I was eleven, bright for my age (or so I thought, having taken dux of the school that year and come first the year before) and attending the local Grammar School.

One day an older boy, who shall remain nameless, raided the school chemistry lab, got hold of some white phosphorus - a lot of white phosphorus in fact - and started handing it around without due care and attention. He handed some to me.

This is the substance from which incendiary bombs are constructed, and must be kept in water or it heats up, starts steaming, then catches fire. When I was offered a lump of the smoking stuff, I blithely accepted without asking any questions (I'm no coward; I can mix it with the boys!), upon which I joined the group of said boys surreptitiously drawing smoking graffiti on school building walls during lunchtime and giving themselves first degree finger burns. I kept the lump in a water-filled Tictac container which was (I thought) watertight. I didn't stop to think that where there's smoke, there's fire ...

Switch to the school swimming carnival that afternoon: I was sitting on the grass watching the show, having completed my heats and put my uniform back on, in the pocket of which lay the disregarded time-bomb. That is the last thing I remember for a while. My next memory is of finding myself flat on my back, pinned to the ground by several teachers and fighting like a tiger to get free of various powerful restraining arms and a mound of assorted bathing towels, about 20 yards away from where I'd been sitting. The entire school appeared to be clustered around me, staring in horror.

Upon asking for an explanation, I was told that I'd spontaneously combusted where I sat, leapt to my feet and run towards the pool with clear intent to gatecrash the current heat like a fiery avenging angel. As white phosphorus will keep burning underwater, and as even the most experienced of swimmers is unlikely to give of her best while in a state of blind panic, it was considered best all round that I'd been expertly fielded and extinguished before I'd had a chance to try the natural fire hydrant for effectiveness.

After I'd confessed to the possession of illicit incendiary material and had a few home truths delivered to me, I was transferred to hospital, where they dismantled the charred remains of my uniform and buried me to the waist in icepacks.

I spent the next two and a half weeks there while doctors discussed surgery options over my head. I made such a fuss that they gave up the idea, and I spent the next 12 months changing dressings daily on the second and third degree burns I'd sustained from thighs to ankles, and suffering the humiliation of 'prolapsed bandages' several times a day (legs get narrower as they go down, and gravity works well on bandaged, moving legs). Rushing to the toilets doubled over and hanging onto disintegrating dressings became a way of life.

At no time did I experience any pain, as the pain receptors had been destroyed due to the depth of the burns. I got a whole year off having to play netball: perhaps that's why I still play with fire ...

The near death part, in case it isn't obvious, was that, had it happened anywhere but at the carnival, where responsible adults bearing towels were on hand for immediate action, I'd have without question been burnt to a crisp in my posh, synthetic, non fire-retardant school uniform, perhaps causing a road accident into the bargain if the bonfire had happened a couple of hours later as I walked home along the highway.

My mother sued the school, and after a wait of fully 15 yrs for it to finally come to court, I ended up with half the payout and the lawyers got the other half in fees. I now have a measly $5,000 worth of scars to show for it.

My 16 yr old son has never set himself on fire, although he did run out in front of a car while the other kids stood and watched, and suffered a similarly narrow escape and a year in plaster, after an operation to realign and rejoin two completely snapped lower leg bones. You'll be glad to hear I've just reached menopause.

Submitted on 03/06/2008

Submitted by: Erica MacKenzie
Reference: Personal Experience - 1976

Copyright © 2008 DarwinAwards.com

Chip said:
Definitely Keep: Personal Account
Erica, be doubly thankful for the restraining hands of the adults. White phosphorus is indeed nasty stuff. Thanks for the story.

Bruce said:
Definitely Keep: Personal Account
This hits a little too close to home for me but I'll gladly accept it anyway. When I was about the same age the family of a schoolmate moved into a larger home in the neighborhood. The previous owner collected war memorabilia, and when he moved out inadvertently left what he thought was an inert grenade behind. My schoolmates younger brother later found the grenade and, thinking it was a cool toy, started playing with it. It turned out to be a white phosphorous grenade, and detonated while he was playing with it. Unfortunately he didn't survive his encounter with this dangerous material.

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