"I was a Lance Corporal in the 1st Battalion of the 7th Gurkha Rifles, posted to the Falklands during the 1982 war with Argentina.
I arrived in Port San Carlos on 1st June 1982. We marched to Bluff Cove and a place called Wether Ground, with 60 kg (just under 9.5 stone) packs and supplies on our back. We had to march in freezing temperatures, in biting wind, and sometimes at 14 below zero. It was unbelievably cold. The march lasted for 3 days. We would march each day for 10 to 12 hours, with short breaks. I was "B Company's" Detachment Commander. I was responsible for the GPMG-SF "General Purpose Machine Gun - Sustained Fire", which is a heavy (24 lbs) 7.62 mm machine gun. It can fire up to 750 rounds per minute, over a distance of up to 1800 metres (1.1 miles). As well as being used by infantry in the field (being operated by 2 men on a tripod), the GPMG-SF is sometimes mounted on helicopters and armoured vehicles. I was tasked to use this weapon to support and protect British and Gurkha troop positions, and lay down suppressive fire in case of Argentinean counter-attacks en route to Port Stanley. In addition to the weight of the GPMG-SF, me and the 9 Gurkhas under my command had to carry heavy rounds of ammunition. Like me, there were 2 other Gurkhas specially trained in the use of the GPMG-SF.
On the 10th June, the night before I was wounded, we took in-coming artillery fire from Argentinean positions at Sapper Hill, close to Port Stanley. The artillery was being fired from the Argentine guns approximately 15,000 metres from our location (approximately 9.3 miles away). Luckily, on that occasion the artillery rounds went over the tops of our heads and exploded some metres away. No-one was hurt during this attack. However, this is the first time I had suffered a full-scale bombardment in the battlefield. My Company made a tactical withdrawal to safer ground, in case the Argentinean spotters moved the artillery fire closer to our positions. We dug-in and made trenches. It was very hard work. Just below the sticky, muddy surface were large rocks, and as we dug we got down to the water table. We therefore stood in trenches filled with freezing water, which covered our mud filled boots. However, the Gurkha's trenches were so good that even 10 years later, during military exercises on the Falklands, British soldiers reported that they were still there and intact.
On the morning of 11th June 1982, I recall that it was again bitterly cold. We were securing our trench positions around Bluff Cove when I heard a whizzing, whistling noise in the sky above me. I immediately recognised that it was another round of in-coming Argentinean artillery fire. Two rounds exploded close to us, but none of my men was injured as we took shelter. It was very much like a scene from the First World War, as we sheltered in and around our muddy, waterlogged trenches. I then heard the familiar whistle of another in-coming artillery round. This time, the round exploded some 5 to 6 metres (15 to 20 feet) from me and my men. All that I can remember of the initial explosion was a massive bang that immediately deafened me (I was subsequently left deafened for about 10 minutes). The air was taken out of my lungs and I found it hard to breathe. Everything went black and I could not see. I was totally disorientated. I was confused and my head was spinning.
Initially I did not feel any pain, though I remember smelling smoke and burning flesh. I think that I was knocked out or stunned by the artillery shell's impact. I began looking around to see if my men were hurt, but I could not move. I could see that the left side of my camouflaged uniform was torn and was now smothered in dark red blood. One of my fellow Gurkhas shouted at me, but I could not hear him as I was temporarily deafened. The soldier was pointing to my back. I noticed that my uniform was torn, smouldering and singed. I used my hand to smother any smouldering cloth, as I thought I might catch fire. It was then that I noticed the left side of my back had been torn out by shrapnel from the artillery round. I tried to crawl, but I just could not move. I was incapacitated and was, by now, smothered in my blood. In addition I had sustained a shrapnel laceration to my right shoulder, but this was less serious than the life threatening wound to my left lumber region.
It was at this point I was absolutely convinced that I would die. I knew that I was badly wounded and I thought of Pashupatinath Temple, which is the most sacred Hindu Temple in the world. The Temple is in Kathmandu, in my homeland of Nepal. I knew that if I thought of this temple, as I lay dying on the battlefield, I would definitely go to heaven.
However, my thoughts of a quick death were soon shattered. Within seconds, another Argentinean artillery round whistled across the sky and I knew that we were under attack from 4th artillery round being driven in to our sector. The round landed only 2 metres (12 feet) from me and my colleagues. However, it was our good fortune that the round did not explode. All 9 of my men would have been killed had the shell exploded that close to us. I recall, as I lay in a pool of my own blood, that I looked at the dud artillery shell and could see 155 mm on the side of it. I thought to myself, at least now I know what type of artillery the Argentineans are using against us, and what precisely had wounded me.
As I looked around, I could see that the shell that had cut me down had also wounded 2 of my Gurkha comrades. One of my Gurkhas had his face, neck, and hair smothered in blood. Pieces of shrapnel had hit his helmet and gone through the rear of it. Luckily, the velocity of the shrapnel was slowed down sufficiently by the helmet, so that he was not mortally wounded. I think if he had not been wearing his helmet, however, the shrapnel would have definitely ripped his head off. I then noticed another of my men, lying on the ground holding his leg. He had taken shrapnel just above one of his knees (I cannot remember which knee, as I was drifting in and out of consciousness by this time). My comrade’s leg; his combat trouser leg; and his boot were smothered in thick red blood.
I told those of my men who were not injured to retreat to safe positions to protect themselves from the continuing artillery barrage. It was clear the Argentineans had gotten our range by now. I then think I went unconscious. However, I think it took about 15 to 20 minutes for a British Army ambulance with a large red cross on the side, to make its way to us in the field. I later found out that the British Army could not call in helicopter support to us, as there were no helicopters available at that precise moment.
By the time the army ambulance arrived, I was in severe pain and had lost a lot of blood. It was like someone had driven a 2 kg (4.5 lb) sledgehammer through the side of my back. I simply cannot describe the pain, as it was so unbearable. However, I noticed that neither my men nor I were screaming or shouting by this stage. I think we had all accepted, which is typical of Gurkhas, that we were going to die honourably on the battlefield.
I remember an Army Medic rushing over to me. He immediately gave me morphine, and within minutes the pain eased. When you are given morphine, they mark an "M" on your forehead so the surgeons know not to give you more when you arrive at the field hospital. I never got to thank this man properly, but I owe him my life. The medics lifted me, semi-conscious, onto a stretcher. I remember that the stretcher filled up with my blood, so much so that it was coloured dark red by the time they rushed me to Fitzroy Field Hospital where surgeons began to save my life.
I feel the British Army surgeons who operated on me were the finest in the world. They had to work on terrible injuries, including my own. Despite the battlefield situation, they did everything they could to save my life and the lives of my fellow British army comrades who were also dying around me.
When I recovered, the surgeons gave me the piece of artillery shrapnel which they had removed from my back. The shard of jagged steel was approximately 6 cm by 2 cm. I now keep the shrapnel piece as special memento of the day I nearly died during the Falklands War."
Cont…
"Some time later, I learned that during my lifesaving surgery in Fitzroy Field Hospital, in order to cover the hole in my back caused by the artillery round, I received a graft of muscle and skin from a British soldier. I assume the soldier had just died at Fitzroy Field hospital that same morning, and that this man had given the gift of life to me by his sacrifice on the battlefield. I still think and wonder who that soldier was, and I regret he lost his life the same day that my life hung in the balance. It is ironic that when British Embassy in Kathmandu refused my application to come and live in the UK and receive medical treatment, they said that I "did not have strong ties to the UK". I have since thought to myself that I am literally part-British, because a fallen British soldier's skin and muscle was grafted to me in order to save my life, on 11 June 1982.
I was subsequently taken back to the UK for more intensive surgery. I had 2 further major operations on my wounds. I was in constant pain at the time, and still have considerable pain today. In fact, part of my left side is now slightly paralysed and numbed due to my wounds. I was told that when I went back to Nepal, I would get army medical treatment. However, I have never had any medical treatment from the army, in Nepal. I cannot always get the painkillers and medications I need, and to be honest I cannot afford the medical treatment. Even though I served in the British Army for 13 years, being discharged with "exemplary" conduct, I am 2 years under the 15 years required to receive a British Army pension. Therefore, life is very, very hard for me even though I have given my all for Britain and did my duty without question.
When I was required to leave my army service, my wife was pregnant and we were not allowed to stay at the Regimental Barracks in Hong Kong. I had to return to Nepal without any pension or income. We were so poor that we could not live in the town of Dharan, which was then the main British Gurkha recruitment camp for Nepal and a place to find work. My wife and I returned to my remote village, called Bhojpur. There was no hospital in that village, nor were there any medical facilities close to our village. Shortly after my army retirement, my wife gave a birth to our child at our home in the mountains. Unfortunately, during childbirth all the afterbirth did not come out. My wife became very sick, and I was forced to try and take her to a nearby airport to see if there would be someone to give her first aid or medical treatment. I carried my sick wife for 6 hours on foot, carrying her on basket on my back, to Tumlingar Airport. Sadly, my wife died on the way to the Airport. My heart was broken, but I could not give up, as I had to support my young children.
As I did not have any income, following my discharge from the British Army and the death of my wife, I was so poor that I went to Iraq and worked illegally and earned some money to send back to my children in Nepal. I ran a great risk working illegally in Iraq. I arrived in Iraq on 12 January 2004 and worked there for 22 months until 31 October 2005. I provided private security to the British Army in Bazra, and also security for the Iraqi Prime Minister and governmental complex in Baghdad. I then returned back to Nepal, because I missed my family. I now scrape a living in Nepal, and I am humiliated by having to borrow money from local loan sharks.
I do not want to come to Britain for any charity, as all Gurkhas are honourable people. I do not want to take anything from a country which I love and fought for. I applied to live in the UK so that I could get medical treatment for my wounds and to help stop the nightmares which I still suffer as a result the horrors I saw in the Falklands. It would be a great honour for me to live and work hard amongst the British people, but sadly the British Embassy in Kathmandu do not think I am worthy of such an honour. It is heartbreaking that the British Embassy has forgotten that I nearly died in battle, fighting alongside brave men of the British Army that day in 1982."
Cont…
"My father was Hasta Bahadur Rai. During the Second World War, he answered Britain's call for help and joined the 10th Gurkha Rifles. My father was seriously wounded attacking a Japanese position in Burma. He sustained a rifle bullet wound just below his right knee, fired from the rifle of a Japanese solider defending an enemy position. My father was so badly wounded that he spent 2 1/2 years in hospital in India (then part of the British Empire). For the rest of his life, my father walked with a stick and was badly crippled. However, I can still remember how proud my father was of his Burma Star, which was awarded to him by Britain. I know that my father would be deeply proud of me, and that I too have fought for the British people and the honour of the Gurkha Regiments"
Cont…:-
"It was a family tradition to be a Gurkha. In Nepal it is always a great honour for our finest men to fight for and protect Britain. My family always viewed Britain as a great Empire and the home of democracy. My family knew that if we joined the British Army we could be proud to say that we served as Gurkhas. Also, our lives would be fundamentally different being part of such a great country and great army. I would have no hesitation in joining the Gurkhas again and would still be willing to lay down my life for the British people, as I was willing to do on the battlefields of the Falklands in 1982.
I have heard of the British peoples' support for my fellow Gurkha veteran, Mr Tul Bahadur Pun VC, and their support for all the Gurkhas. I am very grateful that the British people have not forgotten us, especially those of us Gurkhas who are now in need of Britain's help.
Lance Corporal Gyanendra Rai 1/7th GRG (Rtd)"