In an age where the term “hero” often seems ascribed to the loudest voices in the room, it’s worth remembering the quiet professionals—the ones who don’t sell books, revel in TV interviews, or craft their legacies on social media. Sgt. Dipprasad Pun and Major Robert Henry Cain embody the kind of heroism that asks for nothing and gives everything, standing in stark contrast to today’s self-promoting celebrity warriors. Their stories remind us that true courage isn’t about the accolades; it’s about answering the call of duty, no matter the odds.
Cain’s story takes us back to World War II, specifically Operation Market Garden in September 1944. Cain, a company commander in the South Staffordshire Regiment, found himself at the center of the chaotic and brutal Battle of Arnhem. Tasked with holding a critical position against overwhelming German forces, Cain displayed leadership and resolve that bordered on mythic. Under relentless artillery fire, he repeatedly exposed himself to danger, rallying his men and taking out German tanks with a PIAT launcher.
The PIAT, for those blissfully unaware, is a beast of a weapon—notorious for its clunkiness and the kind of shoulder-bruising kick that would make even the toughest soldier wince. Cain, however, wielded it like an artist, destroying multiple tanks under fire. His eardrums were ruptured by the blast of artillery, yet he soldiered on, directing his company with a calmness that defied the chaos around him. When the battle ended, he was one of the few survivors. For his actions, Cain was awarded the Victoria Cross, the highest military honor for bravery in the face of the enemy.
And what did Cain have to say about his extraordinary valor? “It was just a job to be done,” he remarked, as though blowing up tanks while injured was all in a day’s work. Cain returned to civilian life with little fanfare, living modestly as an oil company executive. He didn’t write a memoir or spend his post-war years basking in public adoration. His story speaks for itself—no embellishments required.
Sgt. Dipprasad Pun’s story is equally remarkable, though it unfolds in a very different war. In 2010, stationed at a remote outpost in Afghanistan, Pun faced an attack by 30 Taliban insurgents. Alone and outnumbered, he fought with the kind of ingenuity that would make MacGyver look like an amateur. Pun lobbed grenades, fired his machine gun until it ran dry, and when he ran out of ammunition altogether, he resorted to hurling a landmine at his attackers and swinging the tripod of his machine gun like a medieval mace.
By the end of the 15-minute siege, Pun had killed or wounded more than a dozen insurgents, forcing the rest to retreat. For his actions, he was awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross, the second-highest British military honor. Like Cain, Pun downplayed his heroics, humbly describing it as “just my duty.” His actions, however, left no doubt: this was a man who exemplified the courage and resourcefulness that define the Gurkhas.
Yet, for all their similarities, the wars Cain and Pun fought in couldn’t be more different. Cain’s war had clear stakes: the survival of nations, the fight against tyranny, and a definitive endpoint. Pun’s Afghanistan, by contrast, was part of a nebulous, seemingly endless conflict with shifting objectives and no satisfying conclusion. Cain returned to a Britain focused on rebuilding; Pun’s war ended with the Taliban retaking Afghanistan in a matter of weeks, leaving many to wonder what it had all been for.
These differences make Pun’s humility all the more striking. For soldiers like him, there’s no victory parade, no clear resolution—just the quiet burden of having done what was necessary, even as the larger conflict churns on. It’s a burden made heavier by the modern realities of proxy warfare, where soldiers like Pun often spend as much time training others to fight as they do fighting themselves. These proxy wars, conducted in shadowy theaters far from home, demand the same courage and commitment but rarely offer the clarity of purpose that Cain’s generation could cling to.
Von Clausewitz famously wrote that war is the continuation of politics by other means. Cain’s war, while political, was also existential—neutrality was not an option. Pun’s war, however, reflects a new era of conflict, where soldiers are deployed not to secure survival but to serve as instruments of geopolitical strategy. The strain this places on today’s soldiers is immense. They must fight, redeploy, and repeat, often without the sense of closure that defined earlier wars.
And yet, despite these differences, Cain and Pun share an essential quality: an unshakable humility that stands in stark contrast to the modern culture of self-promotion. Today, some so-called heroes seem more interested in telling their stories than living them, with book deals, podcasts, and media tours turning military service into a brand. This isn’t to diminish their contributions, but it does raise the question: are we celebrating the right kind of heroes?
Cain and Pun remind us of a different kind of heroism—one that doesn’t seek attention or demand validation. Their actions speak louder than any headline, their legacy built not on words but on deeds. They fought not for recognition but because it was their duty, and their humility only amplifies their greatness.
As a society, we must reflect on the kinds of heroes we choose to celebrate. Are we drawn to those who shout the loudest, or do we honor those who ask for nothing but give everything? True respect for soldiers like Cain and Pun requires more than medals and ceremonies. It requires accountability—questioning the wars we send them to fight, the policies that demand their sacrifice, and the systems that perpetuate conflict.
Cain and Pun didn’t fight for glory, and they certainly didn’t fight for us to glorify war. They remind us that the greatest acts of heroism are often those performed quietly, with no audience and no expectation of reward. In an age where noise is mistaken for importance, their humility is a powerful counter-narrative.
If we truly want to honor them, we must do more than tell their stories. We must examine why we continue to rely on their sacrifices and whether we’re doing enough to create a world where their kind of courage is celebrated but rarely required. Cain and Pun represent the best of us—not because they sought to, but because they rose to the occasion when it mattered most. That is the kind of heroism worth celebrating.