James Ralph Simmons was born on Aug. 8th, 1936 to a career military officer and a Southern "Belle". He was their only child. His mother doted on him, and his father had visions of his boy one day attending West Point as he had. Jimmy grew up on various military bases around the country, ending in Mississippi after his father was sent to the Pacific in 1943. Due to his father's many long absences, and his mother having nobody else to dote on, he was, by all definitions, a spoiled brat. He knew his way around the base, and because his dad was an officer, he tended to get away with most things. Until, that night in 1945 when Jimmy, and Aaron Fielding, another boy on base, who was a couple of years older than he, stole Mrs. Fielding's 1940 Chevrolet Master sedan, and took it for a joy ride around the base.
It was easy for the MPs to spot the car, as it wobbled and careened down the streets. The boys were stopped, and taken to the office of burly Master Sargeant Bowers, who was rumored to have been a middle weight contender in the 1938 all-Army boxing matches. Once informed of what had happened, he asked the corporal who had brought them in to make sure that the car was returned to Mrs. Fielding's driveway. He then looked down at the two boys, nine year old Jimmy, and 10 year old Aaron. Both of their fathers were fighting in the Pacific. He drummed a pencil on his desk, and finally spoke "boys, we can handle this in two ways. One, y'all will be brought up to the Judge Advocate General, and probably sent to prison.....or (he paused) we could just handle this here and now, between us men."
The boys, tears in their eyes, pleaded with the man to please handle it there. The burly man stood, and took a "Sam Brown" belt off of a coat hook. He told the boys to drop their pants and bend over his desk. With shaking hands, Jimmy unfastened his trousers. He let them drop to the floor, and bent over, his hands and body shaking. "Get up and pull them undies down boy, what do you think this is, kindygarden?" the sargeant said. Quivering, Jimmy did as he was told. Now, if the truth be known, his daddy had smacked his little butt once or twice, and probably, if he had been home, would have done it even more. However, he had never used a belt, and never on the bare!
Jimmy heard a sound, and the other boy screamed. In seconds, the same sound was heard, followed by a blinding pain as the strap struck his small, unmarked bottom. The boys each got six strokes. While that might not seem to be a lot, they were delivered in style, and with all the strength the man could muster. Both boys buttocks were bright red, tinged with mauve. Jimmy would bear bruises for two weeks. They were told to dress, and then the sargeant said words that chilled them both. "Boys, this here is an official punishment, and as such, a notice will be sent to your dads. Now get out of here."
Jimmy vowed to be a good boy for the rest of his life, as he limped home, a hand gingerly touching his throbbing butt. He worried what his dad would do to him, until three days later, when a telegraph boy peddled to their door with a message that caused his mother to collapse on the floor. His father had been killed......
They had to clear out of the Army housing. Oh, the Army was nice to them, giving them three days to get out. His mother didn't know what to do, and it would take months before any insurance payments would be offered. She had to make ends meet, and was told by another lady that there was work at the Brooklyn Navy yard. Thus, they moved to an apartment in Brooklyn, and the second half of Jimmy's life had begun.
He made friends quickly, perhaps too quickly. After the war, in 1946, automobiles were almost impossible to find. The auto factories had not geared up to full production yet, and returning soldiers, sailors, and marines stood in line, pockets (literally) full of money trying to buy what had been their dream for so many years, a new car. It did not take long before he and his friends had learned a wonderful way to make money. They would "liberate" new cars from the railheads, and sell them to the highest bidder. Sure, the cars were stolen, but who was to know? They reasoned, and their customers agreed that the only ones who were losing out were the money grabbing car makers. Thus Jimmy's life of crime began, in a big way!
He had just turned thirteen when he was caught. He and a 10 year old kid named Percy had just taken a Hudson when they were seen, and chased by the police. Jimmy misjudged a turn, and the car was demoloshed, the entire passenger side (including Percy) was destroyed. Due to his age, they could not "get him" for manslaughter. However, the judge did sentence him to Marshall House, a home for juvenile offenders, until he was eighteen. He then also sentenced Jimmy to be publicly flogged when he arrived and when he left the prison. Also, he was sentenced to be spanked while staring at Percy's picture both on the boy's birthday, and on the anniversary of the date of his death.
The bus ride to the prison took over four hours. Jimmy was shackled to the seat, not even being allowed to rub his tear filled eyes. Upon arrival, he was stripped, searched, made to shower, then stand before a guard who looked in his mouth with a flashlight, and made to bend over in front of him and spread his butt cheeks apart as the man looked into his back hole. Instead of being given a uniform like the others, he was instead taken to the main common area. The prison's cells were all on one floor, and all faced in, into a rectangular room. There, in the middle was a rope which hung from the ceiling. Under it was a three legged stool. It looked for all the world like a hangman's noose. As the naked Jimmy was pushed into the center of the room, all talking stopped. His hands were tied in front of him, and he was made to stand on the stool. He was sobbing openly, not knowing what was going on. The rope was pulled tight over a ceiling pully, and his hands were pulled high over his head. He stood there, in front of all, his hairless body on public display. A guard came up from behind him, and kicked the stool out. He swung from his hands, his legs pumping, trying to find the stool. He twisted until at last he faced the man, who held a long leather paddle, it's wooden handle at least twelve inches long, the leather paddle, worn with age and use, rows of holes visible down it's sides. He gasped. He was still swinging around, staring at the eyes locked upon him, when the first stroke hit. It was like ten thousand strokes of the sargeant's belt, it propelled him forward as he cried out in pain.
Diabolically, as his body swung back from the impact of the stroke, yet another landed, this one low down, where his buttocks end and his thighs begin, an especialy sensitive area. He screamed again. Again, the swinging took place, and he could no more control it than he could control his tears....nor the action of his little circumcised penis which took this time to stiffen for reasons known only to itself. Chuckles and pointing now came into his view, and when he realized what they were pointing at, he turned beet red, almost as red in the face as he was in the butt. Over and over he was hit, until he felt fluid dripping down his legs. They had beaten him until he was raw, and tiny driplets of blood flowed with sweat down his backside. Oh, in reality the blood was a minor thing, but to the boy it seemed that he was going to die, and he did what his body compelled him to do, he passed out.
Chapter Two coming soon!