"NALAPANI":
My unit arrived at the base of the hill where the fort stood. Orders came down to take it fast, before the enemy could dig in deeper. I gripped my musket tighter as we formed lines, listening to the officers shout commands. Captain Ellis turned to me and a few others. "Stay close, lads. These Gorkhas fight like animals, but our numbers will crush them."
We advanced up the slope, boots sinking into the soft earth. Cannon fire boomed from our side, shells exploding against the fort's walls. Smoke filled the air, making it hard to see. General Gillespie rode ahead on his horse, waving his sword. "Forward! For the King!" he yelled.
Shots rang out from above. Men around me dropped, clutching their chests or legs. A bullet whistled past my ear. I ducked behind a rock, reloading as fast as I could. Private Hawkins crouched next to me. "Did you see that? They're picking us off like birds."
"Keep moving," I whispered back. "We have to reach the walls."
Another wave pushed forward. I ran with them, heart racing from the effort. As we got closer, figures appeared on the ramparts. Small men in simple uniforms, but their eyes burned with fury. They hurled stones and fired arrows. One arrow hit the man next to me in the shoulder. He screamed and fell back.
General Gillespie charged right up to the gate, rallying us. "Break through here!" he called. But then a shot cracked, and he slumped over his horse, blood pouring from his head. Chaos erupted. Officers shouted to retreat, but some kept pushing.
That night, we camped at the bottom, tending wounds. Doctor Reeves bandaged my arm where a stone had cut it. "Lucky it's not worse," he said. "I saw what those blades do up close once. They call them kukris—curved knives that slice clean through bone."
I couldn't sleep. Sounds came from the hill—drums beating slow and steady, voices chanting in a language I didn't know. It made my skin crawl. Were they planning to come down on us?
Next day, we tried again. Artillery pounded the fort all morning. Walls crumbled in places, but the defenders rebuilt fast. Colonel Mawby, now in charge, gathered us. "We'll storm from three sides. Carpenter's group east, Ludlow west, main force center. No mercy."
I was in the center group. We climbed under cover fire. As we neared, the Gorkhas leaped over the broken walls. They moved like shadows, silent at first, then yelling war cries that echoed through the valley. One rushed at me, kukri raised high. His face was smeared with dirt, eyes wide. I fired my musket, but it missed. He swung, and I blocked with my bayonet. Metal clanged. He was strong, pushing me back.
"Help!" I shouted to Hawkins nearby. Hawkins bayoneted the man from the side. The Gorkha fell, but not before slashing Hawkins's leg deep. Blood sprayed. Hawkins collapsed, gasping. "It burns... get me out."
I dragged him down the slope as more Gorkhas swarmed. Bodies piled up—ours mostly. Limbs twisted in wrong ways, faces frozen in pain. One officer lay with his throat cut open, eyes staring blank. The smell of blood and gunpowder choked me.
We pulled back again, losing hundreds. That evening, around the fire, men whispered fears. "They're not human," said Private Yates. "How do six hundred hold off thousands?"
"They're cornered," Captain Ellis replied. "But cornered rats bite hardest."
Days turned into weeks. We surrounded the fort, cutting supplies. No food or reinforcements for them. Our cannons kept firing, chipping away. But at night, small groups of Gorkhas slipped out, raiding our camps. I'd wake to screams—sentries found with throats slit, silent kills in the dark.
One raid hit close. I was on watch with Yates. We heard rustling. "Who's there?" Yates called soft.
No answer. Then a shape lunged from the bushes. A Gorkha with a kukri. He grabbed Yates, blade to his neck. I raised my musket, but the man hissed in broken English, "Quiet, or both die."
Yates struggled. "Please, no..."
I shot. The Gorkha jerked back, but his blade nicked Yates's arm. More came—three others. We fought hand to hand. I stabbed one with my bayonet, felt it sink in. Warm blood on my hands. The others fled when alarms sounded.
Yates clutched his wound. "He was so close... I saw his smile."
After that, sleep came harder. Every shadow looked like an enemy. We starved them out, but it felt like they haunted us.
Then came the water trick. Scouts found their stream outside the walls. Colonel Mawby ordered it blocked and guarded. "Thirst will break them," he said.
For three days, nothing. No attacks, no sounds. We thought they weakened. On the fourth, the fort gate creaked open. Out came the survivors—maybe seventy, led by their captain, Balbhadra. Thin, ragged, but weapons ready.
They marched straight to the stream, ignoring our lines. Rifles aimed at them. An officer shouted, "Halt! Surrender!"
Balbhadra looked at him, calm. In halting words, "Water first. Then fight."
Our men parted, stunned. They drank deep, filling canteens. No one fired—orders held. After, Balbhadra raised his kukri. "Now, we go."
They charged our weakest point. Gunfire erupted. I aimed and shot one, but they cut through like a blade. Screams mixed with clashes. A Gorkha reached me, swinging wild. I parried, but his kukri grazed my side, pain sharp.
"Fall back!" someone yelled.
They broke free, vanishing into the hills. We took the empty fort, but it felt hollow. Bodies inside—women, children among the dead from our shells. The smell of decay hit hard.
Later, we built stones to mark the spot, for our fallen and theirs. Bravery like that... it sticks. But those nights, those blades flashing, the eyes that never flinched—they visit my dreams still. War changes a man, but that siege carved fear deep inside.
We moved on, but part of me stayed on that hill, watching for shadows that might return.
"AFTERMATH":
With the Gorkhas gone, vanished into the misty hills like smoke, we stood there for a moment, rifles still smoking. Colonel Mawby wiped sweat from his brow and nodded to the officers. "Secure the fort. Check for any left behind."
I was part of the group that went in first. The gate hung crooked, splintered from our cannonballs. As we stepped over the threshold, a wave of stench hit us—rotting meat mixed with something sweeter, like overripe fruit. My boots stuck to the ground, and I looked down to see dark puddles that weren't just mud.
Inside, the walls were crumbled heaps of stone and dirt. Bodies lay everywhere, twisted in ways that made my gut tighten. Men in ragged uniforms, their faces pale and sunken. But worse were the others—women clutching children, eyes open but empty. One little boy, no older than my nephew back home, had his arms wrapped around a broken pot, like he'd been trying to catch water that never came.
Private Yates, bandaged from the earlier raid, limped beside me. "Look at this," he muttered, pointing to a corner where a family huddled. "They starved them out like rats. No wonder they fought so hard."
We moved deeper, lanterns flickering. A low moan came from the shadows. I swung my light, and there she was—a woman, barely breathing, her dress torn and bloody. She reached out a hand, whispering something in her language. It sounded like "paani," over and over. Water.
Doctor Reeves knelt by her. "She's dying of thirst. Fetch a canteen." I handed him mine, and he trickled some into her mouth. Her eyes fluttered, but she didn't speak. "Too late for most," he said quietly. "Our shells did this. Women and kids... they brought families to the fight."
As we cleared the place, more moans echoed. We found a few survivors—maybe a dozen, too weak to move. One old man grabbed my sleeve, his fingers like claws. "Balbhadra... gone," he rasped in broken words. "Fight... more."
We carried them out, but the images stuck. That night, back in camp, I couldn't eat. The smell clung to my clothes. Hawkins, his leg wrapped tight, sat by the fire. "You saw inside? Like a graveyard. Those blades they use... some bodies were hacked apart, but not by us."
"Self-inflicted?" I asked, voice low.
He shook his head. "No. From our raids, or maybe their own to end the pain. Heard one story—deserters got caught and punished."
Sleep didn't come easy. Dreams replayed the fort: shadows moving, whispers calling for water. I'd wake sweating, checking my tent for intruders.
Days later, we buried the dead. Ours in neat rows, theirs in a mass pit. Colonel Mawby ordered stones piled for memorials—one for General Gillespie and our lads, another for the Gorkhas. "They earned it," he said to us gathered. "Bravest foes I've faced. No shame in honoring that."
Yates hammered a plank into the ground. "Think they'll come back? Balbhadra and his men?"
Captain Ellis overheard. "Reports say they headed north, linking with other forces. War's not over. We'll meet them again at Jaithak or beyond."
That thought lingered. We packed up and marched on, but rumors spread like fire. Scouts brought word: Balbhadra rallied more troops, hit our supply lines in the dark. One night, a patrol vanished—found later with throats cut clean, no sound raised.
Our column pushed into rougher land. Hills rose sharp, paths narrow. I walked point one dawn, mist thick around us. A twig snapped ahead. I froze, signaling halt. "Enemy?" whispered Yates behind me.
We waited, breaths held. Then, from the fog, a figure emerged—not charging, but stumbling. A Gorkha deserter, hands up. "No fight," he said. "Water... food."
We tied him, questioned him. "Balbhadra strong," he told Captain Ellis through a translator. "He say British pay for Nalapani. More battles come."
The man shook as he spoke, eyes darting. "Inside fort... ghosts of thirst. I hear them at night."
Ellis dismissed it as fear talk, but it unset me. That prisoner vanished the next morning—rope cut, no trace. Guard swore he saw nothing, but his face was white.
At Jaithak, we clashed again. Similar fort, same fierce defense. Balbhadra led charges that broke our lines twice. I fired into the rush, saw men fall, but they kept coming, kukris gleaming. One got close—his blade whistled past my head. I clubbed him with my musket butt, felt the crunch.
We took heavy losses, but pushed them back eventually. Balbhadra slipped away again, like a fox.
The war dragged on for months. More sieges, more blood. Supplies ran low, men sickened. I got a fever once, lay in a tent seeing visions: the fort at Nalapani, bodies rising, begging for water.
Finally, word came of peace. Treaty signed at Sugauli. Nepal gave up lands, but the Gorkhas' fame spread. Officers talked of recruiting them—turn foes to allies.
Years later, back in England, I heard they did. Gurkha regiments formed, fighting for the Crown. Brave as ever.
But for me, the aftermath never ended. Quiet nights, I'd jolt awake to imagined drums, or the glint of a curved blade in the corner. I'd check windows, lock doors. Friends asked why I flinched at shadows.
"Tell us about the war," they'd say over ale.
I'd start, but stop at Nalapani. "Some things stay buried," I'd reply.
Hawkins wrote once: "Still dream of that hill? I do. Feels like they're waiting."
I burned the letter. But he was right. The thirst, the eyes, the silence after— it followed me home. War's end didn't erase the creep of what we'd seen, what we'd done. It just hid in the dark, ready to whisper again.