‘Kailash. If you don’t pay attention, I’m going to rip your arms off and beat you round the head with the wet end.’
‘Kailash! Wake up or you’ll have to go home! We’re obviously depriving your village of an idiot!’
One thing that made keeping awake extra difficult was whenever the gurujis switched the heater on. For the first few weeks, this happened a lot because of the time of year, and I myself was one of the most frequent offenders. To make matters worse, I usually sat next to a recruit called Jit.
Now Jit and I were very different. His nickname was Bhagawan, which means god in Gorkhali. This was because he understood very little. I could always answer the questions, but he never could. Unluckily for him, his education was quite poor and he found it difficult to follow anything that was being said because all our instruction was in English. But although he often didn’t know what was going on, he never fell asleep. He would sit to attention throughout all the classes and it became his job to wake me as soon as I started snoring – which I always did. As soon as this happened, the guruji would shout ‘SOP, Jit’ and that was his signal to smack me on the head.
I don’t know if it was because he didn’t like me, but whenever he did so, he hit me very hard. I longed for the day when I could get him back, but somehow it was always me and never him who got into trouble. This really annoyed me. Then at last, one happy day, it turned out that it was him and not me. I was just waking up as he fell asleep and the guruji, seeing this, pointed at me.
‘Now’s your chance for revenge, Kailash.’
I stood up and whacked Jit so hard that he woke up crying. Seeing this, I was horrified at what I’d done and started to apologise and try to comfort him while everyone else had a good laugh.
On the whole, though, we recruits got on well together. Occasionally there would be scuffles in the accommodation blocks, but people quickly made up afterwards. For myself, I made sure that I put my love of fighting behind me. The only other time I remember coming close to hitting someone was one time when I was made RPS (Recruit Platoon Sergeant) for the weekend.
One of my responsibilities was to make sure the toilets and shower rooms were clean. The idea was that we should all do the job together, but there was this one person who refused to help.
‘Where is he?’ I wanted to know.
‘Still in bed.’
‘Still in bed?’
‘Yes, but he’s from a really good family. He’s not used to this sort of thing.’
‘I don’t care who he is, or where he’s from,’ I said. ‘He should come anyway.’
Luckily he did, because I’d already decided that if he gave me any trouble I was going to knock him down.
Of course, weapon training was the thing we most enjoyed at Church Crookham. I was really excited to start as soon as possible. I remember, though, that when I first held the SA80 rifle, I was a bit disappointed. It was much lighter than my grandfathers’s old gun, and much smaller. It also had a lot of plastic on it, which didn’t seem right. It looked a bit fragile and I was worried that I might break the thing if I wasn’t careful. I was wrong of course, but that was my impression.
The first actual shooting we did was with a .22 rifle, and this was even more of a disappointment. The actual gun was quite a bit bigger than the SA80 but it didn’t seem to have any recoil. I couldn’t understand this at all and I called the guruji over.
‘Guruji, this doesn’t feel right. I’ve fired my grandfather’s gun and it gave a huge kick when you pulled the trigger. I think there must be something wrong.’
But the guruji laughed.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing wrong. You don’t get much of a kick from such a small rifle bore, that’s all.’
Fortunately, when we started training on the GPMG, it was fully up to my expectations. Not only did it look really nice, but it felt and sounded just right and I loved everything about it. For me at seventeen it was a dream come true.
After five weeks, we were allowed out of camp for the first time. One of the gurujis took us into town, where we had to go in pairs. I remember having exactly a hundred pounds in my pocket while the friend I was with had about forty. We walked around together for some time before eventually deciding to go for something to eat. There was a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant which we thought we would try.
We went inside.
‘So what about it?’ we asked one another in Gorkhali. ‘You gonna do it?’
‘You do it.’
‘No, you do it.’
We went on like this for some time before giving up. We just couldn’t think what to do or what to say. It was two very hungry recruits that went back to barracks at the end of the day.
Things improved slightly when I went down next time, on this occasion with a different friend. Again we walked around a bit before eventually arriving at the KFC. This time, my friend went in and when he got to the front of the queue he asked very nicely for what he wanted. I was so relieved. But now it was my turn, I froze.
‘Same one!’ I said at last.
Although I was always top of the class in school at Khebang, this did not mean very much. The standard of teaching in my village was not very high, unfortunately. Furthermore, a lot of the other recruits, especially those from the cities, had taken more English lessons after passing the School Leavers’ Certificate. Some had gone to private schools where the standards are a lot higher, and a few had even studied in college for two years or more. Not only that, but some of the other recruits were as much as five years older than me and some had gone through Pokhara three times. So these people had a big advantage. But I always tried my best and didn’t let my lack of a good education hold me back.
The other thing I found was that I was not so fit as some of the other recruits. In our races, I could manage to come in somewhere between tenth and fifteenth place out of forty in our intake. However, as the course progressed, my fitness improved, so that by the end of nine months I could sometimes manage first place and I usually came in the first three or four.
As at Pokhara, command tasks were an important part of our training, and I was one of the first people to be given a chance, perhaps because I was so keen. Unfortunately, it was a total disaster. I was made section 2 i/c while one of the gurujis acted as section commander. When he set off towards the objective, I had no idea I was supposed to follow him. When I eventually caught up with him, he started shouting at me.
‘Kailash, where the hell have you been all this time? What took you so long?’
I just stood there, not knowing what to say.
At the end of our time at Church Crookham, there was a final parade when our gurujis announced which unit we would be in. I desperately wanted to be an infantryman. Besides the two infantry battalions, I knew that there were Gurkha Engineers, Signallers and Logistics people too, but I really didn’t want any of these things. I prayed they would just make me an ordinary rifleman.
‘21126684, Rifleman X Rai. Gurkha Signals.’
‘21170907, Rifleman Y Gurung. Gurkha Logistics.’
‘21124393, Rifleman Z Tamang, First Battalion.’
As they read the names and numbers out, I became more and more tense until at last my turn came.
‘21170101, Rifleman Kailash Limbu, Second Battalion.’
I was so happy when the announcement came, so relieved. I’d made it.
Sometimes as I lay on my bed in Now Zad, I used to ask myself what my life would have been like if I’d become a doctor instead of becoming a Gurkha. I think I would have enjoyed it. I’d certainly be having an easier time of things than we were having in this safe house. On the other hand, for all the danger, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this for the world.
The big turning point for us came during the final week of the month when the CVRT of the Household Cavalry suddenly appeared. The funny thing was, we’d been talking a lot about tanks, partly among ourselves and partly over the PRR. We thought there was a good chance the T
aliban were listening in to our radio broadcasts, just as we listened in to theirs. They could get hold of ICOM scanners over the internet just like anyone else could. So we used to joke among ourselves over the PRR, sometimes in English, sometimes in Urdu, sometimes in Gorkhali, that there was a whole regiment of cavalry on its way.
‘Gonna be two hundred of them, any day now.’
‘In brand-new tanks.’
‘Yeah, I think it’s today in fact.’
In reality, we had no idea. We were just trying to make ourselves feel good and the Taliban feel bad. The OC had mentioned the possibility of a small detachment of Scimitar armoured reconnaissance vehicles being sent by Battlegroup HQ, but as a section commander, I did not know the full details.
The arrival of these vehicles was a turning point in another way too. The OC had the excellent habit of going round the whole position at least once every day when we were not in contact. On his rounds, he would go up into each sangar, partly to check our equipment and supplies, and partly to make sure everyone was all right. It wasn’t exactly an inspection, and he used to chat about the usual things – girlfriends, family and so on. He made jokes about the Taliban too, speaking in Gorkhali the whole time. But as well as doing these routine checks, he also made it his habit to take a good look with his binoculars at the surrounding area. If we had seen anything new, such as a firing position the enemy had not used before, we would show him and he would mark it on his map. Sometimes, too, he would point things out to us – things that we might have missed through overfamiliarity with what we were looking at day in, day out.
What happened on this particular day was that when the OC went up onto the roof of the CT shortly after dawn – this being always the first place he visited – he was scanning with his binos when he suddenly realised that he was staring down the barrels of an improvised rocket-launching system positioned in a bunker not more than 100 metres away.
Probably the most dangerous weapon the Taliban had in their armoury was their version of the Katyusha rocket. This was first developed by the Russian Army at the beginning of the Second World War. They used it during the capture of Berlin in 1945. During the Cold War, the Chinese got hold of the design and eventually exported it to the Middle East. I suppose the ones the Taliban had came in from Iran. But whereas most people who use these rockets deploy them using proper launch systems mounted on the back of lorries, the Taliban just laid them carefully on the ground and sighted them manually. Although it might not sound likely to be very effective, we knew this enemy to be brilliant improvisers. They had people who could set them up just as well as if they were using the most modern laser-guided systems, by using nothing more than line of sight. If they’d managed to launch them before we got onto them, the result was bound to be very bad for us indeed. Each rocket carries more than ten pounds of high explosive. If only one of them hit the CT, it would cause multiple casualties. If two – wipeout. And there were at least six launchers.
As soon as Rex sahib realised what he was looking at, he called me over.
‘Kailash, I’ve got a job for you.’
‘Hasur, sahib.’
‘I want you to go up into Sangar Six with Nabin and to engage the bunker you will see straight in front of you.’
‘Hasur, sahib.’
He then showed me its exact location marked on his map of the local area.
‘It’s a rocket launcher,’ he went on. ‘And I think we’d better hit it before they decide to hit us. Quick as you can, then!’
Ordinarily, I’d have saluted, but we didn’t do any of that on operations and I just nodded and ran off to carry out his instructions. We now had the other .50-cal mounted on top of an ISO container, and within a matter of minutes I had emptied half a belt of ammunition into the target. So far as we could tell, there was no one on the position, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to immobilise the weapon system.
I definitely hit the target, but we could not be sure it had been completely destroyed and the rockets knocked out. So the first thing the OC did when it was confirmed the tanks were actually en route to us was to give them orders to engage the same position as soon as they came within range.
Just like the enemy, the first thing we knew about the tanks’ arrival was when the Scimitars fired their 30 mm guns at the Katyushas from a position up on ANP Hill. It was in the evening and I was up in Sangar 3 at the time. I’d just heard on the PRR that they would be arriving any moment.
‘Hey guys! Great news! Tanks! The cavalry is on its way!’
‘Tanks?’
‘Yes, for real. CVR. From the Household Cavalry.’
The bhais were overjoyed. It was the best news we’d had for a long time, a huge morale boost. Although having air support was great, having armoured vehicles on the ground was in some ways even more comforting. There was a huge cheer throughout the compound as their rounds tore into the launch pad.
‘Take a look at that, guruji!’ said Gaaz delightedly. ‘I bet the Talibs weren’t expecting that, the jatha!’
Within minutes, you could see the whole position had been completely destroyed.
That night, the CVR got down to work. Rex sahib wanted to give the impression that there were more of them than there really were, so he got them to spend several hours just manoeuvring round the town, paying special attention to all the AOIs and known fire positions. We watched them through our nightsights as they went about their business from up in the sangars.
‘That should make the Talibs worried all right,’ remarked Gaaz.
‘Well yes, bhai. That’s the idea.’
‘Wow, just look at them,’ he went on, admiringly. ‘I’d just love to be inside one right now.’
‘Not if it got hit by RPG you wouldn’t,’ I said.
‘True. But I’d really like to see what goes on behind Smuggler’s House and places like that.’
‘Probably not a lot.’
‘What I’d like to see is those positions up in the treeline,’ said Nagen.
‘That would be more interesting,’ I agreed.
Every so often, one of the tanks let rip a burst of fire from its GPMGs as they cleared their way forward.
‘Pity we haven’t had them with us all along,’ observed Gaaz, admiringly.
It certainly would have been a big plus.
Later, after we changed duties in the early morning, the 2 i/c called me over.
‘Kailash, there’s going to be a resupp of ANP Hill. We’ll also be bringing the tank troop leader into the DC for a meeting with the OC. I want you on one of the WMIKs, OK?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Same detail as usual. Fifteen minutes’ notice to move from now. No indication that we’re going until I give the order. Mount up straight away, gates to open on my signal. Then it’s high speed out of town and follow me round to where the CVRs were parked up, here.’
He pointed the position out on his map and I marked mine up as he continued.
‘In the event of contact, usual routine. We cover each other and extract back to the DC if less than halfway out or extract back to ANP Hill if that is closer. Maintain radio silence unless in contact. Any questions?’
‘No, that’s absolutely fine, sir.’
‘OK, go and tell your bhais and listen out for my signal.’
I ran straight to the accommodation block to tell Gaaz and Nani.
‘Gaaz! Nani guruji! Wake up! We’re going out.’
The two riflemen were both fast asleep, Gaaz among the jumble that constituted his bed space and Nani guruji tidy in the corner.
‘What’s that, Kailash bhai? Where are we going?’ demanded Nani, bleary-eyed.
‘The 2 i/c has to pick up the tank troop leader and bring him back to the DC.’
‘He does?’ he said, jumping up.
‘That’s great, but when? When?’ said Gaaz, fully alert. ‘I really want to take a look at those tanks. Do you think there’s any chance of a go in one?’
‘Unlikely,’ I repl
ied.
A short while later, the three of us were mounted up, engine running as the gate opened. This time, although there certainly was the ever-present danger of ambush, I felt a lot less nervous going out than usual. The thought of a troop of CVR within half a kilometre of the DC was very reassuring.
Another ten minutes and we were skidding to a halt alongside the CVRs where the troop leader sat waiting for us.
‘Say, guruji, check out the commander! Now that’s what you call a British cavalry officer,’ exclaimed Gaaz excitedly.
I saw exactly what he meant. The person whose tank the 2 i/c had pulled up next to was sitting in the turret, with a large map spread out in front of him. Giving a very relaxed wave to Mathers sahib, he climbed unhurriedly down and they shook hands. After a few moments of serious talk, the two men started laughing together and I could see that there was an instant connection between the two officers.
Later, I learned that the troop leader’s top priority was to get hold of a goat. He had heard about Gurkha goat curry and wondered if we could make one for him and his men if he supplied the animal. Unfortunately, our source had long since left Now Zad and there was no chance. In fact the ANP themselves had lately been reduced to looting the local shops, as they had completely run out of stores. But the idea appealed to the bhais a lot. It increased their good opinion of the Household Cavalry Regiment even further.
That night, as a result of the CVR patrol, we had a completely quiet time of it for the first time in almost a week, and the next day was quiet too.
The tanks remained with us for around seventy-two hours, during which time, apart from some isolated sniper fire, the enemy kept a low profile. When eventually the HCR left, we were very sorry to see them go. The good news, however, was that the 3 PARA Battlegroup was by now getting very close. Just two or three days away. We were told they would be conducting what in military terms is called a ‘relief in place’. Basically, this meant they would be clearing the town on foot and then covering our extraction out. But this had to be kept top secret. The ANP weren’t told; not even the torjeman, our interpreter, was told. And of course the local police were not told either. As a result, we had to carry on as if nothing was happening. One thing this meant was that, although we would have liked to tidy the place up properly for the Paras coming in, we couldn’t, as it would have alerted the Afghans. We had to leave things more or less as they were.
Gurkha: Better to Die than Live a Coward: My Life in the Gurkhas Page 27