, I lost all interest in what was going on elsewhere, as we started coming under withering fire from this ship. We had little or no cover on board and nothing to retaliate with except our rifles. We had a few sandbags and bedding as our only protection and bursts of machine gunfire started spraying on board. The pitch darkness was our only friend in the hopelessly intolerable situation we were in. To remain where we were would have meant certain death. So, I decided that we too would go alongside and board the enemy. It was a reckless decision and even at the time seemed quite foolhardy to me to try and assault a very much bigger and vastly superior foe, both in armament and numbers. However, what other alternatives were there? Certainly not running away and bringing down upon us the eternal ridicule of the Aussies and the British. I figured that we might have some chance of success if we got alongside because, then, his machine gun mounting would not reach and in the pitch darkness of the night, we might get away with it, if we were audacious enough. My greatest strength lay in the spirit of my men who were obviously ready for anything.
Briefly, I told them my intentions – there will be two groups of four men each; the first group led by me and the other by P.G. Pandey. As soon as we got alongside, my party would board a dumb barge that was secured alongside the enemy ship from forward. The other group after giving me fire cover, would board after an interval of two minutes, boarding from aft. Party number one would clear any resistance in the barge
and, thereafter, both groups would board the enemy ship gunboat simultaneously. Firing would be rapid and from dispersed points so that we confuse enemy aim and also let them believe that the boarding party was much larger than it actually was.
With fixed bayonets, the groups took up positions while the tug grated alongside. But as the poet said, “the best laid schemes o’mice an’ men, gang aft agley.” In the final stages of the approach, my man at the wheel received a bullet on his arm and was knocked clean off his post. I had cleared the gunwale and into the barge, but before any of the others could follow, the strong stream had taken charge and swept the tug clear, past jumping distance. Thus, I found myself in the most unenviable position of “solitude.” I fired blindly at a movement close by that brought forth a yelp of agonized pain and the thud of a rifle being dropped and in the dark. I could make out three or four figures scampering over the side from the barge into the gunboat. Meanwhile, the situation had been retrieved in my tug, which came alongside again, and I was joined by my boarding parties, now down to six, one seaman having relieved the wounded helmsmen
Rallying them, we also clambered on board the enemy ship, firing at anything and everything that moved. To get a correct picture of the action that followed, I must describe the general layout of the ship we had boarded. We were on a flush single deck, with a hatch leading below aft. In the middle of the deck was the engine room superstructure dividing the deck into port and starboard alleyways. These walkways ended toward the front of the funnel into the bridge superstructure. Inside this, alongside the same deck, were some cabins and a forward hatch leading below. Outside the bridge superstructure were two ladders leading aloft to the machine-gun platform and thence to the bridge.
We boarded the ship at the point between the engine room superstructure and the after hatch. I ordered two of my men to close this hatch and bolt it down to bottle up anyone below. Meanwhile, we took up positions on either side of the engine room superstructure and returned the furious fire coming from the forward part along the walkways. At this point, I decided to start making my way forward, over and between the various ventilators on the engine room superstructure, taking advantage of the cover of fire from my men aft. Very soon, I was in a position above from where I could look down on the figures, several of them, engaging my men with their rifles. From the cover of one of the projections, I fired, with both my revolvers into that crowd. I saw one of them go down as though pole-axed. The shock of a sudden attack from a new direction and rather close, was perhaps too much for them, and they hastily withdrew into the alleyways leading into the bridge superstructure. I shouted to my men to charge, and I jumped down and joined them. When we entered the lobby, all was silent except for one wounded man, obviously an officer, holding on to his shoulder and wailing away. I had him pulled up and sticking my gun into his guts, told him to lead the way and show me where the rest were or I would blow him to pieces. He moved, for a wounded man, with surprising speed and agility and pointed to the hatch forward. The hold below was served by a steep ladder and to try and go down would be sheer suicide. And suddenly, the deck around us erupted as bullets started popping up. They were evidently directing their rifles directly overhead and firing. Again, the situation was getting impossible, and we had to think fast. I told my prisoner, “tell those bastards to stop firing, throw down their arms and come up one by one and give themselves up,” and increased the pressure on his guts. He faithfully relayed my message in a shrill and terror-stricken shriek that sounded like complete gibberish. The firing suddenly stopped, but nothing else happened. We had to move fast as I kept remembering the men who had been bolted down the hatch after, and at any moment they may be breaking out and attacking us from the rear! I told the officer, “Tell them I have a hand-grenade. I give the first man exactly fifteen seconds to come out otherwise the grenade will be thrown in.” This was a crucial moment. He knew my bluff as he could see that I had no grenade. But he could see and feel the revolver and my men’s rifles pointing at him, and praise the Lord, he got the message across loud and clear. We heard loud clatters below and the speed record for ladder climbing was, I believe broken that day, as one, two, three, and so on up to fifteen men came up and surrendered. Leaving two of my men on guard, the remainder of us preceded by the one that I had almost come to love by now, and made our way aft. To our intense relief, the hatch was intact and obviously whoever was below preferred the safety of the hold to the excitement on top. Opening the hatch and after firing a few rounds inside for good measure, we repeated the performance and this time the bag was four of them.
Leaving them under guard, once again, accompanied by one of my men, I retraced my steps foreard’ [forward or front of the ship] to see how the other boarding party was getting along. Hardly had I cleared one of the cabins leading to the foyer when I heard my consort shout, “Look out, Sir, on your left.” Absolutely by instinct, I swirled around firing both revolvers at the same time. I felt a terrific thud, and I felt that my head had exploded into brilliant stars that I could actually see and it flashed through my mind, “Oh God, I have bought it.”
But not a bit of it! My number had yet not been called and his bullet had struck my tin helmet high up and glanced off but not before giving the shock, literally of my life. And wonder of wonders, both my bullets had found their mark, one in the throat and one on the side of the chest, of this hidden gunman who, but for the grace of God and Suminder Singh, who had saved my life by his shout of warning, would surely have put paid to me!
Blood was literally sprouting from his neck wound and splashed me as I knelt down to recover his rifle. He turned out to be the Captain of the ship and within seconds, he was dead.
The action was over and the ship was ours. Twenty prisoners, three killed were the score, and we had, miraculously, suffered no casualties. The whole action-packed incident had taken, in all, 19 minutes from the moment of boarding.
By the time I got ashore and made my way to the Falmouth, all resistance had ceased and Khorramshahr was in Allied hands. On the 17th of March 1942, His Majesty’s Government announced the following under the heading of “Distinguished Service Cross.”
[The DSC medal instituted in 1901 was awarded by Britain to Navy, Army, and Air Force ranks in recognition of exemplary gallantry during active operations against the enemy at Sea.]
“In the first list of awards of bravery made to the Royal Indian Navy, the Distinguished Service Cross is awarded to Sub-Lieutenant N. Krishnan for dash and daring in the capture of a ship at the beginning of the Iranian operations last August.
Sub-Lieutenant N. Krishnan, R.I.N. (HMIS Investigator) led a boarding party to capture an enemy ship, the crew of which offered stout resistance. Krishnan himself was engaged in a personal dual with the Captain of the enemy ship and proved himself to be the better shot. After killing him and seriously wounding two officers and four men, he captured the ship undamaged with twenty prisoners.”
The actual Investiture ceremony (presentation of the medal] did not, however, take place until 1943, when I was doing my Navigation course in England. It was with much trepidation that I answered the summons to the Investiture ceremony in Buckingham Palace. Suddenly, all my uniforms seemed drab and worn out, and it seemed obvious that a visit to Saville Row off Bond Street store of Messrs. Gieves and Company should be the first order of business. Gieves is an institution by itself and had catered to the naval elite of Britain for generations, and I could never overcome a sense of awe when I submitted myself to the ministrations of elderly gentlemen in immaculate turnout, who sized me up and took my measurements. When I said, trying to be debonair, that “this uniform should be fit for a king,” a deep and melancholy voice announced that “Messrs. Gieves have been bespoken to dynasties of Kings and Queens for centuries” and I was cut to normal size again.
[Wing Commander Guy Gibson, VC, DFC and Bar, DSO, born in 1918, joined the R.A.F. in 1936. At the outbreak of war, he held the rank of Flying Officer and in 1940 flew as a bomber pilot, attacking German transport, shipping and ports; mine laying; and raiding invasion barges during the Battle of Britain. He was promoted to Flight-Lieutenant and won his first D.F.C. (he was awarded a bar the following year). Then he was transferred to Fighter Command and helped to develop the night-fighter technique which contributed so much to the eventual defeat of the German air raids on British cities. In 1942 he returned to Bomber Command as a Wing-Commander, took part in a large number of R.A.F. raids – “the dambusters”, and was awarded the D.S.O., with a bar in 1943. This was the time that Lt. Krishnan met him. He subsequently went
Guy Gibson was also due on the same date as me, at “Buck House” [Buckingham Palace] on one of his periodical visits there to receive one medal or other. I confided in him my own apprehensions at the forthcoming ordeal of the investiture, and he said breezily, “Nothing to it, old boy! A piece of cake! The king is away in North Africa reviewing troops or something, and the Queenie [Queen Elizabeth, the queen mother] will be the pin-up girl! I will be there to hold your hand.” I made an appointment to meet Guy on the morning of the ceremony and to go to the Palace together.
We arrived in good time to mingle with scores of other award winners. But I did not know anyone out of the multitude of war veterans. I was secretly posing to myself the alternatives of several questions I might be asked by the Sovereign Lady and rehearsing the answers I would give.
I was delighted when I spied Syed Mohammed Ahsan, also of the R.I.N., who too was to receive the DSC, earned while in combat operations off Chittagong.
Gibson introduced me to a bunch of tough Merchant Service Captains, many of whom had had their ships sunk under them, but who, typically were itching for new commands afloat. I asked one of them what he was getting, and he answered, “O.B.E.” The irrepressible Gibson shot at me, “do you know what O.B.E. stands for?” and answered himself, “Other Beggars’ Effort.” In the loud laughter that followed, one of them asked, “What about the M.B.E.?” and pat came Guy’s reply, “My Bloody Effort!”
Suddenly, there was a hush following a flourish – royalty had arrived. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, consort and Queen to George VI of Britain and the Dominions beyond the Seas, etc. ., stood resplendent with her glittering jewels and diamond tiara, ready to receive the homage of her subject people and confer honors upon them. The dais was reached by a long and heavily carpeted slope, and as you walked along this, a courtier came to life and punched a clip on your lapel. When level with the Queen, you executed a smart (I hoped!) left turn, took one step forward. As someone called your name and the decoration, the Queen hooked on the medal, shook you by the hand, exchanged a few words, and then you left by a similar slope on the other side.
It was a bit of a “few words” that had me worried most. What is she likely to say? Ask me about India? Ask me about the Navy? However, none of my rehearsals were of the slightest use. She took me completely by surprise by saying, “Well, thank Heavens, I don’t have to stand on my tip toes to pin this on you.” Without even realizing it, I burst into loud laughter, and in doing so, perhaps floated the biggest bloomer of a lifetime. Still with that gracious and most charming of smiles, she continued, “You can let go of my hand now!” I retired in utter confusion, and if dark men can blush, I would have presented the most incarnate sight of all.
By the time I reached the audience, I felt lighthearted as though of slight intoxication and joined Syed Ahsan and Guy Gibson. We were approached by Lady Willingdon, [Wife of Lord Willingdon, the Governor General and Viceroy of India from 1931 to 1936] all draped in her finery of Ex-Vice regal days, with a hat that looked like a fruit salad. Having the background of dishing out patronage to all and sundry of the natives, she reverted to form, all but patted me on the head and asked in the most condescending manner imaginable, “And what did the First Lady of the Empire say to make you laugh so loudly?” By this time, I couldn’t (as
Gibson would have put it) have cared less and said, “As a matter of fact, she wanted to know if I was doing anything special this evening.”
The condescension was gone, the mask was ripped off, she was back again at the Vice Regal Palace, and she snarled at me “How dare you talk like that to me! To me! …. Lady Willingdon!” The game was on, and it was Syed Ahsan’s turn, “And who, Madam, is Lord Willingdon?” An icy calm replaced the blazing fury, a touch of the condescension returned, and in a measured tone, she said “Lord Willingdon, my dear boy, was the Viceroy of India, in case you didn’t go to school!” A new voice joined in now, “But Madam, they don’t teach ancient history anymore in India these days,” and God bless him, Guy came to the rescue as he snatched and steered us away from a seething tigress. We adjourned to the Trocadero Restaurant to listen to the music of “Fats Waller” and restoring our tissues with much needed ambrosia! But thereby hangs another tale, not for these memoirs!
Chapter 7 War within a War
On that August day of the action in Iran, I was not to know that within six months, destiny had ordained that my first command in the Indian Navy (the tug I had commanded during the action was neither commissioned nor flew the ensign) would be the ship that I had captured. It happened like this.
There had been a requirement to bring some paddle steamers belonging to the Inland Water Transport (IWT), Calcutta, all the way round and on to Basra. These ships were by no means fit to undertake such a long sea voyage. Being paddle-steamers, (great big paddle-wheels at the side for propulsion), they had to be stopped every now and then to “tighten up their screws.” They were low in the water and could be easily swamped by any big wave. Of the many that started from Calcutta, some floundered at sea, one was attacked by a submarine and only a handful made it to Basra in Iraq. Why on earth such unseaworthy crafts should be taken to Iraq and how they could help in the Allied war effort was quite a mystery to me! I can only imagine some staff officer at New Delhi, returning from an excellent meal in the Gymkhana Club thought of this proposal combined with roars of approval from the hierarchy, touting India’s latest contribution to the Allied cause! How did it matter if a few Indian lives were lost in the process?
I had been appointed as second-in-command of one of these paddlers, the IWT Chakdina under Lieut. Eddie Bryan (ex-Merchant Navy). Eddie was certainly not the most compassionate of captains I have met, nor were the near mutinous and motley crowd of the crew exactly what a First Lieutenant could have wished for – but they were all excellent seamen and after interminable days at sea and delays in harbors, we made it at last, reaching Basra after a two-month voyage. Besides, the Chakdina there were other paddlers, all commanded by Lieutenants, mostly British nationals, and all of whom had been inducted into the Royal Indian Navy as voluntary reserve officers.
Now a requirement arose for the three gun boats, captured from Persia earlier, to be steamed out to India, flying the Naval Ensign, from Khorramshahr. They were the Simorgh, Shahbaz and Shahrokh. They mounted one three-inch gun and an anti-aircraft (A/A) gun each, and capable of speeds of 15 knots. They were to be commanded by officers drawn from the “Paddle Fleet” and manned by Indian sailors of our Navy.
By now, I had been promoted to the rank of Lieutenant in the Royal Indian Navy. I was a few months short of twenty three. According to regulations at the time, a Lieutenant of the Regular Service, automatically became senior to and took precedence over officers of the same rank in the Royal Indian Naval Reserve or Voluntary Reserve. Since I was the only “regular officer” present, (that is, one holding a permanent commission) this automatically made me the senior officer of the flotilla of gun boats. The Commodore-in-charge, Khorramshahr, had no option and no hesitation in naming me as “the Senior Officer, Persian Gun Boats” and directing me to “take charge and prepare the ships for sea, sailing as soon as possible, to Bombay, en-route Karachi.” I was further directed and enjoined to “take such measures as are necessary to be prepared to give battle should enemy forces be encountered while on passage.”
In the event of our meeting any enemy ship en route (by this time we were at war with Japan), we would have to fight as a team and how can this be achieved if Captains studiously ignore the designated Senior Officer? I will not name the officers in command of the other two ships nor my second-in-command also a Britisher, as they may not like to be associated with the non-cooperation movement then going on in India. Nevertheless, I felt that none of our National leaders could equal these gentlemen as far as withholding of any co-operation. My pleadings, appeals, and cajoling led nowhere but only to insults and rebuffs and stony indifference. Finally, I threw the “book” at them and in a terrific showdown made it absolutely clear that if necessary I would put them under arrest and give command to the senior-most Indian officers in the flotilla
and sail the ships. I learned my first lessen then, that this is the language and, in fact, the only language that these Colonial Sahibs understood. Though there was no love lost between us, at least, thereafter, I could more or less get things the way I wanted. But I certainly was happy when we got at least to Karachi without incident, but not for long.
The night before entering Karachi, we had a near accident in the ship’s galley, where the stack caught fire, through lack of adequate ventilation. Despite our best efforts at rigging makeshift ventilation systems, one of our cooks nearly died of asphyxiation. We had sent a signal to the Naval Officer-in-Charge Karachi for dockyard assistance for alterations and additions.
The first night in the harbor, I knew, there was a party on board one of my ships, attended by the Naval Officer-in-Charge and his staff. Needless to say, I had not been invited and what would have been one of the definite topics of conversation is not hard to guess. “The upstart Indian Flotilla leader had to be put in his place and the Empire depended on it!” My First Lieutenant returned on board, quite drunk, and gave me a preview of things to come, with “Uh, oh! You just wait!” and tottered off to bed.
Sure enough, the next morning saw on board one Commander Morgan, a bespectacled and pompous prig, carrying the exalted designation of “Extended defence Officer” and hardly had he stepped on board than he started berating me in the most offensive manner, “You bloody fool, that stupid signal you sent about your galley. What do you think we are, your bloody nursemaids? When will you stupid Indians learn to stand on your own feet? Can’t you rig a wind-sail to ventilate your galley and let us get on with fighting the war against the Japs?” Having had my warning the night before, I kept my temper in check and said, “Sir, I did rig a wind-sail. You can see for yourself all that I have tried, but at best it can only be temporary.” At this he worked himself into a real fury, “Only temporary? The Regular Officer talking! I knew all about you! You should have joined that other black son of a sea-cook in the galley,” and so on, in language that cannot possibly be printed. In the meantime, quite a crowd of my sailors had collected, and I could see that they had murder in their hearts, especially, as all this while, there was my second in command, grinning away and enjoying every moment of it! Even though I was absolutely boiling inside, some instinct warned me that this was a drama, well-rehearsed and well played and being deliberately directed towards a climax with mutinous conduct of my sailors as the curtain drops. The play must not be allowed to go on under any circumstances. So I said, “Sir, you have come on board, obviously to insult me and in front of my men. I claim the Captain’s privilege of not being insulted in his own ship.” Turning to the First Lieutenant I said, “Number One, I order you to see this officer over the side. If you need any help, you can call upon my ship’s company to give you a hand.” I turned abruptly and walked away, past my men, to whom I said, “Get below and fast.” It did not take long for the expected reaction from ashore. A signal was received directing me to “report in Number Ten and Sword at 0900 at the Navy Office, Karachi” on the following day. The “number ten” refers to formal dress and it was quite clear that I was in for a public and formal censure at the least or charged for a Court Martial at the worst. The injustice of it all was burning me up, and it was some small consolation that my First Lieutenant looked somewhat ashamed and apologetic. The news spread like wildfire on board, the Chief Bosun’s mate came up to me and said, “Everything will be alright, Sir, we are all with
you.”
When I reported to the Secretary to Naval Officer-in-Charge, I was rather surprised to note that both, he and the WRIN (Women’s Royal Indian Naval Service), a pretty blonde, were all smiles and quite friendly at that. I was still trying to figure them out when I was ushered into the Great Presence. Captain B. was a big and bluff individual, more known for his prowess with the bottle and in bed than in his profession, and I felt that a small thing like a young Indian Lieutenant of no years’ seniority was what he had for breakfast every morning. I was beginning to feel that I had committed all the sins in the world and was about to be consigned to eternal flames, when he said, to my utter disbelief, “Sit down young Krishnan, and take the weight off your flat feet.” As I stumbled into a chair, not daring to believe the smile on his face, he said, “I suppose you know why you are here?” in a surprisingly mild voice. I stammered, “W… Well, Sir…” and cutting me short he went on, “I bet you don’t. You have been a naughty boy, and I ought to have you courtmartialed … though I am not so sure that the charges will stick. Anyway, we can’t go about court-martialing our heroes, can we?” By now, I was quite sure, that either he or I had gone completely crazy, when he added “I have received this morning a signal from the Flag Officer Commanding Royal Indian Navy informing me that His Majesty the King has been pleased to award you the Distinguished Service Cross for gallantry in action in the Persian Gulf last August. He offers you his heartiest congratulations. So do I, my dear boy, so do I.”
The sheer fantasy of it knocked the breath out of me and I hardly realized that he was shaking me by the hand, that the Secretary and the blonde had come in with a bottle of sherry and four glasses and we were toasting each other at a quarter after nine in the morning!
I could hardly wait to get back to my ship, but the news had preceded me, and led by a grinning First Lieutenant, my men were all there on deck, cheering away and seeing their Captain standing at the top of the gangway and trying to look bashful. An invitation to drinks by the Captains of the other ships, congratulations from the Defense Officer, who extended this time, his gracious forgiveness, rounded off a perfect morning, the Lord be praised.
I broke a rule (out of the many ever since) of sending for my Chief Bosun’s mate, offered him a drink, gave him a few bottles of Rum and said, “Chief Saab, sab theek ho gaya. Hamare log ke liye yeh neera paani ley lo” – (everything is alright; take these drinks for our boys!.) And, I added in English, “If I catch a single man drunk on board, he will be court-martialed!”
Truth is stranger than fiction. There wasn’t even the remotest possibility of my father knowing of the action I had been involved in and yet, when my post came in, there was a letter from him naming the precise hour and asking if anything untoward happened to me? He explained later that he was doing his usual puja (worship) and that moment the Lingam (idol) slipped from his hand, and he had a terrible premonition that I was in deadly danger, and he said, “I have never prayed so hard as I did then!”
While the gunboats were being refitted, I was given a new command of a Trawler HMIS Baroda. We spent all our time patrolling outside Bombay and I had my first taste of the monsoons and a small ship in really heavy seas. There was nothing very special or exciting about this spell of command except that I felt all along that we were playing at war and by this time, my mind had become conditioned to the fact that it was not a war for the widely publicized Four Freedoms as far as my country was concerned. The glimmer of hope held out by the “Cripps Mission” flickered into nothing and a sullen India smoldered within. I suddenly lost all interest in my job, my soul was in torment, and I felt I was being a traitor to my country. The famous and unforgettable session of Congress had already given the ultimatum – “Quit India” and what was I doing, serving masters who had no business here? There was nobody I could turn to, nobody that could advise me on what should be my course of action. Should I resign, and if I did, then what? I would join the vast multitude of patriots in overcrowded jails. After this long period of time, it is difficult to recapture and recapitulate the terrible mental conflict that was harrowing my body, mind, and soul. I felt futile, wasted, a nobody who was doing nothing, except steaming up and down, off Bombay a place that needed no protection, where the whirl of social gaiety was going on with a Capital Frenzy, where the “Upper Four Hundred” dined, wined, and danced with gay abandon. All the while, the flower of the youth of so many countries, were systematically exterminating each other in several parts of the world. My beloved country was crying out for bread but was receiving stone instead. In all these catastrophic contractions, what was best for one to do?
I heard then that there were other service officers who faced the same predicament and had approached none other than the great Sardar Vallabhai Patel. He was rightly known as the “Iron Man of India.” I was told of his advice, very brief and to-the-point. “India will become free without a doubt. Independent India will need a strong Army, Navy, and Air Force. Keep away from politics and master your profession. That is how you will serve your country best.”
I applied myself to my job with greater zest than ever, and from that day on, I have always left politics alone.
A great personal tragedy struck my family suddenly and without warning. My father died on the ist of September, 1942. The previous day, he had spent in fasting and prayer and had observed a Day of Silence in his routine way. Apparently, my letter had reached him and he showed by sign language to my mother that it was from me by indicating “the short one!” by cupping his hands. And now he was dead, his great soul passed away to immortality sometime during the night without anyone else in the house knowing anything about it. So this is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper. I loved, adored, and revered this man, and it was difficult to believe that he was no more with us, the sheet anchor of the family had slipped the cable. There is a passage in Maharudra (Rigveda) when you invoke the Lord for a special kind of death – “The pumpkin grows and grows, attached to the mother plant but by a tiny stalk. One day the stalk breaks, mother and child separate without either of them being aware of the event. Even so, may I separate from this world with a least amount of fuss.” This was the daily prayer of my father for over half a century, and it would seem that it was answered after all!
However stoic one may try to be, losing someone so near to you is always a traumatic experience. In my case, it turned my mind towards a new and uncharted path – philosophy. My late father’s library had a large collection of books on the subject. On my return to duty from the funeral rites, I carried them all with me, and in spite of the heavy going, pored over the numerous volumes trying to learn from them answers to the age old questions of life and death. I learnt that the most difficult question of all was “why” especially when applied to the point of one’s existence. However, I must confess that even though my soul might have received some marginal benefits from this probe into the writings of great thinkers, I cannot say that it made any great impact on my mind. I love life, I like to laugh at the funnier side of it whenever I can, I like to do things, to plunge myself into the challenges thrown up by it, and did not have either the patience or the breadth of vision to marvel at the abstract nuances of philosophic thought and reasoning. But somewhere, I did come across a piece of writing which appealed to me greatly. I modified it to suit my temperament and labeling it as “my credo” have kept it on my table with me and it has inspired me ever since. I reproduce my version below:
“I do not choose to be a Common Man It is my right to be uncommon, if I can
I seek opportunity – not security I prefer the challenges of life to the guaranteed existence
I do not wish to be looked after I will not barter incentive for the dole I am not prepared to trade my freedom
for some beneficence or Sell my dignity for the handout I want no success at somebody else’s expense I want to dream and to build, to fail and to succeed
It is my heritage to think and act for myself, to enjoy the benefits of my own efforts and creation, to face the world boldly and say,
THIS I HAVE DONE!”
I am grateful to whoever wrote the above. [ʻI do not wish to be a common man’ by Dean Alfange.] It fits in perfectly with my own personal ego and in the years that followed, it helped me to stick out my jaw every time I had to, and enjoy every scrap that came my way.
After finishing my time in Command of the Baroda, I had a short spell of six months as an Instructor in the Boys’ Training Establishment in Karachi. There is nothing much of interest to record during this spell, except that I came across a very remarkable man in my new place – Captain Percy Learmont. He taught me, by his own precept and example, that you should delegate as much responsibility as possible to your officers, and as long as they acted in good faith and without malafide intentions, you should back up their action with all the power at your command. I also learnt from him that in public speaking, the purple patches and peroration, the poetic passages and literary flourishes hold the audience much more than the pedestrian and unpretentious prose. However, homely and pragmatic the latter may be. Percy was a brilliant orator, and he could make the most mundane subject sound like the bugle call to action.
I liked him immensely because he was totally fair and just in all the dealings with his subordinates, he was considerate to the point of affection and yet a tyrant as far as work and efficiency went. He battled for the underdog whilst giving now and then, an affectionate but painful kick in the nether regions. These qualities were especially welcome at a time when racial arrogance was the rule, rather than the exception in most of our ships and establishments.
I remember once being sent by the Captain to the Navy Office to get a copy of a confidential signal which took me to the “Cipher Office” manned entirely by members of the Women’s Royal Indian Naval Service. In this particular office, personnel were entirely British, presumably because the Naval Officer in charge of the port (incidentally, the same one who wanted to Court Martial me a year earlier), did not think the Indian ladies could be trusted with “codes and ciphers.” Anyway, when I presented myself in uniform, and identified myself, the middle-aged woman in charge turned up a rather ugly nose heavenwards and said in a particularly offensive tone – “I can’t have any Tom, Dick, and Harry coming into this sanctum sanctorum. You ask your Captain to send a British officer.”
Now it was common knowledge that this particularly unpleasant woman, while very concerned about who was entering her office, was not so fastidious about who entered her bedroom, and accordingly had gathered quite a lot of important connections, especially in the recumbent posture, I realized that I would be foolish to get her gander up. But I was angry and said, “Madam, I have come to this whatever scrotum you call it, at the express orders of my Commanding Officer. If you don’t want to give me the message, you can do the other thing with it.” Of course, this sort of crudity is quite unforgivable, and I regretted it immediately after saying so. However, the damage had been done, the accent was dropped, and I suddenly felt myself transported to the fish market and got a terrific tirade, and I left with threats of the direst consequences. Repairing straight back on board, I reported to Percy the entire episode, and like Othello, speaking of them as they were, “nothing extenuate nor set down aught in malice.”
Just as I had finished my tale of woe, the Naval Officer-in-Charge, Karachi, came on the line, and I could see Percy Learmont going redder and redder in the face as the monologue from the other end went interminably on. When it finally ended, Percy with deadly calm said, “Have you quite finished? Then you listen to me. I have got Krishnan here with me, and he has told me everything that happened. I believe every word that he has told me. When I send one of my officers on an errand, I expect him to be treated like an officer – not as an Indian officer or a British officer, but, I repeat, as an Officer. Now I am sending Krishnan out and then I will tell you what I think of you and your women,” and he motioned at me to clear out. From the corridor outside I could hear the roar of guns, the screams of bombs, the explosions of depth charges and the engagement lasted quite a while. I couldn’t make out what was said, but the next time I met Captain Learmont, he grinned at me and said, “Thanks for the opportunity. I have been wanting to tell him a lot of things for a long time.” I mentioned that he as an orator and, therefore, I could well imagine – Alexander Graham Bell must have writhed in his grave!
The other incident I would like to relate during my debrief sojourn in the Boys’ Training Establishment in Karachi was something of the macabre and certainly out of the ordinary in a young Naval Officer’s life. I was in charge of a division of young boys teaching them to become sailors. The nightmare started with one of our boys under training suddenly dying in the swimming pool. The law demanded a postmortem, and I was directed by the Captain to personally see to the formalities and to produce the body by eight a.m. the next morning at a Muslim burial ground where full military honors would be waiting. I received these orders at eight p.m. that night and accompanied by one of my trusted petty officers, Mohammad Akram and of course, the cadaver, left for Karachi Military Hospital. By the time we got hold of the doctor concerned, it was nearing the bewitching hour of midnight. It was perfectly evident that the doctor in question had not been wasting the previous hours in abstinence. He was, in fact, quite hilarious and invited me to “hold the hand while he did the carving.”
The mortuary was a single, lonely and desolate building, set off quite a way from the main wards. There were two stretcher tables, one of which was already occupied by a white-draped figure. “Bloody waternymph drank too much – she was drowned,” was the facetious introduction by our doctor friend!
Since, at that late hour there was no other help, Akram and I hoisted our own case on to the empty table and the young Army Captain began his gruesome work, chattering all the while as though he had an audience of a hundred medical students. I am not unused to mangled corpses and mutilated cadavers and in any case we were in the midst of war. Even so, it was loathsome to watch the systematic vivisection of something that was a virile youth but a short time ago. The slash of the knife as it cut through the skin of the head from ear to ear, the baring of the skull, the saw that exposed the brains. Moving downwards, the single slash from the neck to pubic, the swill of the innards, the spurt of dark stagnant blood, the nauseating odor – all this I watched with a sort of horrid fascination. I also noticed, with mistaken satisfaction, that the dissector had ceased his detestable bally-hooing and had turned morose and moody. He finished at last, straightened up and handed me a slip of paper, already prepared and signed that “death was due to drowning” or whatever jargon they normally use on these forms and said, “Well, there you are old boy! He is all yours. I am off for my willie winkie!” I was absolutely aghast and asked him, “But what about putting Humpty Dumpty together again?” He said, “That is my assistant’s job; he should be around sometime tomorrow.” I said, “But Captain, I have to take the body to the cemetery by eight a.m. this morning or my Captain will murder me!” He looked at me pityingly and said, “What a shame! Never mind, I shall be around to do the postmortem on you,” walked out into the jeep we had come by and roared off into the unknown and then, all the lights went out. (This was nothing unusual in wartime Karachi those days, as indeed even now everywhere else.) Fortunately there was a full moon whose effect soon began to tell and as the shafts of light began to irradiate the room, Akram said, “Now what, Saab?” I replied, quite truthfully, “I don’t know, Chief Saab. But I do know that we have to take this body back and we can’t do it in its present state. What do you suggest?” We looked around and were relieved to see the “re-sewing kit” on the shelf. We got down to the task of putting things back where they belonged. Mohd. Akram was an excellent seaman and he got to work with the “palm and needle” and soon we had everything shipshape and ready to move – but no vehicle. We had parked our own three-tonner at the hospital car-park and come to the Mortuary in the Army Captain’s jeep. I told Mohd., “Okay Chief, I will hold the fort here. You go and get our transport.” I knew I was being horrid, because it was a good half an hour’s walk and I didn’t fancy it for myself. Away he went.
I was left alone with my two very dead companions, or were they? I was gazing in a distracted way, at the table where the “Water Nymph” lay and was it my fancy that the body was moving? The moon was lighting up that table true and bright and there was no doubt about it. The whole body was sliding up the table head wards! Sudden panic seized me and as soon as the initial paralysis was over, I took off.
Taking off is all right when you have somewhere to go. I just ran blindly on. But I am not built for running. When the good God designed me, he had some spare material available and being somewhat economy minded, he had slapped it on to me and so, soon I was out of breath. I realized then, as a sort of rationalization of my own weakness, that you can’t outrun a ghost, so why try? I stood my ground, with everything below my knees turning to water, and it was thus that Akram found me in the returning vehicle. Oh, what a relief, what stupendous exhilaration to meet a mortal man once again!
When we returned to the morgue once more, the mystery of the moving woman was solved to provide a complete anticlimax to the erstwhile supernatural excitement. I had been standing away from the cot at the foot end. Now under the blaze of torchlight, we found a large dog tugging at the matted locks of the poor dead woman and gradually moving her head wards. Apparently, dogs with cannibalistic tendencies are not uncommon and haunt the places of unguarded cadavers and even dig up shallow graves to give up its dead!
We beat the gun and were fifteen minutes ahead of schedule and whilst the Captain was pleased, the Commander looked daggers at me, not knowing the happenings of the night, for turning up at the ceremonial funeral in such a bedraggled state!
The epilogue to this incident was that I ran into the young medical Captain a couple of days later at the Karachi Gymkhana Club and true to his profession, he “cut me dead!”
The summer of 1943 saw me again in England, now to specialize in Navigation. We had been asked to volunteer for any subject; I gave Gunnery as my first choice and two more, but not Navigation, so naturally I ended up with navigation! The course at HMS Dryad, (later to become the headquarters of General Eisenhower for his Normandy invasion), was just like any other bit of schooling. [HMS Dryad was a shore establishment and home of the Royal Navy’s Maritime Warfare School.] But the England that I saw now was totally different from the one that I had left behind three years ago. There were Americans everywhere, with assortments of Canadians, Australians, South Africans, Free French, all having a whale of a time. A song very popular at that time, allegedly sung by a plaintive Tommy (British infantryman) fighting in North Africa told its own story. It was called “Paper Doll” and went something like this:
“When I come home at night she will be waiting,
She will be the only darling in the world, With her pretty, pretty guise and her flirty, flirty eyes, I would rather have a paper doll to call my own,
Than all the girls in the world”
Of all the nationalities represented I liked the Canadians and Free French best. They were friendly, courteous and, at least those I met, full of fun. I am casting no aspersions on the other nationals; I am only saying what I do know of those I came across at that point of time.
The year rolled on and it was soon time to go home again. Yet another friendship that had formed up during the year in England was with Mohd. Asif Alavi who later opted for Pakistan and with that, was to fade out of my life. But Syed Ahsan, who I met at the Investiture ceremony, would figure again in this story of mine, much, much, later. On return home, the most important thing happened to me – I got married.
Nothing has ever come easy to me and the problem of marriage seemed to be no exception. Several years ago, I had decided that the only girl I would marry was my cousin, Sita. She had always been what is known as a childhood sweetheart.’
It was a union that had the blessings of all – my parents welcomed it as an excellent match, her father, when he was alive had approved of the idea, her mother was all for it and it was generally accepted by one and all that our marriage would take place when she was eighteen, and that would make me twenty-four.
Why then should there be any problem over a foregone conclusion? But the fact was that we were in the middle of war that seemed to be never ending and was getting more and more ferocious day by day.
I had, during my sojourn in England, seen several of my friends out off at a very early age, and seen the heartbreak of so many war widows whose marriage I had attended. I suppose it is human nature to believe that “it can’t happen to me.” Can’t it, and why not? I had many narrow shaves and brief but not final encounters with death, but what was the guarantee that mine was a charmed life? The naval war was at its height in the Indian Ocean which was no longer a British lake. The hastily formed British Eastern Fleet was no longer the dominant power in these waters. I had just finished my long Navigation course in the United Kingdom and it was a mathematical certainty that my next appointment would be at sea. I naturally thought that of the probability factor of life and death in these perilous circumstances because that is part of the game in the war, if you have chosen a fighting role. But what of the poor and innocent bride and what would be her life and future in a society where widows just did not have a place? I knew and believed that Sita was a one-man woman forever and would it be fair to expose her to probable widowhood so early in her life?
The other side of the coin was the selfish one. If it is destined that I should “buy it” in this war, why should I not have some happiness with the woman I love for at least as long as it lasts?
I tussled with this problem and had endless discussions with my friend Alavi, and he had the same problem as me. He also had his childhood sweetheart, Zaida, waiting for him. As we paced the decks of the ship bringing us home, every round turned into the same question, “to marry or not to marry before the war is over?” But when will the war be over, and how long do we wait?
Perhaps I was influenced to some extent when Asif announced his decision that he had faith in Allah and was going to get married anyway and fixed the date for mid-December. When I arrived on leave at Trichinapalli, Sita’s place, my mother was also there, and I put the problem to them all. We decided to “ask God.” The process was an accepted practice of placing flowers and picking from red or white flowers with closed eyes. If the white comes up, the marriage was on! God gave us the green signal and we were married on the 15th of December that year, 1943!
The Hindu marriage custom is something quite well-known and needs no description. But I must have been a pain in the neck to the purohits (priests) who have a habit of rushing through the ceremony, putting words in your mouth that you can never articulate in the time that they allow you. I insisted that the whole process be slowed down so that I can enunciate clearly the various mantras (vows) that I was expected to recite. After all, one is expected to swear many oaths of loyalty, fidelity, love, honor, and so on and one might as well do a proper job of it.
The final straw was one of the questions asked during the course of the ceremonies, “can you see Arundhati?” Now, Arundhati is a star and you are expected to say “yes” and then take the oath on that star. It was heavily overcast, and we certainly could see no stars, so truthfully I replied, “no.” The priest really hit the ceiling and said, “This marriage is never going to be finished at this rate!”
At the usual wedding reception that evening, a packed audience in the pandal was listening in rapt attention to the delightful rendering of Carnatic music by the Alathur Brothers. The bride and groom, in all their finery were on “exhibition.” At one stage of the proceedings, I whispered to my wife that I would go out for a few minutes for a “smoke.” She demurely smiled and nodded her head. Hardly had I gone out and “lit up” when I heard the terrific roar of shouting from the audience. Fearing that perhaps the “pandal” had caught fire, I rushed back and there I saw an extraordinary sight of a man dancing and prancing about, having whipped off his dhoti and in the nude! The explanation was that like Hickory, Dickory Dock, a mouse had run up his cloth. Before it could strike one, the dhoti ran down – Hickory, Dickory Dock!
The marriage was celebrated with much élan and pageantry. Considering that all arrangements had to be completed within a week of the decision, it was a masterpiece of organization! All the loyal friends and families of my father-in-law, who alas was no more, had rallied round and it was common talk that it was one of the best conducted marriages in our family for a very long time. I sent a telegram to my friend Alavi, “I have beaten you by a day.” He got married the next day, 16th of December in Lucknow. Within a week, we got orders that the balance of our leave was cancelled, we were to join the Eastern Fleet based in Trincomalee. Alavi was appointed to HMS Ceylon and I was appointed to HMS Emerald and we were ordered to proceed forthwith to Colombo to join our ships there, leading us into the New Year – 1944.
Chapter 8 The Barber’s Pole and Trincomalee Harbor
My time on board the HMS Emerald was far from happy. Even though I have always found it very easy to get on with British officers of the Royal Navy, somehow or other, on board the Emerald, I never had the feeling of “belonging.” The object of my appointment was for training, but I was not given any duties or responsibilities. When I represented to the Commander about this, he casually dismissed me with, “You can work with the Navigating Officer.”
The Navigating Officer of the ship, Lt. Cdr. B. was a Royal Naval Reserve officer (ex-merchant service) but had not done a specialist navigation course. His opening remarks to me were, “I suppose you are here to teach me navigation.” I replied, “Sir, I have done the course but have not had the opportunity of navigating a big ship, and I hope to learn a lot from you if you will be patient with my shortcomings.” His next words set the pace for my ordeal on board. He told me, “I am a South African; I must tell you that I don’t have any time for colored people and that goes for you too!”
I replied, “Thank you, for at least being honest with me, I take it then that I shall be a passenger. Well, it suits me. But will you at least let me use the Chart Room? I have my own sextant. I promise not to get in the way.” He agreed, but with very obvious reluctance. Apart from shooting the stars and the sun every now and again, I had just about nothing to do on board and the feeling of uselessness and frustration was killing me. My only consolation lay in sitting down and writing long and loving letters to my wife.
But my chance came, when B. fell ill and the Captain appointed me temporarily as the Navigating Officer of the ship, it was a very good experience though somewhat short-lived. Most of the time, we just stayed in harbor, twiddling our thumbs, when we were not playing water polo. To relieve the monotony of life came the incident of the “Barber’s Pole.”.
Midshipmen have been variously described as “young gentlemen,” “snotty,” “the lowest form of naval life” and so on. They had a multi-purpose utility and particularly in matters like making cocoa for the officer of the watch at Sea. Besides, they are high spirited and great fun. Having myself had such a wonderful gun room life, I have always had a very soft corner in my heart for these young gentlemen.
To return to the Barber’s Pole, the story went that some of these budding officers, roistering in streets of one of the Naval Ports, came upon the traditional pole that adorns most of the barbers’ shops in the United Kingdom. This pole is very prominent with multi-colored diagonal stripes looking somewhat like a sugar candy stick. The gallants abroad decided that the gun room of His Majesty’s cruiser to which they belonged was the right place for this Barber’s Pole and having “swiped it,” installed the same with all the due pomp and ceremony on board. Very soon, the story got around and this particular pole became the most coveted object for every gun room of every ship of the Royal Navy. Strange and many are the vicissitudes of the fortunes of this Barber’s Pole and the stories of how it found its way from gun room to gun room were legendry and now, at this point of my story, it was safely secured and heavily guarded in the gun room of the battleship HMS Queen Elizabeth, in Trincomalee harbor. The Queen Elizabeth was snugly berthed but inside one of the many deep berths formed by hillocks, protected by a boom and a series of nets. For fear of underwater sabotage by Japanese midget and other submarines, the entire Trincomalee harbor was a fortress, each ship having dozens of sentries on board round the clock watching the water and the orders to shoot at anything that moves. The midshipmen of the Queen Elizabeth might well have been complacent that under these circumstances and with the Barber’s Pole firmly grouted in the gun room, it would be as safe as in the Bank of England.
Perhaps the very hazards involved had spurred the imagination of the midshipmen in the gun room of my ship. I did not realize it at the time when, as officer of the day, a couple of snotties confronted me and requested permission to go ashore and when I asked them why they were dressed in swimming dress and raincoat, I felt rather silly when they gave the obvious and very reasonable reply, that they were going ashore
for swimming. I did not know that they were after the Barber’s Pole!
The incredible story came out the next day that they had trekked several miles, reached over the hillock covering one of the flanks of the Queen Elizabeth in her anchorage, and spent four hours studying the movements and antics of the sentries on board. After the change of the middle watch, they swam the distance; one of them scrambled on board, made his way into the gun room, ungrouted the Barber’s Pole and threw it out of the scuttle to the swimmer waiting alongside and made his way back to join his colleagues. Together, with the pole between them, they started the long swim back to the ship, a distance of some two miles. Unfortunately however, the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley, they had not catered for the turn of the tide and half way through, they were so exhausted that they had to give up the struggle and were promptly picked up by a patrol from battle cruiser HMS Renown. It was a miracle that they were not shot. At about 4 a.m. we received a signal from the Flag Ship, “Have two persons claiming to be midshipmen from your ship. Request send officer for identification.
Since I was the duty officer, I went on board to be met by no less a person than the Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Arthur J. Power. The midshipmen were released but the Barber’s Pole was retained on board, and all was well that ended well!
My friend, Alavi had also joined the Eastern Fleet. He was on board the Colony Class Cruiser HMS Ceylon. I was invited by him for dinner on board, and I was only too glad to get away from the Emerald, which by now, I had come to regard as a “prison ship.”
The date was the 17th of March1944 – St. Patrick’s Day. When I went into the Wardroom, I found that the more or less Irish among the crowd were fairly well lit up and the others were not lagging far behind. The Surgeon Commander greeted me with the question, “And what part of Ireland would you be from?” and I replied, “County Cork, and my name is Paddy O’Neil Krishnan.” This went down big, and I immediately became one of the crowd. I remember thinking to myself what a magnificent contrast this was from my own ship. A real warmth of friendship and camaraderie existed all round and Alavi, though a teetotaler and a non-smoker, was evidently held in high esteem. I, without either of these virtues, slipped even more easily into the spirit of the party. I had brought from England a fund of jokes. The British have an excellent sense of humor. You can always tell a British audience a joke against themselves and be quite certain of getting away with it. My repertoire went down well that night.
“Before the war, they were trying out a new but very expensive airplane and on its maiden flight there were many V.I.P. passengers, from various countries, as observers. Suddenly the copilot appeared and said, “Gentlemen, we are losing height for some unknown reason and the Captain thinks that we should lighten the cargo. Would any of you gentlemen care to make the supreme sacrifice, please?” Immediately, the German shot up and in his guttural voice proclaimed with outstretched arm of the Nazi salute, “Zeig Heil, Heil Hitler, for ze sake of ze Fatherland, I go!” and took off.
But the aircraft was still losing height and requests continued to come from the cockpit for more and more weight reduction. The Italian followed suit saying, “Il Duce, I like da Ice Cream. I join axis partner.” The Indian said, “Mahatma Gandhiji ki jai, I therefore go too” and holding his nose jumped into the void. The Americans preface to death was “Goddamit, no guy is going to say Uncle Sam can’t face it” and so on, till finally, only the Englishman and Frenchman were left. The former thought to himself, “By Jove, I have to carry the White Man’s burden and can’t afford to shirk my responsibilities. Let the Frenchman go.” The Frenchman’s thoughts were somewhat similar and to the effect “Let the perfidious Albion go, why should I go!”
While these mental struggles were going on, the pilot was insisting that time was running out and one of them must go. At last the Englishman squared his shoulders, braced himself, jutted out his chin in the true Churchillian attitude, and said, “God save the King! The Sun never sets on the British Empire. England expects every man to do his duty” and with a patriotic salute to an imaginary Union Jack, picked up the Frenchman and threw him out of the plane! The Frenchman’s last words as he went plummeting down were, “The Sun, it never sets on the British Empire. Ze Sun it does not trust the British in ze dark!”
At one point of time, I confided in David Biddolph, the First Lieutenant that I was thoroughly unhappy in the Emerald and dreaded the thought of returning there. He spoke about this to the Commander, Reggie Parrish, who in turn must have consulted the Captain, because at the end of the evening, Reggie told me, “By the way, it has all been fixed. You can join this ship tomorrow. Your Captain agrees that you will be more at home here with two other Indians” (besides Alavi, a sub-lieutenant Kailash Bahl was on board in the gun room). Very near tears, all I could murmur was a broken, “Thank you, Sir.”
To cap everything, I was allotted the Captain’s cabin, vacant because Captain Amery-Parkes was occupying the Admiral’s cabin. (The Ceylon though fitted as a flagship did not carry an Admiral.) Things had been quiet at Trinco harbor, but not for long.
Chapter 9 War in the Indian Ocean
‘Target for tomorrow is Sabang. The Japanese are very regular in their habits and I hope to catch them with their pants down’
– Admiral Sir James Somerville, C-in-C Eastern Fleet
While all these personal battles were going on, the War was all around us. In the first three months of 1944, the Allies lost 29 ships representing some 190,000 tons in the Indian Ocean in very widely dispersed submarine attacks. Early in March, three Japanese cruisers had made a foray from Singapore into the Indian Ocean and indulged in an orgy of raiding surface ships. On the 9th of March, a British Indian Steamer, the S.S. Behar was sunk off Cocos Island. It is recorded that “over 80 survivors were picked up, but in accordance with the orders of the Squadron Commander, Vice Admiral Takasu, about 65 of them were massacred on board the cruiser Tone. It was one of the worst of all the many crimes committed by the Japanese and the Captain of the Tone was sentenced after the War, to a long term of imprisonment for his share in it.
Admiral Sir James Somerville had assumed command of the Eastern Fleet. This fiery and brilliant officer already had a fantastic list of successes against the Germans and Italians and his name was legendary. Even though the odds, in the form of a much more powerful, fast and modern Japanese Fleet, were heavily against us, we knew that Sir James would soon take the Fleet to sea. We sailed, three days after my joining the Ceylon. On the 21 st of March, the Fleet, consisting of the Battle Cruiser Renown (Vice Admiral Sir Arthur Power), Battleships Queen Elizabeth (C-in-C), Valiant, and the Aircraft Carrier Illustrious, flanked by four cruisers (including us) and ten destroyers sailed from the sanctuary of Trincomalee to sweep along the vulnerable shipping route connecting Australia and the Middle East.
Six days later, after dark on the 27th of March, we made a rendezvous with the American carrier Saratoga and her escort of three U.S. destroyers. I must say, the meeting of the forces at sea was far from tidy. The U.S. destroyers, painting on our radar screens, were mistaken for low flying enemy torpedo bombers and every ship in the Fleet opened up with everything we had. The firing was fantastic and furious but fortunately the mistaken identity was rectified quickly before any damage could be done. In the 12 days of high-speed steaming on an operation described by the Commander-in-Chief as “Trailing the coat-tails,” we reaped no dividends as we saw no enemy. Nevertheless, it was my first experience of operating with Aircraft Carriers, and the payoff came much later in my life when I had my own war to fight. In the fortnight that followed in harbor, a metamorphosis took place in the Eastern Fleet. Besides the Americans, we were joined by the Free French, the Dutch, the Australians, and the New Zealanders. The most powerful Battleship Richelieu was the French contribution, the Dutch Cruiser Van Tromp, the New Zealand Cruiser Gambia, and four Australian Destroyers. We thus had a powerful enough and truly Allied Navy to seek battle and it was a glorious feeling!
Something else happened that fortnight which touched me personally. I had described the narrative of the “Barber’s Pole” earlier on. One direct result of this incident was a terrific security drive to ensure the
safety of ships in harbor. Armed sentries were posted around in each ship and any suspicious movement was liable to be fired upon. One night, I was on duty, and it was reported to me that a darkened boat was crossing our bows and would not return the challenge. I rushed for’d and saw the boat, zigzagging and making its way towards the Aircraft Carrier Illustrious. I somehow felt that this was not an enemy but how could one be sure? Anyway, the stakes were too high – nothing less than an Aircraft Carrier with some 1500 men on board, a priceless target! I hesitated only a second before ordering the sentries to open up with their sten guns. I said, “Shoot to kill,” and the dark object was subjected to withering fire and started disgorging more than one person taking to the water as it started sinking. In the meantime, our own emergency boat was already on its way to intercept.
My doubts were correct! Far from being Japanese saboteurs, it turned out that four drunken sailors of the Illustrious who had missed the last liberty boat and helped themselves to one of the dockyard boats and were trying to reach their ship by stealth. In the process, two of them were seriously injured and they all but drowned. For myself, I was convinced that I faced a court-martial and dire consequences to follow. I was not kept in suspense for long, though. The very next day, there was a Board of Enquiry, and I gave my evidence exactly as had happened. I was cleared completely, and the President of the Board even went to the extent of saying that I had acted correctly and in the only way possible under the prevailing circumstances. The Fleet, which could now be described as an Armada, sailed once more, on the 1 st of April, setting course eastwards. The mission was secret and none of us on board knew what it was to be, except the Captain. On the night of the 19th, all ships went into the highest state of battle readiness and we all knew that this was no drill or exercise. A typical Somerville signal soon arrived. “Target for tomorrow is Sabang. The Japanese are very regular in their habits and I hope to catch them with their pants down.”
By dawn, the carriers Saratoga and Illustrious had commenced flying operations. Barracudas, Corsairs, Avengers, Dauntless Dive Bombers, and Hell-cat fighters screamed off the decks and forming striking forces streaked off towards Sabang, 100 miles to the Northeast of us. Some 80 odd planes were airborne in a surprisingly short period of time, and I was struck by the completely efficient flight deck operations of the American carrier Saratoga.
Somerville had been right. Complete surprise was achieved. Attacking from different directions, bombs found their target on shipping, oil tanks and harbor installations. No enemy aircraft came up because the Allied fighters were “attending to the Sabang airfield and another one some 25 miles inland. On the ground 26 enemy aircraft were destroyed; three out of the four oil tanks were set on fire and destroyed. One merchant ship was sunk and another forced ashore. Severe damage to the harbor installations was reported. Our loss was only one fighter shot down. We learnt, later and with much joy, that the pilot had been picked up and safe in one of our own submarines!
I saw first-hand what could be achieved by bold and determined use of carrier-borne aircraft against even heavily defended harbors and airfields. Surprise plays an overwhelming part in the success of any operation. These and several other lessons learned in that short, sharp action became deeply ingrained in my mind, to be used again at a much later time and against a different enemy.
The success achieved at Sabang put a new kind of spirit into the entire Eastern Fleet and everyone was gunning for a fight. After “trailing our coat-tails” all over the ocean but, alas, without a challenge, we returned to harbor on the 27th of April and a week of international festivities followed. I made many friendships of many nationalities and found that basically all sailors are the same – warm, friendly, sentimental, fun-loving and thoroughly honest good souls. It was good to be alive and wonderful to be in such gallant company.
Having tasted success, a repeat performance was not long in coming. This time the target was to be Sourabaya in Java (now Indonesia) and the attack was to be staged through the Exmouth Gulf in Australia. Sailing on the 6th of May from Trinco, we arrived at the Gulf nine days later and completed fueling of the mammoth fleet in record time. We sailed the same afternoon, 15th May. When anyone asks me if I have been to Australia, my answer is “yes” and “no” and quite truthfully so, for we never set foot ashore!
We arrived at a position some 200-Miles due south of Sourabaya and commenced flying operations. Two strike forces of 45 and 40 aircraft each took off in record time. None of us really thought we would be able to repeat the performance of Sabang. A lot of flying over land was involved before the aircraft could get to the target and it was unthinkable that the defense would not have a really hot reception committee waiting. Incredible as it may sound, the complete surprise was once again achieved and the oil refinery, harbor installations, and shipping were subjected to heavy and synchronized attacks.
We could never get a complete picture of the success of these two attacks as the American Saratoga parted company the next day and along with her escorts, sailed away for the United States, and we could not have a proper debrief, usual after such operations. We were sorry to see the Saratoga go, because her presence gave us a feeling of security against lurking submarines, enemy air attacks and the surface threat, which were there in abundance.
In the three weeks that we had been at sea, we steamed some 7000 miles or more, striking at the enemy and challenging the enemy at sea. We finally returned to Trincomalee with a feeling that the control of the seas in the area was once more in Allied hands. It was at this time that I met with Lord Louis Mountbatten once again. His first words to me were, “Krishnan, the penny turns up again. I mean me, not you!” He was the Supreme Commander, Southeast Asia Command with tens of thousands of servicemen under him. I could only marvel at his fantastic memory.
At one of the debriefings after an operation, Lord Louis was summing up, and I particularly remember a strategic gem – “India has the Andamans and Nicobars in an ideally strategic position. The normal tendency is to look upon their defense as a liability. On the other hand, they are priceless assets and every planner should bear this very much in mind.” These remarks made a deep impression on me which I used over a quarter of a century later in planning the Bay of Bengal operations in 1971.
In June, I received my orders to return to my Navy and report to HMIS Feroze, a shore establishment in Bombay (now Mumbai), where I was to teach navigation to newly recruited officers. I was very sad at parting with my friends on board, but at the same time delighted at the thought of rejoining my wife and setting up my first home ashore.
Chapter 10 Countdown to Independence
When I went to England for my long Navigation and Direction course, I had left India in somewhat unhappy circumstances. My mother had had a severe heart attack, and though she survived it, there were constant recurrences and I had grave doubts as to whether I would see her alive again. Also, my wife was in an advanced stage of pregnancy and the doctors had warned that she was very anemic and it was going to be a difficult delivery. I was greatly relieved when I got the news that on the 23rd of October 1946, she was delivered of a baby girl, Chitra, and from all accounts, both were doing well. I had been given to understand that all other things being equal, I would be brought back to India on completion of my courses in the United Kingdom, and I had no reason to doubt this would not be so. However, we were now moving into 1947 and there was some thinking in India that we would purchase from Britain a cruiser for India that is HMS Achilles. I had always felt that we should move from a small ship to a big ship Navy and, therefore, it was good news that plans were under consideration towards such a desirable end. So, when I finished my long course, it was with mixed feelings that I heard that I was being appointed to stand by for the first ship, the Cruiser. Of course, I had toyed with the idea of putting in for some leave to return to India, but since I did not know the plans Naval Headquarters had in regard to the timing and other aspects of the acquisition of the ship, I felt that I should not embarrass them in any way by asking for leave just about that time when I received my appointment orders. So, thinking that I will wait and see, I reported at Chatham barracks where the Achilles was in dry dock waiting for a decision on whether or not the final transfer was to take place. The Captain designate of the ship was Captain John Hall of the Royal Indian Navy. I had not known Captain Hall very well except that he used to be derisively associated with what was known as the John & Co. that was ruling Indian Naval Affairs from about the time of the mutiny [February 1946] onwards. I found him to be pleasant enough, but he was in no more of a position to tell me what was in the offing for the future than anybody else. There were a few other Indian officers already: Jay Mehra, senior to me, was to be first lieutenant of the ship, and I was to be the Navigator. Lieutenant Bimal Chatterjee was to be Electrical Officer, and Lieutenant Commander Bijoi Singh was the Supply Officer. The Ship was quite unlivable and being in dry dock, there was no question of any messing arrangements on board. So we billeted in the ward room of the Chatham barracks. There was hardly anything to do, because obviously nobody can start thinking in terms of getting a ship ready until you know whether the ship is to be yours or not. So, apart from a sort of routine visit on board for a couple of hours every day, we had absolutely nothing to do. It was all very frustrating.
We knew that lots of things were happening in India. Historically, 1947 was the most important year, as the date of the transfer of power had already been decided and the activity in India would have been quite hectic and yet, here we were, living in euphoria, wafting about in limbo, doing nothing. We actually had to find ways and means of killing time.
We spent a lot of time and energy trying to spot the winning combinations of Football Pools that would, sooner or later, make us into rich men. We filled in the time by taking lessons in ballroom dancing. We used to drive out to one or two country clubs nearby for dances and in the evenings spend our time leaning against public bars. Whatever one did, the peace of mind that comes from job satisfaction was totally absent. One felt that the most precious moments of history were ticking away, leaving us on the sidelines with the watch stopped. After a month of such inaction, I started getting alarming reports from home of grave
deterioration in the condition of my mother. I felt that asking for some leave would not in any way militate against my official responsibilities which, in any case, were none! I went up to London one afternoon and sought an interview with the Naval Advisor, who was Captain John Ryland. His Deputy was Lieutenant Commander I. M. Puri. I put my problem before them and asked that I may be granted two months leave which I was entitled to and be given an opportunity of going to India to see my mother. John Ryland saw no reason why my request should not be acceded to, but nevertheless, promised to forward my application to NHQ. A few days later, I was informed that my request for leave had been considered by NHQ, and they are having my mother’s illness verified by the District Sailors, Soldiers and Airmen’s Board [DSSAB]. This was an organization that had been created during the war, the function of which was to look after the home interests of servicemen in the front. As Commanding Officer I had used the services of these bodies and had always found them most unsatisfactory. The DSSAB invariably consisted of a stratum of junior officials, rather pompous and certainly not above corrupt practices. I was stunned to hear that my word that my mother’s health was precarious was not being accepted and had to be cross-checked by reference to the DSSAB. It hurt very much that having done reasonably well in the service through the war, Naval Headquarters [NHQ] had so little confidence in me that they should imagine that I would stoop to ask for leave on mala fide grounds. I was very upset indeed. I was convinced that justice as such was not uniform, because I had known of cases where British Officers had been sent from India to England on leave for far less reasonable grounds and on the strength of the word of the officer, whereas I had documentary evidence that my mother was, in fact, seriously ill. I had a letter from the American doctor who was attending to her to this effect. So I met with Captain Ryland and explained to him my problem. Since I was being subjected to such a treatment, the only conclusion I could draw was that the Navy had lost confidence in me and, therefore, it would be in the better interest of me and the State if my resignation is placed in the hands of the Government. Even though I had not known John Ryland very well, I must say that he appeared a most understanding person. He said that this is obviously the work of some unimaginative person in NHQ, and he was sure that the Commander-in-Chief had no knowledge of the decision that had been communicated. He said the Private Secretary to Sir Geoffrey Miles [Commander in Chief, Royal Indian Navy] was due to leave for India the next day, and he would send a personal letter through him to the C-in-C setting out the facts. He said, “Krishnan, don’t bother about sending in dramatic messages of resignation. It is not really as complicated and devious as all that.” Anyway, he sent for the secretary and in my presence he dictated a letter setting out various facts and he added that “Krishnan is very upset and was talking to me about loss of confidence, etc. and wondering whether he ought to hand in his papers. I have advised him that this is a storm in a tea cup which will blow over. He has gone away quite happy. He is a good officer and I am sure whatever can be ir letter and I came a efreshed in the belief that th
f sensibilities and understanding. I did not have to wa signal came personally from the C-in-C directing that I be returned to India and sent on a month’s leave, that I was to be given air passage to take me down to Madras, and that further posting orders will be forwarded to my leave address which I was to furnish. This outcome was indeed quite satisfactory to me.
My homecoming was with very mixed feelings. My mother was very emaciated, a shadow of her former self and suffering greatly, with massive daily doses of morphine injected into her, to ease the pain and breathing difficulties. The way her eyes lit up when she saw me was more than ample reward for all the trouble I had taken to come all the way from the United Kingdom. Of course, it was tremendous to see my wife and baby daughter whom we had named Chitra. She was about nine months old. It is part and parcel of sailor’s life that he has to be away from home for long stretches and, in this particular case, my wife had to go through the ordeal of delivery as she had to do again later without the least complaint or rancor. It was wonderful seeing my daughter for the first time, as a nearly one year old child. This was also part of naval life.
Very great and revolutionary things were happening in India. When you are away from your country you tend to lose the environmental affinity to the happenings in your home land. While, in England, we were fully aware of the political happenings leading to the freedom that was virtually around the corner, we had little or no knowledge of the terrible turn of events that were taking place in Northern India in the wake of the decision to partition India.
While on leave, I called on the Dewan of Travancore, Sir C.P. Ramaswamy Iyer, who was an old family friend. From his conversation, it seemed to me that he, for one, had little or no intention of joining the State of Travancore with the rest of India. From the way he was looking into the crystal ball, he evidently envisaged a sovereign and independent Travancore. In fact, he even put the question as to how I’d like the idea of taking command of the Navy of Travancore! To me, the whole idea appeared totally ludicrous. Yet, I did not wish to offend the old boy nor get into an argument with him and somehow or other guided the conversation away by non-committal evasion.
Another event brought me close to the realities of Indian politics while on leave. An Anglo-Indian tea planter called Mr. Simpson and reputed to be a deadly shot, sought me out in our house and wanted me to sign an independence pledge which he was collecting under threat from various people, supporting independence for Travancore. I politely informed him that I’d have nothing to do with it, as I was a serving officer of the Royal Indian Navy bound by the Naval Discipline Act, and I had no intention of deviating from the principles of naval discipline. He threatened dire consequences to my family. I told him, “Mr. Simpson, when I leave this place, my old ailing mother, my wife, and little child will be left alone. If anything happens to them, so help me God, I will find you wherever you are and will kill you.” Evidently conditions in Travancore had all the trimmings and trappings of a dictatorial regime. I suddenly thought of the previous occasions when I had met Sir C.P. Ramaswamy Iyer and the great interest he showed in the happenings in Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy and the obvious veneration and respect with which he spoke of Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini. It was, of course, ridiculous that a tiny state like Travancore could aspire to break away from the mainstream of Indian national life. Perhaps, Sir CP counted on the total disintegration of India as an entity following the withdrawal of the British and, perhaps, he counted on massive foreign assistance to keep up the façade of a sovereign independent Travancore run on dictatorial lines. Whatever he may have had in mind, it was not long before popular will asserted itself, and Travancore also fell into line with the
aspirations of the Indian people.
While we were embroiled with the local problems in the deep southern parts of India, we did not get much news of the happenings taking place elsewhere in India. One heard of the turmoil and the unrest up North and read about the rapid turn of events, that was hastening the end of the British rule in India. The electricity of the atmosphere hit me in full measure, when I reported at New Delhi in the NHQ for my next assignment.
The tension in the air, the tremendous amount of activity, the feeling of expectancy, the throes of the partition to come were all there, blatantly obvious to all. At Naval Headquarters, which incidentally I saw for the first time in my service career, I was struck by the comings and goings of people rushing about from office to office and the air of business and extremes of activity was very evident. I could not help feeling that everyone seemed to be rushing about to no purpose, and they really did not know what they wanted, or what they were supposed to do. I had to cool my heels in the corridors of the South Block for two whole days before I could get an audience with the Director of Personnel Services, an Anglo-Indian Officer named Cdr. Brochman-More. He told me, in between telephone calls and file pushing, that my next job was in Karachi. I was being appointed in the Gunnery School, HMIS Himalaya and my designation would be Officer-in-Charge Chamak. Chamak was the radar school in Karachi and was attached to the Gunnery School.
I asked him how long this assignment was to last, as I was finding it difficult to comprehend a posting to Karachi when the leaves of the Mountbatten calendar were falling off day by day bringing the 15th of August 1947 and the transfer of power closer. Brochman-More told me, “Officially, you are being posted to Karachi because it is a very important assignment, and you will be required to help in the division of assets between India and Pakistan, but personally, old boy, you are in the dog house. The John Company has come back. John Hall who was standing by as Captain designate of the cruiser is back and is now going to be the FOCRIN (Flag Officer Commanding Royal Indian Navy). His Chief of Staff is John Lawrence. John Company, as reconstituted, has taken a poor view of your bellyaching in regard to the DSSAB episode. So you are in the dog house and have to sweat it out in there. Arrangements have been made and reservations have been sought for you to proceed to Karachi, and you will be leaving by Frontier Mail tonight, changing at Lahore for the train to Karachi. I wish you the best of luck because I have a feeling that you are going to need it.” I thanked him for being honest with me and left NHQ, but not feeling in any way like a dog going to its kennel.
Chapter 11 Train to Pakistan and Partition
Except for one occasion in 1946 when I had travelled up to Hardwar (an Indian place of pilgrimage) to immerse the sacred ashes of my father in the river that flows there, I have never travelled up North by train, and so it was with some excitement that I boarded the Frontier Mail at the Old Delhi railway station. I found that my reservation was in a First Class coupe along with a young Muslim gentleman called Ahmed. He was an officer of the previous Indian Revenue Service who, having opted for Pakistan, was proceeding there to take up his new life in his new service. He was a pleasant young man of about my age and it did not take long for us to establish friendly relations over a glass of whisky. We discussed several matters and he gave me a firsthand account of the communal disorder that was taking place in the Punjab. Naturally, his version was bound to be somewhat one-sided, but by and large, I felt that he was being fair. I could not contribute much to the discussion, as having been away, I did not know what was actually going on.
Before turning in for the night, we sort of agreed that if there was an attack on the train we would try and give each other mutual support. I told him that I had my revolver, and that its magazine was full with eight bullets, and 20 bullets to spare, and I was prepared to take at least a dozen of the attackers with me before anybody can get to us. He laughed and hoped that it would not be necessary and on that note, we went to sleep. I slept soundly enough and early next morning found the train suddenly screeching to a halt. I got up and found that it was just about dawn. Ahmed was also up and I asked him what was happening. He said, “I do not know, but I think it is a dawn attack. I do not know who is attacking whom.” When I opened the window, it was very clear as to the source of the attack, because the first sight that met my eyes was the decapitated head of a Sikh lying not more than ten yards away from our compartment. I could also see several people fleeing from the train and being chased by large numbers of men wielding various implements like swords and spears, as well as iron rods, etc. One of the fleeing Sikhs was fell upon by a crowd and I saw him being literally beaten to death. Ahmed turned to me and said it will not take long before they came to this compartment. He said, “I suggest you go into the bathroom and lock yourself in and I will do my best to bluff the crowd when they came this side.” I was not very sure in my mind whether this young man intended to really try and save me. After all why should he? I had only known him a few hours and, in any case, if he was caught out in any bluff he stood in imminent danger to his own life I took out my revolver and decided to accept his advice, but made up my mind that if he betrayed me, the first person who would fall victim to my gun would be him. Before going into the bathroom, I told him that it so happened that I was circumcised and could possibly pass off as a South Indian Muslim, except if they searched my luggage, where they would find my name. With great presence of mind, Ahmed leaned out and removed the reservation cards which had our names on it. I retreated into the bathroom and tensed myself for the attack, should it come.
Two vulnerable points were the door and the window, and since I had 20 rounds with me, I felt that I should be able to hold off an attack for at least five minutes. I waited for what seemed to be an interminable time. Writing about it in retrospect, I can be calm and collected, but at that time I was in an extreme state of agitation. I have seen death by violent action many times before, but it had always been the result of some impersonal attacks like bombs or shells, an unseen enemy suddenly puffing out life, leaving behind ghastly mangled corpses. But this was the first time I had witnessed, at close quarters, the butchery of a human being by his fellow men. I realized that there would be no quarter for me and that the chances of my survival were very slim indeed. In times like this one thinks of God, and yet a strange thought occurred to me that
out there were people killing one another also in the name of God. Anyway, as I sweated it out in fear, bordering on panic, there was a flurry outside our compartment and I could hear raised voices, banging on the side of the compartment and I could also hear the voice of my protector, the Muslim friend Ahmed. I could not make out what was being said, but was fairly certain that a search of the compartment was inevitable. Just as I commended my soul to my maker, I heard several police whistles and the sound of shots outside, and could hear the patter of running feet and soon, to my eternal relief, I found that the train was actually in motion. I could not understand what had happened and, decided to stay put until Ahmed gave me the “all clear.” When the train got under way, he knocked on the toilet door and said, “You can come out now.” With the revolver cocked and ready, I opened the door and to my intense relief found that the train had gathered speed and was moving away from the scene of danger.
I learned from Ahmed that the attack had started at a place hardly a couple of miles away from a railway station called Mughalpura and getting wind of the attack, a platoon of the Border Security Force (BSF) stationed thereabouts had arrived in jeeps and had fired over the heads of the marauding crowd. This had the desired result of the attack petering out. Since these were early days, the BSF was still reasonably effective but in the course of time, such support would totally disintegrate, but as far as I was concerned, it was like the Relief of Khartoum.
We arrived in Lahore without incident except that I could not find enough words to thank the gallant young Muslim officer who had taken upon himself the task of trying to shield me even at the peril of his own existence. I am sorry that I lost touch with him after we got to Lahore and have never met him since then. We arrived in Lahore and it was like steaming into a morgue. There was hardly a soul in sight. There had been a ghastly massacre in the late hours of the previous night and rows upon rows of the dead were lined up on the platform, mute and ghastly reminders of man’s inhumanity to man. I sought out the Station Master, who was in the First-Class waiting room and there were also a number of soldiers in uniform, with a few British other ranks and a sergeant. I was in uniform and I approached the British Sergeant and showing him my identity card told him that I was a Naval Officer, and I had to catch a train to Karachi. He was nice to me, and he said, “Blimey, you have chosen a nice time to travel, haven’t you?” I told him that I was not travelling at my choice. I was acting under orders. He gave me a cup of tea and arranged that I should be accommodated in one of the air-conditioned coaches in the Lahore-Karachi train, which strangely enough, was leaving on time. He said, “I think you will be safer here as there are some British officers also travelling in this coach. You will have to make do with sitting accommodation.” I was very thankful to him as I didn’t feel up to any more excitement of the sort that greeted me in the early hours of the morning. I heaved a sigh of relief when I found that among the passengers were a couple of English officers, one Army and one Navy, both known to me. The travel from Lahore to Karachi was as good, convenient, and comfortable as any that I had undertaken. I had sent a telegram to my friend Mohamed Asif Alavi, a Commander, who had been a buddy of mine, since I joined the Navy and who was commanding the Boys Training Establishment HMIS Bahadur in Karachi. All the Naval establishments including the one I was due to join were situated in the Island of Manora, off the mainland of Karachi, and I had asked Asif Alavi if he could have me met. He had sent transport and a baggage party and my move to my new establishment went without incident.
As I have recorded earlier, I had served on the Island of Manora some five years earlier at the Boys Training Establishment, under Captain Percy Learmont. Conditions were vastly different then. I remembered with pride, the elaborate Diwali (festival of lights) dinner I had organized when the Hindus played hosts at dinner to the Muslims and the Christians – the camaraderie and the bonhomie, the stirring speeches that emphasized the oneness of India, when even the British Captain got carried away by his own oratory and declared, “Here, we are gathered together, the cream of the youth of India, hailing from places between Kashmir and Cape Comerin [Kanyakumari], Karachi and Calcutta, living together, working together and playing together.” To resounding cheers he declared, “This is India, this is India, this is India!”
And yet, how well and how sedulously had the British practiced their diabolic policy of “divide and rule,” the culmination and climax of which was to be the partition of India and the vivisection of its Armed Services! Here I was, back again in Manora, under vastly different conditions, under distrust and suspicion, rancor and ill-will, erstwhile shipmates full of hate, their hostility being inflamed day by day as the influx of refugees brought forth their tales of rape, looting, and massacre, exaggerated a thousandfold in their telling.
The two months of my sojourn in Karachi were a testing time of fear as well as fun. Fear, because of the environment of hatred, because, except for a few of the senior sailors who had served with me before, the rest were mutinous and sullen and one could not help but sense the murder in their hearts. There were a handful of Indian officers in Himalaya – Lt. Cdr. Radhakrishnan, a Gunnery Officer, Dr. Mohinder Singh, who had been my medical officer in the Shamsher, Mr. Alex, an electronic expert, Lieut. Claudius (my ex-ist Lt. of Baroda). There was also one single solitary Sikh sailor, whose name I forget but more likely than not ended with Singh, and who had opted for Pakistan! The latter caused me the maximum worry because by his very solitude, he stood out as a marked man for a massacre, the moment madness, bubbling not far below the surface, broke free. As the Senior Indian Officer present, the safety of all the men under my command became my responsibility. I identified three or four senior Muslim Petty Officers, who had served with me before and on whose personal loyalty, given no abnormal circumstances, I could rely on. Without committing themselves to any active help, the senior-most of them, Firdaus Mohamed promised me that they would keep their ears to the ground and try to give me timely warning of any impending danger.
Next, I had a frank chat with “Chota” Smith, the British First Lieutenant of the HMIS Himalaya. He was an ex-Warrant Officer, whom I had promoted as a Lieutenant in 1944 when I was in HMIS Feroze by giving him several grace marks, and I hoped he hadn’t forgotten. He remembered. He saw that we may have to organize our own self defence and agreed to issue us with a service revolver each, and adequate rounds of ammunition. I, of course, had my own, always carried by me. He also agreed to allot my officers the cabins (rooms) concentrated on the first floor of the officers’ mess in accordance with a strategic disposition plan I had devised whereby we could bring into effect a worthwhile defensive posture should the need arise.
Then we separated, mentally, the hawks from the doves among our mess-mates. The British and Anglo-Indian officers could be relied upon, if not for active help, at least for benevolent neutrality. Some of the Muslim officers were obvious doves, but the majority of the officers were ex-lower decks and generally hawkish, some of them positively rabid. We decided to be natural with the first category, friendly with the second, and scrupulously correct to the last category. I also evolved and spelt out a code of conduct for our officers to be scrupulously followed as hereunder:
Discipline was the most important thing, and we should school ourselves to exercise it to the greatest possible measure personally and publicly. We should betray no emotions and go about as though we did not have a single care in the world. Never meet one another and discuss or converse in a way that might be perceived as suspicious or clandestine. Take the fullest part in mess life, and all its activities subject to:
a) Strictest control in consumption of alcohol without appearing to do so; b) Never enter a political or religious argument whatever the provocation;
c) Leave certain persons designated by me, severely alone. 5. Being Ramzan, the tennis court was unused. All Indian officers would play vigorous games of tennis during the Dog Watches, thus giving us the perfect meeting place for exchange of ideas and
orders. We also devised a system of unobtrusive night-watching, signals and instant readiness for action. All these precautions may sound melodramatic and, perhaps, unnecessary when viewed from a distant and detached perspective. But to us, it was a matter of life and death. Bloody acts of reprisals were gathering momentum all over the Punjab, the daily influx of refugees was inflaming the already highly combustible emotional atmosphere of Karachi, and wild rumors were around everywhere. We were literally living on top of kegs of dynamite, all being needed was one tiny spark, one little act of violence from the newest of the recruit seamen, to detonate the explosion.
We were all very clear in our minds that if the balloon went up, not one of us had the slightest chance of survival. We, therefore, concluded between ourselves a sort of battle-cum-suicide pact. We would not sell our lives cheaply but give them a fight that will go down in history and die at least on a ten-to-one basis.
Mine was a naturally ebullient spirit, and I can never stay disheartened or dispirited for long. I have always been blessed with some intangible trait that can carry with me those around me. By taking the fullest part in all the activities of shipboard life, and by an uninhibited display of high spirits, fun and frolic, the tone was set and in spite of the Sword of Damocles hanging over us, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves as days followed each other bringing the magic 15th of August closer.
It was mid-July now and our confidence and morale were at an all-time high when I got the word – a whisper here and a whisper there, but it all added up to one thing. The sands of time were running out for our lonely Sikh, who had opted for Pakistan. Immediate steps were called for if he was to be saved from the inevitable knife in the back. I took a Petty Officer Firdaus into my confidence and by devious means had it spelt out to the Sikh sailor of his imminent danger and gave him the necessary instructions. I contacted the Deputy High Commissioner Shri.Vishwanathan, ICS [Indian Civil Service), and arranged that at the opportune moment, that Singh would be taken to the High Commission from where he may be evacuated to India as soon as possible.
We then played out a pre-arranged charade wherein the tutored Singh “did, willfully disobey the lawful command of his superior officer” and was promptly placed in the “cells” under arrest – the safest place for him under the circumstances. Later, he was transferred from there to another “establishment” on the mainland – in fact, the Indian High Commission, and in due course back to India. I am sorry to say that after all this trouble and subterfuge to save him, I heard that he created a lot of trouble in the Indian Naval Establishment where he was drafted, and with highly imaginative and entirely fictional stories of erstwhile Karachi, nearly started a communal riot in the Establishment. A great pity, because the communal virus had left our Services untouched. But it was Singh’s swan song and he was unceremoniously discharged from the service as no longer required.
When the Indian rope trick with the lonely sacrificial goat became known obviously some form of reprisal seemed inevitable. On the night of the 13th of August, after a very good mess-night party, we had turned in, and I had fallen asleep tired out after the day’s hectic activities. A little after midnight I came suddenly awake, some sixth sense warning me that I was in very great danger. The door was slightly ajar, and silhouetted against the chink of the verandah light peeping through, I made out a tall and hefty figure with one arm raised and creeping stealthily towards my bed. Instinctively, I grabbed the revolver under my pillow and rolled of the bed on to the floor away from the shadowy figure advancing towards the bed. Having practiced this acrobatic feat before, it was an instantaneous reaction to steady myself on the ground and get off an upward shot at the intruder. It was an awkward aim and obviously too high. But the effect of the explosion in that confined space was ear-shattering and enough to put the fear of God into the assassin. He dropped his weapon (which turned out to be an electro-plated bayonet), turned and was off like a scalded cat, slamming the door behind him. It spoke much for the alertness of my mates that within half a minute, they were at “Battle Stations,” but alas, too late to prevent the disappearance of the would be assailant. It was a near miss from both our points of view, and I was glad on both the counts.
Had he got to me, I would not be writing this. If I had hit him, the repercussions would have been immense.
The attempt had two desired effects. I got much sympathy from all the more sober elements of the officers and men and secondly, it decided the minds of my own Navy that the sooner we left back for India the better. Though we did not relax our vigilance in any way, I was fairly certain that there will not be a repetition for at least a few days more. Our officers were much agitated over having to take part in the huge parade that had been organized by HMIS Bahadur for Pakistan’s Independence Day – the 14th of August 1947. They wanted to be excused attendance. I told them that as long as we were borne on their books, we would have to conform to every naval activity.
The more the discipline was breaking down around, the more it was necessary that we raise our standards of discipline. They wanted to know why it was required for them to join in the slogan shouting that followed every parade – “Pakistan zindabad” (long live Pakistan)! I could see the logic in their argument and told them that we would shout the loudest but make a slight change and substitute the “Pak” part of it with the four-letter word that nearly rhymes and begins with an “f.” After the parade, Alavi, who took the parade, sought me out and complimented our party for the excellent spirit in which they joined the cry for his country’s long life! I have never missed my country so much as on the forenoon of the 15th of August when we listened on the radio the running commentary of the Independence Day Parade! When we heard that a rainbow had appeared over the India Gate, Delhi as the cavalcade passed through, there was not a dry eye among our midst.
Our “evacuation” to India followed soon after, and we were back again in Bombay to await further orders. Any form of inaction irks me, especially when there are momentous happenings all around you, but you have no part in them. I pestered the staff officer (appointments) in the Navy Office, Bombay, day in and day out, only to be told time and again “keep yourself available and await orders.” I did not have to wait long.
Chapter 12 Toe the Line or Else – The Siege of Junagadh
On an evening, about ten days later, I was at a wardroom bar drowning my sorrows with the amber legacy of Scotland, when a naval policeman came in with a message that I was wanted immediately at the Navy Office. The orders I received there were crisp and to the point. “Proceed immediately and take over command of the Motor Launch 420, and in company with and acting as escort for two Landing Ship Tanks (LST), proceed to sea, about four miles to seaward of Bombay harbor by 2:00 a.m. tomorrow, when you may open this sealed envelope, which contains secret instructions.”
I was dying to ask many questions but kept quiet and received the impressive looking cover. The Staff Officer continued – “The M.L. 420 and the LSTs are all ready to set sail, but the Commanding Officer of the 420 has refused orders to sail on the plea that he is an Anglo-Indian of British Nationality and does not want to get involved in any Indo-Pakistani conflicts. When you go aboard, relieve him of his command and send him ashore under arrest. Naval Police escorts have been arranged and will accompany you. Good luck.”
After executing the above orders, we sailed just after midnight and on clearing harbor, learnt that my destination was Porbandar in the then Kathiawar coast. I was to land and establish wireless communications with Bombay and Delhi and await the arrival of the Indian Naval Frigates Cauvery and Kistna.
The political background for my ‘secret mission’ is explained below. With the transfer of power, undivided India had some pockets of very large States (with populations and size of some countries in Western Europe) and some small ones (no bigger than large-sized parks), over six hundred in number. These states were ruled by a varying hierarchy of maharajas, nawabs, rulers, rajas, and princes who owed allegiance to Britain as the former “Paramount Power” and who felt that with the transfer of power, the allegiance lapsed, and full powers of sovereignty had reverted back to them.
These hold out States were nothing but an anachronism, with no relevance to the conditions prevailing in India at that time. I have already written of little Travancore with big ideas and of what happened. Fortunately, almost all of these states had seen the writing clearly on the wall and had acceded, based on majority population, geographical contiguity, economic viability, etc., to either India or Pakistan. There were three exceptions. The exceptions were, however, major ones. Right in the heart of India, with the vast Hindu majority, the Nizam of Hyderabad not only wished to retain his independence but wanted to carve out a corridor to the sea – Shades of the Polish Corridor! Hari Singh of Kashmir sat on the fence, dithered, entered into standstill arrangements with India and Pakistan, perhaps hoping that both would disintegrate and thus bring about his own salvation!
What happened to these two states doesn’t belong in this, my personal record. However, the third state does, and it was Junagadh. Situated in Kathiawar, surrounded by India, with a preponderant Hindu population, the eccentric Nawab wanted to opt out and join Pakistan. In fact, he was eccentric to the point of insanity. His craze was his pet dogs of which he owned several. They were first-class citizens, with some comforts provided on a “five-star hotel” basis. While the people starved, these canine favorites were treated, to a degree of lavishness and utterly idiotic luxury that surpassed all comprehension. I had seen with my own eyes their “kennels” spacious, well-lit, air-conditioned rooms, wall-to-wall carpeting, telephones, hot and cold baths.
There is a saying in Tamil, “Even if it is a river of milk, the dog can still only lap at it.” It has been recorded that to mark the wedding of his favorite female canine Roshana to a Labrador named Bobby, he celebrated with a ceremony so grandiose that he invited every prince, celebrity, and dignitary in India. A crowd of 150,000 people stood on the route of the nuptial cortege which was led by the Nawab’s bodyguard and the royal elephants in full regalia. The proceedings cost the Maharaja 60,000 pounds, a sum which in those days could have financed the human needs of one fifth of the population of Junagadh for an entire year.
This then was the State of Junagadh, trying to ride out the storm, against the will of its people. The Government of India decided that the Nawab would be brought into line, and the State into the mainstream of Indian national life, using force, if necessary. A brigade of the Indian Army, called the Kathiawar defence Force (KDF) was deployed with its headquarters at Rajkot and under the overall command of Brigadier Gurdial Singh, a tough, no-nonsense, Sikh of the hard-drinking and swash buckling kind who asked for only half a day to “solve” the Junagadh problem.
Besides Junagadh, there were a couple of other tiny pockets on the coast, Mangrol and Jafrabad that also defied India. The LSTs I had escorted to Porbunder were to be used to land troops at these places, with Kistna (Commander Katari) and Cauvery (Commander Sawhney) providing close support.
My command of the ML420 was very short-lived. After establishing a communication center at Porbunder, I moved over to Rajkot as the Naval Liaison Officer to Gurdial Singh of the KDF. The Army Commander and I took to each other from the word “go.” He gave instructions that “Navy” as he called me, was an integral part of his HQ (Headquarters], and that I should attend all briefings and meetings. He gave me complete freedom of movement among the various army units that comprised the force. A jeep and a 15-hundredweight truck were placed at my disposal. My party consisted of three leading seamen (communications) and the necessary wireless equipment.
Since I had very little to do, I took the fullest advantage of the situation and established close and cordial relations with all the junior commanders at the Battalion, Company, and even Platoon levels. I used to drop in on them for breakfast, lunch or tea, take part in their training programs, join in their training campfires and singsongs and all the other activities of an army flexing its muscles for battle. I made friendships that lasted a lifetime.
In the evenings, I used to drop in on one or other of the very large number of princes and rajahs that had their palaces within easy driving distance of each other all over Kathiawar. Used to affluence, autocratic, self-willed and self-indulgent, they lived a life of jaded splendor and they were living it up because they knew that it was all to end soon. Perhaps because I was a symbol, though infinitesimally small, of the power that represented their liquidation, or even more likely, perhaps because I have something of the pagan in me that was ebullient and fun-loving, they invariably liked to have me around and I, like Barkis, was willing! Let me not be misunderstood. It was good clean fun, excellent food, choice drinks, good music and sometimes, dancing (classical or folk). I found some of the Maharajahs, Porbunder and Nawanagar, Motibhai (brother of the Jam Saheb of Nawanagar) to name a few, extremely religious, highly cultured and erudite men, and an evening with any of them was always educative, interesting and uplifting. They might have been totalitarian, but I found that their people held them in great affection and reverence. Theirs was a benevolent autocracy and they had certainly done more for their people in their States than the British in British India, but perhaps that is not saying much.
During this waiting period, I had one frightening experience. Katari [Ram Dass Katari went on to become the Indian Navy’s first Indian Navy Chief] had brought his ship to the port of Veraval and had signaled me to see him there. I left Rajkot early in the morning, alone in my jeep, with a .303. Rifle as my companion. It was a lovely but lonely drive, and I had the hood off. The road was flanked on both sides by shrubbery thickening into a semi-jungle and quite deserted. Nature’s beauty, the twang in the air and the solitude had uplifted my spirits, and I was driving along without a care in the world, when I suddenly saw ahead, a large snake beginning to cross the road from left to right. Instinctively, I swerved to the right to avoid it, but evidently not enough. I heard a distinct and clear thud from the region of the front left wheel and my heart stopped when I saw the snake go sailing over my head, but mercifully well clear of me. I looked behind me and saw a fantastic and awe-inspiring sight. One of the largest and longest cobras I had ever seen was thrashing about in the middle of the road, a black beauty in a towering rage, its hood spread out like a fan, rearing itself up, falling flat on its face, up down, up down.
I had stopped my jeep some fifteen yards away and stared at its display of venomous hatred and I felt completely hypnotized by the sight. Pulling myself together, at last I picked up the rifle and taking aim got off a shot and missed completely. The bullet raised a small cloud of dust near the reptile. The king amongst cobras stopped its antics and even though obviously hurt in the impact with the vehicle, started moving off towards the bushes with a grace of movement that was incredibly fascinating to watch, and soon the tail disappeared in the undergrowth. I had completely recovered myself by now, and made one of the most foolish moves imaginable. With half-baked ideas of doing the right thing, I descended with my rifle with the idea of putting it out of its wounded misery. Fortunately, for me, before I had taken a few steps, another jeep came along and seeing an armed man in Khaki uniform stopped near me. The driver, it turned out, was the local forest officer and hearing the shot had come to investigate. I told him of the encounter and my intentions, sure that I would have his fullest approbation for my spirit of sportsmanship. Instead, he gave me a withering look and said, “You might as well go after a wounded tiger. The King Cobra will mend itself; otherwise, the ants will get it. Please get on your way!”
The “Phony War” ended but not before the Nawab of Junagadh with his choice selection of dogs, wives and concubines fled the country to seek asylum in Pakistan. He had been followed by Bhutto, [Reference to Sir Shah Nawaz Bhutto, Dewan of Junagadh, and father of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto), leaving the political advisor, an Englishman, Captain Harvey Jones, to hold the fort, when the Indian Army marched in.
The “Order of Battle” had been drawn up and the single road from Rajkot to Junagadh was soon filled with every type of military vehicle, led in the van by the Commander KDF, Brigadier Gurdial Singh himself, lusting for battle. My jeep and my three naval ratings found no place in the “Order of Business” and I had been told by the Chief of Staff “to string along” and found myself at the very rear end of the snaky column of moving vehicles. I was damned if I was going to eat their dust and having rationalized that I could be anywhere along the string as per the orders, lashed a big naval battle ensign (I had swiped earlier from the Kistna) on the jeep and started a slow “creep ahead,” waving frantically to each group commander as I passed. Nobody objected and, in fact, they seemed more amused than annoyed. In time, I reached the van and Gurdial turned furious eyes on me and shouted, “Navy, what are you trying to do? Take Junagadh by yourself?” I shouted back, “I am your Liaison Officer, Sir. My place is by your side.” I was relieved to note that he was in high spirits; he roared with laughter and shouted, “all right, fall in behind me.”
When we reached the outskirts of Junagadh, the force halted and orders were given for deployment, the idea presumably being to surround the city and attack at first light. But before this began, three jeeps bearing large white flags approached us from ahead, with the Political Advisor, Mr. Harvey in the lead, came to palaver for peace. Our Brigadier’s terms were crisp and to the point. “Disarm and confine all your troops in barracks. Surrender must be unconditional.” Harvey said that the first part had already been done and that he was authorized to agree to the surrender, unconditionally.
Thus ended the Junagadh Operation, with not a shot fired, and not a single casualty. KDF headquarters were established in the very posh guest house and soon uniformed waiters were serving out drinks and refreshments to the “battle-weary’ staff officers! It was like a cocktail party at the Delhi Gymkhana Club!
I commandeered the top floor of a three-storey building nearby and got my boys to work in setting up the wireless transmission sets and having established communications with Delhi and Bombay, joined the party which was in full swing.
Suddenly, the Brigadier shouted, “We haven’t informed Delhi about this. Where is the Signals Officer?” I felt that at least I could be of some use here, and volunteered to clear the message for him and was very happy that the first news of the surrender of Junagadh reached Delhi through Naval channels!
The only other event of significance was the visit to Junagadh by the “Iron Man” of India, Sardar Vallabhai Patel, by then the deputy prime minister and home minister of Independent India, who addressed a mammoth public meeting and the tremendous ovation, the resounding cheers and the jubilation of the crowd were ocular proof, if such were needed, of the righteousness of the cause.
Chapter 13 From the Mothball to the Capital
An exciting experience ended and on my return to Bombay, I was promoted Lieutenant Commander and appointed as Senior Officer of many wartime ships that had been put into reserve, (moth-balled, as the Americans would say), and were anchored off Trombay, where we now have our Atomic plant. We were moving into 1948 now, and my wife and daughter joined me for the first spell of married life with a home of our own since 1945. Though only a three-room hutment, it was “home” all the same. Beggars cannot be choosers and my wife soon made things very ship shape and comfortable.
I was also delighted that once again I was with the sailors, working with them and for them. There were several empty barracks in my headquarters, the “Cheetah Camp”. As an experimental measure I converted them into “married quarters” for our sailors. I believe this was the first step taken in the Indian Navy, even though on a very small scale, for the provision of such a facility for the men. According to the conditions of service, sailors were entitled to married accommodation on a prescribed scale but nothing had been done to build any. I realized that I may incur the divine wrath of naval hierarchy, but said to myself, “What the hell! This won’t be the first time.”
I learned that the Naval Officer-in-charge, Bombay, Commodore Indio-Jones, had sustained some injuries by a fall in his bathroom and sent a signal. “Sorry to hear of your accident. I hope you are not seriously incommoded.” I was sent for, certain, I felt for a dressing down. But actually he asked me about the “married accommodation” and on what authority I had started the project. Trying to look as humble as possible, I said, “None, Sir. But these barracks were empty, I thought it was a shame that they could not be used for a good cause specially as I had so many sailors who had lost their homes in the Punjab.” “Oh, you mean” he said, “you have reserved some place as a refugee camp? Then that’s all right, no harm done. But no additional expense, and if it misfires, you take the rap.” As I was leaving, much relieved, he quipped. “Oh Krishnan, I did hit the commode, but Commodores don’t get incommoded.” He added with a smile, “You rascal!”
The order of our lives was shattered on the evening of the 30th of January 1948 when the horrendous news reached us that Gandhiji had been shot and killed whilst at his prayer meeting. It was absolutely unbelievable that anyone could want to kill this apostle of nonviolence, this saint among men. Wave after wave of shock was radiating from where he had fallen, engulfing the entire nation in unutterable grief. My first thought was the same, as must have been of every thinking Indian. “Who could have done this terrible deed? A Muslim?” I had quite a number of Muslims among my ship’s company, and I dreaded to think what would happen if the assailant had been a Muslim. But All India Radio had been categorical on this point that it had been a Hindu. Panditji’s heartbroken broadcast later that night wrung the very soul of the Nation and I was sure that every Indian but a handful, felt guilty and ashamed that this could happen in Gandhi’s India! “The light has gone out of our lives and there is darkness everywhere,” cried the bravest of the Indians. “Father, forgive us,” cried the Nightingale of India, Mrs.Sarojini Naidu. And millions of Indians wept!
Death had claimed its priceless victim. Gandhiji understood everyone, the people understood him, and yet he was beyond understanding. His words and actions were commonplace and yet he was mystical. He lived in harmony with his surroundings and yet he was deeply disturbing.
All his life he had worked and fought for the redemption of his countrymen and death had chosen one of them to do the job.
Death is very final and does not change its mind. Gandhiji was no more and we had to live without him, and we did.
From 1948 onwards there was a definite and marked change in my service career. I felt that I was entering a new and exciting phase and I was not wrong. I had hardly settled down in my job as Senior Officer Reserve Fleet (SORF) when I was ordered to move to Delhi to take up my appointment as Staff Officer (Plans) Naval Headquarters.
A British Officer of the Royal Indian Navy for whom I had always had the highest regards was Martin St. Leger Nott. A very religious Christian gentleman, an excellent seaman, a great administrator, he was a person I always felt had the real interest of our Navy at heart. I had come across him in 1941 in the Persian Gulf when his services had been placed at the disposal of the Royal Navy and he had an important part in the planning of the operations in the Gulf in which I had taken part. I believe that he had a hand in the recommendation for my Distinguished Service Cross. He was an excellent staff officer and could write papers, appreciations, and orders in chaste English, succinct, unambiguous, and entirely to-the-point.
He was now the Chief of staff at Naval Headquarters and I felt flattered that he picked me to serve in the Plans and Intelligence Directorate; headed by one of his favorites, Commander Adhar Kumar Chatterji. [Chatterji became the third Indian Chief of the Navy]
If I had respect and admiration for Martin Nott, it was equaled by the esteem and affection in which I held Chatterji. I had known him since I was a cadet and there grew between us a bond of genuine friendship and affection that had grown with the years. Adhar was an extrovert, supremely confident of himself. He had good reason to be so, because he had a brilliant brain backed by a phenomenal memory. He could read pages form the Seamanship Manual and repeat them from memory that was word perfect. His was a mercurial temperament, he could laugh uproariously with you, and could fly into a rage at you, which cooled off just as fast, and the charm with the aftermath was overpowering.
I was buoyant in spirits that I would soon be serving under the two people whom I liked the most. But destiny had many surprises and unexpected shocks up her sleeve. Before I could leave for Delhi, I heard the shocking news that Commodore Nott, his wife and son, in fact the entire family, had been killed in an air crash whilst on their way to the United Kingdom for some vacation. This news affected me very deeply. I felt that this was a tragedy for the entire Navy. I had known, from Chatterji that Nott had originated the thought for a ten-year plan for the development of the Indian Navy and was looking forward to the exciting prospects of working with the team on this project. And now, the architect was gone, leaving us all the poorer, indeed.
Chatterji met us at the New Delhi station which I thought was an affirmation of friendship from the boss. Working with him was always an exhilarating experience and soon I plunged into my new duties with exuberance and enthusiasm.
At the top was Rear Admiral Hall, as Flag Officer Commanding, Royal Indian Navy. Perhaps because of the prejudice as the surviving member of John Company or maybe the personal animosity for his part in my “dog house” era, I could not work up any enthusiasm for this Chief. Since we had to have a foreigner as the Head of the Navy, why couldn’t we get one that was really experienced, had commanded big ships and whose word would carry weight with the government?
Important events were taking place, carrying our Navy ahead in expansion. The Achilles, the cruiser that had fought the Graf Spee in the Battle of the River Plate, had joined us as the I.N.S Delhi. Negotiations were going on for the addition of three destroyers from the Royal Navy. It was not for nothing that we had a sailor as the First Governor General and Lord Louis Mountbatten’s hand was clearly evident in all these events. Another of his actions was to help in the selection of a very competent Admiral from the Royal Navy to take charge of ours. William Edward Parry had, coincidentally, commanded the Achilles and had led her into battle, he had much operational and administrative experience and background and we were all very happy to welcome him. He also brought with him, his own Chief of Staff, Commodore Drew.
Planning was one of the pet subjects of Vice Admiral Parry. He gave his blessings to the Plans Directorate to go ahead with the ten-year plan and we got down to it in a really big way.
Accommodation was as serious a problem as it had ever been. We shared a hutment with one of the officers in my directorate, Y.N. Singh. I discussed with Chatterji whether I should go in for a car. He was a great one for facts and figures. After hours of careful calculations to the nearest paisa, he convinced me that I could not possibly afford a car. So, the next day, when I saw an advertisement in the papers offering a Hillman Minx for sale, I promptly went and bought it, my first car, and I drove it first to Chatterji’s house! His comment, “So, you took the calculated risk?”
This was the first of several staff appointments that I had held in Naval Headquarters. I felt myself lost in the labyrinth of the corridors of South Block, the elaborate and unwieldy noting’s and counter-noting’s are man’s most ingenious offering to that Supreme Goddess of bureaucratic red tape the almighty “file.” Never having dictated to a stenographer before, I found myself clumsy and selfconscious before the man with the pencil and pad. “Levels” had to be scrupulously maintained and any wrong step on the ladder of hierarchy was a cardinal sin. I thought I was beginning to understand why Naval Headquarters had always been referred to, quite blasphemously, as the “Mad House” and now I was one of the inmates! But thanks to the patient advice and painstaking encouragement of my immediate boss, Chatterji, I began to realize that there was a method in the madness after all. As the newness started to wear off, I was able to shrug off diffidence and was soon involving myself with some real hard work. My only advice to anyone who finds himself going through the “incubation period” as I did is to not let your sense of humor desert you. Only that way can you too, fly over the Cuckoo’s Nest!
In those early days of independence, planning took on a place of considerable importance. We had been set the task of preparing a ten-year plan for the phased development and buildup of the
Indian Navy. We were quite clear in our minds that with the Indian Ocean no longer being a “British Lake,” independence had brought in a tremendous responsibility. India occupied a position of strategic pre-eminence in the vast ocean of her name. The use of this Ocean without let or hindrance was vital not only to our economy but our very existence as a free country. This responsibility for exercising control over this vast area had suddenly devolved upon us. We had to start almost from scratch to evolve a Plan, within the limitations of our financial resources that would provide us with adequate Sea power to exercise a defensive posture as well as the capability of taking the offensive should ever our vital links be threatened. The defence of our three thousand miles of sea frontier should also have the protective arm of the Navy around it.
The Plan that began to evolve was an all-embracing one to be able to fight on the surface, in the air and under water. It was broad in its concept, an ambitious and audacious document that would cover every facet and every aspect of naval development over the next ten-year period. Each idea in the totality of the concept had to be carefully sifted and tested in argument and defined in such a way
so it would carry conviction with the Government.
As a recently independent country, there was very little planning experience behind us, although such exercises come naturally to us in the present day. But at that period of time, we were venturing forth into uncharted waters. We had never had to look into the crystal ball and draw conclusions for the future. I personally felt quite ill-prepared for this type of work as all my previous experience had been far removed from staff work and I had not studied at any defence college. I set about earnestly to make up the enormous deficiencies in my knowledge by reading every book I could lay my hands on, that dealt with the history of Naval Warfare, Naval strategy and tactics. The Ministry of defence Library had a large collection of the sort of material I wanted and I made the fullest use of it. I found, to my pleasant surprise, that the subject was one of absorbing interest to me, and I could get lost in a book for hours on end without even noticing the passage of time. Since, by nature, I am a voracious reader, it was possible for me to cover a lot of ground and soon I began to feel that I was getting a grasp of the job entrusted to me.
I said earlier that our ten-year plan was an ambitious one and looking back I realized that it was an understatement. Even though the plan was approved in 1948, it was never fully implemented but the essence of the plan endured, and we built up a balanced Naval Force around the Aircraft Carrier, of Cruisers, Destroyers, Frigates, Minesweepers, Patrol Craft and, of course, the Submarine Arm. The ten-year deadline was not kept, it got stretched out to twenty years, but we built up a sizeable Naval Force that vindicated itself in the 1971 War. But I am going ahead of time. Coming back to 1948 and the Naval Headquarters, the middle of the year saw a lot of personnel changes. Katari took over as Chief of Personnel, my director (Chatterji) left to take over as Commander of INS Delhi. This made me the Director of Naval Plans and Intelligence, a Commander’s appointment which I continued to hold as Lieutenant Commander.
The Chiefs of Staff Committee consisting of Admiral Parry, General Cariappa, and Air Marshal Mukherji, used to meet every Wednesday to discuss all matters of Inter-Service interest. A Joint Planning Committee (JPC) was constituted of the three Services with the Director of Military Operations (Lt. Col. Sam Manekshaw), the Director of Naval Plans and Intelligence (Lt. Cdr. N. Krishnan), and Director of Policy and Plans (Wing Cdr. P.C. Lal). This Committee was served by a Joint Planning Staff (JPS) and Joint Intelligence Staff (JIS) consisting of officers, each of Major/Squadron Leader/Lt. Cdr. level. Due to the shortage of staff in Naval Headquarters, I had to serve in the JPS and JIS as well. This presented its own amusing problems. The papers that I had helped to prepare were put up to the JPC where I joined Sam and Pratap Lal in criticizing, altering and amending the same!
All my energies were channeled towards one single aim. We had to get our “Ten Year Plan for the development of the Indian Navy” approved by the government.
Chapter 14 The Cabinet and the Corridors of Power
The Armed Forces have played more than a significant role in the molding of the destiny of free India. They have been called upon time and again to preserve the territorial integrity of India against hostiles and invaders. They have maintained our unity against incipient rebellion, insurrection, and forces of secession. They have provided timely and effective succor to our people when faced with national calamities such as earthquakes, floods, cyclones, and have won the laurels in peace as in war. The importance of our armed forces is realized and appreciated by our people, and the Government, and key strategic decisions relating to the armed forces, in those early years, were made at the highest levels of Government.
The decision-making apparatus had been set up by Prime Minister Nehru and Lord Mountbatten of Burma (as Governor-General) to ensure the smooth and efficient running of the defence Machine. The system had been tested and tried in World War II, and with modifications, had been adopted by India.
Major policy decisions were to be taken at the Cabinet level, decisions that were to be the joint responsibility of every Cabinet Minister under the chairmanship of the Prime Minister. Matters which did not have to go to the full Committee of the Cabinet were dealt with by a Sub-Committee, called the defence Committee of Cabinet (DCC) to be as broad-based as possible and included in it were the Deputy Prime Minister, the defence Minister, the Finance Minister, and those holding the portfolios of Home, Education, External Affairs, and Transport.
Firstly, as Director of Naval Plans and later as the Deputy Secretary (Military) of the Cabinet Secretariat and finally as the Vice Chief of Naval Staff, it was my privilege to be present at many of the high-level meetings of the three important committees described above. It gave me a fair insight into the style and functioning of several of the stalwarts that guided the destiny of our country. The greatest of the stalwarts was Prime Minister Nehru. Sardar Vallabhai Patel spoke little, but whatever he said was to-the-point, deeply penetrative and carried the conviction of a brilliant and practical mind. His questions were razor sharp and he expected replies that were incisive.
My very first attendance of the defence Committee of the Cabinet was to be in attendance with Admiral Parry as he “piloted” our 10-year plan through the approval process. The Admiral was a little hard of hearing and had warned me that I should think on my feet and should be ready the whole time to answer any question that is shot at us, even speaking, if necessary, out of turn.
I do not normally quail, but doubtless that I felt as though I had on rubber boots full of snow, and ice water was seeping into the femoral veins. We had every reason to worry. We knew that Panditji set great store on the views of one British Professor who had served Britain well during and after World War II. The latter had assessed the Naval needs of India as a fleet of patrol boats, a coastal Navy which, should not have anything bigger than destroyers and even that would be over-insurance, at a premium that the country could not afford.
We had no way of knowing how deep an impression the Philosophy, as we used to irreverently call it, had made. What would be the trend and outcome of the discussions on our plans? We envisaged on oceangoing Navy of Aircraft Carriers, Cruisers, Submarines, Destroyers, and supporting craft that appeared on paper to be one of great ambition at a cost that seemed astronomical. So it was with the greatest misgivings
that I studied the visages of the members of the August Committee.
Panditji (Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru) was in the chair and next to him sat Sardar Patel. The gargantuan Govind Vallabh Pant was there, his noble frame affected visibly by the palsy he had suffered, as a grim reminder of the lathi blows that had been rained on him by the police during the Freedom Struggle. It was, perhaps, poetic justice that in free India, he should be the Home Minister, and in charge of the police that had injured him! The eminent economist and once Director of Tata Sons, Dr. John Matthai, held the national purse strings. The cherubic and ever-smiling Lal Bahadur Shastri, the man whom destiny had marked out to lead the nation in war later, represented at the meeting, the Transport Ministry. Maulana Abul Kalam Azad was a member, perhaps in his personal capacity – The Ministry of Education that he headed was a far cry from defence. He was a man of deep learning and erudition. Pandit Nehru had once described him as a “strange mixture of medieval scholasticism, eighteenth century rationalism and the modern outlook.” What contribution, I wondered would he make in the debate on Naval expansion!
But my worries proved to be without foundation, except that the start of the meeting did not augur well for me. Since the meetings of the defence Committee had a special sanctity of its own, my presence had to be explained away, though my Admiral had cleared it with the Prime Minister through the Cabinet Secretary. By way of general introduction, however, Admiral Parry said, “I have brought my planner, Krishnan, along…” Before he could continue, like a whiplash came Sardar Patel’s question, “Why?” There had been many occasions in the past when I had fervently wished to be elsewhere than where I was. This moment was one of them!
But the question was not answered as the Chairman had already started his comments on the Plans Paper before the Committee. Panditji’s preamble was magnificent. His sense of history, coupled with his penetrating vision of the future, had found a ready and sympathetic response to the plan before him. He was handsome in his praise of its get-up and contents. (I had got it bound at my own expense.) He said, “I have read through it from cover to cover and have found it very interesting. I congratulate its authors.”
He talked then, of India’s great maritime past, he portrayed the ships that had sailed the seas, carrying India’s message, her commerce, and her cultural heritage to countries far and near. He dwelt sorrowfully on the atrophy of our maritime tradition and status under alien rule. He explained at length on the strategic spectrum of the control of the seas. The position of preeminence that India occupied in the Indian Ocean made it mandatory that India should have a strong Navy to guard the sea-lanes on which our national economy so much depended. It was a superb discourse that could be given only by Jawaharlal Nehru. I sat in a trance, completely under the spell of this wizard of my country. So much so that I nearly missed the most important part, the Chairman’s conclusion, “I, therefore, commend the plan for acceptance in principle. The details of its implementation would naturally be worked out by the defence Ministry.”
I had said earlier that Sardar Patel was a man of few words, and to illustrate the point, now said, “I agree.” Turning then to Admiral Parry, he asked, “What about Goa, Admiral? Can this fleet push the Portuguese out?” Either because as a Britisher, he had reservations about answering such a leading question or because he had not properly heard it, the Admiral turned to me indicating that I should answer. So I replied, “Sir, this Fleet can not only take Goa, but can fight the entire Portuguese Navy, if they try to stop us.” Instead of the heavens falling down upon me, the great Sardar came very close to a smile and said, “Well, let us get this Navy then.”
We had won! I sincerely believed then, and have believed since then, that was the greatest moment for the Indian Navy. The look that Admiral Parry directed at me was worth more than all the medals conferred on me in later years.
The rest of the meeting was taken up with the usual question and answer session on method of costing, buildup of cadres, availability, and sources of acquisition. The meeting closed on the note of loud laughter. The Deputy Prime Minister who had apparently gone to sleep, suddenly turned towards us and snapped, but in mock anger, “Well, haven’t you got these ships yet? What is the delay?”
Later, at Naval Headquarters, Admiral Parry remarked, “What a priceless pair! With Nehru and Patel at the helm, India can weather any storm.” But alas for our country, this was not to be. In all too short a time, the team broke up as the hand of God beckoned to the Sardar and he attained immortality.
Even though we had the approval of the plan in principle, the translation of it into reality was a slow and tortuous business. The acquisition of the Delhi and the three “R” Class Destroyers were quick enough, thanks to the personal efforts of Lord Mountbatten. We also made a modest start with the Fleet Air arm. But the Aircraft Carrier was the nucleus, the core around which the Indian Fleet was to have been built. It was not until 1960 that we could acquire the Vikrant after the ten-year plan period! There was a lot of opposition and inter-service squabbling and controversy over her acquisition. I was always a very strong protagonist of the Navy having its own means of aerial warfare, and found myself deeply involved in the debate, and I was present at yet another meeting of the defence Committee that finally flashed the green signal for her acquisition. It was, perhaps, pre-ordained that I should have been closely connected with Naval Aviation and the Carrier Vikrant very frequently and finally was given the opportunity to prove, in battle, that we were right, when she vindicated herself with flying colors, in the fateful month of December 1971.
The next important committee after the DCC was the defence Minister’s Committee, chaired by the defence Minister. The others who served as members were the three Service Chiefs, the defence Secretary, and the Financial Advisor. The Secretariat for all these committees was provided by the Deputy Secretary (Military) to the Cabinet. Since I had held this post later and because of the types of appointments that I had held at Naval Headquarters, I had the chance of serving under almost all the defence Ministers at various times.
At the time of preparing the Plans Paper referred to earlier, the defence Minister was Sardar Baldev Singh. He was a powerfully built Sikh, tall and plenty of brawn. I have never agreed to the old adage, that brain and brawn do not go together. And yet, there were many a flippant jokes in currency at that time, unhappily at his expense not very complimentary to his intellect. But, I suppose, caricature, lampooning and playful ridicules are occupational hazards in the game of politics. It probably started with his assertion in Parliament that he had the Navy also fighting in land-locked Kashmir. They laughed, but strictly speaking, he was right. A Naval diving team was, in fact, used to pull out a tank that had fallen into a river!
Dr. Kailash Nath Katju was significantly hard of hearing and used powerful hearing aids. It was widely believed that when, in discussion he did not understand the subject, he used to switch off the aids and look very wise. One wag rather unkindly remarked, “That means that he had them off most of the time!”
Sardar Swaran Singh, tall, straight as a ramrod, always well turned out, was in addition every inch a gentleman, and I think he was the most pleasant person to work for. He had gained a very good reputation as India’s Foreign Minister before he took over the defence portfolio and this was very much to the latter’s advantage when it came to leading military missions, acquisition of defence hardware, etc. Lighthearted banter and small talk hid a keen mind. I accompanied him once to Moscow when he led a goodwill mission. It was very clear that he was most highly thought of in Soviet circles. Much of the Russian acquisition of ships, submarines, and aircraft were certainly due to his efforts.
Mahavir Tyagi was Minister of State for defence for some time. He was the difficult one. Interference in matters of administration was his particular weakness. He used to send for junior officers and tease them mercilessly. He once told me, “Bhai, you are a true Gandhian. You believe in non-cooperation and I am sure that in a war you would be non-violent also.”
I, of course, came into close contact with Babu Jagjivan Ram during the critical years leading up to and during the 1971 war with Pakistan, and I will cover him in my later chapters.
I need hardly say that the most colorful and brilliant person to occupy the defence Gaddi [seat or throne] was V. K. Krishna Menon. My first acquaintance with him nearly ended in tragedy for me. This was in my next appointment in the United Kingdom where he was our High Commissioner. The record of events finds its place in the next chapter.
Chapter 15 Passage to England
Towards the end of 1949, Admiral Parry decided that I be given the chance to graduate from the Joint Services Staff College at Latimer in Kent, England. This was a six months’ course meant for officers of the middle level chosen from all the three services in the United Kingdom. Vacancies were also allotted to the Commonwealth countries and the USA, India, and Pakistan got an allotment of two each. The rank structure of students ranged from Commander to Commodore or equivalent in the other services. Brigadier Raj Bir Chopra and I (as a Commander) were the Indians on the course. Colonel Sher Ali Khan and Brigadier Mohd. Afzal were from Pakistan.
The Admiral had planned that on completion of the staff course, I would stand by to sail back the second cruiser for which we were negotiating. This would mean that my stay abroad would exceed 12 months and travel regulations permitted the spouse to accompany at government expense. This suited us fine as we had not had much of a family life since marriage, what with my having to be away on long absences, and long waits for married accommodation. We travelled in the luxury that goes with voyage by passenger ship. Alas, these days everyone is in such a hurry, and the hustle and bustle of modernity does not leave any time but to shoot across the skies faster than sound, with nothing but peptic ulcers and hypertension to show for it. Thus, time marches on!
Those were uncertain days for the “minorities” and many Anglo-Indians who had been conditioned to think of England as their “home” were migrating there. We berthed at Liverpool on a cold and miserable day, shrouded by fog and I did not know whether to laugh or cry when I overheard one of the emigrants say to the other, in a voice choked with emotion, “Ah! Paradise at last!”
Latimer is a small wayside station connected to London by extension of the subway (tube, if you like). The College was quite a ways from the station. Since it was not residential, one had to hunt for accommodation in the nearest small town Amersham or Chesham; we started life on the negative in a house called “No Number.” The name was apt because we soon found that it was “no good” either.
House-hunting in England is no more pleasant than anywhere else, but we had a stroke of luck. Walking along, wondering where to find that elusive roof over our heads, we were accosted by an elderly lady who asked us whether we were Indians and having satisfied herself on this point, she asked, “Have you met Mr. Gandhi?” I replied that I have seen and heard him, but not actually been presented to him. She went on, “Oh! He is such a dear! Such a man of peace!” and then on an entirely new track, “I do wish we could have Pandit Nehru as our Prime Minister. He would do this country so much good!” I said that I doubted very much if we could spare him, but in any case, would take the matter up with him when I returned in about a year’s time and in the meanwhile, did she know of a place where we could find lodgings. She said, “Oh, you poor dears! You are newly married, aren’t you?” My wife gave me a nudge or a prod that was unmistakable. I put on the most “babe-in-the-wood” countenance and nodded vehemently. The next few words from the lady were to us like Manna from Heaven. “My name is Mrs. Antonio,” she said, “My husband is an Italian sculptor. We have a lovely house with a big compound near Amersham station. We live downstairs. Above us is a two-bedroom self-contained floor which you can move into any time you like.” Just like that!
After silently thanking Gandhiji and Nehruji, we moved in and set up house. Since I had no car and as public transport was not available, I had to self-propel to the college and back, covering a distance of some ten miles every day. The great consolation was that I traversed through some very lovely countryside. Walking along snow covered paths was an exhilarating experience except when it rained, and I had to wade
through slush and mud.
What interested me most in the college was that almost every single student was a veteran of war and, therefore, our studies tended to be very practical. Mike Carver, for example, had been a tank commander in the desert of North Africa and had a lot to tell us on tank warfare. He ended up as Chief of the Imperial General Staff, the highest post in the British Army. “Gus” Walker was a Group Captain who had lost one of his arms in combat and was a “wizard” in aerial strategy. He also climbed to the highest position in his Service. Commander Peter House, witty and flamboyant, had been one of Lord Mountbatten’s aides in India during and after partition. Yes, it was a good crowd, and we had some rare times together. The only thing that distressed me was that even though it was taboo to discuss the subject, the sympathies of all the British officers were blatantly with Pakistan over Kashmir which was a burning issue at that time.
I had mentioned earlier that on completion of the Joint Services Staff Course, I had been told that I would be standing by for India’s Second Cruiser. Since this ship seemed to be taking inordinately long in forthcoming, I was appointed on completion at Latimer, to London as a Deputy Naval Advisor to our High Commissioner V.K. Krishna Menon. The Naval Advisor was Captain A.K. Chatterji. Destiny was to throw me together with these two superiors more than once and yet my relations with them at that point of time were far from cordial. I met Lord Mountbatten at one of the parties and asked him if I could get a short attachment to a Royal Navy cruiser. He asked me, “Why, don’t you like the London job?” I replied, quite frankly, that “in my opinion an assignment such as this one was of the least job satisfaction, and I hated the cocktail circuits, where one met the same people and indulged in the same type of inane conversation.” “Hey, steady on!” he said, “we are at a cocktail party and you are talking to me!”
“I am sorry, Sir, I am speaking in general terms, and anyway, we are talking about my going to sea and there is certainly nothing trite about that.” With a hearty laugh he said, “I will see what I can do about it.” Just two days later, he rang up and said, “Krishnan, I have just the ship for you. You will love it there.” And thus it was that I had a brief respite of two months in the British Cruiser Sheffield.
Sheffield was what sailors call a “lucky ship.” When the hunt for the German ship Bismarck, the most powerful battleship in the world, was on, the Sheffield had been detached and ordered to shadow the giant. An air striking force from the Aircraft Carrier Ark Royal mistook the Sheffield for the enemy, fired torpedoes at her but being a lucky ship, she dodged them. Realizing their mistake, one of the aircraft signaled her, “Sorry for the kipper” (Kipper is naval slang for tin-fish the torpedo).
It was the year of the Festival of Britain and the Sheffield was chosen to “show the flag” at the various ports of England, Scotland and Wales. I had been sent there, primarily, to understudy the “Commander” (second in command in a cruiser). Soon after I joined, the officer who had been designated to look after the administrative side of the cruise fell ill and had to be hospitalized. So, instead of an “understudy” I was given the euphemistic title “Festival of Britain Coordinating Commander.” It was great fun planning the various activities, like flag marches, “Beating the Retreat,” acceptances of invitation, planning ‘return’ parties on board, there was never a dull moment. I had bought myself a brand new car and the captain very kindly agreed to ship it on board. I arrogated to myself the right to navigate the Captain, Micky Everhard, to his various official calls on land and other social activities and being quizzical by nature, enjoyed every moment of being “in” on everything.
After two months and fond farewells I returned to the dreary dismal duties of Deputy Naval Advisor. In such jobs as these where there is very little to do and lots of time to do it in, I always felt caged and cornered with no means of expressing my natural exuberance and ebullience. I had little taste for the dreary rounds of cocktail parties, where the conversation tended to be inane, and the company repetitive. To make matters worse, I was also not getting on well with my Captain. It is strange to think that there was so much friction between us then, whereas in later and more important years, we worked as a perfect team and got on like a house on fire.
Even though I was the Deputy Naval Advisor, I actually had little to do with the High Commissioner, yet Krishna Menon’s method of working, and his Elizabethan inconsistencies exasperated me. Even though he was cordial enough with me, back slapping and calling me “Admiral” on the odd occasions that we met, I could not reconcile to myself this Prima Donna with a man of the greatest ability and industry, with a mind so fertile and a character so many faceted.”
The overall effect of all these little storms was that a big cyclone was building up inside me. It hit me one day with gale force but fortunately for me, it blew out just as quickly.
Everyone knew that VKK was a man of strong likes and dislikes and was never much concerned with ranks and status symbols. He had his favorites and satellites and there were many of the latter in orbit around him who were sheer opportunists and sycophants. A man particularly in his favor was an Englishman called Mr. Frost (pseudonym), a relatively junior employee of the Mission, but who was supposed to have “the ear of the High Commissioner.” This person, with a caricature resemblance to Lord Wavell, never missed an opportunity of letting all and sundry know of his “special place” in the Mission hierarchy. The natural consequence was that he was roundly disliked and much feared. I certainly do not think Mr. Frost had many friends. But I owe him thanks for bringing me to the very positive notice of Mr. Menon even though it was through the hard way.
Vice Admiral Pizey and Rear Admiral Dickinson had been nominated by the British government, on loan to India, to head the Indian Navy and Indian Fleet, respectively. It was the normal custom, on such an occasion for the Naval Advisor to host a fairly large cocktail party to welcome them, on behalf of the High Commissioner. Since Captain Chatterji was away on leave, the responsibility fell on me to do the honors.
I met the High Commissioner to get his formal approval. In order to be on clear ground, I specifically asked him, “Is it to be a dry party or can alcoholic drinks be served?” He countered, “What sort of guests were you thinking of?” I said, “subject to your approval, they would be mostly senior naval officers from the Admiralty, some Army and Air Force officers and a sprinkling of civilians.”
He said, “That’s a hard drinking lot. It would serve them right to give them tea. Anyway, being mainly a Service party, liquor may be served. For obvious reasons, I would not be joining in the ‘drowning’ ceremony,” he added, puckishly. I said in similar vein, “I shall close the bar at 8 p.m. sharp, Sir, and keep the casualty list small.
The party started at 6:30 p.m. and was going quite well, guests were beginning to enjoy themselves when I suddenly sensed that something was going very wrong and the party spirit beginning to groan to death. I soon found the reason. The alcoholic source had been suddenly cut off and guests were staring glumly at orange squashes thrust into their unwilling hands.
I was astounded and learnt from the head-waiter that Mr. Frost, who had taken charge of the liquor stock, was refusing to release any more supplies. I was livid with rage which paradoxically turned me icy calm, because I knew I had to deal with a dangerous customer. I confronted him and said,
“Mr. Frost, this party is slated to last from 6:30 p.m. to 8 p.m., it is a drinks party, and the time is hardly seven. There is still an hour to go. We cannot suddenly shut of the tap now and insult all those very important people out there.” I knew that this gentleman had developed a deep antagonism towards me as I had been one of the few that had deliberately kept my full distance from him, and he saw that here was a chance to even up. So, openly and rudely he barked, “No more liquor! I am in charge of the stocks!” I asked him, with carefully assumed politeness, “What do you mean no more liquor? Have we run out of drinks?” He had the infinite crust to say, “Oh, there is plenty of the stuff, but no more for your party. Mr. Krishna Menon’s orders!”
I told him grimly, “Mr. Frost, I do not know who put you in charge of the liquor, but hear this, I am the senior officer present here, I am in sole charge of this function and if the bar is not open within the next fifteen seconds, I shall charge you with willful disobedience of orders, and by thunder, make you feel very sorry indeed.” He murmured, “Mr. Menon shall hear of this,” but opened the bar.
The party was a roaring success, but the price had to be paid the following day, and the summons came for me to appear before the Great Presence. Outside the office to which I was ushered, stood Mr. Frost with a supercilious smirk that plainly meant, “We will see who is sorry.”
Mr. Menon was seated in a leather chair and glaring at me with those penetrating and hypnotic eyes of his, he motioned me to be seated and said, in an icy cold voice, “I see you have been making a nuisance of yourself.” I asked, “How, Sir?” and he snapped at me, “You know perfectly well what I mean. Mr. Frost tells me you were rude with him, called him names when he advised you about Government Policy.” I told him my side of the story, exactly as it happened and added, “I had got your permission to serve liquor. I took a decision and gave Mr. Frost an order. I was not rude unless giving orders to one’s subordinates can be termed as rude.”
He was gracious enough to say that he accepted my explanation but said, “You have hurt Mr. Frost’s feelings. You should apologize to him.” I said, “Sir, I am quite sure I don’t owe him an apology. But if you order me to do so, I will apologize.” He flared up and said, “What kind of an apology is that? You know I can send you back to India by the next boat.”
It was a phantasmagoric situation. Here I was, being chided for a crime I had not committed and being treated like a little school boy and being threatened with deportation. With great effort I controlled my rising anger and said, “Sir, I have done no wrong. Of course, you have the power to send me back and if you feel that I deserve it, I shall certainly go,” and then, added quite unnecessarily, “After all, nobody asked me if I wanted to come here in the first place.”
He said, “So you won’t apologize to Frost?” I realized that I had completely burnt my boats and there was no going back on my tracks. Taking courage in both hands, I said, “Sir, when I came in, I saw Mr. Frost waiting outside, obviously expecting me to come crawling to him on my hands and knees. It will be one more feather in his cap and he will have greater reason to throw his weight about. Everyone is already afraid of him. I am sorry to have to say this, but he openly goes about bragging about his pull and influence. Now perhaps you can understand my total unwillingness to crawl before him, but I shall do so only if you order me to.”
I really thought I had shot the bolt and reached journey’s end as far as my service career went. But I had not reckoned the greatness of the man before me. He stared at me for a full minute and something inside me told that whatever happens, I must not drop my eyes. Time seemed to have stopped for me when suddenly he smiled and said, “Ring that bell.” I did so and in rushed Mr. Frost, beaming all over his face and the High Commissioner spoke, “Where is the tea? Don’t you know I have a senior officer present with me?” The man literally wilted as he stumbled out of the door.
He turned the conversation on to a completely new track. He enquired after the naval expansion program and how it was going. I was on very sure ground now. I told him that we were completely bogged down and getting nowhere. We were after the acquisition of the second cruiser and it was nowhere in sight. He then told me something I did not know. He, as the High Commissioner and the most obvious person, had not even been approached on this subject. Evidently, Naval Head-quarters was bypassing him and “putting out feelers” to the Admiralty! I told him, quite truthfully, “Sir, I certainly had no idea that this was happening. No wonder we were stuck. In any case, Naval Headquarters has no business to negotiate directly with the Royal Navy even if we had a Royal Navy Admiral in charge of the Indian Navy. I am sure, Sir, that you should step in.”
“Yes,” he said, “I will speak to Clement Atlee [Prime Minister of Great Britain at that time] about this and see what we can do.”
He wasted no time and within the week we got an offer from the British Admiralty of the “loan” of three R.N. Destroyers with the option to purchase them later. They were of the “Hunt” class, renamed, Godavari, Gomati, and Ganga and served our Navy well and usefully.
There is no doubt in my mind that Lord Louis Mountbatten had a very firm hand in allowing this “transition” to be effected. It was not entirely out of his love for India that made him “shove his ear in,” (though, of course, it was there) but rather, his keenness that the Indian Navy should continue to be British-oriented, else we might turn elsewhere for our acquisitions. This was not just a surmise on my part. He confirmed it in his own words when addressing our Chiefs of Staff Committee at a later date and I was present as secretary of the said committee.
But, in fairness to the British, it must be said that our request came at a time when they could ill-afford to spare any ships, leave alone a cruiser. When World War II ended, their government had allowed, with gay abandon, a substantial rundown of her naval strength. When the Korean War broke out in June of 1950, her contribution to the UN forces had to be entirely by the Navy. Whatever fleet she had was thus flung into battle off Korea. With a sudden jolt, the British government, as indeed the United States, realized that in the post-war period sea power was as important as it had been since man took to the sea as a means of transport and communication. The Admiralty was busy redoing their naval arithmetic. Even in the Joint Services Staff College that I had recently graduated from, syndicates were computing cruisers in terms such as “nine and a half!” Ironically, the “half” was the Cruiser Jamaica that our Naval Headquarters had hoped for and now she had been very badly damaged by the coastal batteries in the Korean War. Britain, in the middle of 1950, had to embark on an emergency building program and placed orders for over 70 ships. It was in this sort of “Scylla or Charybdis” situation that Britain agreed on the transfer of the “Hunts” to us. And it is in this perspective that we must appreciate the efforts of V.K. Krishna Menon and Lord Louis Mountbatten.
Our Fleet was growing Cruiser Delhi, three “R” category destroyers (Rajput, Ranjit, and Rana) and soon the three “Hunt” class frigates. Undoubtedly, they were all more or less at the vintage stage. But a warship is a warship and as long as we were umbilically dependent on the trident wielding Britannia for our naval (no pun intended) nourishment, we were the proverbial beggars who could not be choosers. After the Korean War, we bought the Nigeria, sister-ship of the colony class cruiser Jamaica and renamed her INS Mysore, but more of her, later.
I had close contact with VKK for years after that incident, but he never mentioned it once. Throughout our association he always treated me with the greatest kindness and affection.
People called him abrasive, portrayed a picture of the modern Machiavelli and Mephistopheles rolled into one. But I have seldom met a man to whom kindness and compassion comes so naturally as Krishna Menon. Though he put on an arrogant front, I always felt that having been a loner for so long, he was inordinately shy and did not particularly enjoy the limelight. At any social function that he hosted, you would never find him standing still. He used to flit around carrying plates of small eats and offering them to his guests. He once confided in me that it was one sure way he could avoid “stupid small talk.”
He has been accused of surrounding himself with much brass at his meetings as Defense Minister and bullying them. As Secretary of the Defense Minister’s various committees, I was invariably present. The real trouble was that Menon’s brain was so razor sharp that he was usually three jumps ahead of everyone else. He loved the quip and the thrust of debate, and this combined with his sense of humor which often left the recipient of his attention quite defenseless, and who felt that he was the victim of bullying.
Sometimes he would come out with a statement outrageously pointless to the subject in hand. I remember once when a meeting of the Defense Minister’s Committee was getting very heated with many people talking and the Minister apparently asleep. When the debate looked like becoming a slanging match, Mr. Menon suddenly came to life and said, “I think I have got the solution to the problem.” This produced the desired effect of silence. Turning deliberately towards me, he said, “Krishnan, we should redesign you a uniform with lots of vertical stripes. It would make you look slimmer and taller!” I asked later, “Why did you want to dress me like a convict?” He retorted, “How else could I stop that pointless chatter going on? When he heard that Admiral Samson’s daughter had suffered severe burns, he went all the way to Bombay solely for the purpose of visiting her and consoling the mother. I saw him shedding tears when he heard that the girl had succumbed to her injuries, and was furious with me because I had seen him.
When Mr. Menon was returned to Parliament with a thumping majority, I did not write to congratulate him. But when he was made the scapegoat for the 1962 debacle against the Chinese, I was furious that he should be sacrificed at the altar of expediency. I immediately wrote to him very strongly expressing myself. He was prompt in his reply, dated 27th November, 1962, it was such an encouraging and heart-warming letter that I have kept it as one of my prized possessions. I quote:
“You are fortunate to be in the service of our motherland and to be one of the distinguished officers of the Naval Service. I wish you every good fortune and I know you have a great future before you.
Kind Regards and best wishes, Yours sincerely, V.K. Krishna Menon”
I remember Mr. Krishna Menon, through many hundreds of incidents where I was present and I say in all humility and much affection, that he was truly a very great man. Whatever people may say of his faults and failings, I sincerely believe that his contribution to our country, as a lonely freedom fighter, as the Angry Man in international forums, as the Architect of Defense Production, as a warm-hearted human being, has been monumental and he does not need any statues to prove it.
Chapter 16 A Hair Raising Experience
The grimmest battle I have ever fought in my life, and lost, is described in the following pages. Anyone who has seen me cannot miss out the fact that I am bald as a newly laid egg. It did not happen suddenly. The process of deforestation commenced early though, and by the time I was 30, my northern hemisphere was a semi-arid wasteland.
We are creatures of habit. The regular visit to the hairdressers became a ritual. Unlike hair, the habit grows on one, and it cannot be shaken off. Then there is the issue of prestige. If a man is known by his clothes, no less is he known by his barber. As Deputy Naval Advisor in India’s High Commission, I was a pseudo-diplomat. Though without much privilege, and even less in the purse, prestige demanded that the barber must have the correct address. I had the choice of Burlington Arcade or Bond Street. I chose the former because his name was Benjamin Hare (all names in this story are not their real names), and he was bespoken to the King (so said his brass-plate).
Ben was usually garrulous, but today he was strongly pensive as he explored my head for bits of hair to cut. He was mumbling something to himself. Straining my ears, I caught odd snatches like “what a shame,” “so young too!” “Sheer negligence, I call it,” etc. The thought crossed my mind that he had suffered bereavement in his family that could have been averted with a little more clinical care. Ready to commiserate with him, I asked, “What’s up, Ben? You don’t sound like your usual cheerful self today.” Damned if he was not commiserating with me, because he said, “I was thinking of your ‘air, Sir. You are losing it fast, and do you know why? Because you don’t look after it. Not yet turned twenty-five and you are getting bald as a coot. That’s a bird wot has no “air, if you didn’t know. You still have some loverly “air left. But it won’t be long – you mark my words. Then, quite unnecessarily added, “Of course, it is no skin of my nose. Entirely, your lookout.” I was thoroughly alarmed by now and forgot to correct him that he was out of my age by six years and that by no stretch of imagination could my hair be termed “loverly.” Instead, I asked him, naïve, gullible, foolish and vain that I was, “Is it too late to do anything about it? Can you suggest something?”
He rose to the occasion (and in the process practically uprooted the little bit of shrubbery that he was holding) and said, “All my gentlemen in your boots asks me the syme question. And I says to ’em, sez I, I ain’t no expert in that line. Wot yer need is to see a Trichologist. You should ‘ave seen the Duke of Mulberry the other day. “Ben,” ‘e says, “You’re a ruddy marvel. I took your advice and look at me! And I am getting married next week at St. Paul’s and you are a special invitee,” ‘e says.”
When I could get a word in edgeways, I said, “But Ben, I don’t understand. The problem is outside the head and not inside. How on earth does a Psychologist help?” “Cor Lumme,” he said, “I didn’t say psychologist. The word is Trichologist. An ‘air doctor wot knows all about the structure, functions, and diseases of the ‘air.” (I looked it up in the dictionary and he had it word perfect.) “I have never heard of one before,” I admitted. “Nor have many others,” he spoke sadly, “that’s why we ‘ave so many baldies about!” and summed up with a touch of pathos, “not good for my business either.”
(Note – I won’t tax the readers’ patience with any more attempted cockney accents!) By now, my interest had been fully aroused, and I asked him how I go about seeing a trichologist. He scratched his chin, thought for a while and said, “It won’t be easy. I could give you names, but they are
quacks. Seeing as how you are one of my regulars, I will put you in touch with one of the best in the profession. Mark you, I can’t promise that he will be able to take you on. However, he’s a close chum of mine and if at all possible, will oblige. I will give you his address and a note, and you can try your luck. Thanks very much, sir, and good luck,” he said as he put the whacking big tip into his pocket.
The address was staggering! The clinic was situated in a posh place in London – Right in the heart of Mayfair! Dr. Harold Grover had so many letters after his name that I could easily have “packed my box with five dozen liquor jugs.” (The above quote, to those that don’t know, contains all the twenty-six letters of the alphabet. Check, if you wish!)
I presented my credentials to the receptionist, a beautiful platinum blonde. She had a figure like an hourglass, the voice of a turtledove and diction of Roedean and Oxford. Everything was so spotlessly clean that the place made me feel like a lice-ridden, unkempt, shaggy dog. Before my morale could reach its nadir, the goddess spoke. “Commander, there is a waiting list a mile long. I am very sorry. It may take months and months for your turn. Anyway, I will enter your name in the register.” As I was leaving, I heard once more the voice of the turtle, “One moment please! I did not notice that the introduction was from Benjamin Hare. He is the doctor’s favorite. Perhaps he will stretch a point and see you. I will check.”
Ben of Burlington Arcade certainly had the keys of the kingdom, for soon I was ushered in before the Great Wizard. His glutinous message got through to me that I looked “an interesting subject worth of investigation.”
“Nurse, prepare the patient,” he ordered peremptorily, and turned about and left me to be put through the preliminaries by a middle-aged lady who seemed to have materialized from nowhere. This was, of course, absurd! She was of a size that no Houdini would hire; she reminded me of Longfellow’s Village Blacksmith, “a mighty man is he, with large and sinewy hands, and the muscles of his brawny arms are strong as iron bands!”
She set me down and strapped me into a chair that was a chromium-plated marvel, irradiated my cringing cranium with a battery of spotlights, swathed me with sheets and got to work. My head was massaged, scrubbed, brushed, combed, scoured once more, spirited and scraped, lotioned and medicated. Like the old Smith, she had “on my sounding anvil shaped each burning deed.” Just as I began to wonder if a frontal lobotomy was going to be performed, her voice boomed, “the patient is ready, doctor.” So, evidently was Dr. Harry Grover, complete with the surgeon’s apron, the face mask, skull cap, and rubber gloves. I could only make out his pair of azure blue eyes that smiled kindly as he said, “This will hurt a bit,” and believe it or not, with a pair of tweezers, tweaked off two of my hair and said, “There, that didn’t hurt, did it?” By now, a trolley had been wheeled in, carrying a microscope and the doctor placed the tiny filaments thereunder and proceeded with a minute and concentrated examination. I don’t know what he saw, but he kept saying, “Interesting! Interesting! Most interesting!” Turning to the nurse he said, “I would like Dr. Shears to take a look at these specimens! Ask him to stop over if he has finished at the theater.” He explained to me, “That’s my Number Two, you know. He is doing an alopeciactomy – a complicated case, but Cutty Shears can handle it – one of the best in the profession.” Shears soon bustled in and a professional discussion of the erstwhile surgery followed. Obviously, Cutty had done the correct thing – “he had put her on the electro-coagulation machine with modified frequency modulations, with dramatic results!” Number One was obviously pleased and proclaimed that Professor Van Scott of the USA would be interested.
At last the subject turned to me and mine. “I have an interesting specimen here that I thought you might like to look at,” said the Head doctor, “I would like you, particularly to note the peculiar follicular formation at the place just below the dermis.” It bowled Dr. Shears over, his reaction was explosive. “Fantastic!” he cried, “Very unique.” After a brief discussion in undertones, Dr. Grover, who obviously believed in establishing full rapport with his patients, told me in very simple language that I did not understand the entire problem. Anyway, a laboratory analysis would be necessary, after which they could chalk out a program of treatment. “I am hopeful. Please fix up an appointment with the receptionist a week from now by which time the lab results should be in.”
The consultation was over. I was brimming with confidence and even mustered the courage to ask the receptionist what her name was. “Marie Antoinette,” she said, as she gave me the receipt for the consultation fee of five guineas. She, of course, knew my name, but just to be pleasant asked me what the “N” stood for and I naturally replied, “Napoleon.” I went to a Yul Brynner film and laughed off myself silly every time he came on the screen!
The appointment day arrived; I went ahead of time, agog with anticipation and soon came the summons. The jubilant doctor told me that I was in luck. “The lab results are most promising. We would like to take you in hand straightaway. An hour a week for six weeks should do the trick. The receptionist will give you details.” Very decently, he added, “we are interested in your case and will not be charging you anything by way of doctor’s fees.” When I gave her the good news, the girl was none too pleased, “If I have said it once, I have said it a hundred times; the doctor is just too good a man!” Then more businesslike, she added, “Of course, we will have to charge you for the medication, you understand. On a no-profit basis, it should not come to more than ten guineas per session. If you like to pay in advance, we could order in bulk and save a tenner. (Ten pounds sterling). The lab bill is seven guineas, if you can kindly pay it now!” I decided on a “pay-as-you-go” basis. The time was fixed for 3:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. every Thursday.
I kept my visits to the Trichologist as one of the most closely guarded secrets, treading with a circumspection that led my colleagues into unsavory speculation. However truth, like my hair, will be out. The scalp is, after all, only human. Every time I got there, it was exposed to wire-brushing and sandpapering followed by a “going-over” with a contraption with a thousand needles that did a veritable tattoo with military precision and penetration. This was only phase one of the tortures that were heaped on my head. I could not, if I wanted to, describe the various instruments used. All I can say with certainty is that some of them would have found pride of place in Madame Tussauds Chamber of Horrors. The finale of the hour’s session was the “Unguent,” a soothing “salve,” with an interesting recipe I surmised, comprising “Ground red
chilies mixed well in Sulfuric Acid, with oddments such as ginger, green pepper, and powdered glass thrown in for good measure.”
The interesting thing about the clinic was that though it boasted of highly novel equipment, there wasn’t a single looking-glass. I had to wait to return to my office and in the secret recesses of the lavatory, submit my head for examination. There is only one word that can describe the color of my head – incarnadine red. To save the reader the trouble, the dictionary describes the word as “flesh-colored crimson.”
You can hide many things but not your bloody head if you are as short as I am on whom people are looking down on all the time! Try a felt hat? It felt like rats were trying to burrow their way in. I bought a fez cap and brought upon my head the equivalent of a mini war. The tramping of troops, the fire from shell and mortar, the low-level strafing, it was all there. It was an unconditional surrender. I took to bed with an icebag as my crowning glory. But the only difference was that, now pin-pointed icicles took over. No, the nights brought no solace for there were nightmares, all pie-bald!
Hope springs eternal. By Tuesdays, instinctively I turned to the mirror (the bruises having abated by now), and like SnowWhite’s stepmother, asked, deviating somewhat from the script, “are there any sprouts?” I have always had a reasonably good imagination, and it ran riot on these occasions. Here, there, and everywhere, evidence, something like the early stages of moss formation. So, like the fair Desdemona, her household tasks being done, I went again!
But there is a limit to the “heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is “hair’ to” (apologies to Bill Shakespeare). The third round was the last one. Sleepless nights had aged me by ten years and the growing ridicule of my friends was becoming unbearable. The elastic broke when someone toasted me as, “Irish Krish, the perfect redhead!”
Being perfectly rational (I wouldn’t have my head treated anymore for all the tea in China, especially as it would be red), I concluded that I was actually saving 30 guineas by discontinuing treatment.
A task still awaited me that would brook no delay – a visit to Ben of Burlington Arcade. If you have forgotten, he was the one who had directed me to Beetle’s parlor. I got to his shop just about his closing time. I wanted no witnesses in case murder had to be committed. But Ben was missing! Instead, there was an elderly gentleman, locking up for the night! He was bald as a coot. When he saw me he grabbed something and jammed it on his pate – he was my Ben alright. The WIG he was wearing was just perfect!
I don’t know about you, but I just laughed and laughed and said, “Ben! Your date of birth is all wrong. You should have lived in Kipling’s time! You would have become a King!” I wonder if he ever sorted that one out. Have you?
Chapter 17 The Coronation Cruise
Returning back to the job in hand, I was getting completely “cheesed off” and “fed up” with the crazy diplomatic merry-go-round. I was itching to get to sea again and kept bombarding the personnel branch with requests to give me a ship – any ship. My request was finally granted, but again, as usual, the hard way. My Captain and I had a difference of opinion over something quite trivial, but he was incensed enough to render a special confidential report on me, which was quite derogatory. It did have the effect of getting the Chief of Personnel at Naval Headquarters wondering how I could have dropped so low in my grading. In particular, how does the grading of one’s “intelligence” nosedive in a matter of just a couple of months since the last report on me? The special report on me was returned to the reporting officer asking for clarification. He replied that I had lost interest temporarily because of brooding over getting to sea and that I had got over it since, and was my usual self again! Anyway, that did the trick and I was soon packing to return to India and to take command of the 31st Minesweeping Squadron. At M.S.31, I would have six ships under me and I felt that my Captain in London had done very well for me! We did a lot of steaming and were a happy band. “Work hard, play hard and live dangerously’ was our motto and we succeeded in doing that quite well. The Command, however, did not last more than six months when I was given the taste of training the first batch of midshipmen in the Frigate INS Tir. This command was also very much to my liking. I have repeatedly said that I have always had a soft corner for these high-spirited young gentlemen. In addition, I had some very good officers serving under me – Swaraj Prakash, Sarma, Kirpal Singh, all I am glad to say, reached Flag Rank in the course of time. Essentially, for the purpose of giving sea training, we were at sea for quite long periods. We also had the opportunity of some very good foreign cruises – Rangoon, Seychelles, Penang, Mauritius and so on.
The highlight, of course, was our participation in Queen Elizabeth II’s Coronation Revue of the Fleet at Portsmouth, England. It is a part of their tradition that the ruler of Britannia reviews the fleet periodically. Soon after her coronation as Queen of England, Elizabeth II decided on such a review to be held at Spithead (Portsmouth). The warships of the Royal Navy and some selected merchantmen were to be amassed there. The Commonwealth countries were also to contribute their share for this pageantry by sending some units from their respective navies. Some non-Commonwealth countries including, this time, surprisingly the U.S.S.R. was also to be represented.
From India, the Flagship INS Delhi was the obvious choice. Her consorts from the Indian fleet were to be the Destroyer, Ranjit (Commander S.M. Nanda) and my ship, the Tir. It was a long haul from Bombay to Portsmouth, and it had to be a fairly fast passage. Our first Port of call was Massawa, a very hot and sultry place in the Red Sea. INS Delhi gave a cocktail party in the honor of the Crown Prince of Ethiopia and since we were alongside, practically all the taxi drivers on the quay also joined in the fun. It was impossible to differentiate invitees from the gatecrashers, as they all dressed alike.
We had a delightful drive up to the hill-station, Asmara, where we played the local football with music provided in the stands by the Ethiopian band. At the end of the game, the band struck up a very hot piece of jazz and only halfway through with all the Ethiopian audience at attention, did we realize that they were playing our National Anthem! At Asmara, Charles Nanda, Chandy Kuruvilla (Ranjit’s First Lieutenant) and I
went to a night club, and we were joined by an Englishman, who was in the oil business. Champagne flowed. Chandy, in his most expansive mood, carried away by the special attention of the hostess, started ordering drinks all around, including the band. When the bill came everyone was vying with the other to settle the same. I discreetly suggested to Charles that we might take a look at the bill before getting carried away by generosity. Lo, and behold! It was only for a small sum of 520 pound sterling! Between us, we couldn’t muster a tenth of the amount. So, with inward alacrity and outward and manifest reluctance we let the oil king deprive us of the pleasure of settling the bill.
The return drive at night, down the winding and narrow road to the plains was very scary. Apart from the hazards of the road itself, dacoits were known to be very active and, in fact, we had to clear one roadblock setup whilst we fired a few volleys into the air with our pistols to let them know that we were armed.
After a brief fueling halt at Aden and passage through the Suez Canal and further halts at Malta and Gibraltar, we made it to Portsmouth with just two days to spare before the review. A vast Armada had already gathered there with ships of various categories and sizes drawn up line upon line. The review would be in the form of Her Majesty the Queen, and the Duke of Edinburgh passing between the columns reviewing each ship with the ship’s company lining the decks and superstructure and cheering them as the Royal Yacht, “Surprise,” passed by. Having had the time to do so all the ships assembled there were gleaming. After our long voyage, buffeted by heavy seas, which we had encountered in the Bay of Biscay, we must have looked like something the cat had dragged in, but not for long. Every man-jack on board including Officers, Captain and the Admiral fell to with a vengeance and soon had the Indian trio outshining many of the rest.
On the morning of the review, the Queen invited all the Commonwealth captains to a Sherry party on board the Royal Yacht. The Queen looked as though she had stepped out of a fairy book, whilst Prince Phillip was in his element with the Navy, but Princess Margaret was the eye-catcher, and stunning, especially as she seemed to be in somewhat of a temper. However, she was pleasant enough to us in conversation.
All the ships on review looked spick and span. But the cynosure of all eyes was, of course, the modern Soviet Cruiser Sverdlov. I wonder how many people realized at that time that this ship was the first harbinger of the Soviet decision to cease to be a “land animal” and become a major sea-power, and one day, the Soviet Navy would become the world’s largest. In the course of history, nations throw up great military leaders whose prowess in battle is the theme for ballads and hero worship. But not often is a country blessed with leaders who have the depth of vision that can look into the future and their country’s might. John Arbuthnot Fisher is remembered fondly as “Jackie” Fisher that revolutionized the Royal Navy. Thomas D. Mahan of the U.S. Navy wrote books on “sea-power” those, even now, are textbooks for budding naval strategists. Clausewitz brought war into a fine art. Major General Fuller, and Liddel Hart of Great Britain put out theories that caught the imagination of Heinz Guderian of the Fuehrer’s army and he swept through France with a British invention “The Tank” and the Blitzkrieg.
Heading the Soviet Navy (if it could be called that at the time), when World War II ended, was such a man – Admiral Sergei Gorshkov. He was no visionary or romantic. With a pragmatism that was basic in the man and his outlook, he saw clearly that sea-power was not only valid but totally essential for his country to become and remain a Super Power. He addressed towards this end, and was the Father of the Colossal Soviet Navy to come.
I had no idea of all this on that day of the Review of the Fleet by the Queen, I have related later in these chronicles the good fortune I have had, in succeeding and more senior years, to achieve considerable rapport with this most remarkable sailor of our day, by then a five star Grand Admiral and supreme commander of the Soviet navy.
The Review went off with punctilious perfection, with ship after ship “manning ship” (a special evolution meant for honoring the reviewing authority whereby all the ships company line up along the superstructure) and the sailors’ “hurrahs” rending the air as the Royal Yacht slowly steamed past between the lines.
On completion of the attendant ceremonies, the Indian trio sailed eastwards once more, this time to join the Mediterranean Fleet for exercises. Lord Louis Mountbatten was the Commanderin-Chief and by a lucky coincidence, Micky Everhard (of Sheffield of Festival of Britain narrative) was the Captain of the Fleet.
During one of the brief respites from the sea exercises, the fleet anchored in one of the Sicilian Bays. The Lord and his Lady were there on board the C-in-C’s yacht, and genuinely friendly. Not without trepidation, I invited them on board my ship for dinner. There were dozens of ships there, with captains miles senior to me. To my delight and astonishment, the invitation was accepted with alacrity and not a trace of condescension. Having dined in the magnificence opulence of Flag House at Malta, I had grave misgivings about the rather meager resources of my ship. But I need not have worried. Lord Louis was the quintessence of charm. Lady Edwina gave new dimension to the word “enchanting.”
The Admiral was dining with one of his sea-captains and his officers – a sailor amongst sailors – not the ex-Viceroy and First Governor General of India after independence. It is needless to say that all of us were completely captivated by Edwina Mountbatten. At a request from the midshipmen, we adjourned for a session in the gunroom where the noble guests were introduced to “Fifi,” a statuette of a very curvaceous Thai beauty. The midshipmen had dexterously concealed her many charms which would however be revealed for a price for the “Gunroom Curtain Fund.” The Admiral was highly amused, paid five pounds and having taken a “Dekho,” [look see] said, amidst uproarious laughter, “That makes me a life member and I am entitled to view Fifi whenever the Tir is around!”
Lady Mountbatten was equally magnanimous but naturally not over-inquisitive as far as the convexes and concaves of Fifi were concerned. We were really sorry that the evening had to end and we wondered how such a couple of international fame could be so unaffected and amicable, so free and easy, and genuinely friendly. I had many meetings with Lord Mountbatten when I was Naval Advisor to our High
Commissioner in London in 1965-1966. In my long service career, I have received some bouquets and several brick-bats. One of the former, which I consider evergreen and priceless, is a letter from Broadlands dated 10th December 1966 and the occasion was my transfer back from London to India. I am very proud of it and quote from it: Dear Krishnan,
I would not like you to depart without my sending my best personal wishes to you and your wife for the future. You have done a fine job over here for the Indian Navy and indeed for India as well, and may well be proud of all you have done. Very best of luck to you in the future.
Yours sincerely, Mountbatten of Burma
I was shocked beyond measure of the news of the tragic and untimely death of Lord Mountbatten at the hands of an assassin’s bomb. His many splendored life took him through diverse paths to different assignments, each of which brought him more fame and accolades. But basically, he was a child of the sea, brought up in the broad bosom of the oceans and nurtured in the traditions of the Royal Navy. From the time he joined HMS Lion, Admiral Beatty’s flagship, as a midshipman just turned sixteen, he wore the naval uniform for well over half a century, and was justifiably proud of it. I say this with absolute conviction: “Even though he had blazed a resplendent trail of glory, wherever he went and whatever he did, his successes never changed one cardinal fact – he was a sailor first and a sailor last. As a person of the same calling, I felt I was entitled to a last Salute to him. I wrote through a weekly magazine my tribute to this grand warrior in an article entitled “Salute from a Sailor.”
Around the same time, I read somewhere that Prince Charles likes reading whatever appears about Lord Mountbatten in newspapers and news magazines. I sent him a copy of the said article and received a handsome reply which I reproduce below:
Dear Admiral:
I was most touched that you should have thought of writing to me as you did. Thank you so much for sending me your requiem, which I found fascinating. It is wonderful to have further evidence of my great uncle’s extraordinary and very special qualities. He has left us a great example to try and follow.
With my very best wishes, Yours sincerely,
Charles. Lord Louis, ist Earl Mountbatten of Burma, told me long, long years ago, “Keep smiling, Laddie!”, so I shall shed no tears!
Chapter 18 Showing the Tricolor
One of the peace time roles of the Navy is to “Show the Flag.” This is done in the form of ships visiting ports of foreign countries as a gesture of goodwill of our country towards them. It also provides a welcome interval in the arduousness of shipboard life. Such visits, naturally, are immensely popular with all sailors who, after all, joined the Navy to see the world, as promised by the recruiting posters back home. Visits by foreign men-of-war are equally popular with the host countries. With such mutuality of interests, the sojourns mostly turn out successful. There are three types of visits – formal, informal, and operational. The last of the categories is primarily for fueling, storing, and a business-like turnaround of short duration. There is not much difference between the formal and informal visits except that the degree of protocol, ceremonials, and extension of hospitality from our side is supposed to be less extensive than the latter, namely, “informal” visits. It is, in fact, a ploy adopted by our financial pundits in Delhi to sanction less money, if any, by citing that the visit is not a “formal” one. In my experience, I have found that in actual fact, there is hardly any difference. The schedules are more or less the same – the calls and return calls of the Captain and the V.I.P.’s ashore, laying of wreaths, the Captain’s dinner party, the ship’s cocktail party, games fixtures against local teams, ship“open to visitors,” the ship’s band concerts ashore, the return of hospitality ashore, are sometimes so lavish and prodigious as to make you yearn to put to sea again!
I always used to make it a point, soon after clearing harbor after such a visit, to sound off “action stations” and put the ship’s company through a couple of hours of furious drills just to shake ourselves out of the somnolent lethargy induced ashore and to get across the message, loud and clear, “The fun is over, now to work.”
I said that the visits were invariably successful but there were at times some exceptions. If our visit coincided with that of another foreign power that had friendlier relations with the hosting country, there was always the chance of a cold shoulder. Occasionally our own representatives in missions/embassies did not exert themselves to make the most of the visits to promote our country’s interests, and could be casual and even hostile. Fortunately, most of our diplomats abroad are persons of fairly high caliber but one does come across the odd ambassador that wants to make full use of the ship’s visit to enhance his prestige, doing precious little in return. He throws his weight around, decides on what you should do and when and how you should do it. Such persons have got to be dealt with very firmly. On more than one occasion I have been threatened with the direst consequences if I didn’t do “such and such” and my stock answer to them had always been, “get stuffed.” Fortunately, none of our exalted representatives in the several countries that we visited following the Coronation Cruise had to be subjected to any “plugging.”
Malta
Malta is perhaps the only non-person in the world to be the recipient of the George Cross, the highest civilian decoration for valor and ranks with its military counterpart, the Victoria Cross. I do not think any country deserved it more. Lying at the crossroads of the Mediterranean, this little island (246 square miles) has been of very great strategic value through history and has been the scene of many battles of staggering severity. The Phoenicians colonized Malta in 1000 B.C. Since then, battles have raged for its possession – Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, and Normans, each of whom had temporary in the historic spectrum) ownership of the Island. The Templar Knights of St. John had the Island bequeathed to them by Roman Edict but to hold it, the Templar’s had to repel repeatedly Turkish invaders, then Napoleon had Malta for a couple of years until ousted by the British whose colony it was for the next 150 years until attaining independence in 1964.
I have dwelt on the history of this Island, smaller than one of our larger cities, to show what great strategic importance even a small piece of real estate can command. Besides, I have spent several weeks on “operational visits” to its Grand Harbor at Valetta. The people, mainly of Arab, Italian, and English descent are very friendly, hospitable and cheerful, but tough. They had to be, to have withstood the full fury of German aerial bombardment. Operating some 250 machines from Sicily, just sixty miles away, the Luftwaffe subjected the Island to relentless, merciless aerial bombardment. Her only defense was a handful of obsolete Gladiators which nevertheless fought back like the Ironsides of the past. Well might Churchill have addressed Governor Dobbie, “The eyes of all Britain and indeed of the whole British Empire are watching Malta in her struggle day by day,” and well might the King have awarded the Maltese people as a whole with the highest coveted medal. Bravery and courage are qualities I admire most and, therefore, visits to this Island always gave me personal pleasure.
Athens, Greece
Our visit to Greece coincided with units of the American Fleet. The latter naturally ruled the roost, but we were by no means neglected because, after all, our sojourn, there was short and sweet, therefore, that much more of a novelty. I shall not ladle out another dollop of history and geography, but content myself with two incidents – one funny, in Athens, and the other not so amusing in the Bosporus.
A party of ours decided to visit the Delphic Oracle and make a picnic of it. Delphi is an ancient Greek town on the slopes of Mount Parnassus. Its quaint beauty was breathtaking, and we couldn’t have chosen a better day or better place in which to relax.
Charles Nanda and I had got separated from the rest of our crowd and during our wanderings came across what looked like an underground tunnel. We were informed by one of the bystanders that it was indeed a tunnel, about half a mile long and lead directly beneath the oracle’s seat. Anyone who gets to the latter opening through the nether approach would get Godly advice. There and then, I decided to have a “go” and asked Charles if he would wait for me. By way of abundant caution, I said to Nanda, “If I don’t rise out of the Delphic oracle seat in thirty minutes, start rescue operations!”
The going was reasonably good for the first ten minutes or so. Even though I had to crawl on hands and knees, there was enough elbow room. But thereafter, it started narrowing down, and was becoming stuffy. I just couldn’t get my bulk ahead. Nevertheless, I was buoyed up by the thought that soon I shall be emerging forth and be in communion with the Grectes, start rescue operations!” Ian Apollo of Yore, and I finally made it to the end and got the shock of my life! The tunnel had terminated but the hole in the ground to freedom and fresh air was blocked impenetrably by a large slab of granite! And for about the nth time in my life, the thought flashed through my mind – “so this is the way, the world ends, not with a bang but with a whimper.”
The instinct for self-preservation always had the last say. But if ever I meet a man who crawled backwards for nearly a quarter of a mile, in pitch darkness, breathing the foulest of air, I shall readily shake him by the hand and say, “my soul-mate.” When, after eons of time of imagination and forty minutes by the watch, I reached the broad expanses of the tunnel where I could turn around, it was then and only then did I believe that I will live to tell this tale. I thought of Charles at the mouth of the cave, worried to distraction about my non-appearance and took a little time off to feel sorry for him. When, at last, I emerged there was no sign of my “guardian angel.” He was at the picnic party and when I tried to take him to task, he said, “Krish, you said thirty minutes, I waited forty minutes. How the hell was I to know the tunnel was blocked!” A Perfectly logical and rational argument to which there cannot possibly be any reply.
It was not a journey in vain. The Greek Gods’ advice I learnt was, “Don’t stick your neck out; you may have to back out on your arse!”
Moving about and sight-seeing, etc. in taxis is rather an expensive business. The problem was solved by one good friend I made during this visit – the Captain of a U.S. supply ship, Caleb II. He placed a car and driver at my disposal. The latter was a young American seaman whose solicitude for my welfare and whose obvious respect towards a senior officer soon won my heart. So much so, that soon a time was reached when I did not want to call him “driver” or “sailor.” So, I asked him, “What is your name?” He gave me a long name, with a lot of consonants and very few vowels, and said his parents originally came from Czechoslovakia. I said, “Look friend, I can’t call you by that name every time because I won’t be able to remember it.” Prompt came the reply, “That’s okay, Sir, my Christian name is Sirinczeck, you can call me “Sir” for short!
Istanbul, Turkey
Abdul the Bulbul Emir had his toe trod on by Count Ivan Skavinsky Skavar in the classic poem anonymously written, that resulted in a fight to the death. But he was nothing compared to the Abdul who piloted my ship up the Bosporus to Istanbul! We arrived at the Hellespont and after a “hell of a lot of waiting,” was boarded by Abdul, the pilot. This sea-lane connecting the Black Sea to the Mediterranean is very fast flowing and even a small shear could fetch the ship aground. Pilotage in these waters is compulsory which is reasonable because the local conditions are best known to them. But this does not alter that queer sinking feeling one gets when someone else is handling one’s ship. The reader, if a good driver, will understand what I mean when he is in the front seat of his car driven by another person, the right foot automatically presses an imaginary brake!
Having a pilot on board does not absolve you of the responsibility for the safety of the ship that rests wholly and solely with the Captain of the ship. If the pilot is garrulous or grumpy then the situation is really jumpy. You cannot change horses in midstream” and say to him, “All right, pilot, I am taking over” unless you are sure that a situation has been reached when only personal intervention can save the ship from imminent danger, and this is what one has to watch out for – like a hawk. Such an emergency was suddenly upon us. A slow freighter coming from upstream, probably due to faulty steering or breakdown yawed away from her course and a collision seemed certain. The pilot shouted, “Bloody Russkie! I’ll ram him good and hard.” I had no time to decide whether this was just an outburst, or he really meant it. I said, “No, you bloody well don’t! I have got the ship” and forthwith ordered full rudder, shut my eyes and told my officer of the watch, “Let me know if we clear her. I will know if we hit her.” The Bosporus held its breath till I heard the sweetest music, “All clear, Sir.” I reversed rudder, but without any perceptible effect. We were heading straight towards the shore. I ordered emergency full speed ahead, passed a message to the chief engineer below, “Give her everything you have got. Sit on the safety valves.” The response was immediate, and we turned away from a permanent anchorage in Turkish soil by a margin of hardly fifty feet! The nightmare was over.
I recount the above incident because it set the pace for our visit to Istanbul – previously, Constantinople, which had given me spelling headaches even in my earlier years. I may be wrong, but I felt that the Turks, though formal and correct at the higher levels, were not very friendly. A number of American warships were already there and got all the attention – perhaps rightly so as the most important member of NATO. Many of my sailors reported that they had been cold shouldered by the locals, when they learnt that we were “Indish” and not from their neighborhood. Anyway, we had an opportunity of seeing some exotic Byzantine and Ottoman relics which at least could not nurture any ill-will towards us, and we were happy when it was time to go.
Haifa, Israel
The three Indian ships split up and each had its own country for informal visit. I drew Israel and set course for Haifa. In my long career at sea, I have visited many countries and many places. This book would become one of history, geography, and travelogue if I described each of them in turn and the reader will be pleased to know that I have no intention of doing so. But Israel is different, its people are different, converting stretches of desert into a kind of paradise, a modern state surrounded by hostile neighbors.
Even though we had no diplomatic relations with Israel, our reception was one of spontaneous and glad welcome. The red-carpet treatment had been prepared with meticulous care. With a car and a guide at my entire disposal, I was able to explore at will this ancient and antique strip of land that had been reincarnated into something modern and beautiful. It is a monument and a tribute to the will of man that by sheer hard work, determination, and fortitude, this battleground of two thousand years (and still remaining so) the Israelis have achieved so much in such a short time (Israel declared her Independence in 1948 and my visit was in 1953). On sighting the Garden of Gethsemane, I thought of the words from the Holy Bible, “Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep,” and again, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me.”
Ageless villages enveloped in olive trees, high-walled gardens, picturesque churches and monasteries – in particular the Monastery of Mary’s Well, vineyards with bunches of grapes, the modern collective settlements called Kibbutz and the cooperative villages or moshavs, the high-rise buildings of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, the Dead Sea which is some 1300 feet below sea level, these and much more form the kaleidoscope that is Israel. But even more remarkable are the “Sabras” – the new generation of young men and women. The word “Sabra” translated means the “Cactus fruit” – lovely to look at, juicy and tasteful of flesh but with a thorny hard core of exceptional toughness. The name is apt, for the Israeli Sabras, polite and fun-loving in peace, are very tough, indeed, if it comes to a fight, as they have shown time and time again.
Chapter 19 INS Delhi and the Liberation of Goa, Daman and Diu
Towards the end of 1958, I was informed of my appointment as Commanding Officer, INS Delhi. I was holding the rank of Commodore in the Cabinet Secretariat as Deputy Secretary (Military Wing) at that time and would drop my rank to Captain on transfer. Even so, I was absolutely thrilled at the idea of driving the Delhi. At the last meeting, I had attended of the Defense Committee of the Cabinet, the Prime Minister (Nehru) was good enough to express the Committee’s good wishes on my appointment. He added, “The Delhi is a very good ship. I have taken passage in her on two occasions and enjoyed myself immensely and was much impressed by the ship.”
The Delhi was in the dry dock, under refit, when I assumed command on the 23rd of December 1958, and we could not have the elaborate ceremony and ritual which goes with the change of command. Being the festive season, many officers and men were on leave. It was thus, far from the hustle and bustle of activity that one associates with a cruiser that greeted me.
My spirits were further dampened when the signal log was brought to me on arrival on board the next day.
The very first signal was from I.N.H.S. Asvini (Indian Naval Hospital Ship Asvini is the land based naval hospital located in Colaba, Mumbai] reporting the expiry in that hospital of the son of one of my men, holding the rank of Leading Seaman. I took the ship’s jeep to the hospital to see if I could be of any help only to be told that the boy had died early that morning and the body had been taken away by the father. The address given to me was in one of the very poor sectors of the city and after great difficulty, I located the single-room tenement and on entering met with one of the most poignant scenes – a totally dazed looking young man squatting on the floor with the dead body of his son on his lap. With some difficulty, I made him understand that I was his new Captain and had come to help him. I learnt that he had lost his wife the previous month and now his only son was gone. “Had he any money?” I enquired. “Till the end of the month, Saab, a few rupees only.” He was obviously in no condition to think and act for himself. I returned on board, collected some sailors and officers, raised some money, and we set about the task of the last and final rites of the little boy that was lost to his father forever. And that was my first day of Command.
Some two years later, my second in command, Commander Chandy Kuruvilla, came to me just after we had entered and tied up to the buoy in Cochin and said, “Sir, you might like to have a word with our Chief Quartermaster. Even though he has been running a raging fever, he has refused to hand over the wheel to anyone else. A funny chap, every time he had an opportunity to be drafted ashore, he has somehow avoided it.” You guessed right.
When he came to me, he asked, “Sir, don’t you remember me? You came to me when my son died. I want to stay in this ship as long as you are here.” I was greatly touched.
How much water had flown past the ship since that day I took over in December 1958? I was afraid, when I joined, that I may be one of the “Do Ghunta Wallahs,” [two hour fellows] a derisive term used by sailors for Commanding Officers whose tenure was mostly in harbor. I was very lucky to have had the Delhi for some two and one-half years, and again, later for a short time, specially appointed for the liberation of Goa operations. Thus, perhaps, my association with the Grand Lady of the Indian Navy has been the longest in Command. And yet, who can think of “Commanding” a ship like the Delhi? The ravages of time had
taken its toll on all of us and the Delhi was no exception. But at the time that I knew her, she was in the prime of life with a soul of her own, supremely confident in the glory of the earlier battle she had fought when she was only in her teens. [Reference to her famous role as HMS Achilles in the Battle of the River Plate described in Chapter 3 – The War at Sea]. Her form and figure were beautifully molded and only those who have seen her racing along the sea can really appreciate the uniqueness of her beauty. Racing is right; she was a thoroughbred filly that could work up to 30 knots the moment you gave her the reins.
I have held many commands, both ashore and afloat. But when I think of my time on board the Delhi, it is with very special affection and nostalgia for the bygone days. Memories tend to dim with the years, but when I cast my mind backward to the span of two decades, they come crowding back, tumbling over one another, each incident as refreshing, as colorful and as memorable as the other. It is impossible to put them all down on paper and difficult to relate even some of them as they are the emotional experience of a ship’s company at a point of time, which may or may not be of any interest to others at a different period. I will try and recapture the mood of the past with a narrative of some of the isolated incidents that might pass muster.
After post-refit sea trials, we were coming to the cruiser buoy off middle ground. There was a very high wind and the sea was extremely rough. We managed to get the buoy jumpers [a rating or sailor who balances onto the buoy and hooks onto the picking up rope as the ship noses into a mooring] on to the buoy [a brightly colored floating object anchored to the sea bed for marking moorings, navigable channels, or obstructions in the water], but a huge wave swamped it and all the sailors were in the drink (sea). With the ship stopped, we were broadside on to the wind and the very wet sailors, were clinging to the ship side for their very lives. In the meantime, we were drifting dangerously fast towards middle ground. Using the engines would spell disaster for the boys over the side; otherwise, we would run aground. I told Chandy Kuruvilla, “Commander, talk to them like a father, to get hold of the lifebuoys and keep clear. I must use my engines.” Chandy leaned over the side and spoke to them like a father – bellowing above the wind, I counted his use of 14 four-letter words in three sentences! Chandy’s ‘parental message got through, and the brave lads swam clear enough to allow me to use the engines and prevent the ship from going aground, and we could pick the sailors up. When I finally went aft, clear of danger, I asked the Commander to bring the lads to me for a “shabaash” (bravo), I pretended not to notice the slight smell of rum – the martinet had truly turned parental and had been celebrating the success with them, and I knew that we were going to have a good Commission!
We had been doing joint exercises with the Royal and other Commonwealth Navies and when all the maneuvers were over around midnight, I was told to take station astern of the British Cruise Carrier HMS Centaur. Earlier that night we had had a nasty collision between our cruiser INS Mysore and the British Destroyer HMS Hogue. Perhaps because of this, I had a premonition that made me refuse the Engineer Officer’s request to shut down two boilers (we had all six boilers going at that time). For the same reason, I didn’t go to my sea cabin but dozed down in the Bridge Shelter. Podgy Nadkarni, my Navigator, [J G ‘Podgy’ Nadkarni rose to become the 10th Indian Chief of Naval staff from 1987 to 1990), perhaps also had the same smell of danger, and he got his head down in the Bridge. About half an hour later, I suddenly woke up in a cold sweat and was sure we were in deadly danger and rushed out of the shelter shouting “full astern both engines.” Almost simultaneously I heard Podgy shouting the same orders. To our horror, we were running on a collision course with the Centaur ahead and we would have hit her slap amidships, but the reaction from the engine room was so quick that disaster was averted by just a matter of a few yards! In the zigzag we were both doing, Centaur’s officer of the watch had not taken the wheel off and the carrier had kept turning and exposing her belly to the Delhi. The next evening, in harbor, in reference to the Mysore-Hogue collision, the Master Navigator of the British Fleet chafed me, “You big bullies, hitting a little chap like the Hogue.” I retorted, “Count yourself damn lucky, last night I nearly converted your carrier into two,” and related the episode. Typical of the Royal Navy, the Captain of the Carrier, Horace Law, came aboard the Delhi and was most handsome in his apologies. Every time I had to sit as a judge in a court-martial involving navigational mishaps, I used to say silently, “There, but for the Grace of God, go I.” We had quite a few narrow squeaks, but the Delhi has always been known as the “Lucky Ship” and lived up to her name every time.
In Penang, one night, while returning along the coastal road back to the ship from a dinner party, the headlamps of our jeep picked up an extraordinary sight. One of our midshipmen, replete with mess jacket and bow tie, but without any trousers was stepping on to the road, carrying on his head some heavy load. We stopped the jeep and my Commander stepped out to investigate. The poor young Middie, dazzled by the headlights could not see but was most surprised to hear a familiar voice barking, “What the hell are you up to, Mister…?” His instinctive reaction was to drop the load and come up to the salute while the bundle below was screaming her head off in the choicest Chinese. The explanation was quite innocent. The young couple had sat on a rock taking in the scenic beauty somewhat oblivious of the flooding tide. Realization came too late that they were castaways on what had become an island. The gallantry of our young cockerel in wanting to carry his lady love across without getting his trousers wet was understandable and even laudable. Needless to say, he was not charged for being improperly dressed!
All good things must come to an end – or, so I thought when at last I relinquished command of the Delhi. I was very lucky to have command of the Cruiser INS Delhi for over two- and one-half years. Normally, one does not get such a command for anything much more than a year. So I had no grounds for complaint when ordered to take up a shore appointment in command of the Navy’s Engineering College I.N.S Shivaji at Lonavala, a beautiful hill station situated in the western ghats between Bombay (now Mumbai) and Poona (now Pune). Yet, it was a great wrench to leave the good old Delhi which I had steamed for a record number of miles and where I had some grand times with a crowd of officers and sailors who made excellent shipmates. When I left, in June 1961, most of the crew was also appointed to various other places, all the ammunition and stores from the ship were removed. To all intents and purposes, the Delhi was stripped of her status as a warship, but not for long!
While I was adjusting myself to the new task of running a training college, things were gradually heating up over Goa and the other Portuguese colonies – Diu and Daman. It was a complete anachronism that a foreign power, thousands of miles away should hold on to these pockets of power in the Independent Sub-continent of India. It was as incredible as intolerable that even after 14 years of the British withdrawal; we
were tolerating this blight on our motherland. I have written elsewhere of the meeting of the Defense Committee of the Cabinet that approved the ten-year plan for the Navy’s Development, Sardar Vallabhai Patel had then asked, “What about Goa? Can this Fleet push the Portuguese out?” I had replied on behalf of my Admiral, “Sir, this fleet can not only take Goa, but fight the entire Portuguese Navy if they try to stop us.”
Every time I passed this territory, I used to close the ship as near as possible and burn with indignation, recalling the Sardar’s words, said several years back. Now [in 1961] we had an ardent and fiery Defense Minister in V. K. Krishna Menon, and it looked as though he was going to do something about it.
At a late hour on a cold December night, the phone rang at Shivaji House (my official residence at Lonavala) and it was the Chief of the Naval Staff, Admiral Katari calling from New Delhi.
“Krishnan,” he said, “How soon can you take over Command of the Delhi again?” “I will start within the hour, Sir,” I replied, “and will be in command of the ship by colors tomorrow” [colors is at 8 a.m. when the ensign is hoisted for the day].
“Look, I want you to get the ship stored, ammunitioned and fueled, and be ready for sea within two weeks. Can do?” he asked. “Most certainly, Sir,” I replied. “She will be ready for battle in a week from tomorrow. Could I have my old team back, Sir?” I asked. “Yes, I shall ask the Chief of Personnel to get on with it,” and rang off.
It will be seen that throughout the conversation, there had been no mention either of Goa or my mission. It was not necessary. I knew, and he knew that I knew.
Some very incredible things happened in the next seven days. When I arrived on board at 7 a.m. the next morning, my erstwhile Navigator “Podgy Nadkarni” was there along with my Commander Freddie Sofer to receive me. The former had moved in anticipation of orders! Within 48 hours, I had most of my crew back and it was delightful to address my ship’s company of friendly and grinning faces once again. I exhorted them with most of the very same words that I used to an entire fleet almost exactly ten years later. “Boys!” I said, “I want this ship fully operational and ready for battle in exactly five days from now. All procedures will be short-circuited. When I say operational, I mean, one hundred percent fit in all respects. If it means working day and night, let it be so. All red tape will be cut. Every problem must be resolved, and if you have to beg, borrow, or steal, so be it. We have 120 hours and I know you can do it.”
By Heavens, how they worked! Any Naval person who reads this will appreciate the enormity of the task of getting a cruiser stored, ammunitioned, and fueled, all equipment tested, and all defects rectified. For instance, it takes a minimum of three days to embark full war time outfit of ammunition in a cruiser, and we did it in less than 20 hours. In fact, my Gunnery Officer, came up to me and said, “Captain, Sir, we are breaking every rule in the book. Everyone is dead tired. Can we not slow it down a bit?” He was quite right, of course. Men were carrying on and when too tired, lay down where they were for a bit of rest only to start again and get on with it. I also knew that if we slackened the momentum, we would never be able to work up the zeal and enthusiasm for quite a while. So I told him, “What the hell are you worried about, Guns? If something goes wrong, none of us will be here to face any court-martial. Leave the worrying to me and get on with it.” Immediately after colors on the eighth day I sent a signal to the Admiral commanding the Fleet, “Ready in all respects for Sea.”
At the briefing for the operation, the mission of INS Delhi was spelt out for me. The ship was to proceed off “Diu” and give “distant” support to our Army units who will cross over the creek separating “Diu” from the Indian Mainland. I asked what exactly the planners had in mind when talking of “distant support.” The answer was vague in the extreme. “We do not have a very clear picture of the state of the [Portuguese] defenses. Diu has an airfield from where aircraft may operate. They are bound to have coastal batteries. It was also possible that there is a submarine threat. They also have motor torpedo boats. So the Delhi should remain about ten miles away from the shore.”
This was absolutely crazy. Why didn’t we have enough intelligence regarding Diu’s defenses? We had several years to collect all the information regarding this place, which was within a stone’s throw from our mainland. If there were shore batteries, how they were going to be silenced before the army gets across? Had there been no air reconnaissance to find out whether there were aircraft at the enemy airfield? Of what earthly use would I be to the Army, skulking ten miles away? It was perfectly obvious that I could expect no answers to these questions about an impending operation that had been planned in a most woolly-headed and haphazard manner.
Incredibly, INS Vikrant, [India’s first aircraft carrier], our latest and newest acquisition was not taking part in the operation but was going to be deployed somewhere in the middle of the ocean where she would be “safe.” After giving distant support to the Army, I was to join Vikrant and Delhi was to give her close support.
I was getting “curiouser and curiouser” and when the mad hatter’s tea party was over, it was a relief to get back on board and set about the task of sailing.
On D-day, 11th December 1961, at about 3:30 a.m., I arrived off Diu head to await H-hour that was scheduled for 4:00 a.m. Before leaving Bombay [Mumbai], I had embarked an army officer who, by wireless link, was to liaise between the ship and our Army units ashore.
It was pitch dark and our radar picked up four echoes on the screen which were closing in on the Delhi at high speed. This might be the expected torpedo boat attack. We tracked the boats carefully and let them come to within five miles and then opened fire, first lighting them with star-shells (these are shells burst over the enemy which produce brilliant flares that slowly descend, in the meantime, lighting up the enemy ships), then with shells from the Delhi’s guns. Two of them were sunk almost immediately and out of hand. The other two turned tail and raced away back towards harbor. We had drawn first blood.
Soon we could hear gunfire from ashore and evidently the armies were in action against each other. As dawn broke, I saw from the distance that the island was quite flat and the beaches open. At the eastern end,
where our army was to cross, was a high ground and perched on top was a solidly built fortress.
Our liaison officer communicated with his counterparts ashore. The battalion commander reported that very heavy and well-directed fire was coming from the “Citadel” and our attack was fizzling out. Our units were also suffering heavy casualties.
I said to the Liaison Officer, “Tell him I am coming in.” I asked my Navigator, “Pilot, how close can we get to the shore without going aground?” After consulting the chart, Nadkarni said, “There is enough water about a mile from the town and beach, Sir.” “Right, draw a line parallel to the beach and a mile away. We will steam along the line and to hell with the distant support.”
As we closed the area, two more naval boats came towards us and both were sunk unceremoniously. It was bright daylight by now, and I had a grandstand view of what was happening ashore. The fortress looked quite impregnable and the plight of our jawans [Soldiers] was thoroughly unenviable. They were coming under withering rifle and machine gunfire from the well ensconced enemy soldiers within the fortress.
We sent a signal to the watchtower in the citadel “strike your flag immediately and surrender.” In the meantime, I asked the Gunnery officer to aim at a lighthouse sticking out from the center of the enclosure of the walled castle. There was obviously no point in firing on the rocky walls. If we burst high explosive shells among the defenders’, things were bound to happen fast. I also wanted to prevent any retaliation from ashore defenses. A few well-placed shells would be the best dissuasion. Since there was no reply to my signal, we opened up with all our six guns. A broadside of six-inch guns makes a deafening roar and is terrifying at the receiving end.
The very first shots found their target and we saw the incredible sight of a whole high lighthouse lifted clean into the air and disintegrating. I always have believed that if force has to be used, then there should be no pusillanimous or half-hearted measures. Preponderant force used to good effect, produced the quickest results. We sent some hundred shells in to help them make up their minds. Just fifteen minutes later, down came the Portuguese flag that had fluttered there, planted in our country by Vasco de Gama some five centuries ago. Up went the white flag of surrender. I sent my boat with one of my lieutenants ashore with an Indian National flag and he had the honor of replacing the white flag with our national colors. Since the Army did not move in until the next day, I decided to stay on and patrol the area. It was reported to me that the Portuguese were likely, in sheer anger arising out of frustration, to blow up the airfield installations. We closed the shore off the airfield and set their barracks nearby on fire.
We returned to Bombay on the 15th of December 1961. Since it happened to be my wedding anniversary, I took a few hours off to drive to Lonavala where my “other command”, my life’s consort battleship, [referring to his wife, Sita, whom he fondly and often called his consort battleship. The term used to denote ‘a tower of strength and iron clad support, is derived from the prince consort class of battleship, comprising four Royal Navy wooden-hulled ironclads: HMS Royal Oak, HMS Prince Consort, HMS Ocean, and HMS Caledonia] gave me a heartwarming reception.
I will end this chapter by quoting from a letter written to me by Lieutenant General J.N. Choudhuri who was General Officer Commanding Southern Command and in overall charge of all the operations connected with Goa, Diu, etc.
Dated 10th January 1962 “I would particularly like to thank you for the help you gave us while commanding INS Delhi. You really saved the situation.” And, again on 8th February 1962
“I think I have thanked you for the excellent work that you did in helping the Army at Diu, but, just in case I had not, let me assure you that without the presence of yourself and INS Delhi, things would have been much more sticky.”
[‘Operation Vijay’ was completed just before the midnight of 16 December 1961, ending Colonial rule forever. After 450 years of Portuguese rule Goa, Daman, and Diu were finally returned to the Indian Union and history needs to record the important role played by the Indian Navy in their liberation.]
Chapter 20 INS Vikrant, India’s First Aircraft Carrier
From the action in INS Delhi, I returned to my permanent duty station, INS Shivaji at Lonavala. My time in INS Shivaji came to an end, and I was given a new and what may be deemed as a prize sea-going appointment, command of the INS Vikrant, India’s recently acquired aircraft carrier and flagship of the Navy. I was directed to report on board the ship at Bombay on the 16th of April 1963.
The ship looked massive in dry-dock in a very tight squeeze and potentially overflowed it. Peter Mahindroo had commissioned the ship for India in the U.K. and had had the advantage of various attachments and pre-commissioning training. Relieving him, I felt green as a parrot. I had never been to sea in a Carrier before and hadn’t the faintest idea of driving one. So I was thankful that it would take a couple of months or so for the ship to get ready, which would give me the necessary time to at least study the theoretical aspects of Carrier operations. My request for a short attachment with an operational carrier of the Royal Navy was acceded to, and I did a spell of a week on board HMS Hermes, based at Singapore. I was very lucky that the Captain happened to be Bill O’Brien who as Captain of the destroyer flotilla had played a lot of war games with me and INS Delhi, at joint exercises earlier. I learnt a lot in that week, including the fact that the Captain of the carrier is more like the Chairman and Managing Director of a highly technical firm. Carrier operations are fascinating in the extreme. It is a matter of wonder even to experienced pilots of the Air Force, how the aircraft are shot off the ship and land on what looks like a postage stamp in the vast expanse of the ocean. Those of my readers who are interested will find a brief description of flying operations later in the book, but to follow this narrative, a few simple definitions are necessary.
Catapult: a base to which the aircraft is attached by a wire and, when fired, this base traverses a longer grove picking up speed in the 100 feet of its travel, to a little over 100 miles per hour.
Into the Wind: to give the aircraft the extra speed for the liftoff, the ship steams into the wind, which together with the speed of the ship and speed of the release of the catapult adds up to the necessary lower limit.
Arrester-wires: four very strong parallel wires at intervals which can be raised a few inches above the deck. The carrier-borne aircraft has a hook at its tail, which lowers on landing. This hook catches one of the wires and the aircraft is brought to a halt.
The Island: tall superstructure offsets to the right of the ship containing the Captain’s bridge, flying control, radar control, fighter directions, and various instrumentation, all of which constitute the brains of the ship.
Angle Deck: the line of approach of the aircraft and the flight deck is angled so that if an aircraft misses all the arrester-wires, the pilot could fly off over the port side of the flight deck without any risk of his crashing into the island superstructure or aircraft parked at the forward end of the flight deck.
Mirror Landing: A mirror has a red light reflected into the center and white lights on either side to provide datum line. It shows the pilot, well away from the ship if he was too high in which case the red light appears below the white datum line, and conversely above it, if he was too low.
Alize: The turbo jet aircraft for night flying, reconnaissance and antisubmarine, one of two types of aircraft that the INS Vikrant carried. Sea Hawk: The other aircraft carried on the Vikrant, a single seater jet fighter.
Contrary to the popular belief, Vikrant was not built as an aircraft carrier exclusively for India. She started life as a light carrier during World War II, and after many years lying partially finished, she was modified and completed for the Indian Navy. However, she had all the modern innovations, like the angle deck and the landing mirrors, good radar, inter-communication sets, etc.
My year-and-a-half in command of the Vikrant was packed with incidents, and there was never a dull moment. Unlike in other ships, emergencies came naturally, suddenly, and with no previous warning when conducting carrier operations. The Vikrant was no exception. I do not wish to tax the reader with such emergencies as they represent the way of life, but will narrate a few incidents as a sort of an hors d’oeuvre.
It was not without some considerable trepidation that I took the ship out the first time. Having been used to handling ships from the center, it was odd to do so tucked away to one side, and it gave a distorted view – the optical illusion that the ship was not going where I thought she was going. Nevertheless, I soon got over it. I will not tire the reader with the tremendous effort that goes into the working up of a ship, but will narrate only some of the more interesting incidents on board during my two years in command. I was considerably shaken up, on the very first day when a “Seahawk” piloted, coincidentally by a Sub-Lieutenant Krishnan, missed the wires, did not open up full throttle and crashed into the sea never to be seen again. Then I remembered the words of Bill O’Brien, who had had two crashes in the week that I was with him, “No matter. In this game, the forfeit of a mistake is one’s life.”
Shortly thereafter, we lost another aircraft under such circumstances, which can be deemed funny if the aircraft did not cost so much. The circumstances were as follows:
We were at sea and just after dawn, planes were being ranged on deck for the day flying operations. I was in the sea-cabin taking a shower when I heard a thud and shouts of “aircraft overboard.” I rushed on to the bridge and was hopping about from one end to the other rapping out orders. It was a full minute before I realized that my steward was hopping in tune with me and holding a towel as a screen. I asked him what in hell he thought he was doing. I looked down on myself and found that I was dripping wet and stark naked! We were to join other Commonwealth navies at Singapore joint exercises and were on passage rounding Ceylon [Sri Lanka). Of course, there was no let up of training, when just off Galle point I had flown off an Lt. Grewal. He had instructions not
rt. It was ust about dusk and I was lost on the radar. I immediately turned the ship towards Colombo as I had no intention of losing a valuable aircraft and even more valuable pilot and crew. There followed a comedy of errors. The Alize had developed some problem when all her electrical circuits failed. Grewal, a very capable pilot, decided to land at Colombo. He could not have chosen a worse day, as Zhou Enlai, Prime Minister of China, was due to pay an official visit the next day to Ceylon, and the airport security can be readily imagined. My pilot was refused permission to land, but he told the flight control that this was an emergency and he intended to land in any case, and started his run in. The flying control countered by switching off all the lights at the airport, but in came the Alize, regardless. To his horror, he found on the runway another aircraft and practically sat on his brakes thereby bursting one of his tires, but tragedy was averted.
As soon as he got off the aircraft he was promptly placed under arrest and they started their investigation. The pilot said, “You are treating me like an enemy and I will only tell you my name, Lt. Grewal.” The aerodrome officer rang up their Communications Minister and told him that a carrier-borne aircraft was coming in from southwards. This was relayed to the Prime Minister, but with a slight mix-up, namely, that an Indian Lt. General (instead of Lt. Grewal) had landed. In the meantime, I was close enough to Colombo to fly another Alize with my Commander (air) on board to negotiate and parley for the release of my aircraft. I cannot vouch for the story, but I believe our High Commissioner in Ceylon phoned up Prime Minister Nehru for instructions, who in turn rang up Prime Minister Mrs. Bandaranaike. Everything was amicably settled; Grewal having been supplied with spare tires and reverted back to the rank of Lt. after enjoying three-star General status for a few hours but under detention!
After a week of intense flying exercises off Cochin, we anchored near the Fairway Buoy, for rest and maintenance. I acceded to the Engineer Officers’ request to shut down steam. Early next morning, I was doing my puja (prayers) as was my wont, when the Signals Officer rushed into my cabin and rather agitatedly said, “Sir, our radar has picked up a largish echo which is moving too fast for a merchant ship and is heading towards us.” I asked, “What is the range?” to which he replied, “20 miles, and closing in fast.”
I knew that there were none of our warships in the area at about that time. Always at the back of my mind was the thought of a pre-emptive attack by Pakistan and I was not going to take any chances. I told the officer, “Ring the alarm for action stations and I will be up in a jiffy.” By the time I got up, a silhouette of the approaching ship was partially visible and I could make out that it was the Pakistani Cruiser Babr. Without steam even to raise the anchor, we were a sitting duck and I had no intention that it should be so. I ordered steam to be raised with the utmost dispatch, had the cable party standing by to slit the anchor. I sent for Commander (Air) Tally-ho [R.H. Tahiliani, rose to become India’s ninth Navy Chief] and asked him, “How are you for a free takeoff?” He replied, “There is a decent breeze, we are already into the wind and the Alize can just about do it. We have to use rockets and not bombs.” “Go to it,” I said, “get two Alizes ready.” The cruiser was now within visual signal distance. I suddenly remembered who the Captain was – Syed Mohd. Ahsan. I signaled a message to him, which read, “Syed, don’t come closer. We are ready for you – Krish.” The reply came, “Krish, Have Ayub* on board – bound Colombo. Thought will have dekho [look] at my old country. Cordial Greetings. Syed.” And he turned away!
All’s well that ends well!
Chapter 21 Imperial Defence College, London
I was in accord with many Royal Navy Carrier Captains’ view that to command one for a year is great fun, the next six months you start feeling the strain and after eighteen months you go “round the bend.” I beat the deadline by a month or so when the government decided to approve my undergoing a year’s course at the Imperial Defence College in London. This is a sort of “Finishing School” where you can learn about the higher direction of war, grand and global strategies, world economics, and geopolitics. It is the most prestigious course that any senior service officer and indeed civil servants of foreign, home, and other services can aspire for and, quite naturally, the selection is very carefully done in every country represented – the very cream, one might say. In my own case, of course somewhere or other, “someone had blundered.” But I agreed with Lord Tennyson that mine was not to reason why, mine’s but to do and hie! Hied I did, with my red triangle, wife and two children, reaching London in time for Christmas1963. “India House” had made the “necessary arrangements” for our reception, accommodations, etc., and so we had to fend for ourselves the best we could in the perfect winter conditions that prevailed.
The years’ sojourn in Ye Merry England presented pleasing prospects except for a rather slim purse. Since all of us (including myself) were of discerning age, I decided that we would do everything the democratic way – by discussion and majority voting. The first meeting was duly held and the Secretary (my daughter) read out the agenda, with the following questions:
(1) Should we rent that “cute little house” with the modern kitchen and back garden? (2) Can we afford the Pitman’s Journalism course for my daughter (a sniff from her)? (3) Public or private school for my son?
(4) Can we buy a car – a new one? Everyone rose to the occasion, and the unanimous decision was recorded that we could not possibly afford any one of the above. So we solved the problem by implementing all the above. We moved into the “Dream House” at Putney, Chitra enlisted at the Pitman’s college at Wimbledon, Arjun joined Latimer Upper School in Hammersmith, and we bought a new Ford Cortina. It is amazing how democratic practices provide the answers!
Penny amongst penny is a problem for the poor, opulence when opalescent can be wonderful. But I had neither the O nor the P. But we managed. In my earlier sojourn in England, I had come across two places – Keat and Dale. We were completely snowbound and everyone was down in their dumps. I scribbled on the blackboard, “Keat smiling! Dale be better days to come!” Somehow, this caught the imagination of everyone in the Establishment. I got smiles all round and I became somewhat of a hero. My family knew the story and threw my words back at me, “Keat smiling! Dale’be better days to come,” every time I sulked. My wife took a job, when she went after cornering the last cabbage leaf at throwaway prices (and making a splendid curry out of them), my daughter did the course, worked overtime and brought in something for the kitty, and my son washed cars over the weekend and brought forth the pennies. And I, as the big chief, sat with a gin and tonic in my hand and did tele-racing, “William Hill, two and six pence on Arkle in the fifth
race at Ascot” etc., but I won enough to justify the confidence of my “parliament.” Money may be the root of all evil but what damn good evil!
I have narrated the above only to show that a united family sans misunderstanding but full of unity of purpose is essential to the continuation of a sailor’s story. At least we have something to laugh about.
How can I describe “Seaford House,” the sanctuary of the Imperial Defence College? Right in the heart of London, a magnificent building with the status symbol of “no parking place,” a huge library, a lecture hall and a lot of rooms. A marble staircase with a topless Madonna whose right breast you are supposed to touch for good fortune? (Poor woman, she might have been the perfect specimen but for the rubs!)
My ordeal began on the third day at the college. Members (other than the British) had to choose one among his colleagues to talk for forty-five minutes on his country, followed by the coffee break and grueling questioning for an hour thereafter. Reggie Noronha exercised his right as a Brigadier to nominate Captain Krishnan to do the honors. In the last three days, I had come to know something of my clientele – Americans, Australians, Canadians, Rhodesians, Pakistanis, Ghanaians, Malaysians, besides the “crème” of Britannia.
I plunged in and had a lot of things to say, for my country, against my country, and above all, against the British. I was not worried about my talk, because I knew that interruptions were not allowed. But what kept nagging at the back of my mind was the “question hour.”
Fortunately, during the coffee break, one of the Air Commodores asked me, “You have made a good case for your country. But what about your population explosion? Before I could answer the bell rang and Androcoles was Exhibit ‘A’ before the lions.
The first question as I expected was from the Air Commodore, “Mr. Speaker, you haven’t touched on the most important problem of India today. I am talking of the population explosion.” He then proceeded to quote a lot of statistics from 1900 onwards to which I could not reply in suit. So, I decided to side-track. I said, “Mr. Questioner, I have heard your statistics with the utmost interest. I too have some statistics. Please believe me; we have this problem “licked.” My father had twelve children. I have two. My son has none – he is twelve.”
If they were the walls of Jericho, “Seaford House” would have tumbled down – so great were the hoots of laughter. Yes, I survived the Inquisition.
The forenoon lectures from specially chosen celebrities – all experts in their field – were a regular feature at the college. It would have delighted Lewis Carroll. “Thick and fast they came and more and more and more.” They talked of many things, “of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.” Flippant though I am in description, the lectures were of very high caliber – most instructive and interesting. Everything was off the record, no notes were taken. At the question hour, one could, with complete impunity and candor, challenge, counter, parry and thrust against the man on the rostrum, within of course, the bounds of decency and decorum. I had my bouts with many of them, but the only two who really “got my goat” were Glubb Pasha and Enoch Powell. The former was the perfect Colonel Blimp, still hugging to his visions of past imperial grandeur. He even talked of “sending some gunboats to Bombay to shake the natives out of their neutrality and there on to the Gulf to capture the oil wells of Persia!”
Enoch was every inch the racist. He said among other things, “If every Indian put away one grain of rice every day, there would be no famine in India.” Even though I attacked these two gentlemen relentlessly, it would not be true to say that I did not enjoy Powell’s speech. It was a splendid piece of oratory, full of purple patches and delivered in the choicest of the language of Milton and Shakespeare. This does not mean, however, that I liked him in the least, especially as the next Christmas, I got a card from each of the students with a “grain of rice” and a superscription, “My contribution please.” Of course, I have enough sense of humor to recognize it, even if not handed out on a plate!
The burning question on every British lip those days were, “should we join the Common Market?” Naturally, this became a subject of “Syndicate Study” and I was put in the anti-EEC syndicate. My Syndicate chose me to put across the view that Britain should stay out of the Common Market. I suppose this was because their own convictions lay also with the pro-lobby. As for myself, it was only of academic interest and where I lacked arguments, I brought eloquence into play to try and win the vote. Putting on my best Churchillian accent I thundered, “I was in this Island Fortress when it stood alone. The old Lion with the cubs at her side roared defiance at the might hordes gathering across the Channel, threatening to wring England’s neck like a chicken – “Some chicken, some neck” sneered the Leonine War-Lord. Strutting about the wings of the stage was a popinjay – an émigré French Colonel calling himself Charles de Gaulle. He came to you for shelter and succor which you freely gave. Now he bestrides the European scene like a mighty colossus whilst ye petty men walk around his huge legs seeking for yourselves miserable crumbs. Has the Lion become so senile and mangy? No, I do not believe it and I say to you what one of the greatest men of our troubled century has produced – Winston Churchill. “Be ye men of valor. Let his be your finest hour. Advance Brittania.”
Being completely extempore, it was well received and at the coffee break, I was congratulated by one and all from the Commandant downwards. When the bell rang, they all trooped back and voted solidly for Britain to join the Common Market. Not that I could have cared less!
Like Lord Ullin’s daughter, I do not wish the tarry as together we will soon be crossing the Atlantic. But, alas, I must, for a while, to write the requiem for a great fighter, Sir Winston Churchill, who was waging the greatest battle of his life.
Winston Spencer Churchill was born on November the 30th, 1874. In the last week of January 1965, his long and eventful life was slowly nearing its end. He was dying. Winston Churchill named one of his volumes on the World War II as “Triumph and Tragedy.” His own life could have epitomized by the title in reverse – “Tragedy and Triumph.”
Robert Rhode James, in his book on Churchill had written, “If the story (Churchill’s) had ended in 1930 or even 1939, we should be in the presence of a great personal tragedy.” But the story did not end then.
For my part, it only began at that time.
My knowledge of Winston Churchill spanned the period from 1940 onwards as Prime Minister, he ensured for himself the pride of place in the annals of Military, British, and perhaps World History.
I have never hidden my tremendous admiration for the romanticism of this great leader who invested everything he undertook with color and drama in which he played the leading role, always with a sense of history, never doubting the role that destiny had cast for him. When World War II broke out, I was in service with the Home Fleet of the Royal Navy; the war at sea had broken out in all its fury, the Passenger ship Athenia had been torpedoed on the very first day, the Aircraft Carrier Courageous a few days later. Gunther Prien had entered the British stronghold Scapa fled and sunk the battleship Royal Oak. And yet, the most electrifying signal for all of us at Sea, was the one from the Admiralty that said “Winston is back!”
With France tottering towards ignominious defeat, with Norway and Denmark overrun, with the mounting air battles in ever increasing fury, things could not have looked bleaker for Britain. It was at such an awesome hour that Winston Churchill assumed Prime Ministership of an England that stood alone.
Churchill offered his country nothing but blood, toil, tears, and sweat. He defined his policy – “To wage war, in land, sea, and in the air with all our might and all the strength God has given us.” He gave his people the aim in one word, “Victory.” In the words of John F. Kennedy, “He mobilized the English language and sent it into battle.” On that Trinity Sunday, he spoke to his people – “Centuries ago words were written to be a call and a spur to the faithful servants of Truth and Justice: Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valor, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our altar. As the Will of God is in Heaven, even so, let it be.”
He conducted his policy and achieved his aim, leading his country through victory. Of course, my hero-worship of the early forties has been much tarnished by the stubborn resistance to Indian Independence and his several vitriolic utterances against the leaders of my country. India was his blind spot and the man whose tremendous sweep of imagination and whose fertile brain had directed and helped in winning a war by the most modern means and concepts, was totally unable to understand the trend of events in modern India. In describing Churchill’s Indian Policy, one of his own colleagues stated in Parliament – “The key to Winston’s attitude is the fact that he is mid-Victorian as far as India is concerned and he is unable to get to the modern point of view.”
But we had attained our independence and Winston’s prejudices receded into the background even though he had fought to the end for the continuation of British rule in India. In the spirit of tolerance that is her cultural heritage and that had been re-taught to her by Gandhiji, India was prepared to forgive and forget and begin a new era of relations with Britain based on friendliness and cooperation. It, thus, pleased me immensely when I saw a court photograph of the Queen along with the Commonwealth Prime Ministers that included Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru and Sir Winston Churchill.
The strong vintage of Churchill’s personality had imbued itself upon me. I had admired him as a great leader, a prolific writer, a brilliant orator, and above all, an activist of energy, application, and indomitable courage. Therefore, it was natural that I had passed on some of my sentiments to my wife, daughter, and son, and they knew many of the quotes from his wartime speeches from memory. The stories of Churchill’s puckish and somewhat pungent sense of humor were legendary and since I could passably imitate the lisp and the inflections, repetitions of the “Churchill jokes” were in great demand and always went down well, especially with my wife and children, who never tired of listening to them. Though I realize that their humor cannot be fully appreciated without the Churchillian accent and this cannot be expressed in print. And now, in 1965, the old war-hero was fighting the toughest battle of his life and gradually losing ground, and inching nearer to the Great Divide.
Along with my family, I joined the several hundreds of people who were keeping vigil outside his house in Kensington gardens. In the icy cold of the grey morning, everyone’s mood was somber, silent, and expectant and any movement in the house brought forth a hushed murmur and a sigh. It flashed through my mind, “So this is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper.” When it was all over, his body was placed in the Abbey at Westminster, and we joined the endless queue that filed past and this time I thought, “Lay on my coffin a sword, Sir, for I am a soldier who died in battle.”.
My college was greatly amused when the “Guardian” displayed a photograph of my family and me outside his house in Kensington gardens with a caption, “Pakistani family pays respect to Sir Winston.” I had my Kashmiri fez cap on and I thought, ruefully, that even in error, the British were on Pakistan’s side over the Kashmir issue!
Chapter 22 Summer Tour of USA and Canada
During the summer of 1964, the Imperial Defence College organized study tours for college attendees on a worldwide scale. I had chosen and had drawn the North American tour – Canada and the United States. It was a whirlwind affair – on the move the whole time and in just less than six weeks we covered very widely separated cities of the two countries, living out of suitcases and trying to take in and absorb the kaleidoscopic panorama of the great American landscape.
This is not a travelogue nor am I writing for any geographical magazine; I will give the itinerary and relate some of the more interesting incidents and experiences in these travels, the places visited which included Halifax, Ottawa, September Isles, Quebec, Toronto, and the Niagara Falls in Canada, thence to the United States. Here we covered Washington, D.C., New York, Detroit, Kansas City, and Las Vegas. Flying over the Grand Canyon, we had a brief halt at the Intercontinental Ballistic Missile base, thence to San Francisco and Seattle. We reentered Canada into Vancouver. An exhilarating train journey over the Rockies to Calgary, flight to Winnipeg, Montreal, back to Halifax and then return to base, London, England.
In the six weeks to cover the above, the idea was that we should meet the people, learn their industries and economy, social life and ethos, to return steeped in the neo-culture of two young and virile nations. For myself, I went with an open mind, keen to observe and to learn and found that to do so, I would have to strike out on my own and deviate considerably from the program that had been drawn up. The insularity of the British came up in a sharp focus as much of the entertainment and social functions were organized by a group called “English-speaking Union” and almost every place we visited seemed to have one such branch! Our very first night in the New World was the curtain-raiser to such dreary repetitions in the weeks to follow. A dinner party by the “British community” in Ottawa with all the trimmings and trappings of Imperial makebelieve was probably great fun to my colleagues, but I found it unutterably exhausting. Our hosts were filled with energy, beans, and buckshot, but we were suffering from a jet lag of several hours. Just to keep awake I took a plunge into the icy waters of the Chalk River, on whose banks we were picnicking (!) and it wouldn’t have mattered to me had I frozen or even drowned – my spirits were that low!
As though to punctuate the dismal beginning, a minor tragedy overtook me the next morning when we visited a place called “September Isles.” My meager wardrobe contained, besides two warm suits, only one khaki uniform. This latter item got sprayed at one of the iron-smelting factories with large patches of rust particles that wouldn’t come off for love or money. Henceforth, I was to be the odd man out, having had to mothball my only uniform. Ill-informed about the meteorological data, both my suits were much too warm for the Indian summer conditions we met within the New World and a feeling of inferiority spread over and enveloped me in despondency and gloom.
However, by nature, I am resilient and do not allow myself too much self-pity and being somewhat of an extrovert, inferiority complexes do not stay long with me. I decided that this visit to North America as an opportunity of a lifetime, and I would bumptiously seek opportunities for adventure and excitement and enjoy myself to the utmost. In implementing this decision, a number of interesting incidents occurred that may be of interest.
In Ottawa, the Canadian Forces gave us a cocktail party at which most of the hosts were from the three Services, now integrated into one entity. In that homogeneity of resplendent and bemedaled uniforms, I
felt like the fully dressed in a nudist colony – painfully aware of my clothes. I sought out and found someone who seemed equally out of place in his crumpled civilian dress. He was obviously not of Anglo-Saxon stock because his English was hesitant, and the Gallic accent pronounced him as a French Canadian. Relations between India and Pakistan had deteriorated very much at that time, and he started questioning me carefully on such issues as Kashmir, the skirmishes in the Kutch border, etc. I told him that I had come all the way to Canada to learn about his country, and if he wanted to know about mine, we would be happy to have him over. He asked me, “Well, what do you want to know about Canada?” To provoke an argument, I asked him why Canada needed an elaborate setup of Defence forces when the whole might of the United States was there to ensure the security of his country. I couldn’t have chosen any question that moved him so deeply. I felt that I had released a cataract and his replies were torrential.
He started with a diatribe on the social, cultural, and economic tentacles that reached across the border threatening to engulf the entity of Canada, he quoted from history of the many unhappy incidents of the past that led to clash of arms, he harangued bitterly on the superior attitude of his neighbors whom he described as overgrown and strong bodies with immature minds taking on global responsibilities beyond their capabilities. He said, “They are giving us an inferiority complex. Take any Canadian newspaper and 90 percent of it is about what is happening in the U.S. When you go there, have a look at their newspapers. We might just well not exist.” He went on, “Look at a flattened map of the world. You will find us sandwiched between two giants, Russia to the North and the USA to the South. There is this cold war going on between them and no one knows when it will turn hot by accident or design. When it does, we take the first brunt.”
I could not understand this geographical extension of his thought and argument and said so. He said, “Mon Ami, believe me, when the Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles start flying around, they would do so over Canadian territory and that is not very funny, huh.”
Finally, he came to the answer of the question that had triggered off the cloudburst. He said that he believed that the best safeguard for the world still rested with that ineffective body called the United Nations and it is in the interest of every one of the weaker countries to make that organization as potent as possible. That is why Canada, like India, was always willing to take full part in all decisions of the United Nations and has contributed towards the peace-keeping forces in various parts of the world, including, he said, with the first smirk of the evening, “your Kashmir.” I said, “I thoroughly enjoyed listening to you and I am particularly glad you said, ‘your Kashmir.’ I hope we will meet again,” to which he replied, “Oh, but we will. You are scheduled to visit the Defence Headquarters tomorrow and you will get a briefing from me, but it will be quite different to what you have heard tonight,” and with that particular twinkle in his eyes that only the French can produce, moved away. And it suddenly dawned on me with startling clarity that I had been holding discourse with Canada’s Minister of Defence! We certainly live and learn!
In Quebec, I visited the Son-et-Lumiére that recaptured a part of Canada’s earlier battles between the English and the French. The siege of Quebec in 1769 was beautifully depicted and the various tactical moves of the besiegers and defenders were brought out in sound and color and one felt transported back on the Time Machine. General James Wolfe, the English general lost his life in this battle and watching him die yet once again brought into focus the utter futility of war as a means of settling the affairs of men. I thought of the millions of men that had been sacrificed at the Altar of the God of Death before and since then. And so it will go on till the end of life itself, if a wrong switch is pressed at the wrong time, it will cause the immediate and irrevocable extinction of mankind. The visit to the Niagara Falls was a memorable one. This North American river originating from Lake Erie in Canada, forms part of the border with the United States of America, and in one tremendous leap of more than 150 feet, empties into the Lake Ontario.
This much I had learned at school, but to see the majesty and grandeur of this titanic sheet of water cascading over the sheer drop was truly awe-inspiring and made one very humble. This was nature at her most magnificent and it was worth coming all the way to America if only to see this spectacle of glory.
Where Gods should dwell, Mammon had made his way. It upset me to see all round the commercial encroachments in the rat race to convert pristine beauty into petty cash. Everything had its price in the dollar and the dime, and one can hardly feel spiritually uplifted whilst at the same time reaching for the purse to pay, pay, and pay. In the midst of all the money-making gimmicks, the picture suddenly changed for me, and I saw the Niagara as streaming with tears over the frailties of Nature’s most perfect creation – Man.
Montreal was busy preparing for the forthcoming EXPO‘67. The lady who briefed us was middle-aged, tall, and very thin, with piercing eyes, and of course, was superbly efficient. She knew what she was doing and that was to make it clear to us that she was the final authority on almost every phase of the project in hand. I tried to believe her. I heard later from my friends at INS Brahmaputra, who represented India at the EXPO ‘67 that it was an unqualified success and silently I gave credit to the lady whose name I knew not, but had mentally christened, “Lucretia.”
It was a Friday afternoon when we were taken around Montreal’s most modern building, a 48-storey structure that housed the Stock Exchange. Even though it was nearing closing time, our guide, an elderly man with beady eyes through which he looked at the world with a permanent grouse, fell in with someone’s suggestion that we would get the most panoramic view of Montreal from the terrace. The regular lift [elevator] had called it a day, and we trooped into another, working but not yet in regular commission. “Working” is a loose way of describing it, because it coughed itself to a grinding halt between the 47th and 48th floor.
Our guide really got into his element then, and gave us the cheering news that being a lift not yet completed, it had neither the alarm system nor an emergency telephone installed. In a short while everyone would pack up for the weekend and maybe we had a long wait until Monday morning before help could come. He regaled us with several stories, and he turned out to be a surprisingly good raconteur, of people going mad in similar circumstances. Because of an earlier incident when I nearly choked to death, I have an overpowering fear of confined spaces and it was tantalizing to see a quarter of the 48th floor exposed, and
heartbreaking to see our way blocked by the solidly locked trellis iron door of the lift.
One of our crowd suggested that with the brawn available inside the lift, we should be able to tear the door off its locking arrangement and one of us could crawl through the wide enough aperture to summon help. This met with general approval from all but the guide, who was unanimously vetoed. After several attempts we got the door open. I won approbation for volunteering to go first because no one knew as yet the panic building up inside me. I dismissed the thought of juice coming on, moving the lift and making two Krishnan’s out of me as I was being pushed through. No one was absolutely certain that this would not happen with the door having been forced open. I dismissed the thought because I could not possibly have remained in that lift a minute longer without giving way to the overpowering claustrophobia that was engulfing me. It was the fastest lateral movement, and I am sure I hold the record for it! It was glorious outside, though flat on my face. We all made it in time, after tipping the guide very liberally. To this day, I am not sure if the guide had not somehow engineered the technical “breakdown.” If he did, I hope he choked on the laugh he must have had at our expense. Someone had said, “After 50, never pass a lavatory or a lift without using it.” I always make it a point, before using a lift, to make sure that it has its emergency bell and telephone, otherwise I walk it, thanks to Montreal!
To return to the New World, our next stop was Washington, D.C. I knew that our visit to the States, being by way of a conducted tour, will teach us all about the greatness and the glory, the power and the wealth of this ‘God’s Own Country’. If there are chinks in the armor, one would have to look for them oneself. I must record here and now that it was certainly not my intention to look for faults or to try and denigrate in any way the great achievements of strong and great people who had come to the fore through sheer guts, grit, determination, and much sacrifice.
I had several friends whom I found generous, steadfast, genuine, and totally trustworthy. Nevertheless, my impressions of the country as such and the people as a whole had been conditioned through the years by the images projected by the Hollywood stars. I neither wanted to change the impression nor be influenced by it, so would, therefore, view America with an open mind. In so far as this record goes, I am narrating incidents in my life as factually as memory serves me. Thus, they are not meant to carry either condemnation or approbation.
Robin Batra was the Naval Attaché in Washington, and it was a welcome change to get away from “The English-speaking union” party and we went instead to a ballet, “Romeo and Juliet” in an open air theatre set in sylvan surroundings.
Whilst in Washington, the Pakistani Naval Attaché invited us to dinner. I had known this officer when he was driving a destroyer and had come alongside my ship (INS Delhi) several times. I liked him because he was a good ship-handler and a capable seaman. During the Annual Joint Exercises that we used to do off Trincomalee (in which all commonwealth Navies took part), his destroyer was attached to me on many occasions in the mock battles we used to simulate and I had given him more than one “Bravo Zulu” which meant “maneuver well executed.” In fact, he once told me that he enjoyed serving under my tactical command. And now I was having dinner with him, at a time when relations between our two countries had deteriorated to its nadir.
The party was going well when he was suddenly called away to the phone, from where he sent for Commodore Hameed of the Pakistani Navy, also on the IDC college tour, and a guest at the party. The moment he rejoined us, I could see that something was seriously wrong from the strained look on his face, and a chill started developing in the atmosphere that had been cordial until then. Robin also noticed this and we soon closed the proceedings and bade our farewells.
When we were both back at Robin’s house, we discussed this and came to the conclusion that the phone call was from the Pakistani Ambassador and presumed that this might be the warning message of hostilities. Sure enough, Pakistan attacked Kashmir in strength and the die was cast for the 1965 Indo-Pakistan War.
The highlights of our Washington visit were the White House and the Pentagon, Arlington cemetery, and the tea I had with one of the African American waiters of our motel at his home. From there, we flew onto New York City.
We had only two days in New York, hardly enough to look around this human jungle – which is what it was. The two places I particularly wanted to visit were not included in our itinerary – the Empire State Building and the Greenwich Village. I also wanted to fit in a ballgame. I had to find “time out” from the social engagements fixed for us, which meant skipping a dinner and an early cocktail party and I am sure I didn’t miss much, nor did they miss me.
My visit to the Empire State building ended in a near financial tragedy. I was living on a very tight budget and had to count each dollar and cent of the precious foreign exchange allowed. The 400 remaining dollars, in American Express traveler’s checks, I used to carry on my person, and it became a habit to feel the wallet in the hip pocket periodically. Someone in the lift taking us to the top of the building had watched these antics and with perfect timing in between the “pats,” had removed the wallet, extracted the last two checks, knowing they would be of the highest denominations, and replaced the rest in my hip pocket and I did not even feel a touch! Having enjoyed the magnificent view of New York, I returned to the hotel and on checking up found myself poorer by 50 percent of my capital. Practically, at the beginning of the U. S. tour, this was a disaster of the worst magnitude. I felt absolutely crestfallen and desperate. Early next day, after a sleepless night, I went to the office of the American Express and told them of my tale of woe. I explained that the amount looked small but represented half the spending money of my rest of the time in the States. And to my intense relief, they made good my loss, after making me promise that should I recover the stolen amount, I should pay it into the company. I was surprised to learn that there was quite a racket in stolen traveler’s checks and that it was easy enough to pass it on.
In our country, cashing of traveler’s checks is a serious operation involving identification with passport, careful scrutiny of signatures, etc., and I came to realize that such precautions were, in fact, in the interest
of the customer. I was so happy about feeling “rich” again that I didn’t mind the homily not to be “played for a sucker again.”
The weekend in Las Vegas can be described as nothing but pure fantasy. In the most unlikely setting of the arid and hot desert of Nevada, has been built this little town of super affluence, designed solely for the entertainment, distraction, relaxation and pleasure of those who can afford to spend their money. The hotel we stayed in was typical of the many that beckoned one and all to do just one thing – spend their money. From the blistering heat of the desert air, you entered the cool precincts of resplendence; the dimly lit casinos which for all their fabulous outfitting still made one feel that one has entered a factory. The clanging of fruit machines, more popularly known as the one-armed bandits are hard at work, devouring the dimes of eager victims who feed them continuously and with a concentration that was eerie to watch. To whet their appetite, machines spilled out coins at irregular intervals, only to suck them back again. With hundreds of levers being pulled by an equal number of willing hands, the chink of coins that each machine doled out produced a staccato that reminded you of a shipyard in full production.
The fruit machines flanked the several plush and green-baize tables where dozens of games of chance were simultaneously being conducted to pander to the tastes of the diverse crowd with a common aim – to get rich quickly. The rooms are excellent, the cuisine is superb, the bars are well stocked, the service is perfect, the dance bands and cabaret shows include famous celebrities, the clientele is opulent and everything is relatively cheap, and why not? A famous inscription came to my mind “Abandon Hope, all ye so that enter here” for most of them would in all probabilities be hopelessly bereft of much, or their entire purse when they finally leave this oasis of make-believe to the desert outside.
I had read and heard that Las Vegas was the playground of the notorious American phenomenon – the Mafia. At one of the gaming tables in “our” casino, I saw a splendidly built and diamond-decked blonde, rolling the dice and all the time chanting some weird invocations in a high-pitched full throated contralto with her financier at her side that could have stepped right out of a Hollywood screen – the silk suit, the cigar and the soft hat pulled down to the front. He, in turn, was flanked by two toughs complete with overcoats into which their hands were deeply thrust.
Curiosity got the better of me, augmented by a couple of shots of bourbon handed to me by beautiful waitresses who watch the losers and come to the rescue with “this is on the house,” so that you feel a cad not playing more and, of course, in the process, lose yet some more.
I approached one of the henchmen, who had probably inspired O’Henry in his character creation, and asked, “Could you tell me who the big shot and his girl friend are?” I could have almost anticipated the reply. True to form, he looked down at me and said, “Get lost!” I thought of reminding him that I was a guest in his country, that I had asked a civil question to which I expected a civil reply, and so on. Fortunately, a second look at him decided the matter for me – I got lost! To this day, I am not sure whether the setting was the real McCoy or put there as part of the scenario to give local color.
The fact that I left Las Vegas with 42 dollars to the credit may not be of any historical interest, but a source of much satisfaction to me, as almost all my colleagues had lost varying sums of money. I say almost all, because my Pakistani colleague, the Commodore, did not gamble.
After the weekend at Las Vegas, we winged our way westward, flying low over the Grand Canyon and touched down at an airfield to be shown around the Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile Base (ICBM). This was one of the scores dotted all over the country and provided the sinews to the little black box that never left the President’s side and that could trigger off a holocaust of world-shattering proportions.
We were shown around by a colonel of the U.S. Air Force who gave me the impression that he wished we were elsewhere. Tall and spare, with a long and sallow face deeply lined, he spoke with a sad and weary voice, as though he wished he could start something and end it all. I wondered with such a man in charge, what was the guarantee that a touch of his finger would not send the missiles soaring towards their intended target. But I need not have worried as the fail-safe Systems were very foolproof.
Closed circuit television monitors every person’s movement from the moment of entry into the huge campus. We were told that every inch of the grounds is under constant scrutiny, and the guards had orders to shoot first and ask questions afterwards. We were taken down to the bowels of the earth through subterranean passages, under guard of determined-looking he-men, who added to the melodrama with their drawn pistols! I am, perhaps, one of the few privileged Indians, who has seen an inter-continental missile with its atomic warhead all set to go, but I cannot say that it was a particularly exhilarating experience and was glad to leave for San Francisco where yet another kind of experience lay waiting for me.
After checking in at the hotel, we had the evening free and I did not know what to do with myself. So I rang up our trade commissioner there, hoping that he would have something to suggest, and he certainly did. He said, “Say, it’s great you called me. We have a function at the local Gurudwara, and they will be happy to meet you and we can have some chow together. Tell you what, I’ll drop by and pick you up at 8:00 p.m. sharp.”
Before I could respond, he had rung off. To travel half way around the world to meet my Sikh brethren, tickled me pink. But my budget for Frisco was limited to 30 dollars which I could stretch to 80, thanks to lucky Las Vegas. How far could you get with 80 dollars? Well, far enough to the hotel bar whither I sojourned to give myself the necessary ‘spiritual uplift for the forthcoming grand premiere.
The bar was empty except for an elderly and kind-looking man behind the counter who visibly brightened at my entrance and asked that eternal question, “What’s it to be, Sir?” I placed a ten-dollar bill on the counter and said, “As many whiskies as that will buy.” He probably thought I had some deep distressing problem that I was hiding under my fez cap (that I had bought in the Kashmir emporium at Delhi, and had taken to sporting during the trip) because he said, “Take it easy, Sir, nothing can be that bad, but you are welcome to the drinks,” and with a graceful sweep that bespoke of the utmost hospitality, pocketed the bill
when Bill came to the scene.
I never got to know him by any other name than just “Bill.” I am not very good at describing people and in this case it matters very little to the story whether or not I drew any conclusions from his physiognomy – I didn’t and, therefore, an introduction to Bill, as a medium height, immaculately dressed topped by a beautifully slouched hat with a front brim pulled down, a cigar that looked very congruous and glowing under a pair of blue eyes that glittered with mischief and yet, I felt instinctively, could be as cold as death if circumstances demanded.
Anyway, I was not particularly interested in analyzing the man, as I said before, till he spoke to me, “Hey,” he said, “What kind of a funny hat have you got on?” Wanting to be friendly, I said, “It’s called a fez cap and is made of lamb’s wool and it keeps my bald head warm.” His response was quite unfriendly. “Well, I don’t like it. What are you, an East Indian?” This guy was but a passing ship in the sea of my life and why should I take any nonsense from him? So I said (having had my full share of Yankee films in my life), “Listen buster, I don’t give a damn what you think of my fez cap. For that matter, I don’t like the look or the smell of the cigar that you are smoking. I don’t know anything about an East Indian. I am just an Indian spending a few hours in Frisco. So, instead of picking up a quarrel, why don’t you join me for a drink?” “Izzat so?” he said, “Say, I like you. You’ve got spunk,” and turning to the barman went on, “drinks are on me. Have you taken any money from this guy?” I have never seen a more frightened man than behind the bar. “No Sir, Mr. Bill, Sir. I mean, yes Sir,” and within a few moments my ten-dollar bill was back!
So you are with us for only a little while. What do you think of our beautiful city? But one lesson I had learnt in the Navy is that when you are in shoal water, proceed with caution, taking soundings all the way. Incidentally, I knew he was Bill only from the barman’s address. So I decided to play along and said, “Listen, Bill. I like you too. Nice to have met you. Very soon I will be visiting “East Indians” and shall be leaving this lovely city without seeing any of it.” “Nuts,” he said, “you ain’t going no place without me. I’m going to take you round Frisco. Wanna’ come along?”
I was, to repeat a worn out cliché, on the horns of a dilemma. On the one horn may well be that I was being conned. The other horn pointed to an adventurous evening with the alternative being a safe but familiar visit to the Gurudwara. The barman settled the issue for me. If eyes could speak, he said, “I want a word with you, Sir.” I have always said that the most important organs that God put into us are the kidneys and the bladder. You can invoke them, without any compunction, if you want to break up the continuity of a conversation. And it can be done without ceremony or explanation. ‘I have to answer nature’s call…!’ This reminds me of a riddle I was once asked. What is the difference between a Cemetery and a Lavatory? The answer is “there is no difference, chum, ’cause when you gotta go, you gotta’ go!” The barman met me in the toilet and said, “Say, Sir, I heard you agreeing to do the town with this gentleman. Since you are staying at this hotel, I would advise against it.” I asked, “Why is that? Is he a con man?” He hastened to reply, “No, nothing like that. But he is dangerous. What we call a ‘gangster”.” This was getting really exciting and I asked, “Is he likely to shoot me or something? I haven’t done anything to him, and I have little enough money to be robbed of.”
He was getting visibly annoyed, obviously not wanting to be away from the bar, and said, “Look, he seems to be likeable but why take any chance?” and quickly vanished. I was back once again on them thar horns!
Gangster land or Gurudwara? Courage or Cowardice? Well, challenge has always attracted me and what the heck? How many times do such adventures come one ‘s way, and so I decided to accept it? But I thought it would be only prudent to “come clean” as they say. So, on returning to the bar, I asked my escort-to-be, “I say, Bill, is it correct that you are a gangster?” I expected the shooting to start, but instead he roared with laughter and asked, “Why, does that scare you?”
“Look,” I said, “Where I come from, we have gangsters for breakfast. Only we call them dacoits instead.” For a person who hadn’t got near a hundred miles of a dacoit, it was not a bad little speech. But it reflects the way I was feeling. I continued, “Bill, I am on a very tight budget and San Francisco will have to open her Golden Gates to me for not more than seventy-five bucks, which are all I am carrying. I can spend all of it, but no more. So if you have any reservations about our outing, now is the time to cry off.”
Now he was really angry and raised his voice at me, “You are talking just like an Indian – a Red Indian! What’s all this baloney about reservations? Forget you and your seventy-five bucks! Come on, let’s go!”
I winked at the barman who was glaring at me for the crack about “gangster” (I hope Bill didn’t take it out on him later for talking out of turn). The wink was meant to mean, “If I don’t return, old buddy, look for me in the muddy waters off the Bridge.” But I need not have worried, nor did I have much time to be exercised in my mind about anything, because I found myself plunged into a phantasmagoric maelstrom of revelry that is difficult to describe because of the kaleidoscopic pattern of sensations and activities that crowded one upon another on that mad and merry night.
We wined and dined at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, reputed to be one of the best in San Francisco. Everyone seemed to know Bill and vice versa. But for all the bonhomie, I could detect a certain wariness, a sort of healthy respect for my young friend. The cuisine was excellent, the service was superb, and the champagne was vintage, but the atmosphere was strained. We didn’t stay long over dinner which I thought was unnecessarily rushed, but that was Bill’s style. He was always in a hurry. The moment we got somewhere, he wanted to be elsewhere. He seemed dead set that I should see as much of San Francisco as the night allowed. The trouble with such a course of action is that you see a lot but take in nothing as it becomes one great blur of activity as we traversed the journey through San Francisco’s famous night life. We visited night clubs and glittering shows, interspersed with visits to some fine and beautifully maintained and run restaurants.
Somewhere along the line, we had been joined by Bill’s girlfriend or “moll” as he referred to her. She was an exceptionally pretty girl, in her late twenties, superbly dressed to accentuate a figure that needed no
addition or subtraction anywhere at all. This golden-haired beauty with her husky voice added to the fantasy of the entire evening. What is even more important, it lulled me into a feeling that with her around, the chances of my getting involved in some gang warfare seemed somewhat reduced, especially so round about the early hours of the morning when Bill suggested that we go to the “penthouse.” Gloria (her real name) vehemently protested, “Oh no, Bill. Not there, not this time, please Bill, let’s stick to this side!” When questioned, she told me that the place mentioned was in “hostile territory.” I heartily endorsed my own support to her view and pleaded with Bill that as “me thinks I scent the morning air” I must to my sojourn return. Thus ended a remarkable night, memorable because of the novelty of it, fascinating because of the fun of it, and unusual because it was all so unexpected. Thank you, Bill and his “moll!”
The highlight of the tour was the journey by train from Vancouver to Calgary, over the Canadian Rockies, followed by flight across Canada, a distance of some three thousand miles, with a brief halt at Winnipeg. It requires a better pen than mine to describe the grandeur of the Rockies. Suffice it to say that I spent every moment of the long and tortuous journey in the glass bubble of the observation car of the train, lost in the breathtaking beauty of the scenic views and landscapes that unwound their awe-inspiring magnificence and splendor – nature at her primordial and pristine best.
It was a wonderful and informative experience, but I was glad to get back to my family in London. A memorable voyage was over and back to college. I must return, I cannot say that I enjoyed the second term as much as I did the first. Rhodesia had unilaterally declared independence and was much debated in the college. Clearly, all the British students were on the side of Ian Smith and there was much talk of “kith and kin.”
We were at war with Pakistan. It was glaringly evident that the sympathies of the British were with the latter. The worst, for me, was that our Navy was doing nothing in the war.
To add an insult to injury, someone sent me a cutting from a newspaper, of a picture of Commodore Hameed and myself, taken while on the tour in Canada with the caption – “SEA DOGS SIT OUT WAR – The Navies of India and Pakistan are quite at peace in Canada!”
Chapter 23 Naval Advisor, London and Chief of Naval Aviation
On completion of the Imperial Defence College Course, I was appointed as Naval Advisor to our High Commissioner to London. Here, I had the opportunity of meeting and serving under a remarkable man, Shri P.N. Haksar, the Deputy High Commissioner, a highly knowledgeable and well-read person, with varied interests. I found in him the sort of dynamism I most admire – to get things done remaining humane and jovial about it. He was to rise to dizzying heights of power at a later date, but I always remember my association with him affectionately and respectfully. I was happy in the knowledge that he reciprocated with warmth as he wrote to me, when it was time to depart“I am not given to expressing one’s feelings, but I should like you to know that it was for me a very great pleasure to have had you as a colleague in this High Commission.”
I met with Lord Louis Mountbatten quite often during my stint as Naval Advisor, and it was a great education for me to expose myself uninhibitedly to that brilliant mind. He recounted how he had brought Pandit Nehru and Sardar Patel together after Gandhiji’s assassination, and many other episodes relating to high places. However, what interested me most were his discourses on the Navy, the importance of Seapower and Strategy, and his reminiscences of his South East Asia Command during World War 11.
I have always held the view that men of action abhor war and its attendant cruelties. Lord Mountbatten was Admiral of the Fleet, and Japan was practically on her knees and surrender was imminent when the atom bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in the fateful days of August of 1945, obliterating most of the two cities. In Hiroshima alone, some 30,000 people were killed and countless injured. I asked him the question that was uppermost in the minds of every thinking person having a conscience “Was it really necessary to drop those two atom bombs then?” His answer was, “No, but apologists will say that in order to prevent more bloodshed and conclude the war, it had to be done.”
I can only add, “He that sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind.” The winds that were sown on the 6th and 9th of August were little experimental puffs, according to present day technology. Let us hope that the whirlwind does not reach hurricane force and sweep mankind off the face of the earth.
The normal tenure of office of the Naval Advisor is three years. I had just completed a year as Naval Advisor when I was instructed to return to India to take up the duties of Chief of Naval Aviation at Naval Headquarters. Professionally, this did not cause me any heartache, as the diplomatic assignment had not temperamentally suited me at all. We left London and reached Delhi on the 17th of January 1967. Admiral Chatterji (now the Chief of Naval Staff) had made it clear that he expected me to take on my duties straightaway. I was also keen to get down to it because, having had so much to do with the development of Naval Aviation in the Indian Navy, I was thrilled at the prospect of being its Chief. Moreover, I had some pet ideas that I wanted to sell to the Naval Staff and here was my opportunity.
But our arrival in India did not have an auspicious start. Due to the SNAFU (Situation Normal – All Fouled Up) by Air India, the bulk of my luggage, unaccompanied, had arrived and transferred to the Main
Customs House and the clearance of the same was one of the most frustrating of my experiences. I got into the clutches of a petty official who, I was sure came from a long line of bachelors. In spite of my transfer of residence certificate and diplomatic passport, he insisted on going through my luggage with the proverbial tooth comb. His irritation mounted as he drew blank after blank. At last he found a small battery-operated walkie-talkie set which my son had bought for a couple of pounds in a toy shop. My trying to convince him that the range was a few yards and that it was a child’s toy, was of no avail. I must get a certificate from the Ministry of Communications, a license from the post-office, and register it with the police. I said to him, “Look, let me smash it up, or you confiscate it. For God’s sake, let us not make a federal case out of what is after all a wretched little toy!” No, he won the battle and it cost me some thirty rupees a year until 1971 when I reported it “lost” in the Bangladesh War!
My heart sank when he opened the next parcel – a print copy of Leonardo Da Vinci’s famous painting Mona Lisa bought by my wife at Harrods, London, for three pounds sterling. I had visions of spending the rest of my life in jail, charged with international art theft. Shutting my eyes, I said a small prayer. Would you believe it? He said, “Ha! A fine portrait; your wife, no doubt? I said, with all the fervor at my command, “Yes, yes! You like the smile? I captured it just right, don’t you think?” He said, “Aah, you painted it. Very good, very good!”
My ordeal ended at last. I collected pieces of myself and my belongings but the “finale” regarding portrait, so tickled my funny bone that the interlude, distasteful as it had been, was perhaps worth it! I have dined out on this story many times since!
In my assignment in England, I had naturally become aware of the submarine arm that Pakistan was building up. She had, on our side, three really lucrative targets – INS Vikrant, INS Mysore and INS Delhi. Pakistan’s submarines, the “Daphne’s” were small and highly sophisticated boats with deadly striking power. Armed with twelve 21-inch torpedoes, they were capable of a submerged speed of 16 knots. With their acquisition, the balance of naval power could tilt very dangerously in Pakistan’s favor. I was absolutely convinced that we must augment our antisubmarine forces at sea. Not to do so might spell disaster for us. I thought I knew the answer to how this could be done. But how do you sell the idea to the Naval Staff in the first instance and the government as the next step?
I have always been a great admirer of Mr. Winston Churchill who had always epitomized for me the embodiment of a great leader, fully worth emulating. He wrote as follows: “The duties and the problems of all persons other than Number One are quite different to and in many ways more difficult. It is always a misfortune when number two or three has to initiate a dominant plan or policy. He has to consider not only the merits of the policy, but the mind of his chief; not only what to advise, but what is proper for him in his station to advise; not only what to do, but how to get it agreed, and how to get it done. Moreover, number two or three will have to reckon with numbers four, five, and six, or maybe some bright outsider, number 20.”
The Principal Staff Officers used to meet every day together to discuss matters of mutual interest. No minutes were kept and everyone was, theoretically, free to express his opinion without fear or favor. My plan was to use this forum to put across my ideas regarding the shortcomings of our Navy, especially in the field of antisubmarine warfare, and how to overcome them. I had mentioned earlier some of my “pet ideas.”
During my sojourn in England, I had taken a considerable, but discreet, interest in their antisubmarine efforts. I was particularly impressed by the antisubmarine helicopter that they had developed and which was operational. Without going into technical details, these “choppers” had the means of surveillance, detection, holding the target and hunting the submarine to destruction using radar-controlled homing torpedoes. They had the range and endurance, could operate night and day, and in all but the worst weather.
I felt that if we could acquire a few of these, we would go a long way in meeting the underwater menace. Undoubtedly, they were expensive, but I rationalized that each one of these was equal in efficacy to at least two ships and computed the cost-effectiveness of less than third of the latter. I had marshaled my facts and figures meticulously and thought that they were irrefutable.
But I had not reckoned on the “Churchill theory” described earlier. I was informed quite blandly by the deputy Chief of Naval staff that “money was very tight,” that “The government would not look at such proposals,” that “we can’t keep changing our minds,” and in any case, we were well on our way to augment our fleet with the acquisition of some French Destroyers of the “La Gallisonniere” class!
To say that I was astounded, especially by the last of the above, would be a gross understatement. I realized soon enough that I would never be able to convince them of my ideas at this forum – perhaps, I was too junior. After much thought, I decided to approach the Chief directly. I felt that the first thing to do was to scotch the La Gallisonniere for the reasons set out below.
I do not have, naturally, the records with me and to the best of my memory, I wrote a note on the following lines: “I understand that there are plans for us to acquire from France some ships of the “La Gallisonniere” class. I am sorry, but I must place on record that this is a most unwise step. Even a cursory glance at “Jane’s Fighting Ships” will show that these ships, powered by engines of more than ten years ago, are obsolete – not even obsolescent. France does not intend to go in for these ships anymore. I simply cannot understand why we should do so either. I gather that the costs are fantastic! Please bear with me, I know that this is not my pigeon but at some date, we will have to stand at the Bar of History, and I don’t want my Chief and myself wanting!”
Before I could take this up with the Chief two events took place that resulted in my not being able to tackle this issue until much later. My life was in for a sudden upheaval. It was toward the end of May of 1967. My daughter, Chitra, fell in love. There is nothing strange about that, and there is nothing extraordinary about a twenty-one-year-old girl wanting to get married. My wife and I were delighted. The marriage was fixed up for mid-September. A tremendous lot of homework is involved in the preliminary preparations for a traditional Hindu wedding. The entire burden fell upon my wife because the Navy had another assignment for me – The Mission to Ghana.
Chapter 24 Mission to Ghana
Early in June 1967, the Chief of the Naval Staff sent for me and asked me, “How soon can you start for Ghana?” I queried, “Where on Earth is that?” That is how it all started.
Nkrumah, the virtual dictator of Ghana had been ousted and this West African State was now being governed by a “National Liberation Council” (NLC) headed by the Commander-in-Chief and General Officer Commanding, Ghanaian Armed Forces, Lieutenant General Joseph A. Ankrah, who was also the Chief Executive of the State. He had requested for the loan of the services of a senior Naval Officer to “enquire into the state of the Ghanaian Navy.” Also, if possible, would we send a suitable technical officer to assist the enquiring officer as well? Our government had agreed with alacrity.
Admiral Chatterji had decided to entrust me with the task and left the choice of the technical officer to me. I looked around for one who besides being professionally competent should be a “troubleshooter” that can nose around and ferret out facts. I found the perfect answer in Commander B.R.Vasanth, an electrical officer of high voltage vintage and never have regretted the decision.
At the international wing of the Delhi Airport, I asked if the flight for Accra (capital of Ghana) was taking off on time, to be told, “You should go to the domestic wing. No planes for Agra from here.” I explained that we were booked by the Ethiopian flight for the capital of Ghana, and if he remembered his Geography, that country was known till its independence, as the Gold Coast. With a flash of a smile the official said, “Bring us back a nugget, will you?”
Many things have happened in Ghana since my mission. But as far as this story goes, I record events as they took place at that time, and as I saw them personally, and what I gleaned out of conversations with people that mattered at that juncture – a period of about two months from the 20th of June to the 16th of August 1967.
On arrival at Accra, we were received by Captain O’Rorke, the Chief Staff Officer to the British Joint Services Training Team, (BJSTT), the First Secretary from the Indian High Commission and the Staff Officer to Air Vice Marshal Michael Otu, the Chief of the Ghanaian Air Force and Acting Commander of the Ghanaian Navy. Later in the evening I called on our High Commissioner, Shri. S.V. Patel, for a preliminary briefing. After this, I called on the Air Vice Marshal at his residence. Also present was H.E. Major General S.J.A. Otu, the Ghanaian High Commissioner in India who was in Accra on leave.
On the morning of the 21st of June 1967, our High Commissioner took me to the Castle where we were received by General Ankrah. General Ankrah welcomed us most profusely and was very appreciative of our government’s promptness in meeting his request. He told me that for various reasons, he had to relieve Admiral Hansen of his duties, and Air Vice Marshal Otu has been appointed Acting Commander of the Navy. He said, “We have a number of ships, a large number of British Officers, a hundred Ghanaian officers, and a thousand ratings. We are recruiting more officers and more men every year. I do not know what our role is, whether this Navy is the right one, what state our ships are in, and yet we go blindly on. Do not be bound by the Terms of Reference but go all out. The sky is the limit. You can see anyone you like, call for any paper for file, go where you want, do what you like, but produce the answers. You will report directly to me personally and have access to me anytime you want.”
Our High Commissioner told the General that he should consider me and Commander Vasanth as Ghanaian Officers as of that date, and use us as he thinks best, etc.
The impression I formed of the General was that he was an extremely capable, very dynamic, and a thoroughly honest man who was quite determined to clean up the real mess that he had inherited. He was well spoken, had a twinkle in his eyes, and possessed a first-class sense of humor. But he could be and often was really tough when necessary. The public execution of the mutineers of the abortive coup (described later) showed no pusillanimity. There was little doubt that he was the father image in so far as the Services were concerned, greatly admired and respected, both by the Services and the Public, in general.
In the work that Vasanth and I undertook, we were closely associated with Air Vice Marshal Otu. He was the younger brother of General Otu ,who was the Ghanaian High Commissioner in India. The Air Vice Marshal was a young and dynamic officer, ex-army, who evidently had done very well in building up the Ghanaian Air Force. Unfortunately, he had little or no idea of the working of the Navy and was extremely eager and very receptive to the proper advice. The BJSTT had the responsibility of training the Ghanaian Navy since its formation. At the time of my arrival, this team consisted of one Captain, five Commanders, ten Lt. Commanders, eleven Lieutenants and sub-Lieutenants, and 35 Chiefs and Petty Officers, to train, run and maintain only about half a dozen very small ships! Heading the Navy, under BJSTT advice, up until then, was Rear-Admiral Hansen, another ex-Army officer transferred to the Navy in the rank of Commodore and then Rear-Admiral, and who had been the Commander of the Navy for the past five years or so. The circumstances that led to the removal of Admiral Hansen were related to me by Mr. Amoono in detail. He was the Principal Secretary (equal to our Defence Secretary), a quiet but delightful man who told the story:
“On the 17th April of this year an unsuccessful coup was tried by three young Army Lieutenants and a handful of noncommissioned officers belonging to the Recce Company stationed near Accra. On that morning this party tried to take over the government. They captured the Broadcasting House, announced the formation of a military junta. One group got past the guards at the house of Lt. Gen. Kotaka, NLC Member for Defence and GOC, took him and a couple of others towards the airport, brutally shot them down in cold blood and left their bodies which were only recovered seven hours later.” (Lt. Gen. Kotaka became a National Hero and mourning services were still going on when I was there. Every day the papers were full of the Martyrs and nationwide collection for the “Kotaka Fund” was going on throughout my stay there.)
To resume, “another party surrounded the Castle where General Ankrah was staying. But he managed to escape, jumping into the sea and swimming a considerable distance, got ashore, rallied loyalists and scotched the coup. Incidentally, there was something of poetic justice about the way Ankrah escaped. The castle had some dungeons below where the slaves of yore were hoarded and passed through “entry ports” to slave traders and rowed to slave ships lying offshore. One of these port holes was the means of the C-in-C’s exit. In trying to organize counter coup measures, he rang up Admiral Hansen and gave him certain orders. Hansen did not do anything about these but just lay low. Maj. Gen. Bruce, the Army Commander also did not show any initiative in taking counter action.”
There was apparently nothing to connect them with the coup, but the outcome was that both Bruce and Hansen were relieved of their commands, Hansen to London and Bruce to Washington. Captain O’Rorke was a former Commander of the Royal Navy, holding the post of Chief Staff Officer, in the rank of Captain. He proceeded on leave to the UK the day following my arrival. O’Rorke had been a cadet with me in the training ship in 1938 and I knew him well. At a dinner party on the night of my arrival, several interested parties went to great lengths to try and “brainwash” me, to convince me of the “tremendous contribution” Britain had made and how difficult it was to make naval officers out of Ghanaians. I survived the ordeal. Various other sources tried to get at me during my fact-finding which I successfully evaded. For obvious reasons, I kept clear of our High Commission. By tacit understanding, the High commissioner and I used to meet at occasional parties. Here, I must record the very elaborate arrangements extended out of his limited resources by the High Commissioner to help us in every way in our work. Mrs. Patel was also always going out of her way with acts of kindness towards us.
The Indian community wanted to do so much for us but I thought it better to hide ourselves away in the military fastnesses to avoid embarrassment in view of the nature of our mission. I do not propose to include here, details of my examination and many recommendations that were made in the course of my study of the Ghanaian Navy. Without going into details, I propose to cover in a very broad outline, the general impressions that I gathered, by observation and discussion.
Very early in my investigation, I came across enormous wastage of money and material and a total disregard for the first principles of financial control. Vasanth did an excellent job of assessing the existing state of the ships. We were able to recommend economies to refit programs to the tune of a quarter million pounds of immediate saving in foreign exchange. In addition to this further savings of up to two million poundsterling on their new Naval Base project, firmly established our bona fides with their government. I was also very fortunate to have established some rapport with General Ankrah, mutual regard with Air Vice Marshal Otu, and something akin to friendship with Mr. Harlley (Vice Chairman, NLC). As for the Ghanaian Naval Officers, we were frankly looked upon as their “liberators!”
Since big financial losses to powerful multinational were involved, there were threats to Vasanth’s and my lives. As one person was reported to have remarked, “The price of a dagger in the naval chap’s back would only be a hundred pounds!” But Ankrah had provided us with ample protection. In fact, my residence resembled an armed camp!
The three most important people in Accra then were Lt. Gen. Ankrah, Mr. John Harlley, the Vice Chairman of Liberation Council, as well as the Inspector General of Police and Brigadier Akwasi Afrifa, Finance Minister and Commandant of the Ghanaian Military Academy. It was interesting to note that the Army Officers had scrupulously held onto their rank structure they had held prior to the coup. In parallel to their political duties, they held onto their military appointments, not in the name only, but actually discharged the same. For example, General Ankrah spent three days in a week, without fail, at Burma Camp, the Military Headquarters. In the same way, all officers down to Lt. Col. and Major level had dual posts and responsibilities. Everyone seemed quite positive that it was their military responsibility that mattered and political responsibility was a passing phase. The process of civilianization was continuing all the time. Many new Commissioners’ posts were being announced and filled. The impression which I got and which was widely shared by the populace was that the present junta took over power not for power’s sake but because they had no alternative but to do so.
On the 3rd of July, I had a very long chat with the Vice Chairman, Mr. Harlley, who was also the Inspector General of Police. He was the brain behind the coup that led to the overthrow of Nkrumah. Along with Brig. Afrifa and Lt. Gen. Kotaka (killed in the abortive coup earlier in the year), he had actually planned the whole thing. As I stated earlier, apart from the General, he was probably the most powerful man in the country at that time. He looked very young, quite unsophisticated, completely frank, really charming, and quite human. I took to him very easily. At many parties, he used to seek me out and converse with me. He obviously had a very high opinion of India. He spoke highly of one Indian , Mr. Kao, who had been on loan to Ghana years ago! [Reference to Rameshwar Nath Kao (1918-2002), who was asked by Prime Minister Nehru in 1960 to help the Govt. of Kwame Nkrumah set up the intelligence service of Ghana]. When the Army wanted all proNkrumah elements liquidated, Mr. Harlley vetoed this and insisted on the minimum bloodshed. He said to me, “Many times I have wondered whether I did the right thing and if it would not have been better to do away with the rascals in one clean sweep.” I got the feeling that personal ambition had very little part in his decision to oust Nkrumah. He told me that if they had acted even one month later, it would have been too late. “Here we had everything, a very sound economy, a substantial sterling balance, a rich country, willing people, and many friends abroad. Nkrumah had a true and sincere friend in Mr. Nehru. As you know, I always used to go with Nkrumah everywhere and know him probably better than any other man. I have heard Mr. Nehru advising him, helping him, and even chiding him like a schoolboy. Nkrumah used to agree with him but the moment his back was turned, would do everything the Nkrumah way – the wrong way. He just could not keep away from intrigue and playing up one against another. Often I had pleaded with him and sometimes his wife used to come in and say, ‘Kwame, why don’t you listen to Harlley? You can’t always be right. But no, here was this man who had all the cards in his hand. He could have become the most adored leader in this country, he could have earned a name for himself in history, but he threw every card away, one by one and dragged his country down to the edge of disaster. Never have I been sadder in my life than on the day I decided that this man must go if Ghana is to live. I personally gave orders and saw to it that no harm came to his wife and children because even though she was a foreigner, she alone tried to make him mend his ways.” I do not believe he was making any attempts at justification. He was merely reminiscent, but he seemed in deadly earnest.
Brig. Afrifa, the main “executor” of the coup was an ardent, passionate, and highly sentimental young man of just 31. He seldom, if ever, appeared at parties and was somewhat of a recluse. He was a brilliant talker with force and vigor. He was pushing through a large number of economic reforms. There was a general feeling in Ghana that under Afrifa’s financial leadership the headlong drive towards economic disaster had at least been halted and hopes of recovery were visible.
At one party, I said to Mr. Harlley, “I have seen your country and think it is great. I wish you could see mine and tell me what you think of it.” He said with very great seriousness, “Yes, both Afrifa and I want to visit your country very much, as soon as we can get away from here, maybe next year. We hope to learn a lot from you wise people.” The rising star in the financial firmament of Ghana was a gentleman called Mr. Omabhu. I had many occasions to talk to him at length. He was particularly well disposed toward me for nearly three million pounds of savings that our recommendations had effected. He was a brilliant economist with a crystal clear brain, incisive knowledge of his subject and a sober assessment of the resources of his country.
In my report to our government, I said, “The problems that Ghana faces are transient in nature. It is worthwhile remembering that by Asian standards Ghana is by no means a backward country. One-fifteenth of the size and one-sixtieth the population of India, Ghana’s foreign trade is nearly a quarter of that of India. The Volta River Project is literally changing the geography and wealth of the country and the potentialities are quite immense. There is a genuine go-ahead spirit in the quest for diversification.”
Every country has its normal share of corruption. But in Ghana, corruption came to be accepted as a way of life! The ten-percent rule was rigidly applied from Nkrumah downwards and there was such a surfeit of corruption that the revulsion that followed was a natural outcome, manifest in the very large trials constantly going on, the commissions enquiring into public deals and mid-deals and so on. They may have been overdoing the witch hunting but the message was loud and clear that “getting rich quickly” was just as likely to land one in jail!
Signs of the Nkrumah extravagancy were everywhere. The first thing that hit you in the eye as you entered Accra is a monumental building, known locally as Job 600, put up at a fabulous cost, to serve the cause of African Unity. I visited this white elephant. It stood silent, unoccupied, and mute. Not a historical legacy of an emperor to his beloved, but an epitome in the ultimate of folly and pride. Its very structure was so corrupt, it had already sunk 12 feet and was quite likely to fall to pieces! In Nkrumah’s time, I believe, if anybody had anything to sell, it could always be sold to Ghana whether they required it or not. General Ankrah told me the story of how three hundred thousand tons of fish of a type no Ghanaian would eat were bought and dumped into the sea, in order to please some foreigner on whom the Nkrumah smile was flashing at that time.
Another phenomenal project was the magnificent new Naval Base at Sekondi. It could, with the greatest of ease, accommodate a complete assault group consisting of Aircraft Carriers, Cruisers, Destroyers, Frigates, and a lot besides. It was entirely beyond my comprehension as to why there should be this large naval base unless somebody had some ulterior motive. Could some fertile little brain, basking in visions of past grandeur, have conjured up a tiny window through which to walk back into the African parlor? I had brought this out in my report to the C-in-C and had even suggested a block ship within reach – just in case.
I reported to our government, “In Africa of today, of course, no one can ever be dogmatic about anything. But I came away with a strong feeling that there is a sense of cohesion and purpose in regard to the National Liberation Council that will in all probability endure the trials that face the country today. They have reconciled their differences with all their neighbors. Their relations with Upper Volta, Dahomey, Togo and other neighboring countries are cordial. I visited Lome in Togo and found practically no animosity and yet a year and half ago, Nkrumah had closed every single border with Ghana, insulated himself, training
irregular forces to “liberate” some of his neighbors! My own assessment of him was that Nkrumah was defunct and discredited beyond redemption, had no following, and presented no threat to the present regime.”
More from my report: “I found the Ghanaian officers genuinely interested. I met a number of officers sporting the owl of our Staff College and obviously proud of it. Major Ashanti, Military Advisor to General Ankrah, is ex-I.M.A. (Indian Military Academy), Dehradun. A large number of naval officers wanted to do their courses in India. The fund of goodwill that existed for India was plentiful. I had completed my work by the 6th of August and requested for permission to return. The General insisted that I should spend a week touring Ghana. They made very elaborate and detailed arrangements. The most interesting visit was the one up North past Tamale to the Game Sanctuary at Dengwa. I took the opportunity of my visit to the sanctuary by calling on the paramount Chief of Dengwa. This elderly gentleman of 69-70 years plus, received me very cordially, accepted the usual offering of the “Milk of Human Kindness – a bottle of Gordon’s Gin” – introduced me to some of his 23 wives and several dozens of his hundred-plus children. I was presented with some live fowl and cocoyam! From my meetings with him and with one or two other chiefs, I felt quite convinced that though tribalism as such exists quite markedly in Ghana, it was not of a virulent type, and I could not see a situation developing in Ghana as has been in Nigeria. Tribal loyalties were there, but intertribal differences were not schismatic. Moreover, the ordinary Ghanaian was much too fun-loving to want to indulge in any bloodlettings over feudal vendettas.
An interesting but not very amusing incident took place on our way to the Ghanaian Game Sanctuary. We were in a military vehicle, and were driving through jungle country on a lonely road, when we had a “flat” tire. I asked the driver if he had a spare tire. He roared with laughter and said, “One car four wheels not five!” After an interminable wait, a bus came along and I sent the driver and Vasanth with the flat tire for patching. Though I didn’t particularly relish the idea of being alone on that lonely road, Vasanth was my insurance that the driver would be back, who seemed quite irresponsible
It was getting dark and suddenly I heard human voices – all feminine and there came into view a dozen or so tribal women, judging by their attire. They were large buxom ladies, and not one of them would have tipped the scales below 200 pounds. They had sickles and other field implements and were in a very boisterous mood. When they saw me, they halted in their tracks and broke into hoots of laughter. Perhaps, I was the first Indian they had seen and I fervently hoped that this was the only cause of their merriment. Morbid thoughts crowded in upon me. They advanced towards me, and with great familiarity started prodding me with their fingers and jabbered away in a local language I did not comprehend. By now, my imagination was running riot, and I was completely convinced that I was to be their dinner for the night! Fortunately, a youngster came along on his cycle, who could speak English (he was from a missionary nearby). With his help I understood that the “natives were friendly,” they were making enquiries about my country and poking one with fingers was just a mannerism. Apparently, they were also curious about what my diet was, that made me look so “healthy”! I answered them through my interpreter, the best way I could and at last they went on their way. All those imaginary thoughts about my being cooked alive had given me a real appetite and I gratefully accepted the young man’s invitation to the Mission where I was given nourishment and rest till the relief column arrived, and we got on our way.
By the time we got to the Sanctuary it was pitch dark. The forest bungalow had one hurricane lantern. Vasanth and I split the remainder of the night and kept watch. I cannot imagine, though, how it would have helped if one of the fauna decided to pay us a courtesy call. During my briefing in India, I had been told, “wildlife was still abundant. Species include wild buffaloes, leopards, lions, and poisonous snakes.”
I also visited Lome, Togol and spent a very pleasant day with the Ghanaian Ambassador there.
When I left, very busy rounds of discussion were going on between Ghana, Togo, Dahomey, Upper Volta, on mutual agreements on trade and tariff, on the scale of electricity from the Volta River, etc. I asked General Ankrah if he foresaw any formation of a military alliance between these countries, he said that an alliance spelt out as such, was very unlikely but clear understandings are already in being for mutual assistance in the event of attack of one of the countries.
On the 12th August, I gave a farewell party to about 100 couples. The Ghanaian army gave a hand in rigging up lighting and providing the band. They made a very efficient job of it. I had invited all the Indian Mission, some of the BJSTT, many of the Ghanaian Naval Officers, a number of senior Army, Air Force, and civilian officers of the Ghana Armed Forces. General Ankrah promised to turn up but could not do so at the last moment and sent his Deputy Major Harlley. Apart from a formal lunch party at the Castle in my honor, the General said his farewell to me, presented me with autographed photographs and a special woven kamarbandh (waist-sash). His parting words were, “Thank you, Krishnan, for everything. We shall not forget you and your great country.”
On the morning of the 15th of August, His Excellency Shri. S.V. Patel accorded me the honor of unfurling the National Flag at India House in front of a large Indian audience, and thereafter, addressing the same. Only when one is away from one’s country does it really strike how much the flag means to you. I went through some marvelous emotions.
It only leaves me to record the final farewell at the airport which was most touching. Led by Air Vice Marshal Otu, practically, it seemed, the entire Ghanaian Navy had turned up to see me off. Looking at those beaming and friendly faces, I felt that I was leaving behind some very good friends who were not so entirely different from us after all. Here I felt were people we could and must cultivate. I did not know what would follow from my mission to Ghana – perhaps, nothing much. Only time would tell.
Chapter 25 Vice Chief of Naval Staff
I returned to India from Ghana on the 16th of August 1967. I was happy that I had done a reasonably good job for my country in Ghana. of Britain, the Naval Officers of that country were sent to India for their initial Instead training. I have a suspicion that the young and budding naval officers of the Ghanian Navy were not particularly happy with me. Portsmouth offers greater “attractions” than Cochin!
I was asked to give a lecture on “Ghana” to the National Defence College at New Delhi. To illustrate the point of my ignorance of the country before I got there, I said, “I had heard that the Ghanaians were so lazy that if they wanted children, they looked for a pregnant woman to get married to!” of course very much in jest, but this almost got me in hot water. My joke was repeated by an Australian student to the wife of his High Commissioner, did its rounds and finally got to the High Commissioner of Ghana, General Otu! The latter invited me and my wife to dinner and over the brandy raised the “subject.” I had to think on my feet and barefacedly told him, “I never said it about Ghana, I was talking about Nigeria!” The scoots of laughter assured me that all was well. I didn’t have much of a chance to dine out further on the story, as I went on leave to perform my daughter Chitra’s marriage in Madras (Chennai) in September 1967.
Shortly after my return, I was appointed as the Vice Chief of Naval Staff, by Admiral Chatterji, and it was my responsibility to the Chief of Naval Staff, for the operational readiness of the Navy for war, and at last, I felt, my moment had arrived.
“If you want Peace, prepare for War.” I had absolutely no doubt in my mind that yet another war with Pakistan was inevitable. To me, it was never a question of “whether,” but “when.” We would never go to war with Pakistan unless we had the strongest reasons, and “no-other-alternative” for doing so. From my teenage years, I had been brought up in a world of Hitler’s and Mussolini’s and was sure that across our border were the ingredients of the panacea that sustains dictators – WAR.
If I felt the above in my bones, my new job gave sinews and muscles to the thought. And I began to think of nothing else. Every action that I initiated as Vice Chief of Naval Staff followed predominantly one awesome thought. If we are attacked once more, (for the third time!) we should teach them a lesson that they would never forget.
Early in 1965, there were sharp skirmishes between Pakistan and India. Our army had reserves in Chad-Bett. But the attacks by Pakistan were only a feint to try and assess our military capability, with a view to more ambitious operations later. Owing to various circumstances, we did not fare well but the enemy came, thereby, to the wrong conclusions.
They attacked us in strength in the summer of that year and proclaimed their destination as New Delhi! Our Army and Air Force did a magnificent job, in addition to winning some victories, halted them in their tracks. But the result was more or less a stalemate. What was the Navy doing during the war? I was away in distant America at that time on a study tour as a student of the Imperial Defence College in London. So the exploits of our Navy during the war was mainly hearsay. It must have been obvious to anyone with minimal foresight that the foray into Chad-Bett was but a probing action by Pakistan and the real shooting war would not be far. And yet, our fleet was deployed in the East Coast playing around with the submarines that had been sent by the British to “train our forces in Anti-Submarine detection work.” It was, in my opinion, a strategic miscalculation of monumental proportions to dispose your fleet some two thousand miles away from the probable, nay, imminent area of operations. Perhaps it was a political decision not to use the Navy in the War, but when an enemy says, “Delhi Chalo” our answer should have been an unambiguous “Karachi Chalo.”
I may be wrong, but if I have a weapon honed and ready, and the political decision is that I should not use it against an enemy at war, my only conclusion would be that my Government did not have enough confidence in that weapon. As it was, the Pakistanis bombarded Dwarka on the Kathiawar Coast. It was not an undefended port. One of our frigates I.N.S. Talwar was there. Why did she not sally forth and seek battle? Even if there was a mandate against the Navy participating in the war, no Government would blame a man of war retaliating if attacked. If there were good reasons why there was no counterattack, let us state them.
An affront to our national prestige and honor is no joke and we cannot laugh it away by saying, “All the Pakistanis did was to kill a cow.” Let us at least erect a memorial to the “unknown cow” who died with her hooves on in doing battle against the Pakistani Navy!
I relate these events because it provides the backdrop that influenced my thinking very deeply during the last crucial years of my service in the Navy that had given me my nurture and strength and which I loved with all my heart and soul.
I was absolutely determined that every moment of my life as Vice Chief of Naval staff should be devoted to preparing our Navy for war. This meant that I had to undo some of the knots already there in the tangled skein, tie up loose ends, and put in a few fresh ones and get ourselves a real lifeline, and most important, not repeat the mistakes of the past.
The first on the list was to kill the idea of the “La Gallisonnière,” and this I proceeded to do sedulously, resolutely, and ruthlessly. Things had gone so far that it was not easy. I had to convince a lot of people and am glad that I succeeded. Once he saw the point, the Chief supported me to the hilt, and the government also agreed that these would be ‘bad buys.” “All is well that ends well.”
We had already contracted with the USSR for the purchase of four submarines from them. They were of the “F” class. The first was due to arrive in India within a few months. I considered that the acquisition of these submarines was a right decision. In the ten year plan referred to earlier, an underwater arm for the navy was clearly envisaged. Yes, the acquisition of these submarines was very good, but we did not go near enough in the strengthening of our submarine arm.
I felt, and the Naval Staff agreed with me, that what we wanted, in addition to the above, were much smaller submarines – fast, hard-hitting, difficult to detect and not necessarily of very much endurance. The government was easy enough to convince and we acquired the services of a Doctor Gabler, a German scientist who had served his country well during the last Great War and what he did not know about submarine construction was not worth knowing. He came to us, we gave him our staff requirements, he produced a project report, told us how to get over the international hurdles of submarine construction, located the Indian shipyards which had the infrastructure that could, with a little augmentation, turn out the submarines in their dozens!
I have never been more impressed by a professional man than this elderly professor with the brain of a giant. I had frequent meetings with him, had him over to my house for a meal several times, and was convinced that here, at last, was a project to bite on. Alas! Before anything came of it, I left naval headquarters on transfer. The Mills of the Gods ground very slowly and came to a halt. Somewhere in the archives of Naval Headquarters the Gabler report probably rests in peace.
Earlier in this chapter, I have touched upon the serious lacuna that existed in our anti-submarine defence. I felt that this hiatus should be filled on a priority basis. The Pakistanis had the Ghazi and had contracted with France for the purchase of some submarines of the “Daphne” class. As I have narrated earlier, these relatively small but highly sophisticated boats were deadly in their striking power.
Since World War II, post-war naval leaders have regarded the submarine as the main threat of the future.
This is true of the nuclear-powered and ballistic missile-carrying submarines like USA’s “Triton” and Russia’s “Leninsky” and it is equally true of the conventional submarine. Anti-submarine warfare consists essentially of transmitting an underwater wave which, on hitting a submerged object returns and is picked up by the receiver in the anti-submarine ship. The direction gives the bearing, and the time between transmission and reception, divided by two, multiplied by speed of the wave, gives the range. You know the range, you know the direction, and by another innovation “the dagger” you know the depth. So you go there, drop your charges, and kill the submarine. Easy, isn’t it!!!?
I do not wish to convert this book into a “service manual” but shall be happy if the reader will believe me that no country in the world has found the ideal answer to the submarine menace. But this does not mean that we should let the submarine have its own way and sink our ships with impunity. I had studied the DASH (Drone Anti-Submarine Helicopter) and LAMPS (Light Airborne Multipurpose Systems) of USA and Britain, and the VDS (Variable Depth Sonar) of Canada and Australia’s IKARA missile system. I was convinced that the “Sea King” helicopter that the British had developed combined in it, the best prospects for the three “Fs” – “Find, Fire, and Finish – the submarine.”
In building up a Navy, there are so many requirements and all of them so costly that one must be very careful of priorities. Rightly or wrongly, in working them out, I thought that the Sea Kings and missile boats (I have dealt with these later in this chapter) should have the topmost and immediate priorities. I have recorded earlier that Admiral Chatterji was a man of considerable strategic acumen and receptive to ideas, conventional and unconventional. After some meetings in which we included several of the other technical officers of Naval Headquarters (though lacking in stripes, they were highly knowledgeable), we agreed that we should press for these with the government and that I should do the “pressing.”
Fortunately, my relations with officers, junior and senior, of the Ministries of Defence and Finance (Defence) were, by now, excellent. I must say here, that I found these officers to be very honorable men,
motivated by the desire to help rather than hinder the Navy in its legitimate aspirations. I do not wish to single anyone out, because that would be unfair on the others, so, I shall say with Mark Anthony “they were all honorable men” – not because Brutus said so, but because I say so!
We got the approval of the government on both counts of the priority list. The “Sea Kings” started being inducted into our Navy the very next year. With deep regret and out of context, I must place before the bar of history one unpleasant fact.
In the 1971 war against Pakistan, one submarine was positively located in the Gulf of Kutch. Two frigates, the INS Khukri and INS Kirpan were dispatched to deal with the menace. This was a tactical blunder of some magnitude. The tactical unit for hunter-killer operations is a minimum of three ships. But this can be forgiven because in the circumstances of war, risks have to be taken. The two ships arrived on the scene and were in close proximity of the deadly underwater foe. The obvious proof of this was that the leader INS Khukri was sunk by her and many brave men died including that of her gallant Captain, Mulla, who went down with the ship. Callous though this may sound, loss of life in war is inevitable, and is an occupational hazard that every sailor, soldier, or airman must accept.
But what is totally unacceptable is that greater efforts were not made by the shore authorities to bring the marauder to his destruction. I have it on the authority of no less than the pilot himself that a Sea King Helicopter, fully operational and armed was standing by at the Santa Cruz Airport to be used for just such a contingency. Why was she not used? Why was not the helicopter sent to join the ships in the hunter-killer operations? We had a perfectly good base at Jamnagar and the Air Force would certainly have given air-cover if asked. All right, after the Khukri was sunk, why was not this Sea King immediately scrambled (ordered to take off)?
The pilot who narrated the events is an outstanding officer. For obvious reasons, I shall not name him for he was still in active service. (1981] He told me, “I rang up the maritime operations room and begged for orders to take off, but was just told to “wait.” I waited, knowing that every hour the circle round the datum position of the submarine was widening.”
When orders for the Sea King to take off did finally come, precious hours had been wasted, and it was much too late. The submarine would not tarry at the scene of the sinking and in twelve hours could be anywhere in a circle some two hundred miles in radius – some one hundred and twenty-five thousand square miles of the sea!
As Vice-Chief of Naval Staff in the years 1968 and 1969, and later as Commander in Chief of the Western Naval command in 1970, it was becoming increasingly evident that yet another war would be forced upon us by Pakistan
The alarming part of all intelligence reports was that the Pakistani Navy was planning and training for a lightning strike in a surprise attack that could turn Bombay into a Pearl Harbor. A cadre of elite sailors were being trained as “frogmen” to be let loose inside our harbor to carry out an underwater strike against our ships. In addition to submarines, they had acquired, to our certain knowledge, “chariots” and “midgets,” special vehicles that could be sneaked inside to spread destruction.
A handful of Italian sailors had penetrated Alexandria Harbor with these during World War II, and put two mighty battleships out of action for months by a combination of cunning and daring. In war, you are always at a disadvantage if the enemy can exploit the most important principle – surprise.
I have referred to earlier while serving aboard HMS Ceylon, the signal that the British Admiral, Sir John Sommerville made to the fleet, when in 1944 we went to bombard the Japanese-held base at Sabang. “The attack is at dawn. The Japs are regular in their habits and I hope to surprise them with their pants down.” The most important thing, therefore, was that we should not be caught with our pants down. Extraordinary measures were necessary to prepare open harbors like Bombay against surprise attacks. We had to continually play at war in the piping days of peace, and the defensive posture is never popular with fighting men. We made our plans assiduously and practiced and trained ourselves in their implementation.
Our objective, since surprise would be with the enemy, was to survive the first strike and be ready for the retaliatory strike that should be immediate and devastating.
My personal makeup and thinking was towards a strategy of bold, offensive retaliation. Yet, I felt that our Navy was far from well during the years preceding the actual war. We had made perfectly good plans to cover the eventuality of the pre-emptive attack by Pakistan, but did we have the punch to follow up? The one great plus factor for us in the power equation was the aircraft carrier Vikrant. But one of her two boilers was sick beyond repair and its replacement would take at least a couple of years. She lay alongside like a lame duck, with all her aircraft disembarked. With her reduced speed, she would never survive any operations in the Arabian Sea, with the most modern submarines, the Pakistani “Daphne’s,” on the prowl. We simply had to provide ourselves, as quickly as possible, with some means with which to carry the war to the heart of the enemy.
I personally felt that the answer lay in our immediate acquisition – if it were possible – of some missile boats that the Russians had. Earlier, in 1964, when doing the Imperial Defence course in London, we did one of those paper exercises involving the use of these missile boats that made a very deep impression on my mind. These boats had been little heard of at that time. They carried missiles that could be released quite a ways from the target – the missiles would seek, find, and follow the target and home on to it. The claim was a hundred percent hit. I reported at length to Naval Head Quarters on the lessons learnt in this exercise and the tremendous strategic advantage we would derive from possession of these formidable weapons of war.
In 1967, in the short war between Israel and Egypt the “Komar” class boat hit the headlines of the world, when missiles from one of them sank the Israeli destroyer Eilath.
When Admiral Gorshkov, the five-star supreme Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet Navy visited Delhi, we included in our discussions the question of acquiring the improved version of OSA-class rocket missile boats for the Indian Navy. These discussions proved extremely useful and gave an indication that their original offer was still open. We discussed the tactics involved in the use of these boats and it was pointed out that three was the minimum for a viable attack unit. After these discussions, we decided that we should press for the purchase of eight such boats.
There followed the intense activity of preparing the ground for selling the idea to the Government. Fortunately, our Defence Minister, Sardar Swaran Singh, had taken kindly to the idea of our acquiring these boats. Along with my planning team, I spent long hours working out costs, etc. During my visit to Russia, I had taken a trip to Baku and had persuaded the C-in-C of the Caspian Sea to let me go to sea in one of their rocket boats. I had also had several discussions with him on the strategic deployment of these rocket boats as offensive weapons. With this background it was possible to make quite a good case for consideration of the government.
I had long discussions with the Defence Secretary, V. Shankar, and convinced him of the validity of our case. We soon got Cabinet approval for further negotiations with the Soviet Government and a team consisting of the Additional Secretary (Defence), some technical officers, and myself were directed to proceed to Moscow for this purpose. We also got sanction for the purchase of eight boats.
In Moscow, I experienced, for the first time, the real Russian winter, when the temperature outside was 30 degrees celsius in the negative. We were in for some hard bargaining and tough infighting. But the Soviets, in particular Admiral Gorshkov, were very helpful. In fact, I was able to have a very long and highly illuminating talk with the Soviet Supreme Commander-in-Chief of the Navy on professional matters. Admiral Gorshkov gave me a penetrating insight into his conception of the use of Sea power. This, however, was a private conversation and it is not fair that I should record it here. We returned from Moscow after a successful mission. At Naval Headquarters, the operational staff was jubilant and the boys wanted to name the project “November Kilo” after my initials. However, I vetoed this in favor of “Alpha Kilo,” the initials of Admiral Chatterji. We plunged into a hectic program of selection and training of personnel to proceed to the USSR for the purpose of training for manning the eight boats.
The next step in this story of the Alpha Kilo Project was the establishment of a technical position and base facilities in Bombay as quickly as possible. By this time, I had taken over as Flag Officer Commandingin-Chief, Western Naval Command and, therefore, was able to conduct this particular operation with a sense of urgency.
Captain Madholkar, one of the officers trained in USSR was a tower of strength and by “making do” we were able to establish the technical position in record time. It also was my privilege to commission TRATA II, the missile boat base. At the commissioning ceremony I told them that they had in their hands one of the most powerful pieces of weapon systems. I was convinced that sooner or later, we would have to fight with Pakistan. I said that when the time came, I not only expected, but was sure that we would teach them a lesson they would never forget.
For me, it was a matter of the greatest satisfaction that the paper exercise in far-away Seaford House, London, in 1964, was translated into real action, seven years later. But here again, I must narrate an incident out of chronological context.
In August/September 1971, the two Commanders-in-Chief of the Western and Eastern Naval Commands (I had by then taken the helm at the Eastern Naval Command in Vishakhapatnam) were summoned to New Delhi, there to explain the measures that had been taken and the plans we had in mind to wage naval war against the enemy, in the event of hostilities against Pakistan.
A meeting was held in the War Room in Naval Headquarters. The august assembly consisted of the Defence Minister (Jagjivan Ram), the three Chiefs of Staff (Gen. Sam Manekshaw, Admiral S.M. Nanda, and Air Chief Marshal P.C. Lal), the Defence Secretary (K.B. Lal), besides other senior officers from the three Services. There was nothing especially outstanding about this meeting and it reminded me of the several strategic discourses we had had at the Defence College in London.
But I sat up with a jerk and quite unable to believe my ears when I heard that it was planned to use the missile boats for the Defence of Bombay by deploying them off the Coast for patrolling purposes. As I have stated earlier, these boats were purchased for the sole purpose of carrying the war to the enemy, and all our preparation, training and operational exercises, while I was C-in-C Western Naval Command was towards this objective, and it seemed incredible to me that they should be used flogging up and down pre-determined lines waiting for an enemy that might never come. Unable to contain myself, I spluttered, “But, Sir, these boats are like thorough-bred race horses and it would be criminal to use them to pull hackney coaches!” Admiral Nanda “shushed” me and gave me a look which indicated – “we will talk about it later.”
As it turned out better sense prevailed, and the credit for the attacks that were carried out on Karachi by the use of these missile boats goes especially to Admirals’ Nanda and Cursetji, the latter who was Vice Chief of Naval Staff. To the former also must go the credit of getting the missiles to be fired in the general direction of Karachi on the assumption that they will “home” on to the largest steel surface – ships alongside or more, hopefully, the large number of steel oil tanks that were cluttered about the foreshore. In fact, one Soviet Admiral told me after the war, “I must say that it was a novel way of using the missile boats. Full marks to the Indians for thinking of it.”
Chapter 26 C-in-C Western Naval Command
I took over as Flag-Officer Commanding-in-Chief (FOC-in-C) of the Western Naval Command on the 25th of February 1970, relieving Admiral Nanda, who had moved on to become Chief of the Naval Staff. As Commander-in-Chief, this placed on me the responsibility of preparing for and conducting operations in this Theater, should war begin. Many were the problems I came to face within the first and only year of my command in the West. There was a tremendous lot to be done, and I felt it in my bones that there was very little time in which to do it. I could not resist the uncomfortable thought that we were far from ready to face a surprise onslaught by Pakistan, and my top priority was to prepare the Fleet for battle.
It was also clear to me that much needed to be done to improve the morale of our sailors. Ever since man started organizing himself into a community, it became the natural order of things for the many to look to a few for direction, purpose, and the path to a way of life – in other words, the multitude looked to the minuscule for leadership. The success or otherwise of any organization, corporation, or company depends, to a predominant extent, on the type of leadership that is provided at the various levels. In so far as the Services go, the lynchpin around which men’s confidence in administration revolves is the officer cadre. It has been my experience in the several decades that I have belonged to such a cadre that, with the exception of a few “bad hats,” and you will find such men in any big and cosmopolitan organization, the men are by and large a hardworking and amiable lot who want to get on well in the Service and give of their best. What they look for is the right kind of leadership and will turn to anyone that would provide the same.
The natural and legitimate leaders ought to be the officers. If they fail, if leadership, empathy, and understanding are not forthcoming from the officer, the men will turn elsewhere for what they are looking for. There are enough selfish and unmotivated elements that wait on the sidelines to step in, seize the initiative and lead our boys astray into paths of indiscipline and insurrection.
The natural corollary is that the officer exercises his most fundamental of duties to see that he is the one that his men not only look to, but indeed want to follow – because he inculcates in them the three basic requirements, respect, understanding, and affection for him. This process is a painstaking and delicate one because it involves the molding of the individual minds of several men. Human beings, being human, react differently and often unpredictably to different circumstances. However, there is one chord that is usually vibrant in most cases – the sympathetic chord. If men know that you have “time” for their problems, you are well on the way to be the catalytic agent for their confidence.
Our approach to problems of morale and discipline is becoming more and more blasé and requires being much more pragmatic, especially these days when society, as such, is becoming more permissive, lawlessness is more rampant, and standards of morality in public and private lives are constantly getting eroded, by corruption and callousness.
Fortunately, the rot has not set in the Services. Our men have shown time and again that they are imbued with a high sense of patriotism and their emotional response to a call to action will always be favorable if properly nurtured. Morale, in its widest definition, means the state of the man’s mind and his mental readiness for combat and his determination and “will to win”. Leadership should aim to condition its mind continually toward this end. Some of the important factors that contribute to good morale are:
(a) Personal pride in service; (b) Confidence in the administration;
(c) Confidence in the material;
(d) Satisfaction with the environment and conditions of service. The frontispiece of the Naval War Manual carries the picture of a sailor at the wheel of a ship, underneath it the caption is “The Greatest Single Factor.” The moral behind this picture is that morale plays a supreme part in winning or losing wars. The rationale behind a war is to break the enemy’s will to fight.” The classic example of this was observed in World War, I. When Admiral Hipper ordered the High Seas Fleet to raise steam on October 29th, 1918, the crews refused to obey their officers. The German navy was in mutiny because “their will to fight had been destroyed.” Morale must be assiduously looked after, nurtured and encouraged without easing up on discipline.
Those who have read this book so far would know what a great store I had always laid on good morale and how I had always tried to establish good rapport with my men. But I had been out of mass touch with the sailors for more than five years and could not have a true measure of the state of morale in the navy. I had to content myself with poring over the monthly morale and security reports received at Naval Headquarters from Fleet Commanders and Commanders-in-Chief. (I was not being a nosey-Parker. It is very much the duty and responsibility of the Vice Chief of the Naval Staff to “know what is going on “everywhere” to be in the best position to advise the top man, who in turn, had his responsibilities to the government, the final masters.) But these reports tended to be rather sketchy and presented a rosier picture than was warranted. As I said earlier, I was out of touch and had to content myself with cursory observations during my short and infrequent visits to naval bases and ships. Infrequent they had to be, as I was a member of a very large number of committees (those curses of the bureaucratic system but nevertheless, necessary) which made the absence from Headquarters very difficult.
Besides, my Chief had a peripatetic streak in him, which took him out of Delhi on long missions abroad in acceptance of invitations from the heads of the navies of several countries. In at least one case, he visited the same country twice – the head had rolled following a coup, and the new head invited him forth!
This meant that I had to double-back and where was the question of my being able to do much of “Nau Sena Darshans?” But two things happened, both in 1970, which will go to show how careful one has to be in exercising the art of man management. It has been the naval practice that all Sikh sailors should have their beards “bunched” up and properly “secured.” One of the sailors in the Vishakhapatnam base returned from leave, having taken a religious vow that his beard will flow long and untrammeled. Admittedly, this was a flagrant defiance of authority and breach of discipline. I learnt later that the sailor had told his divisional officer that his “vow” was not inviolate, and he was prepared to conform if the head of the local Gurudwara absolved him. Whether any discussions were mooted or not, I do not know. Unfortunately, the Captain of the sailor decided on punitive action and sentenced the “offender” to three months’ imprisonment. The sailors’ grapevine soon ensured that every Sikh sailor was made aware that his “religion was in danger.” The Defence Minister, himself a Sikh, was deluged with appeals and telegrams. It is a sad commentary that Naval Headquarters heard of it from the Sardar, whereas it should have been the other way about!
We were on the horns of a perfect dilemma. Any backing out and acquiescence would open a veritable Pandora’s Box. Sailors would quite definitely start asking for special and impossible privileges in the name of religion and if denied, would shout “discrimination.” If, on the other hand, we enforced the rule, not only would we have every Sikh sailor against us but who knows that it may spread to the other Services, and we would have a national problem of the worst magnitude.
I must confess that I prayed and prayed hard to God to show us the way out – and He did! It occurred to me, almost in a flash, that the Sikh sailors must abandon their “crusade” of their own volition. Being religious-oriented, this they would not do, unless directions came from their top religious leaders from the Golden Temple at Amritsar! There lay the answer and thither I must go.
My Chief and I discussed this visit at length and it was decided that I should visit a “Sainik School” at Kapurthala, not far from Amritsar, on an official visit. From there, I would motor to the Holy City on a sightseeing trip and then, as the Chief put it, “play it by ear.” The invitation to the school was not difficult to arrange as the headmaster, Captain Bhaskar, was a Naval Officer. The trip to Amritsar was also arranged, but not before I had taken the precaution of asking my good and trusted friend, then Captain Grewal, to let on to his religious contacts of the impending visit of a Naval VIP (my definition of a VIP applied to myself was, “Very Ignorant Person!”).
My wife accompanied me on this mission. How can I possibly describe the fantastic beauty of the Golden Temple – the Shrine of shrines that had inspired the Lions of the Punjab to sally forth time and again, swords in hand, to defend the sanctity of the “Guru Granth Sahib?” How can I describe the sonorous voice that reads out of the Holy Book and whose messages reach out to the very depths of your soul? Since I cannot, I will not attempt to do so.
After the temple honors were over, someone whisked my wife away to look around the town, and I was told by my guide, “some of our Gurus are here and would like to meet you.” I knew that this was it. I prayed devoutly to the “Granth Sahib,” “Please help me,” and followed him.
I was escorted to the hall where on a dari [a mat] sat a group of Sikh religious leaders or so, I presume, from their garb and their mien. They were cordial in their welcome to me and I was bidden to sit among them. We exchanged some pleasantries and after this brief interlude, the eldest-looking person and obviously the leader of the group came straight to the point. He was quite polite but what he had to say was, nevertheless, a tirade and an accusation.
He said, “We have had several reports that the Navy is interfering with our religion and religious beliefs. This is something that we cannot tolerate. Admiral, I know that you are a senior officer of the Navy, but
why have you turned on our brethren? Why are you forcing them to do things which are sinful? We understand that one of our brothers is already behind bars and more, we understand, are to follow, all because they will not tie up their beards into little knots. What is wrong with a beard that is loose? What have you got against beards anyway?” And then came the veiled but nevertheless, real threat. “We fought for centuries against foreign invaders and then the British to uphold our way of life. We are not prepared to let independent India calling herself a secular state, do to us what the foreigners could not achieve. This Gurudwara has the powers that can raise every Sikh against you.”
The ball was at my feet. “Gurudev,” I said (adopting a new form of address), and I was happy to see the tiniest flicker at the corner of his mouth possibly the millionth part of a smile.
“I readily and fully understand your natural anger at the result of the recent happenings, but before I go any further I would like to thank you for the very warm welcome that was accorded to me at this holiest of Holy temples, to my wife and myself. I was even presented with the yellow silk robe, and which, I understand, is normally not given to any but a chosen few. It is absolutely incorrect for you to say that I, and I am speaking personally, have anything but the greatest love and admiration for people of your predomination – the Lions of the Punjab. You may not know it, but it was a Sardarji who persuaded me in the first instance to join the Navy, and I would not be here but for that initial encounter. Some of my best friends in the navy are Sikhs. Guru Grewal, Satyindra Singh, Balwant Singh, I could name many, whom I hold in the highest respect and affection. I continued “You want to know what is the reason behind the Navy taking action against the departure from established practice by some of the Sikhs. I would like to explain it to you. To say that we have anything against beards, and when I say “we,” I mean the Navy, is incorrect.
We have a large number of non-Sikhs who also wear beards, but in every case, we insist that it should not be flowing about, and out of control. I do not know if any of you, gentlemen, have ever been on board a Naval ship. If you have, you would find that the spaces are extremely cramped and contain a lot of moving machinery. There have been several accidents due to loose clothing getting caught and I have myself seen the mangled remains of sailors because of a moment of carelessness.
Gurudev, we ask bearded persons regardless of their religion or denomination to wear close fitting clothes. We insist on their having either close haircut or wear skull caps when working on board, particularly on the engineering side, and in the same way we ask that beards should be properly tucked in so that no loose strands get caught. In other words, this is not interference with religion and is done in the interest of the safety of the individual. I appeal to you that if you insist on our canceling the orders on this subject, we shall do so to satisfy you, but the responsibility for any casualty that arises wherefrom will be laid on your souls. Gentlemen, I have nearly finished. We do not want to force the issue one way or the other, but you can. Whether you decide to expose the sailors to such a risk as they would be running and which I have described, or not, is your decision. There is one thing more that I would like to say. If you insist on our changing our orders, it would be necessary, once again in the interest of the sailors, to stop them from working in confined spaces where machinery is involved. The Sikhs, by their very skill and intelligence, diligence and hard work, are the best engineers. Do we want to deny them this opportunity? Please think it over, and please believe me that I am speaking to a group of Holy men in the precincts of a very Holy place. I am personally deeply religious by nature, conviction, and practice, and am not likely to say all the things that I have said in an irresponsible manner in these surroundings.”
This was followed by a barrage of questions not only from the leader, but also from the others present. They pertained mostly to life in the Navy, the conditions of work and besides the type of work that the Sikhs were called upon to perform. I answered to the best of my ability and at last the discussions were over, and I felt the time for decision had arrived. The leader requested me to allow them a discussion on their own and asked the guide to take me around and show me the various vantage points in the temple, where battles had been fought. I went out, trying to look as meek as it was possible for me to do. I was soon lost in the grandeur of the tales that were unfolded to me by my very knowledgeable guide as he took me around. After a short while, I was summoned once more before the council. The leader looked at me and said, “I do not suppose you know what our decision is,” and I noticed that he said this with a smile, and I knew that we had won. But to keep with the spirit of the dialogue, I said, quite casually, “Gurudev, I have absolutely no idea.” He was good enough to say, “We implicitly believe that you, that is, you and your Navy have acted in good faith and that you have the interest of our brethren at heart. It is as much in our interest as yours, that ours should be a disciplined body of men. What is more, we have heard all about you personally from one of our brothers in the Navy, Grewal, and he has always told us that you are a straight-shooting guy” (or words to that effect). Therefore, we will ask the Sikh sailors to conform to the rules. I knew then that the storm that started in a teacup and which threatened to assume alarming proportions of hurricane force was over.
Alas, as I record these incidents in retrospect, I heard recently (1981) that my friend, my very dear friend, Guru Grewal is no more. God, in his infinite mercy, decided to call him to his side, whilst he was on active duty. I must use this occasion or rather this record to eulogize one of the finest Naval officers I have ever known. Grewal was given the nickname “Guru,” not because he was particularly religious minded, but because he inspired confidence and encouraged all those around him. It was because, though soft-spoken, he was always full of sympathy and human kindness. As a matter of fact, these very qualities nearly stopped him from getting promoted to Flag rank. I did my very best and Grewal knew that he got his Flag rank because I fought tooth and nail for him, not because he was my friend, but because I was convinced that he was an excellent seaman, a brilliant leader of men and a person who understood the finest threads in the tangled skein of man-management.
I salute a comrade of mine who is no more, and I express my deepest sympathies to his good wife, who also was a tower of strength to my wife when she was the President of the Naval Officers’ Wives Association during the crucial years in Vishakhapatnam.
The Indian Navy has a special branch of men called the Topass branch. These men belonging to the branch were recruited for the sole purpose of keeping the bathroom and latrines of ships and establishments
clean. This was a legacy from the British days. I could never understand the rationale behind introducing or having a branch of men who were expected to do what is known as menial jobs. During my early years of training, I had done all this type of work myself, and saw no reason why sailors should not be expected to do any work on board that comes under the category of ship husbandry. Moreover, it was tantamount to having on board a ship a body of men who came to be looked upon, subtly, but in any case, definitely, as second-class citizens. I still feel that there is no room on board a ship for any class consciousness.
We all are in the same boat, and swim or sink together. But, unfortunately, there was nothing that we could do about the custom that had been introduced in the Navy. It was a social problem rather than one that could be eradicated forcibly. When we went in for ships from the USSR, we did not send any sailors belonging to the Topass branch, to man these ships in ports like Vladivostok and Riga, etc. These ships were already cramped in the extreme, and there was no room for any man who was redundant for manning and fighting of the ship. The sailors who were selected and sent abroad for training for these ships were told quite unambiguously that they would be required to do any duty that is allotted to them. Their enthusiasm and keenness to be part of the company of these ships was so great that they overcame their scruples and signed the declaration of assent. The ships were thus free of any members of the Topass branch, and it seemed to work very well even after they returned to India.
This gave rise to a false feeling at Naval Headquarters that, perhaps, we might utilize this precedent and gradually phase out the Topass branch. We had many discussions in this regard. Admiral Chatterji, the Chief of Naval Staff, was very much in favor of this move. However, though I felt that it was a reform long overdue and very much in the right direction, I nevertheless, felt it in my bones that a sudden action to implement such a reform was likely to produce repercussions.
I felt that we might start with the shore establishments and recruit civilians for the task, and absorb the thus relieved, into the seaman branch. In the meantime, we should at the Commanding Officer’s level educate our sailors that their dignity is not in any way lowered by the labor involved. After all, all our ships are equipped with modern systems of flushing and cleaning the decks of these compartments was in no way different from that of the mess decks. Anyway, it was decided that we would shelve the issue. Nothing much was talked about it and in any case Admiral Chatterji was soon due to retire. I was earmarked to take over as Commander-in-Chief (C-in-C) of the Western Naval Command and so Chatterji felt that any sweeping reforms at this juncture would not be right or fair to his successor.
Once again, stepping out of the context of chronology, I must relate certain incidents that took place in the Navy a few months later. One of the things that a good seaman or indeed a good leader of men must do is to keep an alert eye for any signs of trouble. Always, coming events cast their shadows before they actually take place. For example, the approach of a cyclone at sea is preceded by a slow and steady drop in the barometric pressure. There are usually bright and lurid sunsets, a halo around the moon, and a general feeling that all is not well. Now if these signs, insignificant in themselves, are read correctly, we can and should be prepared for this storm to come. It was clear that malevolent forces, some of them inspired from outside the services, were at work inciting our men to discontent and anti-naval attitudes. There was furthermore evidence of quite a lot of infiltration at the recruitment stage from outside political cadres which, on getting into the services, could carry out acts of sabotage, etc.
I, who have always prided myself on being able to run a happy ship, was not unduly concerned and that, given time, we should be able to wean away our sailors to a healthy attitude of mind towards the service, but much required to be done, and my staff officers and I went about rectifying, adding, subtracting, and generally doing a spring cleaning to make the lives of the sailors and their families more satisfactory. The fact was that we were making progress gave me a false sense of security, especially as I started getting the nickname, “Sailors’ Admiral.” This must have made me complacent and, perhaps, I did not have my ear sufficiently to the ground. But there were signs and portents that some sort of trouble was brewing. Posters started appearing in mess docks, and the news had leaked that Naval Headquarters intended to abolish the Topass branch. The sailors started getting very agitated over this issue. I cannot say that I could blame them for their agitation, because most of our sailors come from rural India where the caste system is extremely rigid.
The sailors, when they go home on leave, in their resplendent uniforms and their obvious show of affluence with attractive presents brought from abroad for their kith and kin, cut a fine figure and are looked up to with respect and admiration by the villagers, and their friends there. If it got known that one of the duties they had to perform on board was to clean lavatories, their credibility and respect would come crumbling down. Anyway, this was the line of propaganda that was being pushed out by interested parties from outside and inside the service.
About three months after I had taken over, I was summoned to Delhi to attend the investiture at Rashtrapathi Bhavan for my PVSM, (Param Vishisht Seva Medal) and there were several other senior officers also absent from their place of duty for this same purpose. It was at this time that the storm broke. I was at a meeting with the Chief and other Principal Staff officers in his office, when we had a phone call from Bombay from the Flag Officer Commanding Western Fleet. It was an alarming message. It stated that the ships company of the frigate Brahmaputra, which was lying alongside cruiser INS Mysore was on a hunger strike. A short while later came another message from him that the sailors from Mysore and Brahmaputra have walked off their ship and were forming a mob and coming towards the main dockyard gate, shouting slogans. He was going to have the Naval Police stop them. I asked the FOC, Western Fleet, whether he knew what the immediate cause that had sparked off the mutinous behavior was. He replied that it was the receipt of a letter from Naval Headquarters stating that the topass branch will be abolished from July of that year. It was difficult to imagine a more ill-conceived and ill-worded means of communicating information or directive of this sort in such a bland and tactless manner. We decided that we should not stand on formalities and should swallow our pride and send a signal immediately that the ill-fated letter be withdrawn and that this should be done immediately.
We realized that discipline would suffer, but it was far better that there should be a slight fall in discipline which can be rectified in slow stages than to have a mutiny on our hands, the ill effects of which would
take years to eradicate. There and then such a signal was sent. Admiral Kamath (FOC, Western Fleet) met the mob and told them that the Naval Headquarters had informed him on the telephone that the letter had been written by some staff officer without knowing the full facts and based on half information. A signal was on its way cancelling the letter. He ordered the men to return on board. If they refused to do so, he had my permission to use the minimum force through the Naval police to make them obey. He would also arrest anyone who appeared to be a ring leader.
I caught the very next plane to Bombay, taking along with me the Acting Chief of Personnel, Vice Admiral E.C. (Chandy) Kurvilla, because personnel matters came under him, but even more important he was well liked and respected by the sailors and also had a flair for man management. I felt sure that between us, we would be able to scotch the trouble and nip it in the bud, and we could restore tranquil conditions once more.
The fact that neither morale nor discipline suffered to any significant degree was amply demonstrated the very next year when the Navy had spectacular successes in the war against Pakistan.
By the end of 1970 we were reasonably satisfied that we would soon be able to carry the war to the enemy and make him regret it, should he be so foolish as to start one. We were never in any doubt that war would come and we were forever debating with ourselves as to how best to meet it when the moment came.
Suddenly, I was told by the Chief, Admiral Nanda, that Vice Admiral Kohli’s tenure was up at the National Defence College and as he had to be found a billet in the Navy, he would be relieving me early in 1971. Admiral Kohli as my senior claimed his right to the more important and prestigious command and got it. I had many measures under way to prepare the Western command for battle and changing horses in midstream was not the best course, however good the relief horse may be!
But I am not one to “bleat” about his appointments and took the transfer in my stride. I was being relegated to a theatre that would have but a passive and logistic role in the event of war! Or, so I thought… As has happened so often in my life, the hand of destiny was to play her inexorable part, and we can but wonder at the strange and wondrous ways that the hand of providence moves. We have no armor against Destiny but can only join in the song, “Que Sera, Sera – Whatever will be, will be.”
And so it came about that my wife and I flew to Vishakhapatnam on 27 February 1971, bag and baggage, on an Indian Air Force plane, little realizing what lay ahead in store for us. [Vice Admiral Krishnan was one of the few Flag Officers, along with Admiral Tahiliani (Southern and Western Commands) in later years, who have the rare distinction of commanding two Naval Commands during their service careers.]
Chapter 27 C-in-C Eastern Naval Command
Prior to my taking over, the Eastern Fleet did not have the status of a full Command, and was until then commanded by a flag officer in the rank of Rear Admiral. On my arrival in the rank of Vice Admiral, the Eastern Fleet was upgraded to full Command status and the Eastern Naval Command was created, although there really wasn’t much of an actual ‘Fleet of ships within the Command, but that would soon change.
As I took over my new Command as Commander-in- Chief, I thought of the previous round of aggression by Pakistan, the 1965 War, referred to earlier when much to everyone’s disappointment and consternation, the Navy played little or no part. I was then in faraway America as a visiting student on a study tour from the Imperial Defence College, London. I have recounted the hurt and humiliation one felt over the fact that even a Pakistani frontal attack, though futile, on one of our ports had not brought forth any retribution. I had the same sinking feeling, on taking over the Eastern Naval Command that the hand of destiny was waving me aside to be a bystander once more. Our strategic thinking had always been based on the Arabian Sea as the main theater of naval operations; historically, hardly any activity had ever occurred in the Eastern Sector.
And yet, even as I was being plagued by these gloomy thoughts, a strange phenomenon was taking place in Pakistan which was slowly transforming the strategic spectrum into something new and unexpected. The political situation in East Pakistan had reached a boiling point, the cauldron having simmered for a long-enough period of time. What bewildered us was that whilst Yahya Khan was talking of handing over power to Sheikh Mujibur Rehman, a steady, deliberate, and clandestine military build-up was taking place simultaneously, in East Pakistan.
The Military Governor in East Bengal at about that time had been Vice-Admiral Syed Ahsan whom I had known for over thirty-five years both in the Training Ship DUFFERIN and in the Navy. We had been very good friends and had some grand times together. Though hailing from Hyderabad (Deccan), he had opted for Pakistan, but I knew that he had nothing of the fanatic in him. In, fact, he was always just, affectionate and a thorough gentleman. Now, suddenly, we heard that Ahsan was being summarily relieved of his duties, by General Tikka Khan, a man who had already made himself notorious with the name “The Butcher of Baluchistan.” Some of my army friends described him as the ultimate in ruthlessness, an unimaginative soldier who would do as he was told with unbridled ferocity.
What could this “change of command” portend? We were soon to have the answer. On March 25, the West Pakistani Army under General Tikka Khan, struck against its Bengali “brothers” with a vengeance and brutality that has few parallels in history.
With the new situation developing in East Pakistan the Bay of Bengal was assuming prime importance. In the past wars with Pakistan, it seemed to be our national policy to leave East Pakistan well alone in spite of some sporadic air raids from there. In retrospect this was a wise policy. But now Pakistan had created a situation where any military action against her in the East would be hailed by one and all as a “War of Liberation.” In other words, the next war with Pakistan would definitely bring East Pakistan within the ambit of operations of all kinds.
The buildup of the Pakistan army in East Bengal had obviously been, to a very large extent, by sea. The military machine that had built up there would require maintenance and replenishment, and this would mean the use of the sea. Similarly, if faced with a hopeless military situation in the East, Pakistan had only the sea as a main line of retreat. If we could control the Bay of Bengal, we could ensure that there was neither ingress nor egress in and out of East Pakistan, troop and logistic supports together with their naval escorts at sea could be annihilated, thus bottling up Pakistan completely.
Through April and May, we watched as helpless onlookers, the dreadful massacres, raping and plunder in East Bengal and the avalanche of refugees coming in their millions into India. Our economy was already beginning to feel the terrible strain of sheltering, feeding, and clothing some six million destitute, foisted on us by the inexorable march of man-made events across the border. And yet, far from having an easy walkover, the Pakistani Army was facing ever-increasing resistance from the infuriated Bengalis who were now in open rebellion against the invaders of their native land which they no longer looked upon as part of Pakistan but as “Bangla Desh.” The story of the birth pains of Bangladesh is one unto itself and has been described in several books and pictures and does not really belong to this record of naval events.
On June 10, 1971, I was in Madras on three days casual leave when Admiral Nanda called me from Bangalore and wanted to know if I would like to go racing with him there. I knew that the Chief of Naval Staff was there to be the Chief Guest at the Passing-out Parade of the Air Force Training Command and I also knew that he was not calling me up merely so that I may lose money at the races! Something was up and it was not very difficult to guess what the meeting was going to be about.
I caught the next available plane for Bangalore and arrived at Air Marshal Shrihari’s house (where the Chief was staying) just as the party returned from the ceremonial parade. Strolling the spacious lawns of Air Force House, we reviewed the entire situation and talked at length on the tasks ahead that must be fulfilled in order to meet the same. All our discussions stemmed from the one overriding thought, a firm conviction, bordering on an obsession, that should war come, the navy should throw everything it had into battle and our entire strategy from the very onset of hostilities should be one of “bold offensive.” We must scrap, erase and wipe off from our minds any ideas of a defensive posture; we must seek action, taking any risks that were necessary and destroy the enemy in his ports and at sea.
The main subject, in achieving the above objective, naturally turned on VIKRANT, which was already “sick” with boiler trouble, imposing very severe limitations on her operational role.
We discussed at some length what would be the best use for the ship. There were many in the Service, some of them very senior officers, who considered VIKRANT a liability in any war with Pakistan. They argued that deployment of the VIKRANT involved certain inherent risks, especially from underwater threats, so considerable escort effort would be required. Many doubted her exact role in a war with Pakistan. Some went even to the extent of suggesting that the VIKRANT should take no part in the war but should be tucked away inside Cochin. This last category, happily few, persisted in their plea, right up to the commencement of hostilities!
I am not suggesting that the pessimists did not have sufficient grounds for their misgivings. There was an overwhelming body of professional opinion that considered that steaming the VIKRANT in her current state was not a risk worth taking. In any war at sea, the VIKRANT would obviously be the most worthwhile target for the enemy. The three Daphne Class submarines, newly acquired by Pakistan from France and fully operational, posed a great potential threat to the carrier. Though only one-twentieth the size of the Aircraft Carrier, these small and highly sophisticated boats were deadly in their striking power. Armed with twelve 21-inch torpedoes, they were capable of a submerged speed of 16 knots. VIKRANT’S speed having been limited to 16 knots, there was thus parity between them. The sophistication of the detection capability as well as the homing devices of the torpedoes were such that once the ship is picked up and the screen of escorts pierced, the VIKRANT would stand in mortal danger. Even as many as six escorts would not guarantee any complete immunity to the Carrier.
The thermal conditions of the waters of the Indian Ocean are particularly suitable for submarine operations as there are certain areas or layers which are impervious to detection by ships and aircraft sonar (antisubmarine equipment). The Sea King Anti-Submarine helicopters had just been inducted into the service and at that time were in the process of assembly. With them, VIKRANT would have a chance against the Daphnes, but without them, the pessimists could well be proved right.
In addition to the “Daphnes,” Pakistan also possessed an American-loaned Submarine, the GHAZI, and whatever might have been the terms of the loan agreement, it was a mathematical certainty that Pakistan would fully commit this submarine against us. Morale and psychological factors weighed just as heavily in the minds of all of us. If VIKRANT were to be sunk, it would represent a victory of the first magnitude to the enemy, just as it would represent a national disaster to us. The historical parallel would be the loss by enemy action of the battleships REPULSE and PRINCE OF WALES – Britain deemed these as a national calamity. Even Hitler was quick to appreciate the ravages to national morale that would accrue if the ship bearing the nation’s name, “Deutschland” were to be sunk and therefore ordered her to be renamed LUTZOW. VIKRANT was the core round which our fleet was built and her loss would be something too terrible to contemplate. But however strong may be the arguments, however cogent the reasons, at no time was there any doubt in our minds that VIKRANT must be fully committed in the war, whatever be her shortcomings. Men-of-War are used to destroy the enemy. If, in the process, they get sunk themselves, it is part of the price of war and must be accepted. “Moth-balling” a ship during hostilities can never be justified for fear of her possible loss.
Ever since we acquired the Carrier, she had come in for severe criticism and much controversy, invariably to her detriment. Since he has quoted me in his book ‘Pakistan Cut to Size,’ I shall return the compliment by quoting Mankekar from the chapter entitled “The Great Spectacular.’I quote:
“They called her names. They spoke derisively of her and made jokes about her. They dubbed her a ‘white Elephant’ and they referred to her as a ‘sick widow.’ When in the 1965 Indo-Pakistani conflict it was
reported that she was in dry dock, they sarcastically asked ‘When was she not?’ To Admiral N. Krishnan, FOC-in-C, Eastern Naval Command is, however, attributed the grand slam retort. To scoffers he quipped, ‘After all, what is wrong with a lady getting indisposed once a month and dry docking every nine months? Every ship needs to be serviced once in nine months, even as every motor car has to be serviced every 1,000 miles of run. This is a normal practice and it just happened, a pure accident, that when the Indo-Pakistani conflict broke out in 1965, VIKRANT was on its nine-monthly visit to the hospital!” [End quote]
But we were not concerned with public criticism alone. Obviously, as professional men in positions of responsibility, we would not send any ship into battle unless we were satisfied that it would be worth our while to do so.
Having commanded the VIKRANT for over one and a half years, I had immense confidence in the Weapon Systems in her. The rockets from the Seahawks in an anti-ship role can have devastating effect. Her Alizes could, in addition to rockets, carry 1,000 lbs bombs, drop depth charges, lay mines, provide radar pickets, and carry out medium range reconnaissance. Moreover, I knew the pilots and observers, especially the older and more experienced ones personally and intimately, both while in command and later when I was the Chief of Naval Aviation and Assistant Chief of the Naval Staff. Given the chance, I had no doubt at all that they would “bring home the bacon.” As for the rest of the crew, we had built up since 1961 when she was first acquired, a very fine lot of sailors who knew their job thoroughly and were most competent, be they flight deck personnel, aircraft handlers, direction teams or the hundreds of other specialists that make the carrier run. Besides, the Commanding Officer designate, Captain Swaraj Prakash, was well-known to me, and had served under me in several appointments at sea. I have always had the highest opinion of him.
My worry about the condition of the machinery was mitigated by the fact that the Engineer Officer of the Ship was Biloo Choudhry. I had seen him close at work as Flight Deck Engineer Officer during my command of the ship, and as senior engineer of the same ship. I was also aware of the very high professional competence he exhibited during the salvage operations of the AMPURIA, when I was C-in-C Western Naval Command, which saved the country some crores of rupees, preventing oil pollution by some 14,000 tons of oil that spilled from the Commercial Tanker. Whereas so many technical officers were against it, Biloo exuded confidence and had never baulked at the idea of steaming the VIKRANT. Her limited speed was a headache and continued to be so throughout. But carrier operations can always be carried out if there was sufficient wind and enough sea room.
Admiral Nanda and I had discussed all these aspects several times and there was never any difference of opinion between us over the fact that it would be a calculated risk well worth taking in putting our only aircraft carrier to fullest use in the war. But I did not really believe that I would be lucky enough to have her on my side of the ocean and it was the pleasantest of surprises when Nanda told me that VIKRANT would be deployed in the Eastern Theatre and assigned to the Eastern Naval Command.
After our detailed and frank discussion, I left Bangalore the same night, feeling quite light-hearted. I had instructions from my Chief to prepare and submit as soon as possible, my detailed “appreciation of the situation” based on the availability to me of the VIKRANT, two gunships of the BRAHMAPUTRA class, two ships of the PETYA class, and one submarine. With this, incidentally, the “Eastern Fleet” was born.
For some reason I have never been able to fathom, why the official residence of the C-in-C in Vishakhapatnam was named “The Retreat.” Since this was a euphemism that negated my entire way of thinking and mental makeup, the board was the first one to come down, and I hoisted my flag in the newly named “Navy House!”
The letters of the alphabet most unpopular with naval personnel were the two “Vs” – Vladivostok and Vishakhapatnam. The sailors who went for their submarine and other training couldn’t take their families to Vladivostok and the other place had nowhere they could take their families to. The married accommodation situation was chronically bad and the “waiting time” at Vishakhapatnam was anything from one and onehalf years to two years! This was a disgraceful state of affairs for the premier Naval Base on the East Coast. “There is no such thing as impossible,” I told my officers and men on the first big parade. “There are problems. If we keep on repeating the problems, we will start living with them which is what is happening here. Any problem, by definition, has a solution. We must brace ourselves to find the answer to the problem. That is what I am going to do and this is where you are jolly well going to help me.” It was bombastic enough to go down big, and I wished I could feel as sanguine as I sounded.
I spoke to the MES (Military Engineering Services – that much-maligned body of officers and men to whom is entrusted the task of erecting and maintaining buildings and providing civil engineering services). Personally, I found them to be an excellent lot of Army Engineers who were as keen to produce results – but who were tied down and smothered with miles and miles of red tape. I found in Colonel Sunderesan, the local senior engineer, a capable and willing officer.
When I asked him how many sailors’ married flats I could count on the next 9 months, he told me the plans were for 80! I said, “I am sure I have heard you wrong. You did say eight hundred, didn’t you?” I saw the smile that I was to see so often thereafter and he said, “Sir, I shall probably lose my job, but it will be done. In the meantime, you may like to sanction under “minor works,” the conversion of a few buildings that are not being fully utilized, and I can give you a hundred temporary flatlets in the next couple of months!” “Sunderesan,” I said, adapting myself to his mood, “I shall probably lose my job too, but it will be done. Now get cracking.”
We built buildings, we hired buildings, we converted buildings – and I say this with justifiable pride that when I left Vishakhapatnam, there was no accommodation problem. While we are on this subject, let me say that I never have let anyone malign the MES to me. My relations with this branch of the Army throughout my service career were most cordial.
Just before the General Elections in 1971 that so convincingly demonstrated solidarity of India behind Indira Gandhi, I had a bad fright once. I read in the papers that she was flying in by helicopter to Paradip to
address a public meeting there. The security of the Prime Minister was of paramount importance, and yet, here, she would be in a totally unprotected port. The Pakistan sabre had started rattling viciously. International assassination of “unfriendly” leaders had been numerous enough to get me really worried. The sea coast was my responsibility and no marauders were going to strike from seawards. I boarded the Kamorta and with Kavaratti and Kiltan in company, left Vishakhapatnam within the hour and proceeded to Paradip at the best possible speed reaching there a couple of hours before the Prime Minister’s arrival by helicopter. I left two ships to patrol off Paradip with orders to keep up on extremely tight surveillance and to sink any submarine detected and to engage any surface ships that disobeyed orders to heave to.” Entering Paradip in the Kamorta, I had hardly tied up alongside when Madam arrived. After the public meeting, she waved aside an invitation to tea with the local VIPs, came straight to my bunch of sailors standing on the quay and talked to them in the most affectionate manner – an experience none of us are ever likely to forget. This is leadership with a capital “L”!
In spite of Henry Kissinger referring to the lady as “tough,” I always think of Indira Gandhi as so fragile and vulnerable, and have always been worried about her personal safety. Because her frail person carries in it an indomitable will and an intrepidity that are matchless, she exposes herself to risks without the slightest care. I am no court jester who mouths expressions like “India is Indira,” but I do believe that she epitomizes the dreams of this struggling country of ours to rise out of the quagmire of poverty and pestilence. Therefore, the prayer of this one sailor is for her continued good health and leadership! [This was written in 1980, two years before Admiral Krishnan’s death in 1982, and four years before Mrs. Gandhi’s tragic assassination in 1984).
My mind goes back to another great personality I had the privilege to know and serve during those critical years. Alas, yesterday, I listened in on the All India Radio to the funeral program when I heard the sad and somber notes of the “Last Post” wafting over the cremation grounds at Madras for Varahagiri Venkata Giri, former president of India, and my Supreme Commander during the Bangla Desh war. I thought of the man beneath the shrouds that was quickly and irrevocably being reduced to ashes. I thought of the flames as the end of the trail that V. V. Giri had blazed through life. Many words have been spoken and written and more would follow of his glorious past in the political, industrial, intellectual, and the vast spectrum of other fields.
My thoughts of him, as a service officer, are of a person who was the Supreme Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces of India for over six years in peace and in war, with but a short break. I had the opportunity of a personal glimpse of him in the role on several occasions and wish to record them as they factually illustrate the profound interest he displayed in service matters.
I first had an insight into his fighting spirit when Sam Manekshaw, Pratap Lal, (Admiral Chatterji was in hospital), and I standing in for Chatterji, called on him in August 1969 when he was elected in his own right as the President of India. He had been Acting President from the 3rd of May of that year and had briefly vacated Rashtrapathi Bhavan when the contest for the Presidency was on. His first few words to us were, “You are soldiers and fighters. I too am a soldier and fighter. I told them all that I will be back. I even left most of my luggage behind. See, I am back,” and then came that chuckle and smile that would charm the savageness out of a bear. He then spoke of the services, of morale, and discipline, asked the most knowledgeable questions of weaponry, and our state of readiness. His parting words were, “I like to see my service chiefs as often as you like. Be free to come and discuss your problems. I am no rubber-stamp President!”
In the June of 1970, I had gone for my investiture of the PVSM medal and after the ceremony he posed with us – the Naval crowd and said, “So many photographs are taken of me. But I like this one with my Naval friends. See, I even have got on a white uniform like you.”
He spoke to me about the Aircraft Carrier and her viability in war. I really felt that I was discussing a professional subject with a professional man! Without knowing it, I prophesized, “Mr. President, you will see the Vikrant vindicating herself in war.” She did in the war that ended on 16th December, 1971, and the Supreme Commander wrote to me, dated 22nd December, “You have been big in the news lately and we are all so proud of the valor and exploits of the Navy.”
On another occasion, I said to him, half jokingly, “Sir, you haven’t been down one of the submarines. You will find it very interesting.” Like a rocket came the reply, “Yes, of course I will. Next time I am in Vishakhapatnam.” This shook me, for to negotiate the tiny hatches and vertical and narrow ladders to reach the bowels of the submarine is no mean effort. I said, “You will find it very cramped going.” “You are no chicken,” he said, “if you can do it, so can I!”
I had almost forgotten the conversation, but when I was Commander-in-Chief of the Eastern Naval Command, I got the message that Shri. V. V. Giri remembered. I was sure that with his youthful exuberance and the agility that belied his bulk, he would negotiate the torturous passages. But we certainly could not take any chances with the person of the President. Working all night, we widened the bulkhead of the conning tower, fabricated a circular lift, big enough to hold him (after ascertaining dimensions from his Naval ADC by phone), but just pass through the many hatches. We rigged an elaborate system of pulleys and tackles. After many trials we were ready.
Once below, he toured every inch of the submarine, played around with the periscope, thumped the torpedoes, and generally resembled a schoolboy on a spree! In the tiny wardroom, sipping coconut water, he proudly announced, “I am the first President of India to be inside a submarine! Where are the photographers that normally pester me?” Of course, he realized that security considerations had precluded them. When he left the base, he told me and the other officers present, “I have never enjoyed myself so much,” and obviously meant every word of it.
After the 1971 war, when he was gracious enough to award me the “Padma Bhushan,” he asked me why I don’t organize a public exhibition of the bits and pieces we had collected from the sunken Pakistani submarine Ghazi. I replied, “Certainly, Mr. President, if you will open it.” He readily agreed. Going round the stalls at Madras, he was able, from his previous visit to our submarine, to remember and recognize some
of the items on display, and even to explain them to the members of his entourage.
As the last notes of the bugles died away, the flames leapt up and danced, I thought of the indestructible soul of my former Commander-in-Chief winging its way to immortality.
Chapter 28 Bay of Bengal Operations and the Sinking of the Ghazi
‘I have a sunk Pakistani Submarine, PNS Ghazi, lying at my feet. This is the time to do and dare. Go to it. Motto for Eastern Fleet
is ATTACK, ATTACK, ATTACK’ – Signal to Fleet from Vice Admiral N Krishnan, C-in-C Eastern Naval Command
Having decided on the outline plan, we set about preparing the necessary operational instructions for the Fleet for three contingencies. The first dealt in detail with initial and final deployments, action on the commencement of hostilities, details of targets ‘to be attacked, and the policy regarding wireless and electronic operations. War patrol areas were established, and plans were drawn up for the replenishment of ships so that they are away from their war stations for the minimum amount of time. A dozen or so boarding parties were to be trained and kept in readiness to capture ships.
The second plan dealt in detail with all the contingencies arising out of contraband control and the blockade of East Pakistan. The third dealt with submarine operations. I discussed these plans threadbare with my Commanding Officers of the Ships, so that nobody had doubts in his mind as to what was expected of them at any one time.
In our almost daily telephonic conversations, it was frequently necessary to refer to ships by name. Admiral Nanda and I devised some codes which we memorized, so that we could talk freely on the phone without jeopardizing security. Only the two of us knew the codes, arrived at somewhat as follows: VIKRANT’S Second-in Command was Saxena, so she became Saxophone; KAVARATI’S Captain was Paul which in Tamil means milk and so the ship became “Milky Way.” The Captain of BEAS’s wife’s name was Lolly so “Lollypop” denoted that ship and so on. Listening in operators or other interested persons heard such snatches of conversation as “Grey beard is sucking a Lollypop” or “Pip is squeaking the Saxophone,” etc. We hoped no one would make anything out of this and as it turned out, no one did!
We started working up the Fleet in right earnest from August 1 st by which time VIKRANT and two Frigates from the Western Fleet had joined me. A very tough training program was drawn up, oriented entirely to the tasks that were expected from each ship, for the fulfilment of the plan. Opportunities were also taken to exercise with the Army Units to ensure coordination and cooperation.
On completion of individual work-up, I took the Fleet out to sea and took them through a really gruelling pace, culminating in a simulated Fleet attack on Vishakhapatnam. But I was far from satisfied either with the efficiency attained by the Fleet working as a whole, or with the defenses of Vishakhapatnam. There was a lot of leeway to be made up so even more intensive programs were drawn up, and we started on a really tremendous effort when something happened that shook me like nothing ever before. An incredible letter arrived from Naval Headquarters directing that VIKRANT should be sailed in company with one or two ships to Bombay by 6 October where she was to carry out sea trials of a new type of aircraft and also some minor repairs. All the reasons given in the letter for taking these ships away at a most crucial stage were absolutely fantastic and I had the feeling that the world was crumbling all around me. But after the initial shock, I made up my mind that I would resist this move to the utmost, regardless of any consequences, even to the
extent, if necessary, of placing my resignation in the hands of the Government. I will quote my letter at length, because I really came to believe that on the result of this letter hinged the fate of naval history.
“I have the honor to refer to Naval Headquarters letter dated September 25, 1971 and to note that INS VIKRANT is required on the West Coast for the several commitments listed in paragraph 2 thereof. I beg your indulgence and earnestly request reconsideration of the Naval Headquarters decision therein for the reasons set forth in the following paragraphs. I have been informed that should Pakistan commence hostilities against India, not more than 72 hours warning is likely. My entire plan to fulfill the task is based on the availability of VIKRANT so that offensive action can be commenced at the very outset of hostilities. With 72 hours’ notice and VIKRANT on the other side of the country, I cannot react offensively anywhere to a pre-emptive strike by Pakistan, in the time scale we have been envisaging. Under these circumstances, it is my considered opinion that for the VIKRANT to be redeployed at this crucial stage is not a prudent move and one fraught with danger.
If my plan, as approved by Naval Headquarters, is to meet with any measure of success, it is of the utmost importance that the Task Force should put into effect an intensive period of work up and training together. I am proceeding to sea tomorrow (29th September) to finalize the arrangements for the preliminary work up and it was my intention to follow it up with more intensive training. Redeployment of VIKRANT as proposed would mean that apart from the preliminary work up referred to above, the ships, when they join up, would have had no combined training at all, and may well go into battle in an untrained state which is obviously unthinkable.
In regard to the reasons for which the decision has been taken, I submit that any long-term requirements should be viewed against the context of the immediate and overriding problems facing us. I may be permitted to add that Indian history will never forgive us if we lose the opportunity of vigorous offensive action against Pakistan, nor should we allow history to repeat itself, when in 1965, we were playing war games with a British submarine and finding ourselves on the wrong coast when Pakistan attacked.
I am genuinely concerned that the proposed deployment at this stage may gravely affect if not nullify our plans against Pakistan in the event of hostilities. Since I am proceeding to sea and shall be away for a week for exercises, I request that your decision may please be conveyed to me by signal.”
In spite of this above letter, I received a signal on our return to harbour on 6 October 1971 which repeated the instruction that VIKRANT should be sailed for Bombay. I addressed the ship’s company to give them the news that they will be proceeding to Bombay. Of course, it was essential that I should give no inkling of my own feeling in the matter. So, I told them that Naval Headquarters have agreed to send the VIKRANT round to the other side for a short spell so that the sailors and officers could spend Diwali with their families at Bombay. But I urged them with all the fervor at my command that there should be no letup in the training and maintenance of efficiency as I was absolutely convinced that we would have to fight with Pakistan before the end of the year and they had a great part to play.
I disembarked from VIKRANT with the gravest forebodings and made out the sailing signal. I had never felt so utterly desolate in my mind and with a heavy heart, drafted out a letter that in the circumstances, I did not consider myself competent to carry out the tasks allotted to me in the event of war and, therefore, I may be relieved of my Command. Having drafted out this letter in my own hand, I discussed it with my wife because it was perhaps the most difficult step that I was taking in my life. My wife, as my consort and partner for nearly three decades, had a right to discussion and an important say in the matter. Just as I expected, she told me that if I felt deep in my heart that the step that I was proposing was the right one, then, so be it. But, she did request that I should place this letter at the feet of Lord Venkateswara, in my puja (prayer room) for the night and He would give us the right guidance in the morning.
As I sat in the verandah of Navy House and looked seaward, I saw VIKRANT’S Captain making a deliberate detour so that he could pass by in my full view. I became absolutely certain that Captain Swaraj Parkash, his officers and his men shared my views and fears.
Even as the ship turned away from the view, my Command Operations Officer, Cdr. Ratra came rushing to Navy House beaming all over his face to say that the decision to redeploy VIKRANT had been cancelled by Naval Headquarters. I am not ashamed to say that I prostrated myself before God and wept for the first time in many years!
When Parkash met me the next time, he told me that when he announced the decision of Naval Headquarters – that “owing to the current situation; VIKRANT is to remain in the East Coast,” – the whole ship’s company burst into cheers. This is proof, if any is needed, of the excellence of the morale and the fighting spirit of our men: VIKRANT resumed her work up off Madras from 7 October. Rear Admiral S. H. Sarma joined me round about this time, but his appointment as Fleet Commander had not been announced and he was marking time, but not for long.
I received instructions from NHQ that I should proceed to New Delhi and be prepared to brief the three Service Chiefs and the Defence Minister on the plans of my command in the event of war. This I did on 23 November. Both the Chief of the Army Staff and the Defence Secretary asked me several searching questions pertaining to the plan.
That night, President Yahya Khan made an extraordinary statement that “he would be away fighting a war in the next ten days.” On 24 November, he declared a State of Emergency throughout Pakistan. Though India did not react with a similar declaration we knew that the die was cast.
From my point of view, it was very clear that Pakistan would have deployed the GHAZI in the Bay of Bengal and part of the preemptive strike would be an attempt to sink the VIKRANT. Part of my plan to counter this awesome contingency was to put into effect as many deceptive measures as possible. I had already sailed the Fleet away from Madras on 13 November. On 24th November, with the certainty that the hunter had arrived, I was very uneasy in my mind – even though the Fleet had been tucked away under maximum security, poised and ready to strike at the shortest notice.
In war, as in everything else in life, the element of luck also plays a major part. To those who have a belief in the grace of Providence, it comes naturally to pray that God should favour us in the fortunes of war. I have already written about the effect on the conduct of the war should the GHAZI succeed against VIKRANT. It is true to say that every waking moment and oft in my dreams, the same problem kept worrying me, so that I had come to regard the GHAZI as a monster that was my personal enemy, and in my daily recital of my prayers, I thought of the GHAZI when I came to the part that seeks the protection of the Lord against mine enemies. The much-publicized 108 coconuts offering to Lord Ganesha, was also part of the spiritual and mental warfare. At the risk of raising a sardonic smile amongst non believers, I say that my prayers were heard – and how!
Having sailed the Fleet away to safety, the major task was to deceive the enemy into thinking that the VIKRANT was where she was not and lure the GHAZI to where we could attack her.
I spoke to the Naval Officer-in-Charge, Madras on the telephone and told him that VIKRANT, now off Vishakhapatnam, would be arriving at Madras and would require an alongside berth, provisions and other logistic needs. Capt. Duckworth thought I had gone stark raving mad that I should discuss so many operational matters over the telephone, I told him to alert contractors for rations, to speak to the port Trust that we wanted a berth alongside for VIKRANT at Madras, etc.
In Vishakhapatnam, we ordered much more rations, especially meat and fresh vegetables from our contractors to whom it must have been obvious that this meant the presence of the fleet on or off Vishakhapatnam. I was banking on bazaar rumours being picked up by spies and relayed to Pakistan. I had no doubt that such spies did exist, and I hoped that they would do their duty diligently.
During the several weeks before the war, we had taken special pains to contact the various fishing communities in and around Vishakhapatnam and motivate them to act as a sort of visual lookouts for anything out of the ordinary that they may see when out fishing. This meant explaining to them all about oil slicks, what a submarine looks like, what sort of telltale evidence to look for and so on. They were briefed on exactly what to do with any information that they gathered.
As stated earlier, I had established very close rapport with the Collector, Achanta and the Chairman of the Port Trust, Sambamurthy. The Civil Defence organization under the Collector was put through a series of drills including black-outs, etc. I was never worried about air attack but I didn’t tell anyone that my real worry was mining of the harbour entrances or attack on our ships by the “Devil” (appropriately the GHAZI was the ex U.S.S DIABLO, meaning devil!). We decided to use INS RAJPUT as a decoy to try and deceive the Pakistani belief that VIKRANT was in or around Vishakhapatnam. RAJPUT was sailed to proceed about 160 miles off Vishakhapatnam. She was given a large number of signals with instructions that she should clear the same from sea. Heavy wireless traffic is one means for the enemy to suspect the whereabouts of a big ship. We intentionally breached security by making an unclassified signal in the form of a private telegram, allegedly from one of VIKRANTS sailors, asking about the welfare of his mother who was “seriously ill.”
Our deception plan had worked only too well! In a secret signal which we recovered from the sunken GHAZI Commodore, Submarines, in Karachi sent a signal to GHAZI informing her that “INTELLIGENCE INDICATE CARRIER IN PORT” and that she should proceed to Vishakhapatnam with all dispatch!
On the evening of December 3, 1971, just as I entered the house, the telephone rang and an excited PTI correspondent said “Admiral, Pakistan has attacked several of our cities from the air. Delhi is in darkness and under attack. On the hot line this was confirmed by the Collector and I asked him to order total black out, switching of all navigational lights including the Dolphin’s Nose light house. He asked me if I expected an air attack and I told him “Please do as I say. I will explain later,” and rang off. My wife was sitting out on the verandah with a couple of friends and as I rushed out to the waiting car, I told her, “We are at war with Pakistan. I am off. See you later.”
By the time I arrived at the Maritime Operations Room, orders for commencement of hostilities had been received, the shore Defences of Vishakhapatnam were immediately put on alert and the Coast Battery was brought to the First Degree of Readiness. I had already decided that the INS RAJPUT should also join the rest of the Eastern Fleet for operations off Bangladesh. I fully realized that I would be sending away the only operational ship left. But this was a calculated risk. The aim must be sustained at all costs and this meant total blockade of East Pakistan. Everything that floated and could carry a gun should be out there and doing this job and if, in the process, the base was exposed, so it had to be. But before she left, we would have a go at the enemy who I felt in my very bones, was not very far off. This latter statement is difficult for many to understand. I once had the opportunity and great privilege of meeting that very celebrated hunter, Jim Corbett, when I was doing a tour of duty in Almora in the Kumaon Hills. He told me that when trying to hunt down a man-eater, he would think of nothing but the quarry for weeks on end and when the final hour of reckoning was near, he would know instinctively that danger was imminent. It would be futile for me to convince anyone that I had the same feeling, presentiment, intuition, whatever you may like to call it, that night – I had never felt so sure that the mortal enemy had arrived.
The GHAZI story, as related below is pieced together from much evidence that has been collected from the sunken submarine itself, and detailed analysis of track charts of the attacking ship, INS RAJPUT as well as that of the GHAZI. From a recovered chart, it is clearly revealed that the GHAZI sailed from Karachi on 14 November, on her marauding mission. She was 400 miles off Bombay on 16 November, off Ceylon on 19 November and entered the Bay of Bengal on 20 November. She was looking for VIKRANT off Madras on 23 November. Alas, for her, ten days too late!
I sent for Lt. Cdr. Inder Singh, the Commanding Officer of the RAJPUT for a detailed briefing; as soon as she completed fuelling she must leave harbour. I had already ordered all navigational aids to be switched off, so greatest care in navigation was necessary. Once clear of the harbour, he must assume that an enemy submarine was in the vicinity. If our deception plan had worked, the enemy would be prowling about looking for VIKRANT. In the darkness, he might easily mistake one of the merchantmen outside for the carrier and have a go. He might even be attempting to lay a mine-field. Because of the total blackout and
navigational hazards, he might even be foolhardy to be on the surface. Since I wanted the RAJPUT out in the operational area as soon as possible, I could not give Inder Singh any time to carry out a hunt and he could not tarry. But before clearing the outer harbour, he could drop a few charges at random to put the fear of God into the enemy and deter him from any of his nefarious activities.
The RAJPUT sailed before midnight of 3/4 and, on clearing harbour, proceeded along the narrow channel. Having got clear, the Commanding Officer saw what he thought was a severe disturbance in the water, about half a mile ahead. He rightly assumed that this might be a submarine diving. He closed the spot at speed and dropped at the position two charges. It has been subsequently established that the position where the charges were dropped was so close to the position of the wreck of the GHAZI that some damage to the latter is a very high probability.
The RAJPUT, on completion of her mission, proceeded on her course in order to carry out her main mission. A little later, a very loud explosion was heard by the Coast Battery who reported the same to the Maritime Operations Room. The time of this explosion was 0015 hours. The clock recovered from the GHAZI showed that it had stopped functioning at the same time. Several thousand people waiting to hear the Prime Minister’s broadcast to Nation also heard the explosion and many came out thinking that it was an earthquake.
Our naval divers as well as underwater television camera have established that the forward part of the submarine had been completely blown off though everything aft of the Conning Tower was intact. From the position of the rudder of the GHAZI, the extent of damage she had suffered, and the notations on charts recovered, the situation has been assessed by naval experts as follows:
The GHAZI had evidently come up to periscope/or surface depth to establish her navigational position, an operation which was made extremely difficult by the blackout and the switching off of all navigational lights. At this point of time, she probably saw or heard a Destroyer approaching her, almost on a reciprocal course. This is a frightening sight at the best of times and she obviously dived in a tremendous hurry and at the same time put her rudder hard over in order to get away to seaward. It is possible that in her desperate crash dive, her nose must have hit the shallow ground hard when she bottomed. It seems likely that a fire broke out on board for’d where, in all probability there were mines, in addition to the torpedoes fully armed. Whatever may be the cause of the final explosion, it was quite enough to seal the fate of the GHAZI forever.
As per our arrangement with them, some fishermen reported oil patches and some flotsam. The Command Diving team was rushed to the spot and commenced detailed investigations. The divers established that there was a definite submerged object some distance out seawards, at a depth of 150 feet of water and that it was a probable submarine. Even though there were a number of floating objects picked up, there was nothing to indicate the identity of the submarine. Everything had American markings. I told the Chief of the Naval Staff that personally I was convinced that we had bagged the GHAZI. I was somewhat taken aback when he said “Look, there have already been three claims from elsewhere of having sunk Pakistani submarines. Have a heart, we couldn’t sink all of them in one night!” I said “But dammit Sir, mine’s out there. My divers have seen the bloody thing lying dead as a door nail.” Anyway, like Othello, he wanted “ocular proof” that it was the GHAZI, before authorizing the announcement. This was easier said than done. Diving operations were extremely difficult and highly hazardous as the sea was very choppy and the divers were operating some 150 feet below. The boat I had was not a suitable one to conduct such operations. By Sunday, December 5, we were able to establish from the silhouette and other characteristics that the submarine was in fact the GHAZI. But there was no means of ingress into the submarine as all entry hatches from the coning tower aft were tightly screwed down from the inside.
In the meantime, the Chief of Naval Staff had arranged for an Air Force aircraft to be positioned in Vishakhapatnam so that “the ocular proof” that he insisted on could be flown to Delhi before the announcement was made.
On the third day, a diver managed to open the Conning Tower hatch and one dead body was recovered. As the hatch was opened, it was clogged up with bloated dead bodies and it was quite a job to clear the same to make an entrance. It must have taken a phenomenal amount of courage for the divers to enter the submarine, with rotting flesh all around, and not knowing whether they could come out of the hell-hole alive. But then, throughout my association with the gallant men of the diving cadre, I have found the same display of courage and devotion to duty and a total disregard of personal danger whilst working under the most hazardous conditions. The Hydrographic correction book of PNS GHAZI and one sheet of paper with the official seal of the Commanding Officer of PNS GHAZI were also recovered. A little later, three more dead bodies were floated out. I ordered photographs to be taken of the dead bodies. Later, according to Naval Custom, they were given sailors burials at sea.
The Aircraft standing by finally took off for Delhi the next morning with the evidence. We had been able to recover considerable material to confirm the evil designs of Pakistan to strike a pre-emptive blow against us. As early as November 22, Pakistan had deployed four submarines armed all their torpedoes and assumed the precautionary stage on 23 November. GHAZI was after the VIKRANT but VIKRANT and the Fleet were hundreds of miles away from the base and ready to retaliate in a bold offensive should the Pakistanis put in their pre-emptive attack. That the GHAZI was outside Vishakhapatnam has shown beyond any shadow of doubt Pakistan’s deliberate pre-planned attack on India.
Thus, within five hours of the first strike by Pakistan against our airfields, Pakistan had paid a very heavy price and lost the largest and most prestigious submarine of her navy. More blows were soon to follow that would send the enemy reeling on to Surrender.
The destruction of the GHAZI captured the imagination of the Country and hit the headlines in all the newspapers. Hundreds of letters and telegrams of congratulations poured in from persons from all walks of life, high and low. One of them wanted to name his son, born at the time of the sinking as “Ghazi Mardhana Rao.” I dissuaded him from saddling his son for life with such a hideous name! But the importance of the
event to me was that the threat to VIKRANT had been disposed of. Yes, the sea war had started extremely well for us. Within hours of the enemy’s first pre-emptive strike against us, the GHAZI lay dead at our very doorstep. Before the eventful day ended, I sent a signal to the Fleet:
FROM C-IN-C: I HAVE A DEAD PAKISTANI SUBMARINE, PNS GHAZI, LYING AT MY FEET. THIS IS THE TIME TO DO AND DARE. GO TO IT. MOTTO FOR EASTERN FLEET IS – “ATTACK – ATTACK – ATTACK”
Later that evening, the Defence Minister came on the line and spoke most encouragingly of the work done by our Naval Forces. He asked me to pass on his congratulations, which I did.
The last voyage of the PNS Ghazi: Signals recovered from the wreck of the PNS Ghazi sunk outside Vishakhapatnam in the early hours of December 3rd/4th, 1971, show clearly Pakistan’s intention to launch a pre-emptive attack on India. The PNS Ghazi was dispatched from Karachi on November 14th, 1971 with the explicit mission of sinking the INS Vikrant, India’s flagship aircraft carrier, carrying over 2000 officers and men, and vital to the Indian Naval operations in the Bay of Bengal. The following photographs and map chronicle the last journey of the PNS Ghazi as she was lured to her doom.
(Photos Courtesy ‘No Way But Surrender’ by Vice Admiral N. Krishnan)
Chapter 29 The Surrender Ceremony
As the curtain was ringing down, with both Chalna and Mongla ports blocked by naval action, and the army sealing off all the escape routes by land, in the far south, the navy landed a battalion-plus in the Cox’s Bazaar area in order to seal off Chittagong, an amphibious operation in this 13-day campaign. The landing force arrived at Cox’s Bazaar on the morning of 16 December. A total of 600 troops with equipment, arms and ammunition were landed by sunset that day. This included the Brigade Headquarters’ staff.
Wednesday, December 15, was also our traditional Navy Day. Jagjivan Ram rang me up from Delhi. He said, “Krishnan, I want to congratulate you, your officers and men. You are setting up new traditions for the Indian Navy.” He was particularly cheerful and gave me the first indication that a Pakistani collapse and surrender were imminent, because he said: “We can expect some good news soon.”
Though excitement through suppression must have been evident all over my face, I kept my counsel and the war, far from being over, still had to be fought, the landing operations being on at Cox’s Bazaar. I was desperately concerned that these boys had no air-cover, my having had to withdraw the VIKRANT into Paradip for her much needed refueling. She was dangerously low on fuel.
I decided that I would proceed to Paradip the next day and had arranged for the positioning of an Air Force Plane at Vishakhapatnam for this purpose. This arrangement was God-sent as will be seen in the subsequent paragraphs.
Arriving at Bhubaneswar at 12:00 noon on 16 December, I had just got air borne in the helicopter that VIKRANT had sent, when we got information from Air Traffic Control at Bhubaneswar, “Very important message for Admiral Krishnan.” We landed again and there was a cryptic message from CNS that I must somehow get to Calcutta before 2 P. M. that day!
As I said earlier, it was entirely providential that I was half way there already and was able to reach Calcutta in good time to meet General Aurora and Air Marshal Dewan at the airport to commence a most historic journey to accept the surrender of all Pakistani forces in Bangladesh!
We took off from Dum Dum Airport at 2 P. M. for Agartala in an Avro and there we were transferred to waiting helicopters. Four Alhouette helicopters carried the three Commanders-in-Chief and Lt. Gen. Jagat Singh while five Ml-5 helicopters carried large numbers of Indian and foreign correspondents and cameramen. The Naval party consisted of Captain R.P. Khanna, Naval Officer in Charge, Calcutta and my Flag Lt. J. S. Karpe.
We landed at Tejgaon Airport at about 4:00 P.M. where we were met by Lt. Gen. Niazi, Maj. Gen. Farman Ali Khan and Rear Admiral Mohammed Sharif. Sharif, an ex-Dufferin cadet and a long communication specialist was the Flag Officer Commanding, East Pakistan Navy. Major General Jacob, Chief of Staff to the Indian Army Commander was already in Dacca earlier sorting out the details of the surrender ceremony.
Flying in, I was happy to note that Dacca seemed quite free from any sort of battle scars and I kept thinking of what a ghastly tragedy would have struck this fair city if Niazi had foolishly tried to fight on. Tejgaon runway, however, had had several hits throwing up large craters along the runway and hence we were using helicopters.
We drove straight from the Airport to the Race Course in a long cavalcade interspersed with vehicles of all sorts loaded to capacity with people making their way to the historic venue. My car, driven by a sailor of the Pakistani Navy carried Rear Admiral Mohd. Shariff and our respective Flag Lieutenants.
The Surrender Ceremony was enacted at the historic Race Course where nine months earlier Sheik Mujibur Rehman had flung the gauntlet of rebellion at President Yahya Khan.
The Course was one seething mass of humanity wild with joy, shouting and gesticulating, and the cry“Joy Bangla” and “Joy Indira” was everywhere, the voice of Sonar Bangla. As Gen. Aurora was inspecting guards drawn up by Indian and Pakistani soldiers, we were totally engulfed in a sea of humanity. I was beginning to get genuinely concerned over the safety of the Pakistani Admiral in my charge. Fortunately, he had on a black jersey and was not easily recognizable and as my white uniform stood out, attention was focused on it and there was no unpleasant turn of events as we forced our way through to the spot where the surrender document was to be signed.
A small table and two chairs in the centre of the Maidan, with the two main adversaries seated, Dewan and myself behind, some hundred of the press and cameramen in front, several thousand pressing in all round set the scenario for this historic moment. Six copies of the instrument on thick white paper spelt out the terms which required the surrender of all Pakistani Land and Naval forces as also all paramilitary and civilian armed forces. They would lay down their arms and surrender the places where they were currently located to the forces under the command of Lt. Gen. Aurora. The first copy was signed. Niazi first followed Aurora. Either through emotion or deliberately, the enemy Commander did not sign his full name but just “A. A. K. Nia.” I pointed this out to Gen. Aurora who in turn spoke to Niazi. Niazi completed his signature, and with this Bangladesh was free of a monstrous tyranny that had burnt and raped, looted and killed poor and innocent people in their tens of thousands. As these thoughts crowded into my mind, General Niazi, choked with emotion and near tears, unbuttoned his epaulettes, unloaded his revolver and handing them over to Aurora, touched his forehead to the General in total submission and the ceremony was over.
At the airport, prior to taking off, another little drama took place. The Flag Officer Commanding East Pakistan as he was called, Rear Admiral Sharif approached me, and hiding his emotions in a gallant effort said, “Admiral Krishnan, Sir, soon I will be disarmed. Your Navy fought magnificently and had us cornered everywhere. I would like to surrender my arms to the C-in-C of the Eastern Fleet,” and unbelting his holster, handed over his Chinese-made revolver and clip of ammunition. The return flight was uneventful but the drive into Calcutta was once again a repetition of cheering jubilant crowds.
While the big drama was being enacted on the Racecourse at Dacca, my wife back home had no idea of the rapid turn of events and when informed by my Secretary that afternoon that I had gone off to Dacca, was worried to distraction. She convinced herself that the whole surrender gimmick was a gigantic hoax and the perfidious Pakistanis were luring us to our slaughter. I can imagine her agony. She told me later that the happiest moment of her life was when she heard the Prime Minister’s announcement in the Lok Sabha that the Surrender Instrument had been signed!
There were anxious moments in Delhi too prior to the surrender. With Parliament in session and the PM waiting to impart the momentous news, all communication between Dacca and the outside world had broken down and it was not till we had returned to Agartala and were actually in the Avro ready to take off for Calcutta that we were told that Manekshaw was on the line wanting to know “what the hell was happening.” The Naval Assistant to CNS (Cdr. V. P. Duggal) told me of the Admiral’s anxiety, the walks up and down the corridor to the General’s office, and the sense of relief when the news finally came through!
Altogether, it was a day of intense drama surcharged with emotions, in which some 550 million Indians and the liberated millions of Bangla Desh participated with the heady joy that comes but rarely in the lives of nations.
Immediately on return to Calcutta, I rang up Admiral Nanda, and gave him a brief account of the happenings of the day. Thereafter, I spent the evening with the jubilant officers and sailors of INS HOOGHLY (our Naval establishment in Calcutta) and took off early next morning, December 17, for Bhubaneswar and thence by helicopter to Paradip where VIKRANT had arrived for the fuel for which she had been starving. Many are the times that I had addressed the ships’ company of VIKRANT but never had I witnessed such a feeling of oneness, comradeship, pride of achievement and absolute happiness as the entire ship’s company of more than 2,000 men sent up roar after roar of cheers which reached its crescendo when I, with the touch of melodrama that the occasion demanded, exhibited the revolver surrendered to me by our erstwhile enemy, Admiral Sharif. Four hours later, India announced a unilateral cease-fire. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi said: “In order to stop further bloodshed and unnecessary loss of lives we have ordered our armed forces to cease-fire everywhere on the Western front from tomorrow 8 P.M.” President Yahya Khan however ranted, “Temporary retreat on one front in such a big war does not mean the end of the war. God willing, the Holy Jehad against the treacherous enemy will continue till victory is ours.”
Thus, the war that lasted 14 fateful days in December of 1971, that saw the birth of a nation came to an end.
Shortly after the war, we had visits from the Defence Minister, Jagjivan Ram and the Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi. The former visited us on January 8, 1972 and the Prime Minister on February 2, 1972. I cannot think of a better conclusion to this account than to quote excerpts from their speeches. Emphasizing the role played by the Navy, the Defence Minister said, “What you have achieved in the Indian Navy, has been of outstanding value. I doubt very much whether any Navy in the world has done or achieved so much during such a brief period. What you have done at Chittagong and other ports in Bangladesh, and the very name of Vishakhapatnam for its sinking of the GHAZI, will all go down in history.” He added: “You have succeeded in raising the prestige of our country in the international world, raising it so high that perhaps even years of efforts would not have been successful in doing the same.” He was addressing a mass gathering of the sailors and the civilian personnel of the Eastern Naval Command. In a lighter vein and amidst laughter he said: “Ghazi ko tabah kiya, Niazi ko sabak diya” (You have destroyed the Ghazi; you have taught Niazi a lesson).
The Prime Minister addressing the parade said: “You are aware how proud the Government of India and the Indian Nation is of the Indian Navy. We were fully confident that, given the opportunity, you would keep the Flag of this great nation flying aloft; and this is exactly what you did this time, with your courage and your determination. I have, therefore, come here to congratulate you, to wish you all the best in future, on behalf of the Government, on my own behalf, and on behalf of the entire nation. I am sure that the Indian Navy will always remain true to its traditions, and whether in peace or in war, whatever they do, will help in consolidating our unity, in raising the country in the eyes of the world, and in keeping India’s Flag flying high. I give you once again my good wishes for your future success in whatever you do.”
Pakistan lost one Submarine, 16 gun boats, scores of miscellaneous powered craft and merchant ships in the Eastern waters. The Eastern Fleet sustained not a bruise, not even a scratch. A total of 125 Pakistan Naval Officers and some 2,000 sailors surrendered in Bangladesh. Officers who surrendered included a Rear Admiral, two Commodores, three Captains and at least 12 Commanders. The senior Pakistan Naval Officers included Rear Admiral Mohammed Shariff, Flag Officer, Commanding East Pakistan; Commodore K.M. Hussain, Commodore Chittagong; Commodore I.H. Malik, Managing Director Chittagong Port Trust. It is pertinent to recall here the noble words of Tom Paine. “Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered, yet we have this consolation with as that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly; it is dearness only that gives everything its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed, if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated.”
Chapter 30 A Nation is Born
The dateline was set for the withdrawal of the Indian Army from the newly born Bangladesh. General Aurora rang me up and suggested that my wife and I accompany him to Dhaka to participate in the withdrawal ceremonies. I readily consented. We arrived in Dhaka in March 1972. This was my third visit and things had certainly changed.
Sheikh Mujibur Rehman who had languished in the “death row” of a Pakistani jail was, miraculously, back and in firm charge of the helm of affairs. Aurora and I called on him formally at his official residence. Mrs. Aurora and my wife called on Begum Rehman at their private residence – the bullet-ridden and thoroughly pillaged ramshackle of a house. The two meetings with the first couple of Bangladesh are worth recording.
The Sheikh was ebullient and full of self-confidence. It was hard to believe that his life had dangled at the end of a thin thread that could have been snapped by the merest whiff of the whisky-sodden breath of a befuddled General called Yahya Khan. When Mujibur told us of how he thought of every day of his eight months’ incarceration as his last, there was no pathos in his voice, no seeking of sympathy – he narrated his experiences, punctuated by loud raucous laughter – how can you possibly help liking such a man? An interesting thing he told us was about Yahya Khan. “You know,” he said, “In the final stages, before the war, he was no longer capable of taking any decisions. His subordinate generals had calculated well his weaknesses – wine and women. He was constantly supplied with the choicest of both. This, perhaps, saved my life – I don’t suppose he had time to remember me and order my liquidation,” – and another loud guffaw of laughter!
I thought it fit to raise a point with him that I had spoken to Shri. D.P. Dhar about at the Dhaka International airport earlier that day.
“Mr. President,” I said, “Some ninety thousand Pakistani soldiers had been sent packing home. But they have left behind large quantities of arms and ammunition. Not all of these have been rounded up, and much must have found their way into unauthorized hands. With all due respect, Sir, won’t this present a serious threat to the stability of Bangladesh?”
He looked at me long and hard and replied, “Yes, what you say is true. But my people are fed up of violence and warfare. Stability has to be built up from the grass roots after the convulsion my country has been through. The wounds must heal. We have a long and hard road ahead of us. We must deal with the threat you mentioned as we go along the way.”
As a conversation gambit, it went as far as it could go. I had neither the right nor, the position or the responsibility to pursue the subject. Perhaps it was wrong on my part to have even raised the matter at a formal social call. But I could not help, at that meeting, a grave sense of foreboding that all would not be well with Sonar Bangla for a long time to come.
When the Sheikh Sahib landed in Dhaka, after his stopover of accolades and adulation in New Delhi, a hero’s welcome awaited him. Millions greeted their beloved leader, who would have been right if he had said, “I am the Resurrection!” To most people, he had indeed risen from the dead. A popular hero at the best of times, his advent from almost certain death captured the imagination of the people already jubilant in the flush of their newly won freedom.
In the mass of humanity that thronged the Dhaka Airport was one exception – Begum Mujibur Rehman. This is what she told my wife (who, as I have stated earlier, had gone to call on the First Lady). “It was not right that I should be at the airport to receive him. I told myself, today he belongs to the people, but he belongs to me too. When his official duties permit him, he will come to me. I have waited so long expecting death in my heart that I am prepared to wait a little longer for life to come to me again.”
She took my wife around the small house that was her home and explained in vivid and horrifying detail of that day, almost a year ago, when the door that held the hinge of fate closed on their family – the sudden arrival of the military, the brandishing of guns, the arrest and removal of her husband, the vandalism against their meager treasures, the looting of the bits and pieces of jewelry that she possessed. Yes, for the great lady that was the Begum, it was a day of remembrance. She told my wife, “I didn’t go to the airport. I wanted the Sheikh Sahib to come back and see for himself how I have been living – no, existing – since he was taken away.”
My wife was in tears when she narrated this heart-rending tale to me. “Do you know,” she recounted, “The Begum’s last words to me were – What does it matter what pearls and precious stones I had lost? The brightest, the most valuable and the most priceless jewel has been restored to me; may Allah be praised.”
The hands of assassins take away the lives of many people. But after the experiences described above, I must confess to a feeling of deep sorrow and desolation when I heard of the extrovert Sheikh and his Godfearing wife, as well as their entire family being brutally gunned down by power-crazy men, a few years later.
Chapter 31 A Fond Farewell
The year 1972 was a good one for me in many ways. I was awarded the Padma Bhushan for services rendered to my country. The Investiture ceremony at Rashtrapati Bhavan [the Residence of President of India] was another landmark in the story of my life. Much affection was showered upon me during this year from many quarters, and I bumptiously enjoyed the considerable public adulation, the innumerable civic receptions and functions organized in several places and by various organizations. But I know that no special credit is rightfully mine because the “Navy’s Finest Hour” was the result of the combined efforts of everyone connected with the Navy – both Service and Civilian.
All good things must come to an end sooner or later, and why should I be the exception. The year’s end brought forth its New Year message for me through the Chief of Naval Staff who told me on the phone, “I have just come from the Defence Secretary. The government has decided to appoint Vice Admiral Kohli as my successor. You will be given a year’s extension as Vice Admiral should you wish it. My personal advice is that you accept it.”
So that was that. I sent off a message of congratulations to the new Chief Designate. I will not deny that it was a considerable blow that my service career should end so soon and so suddenly, nor will I try to analyze the maelstrom of emotions at that time. [Indeed, his story did not quite end here – see Epilogue]
My wife, daughter, and son were absolute bricks. I have already said what I truly felt about my wife all through my service career, steady consort battleship. My daughter, Chitra, wrote me a beautiful letter and I cannot resist the temptation of quoting. “I know more than anyone else how much you have worked to reach the top. Well, you haven’t. In the long run, what does it matter? You have played a glorious part in the service of our country. You have had the best that life has had to offer, and you have used it well. I am reminded of Shelley’s fearful lines – ‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!
My son’s letter brought me near tears. “All your life you have fought like a Lion, and I am proud of you. Keep fighting, Dad, and remember that whatever happens we are with you all the way.” How can one sorrow with such a family behind you? So I didn’t. I did what every true Hindu does when his ego is badly bruised (for, in the final analysis, that is all it was all about – The government has every right and is the best judge of whom it wants as one of its principal advisors. If I thought I deserved the job more, it was only my ego, fed by self-importance), he turned to the “Gita” for solace and remembers the immortal words of the Lord on the field of battle:
“Seek to perform your duty, but lay not claim to its fruits. Be you not the producer of the fruits of Karma, neither shall you lean towards inaction.”
This then is the narrative of the life of one Sailor. Covering as it does a long span of nearly forty years, and being written now in the evening of my life, it is bound to have flaws and imperfections. I ask for the reader’s indulgence. The only mitigatory defence I can put up is that I have tried my best to be factual and have also tried (during the two years of retirement that has taken to write this book) to recapture past experiences to the best of my recollection of my life in the navy. I shall end this book with the motto I had chosen for myself long years ago, and to say to the world in all humility – “This I have done,” and hope I have lived up to it. I await now the inevitable hour when the bells shall surely toll for me.
Nilakanta Krishnan
Epilogue
The Sailor’s Story did not end there. After Admiral Kohli became the Chief of Naval Staff in 1973, Admiral Krishnan was seconded to the Ministry of Shipping and Transportation, as the first Chairman and Managing Director of the newly formed Cochin Shipyard Limited in Ernakulum, Kerala.
Normally, he would have retired from the Navy in 1973 and would have continued with the shipyard thereafter as a civilian. The Government of India and the then Defense Minister, Shri Jagjivan Ram, in an unprecedented move, decided to extend his tenure as a substantive active service Vice admiral in the Navy by two years to enable him to be in the running when the next Chief of Naval Staff was to be selected at the end of 1975.
He concentrated on building Asia’s first Greenfield ship building yard, but very much looking forward to the day when he would take the helm of his beloved Navy that he had served loyally for 40 years. Destiny however was to play her inexorable hand yet again in his extraordinary life for one last time.
A state of emergency was declared in India on June 22nd, 1975. When the time came for the selection of the next chief of naval staff in late 1975, Admiral Krishnan and his dear friend and colleague of many years, Admiral Jal Cursetji, were in the running for the top job in the Navy.
Incredible as it may seem, one of the interviews for the position was conducted by a young man, who held no elected office, Cabinet or in fact any official government position, but wielded immense power by virtue of the fact that he was the Prime Ministers’ son – Sanjay Gandhi. My father recounted the details of the interview to me, and told me that apparently Mr. Sanjay Gandhi, in reviewing his file remarked ‘Admiral, you have an impeccable service record, but you have a reputation of being a very strong personality.’
Nobody knows or can speculate what influence Mr. Sanjay Gandhi had on the decision making process, because the ultimate decision rests with the appointments committee of the Cabinet, but once again, my father was passed over for the position for the second time in 3 years. I know that he was very happy for Admiral Jal Cursetji on his promotion, and even though going through the whole experience and disappointment again was quite difficult, he took it with his usual stoicism and philosophical attitude.
A lot of people believe it was India’s loss that he didn’t become Chief of Naval Staff, and that he would have done great things for the Indian Navy at its helm. He was always given the toughest jobs which he always accomplished brilliantly, but alas was denied the ultimate prize.
Nevertheless, he lived life to the fullest, with laughter, compassion, honor, integrity and courage, and will be remembered always for his service to his country and his beloved Navy. He would often tell me that if you were to cut open his chest, in his heart you would find 4 letters in bold – ‘NAVY’.
He finally bade farewell to the Navy in 1976 and continued as Chairman and Managing Director of Cochin Shipyard until his retirement in 1979. The first Indian built ship, a 75,000 ton tanker ‘Rani Padmini’ rolled out of Cochin Shipyard in 1980. He remarked, “After 40 years of sinking ships, it was nice to build some for a change.” He would have been thrilled to hear that in February of 2009, Cochin Shipyard laid the keel for India’s first indigenously built Aircraft Carrier for India’s Navy.
On the 30th of January, 1982, the bells finally tolled for him.
It behooves us to remember and celebrate our heroes, the great men and women who fight for our freedom and continue to bring military glory which helps make us a strong and respected nation. I hope this publication will make us proud again of what can be achieved with courage, determination, idealism, integrity, and love of country.
Arjun Krishnan May, 2020
About the Editor and Publisher
Arjun Krishnan is the son of late Vice Admiral N. Krishnan. A finance and information technology professional, he specializes in implementing enterprise wide financial systems for global corporations worldwide.
He is the co-author of ‘Sarbanes-Oxley Compliance with SAP Treasury and Risk Management’ (Galileo / SAP press, 2009), and author of “Treasury Transformation with SAP S/4HANA-A Treasurer’s Guide’ (Krishbooks, 2020). His SAP treasury training courses are available through online SAP training provider Michael Management Corporation®.
Arjun hails from an illustrious and literary family. His grandfather M. Nilakanta Iyer , was a superintending engineer in Travancore State, (now mostly part of Tamil Nadu), and a recipient of the Rao Bahadur title, citation, and medal, issued by the British Viceroy in pre-independent India, given to individuals who have provided ‘great service to the nation. He was responsible for building many of the dams, roads, and bridges, that span the landscape in that part of southern India.
Arjun sister, Mrs. Chitra Narendran, was a respected educator, and an acclaimed author of Children’s books, including “The honeybee adventure’, ‘Chico and the green cap’, as well as an anthology of poems titled ‘Rangamma’. She has written for children’s television, Mumbai, and originated it’s ‘Panna club’series- a successful community service program for children. She passed away in 1987 at 41 years of age.
Arjun is managing partner in his own consulting business, GlobalSAP Treasury Solutions LLC. He is based in the United States, and enjoys travelling, reading and writing, and can be reached at krishbooks.us@gmail.com