I was a pretty strong kid and by the time I was fourteen Id decided that I wasnt going to hang around at home any longer. Being the only black kid in the school – or at least the only one who wasnt white – was a nightmare. I think Id had a fight with every boy in the school, and there wasnt a boy in the school whod had the cane more often than me. But they were all scared of me, and so were some of the teachers.
So I decided I was going in the army. My teacher said: "Forget it, Pole. They dont take niggers." But I went to the recruiting office anyway, and the sergeant there told me about Junior Leaders. What he told me made me determined that that was where I was going. And Ive never regretted it. Not even when I got into the trouble Im going to tell you about.
I had to take tests. Some were obvious, like physical things to see how strong I was, but others were unexpected, like maths and stuff. And I had to work out kind of situations that I suppose soldiers might find themselves in. When Id finished, they told me I had done better than any of the other lads who were there, so guess who went home feeling a right big head.
The day after the letter came to say Id been accepted I was sent up to the headmaster for something stupid. He got his cane out and said he was going to give me six. I snatched the cane off him, broke it over my knee (I was surprised that it broke so easy, because it was a whippy _f_u_c_k_er), told him to _f_u_c_k_ off and stormed out of the school and never went back.
I loved the army from the minute I got there. It was as though it had been there waiting for me all the time. The sport was ideal: rugby and boxing. I was depot champion boxer within a month of joining. I was so fit I could run for ever. My chest filled out and the muscles in my arms turned hard as iron. When we went into town I was conscious of girls watching us wherever we went. There was a social that we were taken to once a month, and at one of these I met a girl who groped me through the front of my trousers while we were dancing. Out the back, she dropped her knickers and I lost my virginity. I never saw her again, but the memory of her cunt lived in my hand for many a dark night.
It wasnt all wonderful, of course. We were fourteen-year-old boys after all and we had to be kept in line. Officially, we were punished with loss of earnings or a night in the cells. Unofficially, we felt the sergeants swagger stick across our backsides.
Sometimes, if our kit was dirty, say, theyd just order us to touch our toes and deliver three or four mighty swipes across the seat of our trousers. Other times, theyd have us in the guardhouse, put us over a sort of trestle with our trousers down and give us the cane hot and strong. Id never been caned this hard before and the first time I put up a bit of a fight, but I still got my eight strokes, and then some extra for not cooperating. With only pants for protection it was ten times worse than what Id been used to at school, but the next day it was as though the slate had been wiped clean. So, on the whole, I was happy to be caned rather than face the tough official punishments they were supposed to use. Im certain the officers knew all about this and they were happy for it to go on, because if theyd had lads in the cells it caused endless bother and kept them out of lessons.
The first year sped past. In no time, it seemed, my fifteenth birthday came and went. I got a card from my mum, but otherwise nothing. I didnt mind. The regiment was my family now. Of course, when we went on leave, I went home, but I always longed to get back. My mum was kind of proud of me, the way I looked in my uniform, the different attitude I showed.
The trouble came during the summer I was fifteen. I was home on leave and going out one evening with Pete Rossiter, the only boy Id been at school with who I was still mates with. We had just mooched about the streets for a couple of evenings – it was really boring. But then we noticed this group of girls who were following us. There was one specially that I really fancied. And bear in mind that Id already dipped my wick once, so I knew what I was after. Naturally we got talking soon enough and went down the park and stayed there till it was dark and the girls said they had to go home. By then I seriously reckoned I was in with a chance. That Margaret was going to be taking my dick up her before I went back to camp.
The next night we met up in the park and Pete had brought a bottle of cider he got from somewhere. Wed talked about it and we both kept feeding the cider to Margaret and girl he fancied called Joan. An hour later the other girls had disappeared; the four of us were lying on the grass, the girls giggling, and my hand was up under Margarets skirt. She was having a good time and it got even better when I guided her hand on to the front of my trousers and she got a feel of my prick. She wasnt slow, if you know what I mean, and she got my buttons undone in no time. And that was when she discovered that Id got no pants on.
We were in a bit of the park where we were completely invisible from anywhere and it was starting to get dark anyway, and I didnt mind Pete seeing what we were doing – especially since he was getting the same sort of action. So, one way or another, it was another two minutes before my dick was buried six inches up her cunt, with my backside pumping away for dear life with the evening air cool on my skin. And another sixty seconds before I shot my load deep into her.
I rolled off her and lay on my back for a while, letting her play with my dick. Pete was still mounted up and bucking.
Suddenly there was a shout and I knew we were in trouble. "My brother," Margaret shouted.
I managed to get my trousers up before he got to us, but then he was on top of us and I was fighting for my life – at least thats what it felt like. He wasnt much older than me and frankly, when it came to fighting, he was no _f_u_c_k_ing good at all. He was effing and blinding, calling me a _f_u_c_k_ing nigger, but two minutes later he was flat on his back, blood coming from his nose. I think he was unconscious, but I kicked him in the ribs a couple of times to make sure. I was going to kick his head in, but Pete and the girls stopped me.
And thats when the copper arrived on the scene. Common sense took over and I went with him peacefully enough. I was disappointed that Margaret didnt stick up for me. But thats girls for you.
I spent the night in the cells and was up in front of the magistrate in the morning. He was on old bloke with a moustache. The copper had warned me about him. "Im sorry, lad. Its Bircher Broughton."
And sure enough he listened to the coppers evidence and then started on a lecture about aimless youth and the need to teach young thugs a lesson. He finished by fixing me with his beady little eyes and announcing, "You will receive a dozen strokes of the birch rod. Take him down."
"Excuse me, sir," came a voice from behind me. I spun round and there was Captain Morgan, from the regiment. How the _f_u_c_k_ did he get here? I wondered.
He marched up to the table where the magistrate was sitting and the two of them talked quietly for what seemed like ages. I couldnt think what the hell they were talking about, apart from the fact that it was probably me. I was also pretty preoccupied at the thought that I was going to be birched. I wasnt sure what that was like, but I sure as hell didnt want to find out. Then he turned and marched back behind me again.
The magistrate fixed me with his piggy little eyes again, and wagged his finger at me. "Your officer has spoken up for you, young man," he said, "and I am persuaded that the army can deal with you better than the police, though I dont believe a dozen strokes of the birch would be a negligible punishment, and quite appropriate for what you have done. I am therefore turning you over to the army authorities and will leave your punishment in their hands. Dismiss."
I turned, feeling relieved. But the relief didnt last long. I was confronted by Sergeant Francis and almost before I realised what was happening my wrists were handcuffed and I was being led away. I was taken outside to a Land Rover and bundled into the back where my wrists were secured to an upright and the journey back to camp began.
It was unbelievably uncomfortable in that Land Rover. My wrists were red raw and my arms and legs were bruised all over from being thrown around. It seemed to last hours, but it cant have been more than one hour. The Land Rover parked outside the guardhouse and I was unlocked and ordered out.
Inside the guardhouse I was confronted with Sergeant Francis, Captain Morgan and the colonel, who was looking as black as thunder.
"Pole, Im appalled. One of our best cadets and you behave in this thuggish manner as soon as youre allowed home on leave. Well, I wont have it. All your leave is cancelled for six months. Im docking you three weeks pay, and Im leaving you to the tender mercies of Sergeant Franciss cane. I suggest, sergeant, that you start with a dozen on his bare backside and a day or two on latrine duty."
And with the same he marched out, closely followed by the captain. My heart was thumping and my guts churning. And suddenly, the thought of being birched didnt seem so terrible. I was alone with the sergeant and the corporal on duty and feeling about as helpless as a baby. I was dead.
They marched me into the cells area at the back and locked the door. Only then did he unlock my handcuffs, but I had no time to rub my wrists because he immediately ordered me to strip. I was in no hurry to remove all the protection of my clothes, but neither was he. I was going nowhere, and neither was he. And with two of them standing over me, I couldnt delay it for ever. No sooner was I stripped off, bollock-naked, than the handcuffs were put on again, but this time behind my back so that my tackle was on full view and undefended.
Id been in here before. In the corner was the kind of vaulting horse that we bent over to be caned. I thought he was going to put me over that, but I was wrong. He pulled down a kind of pulley thing from the ceiling and fastened it to the handcuffs. He pulled on this till my arms were hoisted up behind my back, forcing me into a kind of bending over position. Next they shackled one of my ankles to one end of a short pole; then forced my ankles apart and secured the other ankle to the other end of the pole. So now I was spread wide and forced further over in the bending position, and they were ready – or so I thought – to begin my punishment.
"Now then," began Sergeant Francis. "Youre going to tell us all about your adventures. How come you were beating up an honest citizen and bringing the regiment into disrepute at the same time."
I wasnt in a position to refuse, but neither was I best placed to tell him what had happened, strung up to the ceiling the way I was. And I certainly wasnt going to tell him I was shagging the guys sister.
"It just happened, sarge," I tried.
"Not good enough." And he took a good grip on my balls to remind me that he was in charge. "Try again."
"He just attacked me, sarge."
"Serge-ant," he reminded me with sharp downward tug on my balls.
"Sergeant. He just came at me, sergeant."
"And why was that, eh? It couldnt be because hed seen a nigger _f_u_c_k_ing his sister, could it?"
Now I really was dead.
He gripped my prick, wiping his hand all over it. "Here, corporal. Can you smell cunt on this boys _c_o_c_k_?"
"Yes, sarge."
"Is that right? Is that what you were doing, you dirty little nignog? _f_u_c_k_ing his sister?"
"Yes, sergeant." And I braced myself for the next assault on my testicles. But it never came.
"Well, Pole. Youre a _d_a_m_n_ good cadet and youll make a _d_a_m_n_ good soldier. And I reckon youve proved it. How old were you when you dipped your wick the first time, corporal?"
"Seventeen, sergeant."
"Sixteen, me. But young Pole has got us beat. I bet she loved it, Pole, didnt she? Six good inches of fifteen-year-old _c_o_c_k_ up her crack. What more could a girl want, eh?"
"Nothing, sarge," said the corporal.
"But you cant be allowed to get away with it, Pole. Youve upheld one tradition of the regiment, but youve let us down by beating the poor sod up. A dozen of the cane youve been ordered, and, by Christ, thats what youre going to get."
He went to the cupboard where they kept the canes. And not just canes. Id seen inside when I was up for a whacking once before. There were straps in there and paddles, and even a _f_u_c_k_ing whip. He took out a cane and flexed it between his fists. It looked no bigger than a twig in his hands, but I was under no illusions: this was going to be the hiding of a lifetime.
It took him nearly fifteen minutes to cane me. I was helpless and bent over, but there was nothing to keep me facing the right way. The corporal manoeuvred me round so my backside was in the right place and held my head to keep me there. I heard Sergeant Francis winding himself up and then his boots thumped on the floor, there was a short swishing sound and a massive crack like a gun going off and my backside exploded.
I yelled. I had never felt anything so excruciating in my entire life. It was like fire pressed deep into my flesh. The corporal let my head go and I swung around on the end of the restraint. I think I was briefly dangling free with my feet off the ground. They let me dance about for a while, but then the corporal got me back under control and facing the right way. I think he actually had his hands round my neck. I couldnt see anything but the front of his trousers anyway.
The same warning sounds – the crack of the cane – and the pain doubled and trebled in the second line of fire across my backside. I couldnt escape the dreadful lashing, but I wasnt held immobile and despite my ankles being shackled I danced about in a vain attempt to reduce the pain. I think at one point my whole weight was on my arms. But I was a strong lad and could take that kind of thing.
The cane was a different matter. The third stroke made me howl. It hit me square across both buttocks, low down, where I had always known a cane hurt worst. The fire burned deep into the muscles and I swung on the end of that chain like a boy possessed.
The fourth hit exactly the same line and I almost screamed with the agony of it. It was like being sliced open. The fifth, mercifully, found a new line, but I still roared. And the sixth, when it came at last, seemed to fill the band of screaming pain across my backside.
Looking back at this episode, there are a number of extraordinary things that didnt occur to me at the time. The first is that the guardroom had the equipment that was being deployed for my punishment ready and available. One cane might have been expected given that corporal punishment was the accepted norm for teenage boys, but what was the chain from the ceiling used for? Apart from hanging boys from when they needed whipping. And the shackles on my ankles.... Someone must have made them, or sent out an order to buy them. So how often were they used? Was their use known about and sanctioned?
The other thing that I now find extraordinary is that at no time during my flogging – or afterwards for that matter – did I question the armys view of the matter. I had been way out of order beating that guy up; they were saving me from a criminal record and a judicial birching; I deserved the most severe thrashing they could hand out. In sum, I was getting the punishment I needed.
The next six strokes were the most appalling thing I had ever experienced in my life. The corporal took my weight while Sergeant Francis hoisted the chain higher, till I was hanging off the floor. I couldnt dance about any more, but Im sure my legs kicked in mid-air every time the cane sliced into my now helpless flesh. It was an easy matter for the corporal to keep me facing the right way and the sergeant lay into me with gusto.
They let me down and at first it felt as though my legs wouldnt support my weight. All I wanted to do was clutch at the pain in my arse, but the handcuffs were still attached to the chain and they werent going to allow me any relief – not for a while longer anyway. They took me off the chain and uncuffed me, refastening them so that I was completely unable to get my hands to the seat of the pain. I could cover my genitals, but letting them see my dick was the least of my worries. They unshackled my ankles and I could stand straight, and hop about in a vain attempt to lessen the burning.
"Now then, Cadet Pole," the sergeant said. "Are you going to go shagging innocent girls in future?"
I could hear the joke in his voice, so I knew how to answer. "Yes, sergeant," I said.
"And are you going to go beating up their brothers?"
"No, sergeant."
"And are you going to obey every order I give you?"
"Yes, sergeant."
"Then get yourself over to that trestle and bend over it so I can finish your caning."
I looked at him in horror. He expected me to voluntarily bend over for more cane. But then I realised. This was a test to make sure I was back under military discipline. And, in any case, my backside couldnt possibly hurt any more than it did at that moment.
I went to the trestle, lowered myself over it, offering my already lacerated bottom for whatever he had in mind.
But I was wrong on two counts. I heard his boots thumping on the floor and the cane swishing a split second before it exploded into my backside. So it wasnt just a test.
And it was perfectly possible for the pain to get worse. He hit me twice more and they eclipsed all the previous terrible strokes. I discovered later, when finally I could massage myself and examine the damage, that those last strokes had split the skin and left blood running down the backs of my thighs.
A month later I was back in the guardhouse for the cane, but this time it was just six across my trousers, hoisted on Stu Hatheralls back – and I never minded that. But I was never whipped again – I made _d_a_m_n_ sure of that.