In 1954, during the Emergency in Malaya, my father, a Regular Army Captain was posted to Singapore and I joined him in early 1955. He travelled with his unit widely throughout Malaya and I attended the Slim School, Cameron Highlands, as a boarder. It was here that I met a number of Gurkha lads, all destined to become Officers in Gurkha Regiments, and I became lifelong friends with one Jogindra Sing Gurung, better known to everyone as 'Jogin'. All the Gurkha lads were great characters, good sportsmen and you couldn't do better than to have one of them as a personal friend! I was occasionally able to visit Jogin during the school holidays when he was back with his battalion and my father was with them.

We remained friends throughout my time in Malaya until we returned home to England in September 1957. I kept in touch with him until we lost contact some years later. I was at sea in the Merchant Navy and he was busy with the Gurkhas elsewhere and it was not until 2012, that we finally regained contact.

We were able to exchange our life stories and it was pleasing to know that his education at Slim School had enabled him to do well, but he had not been selected, along with Kulraj Limbu, to attend Sandhurst. His determination to succeed was not, to me, surprising and he joined the Gurkha Engineers Regiment. Unbeknown to both of us, he had twice attended courses in military engineering at Chatham, Kent, when I had been at home on leave in Whitstable, not far away, but we had unfortunately missed each other.

Jogin earned professional awards and an M.B.E. as a result of his technical abilities and leadership and retired as a Captain. Kulraj Limbu retired as a Major, and Phatteh Bahahdur Limbu retired as a Lt. General. All live in Kathmandu. Not bad achievements for those with a British Forces schooling background, but, lets face it, they are Gurkhas!

This is not a story of mutual combat experience, but one of lasting friendship and respect for the Gurkhas. I and many other ex Slim School students have never forgotten our time at school with them.

The last time I spoke to Jogin was on hearing of the devastating earthquake in Nepal. I phoned him,but I forgot the time difference and a lasting memory will always be - "You do know it's three o'clock in the morning here, don't you?"

Communication with Nepal is very poor. Letters aren't delivered, the phones and email don't work and, sadly, I have lost all contact with him again. If I learned one thing from him it was to keep trying.

Mike Battson

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I was aware of the Gurkhas & their reputation for service, loyalty & bravery from my time in the WRAC TA. It wasn't until I went to Sandhurst two years ago for the ACF IOT course that I met any Gurkha soldiers. I found them very professional & charming. We were then hit by the pandemic & I saw the Gurkhas testing people & giving vaccine jabs in this country. When I read about the effects of Covid in Nepal I felt such sympathy for these men who were giving jabs here whilst their own families were dying in Nepal as the country couldn't afford the vaccines. I felt I had to do something. I can't influence this Government myself but I can give something to try to help even a little. I have also been telling family, friends & colleagues in the hope that they may also give to the GWT. I feel that we owe the Ghurkas so much for their amazing loyalty to this country & their 13 VCs that it's the least we should be doing for them.
Helen Forster
Gurkhas have been an important part of my family’s life. Their training depot had been moved to Sungei Patani in Northern Malaya, a few miles from Sungei Toh Pawang estate, after Indian Independence in 1947, when the Brigade was split between the Indian and British armies. The depot received the young men who had passed the extremely competitive selection process and turned them into soldiers. St Philip and St James’ church, which we attended every Sunday evening, was next to the depot and our services took place to the background of young recruits running, marching or just chatting. The first school I attended was an Army infants’ school next to the parade ground, and lessons echoed to shouted drill instructions. Gurkhas occupy a special place in the British Army and wider society. Nepal has never been part of the British Empire, and its citizens who chose to join the British Army did so without their families. Until recently they used to return to Nepal at the end of their service as honoured pensioners. Now they have been given the right to settle in the UK, as is right, but their service to Britain has always been given freely and voluntarily. This has been the case since they were first invited to do so at the end of a battle with the British Indian Army in the mid-19th C. In the disaster of Singapore in 1941 the Gurkhas were the only part of the Indian Army contingent not to suffer wholesale desertions, and they suffered badly at the hands of the Japanese army. In the Malayan Emergency they constituted a high proportion of the Commonwealth forces and proved very skilled at jungle warfare, particularly ambushes, which would be set for hours at a time, requiring soldiers to lie still and silent for all that time. They were fearless and lethal in close quarters combat, using their traditional kukri weapon- half knife, half machete. The knowledge that a Gurkha battalion was in the area was by 1955 a powerful incentive to defect for the sometimes demoralised MRLA fighters. As local Europeans our family would always be invited to the two parades which marked the end of the training for Gurkha recruits at the Depot. These were Beating the Retreat and the Passing out Parade. Beating the Retreat is a traditional British Army ritual, commemorating the days when a regiment’s standard was paraded in front of it at sunset so that the soldiers could see it before nightfall. The recruits would parade in their companies behind their British officers in white uniforms and the Depot band, including bagpipes (the Gurkhas had been taught to play the pipes by the Highlanders they had first fought against) as the sun went down. The next morning, invited guests took their seats at dawn for the Passing out Parade and the recruits would march out of the dawning sunrise, using the Light Infantry quick march they have always used as British troops, and march past a senior officer who had been invited to take the salute. This was the climax of their training and a huge moment for their British officers, this morning dressed in khaki drill shirts and enormous shorts. Legend had it that the shorts would be starched and ironed the previous evening by their batmen and placed standing in the corner of the officer’s bedroom. He would then step into them the following morn. As the British Army has contracted, the numbers of Gurkhas have diminished, until now there are only two infantry battalions, together with signals, logistics and engineers units. Still the passion and commitment of these soldiers burns as brightly as ever, and the competition to get into the British Army is as tough as ever. Today, recruit selection in Nepal is held jointly with the Singapore Police Force, whose Gurkha Contingent performs guard functions and acts as an emergency reserve in case of civil unrest. And as the British Army has struggled to recruit even the limited number of soldiers it now needs; a third battalion of Gurkhas has been raised. It was our privilege as a family in 1996 to welcome three young Gurkha soldiers to our house for lunch when they were stationed as part of a reinforcement Company filling manpower gaps in a British regiment stationed near our home. Immaculately dressed, polite and cheerful, they made a fuss of our young children and gave Tom (aged 6) a present of a kukri, the curved knife/machete which is their symbol. He was well impressed, and for a long time there were carefully controlled viewings and handlings of the kukri, along the lines of their demonstrations. They taught him their war-cry, too: “Ayo Gurkhali!”- The Gurkhas are coming.
Roland Crooke