The Preparation
Chris wasn’t getting along too well but I suppose he wouldn’t really; not like that. With his hands bound behind him, he couldn’t use his arms for balance as his bare feet trod the uneven ground and that rope that was tied securely, but not tightly, round his neck pulled him along more insistently than he would have chosen.
It was quite a warm September day and you know what they say about a British autumn: on a good day, at least the rain is warm. Chris could have vouched for the falsehood of that saying as the rain dripped from his dark hair, his ears, his nose and his chin and ran down his body leaving the blue swimming costume, which was all he was wearing, drenched and cold. At least his escort had the ponchos from their Cadet Corps uniforms to protect them.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, Chris was regretting sharing his opinion of the Head Prefect with him. He now had a thick rope dog-chew, (You know: the ones with a huge knot at each end) being held tightly back into his mouth with one of his own boot laces. At least his journey shouldn’t take much more than an hour but even then he still had to face his ordeal.
Perhaps I ought to explain. The boys’ boarding school where Chris and his escort were pupils had an unwritten rule. Anyone whom the prefects found to have done something to disgrace himself, his house, or the school could choose: either be handed over to his Housemaster or the Headmaster or let the prefects deal with him. Of course, certain offences were considered too serious to be dealt with in such a way but the staff must have known about the kangaroo courts that dealt with most misdemeanours short of illegal acts. It just wasn’t usually worth a “defendant” risking being suspended until his parents could come into the school with the subsequent danger of expulsion. Also, as far as the staff was concerned, it kept the prefects out of trouble over the weekends. So – everyone was satisfied – almost.
Chris had been called to the prefects’ common room one Wednesday evening. He had to stand still, legs straight and arms folded behind him and look to the front (yes, it is a rather old-fashioned school) while the charges were laid. Then it was put to him: either he could undergo ordeal by water or the prefects’ next move was to report him to the Senior Housemaster. Chris was obviously guilty. He chose ordeal by water.
The prefects had various ordeals that had become customary over the years. None was dangerous if properly supervised but all were humiliating, unpleasant and time-consuming. It was not too late in the year to subject a boy safely to the water ordeal but it was much too early to make him suffer ordeal by ice and ordeal by fire was considered too lenient for Chris’s offence, so water it was. Chris was told to report, properly dressed, to the prefects’ common room at exactly 10:00 hrs on the following Saturday. He was then asked if he had anything to say. Chris knew better than that and declined the offer. He did not enjoy the next two days.
Having a school with its own Cadet Corps and surrounded by a private estate had its advantages as far as some of the establishment’s more esoteric practices were concerned and Chris knew exactly what he was in for.
He knocked formally on the door at precisely ten o’clock and waited. The Head Prefect, Basset, called, “Enter,” and Chris did so. He stood in the customary formal pose. He was fourteen years old and, other than being a member of the football team, was not particularly athletic. Standing with his arms folded behind him and wearing just his royal blue swim briefs showed, however, that he was quite well made. Being pale, unlike most of the boys at that time of year, his complexion contrasted with his long, dark crew-cut. The school required a uniform haircut no longer than a grade six.
He tried to look around without turning his head and noticed four prefects who were already in their Corps denims, camo shirts, gaiters and army boots. Basset wore the insignia of the Staff Sergeant; two others wore three stripes and the last was a corporal.
Chris, who was, of course, referred to by his surname, was given one last chance to be reported to the Senior Housemaster. Chris declined. He was called across to the desk behind which Basset was seated and told to read the confession which had been prepared, to sign it and to sign an addendum which confirmed that he had agreed to be subjected to the ordeal. Alright, the document had no real legal standing but explaining the confession to his parents would be a painful experience. Chris signed and returned to the penitent’s posture.
While he was signing, he noticed the equipment laid out on the table but most of that came as no surprise; he’d resigned himself to being tied up and led to the start of his ordeal. The exception was the short, thick rope with the large knots at each end. He knew it was a dog toy, and not being thick, he only hoped it was a new one because he could make a good guess as to where it was going to be positioned very soon. He wondered whether the satisfaction he had obtained from telling Basset his opinion of not only him but his parents and the rest of the prefects as well last Tuesday was worth it at that stage.
“Unfold your arms.” Chris did as he was told and soon felt the corporal, Jones, forcing his wrists to cross and lifting them higher. He tried to maintain the pose as a doubled rope was used to square-lash his wrists inescapably. Jones was an acknowledged master of the art; his bindings were always firm but never so tight that the prisoner would need to be released before punishment was complete. In less than two minutes Chris was unable to move his wrists either upwards or downwards without putting unnecessary pressure on them. He couldn’t see it but Jones had left his trademark bight hanging from his subject’s wrists in case it would be needed later.
All the while he had been in the common room, Chris had been holding the boot-lace that he’d been instructed to remove from one of his army boots in his left hand. He knew now what it was for. Basset rose from behind his desk and took the lace. He didn’t need to issue an instruction as he presented the multi-coloured rope to Chris’s mouth. The dog toy was soon lodged further back in Chris’s mouth than he would have chosen. That rope was thick; Chris hoped that he wouldn’t be gagged for long. He could hardly apologise in the hope of getting the punishment moderated and he resigned himself to the discomfort.
One of the Sergeants, Robinson, took a stiff rope that was no more than two metres long and tied a loose figure of eight about fifty centimetres from one end. Passed the shorter end round Chris’s neck and re-tied the figure of eight with the shorter end of the rope. He adjusted the resultant loop until the knot was positioned too close to Chris’s neck for him to be able to slip out of it but not so close as to run any risk of strangling him. As long as he behaved! The re-tied figure of eight was then tightened securely. As a finishing touch, Robinson formed a loop in the free end of the lead large enough for one of the escort party to slip his hand through.
By now Chris was breathing heavily but he was determined not to cry.
You mustn’t think of the prefects’ “justice” system as being a “one-size-fits-all” regime. There were ways of dealing with more minor infringements as well, as was so useful in situations like Chris’s. The fatigue party was made up of four younger boys who had each managed to earn a de-merit in the previous week and whose consequent detentions the prefects had to supervise. The younger boys had to act as “gofers” for the main punishment detail. Before Chris was prepared for his ordeal, they had been thoroughly briefed and sent about their business.
Three of the four boys, who were referred to by the made-up rank of Lance-Private to keep them in their places, wore denims, gaiters and boots but they were only allowed their “singlets(PT)” above the waist. Most boys liked to wear the white garments tight, they thought it made them look hard. The fourth boy was Joe. He wasn’t the brightest of people but he was a nice kid who was, even so, as tough as old boots. He wore the navy cotton shorts(PT) of the Corps and his singlet. It was hard to imagine tight clothing on someone as skinny as Joe and both garments hung loosely from him. The attire made his army boots look even larger on him than they actually were. He had probably turned up at the beginning of term with a haircut that was considered too long. His current style certainly bore all the hallmarks of one of Matron’s remedial efforts.
While the prefects got themselves ready, Chris was basically ignored. They collected their none too heavily packed bergens and, having looked out of the window, attired themselves in their ponchos. Basset gave the order for Jones to lead their prisoner forward. Chris heaved a sigh and tried to keep up with the Corporal as he dragged him along by the lead round his neck.
After about half an hour the shower of rain stopped but it took some time for Chris to feel any warmer and his garment certainly hadn’t dried out (or warmed up much) by the time he’d come to their destination. Shortly after the shower had stopped, Robinson cut out from the detail unsheathing the machete that he’d previously worn in a scabbard hanging from his belt. When he returned, he was stripping the bark from a newly cut, six-foot chestnut stave. Chris had hoped they’d forgotten that aspect of his ordeal.
Once prisoner and escort had arrived at their destination, Basset announced that it was time for a brew. Out came the hexi-burners and mess tins and the bevies were well on the way. Jones told Chris to sit cross-legged and he tied the end of the lead crudely round his ankles. It was really just more humiliation; Chris knew better than to try to escape. Needless to say, he was not offered refreshment.
Before the tea and biscuits had been finished off, a somewhat breathless Joe ran up to Basset, stood to attention and saluted. Basset simply said, “Report,” and Joe adopted the school penitent position with his feet together and his arms folded behind him. That posture coupled with the rain- and sweat-soaked singlet made him look even skinnier than ever.
“Base Camp established, Colour Sar’nt.”
“Very good, courier. Guard the prisoner and stand easy.”
“Yes, Colour Sar’nt.” Joe moved across to stand in front of Chris, stood feet apart with his hands behind him and looked straight ahead.
Chris noticed the copious amount of mud that covered most of the skinny kid up to nearly his waist and assessed the theoretical state of the terrain that he had just run through. The White Water was going to be deep.
Tea and biccies having been consumed and any necessary urination having been undertaken, it was time for the Prefects to pay attention to their prisoner.
“Courier, get this crap cleared away and into your duffle bag. Make sure the mugs are washed up by the time we get to Base Camp.”
“Yes, Colour Sar’nt”
“And did you get one de-merit or two?”
Joe didn’t want to answer but it was obvious that Basset already knew the answer. “Two,” he mumbled. “Err, er m two, Colour Sar’nt.” He corrected himself more loudly.
By now the hexis had gone out so Joe carefully folded their still warm bases and put them along with the mugs, spoons and packaging into the duffle bag that he’d carried on his back.
“In that case . . . Corporal, tie his wrists. He can run back like that.” Joe didn’t dare protest in case his Judge-and-Executioner decided to hobble him as well. It HAD been known.
Joe thrust his arms through the draw cords of the lightly laden bag and was about to hitch it into place when Robinson said, “Hold it! Wait a minute. Colour Sar’nt?”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“The rain’s stopped. The clouds are clearing and the sun’s been out for some time now. Why should we carry our ponchos when he could take them for us?”
“Very good, Sergeant. See to it, Lance Private.”
Joe slipped the draw chords from his shoulders and resignedly collected the still sopping garments. He folded them carefully dry to dry, rolled them and stuffed them into his duffle bag. It was not so empty now, nor so light. He slipped the now bulky package onto his back. Jones needed help to address his task. Thompson, the other Sergeant, went to his comrade’s assistance. In comparison to the thick-set Robinson, Thompson was slim and rather dark-skinned with ready dimples in his mischievous face. He lifted the pack high, rested it on Joe’s head and held it in place. Robinson tied Joe’s arms, firmly palm to palm behind him and asked Thompson to hold the bag in place. Joe guessed that he was going to have his thumbs bound as well. He was right but after that he had some difficulty not earning himself further torment when Robinson announced that he had not yet finished.
By the time Joe’s skinny arms had been tied so that his elbows touched, he was not a happy soldier, especially when Thompson released the duffle bag, allowing it to fall into place against Joe’s immobilised arms.
“Good work, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Alright, Lance-Private, off you go. And don’t take too long.”
Joe didn’t know what Thompson meant by not taking too long; his journey from Base camp probably took about twenty minutes but there was no way he was going to make his way back as quickly even though he was a good cross-country runner. At least there was no way Thompson could find out how long it took him. Or was there?
At precisely nine o’clock that Saturday morning, the four thirteen-year-olds who were to form the fatigue party reported to the Prefects’ Common Room. Upon the command, “Enter.” They presented themselves in the penitents’ posture in front of Basset’s desk.
They noticed that the prefects were already engaged in minor acts of torture against three First Year boys. They’d probably not had their ties done up properly or worn them too long or too short or some other violation of some equally important rule. They wore their full school uniform (a bad enough punishment on a Saturday, surely) and were standing with the toes of their highly polished black shoes about a foot from the wall against which their noses were squashed. With their arms folded behind them, they had to stand there until they were released.
The hardened young criminals were ignored while the Fatigue party was briefed.
Joe was told that he was dressed in his shorts because he was to act as courier. Once the party had established a base-camp, he was to take the quickest cross-country route to where Chris was due to commence his ordeal and report the fact. The others were to act as a draught team for the ancient trek cart that the school used for Scouting or Corps activities. They would use the cart to transport a frame tent, a field kitchen, supplies, and various things for the comfort of the prefects. They were to be allowed their ponchos except, of course, Joe who would not be allowed his when he was running.
Thompson handed a manifest to one of the team and told them to load up and, “Be quick about it”.
The draught team was dismissed and the Prefects turned their attention to their guests.
“Alright, oiks, don’t move, just listen up.” There then followed a boring lecture about standards and pride and letting themselves down and other uplifting topics. The three sufferers hoped it wouldn’t go on too long. “Very well, stand at alert.” The boys stood upright, brought their feet together and folded their arms behind them. Other than that, they didn’t move.
“Stay in your uniform until you get ready for bed tonight and don’t be so sloppy in future. Understand?”
“Yes, Basset,” replied three weary, insincere voices.
“Dismiss.” The smartly blazered boys withdrew. Such punishments were more inconvenient than anything else and certainly the victims couldn’t get up to anything dressed like that.