The Soldier Who Fed A Battle After His Death: The Untold Story Of Rifleman Badluram

In war, survival is usually measured in bullets fired, ground held, and bodies saved. But every once in a while, history leaves behind a story so strange, so human, that it refuses to fit neatly into official records. Rifleman Badluram’s story is one of those. It is not just about how a soldier died, but about how—long after his death—he continued to keep his comrades alive. No battlefield heroics, no last charge, no medal pinned to a uniform. Just rations. Flour, dal, sugar. And a name that refused to disappear from a muster roll at the exact moment it mattered most. The legend of Badluram has survived for more than eight decades not because it is tragic, but because it is quietly absurd, darkly funny, and deeply moving all at once. In the hills

of Kohima during World War II, a clerical oversight—or perhaps a deliberate act of kindness—turned into a lifeline. Today, that moment lives on as a marching song, bellowed by generations of soldiers who may not know the full story, but understand its spirit instinctively. War takes everything. Sometimes, it gives back survival in the most unexpected ways.

A Young Rifleman in the Wrong Place at the Right Time

Rifleman Badluram served with the 1st Battalion of the Assam Regiment, then part of the British Indian Army. By early 1944, his unit was deployed around Kohima, a small hill town that would soon become one of the most fiercely contested battlegrounds of the Second World War.

The strategic importance of Kohima cannot be overstated. Along with Imphal, it formed the final barrier between the advancing Japanese forces and the plains of British India. The Japanese Fifteenth Army, led by Renya Mutaguchi, launched an ambitious offensive through the dense jungles and steep ridges of the North-East, convinced that a decisive blow would collapse British resistance. What followed between March and July 1944 were the twin Battles of Kohima and Battle of Imphal—later described by the National Army Museum in London as “Britain’s Greatest Battle” and by Supreme Allied Commander Louis Mountbatten as the “British-Indian Thermopylae”. Military historians such as Martin Dougherty and Jonathan Ritter would go on to call Kohima the “Stalingrad of the East”. Badluram did not live to see any of those titles attached to the place where he fell.

Death Comes Early, Paperwork Comes Late

Badluram was killed by a gunshot wound in the early days of the Battle of Kohima. In ordinary circumstances, his name would have been struck off the ration roster almost immediately, as per military regulation. But war is rarely orderly. Communications were unreliable, officers were overwhelmed, and priorities were brutally simple: hold the line, stay alive. Whether through forgetfulness or quiet intention, the company quartermaster—widely believed to be Subedar Kandarpa Rajbongshi, later awarded the Indian Distinguished Service Medal—did not remove Badluram’s name from the rolls. As a result, his daily ration allocation continued to arrive with the rest of the supplies. At first, this surplus hardly seemed remarkable. Extra food was always welcome, but few could have predicted what was coming next.

When Kohima Was Cut Off From the World

By 6 April 1944, Japanese troops had surrounded Kohima completely. The siege was brutal. Supply lines were severed, water was rationed to roughly a pint per man per day, and resupply by air became dangerously unreliable. In his official account, Major Boshell of the 1st Royal Berkshires noted that many airdropped supplies landed in enemy hands due to the steep terrain and narrow ridgelines. The Japanese, for their part, had brought anti-aircraft guns, further choking Allied logistics. In these conditions, hunger was not an inconvenience—it was a threat as lethal as enemy fire. For Badluram’s company, the rations still arriving under his name suddenly became a matter of survival. Day after day, the food intended for a man already buried beneath the earth was quietly redistributed among the living. There was no ceremony, no announcement. Just the unspoken understanding that this extra share might mean one more day held, one more position defended. In the darkest weeks of the siege, Badluram fed a battle after his death.

The Siege Breaks, the Story Stays

The siege of Kohima finally began to lift in June 1944, when British and Indian forces pushed back the Japanese advance. The British 2nd Division advanced down the Imphal–Kohima road, while the Indian 7th Infantry Division manoeuvred through punishing terrain east of it, relying on mules and jeeps. On 22 June, advancing forces linked up near Milestone 109, effectively ending the siege of Imphal and sealing the Japanese retreat. The cost was staggering. More than 4,000 Allied soldiers were killed, wounded, or reported missing during the Kohima campaign. Today, their sacrifice is commemorated at the Kohima War Cemetery, maintained by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. Badluram’s grave, like many others, is unremarkable. His afterlife in regimental memory is anything but.

A Song Born From Hunger and Humour

In 1946, Major M. T. Proctor composed a marching song in Badluram’s honour. Set to the tune of the American Civil War anthem “John Brown’s Body” and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”, the song captured the gallows humour with which soldiers often process trauma. “Badluram ka badan zameen ke neeche hai, Toh humein uska ration milta hai.” Translated plainly: Badluram’s body is buried underground, so we get his rations.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4yURDyx_vA

The lyrics are irreverent, almost shocking to civilian ears. But within the military, they speak a deeper truth. The song acknowledges death without romanticising it and celebrates survival without shame. It has since become the regimental song of the Assam Regiment, sung by recruits at their attestation parade in Shillong—a rite of passage where history is learned not from textbooks, but from rhythm and breath.

Why Badluram Still Marches With Them

The Indian Army’s history is filled with stories of courage, but Badluram’s tale stands apart because it highlights something rarely acknowledged: endurance. Not the dramatic kind, but the slow, stubborn refusal to give in when every material condition is stacked against you. Badluram did not know he would become a symbol. He did not plan to save lives after his death. And yet, through an administrative anomaly and a desperate siege, he did exactly that. His legacy reminds soldiers that survival is not only about how you fight, but about what sustains you when fighting alone is not enough. In the end, Badluram’s greatest contribution was not made with a rifle in hand, but through the quiet persistence of his name on a piece of paper. In war, even that can change the course of history.