The summer of 1968 was winding down, and I was looking forward to getting back to Indiana and Culver Academy, where I would be a 1st classman for my final year at school. It had been a rough vacation, with the tension between my father and me so thick it could be cut with a knife; my mother spent three months dreading what she thought would be a violent and bloody outburst. Somehow, Dad and I had made it through the hot Southwestern summer without a fight, but not because of an abundance of virtue; we simply stayed out of each other's way as much as possible. I never could understand the problem; they had sent me away to learn to become independent, and now that I was, they hated it. Their threats had about-faced from "we're going to send you away to school! " to "we're not going to send you back to school!". It made no impression on me, as I knew that the final decision didn't lay with them; my great- aunt had all the real money in the family, and if push came to shove she would follow my wishes, not theirs. They knew that, too.
Before I arrived at Culver, however, I had to fly to South Bend and rendezvous with my roommate for next year, Stan Levy. Stan and I had become friends the year before, when we found that misery loves company. Both Stan and I were the favorite targets of the 1st classmen that year; he, perhaps, for being Jewish, and I for being a little exotic for their WASP-oriented tastes. I'm 1/4 Osage Indian and 1/4 Russian, among other things, and coming from a part of the country they only knew from cowboys-and-Indians movies, I was a natural target. Stan and I hit it off, though, and had as much fun as we could get away with, under the circumstances. We looked like Mutt-and-Jeff, too; he was a true redhead, freckles and all, about 5'8", and I was climbing past 6'2" and dark-haired and brown-eyed.
We arrived a day ahead of time, to give us time to settle in and "establish territory" before the new students arrived. Chateau Thierry barracks looked as it always had, a crenellated redbrick fortress that had been there since the founding of the Academy, housing Company 6, our outfit. Being early, Stan and I commandeered a corner room as ours, and after unpacking began the routine of checking out this year's advisors. Each company had three adult advisors: civilian, military and naval. We reported to Lt. Brown first, our military advisor this year, and found him to be a martinet, one of the tried-and-true Culver graduate types who were posted back here because the real Army didn't have much use for them. No problem, we knew, he would be easily dealt with during the year. Next came Mr. Urser, the civilian advisor, also a Culver graduate, and no doubt holding some advanced degree in education. He was an altogether different sort, dour, quiet and in no doubt of his powers of authority. Stan and I both figured that as long as we didn't get in his way, we'd be okay. Finally, because he was last man on the totem pole, we reported to Lt. Cuypers, the naval advisor. His quarters were a study in "advanced-bachelor-mess," and he projected such an attitude of not giving a _d_a_m_n_ that we knew he was going to be easy sailing. He kept a little red MG parked outside the barracks, and the rumor mill reported that every free moment he could spare was spent chasing the coeds at the nearby town college and drinking. We could understand; he was a classic WASP, with blue eyes and light brown hair, finely chiseled features, a collegiate body he kept in rigorous shape and a family pedigree going back to New Amsterdam. Of course, I immediately had a bad case of adolescent lust for him, but knew that it was out of the question for a variety of reasons, not least of which was my standing at the school.
The first week in a military academy is always chaos. The new students, or "plebes," are terrified and trying not to show it, and the upperclassmen are getting regrounded, and enjoying their status as "gods," terrifying the plebes. Around the end of that week, Stan and I made our big mistake. Late one night, Stan informed me that he had brought an M80 firework with him that he'd kept from his 4th of July celebrations. It was his bright idea to plant it in the shower-room window early the next morning, before the plebes got in there, and set it off with a cigarette fuse to scare the _s_h_i_t_ out of them. I guess my mind must have taken a temporary vacation, because I agreed to go along with this plan, though I knew that nothing but BIG trouble was going to come out of it.
Everything went like clockwork. There was only one small problem; Stan had mistaken a blasting cap for an M80. The explosion woke the entire campus, and the surrounding town, for all we knew; it also took the window and frame completely out of the wall. Luckily for us it had gone off early, and there were no injuries as reveille hadn't been sounded. We, of course, were scared stiff; we hadn't planned on a mess this big, and immediately knew that our only hope was complete and total silence regarding culpability.
The investigation went on for two weeks, and although suspicion was eventually narrowed down to a few of us upperclassmen on that particular floor, nothing could be proved beyond doubt. The "interview" of Stan and I was harrowing, but we held firm to our story that we had been jolted awake by the explosion like everyone else, and in the end we were passed over. A real sticking point was that during the entire interrogation, I saw that Lt. Cuypers kept staring at us as if he "knew" that we were guilty, and violating the honor code by not making a clean breast of the whole sorry affair. I thought, however, that if he "knew," surely he would reveal his evidence of our guilt and have us expelled. I didn't know him, however; what he had in mind proved to be far more embarrassing and painful.
Soon enough Thanksgiving vacation arrived, and neither Stan nor I had plans to leave the campus that year. His parents were in Europe, and I didn't care to go all the way home only to be miserable with my family. By the Sunday before Thanksgiving week, the barracks were empty except for the few foreign students, the two of us, Mr. Urser and Lt. Cuypers. I think now that a strict Providence must have planned it that way!
Sunday evening was a quiet night, and both Stan and I were relaxing in the lounge, watching the one television allowed in the barracks and generally being lazy. Imagine our surprise when Lt. Cuypers walked in, went to the television set and turned it off, then turned to us and said, "Well, Mr. M. . . . and Mr. Levy, it looks like justice is finally going to be served. Mr. Urser is taking our foreign students into Chicago for the week to show them our holiday celebrations, so you two and I will be here alone. Let me say right now that I know you two were responsible for that little fiasco at the beginning of term; I saw you running away from the head that morning. The only reason you're still here is that I couldn't tell the others because I was returning that morning from a night out. My job here means more to me than your being caught. However, you are going to pay for that escapade, believe me. After the others leave in the morning, I want you two to report to my quarters for punishment. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Sir!", we both stammered. Our gooses were cooked, and we knew it. That night was spent wondering what he had in mind. Stan was sure we were in for a week of "boot camp from hell," but I didn't think so; the Lt.'s style wasn't "spit and polish," but I couldn't think what he had in mind. I, and my behind, were soon to find out!
We reported to Lt. Cuypers' quarters the next day at 8:00AM, having watched the bus pull out five minutes earlier. The Lt. didn't waste any time, and then we knew we were in deep trouble!
He was dressed in sweats, and sitting in his easy chair he looked the two of us over and then said,"You two are the sorriest excuse for upperclassmen I've ever had the misfortune to have! Didn't you think before you pulled that stunt? Didn't you know that someone could have been hurt? Not to mention that you've broken almost every rule we have, and dishonored the honor code! Well, I may not be able to have you expelled, but you ARE going to regret your prank, I guarantee you. You'll wish you had told the truth!" We were afraid, needless to say. What the hell did he have in mind? Then came the most unexpected command we could have imagined! "Strip! Down to your birthday suits!" Stan and I looked at each other dumbfounded. What the hell??? "You heard me! Strip!! Now!!" We did as he commanded, and soon we were both standing there, looking foolish and covering our genitals with our hands.
The Lt. stood up and walked to his bureau, where he opened a drawer and pulled out the biggest fraternity paddle I had ever seen! Turning to us, he announced, "All right, gentlemen! Now, since you two are such good friends in crime, I think it's only fitting that you help each other out now, too. Each one of you is going to bend over and get fifteen swats from my paddle, and his friend is going to hold his head and shoulders down between his legs, facing me! You're going to count out the swats together, and if either of you moves, or forget to count, we're going to start over! Is that understood?" Jesus Christ!! We were both scared, and I could see Stan actually shaking; I knew his parents didn't believe in corporal punishment, and he didn't have any idea of how this was going to feel. I did, though: my dad had spanked, paddled and strapped me all the while I was growing up, and that made knowing even worse! But, "Yes, Sir!" was all we could say, and we knew it.
"Okay, Levy, you first!" Stan bent over and grabbed his ankles, and the Lt. motioned me to get in position in front of Stan, with his neck between my thighs and my hands holding his shoulders down. We were both trembling, and I could feel Stan's breathing quick and panicked through my legs. Oh God, this was terrible! "Here we go, gentlemen! Now, count off!", and standing behind Stan, but looking directly into my eyes, Lt. Cuypers swung the paddle back and let loose a tremendous WHACK! on Stan's behind. "One, sir!!", Stan screamed. I was frozen by the Lt.'s stare, and forgot to count. He smiled, and said, "Well, Mr. Levy. Seems like your friend forgot to count, so that one was practice. Shall we begin again??" "Oh God, M...., count! Count!", Stan pleaded. The Lt. swung back again, and another thunderous WHACK! reverberated through the room. "One, Sir!", we both yelled. WHACK!..."Two, Sir!" WHACK!..."Three, Sir!". At the seventh count, Stan began to cry, and his hands had grabbed my calves; I could feel him sobbing, and his tears began to roll down the inside of my legs. His counts were now babbling screams, and I was torn between feeling sorry for him and dreading my turn. Finally, "Fifteen, Sir" we both yelled, and Stan collapsed to the floor, holding his red and swollen buttcheeks with both hands and crying like a little kid. "I'm sorry, Sir! I'm sorry!" he wailed, and kept crying and repeating the phrase over and over. I just stood there, petrified and embarrassed for my friend. I knew he was both ashamed and in pain, but I couldn't help him. I hadn't been this afraid since my dad had told me when I was twelve that I was too old to paddle any longer, and shown me the razor strop that he'd inherited from his father.
"All right, M. . . ., your turn!". Oh, Christ!! Stan got up, and I assumed the position. I had to bend deeply, as Stan was shorter than I was, and when he put his legs around my neck I could feel him still shaking, and the heat from his ass warm on the back of my head.
Before I knew it, I heard that paddle whistling through the air, and then my butt exploded in pain! WHACK! "One, Sir!" we both screamed. WHACK!..."Two, SIR!" WHACK!..."Three, SIR!" I managed to hold on until the tenth stroke, but then Stan and I were both crying, my sobs interrupted by screams every time the paddle landed on my fiery ass! I didn't think I could take it! Finally, though, through the sobbing and the pain, I felt the final stroke land, and screaming, "Fifteen, Sir!", I, too, fell to the floor, holding my poor, spanked buttcheeks in my hands, crying and telling the Lt. that I was sorry! "Now, you two, we're going to do this every morning during break, and maybe by the time we're through, you'll understand exactly how bad your actions were! Do you understand?" My God, every morning? Stan and I stood there, rubbing our behinds, staring at him in horror.
"Right now, though, you're going to go stand in that corner, and think about this little lesson. And after you've had some time to calm down and pull yourselves together, I'm going to see how you like a good old-fashioned spanking over my knee with the palm of my hand!!" We went to the corner he was pointing at, and standing at parade rest as he'd told us, had over an hour to contemplate the spankings to come!
That was the longest five days of my entire youth, and even now I can't think back to that Thanksgiving without my behind feeling black and blue, sore and hot. Every day, for five days, both Stan and I would get paddled, and it never got any better. We'd both end up crying and sobbing, begging the Lt. to stop, holding our buttcheeks and feeling like well-spanked little boys. Then would come the hour or hour-and-a-half in the corner, and then the Lt. would take each of us over his knee, and spank the bejesus out of us again with his bare hand! When that was through, we'd each be a mess of snot and tears, pleading for forgiveness and dancing with the pain in our asses.
The rest of the school year went by, and soon enough Stan and I graduated, glad to put the whole experience behind us. Those punishments ruined our friendship, of course; we were never able to really look at each other straight in the face again. We haven't been in touch since.
One other thing, though. Youth being youth, by the time the year had ended, that Thanksgiving was a vivid memory, but the memory of the pain had faded and grown dim, and I had grown _c_o_c_k_sure and arrogant, again. I didn't know, though, that in just a few days I was going to have a much more serious "discussion" with my uncle, J.D....................................
******* to be continued *********