‘Well I never,’ she said between chuckles. ‘Who’d have thought it!’
After I had got the matches, I called my friends Mauta and Dhan and Hom over. These were three of my closest companions. Mauta was a near neighbour of ours, and a classmate of mine, even though he was a bit older than me. Mauta wasn’t his real name – it actually means ‘Fatso’ – but that’s what me and his family always called him. It was a bit unfair, as he wasn’t really fat at all. You didn’t see fat people in Khebang. He was just a bit chubby, that was all. Chubby, and quite serious. He could be aggressive too – a good man to have on your side.
Dhan was very different. He was one of those boys who quite fancy themselves. He had long hair and always carried a comb in his back pocket. But he was a good guy and full of laughter – the complete opposite of Hom, who was a man of few words. Maybe this had something to do with the fact that he came from a huge family. Hom had twelve brothers and two or three sisters as well. Although child marriage didn’t happen much any more, his parents had been put together when very young. I think his father had been about nine, and his mother twelve at the time, so I suppose it wasn’t too surprising they had so many children of their own.
‘I’m going to fire my gun,’ I announced.
‘What gun?’ they demanded.
‘The one I’ve made,’ I said proudly.
‘You’ve made a gun?’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘Come with me,’ I said, ‘and I’ll show you.’
They were completely astounded when I brought it out.
Taking it off into the jungle, I used my kukri to carefully scrape the phosphorus onto a piece of paper.
‘What’s that for?’ Mauta wanted to know.
‘It’s the explosive,’ I replied mysteriously.
When I had what I thought would be enough, I poured it carefully down the barrel, tapping the sides to make sure it all went to the end. The next thing was to carefully load one of my paper-wrapped pellets and push it right down to the bottom with a stick so that it compacted the charge. Finally, using some of the leftover powder, I poured a little of it round the hole I had made at the base of the barrel.
The other boys were really impatient.
‘Come on, Kailash. Hurry up!’
‘It can’t be that difficult, can it? When are you actually going to fire it?’
‘This is taking too long.’
But I took my time, as I wanted to be sure everything was done properly.
Eventually, the great moment arrived and I was all set. I’ll never forget the good feeling I had bringing the stock into my shoulder. It was a bit awkward pulling the nail back to fire but it went off with a fantastic bang.
‘WOW!’ said Mauta.
‘WOW!’ I said.
‘WOW!’ said Dhan.
‘WOW!’ said Hom.
For ages I just sat there beaming while the others begged and begged me to let them have a go.
‘Oh please, Kailash!’ said Mauta. ‘I’ll be your best friend for life.’
‘Me first, me first,’ said Dhan. ‘Remember I gave you some curd the other day.’
‘What about me?’ said Hom. ‘Aren’t we best buddies?’
But I said I needed to conserve ammunition. Maybe they could have a go another time.
Unfortunately, when my dad found out about the gun he wasn’t at all pleased, so in the end, I probably only fired it fifteen or twenty times. Dad made me show it to him and then proceeded to explain that I was very lucky it hadn’t exploded. I could see the sense in what he was saying even then, and today of course I realise it could have caused me serious injury. But I don’t regret the experience. It was enough to convince me that when I was older I would have a proper gun. Not only that, one day I would be a soldier, a Gurkha in fact.
‘Wow, guruji! You’re a top man!’ said Gaaz after I’d finished telling the story. ‘I never did anything that exciting when I was a kid. I did have a catapult and a kukri, though,’ he added.
There can’t be many Nepalese country boys who don’t have a catapult and a kukri. In my own case, I used the catapult for killing birds, and my kukri for skinning them. Killing birds with a catapult is quite easy if you have a good aim and so long as you have the right kind of ammunition. I used to spend hours looking for suitable stones and pebbles. It wasn’t often you could find something exactly right, so I used a hammer and chisel to make them as smooth as possible. Then I would go out, often alone, in the hope of bringing something home to eat. Sometimes I succeeded, and I enjoyed cooking my kill, though I have to admit that none of the birds I took from the forest ever tasted very good. Actually, as I got older, I started to lose interest in the sport and in fact began to feel bad about my hunting expeditions and the nest-raiding I also used to do, even if at the time it felt like the best thing in the world.
The other thing I enjoyed doing in those days was taking my catapult and firing it at the monkeys in the jungle. They would let out a great squeal if you managed to hit them, but I now feel a bit bad about this too.
The kukri was a different matter. I was given my first one when I was about four years old and I never left home without it. The first one I had was only quite small, so when I was about nine or ten, I told my parents I needed a full-sized one. After a lot of pestering on my part, my father eventually agreed and called the kami to the house. As a blacksmith, this person was from a lower caste, and he was not allowed inside, but he brought a blade which I sharpened and then made a handle and a scabbard for, both out of carved wood. As with any proper kukri, it came with two much smaller blades. These are called chakmak and are for sharpening.
Here I just want to say something about caste. It’s something I’ve never really understood. The tradition of caste discrimination is not very strong among the Limbu people, but in parts of Nepal it matters a lot. The idea that you can or can’t do certain things just because you happen to have been born into one kind of family rather than another makes no sense to me. People from lower castes can perform exactly the same tasks as other people. They can do exactly the same job. It’s just a question of schooling. Yet in Nepal, because the great majority of positions in government are held by the upper caste, it’s almost impossible for those from the lower castes to get in a position where they can give their children a good education. Because of this too, it is very frustrating for people of lower caste whenever they try to get something done that requires any sort of official sanction. It isn’t unusual for such people to be met with shouting and outright rudeness when making even simple requests. Often they get blocked for no other reason than caste. The only thing that makes a difference is payment of money. Occasionally I discussed the subject with Gaaz, and he strongly agreed with me.
‘It’s just not fair,’ he said. ‘Anyway, who made these rules? Where did the idea come from? Why should one person be allowed to enter a house and not another? They’re all human, aren’t they?’
Gaaz had a very thoughtful side to him, and I really liked him for it – though he had a good sense of humour too. Probably more than me in fact. I especially remember how he used to make me laugh first thing every morning when I went on duty.
‘Namaste, guruji,’ he used to say. ‘You’re just in time for the disha patrol.’
Sure enough, not long afterwards came the first slow-stepping figures in the pre-dawn dark.
‘I’ll cover the one on the left, guruji. You can have the old lady on the right,’ he said, bringing his rifle up to his shoulder. ‘Always assuming it’s not a suicide bomber … I mean it could be, couldn’t it? This could be the start of a big attack. They blow the gate in and follow on with a full-scale assault. For all we know, the alleyways could be full of fighters.’
‘Well, that would certainly be a good tactic,’ I replied.
‘Except I don’t think she is a suicide bomber,’ whispered Gaaz a few minutes later. ‘More like a stink bomber!’
; It’s amazing how a bad smell carries in the cool of the early morning.
‘Oh please, guruji!’ he went on. ‘Couldn’t I just put down one or two rounds? Not too close, you understand. Just to make them remember their manners. What do you think?’
Of course I knew Gaaz wasn’t being serious, but I have to admit the thought did appeal to me. Couldn’t they do their business somewhere else?
Soon after the disha patrol appeared in the pre-dawn half-light, the muezzin’s call broke out in several places around town. In the early days of our occupation of the safe house, we mostly used to listen in silence. Sometimes Gaaz or one of the other riflemen would make a rude comment, but it was just a fact of life in Afghanistan, and it wasn’t until later that we started to wonder what role the mosques were playing in the Taliban’s operations.
This was one of our last quiet mornings and, as the sun, and with it the temperature, began to rise, there still wasn’t much going on – apart from the men following the women to do their early-morning business. This brought more rude comments from the riflemen before again the chat drifted into talk about home, about wives and girlfriends, and Gaaz questioning me about my early life.
‘This time of day reminds me of taking the cows up to the pastures in the summer. Did you ever look after your family’s cattle, guruji?’ he asked on one occasion.
Up until I went to school aged seven, my life revolved around the family farm. We had two fields next to the house, and several more further up the valley. As well as the main crops of rice and maize, we grew various other crops. There were also three or four goats and two bullocks.
‘Taking them to the jungle was one of my favourite jobs,’ I replied. ‘And best of all was the fighting.’
‘Fighting?’
The thing was, I sometimes got Mauta and Dhan and Hom to come along and we would stage bullock fights.
‘It was the best fun,’ I nodded. ‘Especially as mine usually won.’ I made a point of looking after them really well for that very reason.
‘Hey, guruji, you’re a hard man,’ exclaimed Gaaz. ‘But didn’t you get into trouble for it?’
‘Well of course we kept it a secret. Once, though, I nearly did get caught out.’
After a fight, it was our habit to let the bullocks graze in the jungle while we played in a nearby pond. On this occasion, me and my friends were so busy that it was quite late before we called the cattle and set off home. Unfortunately, in my case, the cattle did not come.
‘SINDUREH! … MALEH!’
I called and called, but there was no sign of either of them.
‘Sorry, Kailash, but I need to get going,’ said first Hom, then Dhan and finally Mauta, until I was all alone in the fading light of the dusk.
‘SINDUREH! … MALEH! … Please come! I will give you extra hay … Please …’
They were nowhere to be seen.
In the end, I had no option but to set off home myself, as it was almost pitch black by now. I was desperate. My dad was going to kill me and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. I’d neglected my duty.
‘SINDUREH! … MALEH!’ I called one last time before setting off forlornly back down the hill.
If only Bhagawan would send them back to me.
It was so dark when I got back to the house that I could only just see its outline against the sky. For a few moments I stood outside, trying to summon the courage to enter. I was just about to go in and confess when, to my astonishment, I heard the familiar sound of hoofs brushing through the grass behind me.
‘Thank God! Maleh! You’re back! Sindureh! You’re here and you’re OK!’
I could have cried with relief.
‘Kailash? Is that you?’
It was my father’s voice.
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘Where have you been?’ he said crossly as he stormed out of the house.
‘Nowhere. I just wanted to give the cattle some extra grass. We’re ploughing tomorrow, aren’t we?’
‘Hmmm. I wish I could believe that was the real reason. Well, hurry up and put them away. Your mother was getting worried.’
‘So did he ever find out, guruji?’ demanded Gaaz.
‘No, but I’m sure he suspected something,’ I replied. ‘Because for a long time after that he didn’t let me take them out alone.’
7
A Traitor in the Compound
Later that same morning, the OC called in the section leaders and told us there would shortly be a resupp coming in by Chinook from Bastion. He expected it to be some time around 1200 hours local, but he would give us five minutes’ notice to move when he had exact timings. Mathers sahib would command from one WMIK. Me, Gaaz and Nani guruji would take the other and one of the bhais from Corporal Santos’s section would drive the quad bike. The 2 i/c would give a separate briefing after this one, but so far as everyone else was concerned, it was vital not to give any indication of our intentions to the Afghans.
‘Just in case any of them feels like telling their friends in the neighbourhood …’ said Rex sahib with a wry smile.
We all knew exactly what he meant. He didn’t want anyone in the compound tipping people off outside. We didn’t know for certain if this was going on, but we were reasonably sure of it. The local police in particular were always going in and out. It seemed likely they were telling people exactly what was going on with us, so it was vital they had no advance warning of what we were doing.
After talking with the OC, we went carefully over the route out and back with Mathers sahib – exactly the one we had followed on our way in – and rehearsed the various drills: course of action in the event of a contact, comms failure, vehicle breakdown, and so on. It was an SOP to start the vehicles every morning to make sure they were in good order, so we were confident in our equipment. All we would have to do was jump in, start up and go the moment the signal was given. There was no need for further discussion, though I would need to brief my bhais and gurujis in detail. Speed was the key. The HLS was not exactly the same as the one we came in on, but at around eight or nine hundred metres away, it was about the same distance. The whole exercise should take not much more than fifteen to twenty minutes if we did it properly – a target we all agreed was feasible, especially since on this occasion there was nothing to go back on the heli. We were just collecting.
Having informed Gaaz and Nagen about the resupp, I was just heading towards the accommodation block when I was stopped in my tracks. One of the local policemen was walking across the compound with an RPG over his shoulder. That was enough to make me worried, and I was about to ask him where he was going with it when to my horror he raised the weapon and, taking no very careful aim, fired randomly in an easterly direction. The grenade blasted through the air and exploded a few seconds later somewhere harmlessly in the desert.
‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’ I demanded. Several other Gurkhas who had seen it came running over.
‘What’s going on?’
‘What’s he up to?’ they all wanted to know.
‘They will hear the noise,’ the policeman said grandly. ‘That will make them afraid.’
‘Stupid idiot,’ said one of the riflemen.
It certainly was stupid. The point is, every round wasted is one round less you have in your magazine when you really need it. But there was no point saying anything, so I let it go and went back in search of Nani guruji.
In fact there were several other occasions in Now Zad when something of this sort happened. I remember one time when one of the local militiamen actually came up into Sangar 1 with an RPG. We had been in contact, but at that moment it was completely quiet.
‘What are you doing?’ I demanded. ‘Why have you got that thing?’
‘I’m going to shoot it,’ he replied.
‘Where?’
‘Uddar, uddar. Over there, over there.’
Although I tried to stop him, he just took aim at the building opposite and fired. I remember me and Gaaz and the other bhais looking a
t each other in complete disbelief. The building in question was clearly empty and in no possible way a legitimate target in the circumstances. It was the sort of thing I might have done as a ten-year-old boy. But in a way, it was completely in character. Whenever there was a contact, the Afghans would blaze away at random. Their shooting was completely without discipline in terms of adopting proper fire positions and conserving ammunition. On several occasions, I saw them actually firing one-handed from the hip. This is completely pointless. It’s impossible to hit a target like that. Your rounds will just go all over the place.
I can’t say the Afghans weren’t brave in a way, however. They certainly weren’t afraid to kill human beings. That takes some courage, to be sure. It was just that they didn’t seem to care very much who they killed! It eventually got to the point when, if there was a sudden burst of fire, the bhais would joke with one another.
‘It’s just the ANP firing,’ they would say, or:
‘ANP again.’
– to which the reply was:
‘Hunza. ANP again. Nothing to worry about.’
On this occasion, we just watched in stunned silence as the policeman exited the sangar position without saying a word more and made his way back to his accommodation block as if he had no cares in the world.
‘Oh my days,’ said Gaaz very slowly and deliberately. ‘What was that all about, guruji?’
I could think of nothing to say.
The sun was at its highest when the order for the resupp eventually came over the PRR.
‘Reference the detail discussed earlier, five minutes’ notice to move, OK?’
‘Roger. Five minutes.’
‘Five minutes,’ agreed Corporal Santos.
This was exactly the right moment to be going out of the compound. The heat was so bad that even the locals were indoors. Nobody in their right mind would go out in this.
Gurkha: Better to Die than Live a Coward: My Life in the Gurkhas Page 10