Biff the “T” out of Can’T: A Memoir of a Lucky Optimist

By Wing Commander F.J.Mehta VrC (Retd)

When author F. J. Mehta was a young boy growing up in Hyderabad, India, he set his sights on becoming a doctor and taking part in operations in surgical theaters. But through a twist of fate, his lifes work revolved around military aviation. In Biff the T Out of Cant, Mehta narrates ninety-four evocative episodes in his life in three phases.

The first phase (19311954) covers his early years. The second (19551979) is about his Air Force service, and the third (1980 onward) is his postretirement period. This collection shares stories from Mehtas eventful life that brought him from his early childhood in India to the years he spent in the Air Force, serving with distinction in peacetime and wars, to his successful entrepreneurship, and to his creative retirement. He recounts his experiences with family, friends, and colleagues with wit and humor.

Despite the odds, insurmountable at times, and several harrowing encounters over the course of his life, Mehta describes how grit, courage, boundless optimism, and a lot of lucky breaks helped him navigate a lifetime worth of challenges.

Wing Commander F. J. Mehta, VrC (Retd), grew up with his parents and six siblings in Hyderabad, India. He served in the Indian Air Force for twenty-four years and fought two wars with Pakistan in 1965 and 1971. He received the Vir Chakra in 1971. After his retirement in 1979, Mehta ran a successful screen-printing business with his son Shiraz for twenty-five years. For the past nine years, Mehta has been enjoying life in Secunderabad, India.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Mar 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781482888102

Wing Commander F.J.Mehta VrC (Retd)

Wing Commander FJ Mehta, VrC (Retd) grew up with his parents, and six siblings in Hyderabad, India. He served in the Indian Air Force for twenty-four years and fought two wars with Pakistan in 1965 and 1971. He received the Vir Chakra in 1971. After his retirement in 1979, Mehta ran a successful screen-printing business with his son, Shiraz, for twenty-five years. For the past nine years, Mehta has been enjoying life in Secunderabad, India.

Book preview

BIFF THE ‘T’

OUT OF

CAN’T

A Memoir of a Lucky Optimist

Wing Commander FJ Mehta, VrC (Retd)

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Copyright © 2017 by Wing Commander FJ Mehta, VrC (Retd).

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

www.partridgepublishing.com/india

Contents

Preamble

Dedication of my life

Dedication of my book

Foreword

PHASE - I

Biff The ‘T’ Out of Can’t

Don’t Let The Ice Cream Melt

Armed But Not Dangerous!

Life Under The Nizam

Time And Trains Wait For No One (Depends)

Did Someone Throw Me A Lifeline?

The Book That Changed My Life

The Launch of My Flying Career

Call From Services Selection Board (SSB)

Blessings of A Sister

Hindi Script Part I – Neglect

My Personal Tragedy

Forced Landing By Flight Cadet Ajit Lamba

PHASE - II

Garlands Wither on Your Brow

Passing-Out Parade

The Fighter and Transport Divide

How To Tell Last From The First of The Month

Conversion Training Unit

Posted to No. 7 Sqn Halwara Air Force Station

No. 7 Sqn Move to ATW – Jamnagar

Farewell to Sqn Ldr Boss Blake

No. 7 Sqn Move to Palam Air Force Station

Manu Ya Na Manu

My First BSA Motorcycle

No. 7 Sqn Second Commanding Officer Sqn Ldr W. D. McNeill

Why Dass’ Wedding Was Delayed

Thanks to Moghe’s Mad Dog, My Status in the Squadron Was Elevated

Move to UK for Hunter Conversion

Flight on Which Air India Went Dry

Move to 229 OCU, UK

A Gift of A Maharaja From Air India to No. 7 Squadron, Air Force

All Four Hunter Squadrons to Be Relocated at AF, Ambala

Welcoming A Newly Married Couple Flying Officer A. T. Thakur

Caught Purple-Handed

Oh! To Be So Blessed!

End of My Five Years (With No. 7 Sqn) The Third Change of Command Squadron Leader Bharat Singh, VrC

Posting to the Flying Instructors School (FIS)

A Look Back at Our 27th Course Mates

Hindi Script Part II – Regret

Air Accidents

My Posting to Hakimpet

Search For Target of Opportunity (Part I)

Search For Target of Opportunity (Part II) Celebrations

My Posting to No. 220 Sqn

My Incredible Luck in The Indo-Pak War – 1965 (September)

‘My’ Courts Martial

Commendation Came at A Cost

Family Saga on The Highway

Why Did This Indian Airline Flight Take Off an Hour Late From Dum Dum Airport?

Formation of No. 253 SU

‘My’ Courts Martial Second at AF Pune

End of My Command No. 20 and 253 SU

Our 45-Week Posting to DSSC

A Lighter Moment in the College Class of 1968

What I Benefitted Most From DSSC

A Requiem for A Trapped Blue Bull

A Sudden Change in No. 20 Sqn’s Hierarchy

For Which Commander Would You Give Your Life?

I Wish I Had Taken French As My Second Language

Thirty Seconds and Counting

Flooding in The Cockpit Hunter Ferry From UK – Last Leg From Bahrain to Karachi

A Short Account of My Role in Indo-Pak War 1971

How I Got Involved in 1971 OPS

Wing Commander Bawa in Command of Jaisalmer FBSU

Let My Logbook Do The Talking

Dawn Strike at Badin Radar Mission I

Dusk Strike at Military Airport Karachi Mission II

Naval Support at Okha Mission III

Strike on Badin, Mobile Radar Mission IV

Strike at Talhar Airfield Mission V

Interdiction With Wg Cdr M. N. Singh Mission VI

Interdiction at Naya Chor Sector Mission VII

First-Person Account By Wg Cdr Farokh Jahangir Mehta, VrC (Retd) With Fg Off Nasim Nisar Ali Baig, T.J.

The End of War in The Western Sector and A Personal Tragedy in The Eastern Sector

My Command of No. 27 Squadron: How I Earned It on Merit and Lost It on Deceit

Pearls From Pete’s Pen

PHASE - III

Let Not The Mistakes Of…

Phase III

My Iraqi Sojourn (Part 1)

Wing Grafiks (Part 2)

Management of Anger: Channelise It

Celebrating My Sixtieth Birthday

Management of Anger: Cool It

At Last I Had My Day in Court

Chance Encounter No. 1

Old Pilots or Bold Pilots

Chance Encounter No. 2

Time and Trains Wait For No Man

Remember What Napoleon Said?

Camaraderie of The Few (Part I)

Camaraderie of The Few (Part II)

On Celebrating My 82nd Birthday

How Family and Friends Celebrated My Eighty-Fifth Birthday!

Aliya Class of 1949 and 65th Pilots’ Course Golden Jubilee Celebrations

Aliya Class of 1949 Golden Jubilee Celebration

Epilogue: Three Years After Our Gjc-49 Celebrations

65th Pilots’ Course Golden Jubilee Celebrations

Preamble

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M y book is a true account of my life, beginning during the pre-independence period of India, in the then largest state of Hyderabad, where the only things that flew were birds and kites. It describes how as a young boy I was all set to become a doctor but by a strange twist of fate, landed a career in the Indian Air Force.

Let me introduce myself, for I am a nobody. The only things that I had ever written prior to this book were what one typically writes, for private reading and not for publication.

My father, the late Jehangir B. Mehta, was a Commissioner, Settlement and Survey General, for the full state, including its sixteen districts of Hyderabad (Deccan). All the maps during his tenure from 1940 to 1950 were surveyed by his department and printed in Urdu, the then official language of the state, and signed at the bottom with his signature.

Mehtas were a comfortably-off Parsi family, fully integrated in the old culture of the then Hyderabad Deccan, under the rule of His Exalted Highness (HEH) the VII Nizam of Hyderabad, the largest and virtually independent state under the last British rulers. Though my parents’ generation spoke in their mother tongue Gujarati, the younger generation spoke virtually exclusively in Urdu. The ‘younger’ needs qualifying: The last two of us seven siblings still alive are octogenarians!

The State of Hyderabad was a large, progressive and fully secular state. The Nizam, Mir Osman Ali Khan, was a Muslim ruler but the rural population was mostly Hindu, yet he treated the Hindus and Muslims equally. It was his boast that Hindus and Muslims were his two eyes. The Nizam placed great importance on education. At the turn of the century, he built one of the largest universities named after himself, called Osmania University.

It was the very first university to impart all learning in every subject, including medicine, engineering, and other technical and non-technical subjects, in the Urdu language. In order to provide the best education to the children of the soil, all college-level post-matriculation education was reserved for students of the Hyderabad state in possession of a ‘Mulki’ certificate, i.e. evidence of residency. An excellent education was guaranteed.

A tsunami of a Police Action needs to be mentioned here which to me is a euphemism for an invasion of an independent entity and annexing it. After India attained independence from the British in 1947, the Nizam did not concede to becoming a part of independent India and wanted Hyderabad to retain its autonomy. In September 1948 a Police Action was ordered, which was a military operation in which the State of Hyderabad was invaded by the Indian Armed Forces, annexing the state into the Indian Union. Violent communal riots followed in which thousands of Muslim men and women were brutally massacred and their villages, businesses and homes were looted and plundered. Alarmed by reports, the then Prime Minister of India, Jawaharlal Nehru commissioned an investigation. The Sunderlal report estimated that between 27,000 to 40,000 Muslim people lost their lives in the riots but the report was never published. It came to be known as India’s Hidden Massacre. The Sunderlal report is now available for viewing at the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library in New Delhi.

The book spans eight decades of my life from pre- Independence to post-Independence periods of India. It traverses my life from my childhood and early attempts to get into medicine to my years in the Air Force and life after leaving the armed forces.

Dedication of my life

Whoever I am today and

whatever I have achieved,

it is because of my father.

I therefore dedicate my life

to my father,

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Late Jehangir Behmanji Mehta

Dedication of my book

I would like to share my thoughts of how this book, Biff the ‘t’ out of ‘can’t’ , took shape. It was the year 2011 when I came across a beautiful story written by an 86-year-old American citizen who had owned a brand-new Rolls-Royce car, model 1928, all his life and wanted to give up his venerable car. Because of sentimental attachment like one has with one’s mount, he did not want anyone else to ride it, but put it to pasture, in a manner of speaking. So he gifted it to the Rolls-Royce company to take care of it.

Now it so happened that in the same year, 1928, my father too had purchased a new car; a Ford model 1928 jogged my childhood memory of sitting in the driver’s lap and learning to steer the car when I was five years old. So for the first time in my life, at the ripe old age of 80, I sat with my laptop and wrote my first episode, titled ‘Don’t Let the Ice Cream Melt’.

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I enjoyed the experience of going down memory lane and recounting what happened. Around the same time, I had helped arrange two golden jubilee anniversaries: that of our alma mater, Madrasa-a-Aliya, in 1999 and the golden jubilee of our passing-out parade, in 2005. Both the celebrations were spread over five days, each day representing a decade. Both the functions were very well attended from members coming from all over the world. The biggest honour and unique grace was that, though both the celebrations were apart in time and space, they were graced by the same personalities: Air Chief Marshal and Mrs Latif. For this bunch of schoolkids and air force cadets, it was nothing short of two constellations finding their way in the Milky Way.

I took the liberty of forwarding the very first episode, ‘Don’t Let the Ice Cream Melt’, that I had written to Air Chief Marshal and Mrs Latif, herself an author of repute. I was inundated by showers of praise and words of encouragement.

I therefore dedicate this book to their joint guidance and encouragement that made a sapling into an orchard.

Foreword

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T he title of this book says as much about the author as its contents. Farokh Jehangir Mehta, a first-time author, chose to commence penning his memoirs at the ripe old age of eighty by narrating ninety-four evocative episodes in his life in three phases. The first phase (1931–1954) covers his early years, the second (1955–1979) his air force service, and the third (1980 onwards) his post-retirement period. This fascinating collection of stories takes the reader from a privileged childhood in the erstwhile State of Hyderabad, through independence and service as a fighter pilot in the Indian Air Force in peace and war, to his successful entrepreneurship and creative retirement. Farokh Mehta is a true-blue Hyderabadi, at home in both the Urdu language and Islamic culture. I have had the privilege of knowing the author as a friend and erstwhile air force colleague for nearly half a century. His style of writing mirrors his personality. His story will have great interest, not only for those who wore uniform, but also for a much larger readership on both sides of the Indo-Pak border.

Cecil Parker

Air Vice Marshal (Retd)

Secunderabad

July 2016

PHASE - I

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BIFF THE ‘T’ OUT OF CAN’T

Don’t Let The Ice Cream Melt

T here was an article about an 86-year-old American who had owned and used a Rolls-Royce 1928 model car all his life. The year 1928 of this car tickled my memory. We too owned a brand-new Ford 1928 model that my father had purchased for Rs. 2,000. I used to sit in our driver’s lap and learn to steer the car. It was during the time of WWII. Our Ford could go anywhere that a bullock cart could. The all-terrain Jeep by then had not been introduced in India.

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When my father retired, he passed the Ford on to my brother. My brother was fourteen years my senior and appointed as a deputy collector in the then Nizam’s state civil service. Now this early Ford model did not have a self-starter and one had to crank the starting handle. Crank starting was a bit risky, for if not done properly, its backlash could break one’s arm. In the absence of our driver, my brother used to delegate this responsibility to me. Thanks to my brother, I had become quite adept at it. Later, this expertise came in very handy.

One day my brother had to reach Kachiguda Railway station, to catch an early morning train to Aurangabad, which was then part of the State of Hyderabad. The driver was late in coming. So I crank started the Ford for my brother, and for good measure, he asked me to hop in. Prior to the departure, my brother had left a word with my father to send the driver to the Kachiguda Railway Station to collect the car. My brother felt bad about leaving his kid brother stranded all alone at the station and advised me to wait for the driver, who ought to be arriving shortly.

Well, I waited all of five minutes and came to the conclusion that the driver was not likely to come any time soon. So what were my options? Wait indefinitely for the driver to come? It was like holding an ice cream cone on a hot day for someone to come and lick it. Not exactly an appetising option. Leaving the car unguarded and catching a ride on a tonga too did not appeal to me.

Sitting in the lap of our driver and steering a car is like sucking a lollipop while on a swing. Could I then drive the car home by myself? Why not? The trickiest part was to crank start our car, at which I had become quite good. Well, then I waited for all of five minutes and came to the conclusion that the driver was not going to come and planned to drive back home all by myself. I then set the manual Advance/Retard and Accelerator levers on the sides of the steering wheel in the correct positions and put the parking brakes on. I then went out in the front and crank started the car. I then said a quiet prayer, released the parking brakes, and was off on my first solo ride. I felt like Orville Wright on his first ever manned flight of a heavier-than-air machine called an airplane! Years later, I came across Mao Tse Tung’s quote: ‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.’

It was by then eight o’clock in the morning and the road from there to our house in Himayetnagar, some five miles away, was as free of traffic as if all the Hyderabadi drivers were oversleeping. Tongas were few and far between. It was an excited thirteen-year-old boy who reached home, safe and sound. It was like an ab initio pupil pilot making a safe landing, without even a first familiarisation sortie!

And the best part was that no one was aware of my solo drive. With a tacit understanding, it remained our secret: the driver’s and mine! Thank God.

Moral of the story: Don’t let the ice cream melt.

Armed But Not Dangerous!

W e were a ‘small’ family of two brothers and five sisters. At the time of writing, one brother and two sisters are still standing. I was the last but one to come out batting, in a manner of speaking.

We had a ten-volume Book of Knowledge in our mini library. My preferred reading was the medieval body armour and the weapons of those days, especially the firearms. I was fascinated by them. Not to be left behind, yet starting at the beginning, I fashioned a catapult or, to give its native name, a ghullail. Soon thereafter, I graduated to an air gun and turned empty cans into colanders.

Enter the teens, and I found that I was still not in league with the older boys in our locality – Himayetnagar. Come the season of the migratory birds – tiliyars – during the months of February to March, thousands would come to feed in a nearby meadow called Phoolbagh. In the evenings, they would fly low over this open land to their resting place around Musi River in the Old City of Hyderabad. The older boys would line up with their fathers’ shotguns – the Purdeys, Holland & Hollands, W. W. Greeners – all equivalent of the Nizam’s garage full of the Rolls, Bentleys, and Jaguars. Being the youngest and unarmed, I was always relegated to the role of a golden retriever sans the gilt. I was desperate to upscale my role from the have-nots to the haves.

I, then thirteen–fourteen years old, went about enquiring how I could acquire a real weapon. I learnt that even though no license was then needed (those were the days!) one still needed the permission of the police commissioner (PC). That was doable. I found out from the arms dealers – who then dotted the city to rival the tea shops – that at the lowest rung of the financial ladder, the only gun available was a muzzle-loader, a Bharmar that could go back to the invention of the gunpowder by the Chinese that could be purchased for Rs. 50 or Rs. 60 at that time. However, I was advised that one could get a Bharmar from Maroof Arm Factory for Rs. 40. It meant a mere four months’ saving of my pocket money. That too was doable, with a bit of inshallah (‘God willing’) added, of course! Even though both my father and brother (fourteen years older than me) were serving gazette officers, with extensive tours of the sixteen zillah (Urdu for districts) of Hyderabad, none had a weapon, not even as a status symbol! I won’t be surprised if the phrase ‘black sheep of the family’ has crossed my reader’s mind! Mind, I am not a mind reader!

With that much spadework done, I approached my father for his permission to allow me to own one above-mentioned gun. I then penned an application to the PC – my first in English – which my father, God bless his soul, signed. I had found out that the PC held his durbar (Urdu for court) from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m., except on Fridays and Sundays. Promptly at 3 p.m. on a Monday, I arrived at PC’s office, with my young heart beating like a thoroughbred racehorse, chaffing at the starting point. The PC was sitting at the head of the long table and I was settled at the other end of the table (wishing that my stomach would do the same!) like a fly on the wall.

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In those days, the Hyderabad Police had a very successful football team. It so happened that they had just returned with a trophy to meet with the PC. There was a festive mood in the air. While he was thus happy with the state of affairs with the state, he looked up at something at the end of his table. In a gentle voice, he enquired what my request was. I promptly presented my father’s application. He just glanced at the name and designation of the applicant – that is, my father. Being a Hyderabadi, he knew that no Hyderabadi, gazette officer or not, would be seen handling a gun that needed to be loaded from its muzzle end, leave alone applying for a permit to own one! So in a suspicious tone he asked me, ‘Who is going to be its end user?’ Without hesitation I replied, ‘Sir, it is for my use.’ He apparently appreciated my candour, and in a softer tone he asked me, just to check my knowledge of the protocol of loading it, ‘How much gunpowder would you load it with?’ I promptly replied, ‘Sir, only two fingers!’ That is the measure of the ramrod that would stick out, indicating the load within. ‘Hum!’ he said. ‘Don’t ever increase the load to three fingers!’ With that he approved my application with a smile. Hurrah! The thoroughbred had crossed the winning post, even though it was a one-horse race.

I charged off to the Maroof Gun Factory, off Charminar, with my passport to adulthood! Being a responsible arms dealer, he wanted to make sure that I knew how to handle it. He asked me if I would like to try a few of his guns at his firing range. It was his way of finding out if I really knew how to use it as a responsible shikari. To me it sounded like a sweetmeat seller asking me if I would like to sample a few of his delicious samples before buying! So we picked a few of the muzzle-loaders, went to his ‘firing range’, which happened to be his compound wall! I loaded and fired a few of them, closely watched by the gunsmith and I selected a 28-bore gun. The barrel of the smallest of the lot was topping the top of my head! So very diffidently, I asked him, if I could get one with a shorter barrel. He gave me an amused smile, as if to say, ‘Babu, any smaller barrel and it would qualify as a tapancha!’ (Urdu for a pistol!) But he was kind enough not to voice it.

I was out of his factory with the speed of the round coming out of the barrel of my selected gun. On the way home, I bought a wartime surplus satchel and loaded it with black powder and the stuff of my dreams and raced home. I thanked my father, but I didn’t show him the gun – in deference to his sentiments.

During the next tiliyar season, I was there amongst my shikari friends, they with their borrowed highbrow guns, feeling like the king of the then-unendangered species. I am sure, to a man, or rather to a boy, they would have exchanged their ancestral arsenal just to own, hold, and feel the pride of one’s possession!

This was my first triumph. I learnt a vital lesson that has stood me in good stead:

Firstly

AIM: If you need to acquire or achieve something, however big or small, you need to have a passion, a burning desire, a single-minded force to achieve it. This is the rocket fuel which would take you to the heights you wish to achieve and beyond (sort of ‘Sitaron se aage …!’ or ‘Beyond the stars’).

Secondly

PLANNING: Never proceed half-cocked! (By the way, this phrase comes from the procedure for loading of a muzzle-loader. After loading from the front of the barrel, one has to cock the hammer in order to put the percussion cap at the end of the nozzle. To prevent the gun discharging unintentionally, the hammer has a halfway positioning, called half-cocked. In this position of the hammer, the gun cannot be fired and one is safe to put the percussion cap in the nozzle. It is then to be brought to its next notch to its fully cocked state for it to fire.)

To continue:

Planning is the stage of considering all the roadblocks on the way and ways to overcome them: the logistics of the venture, the financial implications, etc. In other words, all the things needed to make a mission successful, with a plan B in position. And finally:

EXECUTION: This is the implementation of the tactics designed with care and meticulous practice to take it to its logical conclusion: In other words, to execute it with surgical precision!

Life Under The Nizam

A bit laid-back, but full of peace and communal harmony, our Nizam treated both Hindus and Muslims as his two eyes. In fact, his best-loved and longest serving Chief Minister was Raja Kishan Pershad. ‘Communal tension’ was not a term in our vocabulary. The word ‘bribe’ was not heard as a noun or a verb! The administration had been modernised in his lifetime. We had sixteen districts, each headed by a collector. The selection of a collector was typically done by a screening committee, but ultimately the selection was based on the reputation of