After the Japanese entered the second world war and the American forces arrived in Australia my school was taken over as part of General MacArthur's headquarters. The school was situated near the centre of the city and being a large school had many suitable buildings for conversion to offices. The school in normal times housed boys of all ages, the younger primary boys in short pants and blazers, the senior school boys in long trousered blue suits. All boys of whatever age under the constant restraint of strict rules enforced by The Cane.
Because at the time it was feared enemy attacks may occur the school made arrangements to evacuate boys into the country to boarding facilities hastily organised for the purpose. Evacuation was the choice of the parents, and for those boys whose parents did not wish that to happen, schooling facilities were set up in a second primary campus the school owned, located out in the suburbs.
For the junior boys whose parents decided to evacuate them, the Club House of an exclusive Golf Club in the country was taken over and adapted as a makeshift boarding school. The senior evacuees were housed and schooled at a nearby requisitioned holiday resort. Boys, staff and school materials, including a generous supply of canes, were shipped out to these new premises. I would have been 9 years old at the time and had never been away from home alone. The first horror I remember was The Matron who I supposed was to take the place of our mothers. She certainly never came within a mile of resembling mine, and in fact I think started my progress to being gay. My memory of her now is of the most sadistic woman I have ever met, before or since. A junior master was appointed Principal of the Golf House Junior School, and was a Cane wielding disciplinarian who definitely preferred boys to be in the bending position at all times.
Each morning the matron would hold a cleanliness inspection outside where boys lined up to display their hands and finger nails, she would stalk along the line checking behind the ears and examining bare knees and clothing for dirt or untidiness. Those she found to be beyond her standards joined the queue up onto the nearby verandah where the Principal dealt with culprits on the spot, the spot being of course, the bending, taughtened seat of our shorts. Depending on Matron's opinion would depend the number of strokes. Most boys were stoic, but some like myself howled and danced about, our fingers clawing at the agony in our bottoms after each stroke. Some boys (myself included) who were unable to handle more than one stroke without leaping up and trying to escape, were held down. Matron would assist the Principal in this way and was always delighted to do so. Later, as more boys arrived to attend the evacuation school, Matron felt that a more severe approach was needed to keep up the standard of cleanliness (or so I suspect). Canings were now administered either with our pants pulled down - on our underpants - or in more serious cases with the seat of our briefs tucked up and the caning administered on our bare bottoms. I shall always remember how humiliating it was to have to pull down my pants in front of everyone and then to bare each cheek of my bottom.
Matron began to take a very unhealthy interest (for us anyway ! ) in our _s_e_x_ual habits and took to patrolling the dormitories after lights out. I was amongst the first batch she caught masturbating. Lights were turned on immediately, my bedclothes ripped off and one look was enough, there was no doubt. I was ordered out of bed and to take off my pyjama pants, leave them on the bed and go immediately to the Principle's study, with the very strict admonition to hold my pyjama coat up, front and back, well above my navel ! Outside I found a queue of similarly partially clad boys all with rapidly collapsing penises. One at a time we knocked and were ordered into the study. "Why were we there, and without any pants ?!" A full confession was obligatory. A lecture about disgusting behaviour and then told to report again at a certain time the next day and not to wear any underpants beneath our shorts. Then back to bed to find Matron had confiscated our pyjama pants as "filthy minded boys did not deserve the privilege of pants". Few boys with the inevitable prospects of the next day in their minds slept well (especially without their pants) - certainly I didn't, I was far too busy doing other things, ironic, as those things were the very reason I was to be punished the next day.
I was only caught at it once. The consequences of that one time were appalling, and afterwards (as most boys I think did as well) I was very careful indeed not to rattle the bed, and kept my ears pricked to hear matron's softly rustling skirts as she went about her regular patrols. I have no doubt she thought her methods were being very successful in correcting all of our morals, instead I am sure, the habit increased, but became very much harder to detect. The consequences commenced as I showered, the shower room was a communal affair and there were four naked boys to a shower under the supervision of a junior master. I recall there was much hoarse whispering amongst the boys in my shower, wondering what my bottom would look like the next morning. As I dressed, slipping on my school shorts without any underpants, the morning's prospects were vividly in my mind. I presented myself at the Principle's study at the time required just in time to see the previous boy come out howling, rubbing his bottom and carrying his pants. The welts between his clawing fingers were terrifying. Then it was my turn.
There was a table in the centre of the room. Matron was there, and the Principle had The Cane gently tapping his right leg as he waited. There was no lecture, just: "Take off your pants ! Give them to matron ! Bend over the table and grip the other side !" I stretched over, my hands just reaching the other side to grip it tightly. Matron, knowing me, moved round the table and took firm hold of my wrists. My shirt tails were pulled right up my back and I felt the preliminary taps of The Cane on my bare bottom as the Principle measured his distance. Six searing, slashing strokes was considered a fitting number for such an offence by a 9 year old boy and each one was delivered with full force while I howled, screamed, struggled, and kicked my legs. When I was at last released I was not allowed to put my pants back on until I was out in the passage. The next day in the shower there was an unusual awe-struck silence as the welts, still swollen and raised, were surreptitiously felt by curious fingers other than my own.