The first day of 1974 saw 39 of us
from 60th GD (P) Course arriving at PAF Academy, Risalpur. This was the dream place we all had longed
for, as many a PAF legend had passed through its hallowed halls, classrooms and
flight lines. We still had three more
months to go in the second term before we could fit into the scheme of things
at the Academy. For some reason, our
tenure at the Initial Training Wing at Lower Topa had been cut short, and we
were to complete the remaining term as the junior-most cadets at Risalpur. This was quite a let-down, for we had been
enjoying full authority and complete freedom in the most salubrious environs of
Murree Hills, just a few days earlier. The
only consolation was that the state of affairs at Risalpur was said to be more ‘mature,’
whatever that meant.
We were
accommodated in one of the three U-Blocks in the Cadets’ Mess. Each room had a bunk bed for two, along with a
study table and a chair. The Mess was
bifurcated by a road, with the cadets’ accommodation on one side, and the
dining hall, ante-rooms and the Under Officers’ Block for the senior
appointment holders, on the other. The
road in between was, unbelievably, a thoroughfare with airmen and civilians
loitering around merrily at all times of the day and night. The Mess premises had no boundary wall around
it, as security was never felt to be an issue in the cantonment area. The
cadets could wander off to the nearby ‘casino,’ a ramshackle canteen for army
soldiers that served jalebis, rusks
and tea. The Cadets’ Mess tea bar, run
by the strict and authoritarian bartender Abdul Rauf, popularly known as
‘Maulana,’ was out of bounds for any cadet who was not dressed up properly, so
the casino was a convenient hangout for some of the slothful types.
As the
junior-most term at the Academy, we were subjected to the usual shouting and
cursing, withdrawal of petty privileges, and periodic punishments for no rhyme
or reason. Interestingly, the same treatment
was being meted out to our immediate seniors from 59th GD (P) Course,
who still had over a year to climb to the top rung. For us, the irony of it all was to watch our previous
tormentors receive their payback, one frog jump at a time!
Not long after
settling down, we found ourselves on the parade square, when not at the
Directorate of Studies. The graduation
parade of 57th GD (P) Course was not too far, and practice started
in earnest rather early. Perhaps we had
been called in from Lower Topa prematurely to pack the parade square to
capacity, as the President of Pakistan was to review the parade.
The
Directorate of Studies was headed by a seasoned educationist, Wg Cdr Muhammad
Shamim. Some of the new subjects that we got
introduced to included aerodynamics, aero-engines, armament, electronics,
meteorology and navigation. Since these
subjects had a direct bearing on our future careers as pilots, all of us
evinced keen interest, much to the satisfaction of our worthy education instructors.
A Bachelor’s degree in Aero-sciences to go along with the coveted flying badge
remained everyone’s ultimate goal.
A welcome
activity at the Directorate of Studies was the tea break at 11 o’clock, when a
horse-drawn tonga would arrive at the edge of the parade square with a huge
samovar filled with tea, along with a container of crockery. Tea would be served on a table laid out by a
Cadets’ Mess waiter. Some of the
smokers would drift off and draw some quick puffs in the company of seniors,
hoping to endear themselves to someone who could make their lives easier.
The strident
drone of the T-6G, and the high-pitched whine of the T-37 soon started to sound
like music to our ears and we would look skywards, hoping to fly these birds someday. Anwar Amil, originally a course senior but
relegated to ours, was a great air enthusiast.
He was always ready to fire us up with stories of air wars, complete
with sound effects of roaring jets and staccato cannon fire. During tea breaks, we used to be all ears
listening to his instructor-like comments about the accuracy, or otherwise, of
aircraft flying in the circuit pattern.
A fine artist, he would spend the study periods drawing fighter
aircraft, always portraying himself in full pilot’s gear next to the aircraft,
or in the cockpit. His interest in
aviation stemmed from his past job as a flight despatcher in Alitalia, while
he was in England earlier.
One day in
February, an excited Amil broke the news to us that he had talked a senior of
58th GD (P) Course into arranging a guided tour of the Primary Flying
Training (PFT) Wing. The senior was a
suspended cadet by the name of Rafique (fondly known as paahh, or ‘brother’ in Punjabi), and was Under Disposal (UD)
pending adjustment in another branch of the PAF. What kind of coordination Rafique had done
was not known to us, but on his go-ahead, Amil marched our course from the
Directorate of Studies to the Flying Wing. Nearing the flight lines, we spotted rows of
yellow T-6G Harvards on the tarmac, and we imagined flying them in the not too
distant future. As we reached the Wing building,
we spotted a few flying instructors sitting on the steps, with their zippers open
at the neck mocking the prescribed limits; some were smoking, blowing puffs in
our faces from a distance. Amil brought
the flight to attention and saluted the instructors. “What brings you here?” asked one of them. Before Amil could answer, one of the burly
instructors shouted, “Start running around the block if you guys have nothing better
to do.” It seemed quite a
disappointment, and we wondered what had gone wrong. After half an hour of running
– with some frog-jumping to break the tedium – one of the angry-looking
instructors emerged from the crew room and gave us a shouting. “You guys can’t
even tell the front side of an aircraft from its back side. How dare you disgrace the Flying Wing? Get lost. We don’t want to see your faces till
you are in the fourth term.” After the dressing down, a sheepish Amil led us
back to the Directorate, where he was taunted by all of us. Amil’s intense enthusiasm for flying was cut
short, unfortunately, when he could not pass his end-term examinations, and had
to be withdrawn from the Academy.
Character
Building and Leadership (CBL) was a subject handled by officers from the
Cadets’ Wing, and was more of a general discourse on their experiences in the
PAF. Sqn Ldr Malik Iftikhar, a navigator, used to conduct CBL classes. We found him somewhat enigmatic, for he had
the knack of instilling fear in us, even though he could be smiling about
something. He had been a PAF boxer, and
was well-known for his winning left hook in many a championship. It was no wonder that he had earned the sobriquet
of jabra torr (jaw breaker) amongst
the cadets. During one boring CBL class,
I was dared by my course-mate, Zafar Iqbal, to digress and bring up the subject
of boxing. Making use of a rather long
pause in Sqn Ldr Iftikhar’s talk, which I took to be the end of the lecture, I
asked him if he could tell us about his boxing experiences. He smiled but said nothing. I continued by
asking if he had been the PAF champion, to which he nodded in the affirmative.
“You must have broken lot many jaws,” I promptly followed up. There was a hush
in the class. My jaw dropped too. Sqn
Ldr Iftikhar was amused by my boldness, and he managed to put on his puzzling
smile. Raising his hand, with two
fingers forming the victory sign, he continued to look at me. I could not
figure out what exactly he meant, but I thought it was about his boxing
wins. Still smiling, he had second
thoughts. “Make it five,” he said, stretching his outspread palm. “What sir?” I
asked. “Restrictions, my friend. I will
see you on extra drill today in the afternoon!” I could do nothing but blame
Zafar who had prompted me, while he had a good laugh at the incident.
After months of daily drill
practice, the graduation parade of 57th GD (P) Course was finally
held on 6 April, 1974. The
reviewing officer was the President of Pakistan, Mr Fazal Elahi Choudhry. For us, it meant promotion to the third term,
denoted by three thin stripes on the epaulettes. A more momentous promotion
followed a few weeks later, when the Academy Commandant, Air Cdre Zulfiqar Ali
Khan, was nominated as Chief of the Air Staff. The last we had inter-acted with
Air Cdre Zulfiqar was on the dining-out for the graduating course, when he told
us that he was about to retire shortly.
Instead, he rose to the next three ranks in the new appointment in quick
succession, which we found very inspirational. Air Cdre Shuja’at-ullah Khan, a
course-mate of the previous Commandant took charge as the new one.
A modest
privilege that we earned in the third term was the facility of a bicycle to and
from the Cadets’ Mess and the Directorate of Studies, instead of having to walk
down all the way. These bicycles were
traditionally hand-me-down items purchased from, or gifted by the graduating
courses. Other than that, not much had changed,
as we continued to be the junior-most course, though a new set of cadets from
58th GD (P) Course had moved into the final term. As expected, they gradually started to wield
absolute authority, albeit at our expense.
Our course got
an early taste of heartless behaviour of the senior cadets when one of them, by
the name of Ghazanfar, decided to test his uncertain confidence levels by
conducting a punishment assembly, one Sunday morning. Citing absence from a
previously ordered assembly as the reason, he ragged the course to insane
limits. A punishing fitness exercise
involving a clap over the head followed by a rapid squat (locally termed as 5BX,
or Five Basic Exercises of the Canadian Air Force Fitness Plan), was ordered to
be performed one-thousand times. Rest
periods involved protracted squatting on the heels, which was no less painful.
The ridiculous activity lasted for the better part of the day, and even went on
into the night. Pleased with his poise
and authority, Ghazanfar finally let go of our course which, by then, had blessed
him with a thousand curses between the lips.
Not long after the 5BX episode, a revolt of sorts took place when
cadets of our course got fed up with the final term cadets of 58th GD
(P) Course, whose constant harangue about our turnout and haircuts had become
intolerable. “I don’t want to see a
single hair on your rotten heads by tomorrow afternoon,” shouted ‘Munoo,’ during
a punishment assembly conducted by him. ‘Munoo’
was one of those affable seniors who, once in a while, felt the need to stand
tall in front of his juniors. Our
course, led by the activist Ayuk Elburz, immediately went into a huddle and
came up with the idea of retorting with a head shave. An oath was drafted by another firebrand,
Ashiq Hussain, during classes next day, and signatures were obtained pledging
to remain true to the decision of a ‘zero cut’ for everyone.
Soon after
pack-up time, there was a rush for the barber shop, and the head barber was instructed
by Ayuk and his confederates to shear off the hair from the forty-odd heads, in
as many minutes. As the three barbers
got to work, some of the course-mates started to get cold feet and slipped away
with flimsy excuses, like ‘feeling hungry, will be back after a quick lunch.’ They
were hoping that some informant would blow the whistle in the meantime, and the
officers would promptly intervene. Sure
enough, officers of the Cadets’ Wing came rushing in no time, and put a stop to
the unprecedented mass shearing at the barber shop. The head barber – who had the compulsive habit
of clenching his tongue between the teeth while negotiating uneven contours of
his subject’s scalp – turned ashen-faced. The poor chap feared that his barber shop
contract might be terminated for violating the cadets’ regulation hairstyle.
An inquiry was
ordered and thirteen cadets who had gone under the barbers’ clippers were in
the dock. Termination of cadetship loomed,
but the authorities had their own jobs to save, lest the Air Headquarters took
a dim view of their command and control abilities. A series of punitive actions were taken
against the errant thirteen: the group, informally christened as ‘G’ Flight (G,
as in Ganja), was to be on daily
extra drill till further notice, had to keep running around the athletics track
during the daily games period, had to forego all entertainment facilities like
TV and billiards, and had to eat alongside the Mess staff in a shabby veranda
behind the dining hall. When the Annual All-Collegiate
Declamation Contest started after a few days, ‘G’ Flight was ordered to stay
completely out of sight of the visiting participants and guests.
During the
relentless punishment sessions, cadets of ‘G’ Flight had built up good strength
and stamina, as was evidenced by their outstanding performance during the
Inter-Squadron Cross-Country Competition. The authorities were, thus, forced to rethink
about the open-ended penance. Also, the
whole episode had become too embarrassing, what with ‘G’ Flight becoming the
laughing stock of passers-by on the roads, as well as cadets’ weekend visitors.
‘G’ Flight was thus disbanded, and all punishments were ceased, with a stern
warning that any future incident of such nature would be treated as a mutiny,
with serious consequences.
Conjecture
leads one to believe that a course-mate of ours had figured for himself, that the upcoming
Declamation Contest was a good opportunity to charm some of the female contestants. Perhaps the Romeo had been grooming himself
for the occasion for weeks, and did not want to put off the girls with the
missing plumage on his crown.
In the month of June, the Inter-Base Swimming Championship was
held, and some of the cadets got a chance to represent Risalpur. Though the
championship went to PAF Base Korangi, Risalpur were the runners up, with me
and Asif Rehman bagging five trophies. My second position in the gruelling one mile
free-style race earned me a position in the PAF team for the Inter-Services
Swimming Championship, held a few weeks later. Needless to state, the Army participants were
far more prepared, and there was a total rout at the Engineers Bridging Pit –
which is what the Olympics-size pool was properly called.
Shortly
before the summer vacations in July 1974, we learnt that the top ten cadets
from 61st GD (P) had been promoted to our course. These lucky ten were fast-tracked into the
third term by foregoing their summer break, and stretching their classes well
into the evenings. This was done with
some urgency by the Air Headquarters when there was talk of substantial
infusion of US military aid. The aid package was supposed to include F-5
fighters and A-7 attack aircraft, which would have entailed training of a large
number of pilots. In the event, there
was no military aid, but our course ran into a healthy competition with the
new-comers.
During summer
vacations in July, we attended a week-long Physiological Indoctrination Course
run by the Aero-Medical Institute, at PAF Base Masroor. It was an important introduction to subjects
like dysbarism, hypoxia, hyperventilation and spatial disorientation, which
were some of the phenomena we could encounter in flying. There was demonstration of some bodily
functions that could go awry due to reduced atmospheric pressure, or lack of
oxygen. For instance, a few cadets –
probably smokers – suddenly conked off when oxygen levels were reduced to the
equivalent of 25,000 ft in the pressure chamber. This was in contrast to the majority who had
enough warning signs like onset of confusion, shortness of breath, or blueing
of nails. The subject of ‘evolved’ gases
needed no demonstration, mercifully, but the warning about not taking
gas-producing foods or beverages before flying was well registered. The hazard
of preoccupation during flying was also well understood when we all (except
Imran Shirazi) failed to correctly count the blinks of a dot in the corner of
the film frame, which had a racy dance number in progress.
By the time we were midway in the third term, we had acquired basic
knowledge of principles of flight, and were eager to touch the skies, as it
were. It was time to get introduced to
practical flying, and there was no better way than to start on gliders. The
Academy had two tandem seat Slingsby T-31 Tutors, besides two T-45 Swallow
single-seaters. Scheduling was done in batches, and we were to
take turns during the evening sports periods. On the first day, our excited batch was on the
runway waiting for the instructor. Looking
at the T-31 glider was in itself awe-inspiring, and we were keen to see the
instructor who could master this engineless contraption. Soon, a handsome young man wearing flying
coveralls and aircrew glasses arrived on a Vespa scooter, and introduced
himself as Kamal. With his fair
complexion and blue eyes, he seemed like the archetype aviator of American movies. Without his flying badge and ranks, there was
an air of mystery about him, but word went around that he was a Mirage pilot,
and would be checking our flying aptitude as prospective fighter pilots. Kamal gave us a short talk and told us that
3-4 dual sorties had been planned per cadet, but depending on the performance,
solos might be possible. We were briefed
about the pre-flight checks (CHISTR[1],
that was it), and there was a demonstration of glider towing by the tow truck. Kamal took us up one by one, the whole
activity lasting a few weeks. The
promised solos were not flown, and it was only then that we realised the
commitment was just to keep our enthusiasm from sagging. It was only towards the end of the gliding
phase when we learnt that Kamal was a Sergeant, though a most inspiring one at
that. We always remembered him as the Mirage glider pilot.
Our third term ended when 58th GD (P) Course graduated on 25 October 1974. The parade was reviewed by the
Turkish Air Force Commander, General Emin Alpkaya. After the graduation parade, we were glad to
wear four stripes and formally step into the semi-final term, while cadets from
61st GD (P) Course arrived from Lower Topa to take our place in the
third term. We had started ground school
at the PFT Wing for the upcoming flying training on Harvards, a few weeks
before the graduation parade.
With the issue
of flying clothing and accessories, our swagger knew no bounds. Flying coveralls, flying gloves, flying
shoes, flying helmet, oxygen mask, aircrew sunglasses, survival knife, air
navigation computer, and Douglas protractor made up our flying kit. Some of the costlier luxury items like the
aircrew watch, suitcase and flying jacket were to be issued after graduation,
when we had completed our flying training successfully. The much cherished flying badge was one item
that we had to earn based on hard work – besides some luck – and was to be
‘issued’ on our graduation parade, someday. For the time being the greatest privilege was
to wear the flying coveralls when ‘cockpit time’ (familiarisation with the
aircraft cockpit) started in the first week of November.
We were assigned flying instructors, and I fell to the lot of Flt
Lt Nusrat-ullah Khan who had perhaps chosen me for being a fellow Abdalian. My progress
was surprisingly satisfactory, considering that the instructor was not known to
suffer fools gladly. After nine sorties,
when I had started to consistently make three-pointer landings on the
notoriously difficult tail-wheeler, we learnt that half the Harvard fleet had
been grounded due to discovery of structural defects. The problem was promptly
solved by inducting five of the recently purchased Swedish MFI -17 piston engine trainers in our No 1 PFT
Squadron, while No 2 PFT Squadron was to continue flying the remaining Harvards
that were free of defects. For us it was
a great relief, as the MFI -17 had
a milder 200 hp engine compared to the Harvard’s beastly 600 hp one, and was
also much easier to land with its tricycle landing gear that was not prone to a
swing on landing. The side-by-side
seating was also conducive to learning, provided the instructor did not lose
patience on every little mistake. My
instructor lost it once, not for my sub-standard flying performance, but for a
bizarre reason that I was to blame. My flying
glove carried a comical message, which had remained unobserved while we had
been flying in the tandem seat Harvard. Seeing
it now over his shoulder, the instructor was riled by my chutzpah, and grounded
me for a few days with threats of suspension. The matter was resolved when I
was handed over to another instructor, Flt Lt Kamran Qureshi, who looked at the
matter lightly, and saw me through the solo stage, right up to the Final
Handling Test.
My first solo
was eventful, but only so after landing. Having stopped the aircraft on the
runway in a fairly short distance, I decided to use a kutcha taxiway link to turn off, instead of going till the end of
the runway, as per SOPs. It had rained a
day or two earlier, and the ground was quite soggy. This, I discovered when the aircraft was not
moving forward at idle power, and I had to rev up quite a bit. There came a stage when the more power I
added, more the wheels dug in. The only solution was to go up to full power,
hop a few feet, and throttle back. Finally, with several hops, skips, and
jumps, I made it to the concrete taxiway and back to the tarmac. My instructor, Flt Lt Kamran, was standing at
the parking spot; I was full of excitement, waiting to be doused by him with
the traditional bucketful of water. As I
came out of the aircraft, an angry-looking Flt Lt Kamran ordered me to collect
all the fire buckets lying next to the parked aircraft. “Do you have an idea
what have you done? Look at your
mud-splattered aircraft. Now wash it
sparkling clean before you come back to the squadron,” he said, as he walked
away. When I looked back, I was aghast
at the condition of the aircraft; the instructor wasn’t angry without reason. How silly of me! After about fifteen minutes
of washing, Flt Lt Kamran called for me in the squadron. With a
wide grin on his face, he hugged me, and there was no mention of the incident. His anger was always like a tempest in a
teacup. We remained great friends till
he passed away in 1996.
Talking of senior cadets being unable to handle authority judiciously,
we were once again confronted with an unsavoury incident, soon after we had begun
to fly. 59th GD (P) Course which was in the final term, ordered the
usual punishment assembly for no reason but to assert its supremacy. ‘Vicky,’ an otherwise unassuming and amiable
senior, had apparently been pumped up by his course-mates to test his hitherto
unused shouting abilities. Fed up with
the endless assemblies, our course decided not to turn up. Intervention of Cadets’ Wing officers was
sought by the seniors, and another assembly was ordered. It was made clear that absence would be
tantamount to disobedience of lawful orders. The order was reluctantly
registered, and all but three cadets turned up. The missing three had locked
themselves in their rooms in the Olpherts[2]
Lines, a detached block of buildings within the Cadets’ Mess. The search party from amongst the seniors had
to break open locks and bolts, and a brawl of sorts ensued. The serious matter was reported to the
authorities, and an inquiry followed. It
transpired that the three absentees were on last warning for having been involved
in the earlier haircut revolt. Swift action followed, and they were withdrawn
from the Academy. A clear message was
driven home that in the military, orders were to be obeyed first and questioned
later.
Back in the PFT Wing, flying
continued on a mixed note. Those who got
their solos would be doused with bucketfuls of water in the Cadets’ Mess lawns,
a good-humoured tradition followed the world over. Sadly, seven cadets who were found lacking in
flying aptitude in the primary stage were suspended, and found themselves in
the disappointing UD category. One exceptional
case that had a short leg reach to the rudder pedals on the Harvard, and three
others who were marginal cases in flying, were lucky to get a chance to fly the
MFI-17, after relegation to the junior course.
Inam-ullah Khan was the first in our
course to have been cleared to go solo. On
the fateful day, Inam lined up, opened full power, and started rolling for
take-off. After covering a few hundred feet, when he raised the tail of his Harvard
to get the tail-wheel off the ground, the aircraft swung viciously through 180
degrees and started heading towards the mobile control. Several officers including the air traffic
controller, and the instructors, rushed out of the mobile and ran for their
lives. Seeing the impending disaster, Inam immediately switched off the engine and
hastily evacuated the aircraft. There
was only minor damage to the aircraft, and Inam’s instructor, Flt Lt Naseem Gul,
gave him another chance to complete his solo flight. The familiar PAF maxim that anyone who had
mastered the Harvard could handle any aircraft was rendered true, as Inam went
on to have a very successful flying career in PAF.
On one occasion, while practising
touch-and-go landings with his instructor Flt Lt Ejaz Wyne, Rauf swung the Harvard, and
went on to the kutcha. The
instructor, suspecting that the propeller or the wings may have grazed the uneven
ground, unwisely asked Rauf to unstrap and go around the aircraft to look for
damage, while he held brakes from the rear cockpit. Oblivious of the danger, Rauf went so close
to the spinning propeller that he was about to be chopped up. No amount of shouting
by the instructor could attract Rauf’s attention. In desperation, Flt Lt Ejaz opened power,
causing a startled Rauf to jump away to safety. After the incident, Rauf was
relegated to the junior course, where he successfully completed his flying
training on the MFI-17.
Mistakes made by cadets were sometimes
dealt with whimsically, as in the case of Khalid Ismail who, while on a
consolidation mission after his first solo, asked permission on radio for a
‘closed circuit pattern.’ The tight pattern
was prohibited for student pilots, but Flt Lt Ejaz Wyne, mobile officer of the
day, absent-mindedly cleared him. When
Khalid went around after a touch-and-go landing, Flt Lt Ejaz realised what had
happened. Ejaz promptly called Khalid to
land full-stop out of the next approach, and switch off the aircraft after
clearing at the end of the runway. Arriving
on scene in a jeep, Ejaz gave Khalid a dressing down, and in a fit of anger,
ordered the slightly-built Khalid to haul the 15-kg parachute on his head, and
run 3-km back to the squadron. That was
a rather harsh punishment for a slip-up that the mobile officer was equally culpable
for!
After the solo stage, the next hurdle
to be cleared was the Final Navigation Test (FNT). During my FNT, the mission had gone well, and I had made good the
first three destinations smack on time. The
picturesque Potohar Plateau, where primary flying students flew the navigation
phase, was quite familiar as most of the landmarks had been keenly observed
during flying. Suddenly, I heard the
instructor call out, “Okay, divert to Tret. Do you know where is it?”
“Yes sir, we used to pass by Tret
while proceeding to Lower Topa,” I replied to the check instructor (also the Flight
Commander of the squadron) who was taking my FNT on the MFI-17.
The tricky part of the test was a
‘practice diversion’ to another destination, as might be required in case of
bad weather. The instructor would
suddenly announce a new destination, and the heading, time and fuel consumed
had to be calculated while flying the aircraft accurately. Now Tret was well outside our flying training
area, and had never been observed from the air, so I was rather apprehensive
about the diversion. It was more so
because Tret was in the Murree Hills, and prominent landmarks were few and far
between. I was hoping that the instructor would soon
ask me to resume the originally planned route if he found the calculations
satisfactory, and the diversion progressing nicely; this was not an uncommon
practice to save time, if the destination was far away. There was no indication that the diversion
would be cut short, despite the mission having gone very well so far. I was
going to be grilled to the limits, it seemed.
Soon after crossing Rewat, the
ground started to rise, and I wondered if the instructor might take over the
controls. Otherwise a staid officer, he
was in a jolly mood that day, tapping his fingers on the dashboard as if in
accompaniment to a song in his heart.
Just to be doubly sure that the instructor was not lost in some thoughts
while the aircraft flew lower and lower, I hesitatingly asked him if I was to carry
on flying. “I shall let you know when I
want to take over the controls. You are doing fine. Continue.”
While it was comforting to know that
an instructor had confidence in a student who had never flown low and that too
in the hills, I was quite confused about what was going on. “Give me your map
and chinagraph pencil,” the instructor ordered.
He took my map and scribbled something, which I thought were some kind
of remarks about my mission.
“Do you see that shining silver tin
roof, next to the green ones? Go straight for that house.” “Yes sir,” I
excitedly replied. Getting closer, I
figured out a large house nestled in a thickly forested area. “Okay Kaiser, good mission. I have the
controls.”
From five hundred feet above ground that
we were at, the instructor dived down to the tree tops and threw the aircraft
in a tight left-hand turn, kicking off the menacing stall warning horn. As my
G-stressed vision started to clear up, I saw something that was absolutely
surreal, and right out of a movie. A blonde, fair-looking girl clad in red,
came running out of the house and started waving at the aircraft. The instructor told me to open the little photography
window on my side of the canopy. Next,
he handed me the folded map and asked me to toss it out exactly when ordered. After two-odd orbits in which he sized up the
release conditions, the instructor asked me to be ready. “Okay, drop it NOW.
Keep looking outside and tell me if it has been picked up.”
The ‘toss bombing’ resulted in a
near-direct hit, falling within a circle of radius 10 feet from the intended
target. Quite like an airborne range safety officer, I announced the score to a
beaming instructor. Much to my relief, the instructor announced, “You can relax
now. I shall fly us back to Risalpur.”
Back in the squadron my course-mates
were keen to find out how had the mission gone, especially the diversion, so
they could prepare for their upcoming tests accordingly. When I told them about the jaunt to Tret,
they did not believe me. No amount of requests to stop fibbing could sway me,
with the result that some of them got annoyed.
Word went around that I was not divulging the actual diversion
destination, lest others might learn some tricks and get better scores in their
test missions. As if flying low in Murree Hills with a 50-hour total experience
did not sound preposterous enough, dropping messages to the instructor’s sweetheart
during a navigation test mission was simply unbelievable.
Weeks went by, and we completed the
primary flying training course in end April 1975. A traditional end-course tea
party was hosted by the instructors and their wives in the Cadets’ Mess. As the
cadets swarmed around their instructors, I spotted the Flight Commander, with a
newly-wed blonde wife standing beside him. I knew it was the same lady who had
picked up the map dropped from the aircraft, and decided to prove my story to my
course-mates. Gathering a few of them, I nonchalantly walked up to the couple
and we all paid our respects, eagerly waiting for the ice to be broken. The Flight Commander immediately turned to his
wife, and introduced me by saying, “He was the one. Now you better return his map. He will need it for his T-37 training.” My story
had been ‘officially’ confirmed within earshot of my course-mates, and needless
to say, I was quite happy at the outcome.
A few missions after the FNT, we had to go through
the Final Handling Tests (FHT) that would conclude our Primary Flying
Training. In one such FHT, Shaharyar
Shaukat was taken up by the Officer Commanding (OC) of the PFT Wing, Wg Cdr
Mujtaba Qureshi, in a Harvard. One of
the important exercises was a Simulated Flame-Out in which the instructor would
power back to idle, and induce a bit of drag by lowering the flaps to simulate
engine failure. The student was to
quickly convert any extra speed in to height, start gliding, and look for some
plain ground for an emergency landing. The
exercise would terminate after a successful pattern had been flown and a
landing was assured. Shaharyar looked
around and luckily found a khaki
patch of ground that seemed like a perfect landing strip. Gliding smugly, Shaharyar set himself for the
pattern, but as he came lower, he was horrified to see the strip transform into
what was actually a vast graveyard. “What
was the big rush to get here?” asked the OC, in a rare display of wry humour. Shaharyar had unwittingly put fear of God in
the OC, who passed him without any fuss.
Soon after
the FHTs were over, we moved across the tarmac to the Basic Flying Training (BFT)
Wing, to start a more comprehensive phase of training on the T-37 jet trainer. Ground school on the T-37 included classroom instruction,
as well as time on the simulator, which kept us busy during the month of May. Parade rehearsals had also started for the
upcoming graduation of 59th GD (P) Course. The searing heat on the parade ground had to
be endured. Replacement of tea with iced
Rooh Afza during the 11 o’clock break
could do nothing to prevent cases of cadets crashing down on the sizzling
tarmac, during the parade rehearsals.
The graduation parade of 59th GD (P) Course was finally held on 31 May 1975. The parade was
aptly reviewed by Chief of the Air Staff, Air Marshal Zulfiqar Ali Khan, who
had been the Commandant of the Academy a year earlier. For us, the biggest pleasure was entering the
final term; we were the senior-most after all, and had a thick stripe on our
epaulettes that could not be missed from afar.
The three
senior-most appointments from our course went to Inamullah Ahsan (Wing Under
Officer), Shahid Dad (Under Officer, No 1 Sqn) and Azamuddin Khan (Under
Officer, No 2 Sqn). The three were
privileged to reside in the Under Officers’ Block, while the rest of the course
moved into the Olpherts Lines, where some of the course-mates had already been
staying since the fourth term. Single
rooms, two cadets to a toilet, and a little backyard with each duplex were the
special features of this colonial relic that existed since the very founding of
Risalpur Cantonment.
At the BFT
Wing, we were once again assigned instructors, and I was lucky to have been
earmarked as the student of Flt Lt Peter Glover, an RAF exchange pilot. For me it would be an especially rewarding experience,
as Flt Lt Glover was an ‘A’ Category instructor from RAF’s renowned Central
Flying School. His superb instructional
technique was evident when I and Shafiq Akbar (Flt Lt Glover’s other student),
were the first ones to go solo on the T-37 after a little over seven hours of
flying. Consolidation and basic
aerobatics followed before we proceeded for the summer vacations. Unfortunately, five cadets were suspended in
the early stages of BFT, bringing the total to twelve, including the previous
PFT cases. 27% attrition on grounds of
slow progress out of a total of 44 was high, but not surprising for those times,
as flying aptitude tests had not yet been included in the selection process.
Before we could proceed on our summer
vacations in July ‘75, we learnt that we had to undergo a one-week General
Survival Course at PAF’s Ski and Survival School in Naltar, near Gilgit. This
was one of several aircrew survival courses, including jungle, sea, desert and snow
that we went on to attend in the first few years after graduation. The idea was for aircrew to experience
survival conditions in different environments, in case of ejection from an
aircraft.
We flew to Gilgit by C-130, but got a
rude shock after disembarking when we were ordered to trek all the way to
Nomal, 25 km away. A night stay at a
spartan rest house was followed, next morning, by a gruelling hike to Naltar 20
km away at an elevation of 10,000 ft.
The picturesque surroundings could be little appreciated as we huffed
and puffed while traversing 4,000 ft up from Nomal to Naltar.
After arrival in Naltar, we were briefed
about a camp-out for two days and nights. We had to sleep in improvised shelters made
out of parachutes, and had to live off the land during this period. The first day was spent hiking to the first
of three azure and green Naltar Lakes, about 12 km way. The freezing water of the lake was the just
the right challenge for our survival instructor, Flt Lt Zafar Yusufzai, a tough
commando, to take a dip. We goaded him, and he did not disappoint us amidst
cheers. We noted that goats and sheep
were grazing on their own in the area, which gave us instant ideas about how to
live off the land.
As night fell, we got to work on
improvising our shelters, while a hunting party set forth to find food. Lo and behold, after a few hours, the hunters
emerged with a goat slung around Ashiq’s shoulders. The goat was secretly
slaughtered, skinned and chopped up for a barbecue by Shafiq who, we
discovered, was not just a 'caterer,' but a master butcher too. A hurried
barbecue followed, and the entrails and all traces of the animal were dumped in
the nearby river.
The next day was a rest and recreation
break, and small groups loitered in the area.
The course was finally over after six days, and we returned to Gilgit,
awaiting the C-130 to pick us up. Due to weather delays, we had to rough it out
at the Army’s Casualty Clearance Section for two more days. Finally, when the
C-130 came, we had to share space with casualties from an Army troop bus that
had met a road accident near Gilgit. Reaching
Rawalpindi, we dispersed to our homes for vacations.
After return from the summer break, we resumed flying which
included consolidation of circuit and landings, and aerobatics. Instrument flying, never a favourite phase of
aspiring fighter pilots, was made interesting by Flt Lt Glover as he, being a
transport pilot, was well-versed in blind flying on instruments. His instructional technique was excellent,
and I obtained top marks in the Instrument Rating Test. The next phase was formation flying, which
was not quite Glover’s forte, and I had to fly with several instructors. Amongst them, Flt Lt Iqbal Haider, a member
of the ‘Sherdils’ aerobatics team, taught me precise formation flying, and his anticipation
techniques – chippak jao, hilnay na do
– still ring in my ears. The last few
phases including navigation, advanced aerobatics, and night flying were handled
by yet another instructor, Flt Lt Liaquat Hayat, for Glover’s tenure as an
exchange pilot was over. I had to adjust
to these new instructors every once in a while, but luckily, I did not face any
issues as we got along well in the cockpit.
At the end of October ’75, I went up for my FHT with the soft-spoken OC
of BFT Wing, Wg Cdr Javed Afzaal. A man
of few words, he barely murmured, “Good, you are a qualified pilot now.” I was over the moon!
For me,
November was a fairly free month, and I spent a lot of spare time in the
well-stocked library. Half-hearted
preparations for the final exams also started, but the focus remained on the
graduation parade. We ordered new ceremonial
uniforms with the tailor. Towards the
end of the month, we were out on the parade square rehearsing the rifle drill
movements, including saluting on the march, and presentation of arms, etc. The parade consisted of two squadrons, each
composed of three flights. The squadrons
were led by the Flight Cadet Under Officers and the flights by Flight Cadet
Sergeants, all wielding ceremonial swords, scabbards, and gold-embroidered
belts. The rest of the cadets carried
the G-3 rifles. The parade was initially supervised by the General Service
Training Officer (GSTO), Sqn Ldr Bardar Khan, a gruff old man, who had always
been rather stern on the parade square. Luckily,
a new GSTO, Sqn Ldr G I Khan took charge, and the drill movements came up to
the desired standard in no time; this was largely due to his congenial manner
of dealing with parade-weary cadets. The
full brass band, led by the veteran band master Warrant Officer Allah Ditta,
used to play the very inspiring marching tune, Aye mard-e-mujahid jaag zara, ab waqt-e-shahadat hai aya. It would sometimes get hilarious when
somebody on parade would faint and crash on the tarmac, while the band played
the stirring tune! After parade, Ditta’s
band would entertain us with music from popular songs.
Flying log
book records were finalised and signed by the respective Squadron Commanders. I had
flown a total of 154:45 hours, during my flying training. One day, we received certificates signed by
the Commandant of the Academy (newly posted Air Cdre Sultan M Dutta), stating
that we were ‘qualified to wear the Pakistan Air Force Flying Badge with effect
from 20th Dec 1975.’ These certificates
were duly pasted in the flying log books, but we still had to wait for the big
day to actually flaunt the ‘wings’ on our uniforms.
The ground
subjects final examinations took a few days, and a big burden was off our heads. The results did not take long to be announced,
and all those who sat for the exams qualified for the University degree. It was a particularly gratifying achievement for
those who had been dropped from flying earlier.
The graduation parade was scheduled for 20th December,
1975, and was to be reviewed by the Chief of Army Staff, General Tikka Khan,
HJ. The Chief of Air Staff, Air Marshal
Zulfiqar Ali Khan was also to be in attendance. Parade had been rehearsed to
perfection scores of times, as excitement for the grand event built up to a
crescendo. Invitations had gone out to
parents and other guests, including officials of the diplomatic corps.
On the eve of
the graduation, a dining-out night in mess kits was held in our honour, with
speeches lauding our success at the end of our training. Commendation certificates in various sports
and extra-curricular activities were also awarded on the occasion by the
Academy Commandant.
On the big day, the parade formed up under command of the Wing Under Officer Inamullah Ahsan. The Under Officers and Sergeants led their respective Squadrons and Flights. The parents and dignitaries were seated, and the chief guest arrived on the dot. After presentation of arms, inspection of the parade, and march past, a speech by the chief guest followed. The long-awaited time for award of wings had finally come. 33 flight cadets of our course – including one from UAE, and three from Libya – fell out of their positions on parade, formed up into a small flight and marched closer to the dais. The rest of the parade shuffled up to re-form in an orderly fashion, and went into ‘at ease’ position for the high point of the ceremony. The parents and relatives of graduating cadets waited in anticipation.
On the big day, the parade formed up under command of the Wing Under Officer Inamullah Ahsan. The Under Officers and Sergeants led their respective Squadrons and Flights. The parents and dignitaries were seated, and the chief guest arrived on the dot. After presentation of arms, inspection of the parade, and march past, a speech by the chief guest followed. The long-awaited time for award of wings had finally come. 33 flight cadets of our course – including one from UAE, and three from Libya – fell out of their positions on parade, formed up into a small flight and marched closer to the dais. The rest of the parade shuffled up to re-form in an orderly fashion, and went into ‘at ease’ position for the high point of the ceremony. The parents and relatives of graduating cadets waited in anticipation.
The chief
guest, walked up to Wing Under Officer Inamullah Ahsan at one end of the flight, shook
hands with him, and pinned the wings on his chest. Next he did the same to me, and then moved on
to the next one, Inamullah Khan. General
Tikka extended his hand, but Inam broke into a smile and reminded the General
that his right hand was holding a rifle, and he could not shake hands. It so happened that Inamullah Ahsan and myself were
wielding the appointment holders’ ceremonial swords, which were in their
scabbards, and both hands were free. The
chief guest was thus able to shake our hands, but Inam Khan – and the rest – who
were equipped with rifles, had to decline this impromptu courtesy. With the
flying badges pinned on our uniforms, it was time for announcement of the
much-awaited awards.
The coveted
Sword of Honour went to Shahid Dad, who also won the Ground Subjects
Trophy. Shahid, a heads-down cadet had
excelled in many fields, and was also an accomplished speaker. The Best Pilot
Trophy went to the soft-spoken Muzaffar Ali, who was considered a matchless
pilot, besides being well-informed on a variety of subjects.
As the parade
marched off, Flt Lt Hameed-ullah Khan, who was doing the commentary in his clipped
British accent, called attention of the audience for a thrilling air show by
‘Sherdils,’ the academy aerobatics team. Streaming coloured smoke, four T-37s approaching
in line astern pulled up in front of the on-lookers, and slid into a perfect diamond
formation. Then followed a series of
barrel rolls, loops, steep turns and wing overs, and the final ‘bomb burst’ in which
the T-37s broke off like ‘splinters’ in all directions. The audience was immensely awed by the
performance. The team was made up of
flying instructors, and was led by Flt Lt Rizwan Qayyum, with other members
being Flt Lts Iqbal Haider, Imtiaz Khan and Riffat Munir. The aerobatics performance was a suitable
finale to the graduation parade, and reflected the high standards at PAF
Academy Risalpur.
After the
parade, we took off our final term epaulettes, and replaced them with the Pilot
Officers’ ranks that we had kept ready in our pockets. Hugs and cheers followed, as our parents and
relatives were delighted to see us, twenty-year old officers, strutting around
proudly. Without much ado, we hurried to the Commandant’s residence where we
had a group photograph with the chief guest, General Tikka Khan, along with the
Chief of Air Staff and the Commandant. The photograph remains the most cherished
memento of our course.
Immediately
after the group photograph, we were ushered into the auditorium where the convocation
ceremony was held for the award of the Bachelor’s degrees from Peshawar
University, with which the Academy was affiliated. That function marked the
conclusion of an endeavour that had started nearly three years earlier.
EPILOGUE: At Risalpur, we had been
ragged to the bones; we were made to obey orders unflinchingly; we learnt that
punctuality meant presence five minutes before time; we learnt table manners
fit for royal banquets. Athletics, cross-country running, horse riding, rifle shooting,
rowing, and swimming had transformed us into physically fit young men raring to
go. Incessant drills on the parade
square had instilled in us pride in uniform, and a sense of ever-lasting
camaraderie that exists in all fighting men. It was at Risalpur that we had vowed to rise .… and then
eventually, we touched the skies.
Note: The earlier period of training is covered in <Lower Topa Diaries>.
___________________
Note: The earlier period of training is covered in <Lower Topa Diaries>.
___________________
[1]
CHISTR - Controls, Harness, Instruments, Spoilers, Trimmer, Release hook.
[2]
Named after British General Sir William Olpherts, who was awarded the Victoria
Cross for putting down the mutiny in Lucknow in 1857.
© KAISER TUFAIL
© KAISER TUFAIL
