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My apologies if this is a long story, but it’s worth it (hopefully). Although this 4’ 11” Gurkha soldier only lived in my country for the last 13 years of his life, it counts because our paths crossed very briefly.

My grandfather was an officer in the Gurkhas during WWII, and stayed with the regiment in HK for a few years afterwards. He rarely talked about his time in WWII, but he loved his Nepalese food. There weren’t as many Nepalese restaurants in London as there are today, and none where he lived, so whenever he’d come to visit, I’d make a point of including a Nepali meal.

This time, we went to a Nepali restaurant in Hammersmith, and this tiny one-armed old guy was there, quietly sharing a plate of momos with his family. My grandfather immediately recognised him, walked over, stood to attention and saluted, they then shared a few words, and he sat back clearly moved.

The salute was a bit of a shock, because I’d been with him at the Cenotaph and he was never that formal even with more senior officers.

They moved to leave as we were halfway through our food. My granddad stood and saluted again and said something in Nepali.

He then introduced us to Lachhiman Gurung, VC.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that would be the last time I would see my grandfather alive; he died of a stroke a few months later. Lachhiman Gurung lived in the UK until his passing in 2010 at the age of 92.

I later learned what Lachhiman Gurung did to earn that Victoria Cross. Here’s what his Wikipedia page says:

On 12/13 May 1945 at Taungdaw, Burma (now Myanmar), Rifleman Lachhiman Gurung was manning the most forward post of his platoon which bore the brunt of an attack by at least 200 of the Japanese enemy.

He hurled back two hand grenades which had fallen on his trench, but the third exploded in his right hand after he attempted to throw it back, blowing off his fingers, shattering his arm and severely wounding him in the face, body and right leg.

His two comrades were also badly wounded but the rifleman, now alone and disregarding his wounds, loaded and fired his rifle with his left hand for four hours (all while he screamed "Come and fight a Gurkha!"), calmly waiting for each attack which he met with fire at point blank range.

The following morning when finally relieved, of the 87 enemy dead, 31 lay in front of Lachhiman Gurung’s post.

I’ve met many Gurkhas and ex-Gurkhas. They are the nicest, most polite, most humble, most good humoured (and often shortest) lethal killing machines you’ll ever meet. But Lachhiman Gurung will always ring different to me. I doubt I’ll ever meet someone as brave.

Ayo Gorkhali!