A slug for a slug

   The butt of the pistol protruded slightly from my jacket as I walked towards the school changing rooms. I had made a leather shoulder holster earlier that day. It was a Webley Mk111 air pistol, which took .22 pellets. It was the most powerful in the Webley range and I had cycled twelve miles to Uttoxeter in the summer of 1958 to blow an entire term`s pocket money of three pounds, seventeen shillings and sixpence on this vital piece of kit. Vital, that is, to my survival at Abbotsholme school. I knew the only way to deal with these bullies was to beat them at their own game. I was a new boy, thirteen years old and removed from Chippenham Grammar school (and away from father) where I was failing abysmally. The fees of £400 a term were paid for by a late aunt's legacy on my mother's side of the family. Father didn't even own a car at that time.
  I entered the changing room and as expected Stross and Bagot were there waiting. `Ugh, new boy, thyupt, thyupt` as barrels were emptied from the bullies` air pistols. The 177 calibre lead pellets stung against my bare legs (we had to wear short trousers). Fortunately these Gat air pistols were limited in power and just grazed my flesh. But it hurt.

`Are you done?' I said as I revealed more of the butt of my pistol. I then drew it and let blast at Stross. It hit him on the leg. He squealed like a pig. It hurt him, that was for sure and he doubled up in pain swearing. I couldn`t see if the pellet had entered his flesh but I suspect matron later dug it out.

   These older boys did not touch me again. Curiously no questions were asked and that was the end of the matter. What sort of person becomes the matron of a boy`s boarding school ? When I reached the sixth form I sold the air pistol to a junior boy in my dormitory but his intention was to use it on a higher form of life - vermin in the school woods. 

An extract from 'Missing  Jean' by Jeremy Broun