(Usual disclaimers apply Comments welcome)
Every year my boys' school hosted a rugby match against the local church school. The church lads were our visitors and came to support their team. It was always a hard-fought contest but this particular year a wrong decision by the referee during injury time cost our school the game. The senior boys looked gutted as they eft the field.
I don't recall which group of supporters 'cast the first stone' but both sides pelted each other with gravel until prefects and masters stepped in and restored order.
Next morning at Assembly the headmaster denouncd the stoning. He reminded the rows of boys sitting on narrow benches that our school had hosted the rugby match and lectured us at length about playing the game. The headmaster cut an impressive figure in his black academic gown. He was a returned serviceman from the second world war which had ended less than a decade before.
"The boys who let the school down so badly yesterday will wait in the quadrangle after school and pay a just penalty". He looked grim.
"A mass whacking!" whispered 700 boys. The excited buzz was quickly shushed by the prefects.
"Hymn 104, "He Who Would Valiant Be" barked the headmaster.
I was just 14 but growing so rapidly it must have looked like I was in imminent danger of bursting out of my uniform serge shorts. After school I joined about 50 other lads in the quad. It never occurred to me NOT to own up to throwing stones. What I did was wrong and now I had to pay the penalty. That's just how it was in those far-off, innocent days.
The prefects marshalled the subdued group of boys into single file. Country lads whose buses would be waiting were at the front, day boys like myself in the middle while boarders brought up the rear. The line crept forward. All too soon we were inside the school building. Six masters were stationed in separate classrooms. The hallway echoed with sounds like rifle shots as canes landed on tightly stretched shorts. Boys with white faces and damp eyes emerged from the classrooms and hurried off to catch their buses. They had a most uncomfortable journey ahead of them.
The prefect at the head of the line very efficiently shepherded boys like lambs to the slaughter. When I reached him he said "Room Five". I avoided looking at the boy coming out of that classroom. My stomach lurched with fear.
The door was shut behind me. Instead of the elderly Latin master half crippled with arthritis I had hoped for, my chastiser was to be the P. T master, young and very fit. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and I could see the ripple of formidable muscles. The sight of him made me tremble. He scythed a thin, whippy cane through air.
"Touch your toes!" he said. I tried, but my tight shorts prevented me from assuming the expected position.
"Fingers on toes, boy". He was growing impatient.
"Please sir, I can't. My shorts won't let me".
"Stand up!" Miserably, I faced him.
"My shorts won't let me" he repeated sarcastically. "Well, you'd better take them off. There are other boys waiting so be quick about it".
I flushed bright red. "Please sir", I swallowed, "I don't have anything on underneath". My voice trailed off with embarrassment.
"Why ever not?", he said with a frown.
"I lost my underpants at the swimming pool at lunch break, sir". It was a school tradition that boys swam naked there. Another lad had hidden my underpants as a prank. I searched everywhere but was unable to find them.
The master glared at me. "I spent the best part of an hour clearing the pool's overflow pipe. Do you know what was causing the blockage?"
"No sir".
"The remains of YOUR wretched underpants!" he hissed. "Wait there".
He strode to the door and asked a prefect to come in. The senior lad was a boarder. The son of a wealthy farming family, he was the latest in a line of Townsends to be educated at the school. Tall and good looking he listened intently while the master explained the situation. I shuffled my feet and wished I was dead.
"Townsend will act as a witness", the master told me. "Take your shorts off and bend over".
He was going to thrash me on the naked bum while Townsend watched! I froze with shock.
"Come on lad", the master said, "Stop wasting time. Do I have to ask Townsend to do it for you?"
Slowly I undid the clasp of my belt and pushed my shorts down to the floor. My fingers easily touched my toes. Townsend folded my blazer well back, clear of the target. I felt his firm, warm hands on my quivering flesh as he scooped the jacket up. He was very matter of fact about baring my bum but I still felt dead embarrassed.
I was no stranger to the cane and respected its ability to hurt. The master was angry because my stray clothing had caused him to waste a free period. He was also upset by the stone throwing incident so he thrashed me very hard indeed. Without shorts or underpants to dissipate most of the hurt it was agonisingly painful. The master had a good eye and layered the first four strokes. Each one felt like a red hot poker was branding my very tender flesh. The final two strokes were aimed diagonally, lashing each bum-cheek in turn. The pain was frightful, the stick carving testing new paths though the forest of weals. Tears stained my face.
I will never know what went through the master's mind as he gave me the thrashing of my young life. What was the senior boy Townsend thinking as he watched the age-old school ritual being played out before him? The cheeks of my youthful bottom, like two golden peaches were being slashed by a whippy rattan which left crimson lines in its wake. Had Townsend ever had to bare his own firm buttocks and submit to a beating from an angry, superbly fit young master?
As for myself, the earlier feeling of embarrassment had been totally overwhelmed by what was now being done to my young bottom. The thrashing went far beyond reasonable chastisement for stone throwing and losing a pair of underpants. Nothing in my short life had prepared me for this. Time itself stood still. The only sounds were the master grunting with exertion and the thud of rattan striking flesh. I had managed to stay silent until the ferocity of the last two strokes made me cry out loud - thankfully muted enough not to be heard by other boys waiting in the corridor outside.
"Up you get, lad", the master sounded regretful. The storm had passed. When I looked he was examining the tip of the cane, upset he'd surrendered to a fearful anger which had caused him to thrash a youngster without allowing for the fact my bottom was bare and not protected by layers of clothing like the other lads. He'd really given me a most frightful hiding but now felt bad about it.
Slowly I pulled those cursed, too-tight shorts back up over my battered behind. It felt like a forest fire was raging down there. My knees buckled but Townsend held me up until I had recovered enough to walk. He kept his arm around me until we reached the door. As we entered the corridor he said with respect in his voice:"You're a tough little rooster". His big hand tousled my hair affectionately. "Now get yourself off home - unless you want to join the end of the queue again?" He grinned at my expression.
There were about ten boys still waiting in line. Townsend walked over to a small group of prefects while I dragged myself home, wheeling the bike I was too sore to ride. Alone in the sanctuary of the bathroom I inspected my backside. The raised purplish weals were an impressive sight. There were a few scabs of dried blood as well. Those painfully swollen globes would be covered with technicolour bruises by morning.
Later that night when I was safely tucked up in bed I ignored my throbbing haunches and thought about what Townsend had said to me. The 'tough little rooster' fell asleep with a grin on his face.