The summer passed in a gentle dream of what summer ought to be like for boys of eleven and twelve. When harvest started we would be needed to work in the fields, but for a whole month we were free. The four of us roamed the countryside, swam in the river, took turns riding Michael's old pony, camped out in a clearing in the woods, climbed out on to the leads of the old house and watched the stars and the searchlights piercing up into the sky from the nearest city, about twenty miles away. There might almost not have been a war on at all.
We spied on the lads and lasses, kissing and cuddling round the back of the church, and Michael taught us how to masturbate. Sometimes we managed to steal cigarettes from the colonel's box and smoked them down in the boathouse or up on the roof, and somehow we never got caught.
Only twice in the whole month we fell foul of Mr Poole's cane. The first time was when we tried to float the rowing boat on the lake. We reminded Michael that his father had said we weren't to touch it, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. But it had been out of the water for so long that the timbers had all shrunk, so when we pushed it out on to the lake it sank almost immediately. We thought maybe it wouldn't be noticed since no-one ever used it or went near it.
Unfortunately, the colonel chose that day to wander down to see what we were doing. Ten minutes later we were lined up in front of his desk – all four of us – on a charge. He questioned us, but there was nothing we could say to hide the fact that we had deliberately disobeyed him. Michael tried to argue that it had been all his fault, since we had tried to stop him, but the colonel wouldn't hear him.
"Dormer, Hendry and Pratchett – six cuts. Michael, since you say it was your fault – six cuts on your bare breech. And tomorrow you can all work out how to get the boat back out of the water."
We were marched out to the tack room straight away. There was no question now of waiting outside till it was your turn for the cane. We were all in it together, so we all got caned together.
Michael went last and the three of us stood there with our bottoms blazing like fury while he stepped out of his trousers and pants and lay down along the bench. His backside was lean and solid with muscle and I could tell that he wanted more than anything to take his beating bravely, without a sound. But Mr Poole had other ideas. He stood well back and threw himself into the first stroke which landed with an almighty CRACK! and Michael yelled like a banshee. He managed the second with no more than a kind of strangled gasp through his clenched teeth. But after that he just gave in and howled like we had all done. His bum was a mass of thick swollen weals by the time Mr Poole finished and he hopped around clutching himself when he was allowed to get up.
It took us three days to wrestle the boat back on to the bank. Three scorching days which we spent mostly naked frolicking about in the water in our attempts to drag the boat through the water to the shallowest part where eventually we were able to haul it up high enough to bail out the water and at last pull it up on to the shore. By that time, of course, the timbers had swelled and it was perfectly serviceable. The colonel said that we could use it now that it was safe, and that was another element to add to our enjoyment of the holidays.
Our second caning was for terrorising two little lads who we caught in the woods. We roughed them up a bit and then tied them to trees, pulled down their pants and smeared their hairless little bollocks with cow_s_h_i_t_. One of their dads knew Mr Poole. He offered us the choice of four cuts apiece or being put on a charge in front of the colonel. We chose the cuts because we were pretty certain that the colonel would order up more than four.
Harvesting was hard work, but enjoyable. Out in the sun, piling up sheaves and then riding home on the back of the wain pulled by one of the shire horses – we loved it, and we fell into bed exhausted every night and more than once drunk as lords on the cider that the farm hands had pressed on us.
And then it was over. School was waiting again, though Michael had another week's holiday. On our first day back I had a fight with a lad called Smith. Both of us got six corkers with our trousers down – or at least, I did.
I went first, lay myself over the back of the armchair while he pulled my shirt up out of the way and lay the cane on good and hard. I yelled a couple of times, but nothing to upset myself over. Like always, it _f_u_c_k_ing hurt and my bum was blazing when he said I could stand up.
Then it was Smithy's turn. I don't think he'd ever had to let his trousers down for the cane before and I could tell he didn't like it, but nevertheless he got them down and bent over. His bottom was lean and small and he flinched when he felt the head touch the cane against him to take aim. The head lashed in the first stroke good and hard, just like he had on me. Smithy shot upright clutching at his bum and howling. Of course, Mr Sayer wasn't best pleased about this and ordered him back down over the chair. It took him a while, but at last he was bent over again and more or less ready. The second stroke lammed into him and he was up again, howling and clutching himself and begging Sayer not to cane him any more. The head went mad, shouting at him to bend over and take his medicine, but it did no good, so in the end I had to help.
Mr Sayer got hold of him and forced him down over the back of the chair. Then I had to kneel on the chair and grip his head between my knees. I held his wrists and pulled on his arms against the joint so that it didn't matter how much he howled and wriggled he wasn't going anywhere and his backside was in the right place for the cane to do its work.
"And now, Smith," said the head, "you'll find out what happens to boys who won't take their punishments like men. We'll start your caning again from the beginning. And if you're going to wail and cry like a baby, I'll give you something to wail and cry about."
And with the same he whipped Smithy's pants down. I had the perfect view of course, and I was amazed at the effect the cane had on his bare flesh, seen from this close. The six strokes covered his tight little bum with the most horrendous thick weals and there was a bit of blood too. Each weal had a white centre and dark red, starting to turn black and purple tramlines down the outside. Smithy naturally howled and bucked and I had my work cut out to keep him still so Mr Sayer could finish the beating. I thought he was being too hard on the lad, but there was no doubt he deserved a caning, and I had taken my dose without all this fuss, so I had no scruples about holding him there while he was thrashed.
I took the letter home and gave it to the colonel, hoping that he wouldn't think I deserved any extra. He did though, and it was another six cuts across the seat of my pyjamas, which were even more painful than the head's whacking. I was glad that Michael was still at home. He was really impressed with the state of my bum and then came and got into bed with me and we rubbed each other's pricks till I felt a bit better.
I discovered next day that Smithy was dragged back to the head's office after school and given the gymshoe on his bare bottom because his dad had been killed at Dunkirk. I felt sorry for him, and wondered how he'd managed to take an extra whacking like that.
A whole year went by like that. Occasional thrashings from Mr Sayer or Mr Poole, schoolwork that was sometimes boring but more often than not quite interesting, though I would never have admitted so. And in between the glorious life of the colonel's house with my two friends, and in the holidays Michael too.
But then two events occurred that shattered the whole thing. Mark and Luke had been getting letters from their mums occasionally, but from my mum there was nothing. Sometimes I could go a whole day without thinking of her. At school we started to hear rumours of kids going back to London because the worst of the bombing was over. Mark and Luke would sometimes say that they wondered what was happening back home. As far as I was concerned this was my home and I wouldn't have worried if I never saw my mum again.
And then it happened. Mark and Luke were gone almost before I realised it. Their mums turned up together, helped them pack their stuff, thanked the colonel and off they went to the station. I was on my own and the house suddenly seemed huge and empty. My twelfth birthday passed like any other day, except I got presents from the colonel and Mr Poole – a penknife and a small fishing rod. And when I inspected my prick at bedtime, I was proud that the few wisps of black hair were beginning to look like a proper pubic bush, if I didn't expect too much.
I came home from school a few days later and the colonel called me into his study. I thought I must have done something wrong, but there was another man there with him, but no Mr Poole. The colonel looked a mixture of angry and sad.
"There's been some bad news, Dormer," he said. "And you're going to have to brace yourself. There was an explosion at the munitions factory where your mother worked and I'm sorry to say that she was among those who didn't survive. I'm so sorry."
I felt as though I had been kicked. I wondered wildly for a moment whether I ought to try and cry, but then thought better of it. The colonel would see through that instantly. I said nothing and tried to look as though I was upset.
"And because that means that you are now an orphan," the other man struck in, "you are now the responsibility of the Ministry of Education and will have to come with me to your new home."
"Where?" I demanded.
"There's a place for you in a boys' home in Plymouth. It's very nice and you'll soon settle in there."
"But why can't I stay here?"
"The evacuation programme is coming to an end gradually, and the Ministry consider that a boys' home would be more suitable for you than continuing with your evacuation placement."
I tried to argue. The colonel argued and even became quite heated, which I had never seen before, but it did no good. I was going to have to go with this man whose name I still didn't know. I was going to pack up my stuff but the man from the ministry insisted that everything I needed would be provided at the home. He wouldn't even let me take my new penknife. "Oh dear me, no. We can't have boys with knives running around in our homes."
And then I was in the car with him driving across Dartmoor to Plymouth. I knew I was going to hate this 'home' just from the way he tried so hard to make it sound good. Opportunities to play with other boys, a chance to learn a trade, good solid meals. I knew it was going to be horrible.
And I was right.
It looked like a barracks for a start off. And then I was taken inside and handed over to this man who looked like a sergeant-major, but not like Mr Poole who you knew instinctively was worthy of respect. He led me to a kind of small shower room and ordered me to strip off. Reluctantly, and wondering what the hell was going on, I undressed. He had some electric clippers and made me stand in front of him while he shaved off my hair. It fell in dark curls on the concrete floor. I wasn't proud of my hair or anything but seeing it go like that gave me a terrible feeling.
Then he turned his attention to my groin. "H'm. Not much, but we'll have it off anyway," he said, and he made to take hold of my penis. I backed away from him and protested about such an intimate assault on my body.
"Look, lad. In here you do as you're _f_u_c_k_ing well told. Now, are you going to let me shave your bollocks for you?"
"Please don't," I said.
He sighed and reached his hand inside his jacket. He pulled out a short leather strap and I saw instantly that one end of it was divided into about three. "Now," he said. "Either I shave your tackle according to the ministry's instructions, or I give your arse a _f_u_c_k_ing good hiding with my belt and then I shave your tackle. And if I have to get someone else in here to help me do it, it'll be the worse for you. Now which is it to be?"
"All right," I said and felt as though the place had defeated me already.
"Which? You're going to have to ask me. Either 'Please shave my prick' or 'Please give me a _f_u_c_k_ing good belting'."
"Please shave my prick," I said through gritted teeth and then shut my eyes as he came at me with the clippers buzzing in his hand. He pulled my penis downwards and then applied the wickedly vibrating clippers to what little hair I had down there; then up as tight as he could and ran them over my scrotum, not because there was any hair there but just to see me jump.
"There. That wasn't so bad, was it?" I said nothing and my eyes were tight shut. Suddenly, the strap lashed across my unprotected bottom and I yelled. There was a band of fire across both buttocks and my hands clamped themselves to my rear end. "Was it?" he said with his face only inches from mine.
"No," I said.
It hadn't been a full-bodied blow with the strap but quite enough to show me how bad a '_f_u_c_k_ing good belting' would be.
He fetched a large tin of something with a ladle sticking out of it. "Hold your hands out." I did it and he ladled into my hands a dollop of foul-smelling semi-liquid soap. He turned a shower on and ordered me to wash myself all over. The water was freezing but he insisted that I rub the horrible carbolic stuff over every part of me and then stand under the needles of water till I was clean. When he was satisfied, the smell of carbolic was up my nose and the chemical had abolished every trace of the boy I had been ten minutes ago. He gave me a small towel and I did the best I could to get dry.
He put away the soap and the towel – my clothes had disappeared – and ordered me to follow him. The strap was still in his hand and my bottom was still tingling. He marched me down this long passageway which seemed to be underground. We saw nobody which was just as well as I was still stark naked. At last we came to a sort of storeroom where he kitted me out with a blue shirt, a pair of navy football shorts with an elastic waist and a pair of navy blue plimsolls. Then he piled on to my outstretched arms a more formal uniform which he said was for Sundays, a pair of black boots and a pair of long navy blue socks. None of this kit was new and some of it looked as though it had been worn by several boys before me.
"What about vest and pants?" I asked.
"Underclothes is a privilege. When you've earned it you can have some. Till then you manage, the same as the rest of them."
And then we were off again. Up some stairs into a slightly more civilised looking part of the building. We stopped outside a door with a plate that said 'Commander' on it. He knocked and after a few seconds he opened it and we went in.
It was a huge version of the headmaster's offices that I had been in. The desk seemed to be several yards away and as we crossed the carpet – the sergeant-major marching and me kind of shuffling – I looked round for the canes. I couldn't see any, so, for the first time, I wondered if maybe this wasn't going to be as bad as I thought. The Commander looked up from what he was doing eventually, and my hopes died. We stood in front of his desk. I was too scared to stand at attention, as he obviously expected.
"Name?" he demanded.
"Jack Dormer, sir."
"Welcome to the Royal Duke of Cornwall's School for Boys. Behave yourself and a well set up lad like you will do very well. My job is to see that you are well looked after and well behaved while you are with us. I hope you won't see me very often. The next time you are in this room it will be because you've done something seriously wrong and deserve a caning. Have you ever been caned, Dormer?"
"Yes, sir."
"On your bare bottom?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you?" His bushy eyebrows went up and his eyes bored into me. "I hope this doesn't mean that you're a troublemaker, Dormer. Does it?"
"No, sir."
"Be warned, Dormer. There isn't a boy born who can get the better of me, and I don't like the look of you. I think you'd better have a sample of our discipline here. Mr Franks."
Before I knew what was happening the sergeant-major had me bent over, my head gripped firmly between his knees. My wrists were held tight and my arms pulled up against the joint. I was pulled up on to my toes, bringing my backside into the right position. I was helpless.
"If you are to be punished, Dormer, the first thing that happens is that your bottom will be stripped." My shorts were whipped down and the cool air of the room caressed my naked skin. "I see you've had to use a little strap here, Mr Franks."
"Yes, sir."
"Perhaps a little more would do no harm before we show this young rogue what we mean by the cane."
Mr Franks was holding both my wrists in one hand and I was kind of aware of the strap being handed over. I hopped up and down on my toes and clenched my buttocks in anticipation. The one stroke of the strap that I'd had hadn't been a hard one, but now the commander really let fly at me and that strap lashed down across my poor bare bum with almighty force. I had never felt anything so appalling, and there was nothing I could do to prevent him hitting me twice more, covering most of my bottom in the same dreadful burning pain. Then it was his hand I felt, laid across the fiery skin.
"God, in his wisdom, gave boys backsides so that they could be taught right from wrong," he said, without removing his hand from me, "and in your case he knew what was needed because he's given you a good strong one, ready for all the punishment you obviously need. I think a couple of the cane will be enough warning of what's in store if you step out of line."
He let me feel the cane against my flesh and then after a long, long pause, during which I could hardly breathe, I heard it sing behind me and with the same my backside erupted in the most unbearable agony, ten times worse than the strap, which I had thought was the worst I'd ever felt. Again the cane whooshed through the air and all the breath was knocked out of me and the only thing left in the world was this incredible tearing band of fire across my rear end. The yells burst from my throat and didn't stop. Nothing, ever, had been as bad as this.
He let me go and I collapsed to my knees, my hands feebly rubbing at this impossible pain that had fastened itself to my bottom. But then some vestige of pride in myself flickered in my brain and I forced myself back to my feet.
"Did we enjoy that, boy?"
"No, sir."
"Get yourself brought up to me for punishment and there'll be anything up to two dozen like that. Are you going to get yourself brought up to me, boy?"
"No, sir." And you had better believe that I meant it.
"Good. Pull up your trousers and go with Mr Franks."
I was led out, still rubbing myself, though with absolutely no effect. We crossed a large playground and entered another building. almost identical with the other. He led me to a kind of workshop where about forty boys were planing and sawing at bits of wood. They weren't actually making anything as far as I could see and when the master in charge of the room put me at bench, gave me a piece of wood and a pLang and told me to smooth it down, it was clear that making something wasn't the aim at all.
The boy at the other end of my bench gave me a grin, but we were obviously meant to work in silence because there wasn't a sound from any of the boys. The only sounds in the room were the scrape and whistle of pLangs and the rasping of saws. It was kind of stupid, but certainly not difficult and I just fiddled with my piece of wood and kept my head down. The master walked up and down looking at what we were doing but not saying anything.
"What the bloody hell d'you call that you're doing, Lang?" he suddenly bellowed.
The boy on a bench about three away from mine, straightened up from under it where he had been grovelling about.
"Looking for me wood, sir."
"What's it doing down there?"
"I dropped it, sir."
"Dropped it, eh?" He looked round at all of us. "Everyone stop work." We all put down our tools. "Fetch the whacker, Lang." In the silence the dark-haired boy, who might have been a year or two older than me, walked down the workshop, past me, to a walk-in cupboard. He disappeared briefly and then reappeared holding a piece of wood. It was about two feet long and three or four inches wide and at one end it had been shaped into a rough handle. He handed it over to the master who tapped it meaningfully against his palm.
"Trousers," he said and Lang pushed his shorts down over his bottom. "Bench," said the master and Lang lay down over the end of his bench. "You, you, hold him." The two nearest boys took hold of Lang's wrists and pulled his arms taut. The master hoisted his shirt up. Lang's naked bottom was lean and solid. The master took aim, swung the whacker back and brought it down, hard and fast. It landed with a loud SMACK and the boy's skin turned instantly bright red. He didn't yell till the fifth whack but he squirmed a bit and the red was beginning to turn to blue and purple bruise.
"Right. Who else needs a whacking?" said the master and glared round the workshop. Three more boys were ordered to drop their pants and bend over and then received six hearty smacks of the whacker. They hadn't done anything as far as I could see, but they still dropped their shorts when told to.
Lang was still in place over the end of his bench, and that was where he and the other three stayed till the end of the session, their bare bottoms on show and fiery red for all of us to see. My own bum was still burning from the commander's cane.
I could scarcely believe the kind of hell-hole for boys I had ended up in.