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!

In Weekender