Nov. 10th, 2014

alexpgp: (Default)
Semper fidelis.
alexpgp: (Corfu!)
I recall attending the 200th USMC "Birthday Ball," held—was it really almost four decades ago?—at a USMC reserve center in the Bronx, in New York (or would that be "The Bronx," with a capital "T"?). And I recall that that the Guest of Honor at said affair was a rather diminutive, bespectacled, bewhiskered gent in kilts, who was introduced to those of us assembled as a retired Sergeant Major of "Princess Louise's Own Ghurka Rifles," a unit designation that likely holds no significance for nearly all civilians, and likely holds little meaning for "zero information" members of the military.

Their loss.

At the time, my knowledge of the Ghurka was not that extensive. I merely knew that "Ghurkas" came from a similarly named district in Nepal, and that generations of young Ghurkas had served in the British armed forces. They enjoy a deserved reputation for being fairly tough hombres, and are distinguished by their distinctive khukuri knives, which are given to them when they leave their Nepalese villages with the understanding that said knives would never be returned to their sheathes unblooded.

I recall a news report from several years ago that related what happened when a band of robbers stopped a train in West Bengal to rob the passengers, and then attempted to rape an 18-year old girl in front of her parents while a "retired" Ghurka corporal sat a few feet away.

Said corporal is reported to have drawn his khukuri, killing three of the robbers outright and wounding eight others, which caused the rest of the band (something on the order of 30 individuals) to write the enterprise off as a very bad deal and flee.

Ticking off Ghurkas is not conducive to long life.

* * *
The remaining details of that Birthday Ball are dim. As dim, sadly, as my memory is today of an 'absent comrade' I knew as "Dippy," whose life was snuffed out in June '71 in Vietnam.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

—Mary Frye (1932)
Peace.

Cheers...

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