A schoolboy's first caning

Following an uneventful career at junior school, I passed my eleven-plus
and progressed to a boys' Catholic grammar school in the English midlands. On
our first day, all of us new boys were asked to stay behind after assembly to be
addressed by the deputy headmaster. He carefuly reminded us about the many
rules and regulations pertaining to junior boys, mentioning the cane several times.
He stressed that certain offences were 'caning offences' and told us how many
strokes miscreants might expect: six of the best for smoking or fighting, four
for being caught without your school cap on, three for running in the corridor etc.
All of the time he was delivering this useful information the deputy head
periodically brandished a wicked looking cane. I had never seen a cane before
(only the slipper had been employed at my junior school) and the sight of the rod
filled me with both foreboding and fascination.

That first week passed by without any serious incidents but on the Tuesday of
the following week two boys in the geography class began squabbling over a text
book which unfortunately ended up ripped. Mr Wilkinson, the geography master,
teacher, was visibly furious, but very calmly told both boys to stand outside
the classroom since he intended to deal with them after the lesson. The remainder
of the period continued in silence, with everyone curious as to what would be the
fate of our two classmates.

The lesson ended and Mr Wilkinson left the classroom to speak to the two unhappy
boys before calling them back into the classroom. The class had been dismissed
but several of us lingered in the corridor, peering intently through the frosted glass
partition. Mr Wilkinson's voice boomed as he addressed both boys. Then there
was an eerie silence until we heard the first sharp crack of the cane, swiftly repeated
thrice more. A few moments of ominous silence and then four more sharp reports
of rattan on trouser-seat echoed about the high-ceilinged classroom. The unfortunate
boys left the classroom with tears in their eyes and walking unsteadily. Through his
gritted teeth one of the lads managed to tell us that the cane had stung horribly and
that his backside was throbbing.

Naturally I resolved to do all that I could to avoid being caned myself, but as luck
would have it some five weeks into the term I was caught fighting with another boy.
Now, all these years later, I can't even recall what the fight was about; but I certainly
can recall our fate...

It was our misfortune to be apprehended by the deputy headmaster, who had the
reputation of being a real demon with the cane. He marched us to his office and
left us outside for a good ten minutes to contemplate our impending fate. We were
both shaking with fear and my heart missed a beat when we were at last called into
the deputy head's office. A big curved-handled cane was laying on his desk - probably
the selfsame cane he had flourished after assembly on that first morning of term.

We received a sharp telling off and the deputy head then enquired whether either
of us had ever been caned before. We both answered no. My erstwhile sparring
partner was dealt with first. The boy was made to take off his blazer and bend
across the edge of the big desk with his bottom pushed well out. The deputy head
announced that he was to receive six of the best, and that any 'nonsense' would
result in even more cuts of the cane.

I was impressed by how stoically my classmate assumed the required position,
waiting calmly for the bite of the rod. I by contrast was a nervous wreck: my
palms sweating, my knees trembling and I could hardly bear to watch.

The deputy head tapped the boy's well-stretched trouser seat lightly with the flexible
cane, taking aim, then pulled his arm back, bringing the cane down hard across
the youngster's buttocks. He gasped loudly and gripped the edge of the desk for dear
life. By the fifth stroke my classmate was sobbing but he was managed to stay bent over
until the sixth and final stroke. He was told to put his blazer back on and stand with
his hands on his head.

I was told to remove my blazer and bend across the desk. I felt sick in the pit of my
stomach but meekly did as I was told. (Schoolboys did in those days.) I felt the tip of
the cane tapping on my bottom then a split second later there was a swish and crack as
the cane lashed across my buttocks. An intense stinging pain blazed across my backside
and I gripped the desk, praying that I'd be able to stay down for the next five strokes.
After the third stinging cut I was in tears and by the time I had received the full six of the
best my poor bottom was ablaze.The pain of the caning had been unbelievable - much
worse than I had ever imagined.

(Contributed anonymously)