3

Better to Die Than to Be a Coward

I was the human antibiotic.

Around the age of ten I contracted tuberculosis, which was a serious and worryingly common disease in Nepal, but I fought it off. Later on in life, I was diagnosed with asthma. When the doctor explained some of the long-term impacts it might cause, I thought, Yeah, no problem. Nothing was going to stop me from living my life and I was able to shake it away, later running through the woods and over long distances in school races for fun.

From an early age, I believed in the power of positive thinking; I didn’t allow myself to become poleaxed by illnesses, or chronic ailments that carried the potential to afflict other individuals for years. I felt like a human antibiotic because I’d taught myself to think that way: I trusted myself to heal. I believed. And the same attitude eventually powered me into the British military, where I had next-level resilience under pressure. It surrounded me like a force field and I soon learned that if a warrior had relentless self-belief, anything was possible. I’d need every ounce of it once installed into the Gurkhas.

The Selection process each candidate had to pass in order to join the regiment was notoriously brutal and unforgiving from the very beginning, and I’d heard all the stories from my brothers. Before anyone was even entered into Gurkha training, every applicant between the ages of seventeen and twenty-one years of age was pushed through a thorough physical and mental assessment. For example, any kid with more than four fillings was given the boot. False teeth, or even overly large gaps in the mouth, were grounds for rejection, and brains were equally as important as physical superiority.

I’d needed to pass my Nepalese School Leaving Certificate, which educationally fell somewhere between GCSEs and A-levels in Britain, though I managed that thanks to the schooling provided for me. When my time came to try out for the regiment in 2001, a retired British Gurkha – assessors were then known as Galla Wallahs – looked me over in the village. My entire body was checked; any scars would have seen me rejected, though fortunately I’d avoided picking up any nasty kickboxing injuries. But in the end, I was failed. Why exactly, I’m not sure – I passed all the physical and education assessments – though my hunch is that the assessor had taken a bit of a disliking to me.

While I was one of only eighteen applicants to have passed the physical tests, the Galla Wallah ranked me in twenty-sixth place on the final candidate list. Only twenty-five individuals were accepted into the next phase of Gurkha Selection that year and the rejection was infuriating. Demoralised, I railed against the unfairness of it all and for a little while I considered giving up on my dream of joining the regiment.

In the end, I moved past my disappointment, though I was still grumpy about it, and I was eventually successful on my second attempt a year later, quickly moving on to the next stage, Regional Selection, where I grunted my way through a series of push-ups, sit-ups and heaves before taking an English and Maths test. I was then ushered into the third and final phase, Central Selection, where the work was set to get much harder.

One of the more famous tests in the Gurkha’s Central Selection phase was the Doko Race, in which applicants were ordered to carry bamboo baskets on their head. At that time, each one was filled with thirty kilos of sand and every potential Gurkha had to complete an uphill circuit of five kilometres in under forty-eight minutes.

The running part I wasn’t so bothered about. My enthusiasm for track and field had developed into something more serious: as a year seven student, I’d helped teachers to organise a series of trials for the older kids who were hoping to represent the boarding school in regional championships. All the athletes involved were much older than me, probably by two or three years, and it was my job to outline the track with a white marker, but when the 400 metres race started, I joined in for fun. At the first turn I was near the front of the pack, but on the second I felt unstoppable and burst ahead of the frontrunners, crossing the line in first place.

My teacher grabbed me by the arm. He imagined that somehow I’d joined in mid-race as a prank.

‘Purja, where did you come from? Is this a joke?’

‘No, sir,’ I said, nervously. ‘I started with the others . . . Ask them!’

When it was confirmed that, yeah, I’d raced the other kids, fair and square, the school was left with very little choice. They’d have to thrust a year-seven pupil into a regional competition usually dominated by boys from year ten.

‘Despite your age, we’re putting you up,’ said my teacher.

I was unfazed by the pressure, but completely naive as to what was expected of me, or how to prepare. Even so, when it came to the inter-boarding-school championships, in which I was running the 4x400 metres relay, 800 metres, 2,400 metres and 5,000 metres races, I felt ready. I’d decided to race barefoot, because I believed that running shoes or spikes might weigh me down, and my only tactical thought was to ‘hang back for the first half of the race . . . then go!’ But having stuck to that one idea, I took first place in both the 800 metres and 2,400 metres events. I led my school to victory in the 4x400 metres relay, too. What must have felt like a major gamble on my school’s part had reaped rewards.

Because I was a more-than-capable athlete, that element of the Doko Race wasn’t likely to be a problem, but the bamboo basket loaded up with sand was a challenge to which I’d have to adapt, though I’d experienced some background training at least. For some reason, I’d previously taken an unorthodox approach to race preparation at school and would often sneak away from the hostel at four a.m. to run through the nearby streets, increasing the physical effort by slipping some metal rods I’d found lying around the place into an elasticated support bandage, which I then strapped to my legs. When the sun came up, I crept back to bed before anyone noticed. Hopefully that hard work would now pay off.

I was also helped by the fact that both my brothers had endured the same gruelling exam and knew what to expect. Kamal was on leave shortly before my assessment, which was taking place again in Pokhara, while Ganga, who had retired from the military in 2002, was also there. They joined me for a couple of days and together we formulated a plan.

‘OK, Nirmal, we’re going to have to intensify your preparation,’ said Kamal one afternoon, handing me a bamboo basket. He then dropped a heavy rock into it. My arms buckled a little under the load. ‘Now, get used to that weight for a bit and let’s run.’

We moved over the rough terrain of Pokhara, along the river and down steep paths, the basket on my head feeling like a ten-ton weight. The pain bit into my neck, back and calves. When we finally came to a stop, Kamal looked down at his watch. A frown creased his brow.

‘An hour, Nirmal. You’re not going to pass with a performance like that. We’ll go again tomorrow.’

The following day, I was faster, bringing my time down to fifty-five minutes. A day later, I sped along the course, completing five kilometres in just under the required time of forty-eight minutes. I was going to be fine. But when I eventually joined a Doko Race that included a large group of teens also hoping to pass through the same Central Selection as me, I looked across the line and worried a little. By all accounts, a number of them had paid a local athletics company to prepare their bodies with an intense training programme. They seemed set for qualification, some of them even had new trainers and fearsome military-style haircuts.

I needn’t have stressed. Finishing the race among the leading pack, I knew I had it within me to join the bravest military force in the world.

* * *

All the push-ups during the final physical assessments couldn’t break me. The trials involving pull-ups, sit-ups, sprints, cross-country runs or bleep tests were passed with ease – I even came first in a race held over a mile and a half. I was impervious to the mental stresses of an English or Maths test until, finally, I had been accepted as a part of the British Army and soon became a member of the Queen’s Gurkha Engineers. Within two weeks of passing Central Selection, I flew to England where I joined with the Gurkha Training Company at the Infantry Training Centre in Catterick, Yorkshire. I had never been abroad, let alone as far away as England, but the thought of integrating into such a different culture was sure to be a relatively straightforward challenge, or so I assumed.

‘No bother,’ I thought. ‘I’ve been to boarding school. My English is the shit. I’ll be fine.’

Upon arriving in January 2003, I was shocked. When our plane landed at Heathrow, it was cold. I assumed that the coach would drive us through central London on a mini sightseeing tour, where I might catch glimpses of all the famous landmarks, such as Big Ben, St Paul’s Cathedral and Buckingham Palace. Instead we hit the motorway and having reached the north of England, via a scenic route comprising sheep, hills and the occasional service station, my confidence at settling into the local culture quickly dissipated.

Firstly, the weather was awful, and the wind and rain was so strong, it seemed to be coming down sideways. Secondly, the language barrier proved problematic and entire conversations with the local lads passed me by. Even though my written English had been pretty good at school, I was absolutely lost when it came to accents. Geordies, Mancunians, Cockneys. Every dialect sounded totally alien. The very first person I met in England was from Liverpool and when I shook his hand to say hello, he responded in a thick Scouse accent. I freaked out.

I had no idea what he was saying.

My problem was that in Nepal I’d been educated purely by reading, listening and talking, but nobody had warned me about the different regional dialects. When I was thrown into real-life situations with British lads, I was at a serious disadvantage. In the first few weeks, I often drifted through conversations thinking, What the hell?

During my recruit training in Catterick, I also learned how to dress well: one of the many rules we were forced to follow was the need to be suited and booted at all times. On our first trip to the beach, my platoon even walked across the sand in bare feet, with our suit trousers rolled up and our jackets slung over our shoulders. We must have looked ridiculous to anyone passing by.

By the time it came to the business of fighting, I was more than ready, but it took me four years to get there. In a thirty-six-week Gurkha training course, I learned about the core principles of the regiment; we worked through modules on cultural training and infantry battlefield training. Once I passed the recruit training, I joined the Gurkha Engineers and I was instructed to make a trade selection, where I had to learn a skill from a list that included carpentry and plumbing. I opted to work in building and structural finishing, and for nine months I lived in Chatham, Kent, where I was taught how to plaster walls, as well as the finer intricacies of painting and decorating. The effort was dull but worthwhile, and I knew that if life didn’t work out for me in the military, I’d have a handy profession to fall back on.

Later, I learned all the skills required of a combat engineer and embarked on a series of field exercises. Having eventually completed the thirteen-week All Arms Commando Course at the Commando Training Centre Royal Marines in Lympstone, Devon, I was deployed in Afghanistan in 2007 as part of Operation Herrick – a twelve-year strategy in place to maintain a military presence within the country, while keeping an eye on any terrorist activities the Taliban might have been orchestrating. Helping the locals to build a new government was also one of our briefs, but the work was hard-core.

At times, it was my role to sweep vast areas of land for improvised explosive devices (IEDs). On operations, the Royal Marines Commandos would often go in first, and having detected a suspected trigger device, my team was then tasked with clearing the area, pinpointing exactly where the bomb had been positioned before dismantling it. Our unit was then able to move forward safely as a whole. The work was always intense, because one misstep might see me blown to pieces, and also there was a speed element to everything we did. There was no time to dawdle in exposed land, as the enemy might strike at any moment.

For the most part I was assigned to work with 40 Commando, the Royal Marines’ battalion-sized ‘formation’. One of the joint operational tasks was to move from door to door on patrols, checking for ammo and weapons, or Taliban drug stashes. I was a very loyal soldier and proud of the Gurkhas’ reputation within the British military – I would have done anything to defend it. I was also incredibly respectful to the Queen and the Crown – they meant everything to me. But I wasn’t afraid of speaking my mind.

During one operation, I’d been charged with sweeping an enemy compound for booby-traps and since my unit wasn’t standing out in the open at the time, it seemed best to take extra care. I was eager not to miss a spot. But over my shoulder, I sensed a commander watching me. His impatience was building.

‘Purja, hurry up,’ he said. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Yeah, I could hurry up,’ I said. ‘Maybe, I could just skip this and say, “Job done!” But the reason I’m doing this properly is because I don’t want the Gurkhas to be blamed for missing any IEDs. It’s not only about me . . .’

I also hadn’t appreciated my commander’s suggestion that something was wrong. Was he insinuating that I’d been too scared to work quickly? The reality, having walked around the room, aware a bomb might go off at any second, was that, yeah, I’d been a little edgy – I wasn’t crazy. But fear didn’t play a role in my world, even in Afghanistan.

‘You think I’m fucking frightened of this?’ I continued, dropping the Vallon detector we used to locate bombs and mines, and walking around the room, unfazed. ‘My life doesn’t mean anything here. But reputation does. That’s why I’m doing this job properly.’

‘Oh . . .,’ said my commander. He seemed too taken aback to bollock me for insubordination.

It didn’t take me long to develop a respect for the Royal Marine Commandos during my time in Afghanistan. I loved their ethos. They were super-soldiers, but they were humble too, which I appreciated. While I had plenty of self-belief and confidence, I wasn’t a fan of the overpowering ego – the Big I Am. Whenever we were caught up in gun battles together, there was a respect between both groups.

Often in those situations it was the Gurkhas’ job to provide close combat support and we’d be called in to attach L9 bar mines to the doors of enemy compounds. Originally designed as an anti-tank land mine, these explosive devices were also useful for removing obstacles; they could blow through the thick walls so common in Afghanistan without too much trouble. My job was to creep up to a door, fix the mine, run away and . . . BOOM! The unit then pushed into the smoking hole to clear up any enemy fighters engaging us from the other side.

On other occasions, I was deployed with a light machine gun (LMG). I’d rise at 4 a.m., patrolling through open valleys in the desert to make our presence known to anyone watching nearby; my unit would then wander through the towns and villages in the baking heat, checking in with the friendly locals, while taking pot shots from the not-so-friendly. The work was stressful, but rewarding. When the weapons went off, the adrenaline surged through me.

My day-to-day life was about the battle, and the risks were clearly defined. Somebody had to die, which was unfortunate, and at some point that person might be me, but I was ready for it. And I always wanted to go above and beyond. At times I’d hear stories about operations that were going on away from the realms of our deployment: hostage rescue jobs, hard arrests on serious Taliban players and door-kicking raids, all of them performed by the Special Air Service (SAS), or Special Boat Service (SBS). These shadowy regiments made up the UK Special Forces and as far as I was concerned, their work represented a step up, even on the Gurkhas. When I’d first learned about them at Catterick, I was impressed.

Wow. I want to be one of those guys.

I loved being a soldier, but I liked the idea of being top of the league even more, and the Special Forces were very much the elite. So, towards the end of 2008, I sized up my options, learning that the SBS was aligned to the Royal Marines, and the SAS to the British Army. I initially registered my interest in joining the SAS and looked into the squadron’s modus operandi and application requirements. I was impressed. They operated across land, sea and air. But then a mate gave me a little more intel on the SBS. Apparently, they were even more badass.

‘These guys do parachute jumps, they fight on land, and on the water,’ he said. ‘It’s everything the SAS does, but they dive and swim in combat, too.’

Having worked with the Royal Marines in Afghanistan, I knew I’d blend in well, mentally at least, and shortly afterwards I attended an SBS briefing course. My application to join UK Special Forces Selection, the intense, six-month-long test that separated those soldiers with the minerals to join the group from the ones without, was accepted in 2008. After six years with the Gurkhas, I was moving on. My moment to join the military elite had arrived.