The smell of aviation fuel was intoxicating when Narayanasamy Sivanandam first stepped onto the flight line of the Republic of Singapore Air Force. The sound of hangar doors slamming shut, the way the sun shone on aluminum, and the nervous beat of drills all came together to make a symphony that woke up something deep inside him. He was no longer the watchman’s son from Trafalgar Quarters; he was now an engineer in uniform, responsible for keeping the planes safe.
The young technician quickly figured out that an airplane was more than just metal and wires; it was a living thing. Every vibration told a story, and every gauge spoke. He was part of the early Air Defence Command and was part of a pioneering group that had to turn borrowed machines into a national force. The United States gave Singapore two C-130 Hercules transport planes to start its air fleet, and Narayanasamy was one of the few people trusted with their upkeep.
He became an expert in avionics, focusing on flight-control systems and electrical instruments. He spent long nights studying by tracing schematics in yellow light, and his fingers were black with grease and graphite. “When you replace a circuit that controls hundreds of lives,” he once told a trainee, “you stop seeing wires and start seeing responsibility.”
Supervisors quickly saw how hard he worked. He was chosen to do fly-away engineering, which meant going on international missions with planes. Those trips, which took him to Southeast Asia, the Pacific, and occasionally the United States, were more than just work trips; they taught him how to be tough.
The Air Force reflected the world. While working with foreign allies, he met engineers who spoke different languages and had different personalities. In the Philippines, the humidity made every task a fight against tiredness, and in Japan, he slept next to spare parts and open manuals. He developed a calm strength that would define his leadership later in life.