Beharry makes lance jack

Saw it in the Telegraph yesterday. Can't find it online though. Good for him - I expect they didn't want to have a Beharry building at Sandhurst with Wills kowtowing to a private soldier. And an infantyman, no less.

Also mentioned he's still downgraded - poor chap.
This was a thread yesterday - but it rates another one. Agreed - good job too and richly deserved.

LCpl Beharry VC deserves all the luck and fortune that life can throw at him - I wish him and his ilk the very best. What is truly gratifying is that most soldiers, sailors and airmen are from a similar mould - the cream of society and that is why the British Forces are, without a shadow of a doubt, the very finest in the world. Gives an old, retired fart a feeling of pride that brings a lump to the throat on occasion.
urdygurdy said:
well done to him,how can he get promoted ,when he's downgraded
He can do what he fcuking wants in my opinion as long as he's got that medal on his chest. Well done LCpl Beharry! BZ
Wel done LCpl Beharry VC,

Thoroughly deserved I think and I would never begrudge him his tape despite being downgraded. I'm surprised, to be honest, that they hadn't promoted him in the three years since his gallant acts!!
Well done to Lcpl Beharry VC but fcuk it, apart from the pay why would he need it? The little purple ribbon means more than any other badges ever will.

Everyone below HMQ has to throw one up to him first and rightly so.

He's been downgraded and can no longer be a field soldier, how long do you think a man of his obvious courage and character will want to be tied to a desk.

I'll give him 2 years tops left in uniform before he jumps and then hopefully he will make his fortune elsewhere.

Whatever he decides to do, I wish him luck. His only fault is that he doesn't drink because surely if he did, he'd never have to pay in a bar ever again.
Aunty Stella said:
I'll give him 2 years tops left in uniform before he jumps and then hopefully he will make his fortune elsewhere.

Whatever he decides to do, I wish him luck. His only fault is that he doesn't drink because surely if he did, he'd never have to pay in a bar ever again.
Well, he's already got his book and some serialisation deal with the Telegraph. No doubt when he's out there'll be a TV film too. I expect he wouldn't do too bad.

Personally, I'd give him a bayonet and put him in the next Big Brother house.
Couldn't find the Telegraph piece but these appeared yesterday and today:

Copyright 2006 Times Newspapers Limited
All Rights Reserved
The Times (London)
September 27, 2006, Wednesday
HEADLINE: VC hero promoted

A soldier who won the Victoria Cross for remarkable acts of bravery in Iraq has been promoted, the Ministry of Defence said. Johnson Beharry, 27, was promoted from private to lance corporal for "distinguished and exceptional service". The soldier is a member of the 1st Battalion The Princess of Wales's Royal Regiment.
Copyright 2006 Guardian Newspapers Limited
All Rights Reserved
The Guardian (London)
September 28, 2006 Thursday

It has been a while coming but the only Iraq conflict winner of the Victoria Cross has been promoted. Johnson Beharry , 27, and one of 12 living holders of the ultimate bravery medal, has promotion to lance corporal through "distinguished and exceptional service", says his commanding officer at the Princess of Wales's Royal Regiment, Lieutenant Colonel Toby Gray . Beharry received the 1,355th VC in April for twice rescuing ambushed colleagues under fire.
And this:

Copyright 2006 Telegraph Group Limited
All Rights Reserved
The Daily Telegraph (LONDON)

September 26, 2006 Tuesday

HEADLINE: 'Do you want to end up like your father?' Private Johnson Beharry was awarded the VC for two astonishing acts of gallantry in Iraq. In the third and final extract from his autobiography, Beharry, the fourth of eight children who grew up in violence and poverty in Grenada, reveals why he left the Caribbean island for Britain

BYLINE: Johnson Beharry

Athree-quarter moon shines through the window. I know that my father will be working himself into a fury as he weaves his way up the hill. I switch the radio off and listen. I no longer hear my mother. My father must not know she has been crying. Seeing the misery he causes just makes things worse.

The little bed I made from crates groans under my weight. It's hard to believe my mother has survived all these years. I hear the dogs barking. I count the seconds, a cold feeling in my stomach. A shout. My father is abusing our neighbour, a nice man out on his balcony enjoying a quiet drink. There's a loud crash as the front door is kicked in. To get to the main bedroom - where my mother is waiting - he must go through ours. I roll over, my heart in my throat. Then I hear a voice telling my father to shut up. It takes me a moment to realise it belongs to me.

With a roar of rage, my father bursts into the room, nearly wrenching the door from its hinges. Something glints in his right hand. An empty Clarke's Court rum bottle falls to the ground and smashes into tiny pieces. My father steps into the room and trips on the corner of the little bed. He falls headlong towards me. The frame collapses and I scramble out of the way. I'm in the corner, next to the big bed. My brothers and sisters are sitting rigid, their backs against the wall. To get to me, my father must launch himself across the bed. I don't like to think about what will happen if the others get in his way.

I run towards him, wait for him to lunge at me, then duck. I hardly notice the stabbing pain in my heel as I step on the broken glass. My father stares at me and I stare at him. I turn and run, hoping he will follow. If I go, maybe his anger will go, too, and the rest of them will be safe.

Before I make my move, my father bends and picks up what's left of the little bed. He lifts it above his head and hurls it out of the window. I turn and run. He crashes after me but only gets as far as the balcony before he trips and falls. I rush past the nutmeg tree and into the bushes. There I lie down in a hollow behind the saffron, my heart beating against my chest.

A few minutes later I hear my mother calling my name. The sound is soft and haunting and I want so much to go towards it. It cuts me like a knife to hear her say my name over and over. But I stay where I am. I can't go back. When I do, something bad always happens. It's better I stay away.

Later, I go to the standpipe. It usually takes me about 15 minutes to make the round trip. Today, with the cut on my heel, it takes a little longer. I guess it is between five-thirty and six when I reach my Gran's place. She's sitting where she usually sits, on a large rock in front of her house, singing to herself. When I get a little closer she stops and smiles.

''Are you going to speak about it, then?'' ''About what, Gran?'' ''No use hidin' it. Somet'ing has happen.''

Maybe she heard something during the night, or maybe it's written on my face. I tell her what happened, about my anger and shame at being forced to flee my own home. The words nearly choke me and I fix my gaze on the place where the jungle meets the sky.

''I will never run away again, Gran,'' I say. ''Never. Not from anyone, or anything.''

My Gran listens, her eyes closed, her face turned towards the rising sun. When I finish she opens them again and stares out over the village. There's a look on her face that is happy and sad at the same time. Her eyes shine.

''Is this how you want to end up?'' she says. ''Fetchin' buckets of water from the pipe every day - an' doin' it for the rest of you life?''

I hesitate. I don't know what to say.

''Don't think I don't know what you do, runnin' around with them cousins an' friends, smokin' and drinkin' and wastin' all you money down at them clubs. Do you want to end up like him?''

''I don't smoke, Gran,'' I tell her truthfully. Plenty of my friends do, of course, and I've seen what it does to them; I never like to lose that much control. But I've no answer for her on the drinking.

''Me Dad and me are two completely different people,'' I say, staring at my feet. My Gran laughs. I look up. The sadness is still in her eyes.

''You know why he drink?'' she says. ''You know what's eatin' at him?''

I'm not sure I want to hear what she is going to tell me.

''You father work hard all he life. An' for what?'' she says. ''He see what you Gran' Uncle Hammond [who found success in England] do for heself and know he could have achieved all them same t'ings. He angry with the way he life turn out. An' now it too late to change it. It eat an' eat away at him. Is that how you want to be?''

I'm never going to be like my dad, I tell her.

''Well, this is how it start,'' she replies. Her voice softens. ''When you was little, playin' in the roots of that tree, sometimes I look at you and I call you Michael, 'cos I forget - I t'ink it you dad, not you. But you an' him is different, Johnson. Every time you make somet'ing, every time you build somet'ing wit' you hands, you make an idea in you head come real. You make it happen. You father, when he your age, he have all them same ideas, but he never act on them. He don' know how to. An that when he turn to drinkin'.''

''But why does he hate me, Gran?''

My Gran sighs.

''He don' hate you. He love you. It's heself that he can' stand the sight of.'' She turns and touches my face. ''You a good child - you smart, kind an' good. Do somet'ing with you life, Johnson.''

I tell her I'm not sure where to begin. No more drinking, she says. No more late nights and come and live with me. ''You t'ink you can do that?'' I smile. Yes, Gran. I can do that.

Iglance at the buckets I've carried from the standpipe. One of them is leaking so badly half the water has drained away. While Gran goes to make the breakfast I get up to refill it. I need the walk. It will give me time alone. I pick up the bucket. The lid is leaning against the wall of her house. It's the lid I used as my steering wheel in the roots of the old wishing tree. I gaze up into her branches and see myself as I was then - as a seven-year-old racing driver, my head buzzing with ideas about my future.

I turn as I reach the top of the path. My Gran is standing in the doorway, watching me.

''What choices do I have?'' I ask her. ''People always has choices,'' she says. She smiles again. ''You'll know what they are right enough when the time come.''

'Barefoot Soldier' by Johnson Beharry (Sphere) is available for pounds 16.99 (rrp pounds 18.99) plus pounds 1.25 p&p. To order, please call Telegraph Books on 0870 428 4112
Well done Johnson - keep it up!

As for dissenters - I personally know of a fat useless cnut who was medically downgraded but still went on ops and even made WO2.

At least the pay rise will come in handy and help in his recovery

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