Few years before i had a chance to make small research about gorkha rifles in ieper
for that check gorkharifles dot zoomshare dot com

reading that story one of my friend rene was interested to write one story about gorkha rifles ,who came Ieper (belgium ) during first world war and died here i hope you all like this story ,


He’s only a pawn in their game…
(Bob Dylan).




FOG.





Since in Nepal a popular uprising against a corrupt dynasty finally made the world’s press (an uprising fought by government troops with weapons supplied by Belgium – a present to his Walloon electorate from ex-Minister Louis Michel, then of Foreign Affairs, now European Commissioner for Development and Humanitarian Aid), I want to tell a story about two Nepalese brothers.
The story is set about a century ago, and again Belgium plays an important part in it, but this time, not by its own choice.


***


Their mother, Laxmi, was the most beautiful woman of their hill. That was according to Kul bahadur, their father, and as more often than not in esthetical matters, he was right. Laxmi was twenty one, she already had a daughter, who was now two years old. As soon as Laxmi felt movement in her womb she knew she would give birth to twins, two boys. She already loved them now, and therefore, during her pregnancy, she was often sad for them : the brothers would live together, but one will survive the other, and that sadness will be unbearable for the one who survives. Laxmi knew this already now. Kul bahadur, the father, knew nothing of her thoughts, because she did not bother him with them.
Kul bahadur was the furniture maker and artist of the hill. They lived at the tree line of their hill (in Nepal, everything below a height of five thousand meters is called a hill – Nepalese people think it is funny that differences in elevation of barely a hundred meters are given a name in flat countries). When Kul bahadur went down to search for wood because he had an order for furniture, he sometimes stayed away for days. He searched with patience and love for the tree which seemed the most fit for the task at hand : a table, a bed, a door. He talked to the tree, introduced himself, explained patiently to the tree why it was that he was chosen and not his neighbor, how he would look like later, and how he would be treated with love and respect, and would in this way be able to serve for generations.
When he felt that the tree agreed with him he looked for help in the village, and with combined forces they would remove the chosen one from his old environment, and bring him to his new one. A good tree would furnish sufficient wood to satisfy the requirements of Kul bahadur for a long time.
Laxmi also contributed to the family income : her mother had taught her a lot of useful things, but the most useful was the weaving of wool. That was also Laxmi’s preferred occupation. Just like her husband talked to his tree, so Laxmi told the sheep, goats, and yaks what purpose their wool would have : warm clothes for children, bedspreads for the cold winters.
Life on their hill was good, and beneath them the world was leading its own existence, at a different rhythm and with other means. They knew up there at the tree line some of what was happening in the world, and also had their own opinion about that, but they did not feel very involved with the modern times. Beneath them the air was heavier, people were more difficult, there were many reasons for them to stay where life was good.
Only Laxmi was sometimes concerned, she was the mother, and what she heard about the world she often found inconceivable, and the inconceivable made her scared and suspicious. She would not express her suspicion in words, but sometimes Kul bahadur could tell from the color of her weaving, or the patterns she put into it, that something bothered her. He did not talk with her about it, because he knew it would not help, but tried to make the object he was working on even more beautiful and perfect than normal, and in that way to bring the world around them back into balance.

....... to be continue

On the eighteenth of April, 1897, one night after the full moon, the twins are born. They already have names : the oldest will be called Manbir, the youngest Dilu. Bingo, here’s Manbir. A loud cry from mother and child, and he is ready for the world. Dilu makes life more difficult for himself. When Mandir is already peacefully asleep, and resting from his emotions, Dilu is still fighting for a way out. Only at daybreak Dilu emerges, hesitating and distrustful. He would have preferred to stay longer where he was, but he is curious, and looking for his brother. But finally here they are, both, and Laxmi can be satisfied and close her eyes and rest. Kul bahadur squats in front of the house, and looks at the sky. He imagines a peaceful future for his sons : Manbir, the eldest, will be a carpenter, and help his father; Dilu, the youngest, will be a shepherd, and provide wool for Laxmi, the mother.
Then, also Kul bahadur can go to bed.


*


Now they grow up.
The mother and the father guide them almost imperceptibly to their future. Kul bahadur takes the oldest on his back with him, to the woods. He introduces him to the trees, and tells him about their qualities and gifts. Or Manbir sleeps at the workplace when his father is busy, and the father gently tells the boy the secrets of his craft, and repeats them, day after day, year after year. Unnoticed and without much effort Manbir becomes the carpenter, from toddler to child. He knows the trees by name, and takes care of the tools of the father, so that they can be useful for generations.
The mother keeps Dilu, the youngest, with her, and tells him everything about wool, and about spinning and weaving. He runs with her through the meadows, between sheep and goats, and learns their names, and helps with the milking and shearing.
Their lives run in harmony with the seasons and the environment. The yearly feasts, at which neighbors and relatives visit each other after days of traveling, are connected to the seasons. Only during winter do they hardly see anybody, the paths and crossings are sometimes hard to find, and life then mostly is happening indoor. In the course of the years, three more girls are born.

During one of the family reunions, the father talks to the smith of the area, and orders the blade for a kukri. He wants the best and most beautiful knife in the area, and will make the handle himself. The kukri is for Manbir. The father does not like the knife, but he knows that his son will be entitled to it, and will claim it. The kukri is the knife of the Gorkha warrior, and wants to see blood. The father had never had any use for his, and is glad for it. But he reads the character of his son, and knows that he will want to assert himself, to the other young men of the hill, and to himself.
The mother asks the father to find a bamboo branch, and wants for Dilu a flute, a basuri. This will help him to while away the time when he is with the flock, and it will serve as a peaceful counterweight to Manbir’s weapon.

From time to time strange visitors come to the hill, from Pokhara, or Gorkha, some times even from the capital, Kathmandu. These are men trading goods, they sell beautiful things from the town, and want money in return, or even better, woolen clothes and fine furniture, made by Kul bahadur and Laxmi. The men sell those things further on, and the finest of them end up in the houses of the Brits, who have taken the kingdoms of Nepal and Gorkha, and want to bring future and prosperity to them. Brits have never been seen at the hill, but they hear stories about them : they are tall and skinny, with fire arms and great power, and their women are dressed in wide robes and great hats.
Once a year, a representative of the British army comes visiting the hill. He is a Nepali, and is called the Galla. The Galla looks up the families with sons of fifteen, sixteen years old, and recruits for the Gorkha army, which now belongs to the British army in Nepal and India.
This year, Manbir and Dilu are old enough to be recruited. Manbir wants to show off, and prove his manhood. The father, Kul bahadur, watches and sees how the boy neglects his future as a carpenter, he wants to be a warrior, he hears the heroic stories about the Gorkha regiment at the family reunions, and wants to be recruited as soon as possible. He does not walk from to tree to tree to find the best and finest, but runs all day through the hills, and measures himself against the speed of clouds and animals. His kukri never leaves him, but is still virgin. The kukri has become part of him : he talks with it, as Kul bahadur, his father, talks to the trees.
In the summer of 1913 his patience is rewarded : the recruiting officer of the 4th Gorkha Rifles Regiment comes to the hill, and invites a dozen sixteen year olds into the tent. Manbir is one of them. He succeeds brilliantly in the recruiting test, and is invited to military training in Gorakhpur. If he succeeds there he may go to Lahore, and later maybe even to London, to guard the palace of the King. In the evening he returns to the house on the hill. Kul bahadur, the father, and Laxmi, the mother, already are waiting for him. Dilu, the younger brother, and the sisters are outside with the animals.
Manbir tells his parents about the decision he made, and they accept it. For him there is no other way : he has outgrown the hill and wants to serve the army and see the world. Then he goes to look for Dilu, and also tells him of his decision.

The next morning not only Manbir leaves, armed with the finest kukri on the entire hill. Dilu is with him, but carries no weapon. He is convinced that he can serve the army as well with his basuri as his brother can with the kukri. Together with some other boys from the hill they join the recruiting officer. The same day, they leave for Gorakhpur. All have solemnly declared to the Galla that they are eighteen years old, the Brits want it that way.

....... to be continue

I didn't read your post but I know that the Gorkhas are the more dreaded and fearsome soldiers in the world. They are too loyal...that is why Nepal is still an independent state...that is why Britishers won some vital battles in WWII, that is why India has won many battles...

but what did Britishers and Indians give us in return...they helped terrorists to plunder our country.

Post the

main source link to read....

There is no doubt about Gurkhas bravery and their fierce deeds. Gurkhas fought many wars for many interests and non of them were for Nepal's interest. So quit praising gurkhas deals. 200,000 gurkhas died in WWII and none of them knew what they were fighting for. They were loyal servants to Brits and Indians. There was no national pride on that. All Nepali are brave. Nepali Army is brave, Maoists are brave, Gurkhas in Indian Army are also brave and Gurkhas in middle east, UN, UK are also brave. But Gurkhas who died in WWI and WWII are not the cause for our national pride. So quit sending wrong message to us. It was a national misfortune that hundreds and thousands of our forefathers died for someone else's cause. Please lets not take pride in that.

The training takes three months, and when winter starts the whole 4th Gorkha Rifles sets off for Kathmandu, and then for Karachi. The brothers have entered a new world. Never had anybody exercised any discipline over them, not even their parents. Manbir has adapted quickly, for him every step in the army is a step closer to showing himself as a master in battle, to exhibit his heroism, to use the kukri. He accepts the authority of the British officers, and does not mind obeying them without questioning the orders. His education as a carpenter seems forgotten, and instead of feeling homesick for the hill, his parents, and the sisters, he looks forward to the future.

Dilu is not interested in a military carreer. He cannot get motivated, does not care about discipline, and after the daily exercises, looks for a quiet spot where he plays the basuri until the images of his sheep, his meadows, his sisters are clearly in his mind. He is unfit for military purposes, until the sergeant one day catches him at playing the basuri, and gives him a new task in the regiment : he becomes the bugler. He does not like the simple, cold-copper instrument very much, but at least now he does not need to get involved as a real soldier into the battle. He only has to translate the orders of the officers into designated musical sounds. He tries to enliven those a bit, and in this way the morning call is sometimes friendly and inviting, or melancholic or sad.

Also English they have learned, enough to understand orders and execute them, and some recruits even learned how to write and read a few words.

On the sixteenth September 1914 they board the s/s Erinpura in Karachi, a modern ship, that leaves the stinking, hot port in an enormous cloud of black smoke, and sets off to Marseilles. The sea ! Not one of the Gorkhas could have imagined anything like this. Endless, never-ending. They are eighty four : most of them have the rank of Rifleman, some have made Corporal. Also the colonel is a Gorkha, Rana Nain Sing is his name. But the most beautiful rank is Bugler, it is unique, and especially made for Dilu. During the voyage Dilu amuses himself, and the whole crew, by practicing the signals (charge, cease fire, alarm, tattoo), but he also still plays the basuri, the high tones break the sound of the stinking engine room, and turn the men on deck restless and sad.
After the sea : the desert. The steaming trip through the Red Sea and the Suez Canal, new landscapes – the desert is baked daily in the eternal sun, movement is hardly possible, the transit takes three days, and then the stop in Port Said to take bunkers and provisions. Then, finally, again breathable air, through the Mediterranean to Marseilles. There the voyage is over. Riflemen, Bugler, officers, all of a sudden they are nervous and anxious. The continent promises war, although nothing seems to hint at it at this point. The town is one brothel, the soldiers are immediately quartered, but they are set free one evening : letting off steam after a three weeks voyage, the British authorities have understanding for that. Manbir and Dilu go into town together, totally unknown terrain. Nobody understands them, they understand nothing, nobody. In this country they have come to fight – the enemy is invisible. Here there is sunshine, a party seems to be going on all day.

The truth comes after three days in Marseilles. By train they go to Orleans, then further on to Saint Omer, then to Ypres. The front.

....... to be continue