I was evacuated from London four days after my eleventh birthday. My mum didn't come to the station to see me off, so there was nothing like those touching scenes they printed in Picture Post, and, as it happened, I never saw her again. It was like striking out into the world, a bit like I had fantasised about when I was thinking of running away from home.
Mark and a lad called Luke Pritchett from our school were with me in a compartment with five other kids. They were all younger than us and this woman who acted like she was in charge of us told us we had to keep them in order and try and keep their spirits up. She had the really little ones in a compartment next to us and the ones in with us were about eight or nine.
Well, we tried to keep them cheerful but it was a bloody long journey and the gaps between food and drink were long and eventually pretty miserable. So, needless to say, after we'd been crawling along for about three hours, we started messing about. She came in and told us to behave ourselves, so we did for about five minutes. Then she came in and told us she would report us to Major Cook, who was the chap in charge of the whole train. The third time she came in we were throwing food at each other and the whole compartment was a mess.
"This is outrageous," she roared. "I'm fetching Major Cook."
Well, we weren't too bothered, not knowing who Major Cook was or what he might do to us. I don't think we cared any longer, we were so bored and fed up. It took him a while to get to us – no doubt he had other things to keep him busy – so the old dear from the next compartment had to come in to our compartment yet again. After that she stood in the corridor where she could see both compartments. And then we had to just sit there, motionless, trying not to laugh.
Major Cook was a massive man about fifty years old. He was in army uniform. He wasted no time at all.
"Are these the boys, Mrs Darbyshire?"
"Yes, major," she said and kind of shuddered at the thought of how utterly awful we were.
He filled the doorway and scowled down at us. He was carrying a swagger stick and was tapping it against his other palm. "I'm appalled that British boys could behave like this at a time when everyone has to pull together. Don't you boys realise that there's a war on?"
None of us knew how to answer this so we stayed silent. Some of the little ones looked a bit scared.
"You." Suddenly he pointed the swagger stick at the littlest boy. "Come here to me."
The kid stepped past us to where he now had his left boot up on the seat. He grabbed the kid, lifted him bodily and draped him over his raised knee. The kid's trousers were baggy in the back and the major smoothed the cloth down over his bum. He lifted the swagger stick and whacked it down hard – and again – and a third time. The kid yelled and rubbed his bum hard when the major dropped him back on to his feet.
"You." The stick pointed again, and the next kid stepped up to be whacked. Three more hard whacks and he was yelling and rubbing too. One by one he whacked the five little lads. And then he turned his attention to Luke.
"How old are you?" he demanded.
"Ten," said Luke.
"You are old enough to know better. Let down your trousers." Of course, it hadn't been all that long ago that Luke had watched while Mark and I were caned with nothing on, so the order didn't sound so strange. Luke unhooked his belt, unbuttoned his flies and let them drop. "And your pants," the major ordered, and Luke peeled them down. The next second he was hoisted off the ground and draped over his knee, just like the little kids.
Luke's bottom was round and solid and the swagger stick raised instant thin red stripes across the white of the skin. He howled and after two whacks he swung his right arm back to try and protect himself. "Hands to the front boy," the major snapped, but Luke was too concerned about that stick lashing into his bottom to obey. The major cracked the stick down across the back of his hand; Luke howled, and swung his arm back out of the way. "That's better," said the major, "and now we'll start your treatment again from the beginning."
The stick was a length of shiny cane, no thicker than Quacker's cane at school but stiffer, and even though it wasn't much more than eighteen inches long it made a good job of covering Luke's bottom in vivid red weals.
Then it was Mark's turn. I suppose he left me till last because I was the biggest. Because Luke had let his pants down like that, Mark could hardly argue about it and he was stripped and draped over the major's knee before he had time to draw breath. Across Mark's wiry little backside we could all see the marks of Quackers' last caning.
"Aha," said the major, "I see I'm not the first person who's needed to show you the error of your ways."
And with the same he set about thrashing him. He brought the stick down on Mark's bare bottom about nine or ten times. Mark yelled a bit on the last two or three and by then he was black and blue.
And then it was my turn. I thought of refusing to drop my pants. After all, this was some strange man I'd never seen before and he was going to give me a _f_u_c_k_ing good hiding. I supposed that I deserved it, but even so. But I gave in and let my pants down. It was weird being lifted and draped over his knee. It was as though suddenly I was a little kid again and weighed so little that this adult could do exactly what he wanted with me. The stick didn't hurt as much as Evans' cane – but that was the only good aspect that I could think of. I don't think I yelled at all, which earned me a few extra whacks, I'm pretty certain. That night, when at last we were able to check each other's bums, I had worse bruises than the other two.
After that we sat in almost silence, kind of hugging the pain in our bottoms to ourselves. The little kids didn't cry very long when they saw how much worse he whacked the three of us older ones. For the rest of the journey the major passed our compartment from time to time and always made sure that we could see his swagger stick. Once when he passed, one of the little kids was standing up looking out of the window, just rubbing the seat of his trousers. He opened the door and threatened to cane the kid again if he didn't stay sitting down. The kid shot back to his place and sat down so fast that he winced as his weals hit the seat.
So we arrived at our destination – wherever it was – with bottoms still glowing from the swagger stick. We were herded off the train, carrying our cases, and down this little street and into a kind of hall. The light was starting to go already and most of the little kids were crying in spite of the grown-ups urging them to be brave and behave like British children. Once we were in the hall we had our names taken down by this woman who seemed to be in charge and then we just stood around and waited for someone to offer to take us.
Luke and Mark and I stood together naturally, and no-one looked at us twice. Looking back now, I can hardly blame them. Three eleven-year-old boys, looking scruffy and rough as hell – who would want to take even one of them on? All the pretty little girls went quickly, and then the little lads, including most of the five who had been in our compartment. I wondered what the ladies who took them would think if they saw the stripes of bruise across their bums.
And then it was just the three of us left, plus this other lad down the far end of the hall, sitting on the floor, rocking to and fro, looking more than a bit simple. And that was when this man came in. He was tall, with black hair and dark skin; not black, but more like a Spaniard or Portuguese. He was dressed in a black jacket and striped trousers, a dark tie with a wing collar. He stood in the middle of the hall, looking round. From his manner and the way he stood he might just as well have been in army uniform.
The woman in charge got up from her table and went to him. "Oh, Mr Poole," we heard her say. "Thank goodness you've come."
"I'm sorry I was late, ma'am." His voice wasn't posh, but it was even more obvious that he had been in the army a long time, even if he wasn't in it now. "Mr Hackett is prepared to take four, ma'am. Provided they're boys and able to fend for themselves a bit. You understand our situation, I dare say."
"Certainly. The district assessor put you down for four. And as luck would have it, we do have four boys left."
"So I see, ma'am." He looked at us for the first time and then turned and looked at the other lad. "Right, lads. Let's be having you. Line up here." He indicated a spot in front of him. The three of us went over to him and stood in a line. The fourth lad stayed where he was, but rocked a bit harder. "Stand up straight," he ordered us. "Heads up, chests out, bellies in." We stood at attention.
He left us there and turned to the fourth lad.
"Come on, lad. Over here." The boy whimpered and rocked even harder.
He turned back to us. "What's your name?" he said, pointing at me.
"Jack," I said.
"Never mind that," he said. "There's a war on. We need men to stand up and be counted for their family and country. Now, what's your name?"
"Dormer, sir," I said.
"Save 'sir' for the colonel," he said. "I'm Mr Poole. Now, you."
"Hendry, Mr Poole."
"You?"
"Pritchett, sir – Mr Poole."
"I'll take these three, ma'am. That one looks as though he should be in Barnardo's. We couldn't cope with him, I'm afraid."
"You may find these three enough, Mr Poole," said the woman in charge. "The officer in charge of the train had to cane them."
"Is this true, lads?"
"Yes, Mr Poole," we muttered.
"Heads up. You're not whipped dogs. Take your medicine like men." I braced up. There was something about this man that earned my respect immediately, even if I was rather afraid of him. It crossed my mind that he might do like my dad and give us another dose for having been caned.
"Right, lads. Fetch your kit. Follow me."
We scampered to get our cases and followed him out into the night. I would never admitted to being tired, but I was very relieved when he ushered us into the back seat of a car. He started up and we set off into the darkness. With full black-out in force, we couldn't tell where we were going. The next thing we saw that was recognisable was the huge front door that he led us in through. With the door shut, he switched on a light and we gasped at the size of the place. We were in a hallway in which the whole of my house in London would have fitted comfortably. It was panelled in a kind of dark wood and there were great wide stairs that climbed round the four sides of the stairwell and I caught a glimpse of pictures on the walls, all the way up, as far as I could see.
"Crikey!" said Mark in a whisper, and that just about summed it up for all of us.
Just then another man appeared from one of the doors on the right. He was tall and severe looking. He had blond-ish hair and a patch over one eye, and then I noticed that the right sleeve of his jacket was pinned up: he was missing an arm too, and I thought of Nelson immediately.
"So these are the evacuees, Poole, are they?"
"Yes, sir. Just the three lads. Line up, lads. Let the colonel see you."
We lined up like we had in the hall and the colonel inspected us. He seemed to like what he saw, I was relieved to notice.
"Names?" he asked.
"Dormer, sir."
"Pritchett, sir."
"Hendry, sir."
"Jolly good," he said after a pause. And then he smiled. His face creased and the severity passed like a cloud off the sun. "Well, chaps, I'm sure we shall do pretty well. My name is Colonel Hackett. There's only me and Mr Poole here, apart from the girl who cleans and Mrs Briggs who sees to the laundry. You'll find us a strange pair, I dare say. We like things squared away and army fashion, don't we Poole?"
"Yes, sir."
"And we shall expect the same from you. I'm sure we're going to get along famously. Take them off to the mess, Poole, and see they get some chow, and I'll see them at kit inspection in the morning."
"Very good, sir."
Mr Poole fed us in the kitchen, sitting round the biggest table I had ever seen. It was more eggs and bacon than I had seen on a plate ever and all of us tucked in as though food was going out of style. Then he led us back into the hall where we picked up our cases and trailed after him up the staircase.
On the top floor he showed us into a big room that, even with my limited experience, I could see had once been a nursery. There were four iron bedsteads made up and we chose the ones we fancied. I got the one by the window. I was itching to look out and could hardly wait for the morning.
While we explored the room I could hear water running and this turned out to be a bath in our own special bathroom in the next room. Under Mr Poole's supervision we stripped and scrubbed ourselves all over in the hot tub. We emerged pink and glowing. I noticed that Mr Poole saw the bruises across our bottoms but he made no comment. Luke and I got our pyjamas out of our cases and pulled them on.
"Where's your pyjamas, lad?" Mr Poole asked Mark.
"I haven't got none," said Mark.
"So what d'you sleep in at home, then?"
"Me birthday suit," said Mark. (I also knew that Mark and his little brother slept together in the same bed, and couldn't imagine what that would be like).
"Never mind for tonight. I'll see if I can rustle you up some pyjamas in the morning."
We had no idea what time it was but all of us were glad just to climb into bed, put our heads down and, after a few moments wondering about where the hell we were, we were asleep.