Even before the outbreak of the Second World War it had been obvious that India was divided over her future. Political agitation and clashes between religious groups had already indicated that India’s status in the British Empire was changing. Indeed, the Empire itself was changing; that much was clear to me by the time I returned to India after the war.
By 1947 I had been appointed one of the three senior General Staff Officers (GSO1) in the Military Operations Directorate at Army Headquarters, New Delhi. This was considered a plum job; occupants of the position were vulgarly referred to as the ‘heaven-born’, meaning that one’s feet were firmly on the ladder to preferment; with any luck one would rise to the rank of general and might conceivably end up as Commander-in-Chief. Or so it had been in the piping days of peace; but 1947 was to be the year of Partition.
As GSO1s we three were to have a major role to play in the partition of the armed forces, but initially our prime duty lay in maintaining internal security. This entailed the allocation and despatch of troops to help the civil authorities wherever and whenever communal violence broke out. By 1947 these clashes were an almost everyday occurrence: Sikhs attacking Muslims, Muslims attacking Hindus, and vice versa. With few exceptions, the only troops upon whom we could call were from the comparatively small number of British battalions still serving in India, or from the famous fighting divisions of the Imperial Indian Army, recently returned from foreign service.
Being composite in nature, these Indian Army divisions comprised mixed units of Muslims, Sikhs and Hindus, as well as representatives from the many other races and religions in this vast subcontinent. Yet now they were called upon to face riots being instigated by their co-religionists, whether Muslim, Sikh or Hindu. Such was their esprit de corps, however, that they behaved with perfect discipline and restraint right up until the moment of Partition, when they were divided into separate units for transfer to either Pakistan or India.
As I was in charge of the section dealing with internal security, my principal involvement was in the trouble spots. I was therefore under no illusions about the latent hostility that continually threatened to break out into open violence. Partition was clearly the only answer: two separate states, Pakistan and India, one Muslim and one Hindu. But like Lord Wavell, the Viceroy, I believed that the only way to achieve this bisecting of the continent was for the transition to take place slowly, methodically, policed throughout by a strong and impartial military force; the alternative would be a bloodbath. I believe Lord Wavell’s suggested time-scale for the transfer of population and division of assets was five years. But the British Government under Mr Attlee, then Prime Minister, had already decided that India should be granted independence by 1948 – and Lord Mountbatten agreed. Attlee sacked Wavell and appointed Mountbatten instead.
So Mountbatten arrived in India as Viceroy in 1947. To give him his due, I believe his original intention was to try to persuade the Muslim League to cease agitating for partition. Had he succeeded, a cohesive India might have become independent within the time specified. But to anyone who knew India this was clearly a pipedream. Mr Jinnah, President of the Muslim League, was adamant that his people should no longer be subjected to what he described as ‘domination by the Hindu majority’; he insisted on nothing less than a separate state.
The Congress Party, meanwhile, under the leadership of Nehru, was encouraging civil disobedience in pursuit of independence. After six years of war their patience had run out. As the ‘Quit India’ campaign gathered steam there was an atmosphere of ‘Let’s do it quick!’ Between them, Nehru and Jinnah applied such pressure to Mountbatten that he had to cave in. India would be partitioned within a matter of months, and achieve independence the following year.
I happened to find myself very much at the hub of things, both because of where I worked and because of where I lived. Serving as I did on the General Staff of Army Headquarters, my office was situated in a big sandstone block on the south of Kingsway, that majestic driveway designed by Lutyens to sweep down from the portals of the Viceroy’s residence. I was thus close to the offices of the Chief of the General Staff and even the Commander-in- Chief himself.
Not only that, I lived on the Viceroy’s estate. I was staying in the house of an old friend, Colonel Douglas Currie and his family. Douglas Currie had been Military Secretary to Lord Wavell; now he fulfilled the same role for Lord Mountbatten. As the Viceroy’s senior military staff officer, all matters military that concerned the Viceroy had to pass through his office, as well as a multitude of administrative affairs pertaining to the Viceroy’s staff and movements.
As a resident of the estate I was privileged to use the facilities: private golfcourse, squash courts, swimming pool, etc. While doing so I often met not only the staff but the Viceroy himself on an informal basis. As any student of British social customs will know, ‘shop’ – meaning business – is rarely discussed at a social gathering. However, in 1947 the pot was boiling fiercely and a final date for partition was on everybody’s mind. For some that date would spell the end of a career; for others transfer to the British Army; a transfer from the Indian Civil Service to the Foreign or Colonial Service; a period of service with the new India or Pakistan; or just plain retirement to the Cotswolds. As the hot weather of 1947 wore on, people became increasingly edgy, speculating with ever more urgency about the future. So the subject of the Partition date came more and more to everyone’s lips, even over a chota peg at the club. There was one occasion when ‘shop’ was discussed at the dinner table and, being outspoken, I put my foot where I should have put my grilled chicken.
It must have been some time in July. The date for Partition had just been announced – 15 August. Douglas Currie and his family had arranged a small, private dinner party for the Mountbattens and a few members of the staff, and they very kindly included me. I had had a hectic day at Army Headquarters, parcelling out exhausted soldiers to deal with the increasingly frequent outbreaks of communal violence. The situation was deteriorating daily and I was very troubled; a party would provide some welcome relief.
It was a very hot night and dinner was to be served on the lawn behind the Curries’ house, but first we gathered for drinks in the drawing-room. Conversation during cocktails was inconsequential and Lord and Lady Mountbatten were as charming as usual. The Curries’ butler appeared and announced: ‘Khana tiyar, hazoor.’ So we all trooped outside to the spotless dinner table laid out with silver and crystal that glittered in the garden lights. The summer evening was full of the usual Indian hot-weather sounds: the croaking of innumerable bull frogs, the occasional screech of a nightjar or the hoot of an owl.
We started with iced consommé, well laced with sherry, then the entrée was just being served when the inevitable subject was raised – the imminence of Partition.
‘It all seems so sudden …’ someone remarked.
There was a silence; everyone was waiting for the Viceroy’s reaction. Lord Mountbatten smoothly agreed that it was perhaps rather ‘sudden’ but went on to say that in his experience that was the best way to get things done.
‘You give your staff a plan,’ he said, ‘and ask how long they need to put the plan into operation. Let us say they estimate four weeks. Then you tell them, “Do it in two!” Everyone is shocked into action and you surprise your enemy.’
Whereupon Ingall’s voice was heard to say, ‘And who is your enemy, sir?’
I realized I had made a gaffe. On the other hand, Mountbatten’s attitude had strengthened my view that the Viceroy, and therefore London, still did not really understand India or the Indians. The ‘enemy’ indeed!
I know it would have engendered anti-British sentiment but I am still convinced that it would have been far better for India if Lord Wavell’s long-term scheme had been adopted. Where his plan might have cost hundreds of lives, the Attlee–Mountbatten plan cost, I estimate, around half a million.
So India was to become independent. My Army, the Imperial Indian Army, would no longer exist. I was still young, only thirty-nine. I had had a successful war. I had achieved my fondest ambition – to command my regiment in battle. In the staff world I had held the most sought-after post of GSO1 of one of the famous fighting divisions, the 8th Indian. I had been decorated. But now what would I do? I felt somewhat confused. While I had a recurring urge to try something new, and was toying with the idea of a business career, it was the desire to remain a soldier that was foremost in my heart.
I could, I knew, transfer to the British Army. All officers of the Indian Army had been graded in the event that they might transfer; if they elected to retire they would receive a bounty; if they chose to transfer the bounty would be smaller. I also knew that certain selected officers might be retained on the Imperial Indian Army List, for temporary secondment to either the new Indian Army or the Pakistan Army in training or advisory capacities. Those taking up such appointments would be paid the higher bounty, and the officers concerned would be carried on a special list at Supreme Army Headquarters, New Delhi, commanded by Field-Marshai Sir Claude Auchinleck; Supreme HQ would continue for at least five years and officers on loan to the two new armies would be permitted to count the time served towards their regular pension.
I had two years to go before qualifying for my full regular pension in the rank of major, my official peacetime rank. Special rules did allow high ranks held during the war to count towards enhanced allowances, but the basic requirement was for a full twenty years’ service. It therefore seemed that if I now opted out of the Army, I would forgo a full pension.
It was while I was mulling over the various alternatives that I was summoned to see Sir Claude Auchinleck, the Commander-in-Chief. This was most unusual. Comparatively junior officers are not normally sent for directly by the C-in-C. I made a few enquiries, but no one knew why I’d been sent for: not my immediate boss, the Director of Military Operations, nor even his boss, the Chief of the General Staff. I was still very much in the dark as I straightened my tie, pulled down my jacket and set off to see the big white chief.
I had known Sir Claude Auchinleck throughout my service; although I was to have my differences with him later, I always found him the most charming of men. I was ushered into his office and he immediately put me at my ease. Another man was present, whom I recognized from his photographs in the Press – Liaquat Ali Khan. Liaquat was a lawyer by profession and he was to be the workhorse who put the new state of Pakistan together; he became Pakistan’s first Prime Minister. But at the time his presence only served to deepen my mystification.
Minutes later, all was clear. I was being offered the opportunity of a lifetime – the opportunity of founding the Pakistan Military Academy.