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Lethe
By M Baker from Pattishall
It
was a typical autumn evening, yet rivulets of sweat dripped from
my forehead in defiance of the chill winds that blew into my face
no matter which way I turned. The dank stench of wet concrete permeated
through the weeds of the deserted warehouse and rainwater trickled
from the roof into a soggy expanse below. Gripped in grim determination
was a gun, my lifebelt in a sea of despair.
I stared
into the dark rivers of mud outside. At school I could name the
five rivers of Hell. Not that I studied classics or was educated
somewhere superior, just a pretentious establishment that fed off
the scraps of syllabi from public schools. In my time, teachers
were a despotic lot and I had many a piece of chalk thrown in my
direction. Humiliation must have been taught at teacher training
college to be a
force against ignorance or inability. I expected Mr Chips but found
Mr Hyde.
In
contrast, my French teacher projected an ineffective presence; perhaps
because she looked at least ninety-four, though anybody over forty
did, then. New to the school, she had only experienced impeccably
behaved kids and commanded as much attention as a streaker on a
nudist beach. Lessons quickly descended into disorder and she condemned
her charges to a life of “vous parlez Anglais?”. If there’d
been an end of term assessment in anarchy I’d surely have merited
grade ‘A’; instead, I sat the French exam and gained a
creditable eleven percent. The papers were returned to highlight
our miserable attempts and during our admonishment I tore a piece
off and, inexplicably, ate it. This process continued until latterly
the strips were rolled in saliva and spat out to be used in a hastily
devised game whereby a papier-mâché ball was flicked
into an opponent’s ink-well. Further projectiles were masticated
until there was no answer sheet left and then, regrettably, we had
to hand our papers back. A visit to the headmaster ensued and I
was introduced to the school’s own flavour of Les Miserables.
Lesson learned, if I had my time again, I’d accompany the paper
with a little brie, washed down with a large glass of St. Emillion.
Better, I could violently vomit over the head of French, or, safer
still, simply eat somebody else’s paper.
Acheron,
Hell’s river of woe, is inexorably linked to my School-days.
Indiscriminate
gunshots echoed ever closer, increasing my anxiety with each round.
Hidden in the warehouse I continued to wait, an interminable interlude.
I allowed my mind to plunge depths of remembrance to escape thoughts
of the inevitable conclusion.
I recalled
thirty years ago the same fear when hiding from my father after
he had chanced upon the darts embedded in my bedroom ceiling. In
my imagination these were missiles to be fired upon the Messerschmitt
hanging over the battlefield, or as others knew it, my bed. To gratify
my lust for realism I had used my father's lighter to flame the
wings of the Airfix model. Melted plastic had dripped on to the
eiderdown below and the tell-tale burning smell betrayed my actions
and demanded his immediate presence. In an instant I read his maddened
expression, saw my punishment written emphatically on his brow,
and calculated the number of whacks from the arithmetic evidenced
by the flickering of his eyes. I was never fond of the three “R”s
yet, to protect my own “arse”, I employed a fourth and
ran. Eventually, I surrendered to fate to be severely dealt with
and confined to the battlefield until the following day.
The
dripping melted plastic. Pyriphlegethon, Hell’s river of fire.
Sporadic
shots rattled out and a fresh mark appeared on the wall not more
than four yards away. Was it just a stray bullet? I strained to
get a clear view but… why did I look? They’d got poor
Duffy, no mercy had been shown.
Barry
Duffield had been known as Duffy since Primary School. This was
not particularly inventive but somewhat better than for Roger the
Milk Monitor, which sounded like a deviant dairy activity. Duffy
established himself as our leading arsonist, being just about the
only one who could successfully start a campfire. Chris instantly
enhanced his epithet to Duffy the Campfire Layer. It was more Benny
Hill than
Oscar Wilde but made us all smile and Chris nearly died laughing.
Died,
Chris, how inappropriate! When you record your thoughts, the words
must befit the situation. John Donne wouldn’t have said “No
man is an Island” whilst meditating on top of Snafell. The
bell certainly tolled when he fell to a sniper’s lucky strike.
He was fond of saying everyone had a bullet with their name on.
Fortunately, my name’s Ian Ford but the bullet that got Christopher
Charles Robinson-Gilchrist must have been a big bastard.
It
registered with a punch that slammed into my psyche, I am the last
alive! “H”, Griff, and Roger capitulated on a brave but
ultimately
suicidal manoeuvre. Their bullish counter attack brutally undone
when they ran out of ammunition only seventy metres from comparable
safety. Andy and Dunc were caught in the open attempting to rescue
their situation. Maybe they would have succeeded with my extra gun
but, lamentably, I’d isolated myself by refusing to play my
part. How well the subconscious operates though; Cocytus is Hell’s
river of lamentation.
The
art of self-distraction can calm the nerves and be a valuable commodity.
Some see it as simple day-dreaming, not a desired weapon in life’s
arsenal …..boring, boring they used to call Arsenal. Was I
being boring simply holding my position? Who erects a memorial to
the coward intent on that extra few minutes of self preservation?
Heroes are defined by glorious capitulation and immortalised in
the songs and folklore of future generations. I had to decide. Well,
maybe, later. Boring, boring.
Fate’s
fickle digits twitched in response to my indecision as a pigeon
proudly announced its presence in the eaves above and, startled,
I
revealed my position as I clattered my gun against a steel drum.
Pigeon, did I really say that with conviction? I’m an ornithological
bird brain; for all I know it was a lesser spotted wide-tailed grebe.
Standing, I gained a clear sight of my defeated comrades, now paraded
on a mound above the warehouse. How did we fail? The opposition
were naive and without experience but we gave them arms, secured
bullets, trained them. They were our friends yet our foe.
My
mind raced in confusion as the enemy taunted me, called me names.
I wondered lonely as the crowd gloated on high. Sticks and stones
may break my bones but Wordsworth never hurt me. Once I hear “Styx”
I think of their infernal song “Babe” due to some college
campus obsessive that played this same song over and over. Further
cogitation became impossible;
Babe
I'm leavin'
I must be on my way
The time is drawing near
Was
it prophetic? I hate that song. Styx is the river of hate; such
an apt emotion.
Out
of the corner of my eye a shadow stirred and I checked my gun in
readiness. A figure closed in on my position but I could tell they
were searching me out and didn’t know my exact location. In
the periphery, behind a half-broken wall, was a second form. I had
both in my sights and they were within easy reach. I hesitated.
Should I take advantage of the situation? Was I good enough and
quick enough? Would I get another chance?
I must be on my way
The time is drawing near
My
heart pounded and the patterned leaves of my camouflaged jacket
danced as though caressed by a soft breeze. Cowardice, not valour,
triumphed; I couldn’t stand the further agony of waiting. The
berserker in me assumed control and, for my fallen comrades but
mostly for my own redemption, I charged. Adrenalin rushing and gun
thrust forward, I pulled the trigger, again and again, and, in desperation,
again, only to surrender to panic as my gun jammed and my enemies
turned and fired.
The
time is drawing near
The
first bullet struck me brutally in the arm and the second in the
chest. Stickiness oozed out and spread down my upper body. In shock,
I glanced around to see six more adversaries training their guns
in my direction. From behind I heard the voice of my beloved. “I
love you Karen”, I whispered, yet my despair was complete as
she took steady aim and fired, hitting me right between the eyes,
but emotionally in the heart.
“Bloody
paintball” I said, and started to mop up the yellow mess now
smeared all over my goggles. “That’s the last time I suggest
a battle of the sexes. Let’s get cleaned up and down to the
pub”.
Acheron,
Pyriphlegethon, Cocytus, Styx…. A few pints and I just might
remember the fifth river of Hell!
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