Our story began here.

The Spoils of War
Everything felt flatter than the lava-blasted plain outside and Katrin could neither sleep nor celebrate. All night she hugged into Fear as he slept like the just, her eyes staring up at the window and the strange orange glow that emanated from outside where the fires of the battlefield cooled off.

Fear and Katrin had been housed in one of the towers of Timon overlooking the last scene of the conflict. As the undisputed ranking representative of Pandoria, Fear had been afforded all honours. Although nothing had been further from him that night and he was exhausted. For months life had been a battle and that day he had fought at least three more, the last with his self.

Now he had new burdens to endure. He was the hero of the hour, the vanquisher of the West and the great saviour; a crown far heavier than any that John or Peron wore.

Furthermore he had discovered his true nature. It was something to find that one was the first Arch Magus in a thousand years. Katrin squeezed her man hard, deep within she was terrified he had been forever changed.

At nightfall word had reached Katrin from her father that he lived, although she had not seen him. The note, not even in his own hand, said that he had many wounded and dying to attend to and would see her in a few days. She took some comfort that at least he had survived.

Fear groaned in his sleep and rolled over. Did he too dream of the dead? Katrin sucked in a hard breath and held onto it as if it were her last. So many had died, here and elsewhere; names and faces ran through her mind, Gort the High Hand had not perished alone. She barely knew the man, but suddenly thoughts of him made her precious last gasp escape with a sob. Then another came and the dam came close to breaking as all the horrors of war crushed in on her.

Fear murmured something in his slumber, protesting imagined enemies and Katrin remembered how she had nearly lost him. At that moment it was too much to bear and then she broke in howling tears.

Half-awake now, Fear drew her into his arms and kissed her forehead. He was solid and real and she held to him even as she sobbed. Nor did she stop for the longest time and not until the glow from the dawn overmatched the lava-light did she finally sleep.

*

The sunrise was clean and pure. Its warm hard light seemed to shred the dust and smoke of war as it purged the morning mist. Even the broken walls of Timon looked as if they would stand certain and forever. Better still, the light breeze brought the scent of honey berries to mask the smell of the dead and somewhere someone was ringing a bell.

Fear sat-up with a start and frowned at the sound. In his dreams the Priest-Witches had returned, but now he heard a sweeter sound. One day I should hunt the last of them, he thought, but then a soft breath from Katrin steered him to better things.

Dimly he remembered that she had cried in the night and he had been scant comfort. But all things pass, even war it would seem. He looked down at Katrin and smiled. She slept soundly now and he would not have woken her for the world. Perhaps after breakfast he and she would…

The thought was left hanging as a knock at the door brought a frown to his love’s face and she smacked her lips in her slumber.

“Who is it?” Fear hissed softly while still managing to sound annoyed.

When no answer came he staggered to his feet and pulled on his great black robes.

“Maestro?” said a hard but gentle voice beyond the door.

Fear crossed the room and opened it.

Dniester bowed slightly and then came ramrod straight as if seeing his old student for the first time.

“Dniester,” Fear cried happily, “I hear you did well yesterday.”

“I did well…? Then by that token, you did very, very well,” Dniester winked.

Fear became uncomfortable.

“We will talk about that another time, once you are more accustomed to your new… status,” the old man made his best stab at a sympathetic face. Quickly changing the subject he said, “The King, both kings in fact, have been asking for you. And Denton wants to discuss the Magister’s position on captured witches and the like.”

“Can’t Maxine lead on this? I mean…” Fear sighed.

“Maxine is… preoccupied and has volunteered to get a preliminary feel for the witch situation. I rather suspect that since you have overshadowed her part in the recent hostilities she has pushed her ambition into the background,” Dniester chuckled.

“And you? Why can’t you sort the politics out?” Fear asked wearily.

“I am but a humble adept, maestro,” Dniester said expansively and made a slight bow.

“A humble dragon ruling, zombie slaying pain in the…” Fear muttered.

On the bed behind him Katrin groaned and rolled over. But she showed no signs of waking and Fear turned back to Dniester.

“Very well,” he said, “I’ll be along shortly.”

*

A league from Timon another city stood abandoned. This one was of burnt out fires and canvas flapping in the morning breeze. Here and there were piles of abandoned weapons and smashed open boxes; the latter the detritus of last minute looting.

On the open hill nearby there were three great crowds of people milling around. Between each group were varying numbers of soldiers all eyeing the remnant of the Western Host suspiciously and awaiting orders for their disposition.

Amid the guards and prisoners was a hooded figure in blue leaning on a staff that came level to her head. Maxine Du Jared had come to see the Western witches for herself and to be reassured that there were no great talents there ready to do mischief. Not that Maxine was best placed to assess the wretched creatures, but she didn’t altogether trust Meredith Greydove and her ilk, not yet anyway. Although she had to admit that the covens had acquitted themselves well in the fight.

In the world that followed, much more account would have to be taken of such people, but then she had always known that. Maxine knew the dangers and for once she wished that Dniester and Amber Sage were on hand to inform her. In any case, for the time being it had been decided to contain these witches and any magic users found for a further decision.

This left the rank and file soldiers to contend with. These warriors were to be dispatched home with a minimum of their weapons as if nothing had happened. It wouldn’t do to hold them, either from the point of view of cost and the danger of making them martyrs. In any case, most experts expected that the West would fall to civil war within weeks and allowing a new generation of warriors who had not experience the heavy defeat emerge as the new leadership did not seem prudent.

This group, the largest, was of mainly men; hardened warriors all, many of whom were well used to defeat as well as victory. They were patient and malleable for the most part and formed up into neat lines to await their marching orders to the recaptured Motra Mundy and a ship home.

But there was a smaller group. This one, mainly women, looked drawn and tired. Now surplus to requirements in the great Western war machine, they had the stark choice of attaching themselves to a defeated and moneyless male warrior or returning to the drudge’s life most of them had gone to war to escape.

Tomas eyed them sympathetically and wondered in passing if there might be a woman for him among them. It had been a long road for the Western Plains and it seemed that it had been all for nought. He sighed heavily and leaned on a post that had been set-up as a way marker. His sword slapped at his hip and he smiled. He still had a profession then, that and his armour assured him of that at least. Furthermore, he was alive. When he had seen the tornados and the ground open up in flames he knew then that he might die.

But there was self-deception in his laboured optimism. At the back of it all the nausea of defeat clawed at his stomach and he felt spacey and small like the bitter little bell of the Shadow Dreamers. Only today someone had pulled out the clapper leaving him as impotent as they had been.

The light gust picked up a scrap of tent canvas and sent it like tumbleweed across the grass, an ill-omen of his fate, which for him now seemed as aimless.

“Sir, Sir,” said a young breathless voice, “Where do we go? I can’t find my squad and…”

Tomas glowered at the boy and almost bit his head from his shoulders, but something held him. The young warrior had the look of the eager, one of those that had come for adventure. His reddish brown hair was tied back in the Western style and there was a slight hint of a moustache on his upper lip.

Tomas regarded the boy for a moment and then he said, “You and me both boy. Come on; let’s get this rabble into some semblance of order.”

The officer’s words carried to the nearest stand of dejected souls and several dull eyes slowly swivelled to look at him, one of them even spat on the ground.

Tomas felt his hackles rise and at the corner of his eye he saw listless non-com try to slip away.

“Sergeant, get that man’s name and you there, yes you straighten up that line,” Tomas barked. It was going to be a long few weeks and an even longer march home.

*

Nansi Pyke sat dejectedly on a hump in the grass sucking on a reed. For all intents and purposes she was no longer a sword leader and with the army in disarray no one would have any use for women under arms. Not in the West anyway. Despite this several of her former comrades looked to her for what to do next and in the small hours that had followed the defeat, she had wondered about slipping away with as much war gear as she could carry and setting a free company of lady mercenaries.

The idea had not survived the harsh light of day. After all, who would be hiring mercenaries now, let alone women? And in any case she had had her fill of fighting. But she was certain of one thing, she would not return to the West where women were good only for drudge work. If it came to it she would go south or north and hire out as a servant there. After all, she had heard that things were better in the East for women who could read.

“Ma’am?” said a voice next to her.

Nansi looked up and saw a bedraggled Under-Sergeant Rondel. She was a hopeless girl and had never been fit for military service in the first place. But Nansi knew that she too could read and for the first time felt a kind of empathy for the woman.

“Rondel,” Nansi sighed, “What can I do for you?”

“Are you going back?” Rondel asked nervously. The girl was ever nervous.

Nansi took a deep breath and followed it with a heavy sigh.

“No,” she said simply with a shrug.

Rondel returned a tight smile and nodded. “Nor am I,” she said.

Good for you, Nansi thought and tossed away the grass stem she had been chewing.

But out of habit she was still wont put some distance between her and the others, so she said, “So what do you want, a medal?”

“I can cook,” Rondel said eagerly, “Maybe we could… you know, find work in the city?”

“The city we came to plunder?” Nansi scoffed.

“I was thinking of Motra Mundy,” Rondel said tentatively. “I mean it’s a port isn’t it, full of foreigners and… well I am betting that servants on low wages will be the last to return.”

Nansi puzzled this for a moment. The girl had some brains after all. It wasn’t a bad idea, better than any she had had.

“Why me,” Nansi asked, “I mean… well I don’t even like you and didn’t I…?”

Rondel blushed and looked at her feet. “Maybe that’s why, the fact that you thrashed me I mean. At least you gave a shit when I messed up.”

Nansi gave the girl a hard stare as she considered.

Encouraged, Rondel continued speaking, “We could start a business maybe… placing the right girls for service and… maybe we could buy up war surplus with the profits, they are bound to be going cheap…” she was already scheming in her mind, but without the confident leadership and management skills of Nansi Pyke…

“Partners?” Nansi suggested.

“As far as profits went, but you’d be the boss,” Rondel said eagerly, “You could even, you know…”

“Spank you?” the former sword leader laughed.

“Only when I messed up,” Rondel blushed again. “But I was thinking there will be lots of people, you know, like Sergeant Callous, like me come to that, all needing a firm hand… I wouldn’t know how to handle them.”

“You know Rondel, I think you might be on to something,” Nansi grinned. “What’s your name anyway?”

“Sara,” Rondel said shyly.

“Alright… Sara, let’s see who else we can round up.”

Behind them a long line of tattered and dejected soldiers filed down the road heading south. For now they had it all to themselves as they retreated home, but in the weeks to come there would be hundreds and then thousands of refugees returning to rebuild their homes, among them the rich and noble all wanting new servants.

*

King John patted his wife’s hand and took a final look at the broken walls of his capital. There was much damage and little gain from the war, but at least they had won.

Neither would John Armarlon forget that his victory was in no small part due to the steadfastness of his ally King Peron of Precips. They would have to talk about closer trade ties at some point.

The other key allies were the Magister of Pandoria of course, things would never be the same there and the whole bloody lot of them would need careful handling from now on.

“Are you ready dear?” Queen Matilda asked him, “They are waiting.”

John nodded.

“We had better wait for Peron, after all he was our great general,” John soothed her.

“Oh tish, you are the one…” she began.

“I am going to pile as much credit as I can where it is due, well as far as Peron is concerned anyway,” John said cryptically.

“And that…eh… Arch Mage everyone is talking about?” she cocked a magnificent eyebrow.

King John made a see-saw motion with his hand. “Magic is all well and good in its place, but…”

“I see,” Matilda smirked.

“Oh don’t get me wrong, I am very grateful and I will say so,” John soothed her again.

“But not too publically,” the Queen teased him.

King John shrugged. The war was over and there were new politics to consider.

To be continued.

Audrey stood at the end of the long concrete road with a sense of trepidation. The wire gate looked as flimsy as a Christmas decoration, but the seaman in blue with a 303 at his shoulder said otherwise. Beyond him were a row of poplar trees standing as sentries on either side of the driveway that led to the red brick buildings further on.

For the first time Audrey Coleman wondered if she had done the right thing. But it was too late now, she decided and seizing up her bag she put her best foot forward and marched up to the sentry. The Women’s Royal Navy Service needed her if they were ever going to win the war whatever her husband had said.

Thoughts of Edward and what he might say when he found out set her nerves tingling again so she decided not to dwell there.

“I say,” she called to the sentry who pulled himself upright even as his eyes narrowed to regard her with suspicion. “I am looking…”

“You have a chit ma’am?” he said brusquely.

“Oh that old thing,” Audrey said in irritation and put down her bags.

She patted down the elegant curves of her pre-war skirt suit, hoping that her neatly tied back hair said that she meant business. But if it did, her girlish expression and crinkled brow spoilt the effect as she searched for the letter she had been given.

“Oh it’s…” she said suddenly as she brightened.

It took a moment more to retrieve the document from her hip pocket before offering to the man.

“I can see it ma’am, so you can come ahead,” he told her, “But you have to show it to the duty POW.”

“The… I say, isn’t that a prisoner of war Sir?” she asked in puzzlement.

The sentry looked suddenly uncomfortable and risked a glance around.

“Don’t Sir me, ma’am, I’m just an Ordinary Seamen see. And POW stands for Petty Officer Wren, but come to think of it at this time of day the Chief Wren may be on duty,” he explained. “You’ll soon get the ‘ang of it see.”

“Oh I see,” Audrey replied, not at all sure that she did.

“Straight down the road and turn right past the inner guard room,” he said quickly, “Just show your chit if you’re stopped again, but there are still other recruits drifting in so they won’t be too surprised. You did know that you were late ma’am?”

“Oh am I?” she said in exasperation, “Only a day or two I expect. I had better hurry then.”

*

After glancing at the letter the woman at the desk said over her shoulder in a bored voice, “Another officer cadet gone astray chief.” Then to Audrey she said, “Just stand there… ma’am, someone will see you in a moment.”

It didn’t take long for the matronesque martinet to emerge from the inner office with a face like thunder. She was a heavy-set woman in immaculate blue and her eyes flashed with danger.

“Name?” she said sharply.

“Oh… I… its Audrey… eh… ma’am is it?” Audrey ventured.

The woman gave up at once and launched her gaze at the seated woman at the desk.

“Officer Cadet Coleman, Chief, assigned to B Block,” she shot back.

“Coleman you’re late,” the Chief barked, “And stand up straight when you talk to me, ma’am.”

“Sorry ma’am I…” Audrey said with a wince.

“Attention ma’am,” the Chief screamed, “And don’t call me ma’am, I call you ma’am, ma’am.”

“Oh terribly sorry, I just knew I would have trouble…”

The Chief leaned forward and fixed Audrey with a stare that drove her to silence.

“Officer Cadet Coleman, shut up, ma’am,” she whispered harshly, then to the seated woman she snapped, “Give her, her papers and get her doubled over and kitted out. Then double her over to the CO’s office.”

“Yes Chief,” the woman replied and began to scribble something down.

*

The uniform didn’t fit and Audrey tugged at it trying to make it stretch here and then by way of a futile improvement. The women in the little shop with all the uniforms and hats weren’t very friendly and although there was no one else waiting she had been served and ushered out in less than five minutes; much less. She had then been given 15 minutes to find her block get dressed and report to the CO’s office. Now she was late again.

“Excuse me…” she ventured to the man inside the outer office.

“Coleman isn’t it ma’am?” he said at once. “You’re late aren’t you?”

He smiled indulgently.

“I know…” she began, but he cut her off.

“Commander…” then he paused as if he had just noticed something and then carefully added, “He’ll see you in a minute ma’am.”

Then he picked up the phone and said, “There is an officer cadet to see you Sir, one of the late arrivals… yes another one Sir. By the name of… yes Sir.”

Audrey looked at the man expectantly and he obliged by nodding significantly at the door. To confirm she pointed in the same direction and waited until he gave another nod. This was going to be fun, she thought, and held a small satisfied smile to herself, much to the puzzlement of the Leading Seaman at the desk.

For effect she managed to find her military soul and for once straightened up before marching in great ceremony into the office where she came to something like attention.

“Cadet Officer Coleman reporting for duty,” she snapped out while saluting, well after a fashion.

Commander Edward Coleman looked up in horror at the sight of his wife in uniform; worse still, in uniform and in his office.

“Great God,” he gasped.

“Hello Eddie,” she grinned. “Surprised?”

The officer who had been leaning on the table briefing the Commander on some papers slowly straightened himself up and quietly slipped away.

“You don’t look very pleased to see me,” she said somewhat sheepishly. She hadn’t really expected him to be.

Edward leaned back in his chair still aghast and looked his wife up and down. He was well used to sudden surprises in his game and now he had another military problem to solve.

The tight dark curls on his head were constrained by the ‘back-and-sides’ cut and the few flecks of silver around his temples. Otherwise he looked every bit the young man in a hurry that war tended to throw up. But Audrey had missed him and his large powerful arms that hung from his broad shoulders, all the broader in uniform.

“So Officer Cadet Coleman,” he drawled sharply and switching his attention to the paperwork on his desk, “You are a day late reporting for duty.”

The papers included her letter of assignment plus a slip attached by the Chief Wren confirming that she had finally turned up and had been put on CO’s report. Edward studied them carefully as he would and had for the other cadets who had reported late.

“Edward…?” Audrey said tentatively, “It’s me…”

“I can see it’s bloody you,” he barked, “And call me Sir when we are in uniform. So you decided to join up after all did you? Or is this some kind of joke?”

“No I… I am really a Wren,” she admitted.

There was a long pause while she tried from the middle of a pained face to catch his eyes with her own.

“Sir,” he bellowed, “You call me Sir.”

“Edward… I mean… isn’t that rather…?”

He gave her a look garnered from his days as number one on a destroyer and her mouth became a tight pensive line.

Then grudgingly she muttered, “Sir.”

Edward continued to regard her sternly as if in the presence of an enemy and at any moment he would shout ‘open fire.’ Then he heaved a heavy sigh.

“I don’t suppose I can get your papers revoked?” he groaned.

“Signed by Daddy… eh… the Admiral,” she said cheerfully, but managing to swallow a triumphal smile and adding a quick and bitter, “Sir.”

“Fine, fine,” he sighed, conceding defeat. “Although what you really need is a damn good spanking.”

This brought on a blush. After all it had happened, but nonetheless her sense of triumph grew. He couldn’t spank her now, not if she were a sailor.

Seeing her expression he frowned and said, “You know I have to deal with you as I would any other cadet?”

“Deal away,” Audrey told him, carefully adding a delayed, “Sir.”

“Very well,” he said brusquely, “Cadet Coleman, you are 24 hours late in reporting. Have you anything to say?”

“I lost that railway warrant thing,” she replied conversationally as if they were at breakfast, and then added; “Besides I needed some shopping before I came. Oh darn it… I mean Sir.”

“I see,” he said icily, “Is that all you have to say?”

Audrey pouted for a moment as she considered his words and then nodded saying, “Pretty much, eh… Sir.”

“Very well,” he intoned, “A CO’s report for absence without leave usually requires 30, but I am always lenient on new recruits, I find it saves my arm, so we will make it just 15. But you were late reporting here at my office today and your uniform and lack of naval decorum is unacceptable. You will report to your cadet captain and take a tick. I suggest you don’t dawdle as he is liable to make it two.”

Audrey was at a loss what to ask first. She might have said 15 what, but she was more intrigued by the phrase ‘take a tick.’

Luckily Edward realised her confusion and offered an explanation. “A tick is like a demerit. Three ticks and you get taps with a wand; between six and 12. Get nine ticks or more in one month and you will see me. Although you are liable for COs report at any time.”

Audrey was scarcely any the wiser, but taps didn’t sound too bad. So she asked about the other instead. “And that requires 30?”

“That’s right,” he said firmly, waiting for a response.

Instead of supplying him with a ‘sir’ she asked, “Thirty what?”

Edward who had already stood up and had started walking towards a tan wood cabinet under the window when she spoke. The furniture had a scroll front that opened all the way down so that tall objects could be stored. Now he turned to regard his wife and latest cadet with a degree of circumspection.

“Strokes, of course,” he said incredulously, “With a cane.”

Audrey’s eyes flew wide open.

*

“Do you want me to summon the Chief?” Edward asked as he tapped the chosen stick on his palm.

“No thank you,” Audrey said with a growing sense of unreality.

He ignored her failure to address him as sir and told her again. “Remove your skirt and slip, then turn about and prepare to lower your drawers.”

“Do you deal with all your cadets like this?” she asked sullenly.

“Yes,” he said crisply.

“Oh,” she gaped.

“Come along Cadet Officer Coleman,” he chided her, “I haven’t got all day.”

Audrey clamped her jaw down hard and scowled at him and then turning her back unhooked her skirt clasp then lowered the zip at the side. It wasn’t as bad as it might be, after all he was her husband, but she still found the need to blush as she neatly folded her skirt and placed on a chair by the door. Her white regulation slip quickly followed and she dipped at the knee to touch her toes as she had in school.

Edward coughed.

Audrey gave him a pout and then with a frustrated grunt slid her drawers down to her knee, exposing her bare bottom behind.

“You know if you did want to play the wife card I could just spank you,” he said with barely concealed amusement.

“No thank you Sir,” she said tartly.

Edward shrugged and moved behind his wife and eyed her bare bottom wistfully. He was already missing her enough and now she was oh so near and yet a thousand miles away from him. Didn’t she understand? On top of that it seemed a pity to mark her beautiful bottom as he must.

Oh well, he thought, at least it would probably do her good.

“Remember cadet, next time it will be 30 from me,” he said as took the first practiced swing.

The crisp line of pain that assailed Audrey’s bottom was a revelation. Instantly she was sorry and heartily wished she had taken up the offer of a spanking. But it was worse than that; worse even than she remembered from school. This was a military grade caning with a senior grade cane. It began where the old school stick left off, but like that old friend went on cutting for several moments after the slice.

Not that she was going to give the beastly man the satisfaction.

The next stroke tore a grunt from her throat and she jerked at a bend. She had to dance at the knees to ride it out and either she felt it behind her eyes or her jaw was clenching too hard, because now her face ached too. It was hard to contend with two lines of fire at once.

The third made her gasp and then she was breathing like a woman drowned. How appropriate, she thought ruefully.

Edward placed five strokes over about 30 to 40 seconds and then paused. There were plum lines on Audrey’s bottom now, running from cleft top to under curve. They had already begun to raise up a little like a relief map and redness was spilling away from them to colour her whole bottom. He thought of roses and snorted in dry humour.

But so far Audrey hadn’t yelled out over much or broken from position; a legacy of the Spartan school she had attended, he didn’t wonder. But she was struggling rather with her breathing and he knew from how she gripped at her shins that she desperately wanted to stand up and rub.

At the top of the minute he recommenced and began placing the strokes between existing lines.

“Ooh Sir,” she squeaked at the eighth. But she said no more, even though every muscled strained for her to hold on.

At 10 Edward took a step forward and tried to catch her gaze. She didn’t turn but her eyes were rimmed with red and pooled with tears.

He left it then for 20 seconds while she breathed raggedly and swayed at the bend. Had it been any other cadet he would have thought her brave but would have had no further sympathy for her.

The last five were a bitch.

Audrey went bug-eyed for the entire duration of the set, while actual tears rolled down her cheeks. She was altogether silent for these last, but her pain was mainly announced as strained grunts.

“Alright girl, stand up,” Edward barked, for a moment forgetting she was his wife.

Audrey sucked in air at the nose and gingerly gained the upright. She was heedless of flashing her front and Edward looked away unaccountably embarrassed.

“Get your things on and get out,” he said wearily.

“Yes Sir, thank you Sir,” she said miserably.

As she reached the door he said, “Audrey…”

She looked at him lovingly for that one word.

“I told you not to enlist,” he sighed, “And why here of all places?”

“I just had to darling,” she whispered.

He snorted in amusement, partly glad she had and inwardly cursing the frustration of their position.

“As your commanding officer consider yourself dealt with. But I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when your husband finds out,” he chuckled.

“No Sir,” she said ruefully and then winked.

But as she braved an embarrassing stiff walk across the outer office she began to think about getting a tick and the resultant taps. Somehow she didn’t think it was going to be a good thing on a thoroughly sliced bottom. As it was she wasn’t going to feel like sitting down for a week.

“Gentlemen, should you spank your wife?” ran a headline in 1950s gentleman’s magazine. The response was mixed, but a vox pop conducted the same year and published in another magazine widely concluded that they should.

In 1949 a US judge even made a ruling in court that he did not see why a loving husband should not give a wife a good spanking when the occasion demanded.

Obviously things have changed and most modern sensibilities would be outraged. Even readers of this blog might raise an eyebrow or two at such attitudes.

But let us pause for a moment and considered an alternative 21^st century where the values of the 1950s western household still held true and instead of retreating they advanced through the principles of consensual loving discipline.

The downside would be that we would not see antics such as military wives nude calendars or sports club fundraising photo-shoots. For surely should wives indulge in such behaviour in our alternative 21^st century, they would be asking for a spanking.

On the other hand what beautifully behaved wives men would have, because presumably after just one or two spankings they would all behave themselves. So in fact there would be less spanking.

So to recap: in our alternative 21^st century there would be less naked women on show and less spanking…

The serious point, in so far as there is one, and let’s face it you would have to look hard, is that while we might think we want a more old fashioned buttoned-up society, it is actually sexual freedoms and social liberation that permits such blogs as this.

Gentlemen (and ladies) come the 1950s-style backlash repressive counter revolution; you and I will be the first against the wall.

Here is an intriguing subject that has been covered here many times before. But I recently received an email from a reader who while liking my short story the Special Section, said it was somewhat undermined by its far-fetched in-service punishment set-up.

Usually I wouldn’t care so much as one hopes given the nature of some of my stories that really non-consensual scenarios should remain within fiction. However, I chanced upon the cutting above, which rather supports my source and I was reminded that I previously published these true accounts here, here and also here, which originally served as an inspiration for this Special Section story.

A little known and now forgotten event took place during the Second World War, some of the details of which were reported in a magazine published back int the 1980s. I have only a photostat of a long letter carried by the publication and many more details we forthcoming, but here is what I was able to type up and summaries.

In 1943 12 women serving in the British Women’s Auxilliary Air Force (WAAF) had to make a forced landing in the Aden Protectorate while on route to Asia. There being no accommodation on hand the group were taken to a guest house six miles outside the Crown Colony authority into Aden itself.

For reasons that are unclear the next day the WAAFs refused to board taxis sent to collect and police were called during which there was an altercation and several police constables were assaulted. Within two hours the 12 women were hauled up before a civilian judge who acquitted six of them and convicted the other six of affray.

Five of those found guilty of affray were summarily sentenced to 12 strokes of the cane each on the bare bottom downstairs at the court and then released later that day. Meanwhile, a sixth, a public school educated 19-year-old Leading Aircraft Woman known only as Shirley, faced six further charges. She seems to have been the most belligerent and as the senior officer present was assumed to be the ringleader.

Shirley was sentenced to nine months in Sana Gaol and for the duration of her punishment was to receive eights strokes of the birch on the bared bottom at five intervals for each of the five separate (making 40 in total)all at the discretion of the prison governor.

On appeal and following a campaign launched by her home town newspaper this sentence was later reduced to 12 strokes of the cane.

But as she was seen as the ringleader and as the authority of the court had seen to be challenged by outside interference this was subsequently raised 18 strokes of the cane for being the ringleader of an affray and a single birching of 24 strokes for inciting mutiny was reinstated. Although the prison sentence was quashed.

The caning was witnessed by a serving police officer in the Aden police and a 21-year-old WAAF Officer from the girls’ unit, who were ‘shocked and outraged’ at this turn of events, but both admitted later that they were also ‘rather aroused by the situation,’ and most of their outrage was over the issue that the girl had been thrashed by a male police sergeant.

The punishment as described by them: The girl was fully clothed and in uniform for her punishment but after being bent over a frame in the prison yard, she had her skirts raised and her draws taken down. The strokes themselves were laid 3/4 of an inch apart and applied at intervals of 20 or 30 seconds.

There birching was carried out on another occasion within the confines of the prison and exact details were not known to these witness.

An appeal launched in her home town did little to persuade the authorities to be merciful. In fact one of the mothers of another of the girls, 22-year-old Peggy, wondered what all the fuss was about. Their daughter’s punishment was no worse than that suffered at Batley High right up to the age of 18. Where as a senior girl she had received 12 strokes on three occasions for anti-social offences and petty theft.

Peggy said the worst part was the waiting for her turn. The strokes themselves were received at 10 to 15 second intervals and although painful causing her to she sob and scream, they were “no worse than those received at Batley High from Mrs Moore.”

During 1943 and 1944, no less than 79 other European women were  punished in this way in Aden, including eight stewardesses, three nannies, one teacher and nine nurses.

Here’s one of those little forum finds you so love. I have no context whatsoever for this and apart from some small edits I publish it as is. I am not sure if this is UK-based or American experience, but my guess is that it is from the US.

Elizabeth_2 wrote:

Yes I got that, great story, but I am not sure where that leaves us. The point is my great aunt was one of the first women cadets so I guess they had no idea how to handle the changes at that time. I certainly don’t think they had any political agenda at all, except maybe that they did not want her there because she was a woman.

The sanctions used on the male cadets were so many swats with a paddle depending on the offence and at what level they handled things. Yes, my aunt took it on the bare a few times and I have no idea whether this was unusual. I didn’t exactly talk this over with her when I was a kid. Remember I only got told about this within the bounds of yet another ‘you kids are lucky’ speech.

I know that she got six or more swats on the seat of her clothed bottom several times. Each time it was from a woman instructor. She also got some more serious work-outs also on the clothed behind, and also from a woman. It was these that she mostly talked about and I gather that she found them hard to take and had trouble sitting down afterwards. I know too that she got swats from a senior male instructor more than once, but I don’t think this was usual.

I know that at least twice she got swats on the bare, but I don’t know if these were from men or women or if she got more swats at these times. I think that the two times she got it bare it was worse for her but I have no idea if she was only getting the same treatment as the men. Only that my aunt implied that it was.

I hope that makes things clear.

Jane1959 asked:

In high school we never got more than six and usually only four. Do you know how many swats she got or what she got them for?

Elizabeth_2

These were cadets and it was nothing like high school. These kids were all college aged remember. As for rules and number of swats well it is like I said I didn’t exactly get the entire low down. Everything I know I pieced together over a couple of years as a teenager. I am only going on what I remember.

I know six or so was a standard thing and she got that a lot. I know she got quite a bit more a few times and it was these occasions that she most talked about. Like I said before, she had lots of welts and bruises and couldn’t sit down for a few days.

I think I remember her saying she got 24 at some point but I might be making that up. But she definitely got more than just six for the really serious stuff.

I hope that helps.

=

I couldn’t find the original comments and this thread petered out with some very short comments, questions by trolls and repetitions of the above.

But it makes you wonder what kind of cadets they were and when all of this took place.

I unearthed a slightly new take on the spanking and caning of wrens prior to them being incorporated into the Royal navy proper. I also came across a new expression, ‘marrying the gunner’s daughter,’ as opposed to kissing it, which means getting a caning. There was also some light shed on the official position.

The last big debate on corporal punishment in the Royal Navy took place in the House of Commons in 1949. It was reported that up to 1/7th of boys were caned at training establishments but other sanctions were preferred.

However, many such sanctions were not available for the discipline of female personnel. Therefore “it is likely” (although not proved) that caning “was more often applied to females” (both officers and other ranks) than “would be otherwise be supposed.”

It was reported in committee that no direct figures were available as women are not considered part of the “official establishment” and that most evidence was anecdotal. During recent hostilities it did not “seem prudent to interfere with naval traditions in this regard and in any case why shouldn’t an errant female continue to ‘Marry the gunner’s daughter,’ to borrow a naval expression,” said one committee member.

No investigation was deemed necessary as no complaints had been received in verified cases where corporal punishment had been used. However as a side note, “it has been supposed that future guidelines will provide that wrens should no longer be caned on the exposed backsides, especially by male officers.” However, as at that time women remained “outside any official military establishment” it was considered “beyond the jurisdiction of this current discussion.”

This report was referring to the fact that the WRNS were established in 1939 under the Civil Establishments Branch at the Admiralty. They were therefore considered civilian workers rather than naval personnel. However, wrens could be punished in various ways, including discharge from WRNS, disrating, suspension, stoppage of leave and deductions from pay. They could also be charged in a civilian court, but they couldn’t be “court martialled”, even if absent from duty or AWOL. As a consequence often officers using irregular methods of discipline could not be court martialled either in matters concerning their dealings with these women. In fact wrens remained free of the Naval Discipline Act until 1977.

Nevertheless the ATS and WAAF, because the army and air force became worried about wastage in their women’s service, were given full military status in April 1941. Interestingly, despite being regarded as “civilians”, only 37 wrens out of 11,000 deserted between Dec 1940 and March 1941.

Here is an example of some anecdotal evidence of the type that was referred to, some of which may have been published here before.

“I once heard about a wren of 23 who sent out a letter to the wrong person causing a bit of an incident for the war office. She was summoned to the Sgt’s office and made to undress, right down to her stockings, suspenders and bra, she was bent over his knee and had her bare bottom spanked. This wasn’t normal but it happened occasionally because men were well and truly in control and they could get away with it.”

“I asked my mother-in-law about this topic. She’s an old lady, but quite open about worldly subjects. When she was in the Wrens in WW2, was there corporate punishment for minor offences?

“The procedure was always the same. After ensuring they had understood the offence, he would to tell them to ‘take down your drawers,’ a quaint old-fashioned expression. The woman was expected to pull down her service knickers to her ankles. Then, ‘bend over.’ At this point he would lift her skirt over her back and clear any other clothing to completely bare her bottom. A two foot wooden ruler was used.”

“Surprisingly, my mother-in-law, who says she was punished in this way twice, also reminded us that in the UK in the 1940s you couldn’t vote until you were 21 and indeed this was often thought of as the age of ‘growing up’. Too many older people, young service women aged 18-20 were still children and to be treated as children then were.”

Gina K wrote:

“Gran joined the Wrens when she was just turned 18 and after a few months training in England was posted to Malta where she worked as a clerk/typist at a large base near Valetta. She said that once overseas the discipline was a lot stricter than in England. And that Wren ratings were subject to corporal punishment in the form of caning if they misbehaved.”

“My Gran’s first experience of such naval discipline was soon after her arrival in Malta. She and three of her pals were not back to base before the time were supposed to be after being out one night. They were caught trying to sneak back on to the base through the fence. Appearing before the commandant the following morning she ordered all four of them to be given six strokes of the cane on the seat of the knickers. The punishment was carried out nearly straight away. Gran and her three co-offenders who were all a similar age to her were taken to an adjacent gymnasium and had to change into their PT kit. Each in turn then had to bend over a vaulting horse and were given six strokes of the cane on the seat of their gym-knickers. The canings were administered by a

Chief Wren (equivalent to Chief Petty Officer). Gran described her as being a very stout woman, quite masculine looking with a very sour face. She tanned their arses using a slim and whippy crook handled cane of the type normally used on the backsides of juvenile boys in the navy.”

“Gran and her four mates had to get back to work soon after their punishments. Gran said she couldn’t sit down afterwards her bum was so sore. She had to stand at her desk for the rest of the day. This brought a few wry comments from the people she worked with and visitors to her office. It soon became common knowledge that she had recently been caned. She couldn’t sit comfortably for days and it was a few weeks before marks faded altogether.”

“Gran also told me of another caning she witnessed some time later. This was of three young Wrens who had been found guilty of stealing stuff from the stores where they worked and selling it on the black market. The commandant thought in this case an example needed to be made. The three were sentenced to a period of detention. But the commandant also ordered that they would be caned in front of the whole Ships Company.”

“All the Wren ratings on the base were assembled in the same gymnasium where Gran had been caned to witness the punishments of the three miscreants. There were two younger girls who were about 18/19 who were to get 10 strokes of the cane each and an older girl aged about 20 who were considered the ringleader was going to get 12 strokes. Gran said punishments were carried out by the same Wren Chief Petty Officer who had caned her and her gang. She was also using a similar cane to one that she had felt on her own backside.”

“The three were marched into the gym under escort dressed in their PT kit. Each girl was then in turn was held bent over a gym horse. But unlike gran and her mates once over the horse these three had their navy gym-knickers pulled down! Their bottoms bared for all to see. Each girl raised as they got their arses tanned good and proper, naval fashion.”

“Gran said by the end of their punishments the trio were bawling as though they would never stop. All three were lined up handcuffed with their arms stretched up on gym’s wall-bars with their caned backsides on display for all to see as the rest of the Wrens filed out of the gym. Witnessing the canings and the sight of the three red-raw striped backsides they produced certainly had the intended deterrent effect on the rest of the young women.”

Alice J K wrote:

“The cane was very much in my day during the 1950s and into the 1960s even. I got it several times and it was an easy way to escape worse punishments like confinement or being put on a charge, which could result in docked pay.”

“During the war my eldest sister got far worse and far more often than I. At least I was caned on my pants; she was caned several times on the bare bottom and on one occasion couldn’t sit down for several days. At least she only had a female CO, mine were all male.”

“I think it did us no harm and things might be better if they still caned today.”

(Mrs) Jean S, Gloucester wrote:

“During the war I served in the WRNS, which is where I met my husband, and in all the years since various people have joked to me about ‘rum the other thing and the lash’ an old Nelson quote I think. I have always blushed, but for years only my husband knew why.

When I was at Dartmouth in 1940s I had an experience with both rum and the lash, so to speak. I noted after all these years with some amusement the recent debate in the national press about the subject of caning women in the navy, because that is what happened to me.

A friend and I drew the short straw one night and had to stay behind when the others had leave. My friend thought it would be a good wheeze for us to share a bottle of rum while we were on duty, but of course we were caught. We were lucky and avoided 30 from the CO but both took 24 on the bare from our own officer. I could not help think that she enjoyed it, even though we did not, but it was better than seeing the CO and we both deserved it.”

Here are those now famous Daily Telegraph letters:

May I recommend that the Army instructors who cannot enforce discipline because they fear being accused of bullying (News, January 15) adopt the system used at the Royal Naval College, Dartmouth, when I served there in the 1920s?

Cadet captains administered a “tick” for any breach of discipline, such as being late on parade or a fault in our uniform. Acquire three ticks in a term, and you received six of the best on a bare behind. It worked.

I wonder what they do at Dartmouth today – now that there are female recruits too.

Douglas D, London, Daily Telegraph Jan 29th

=

If Douglas D is interested, I attended a Wrens’ Naval Cadets training school in London, in the early 1950s. We were subjected to similar discipline, which did sometimes include being caned on the behind, though it wasn’t bare but over our knickers. I don’t think it did me any harm, but I don’t think it did me any good either. What I do know is, bullying still went on, but we did tend to show more respect to authority and we were certainly not as rude as our modern-day counterparts, male and female.

(Mrs) Gwen L, Kent, Sunday Telegraph Feb 5th

=

Your correspondent who as a Wren was caned over her knickers had it easy. In the 1940s, it was a daily routine for cadets at the Royal Naval School in Portsmouth to be beaten on their bare buttocks.

Once, for carelessly discharging a clip of live ammunition, the commanding officer gave me 30 of the very best and I could not sit down for five days.

Mavis P, Leicestershire

=

Like Mavis P, I did my Wren training at the Royal Naval School in Portsmouth and made numerous visits to the staff sergeant’s office to have my bare backside welted with the “knotty” – a big bamboo cane.

I was a wilful cheeky girl and usually deserved my regulation 12 strokes, often with six extras for “lip”. I did manage to avoid the dreaded CO’s 30 strokes given to Mavis P, but in one week received 12 strokes on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday for smoking in the lavatories.

Doris B, Bristol

“Elisabeth Anne Whitfield did not join the WRNS to be consigned to the backside of history,” The haughty brunette made a pout and wrinkled up her nose in disgust.

It did not occur to her that speaking aloud in the third person sounded somewhat arrogant, or at least it never had during the first 25 years of her life. After all her father was an admiral and both her brothers had their own ships for the love of God.

Elisabeth eyed the dilapidated buildings and hastily assembled tin huts with disdain. She had completed her basic, hadn’t she? They had made her an officer, albeit only a Third Officer, somewhat lowly in her opinion. She reread the missive left at her last posting.

“Further training required,” it concluded.

There was a lot of double-talk about attitude and lack of team spirit, but she was streets ahead of the other girls, and she knew it.

Just then a Spitfire roared overhead as it made a dash for the airfield. A trail of smoke told its own story and Elisabeth wondered if the young man would make it. They had won the Battle of Britain, but there was still much more to do.

“I would have thought…” she was about to address herself with the observation that ‘Daddy might have swung her an admiralty job’ when a rather nervous young wren paused in her passing dash to salute her.

The girl was still gaping when a raucous woman screamed an unintelligible order and she hurried on to joining a crowd of hapless wrens across the way.

“You should have returned that salute you know,” said an easy male voice from behind her.

Elisabeth made a slow turn and appraised the young lieutenant coolly. The man’s grin evaporated and he straightened his cap. She shrugged and met his sudden disdain with a full measure of her own.

“Just as you should have saluted me,” the lieutenant prompted her.

Elisabeth rolled her eyes impatiently but then reluctantly came to attention and saluted smartly. The man was barely 30 and much too cocky for her liking. He sounded common, like a grammar school boy, and in peace time she wouldn’t have looked at him twice.

The man saluted her back and relaxed.

“Okay, let’s have it,” he said lightly.

“I beg your pardon,” Elisabeth said sharply.

“You have it,” the man agreed nonchalantly as he reached for a cigarette from his top pocket. “Now perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me your name.”

“For your information I am Elisabeth Whitfield,” she said as if expecting a reaction.

“You’re late,” the man yawned, “And the correct response when reporting is to give your service number, your rank and your surname only. Give it a try.”

Elisabeth gave a heavy sigh and sagged where she stood. She had no idea what her service number was and she couldn’t be bothered to make one up.

“Third Officer Whitfield reporting for duty… sir,” she said indolently.

“You’re the one with the attitude problem,” he sighed, “Just my luck, you’re one of mine.”

“One of yours?” Elisabeth frowned.

“I am Lieutenant Carpenter, your training coordinator and service moderator,” the man told her as he lit up.

A cloud of blue smoke billowed and drifted on the breeze.

“I have had my training,” Elisabeth blurted.

“I have had my training… Sir,” Carpenter corrected her. “And no you haven’t. You passed out as an officer… barely, but you didn’t get any skills and the pool didn’t want you… something about not being a team player and some guff about being an admiral’s daughter.”

“It is not guff, I assure you,” Elisabeth said indignantly, “My father is an admiral and…”

“I don’t care,” Carpenter barked, suddenly seeming more than just a grammar school boy. “I suspect that you got an easy ride. Well not here. Here we have two approaches, the easy way for women who try and need a bit of a shove in the right direction. And the hard way for little navy brats like you who should never have passed out in the first place.”

Elisabeth started and this time thought better of answering back. The frustration of having to kowtow to this little man made her blink rapidly. She remembered that at Dartmouth some of the other girls had a few run-ins with their training captains, what was the expression…?

“If you don’t double over to your quarters, stow your gear and report to my office in 15 minutes, we will start the day with a tick,” the Lieutenant snarled.

Tick; that was it, six of the best, she remembered, only it hadn’t happened to her, no one had dared. This man was bluffing too.

“I just got here, I don’t even know where…” Elisabeth sighed.

“I don’t care, find it, at the double,” Carpenter yelled, “Move.”

“Yes Sir,” Elisabeth snapped back before she could stop herself.

There was an exchange of glares and then his eyes swivelled to his right and she took the hint.

*

Elisabeth’s quarters were apparently shared with another girl, but at least the obvious blonde she found reading on the next bed knew where Carpenter’s office was.

“Dreamy isn’t he and such a pussycat?” the blonde said absently.

Elisabeth harrumphed.

She found the office two minutes late and knocked.

“Come,” Carpenter called form within.

Elisabeth gave a heavy sigh and indolently stumbled inside.

Carpenter was writing rapidly and didn’t look-up.

“Get out,” he snapped, “And try that again.”

Elisabeth made to protest and then she spotted the little tin-pot tyranny and with bad grace wheeled about and went out. This time when he answered she marched in made a salute and rattled off something resembling her service number and gave her name and rank.

Carpenter let his eyes slide up to meet hers and then slowly stood up.

“These are for you,” he motioned to a pile of books on his desk. “I want the naval ranks and establishment branches memorised… after all you should already know them. The others I just want an outline understanding for now.”

Elisabeth nodded and made to grab them.

“Wait for it,” Carpenter said sharply. “First we have to take our tick, don’t we, Third Officer Whitfield?”

Elisabeth became puzzled and shrugged.

“You were late and the manner of your entrance was…” he searched for a word. He settled on “Unacceptable.”

Elisabeth sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Okay, you know the drill,” Carpenter reached over to a hat rack at his left and amid some umbrellas extracted a long thin stick. “As you know a tick is six with one of these, right where it will do you the most good. A second offence is on the unprotected rear, as is a double tick. You can appeal, but wasting the CO’s time will get you a 30 stroke bare bender, so I wouldn’t try it.”

Elisabeth’s eyes were on stalks as she resisted the instinct to back away.

“Hat off and bend over,” Carpenter ordered. “Oh and by the way, three ticks or double ticks in a week and it’s an automatic high jump up before the CO.”

“You can’t be serious,” Elisabeth gasped.

“You going to appeal already?” Carpenter gaped.

“No but…”

“Then bend over,” Carpenter snapped as he moved behind her.

“B-but…” Elisabeth had heard of this, she knew he was within his rights, but she had never thought…

“If you are not going to appeal the sanction then you are disregarding a direct order. The last brat that tried that got twice 30 on successive days,” Carpenter sighed, “Make up your mind which you are doing but don’t do both.”

Elisabeth sucked in a slow breath and then removed her hat. There was no more instruction and she blushed. It was undignified having to bend over in a skirt and the fabric tightened across her behind.

The cane hissed-thwacked and stung her across the bottom. It took a supreme effort not to stand upright or swear at the man. Then as she contended with the cut that didn’t ease in its sting he caned her again.

“Ah,” she gasped and wiggled.

“Stop that,” he ordered and gave her another stripe.

There were three more at 10 second intervals so that after a minute he was done and she was left foot-stamping and decidedly wet around the eyes.

“Attention,” he barked and she rose, her face a picture of woe.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” he smiled encouragingly, “Report to me at eight tomorrow and I expect you to have read those books. Oh and remember, a CO’s visit goes on your record. If you play ball and learn to be a good sport I can handle any sanctions myself, but only if you’re sensible. Don’t go getting caught doing something stupid.”

“Yes Sir, I mean no Sir,” Elisabeth hissed through her teeth.

Then she was dismissed.

*

Elisabeth’s mind raced as she made slow awkward steps back to her quarters. How dare he? But he had and he had been fully within his rights. What would Daddy say? Daddy wasn’t going to find out, nobody was. Elisabeth blushed.

Okay so the wretched man had some balls and it looked like she was going to have to smarten herself up a bit with this one. Maybe I have been taking too much for granted, she sighed.

She was still pondering when she found her room.

The blonde was still reading, only by now she had put on some striped pyjamas. The thought of stripes sent Elisabeth’s hand to her bottom. The girl looked up.

“Got a tick did you?” she smiled sympathetically, “I got two last week, four the week before that, two of them double ticks. Adam was kind enough to handle it and we agreed to leave the CO out of it.”

Elisabeth blushed, hating the idea that the situation was so transparent.

“Adam?” she asked to deflect a more embarrassing answer.

“Adam Carpenter, dishy I call him,” the blonde looked wistful. “Oh I’m Clarice, Clarice March,” she offered a hand from her prone position.

“Third Officer Whitfield,” Elisabeth said sourly as she eased her bottom onto the bed. She winced and made to stand again and then heaving a great sigh she added, “Elisabeth.”

“I’ll get a cold flannel,” Clarice said finally moving off the bed.

“It’s not… necessary,” Elisabeth grunted.

But her new friend helped Elisabeth undress. Then once down to her underwear, Clarice led her to lay on her front while she eased Elisabeth’s white undies down over her thighs to reveal six plum ridges marring her tight round white bottom.

“You have had more than… I mean… did he really… you know… cane you on the…?” Elisabeth didn’t know how to ask.

“Bare bum drill, bending right over,” Clarice giggled, “Jolly well hurt too. Goes with the territory I am afraid.” The blonde shrugged.

“I am beginning to get that,” Elisabeth said ruefully.

“Oh you’ll get it alright,” Clarice giggled again.

*

Elisabeth thought her face would melt. No man had ever seen her naked before, or even half naked as she was. Yet here she was standing in just a tie, blouse and stockings while her precious skirt, knickers and jacket lay neatly folded over a chair in the corner of Adam’s room. She could feel the chill caressing her where it shouldn’t just out of his eye line under the oh-so-short white cotton hem of her service shirt. She couldn’t help tugging down a little in front, even at the cost of an increased rear exposure.

“Late, late to the wrong administration class and then… then you blame the officer in charge,” Carpenter shook his head. “Lucky it was old Stephens or you would be in serious shtick.”

“Sir…does this mean I get a double… you know?” Elisabeth blushed again.

“Damn straight, now bend over,” he growled.

Elisabeth rolled her eyes to heaven and made an about turn. Oh well maybe Adam was kind of a dish, but this was no less embarrassing. She eyed the stuffed leather chair he had placed in the centre of his office. For six on the seat of her skirt she had twice just had to bend over and touch her toes. This offered support was a harbinger of a far stiffer experience

“Bend over I said,” her supervising officer barked, “The chair, get your behind pointing at that ceiling.”

Elisabeth worked her mouth and wondered if it was worth reminding him that she was an admiral’s daughter.

“You don’t have to make it a double you know,” she muttered.

He raised both his eyebrows at once.

“Sir,” she added in a hasty mutter as she again dragged down her shirt in front.

“I’ll make it a double-double in a minute,” he rasped and she balked.

Bending over the chair-back was embarrassing, she was most definitely showing him her bare bottom now; she only hoped that she wasn’t also revealing the rest of the goods.

“Any complaints, appeals or other assorted backchat?” he snarled as he lined up the cane.

“No Sir,” she sighed.

The cane bit her across the lower bared cheek and she hissed. The undignified wiggle was unavoidable and she knew he would add a stroke or two if she persisted. Then the cut really clung on in.

“Nuh,” she grunted.

He caned her again: hard. At 15 second spaces he could make this last six or seven minutes with a few extra cuts. By then of course she would be in a puddle of tears.

“Count them,” he ordered her.

“Two, thank you Sir,” she added cheekily.

He caned her sharply and drew a hiss.

“Was that impudence, make that number one,” he said quietly as he bent low to her ear.

“Yes Sir,” she replied through gritted teeth, “One, thank you Sir.”

“Good girl,” he chuckled, as he caned her again.

He doubted she would keep count so well under the onslaught, but the extras would do her good and she knew it.

“Two thank you Sir,” she squeaked as he lay in the fifth biting stroke.

Elisabeth was gaining a new understanding of navy life, Daddy would be proud yet. She almost smiled as a tear rolled down one cheek. The first of many.

Following on from yesterday’s story here is another true account of the caning of some wrens, this time from the early 1970s. Shortly after this time women were included within the Royal Navy proper and would have been, in theory at least, protected from such sanctions.

This was sent in by one of our regular readers who wished to remain anonymous.

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The revelations of the caning of WRNS on the letters page of the Daily Telegraph In 2006, one former wren decided to share her story.

Our heroine joined the navy directly from school as a cadet and by the time of our story was a 19-year-old Ordinary Wren. Her offence was to be caught in bed with another wren at a time when homosexuality was a court martial offence and could be very serious indeed and could have led to dismissal. She was at an experimental age sexual although she had never regarded herself as a lesbian.

Both women offered an unofficial punishment, which would involve them both receiving a sound caning approved by the Base Commander.

After signing a disclaimer they were both ordered to report to the gymnasium and “prepare themselves for 12 strokes of the cane across their unprotected backsides.”

Much to the women’s horror they discovered that they were to be caned by a male fitness instructor in the presence of their own Senior and First Officers.

The cane was at least 36 inches long and clearly quite whippy, a daunting prospect for their bare bottoms. After being asked to partially undress, they were confronted with a vaulting horse over which they would both be caned in turn.

Both women were required to remain at attention and half naked during the punishment until they had both been dealt with. The whole procedure was to last some 10 minutes, during which they had to make no undue fuss or outcry.

Before the caning began both women were given another opportunity to withdraw and face a conventional inquiry and both declined. They were then required to sign disclaimers to this affect.

Having confessed to ‘conducting in lewd behaviour that could bring the service into disrepute’ they were then told to remove their knickers and prepare to take 12 strokes each across the bare bottom.

On the toss of a coin our heroine’s friend opted to go first and was told to “walk to the vaulting horse and bend right across it and reach right down the other side, keeping her legs together and straight out behind her.
As she took her friend took position, our heroine was struck by how beautiful her bottom was, and although, she did not consider herself a lesbian, she could appreciate just how erotic her bottom bent over in a highly submissive position would be to any male, particularly at this moment, the fitness instructor.”

It didn’t escape her that in a few minutes it would be her bare bottom that would be under the instructor’s cane.

The first caning was given out at 15 second intervals and immediately left its mark. However, as ordered her friend didn’t make a sound and as her caning left evenly spaced red welts which only later became a “mass of redness between the upper and lower points set by the first two strokes.” However from the sixth stroke on the woman made small grunts at the ever harder impacts.

After the first caning the order was given not to rub the woman was returned to attention facing the vaulting horse.

Our heroine felt incredibly self-conscious with everyone looking at when to her horror there was a knock on the door, which the First Officer unlocked and opened to let the base commander into the gym who was clearly going to witness the second caning in person.

She must have wondered if this could get any worse, but without being told she took a few paces to the vaulting horse before bending right across it, taking up the same position as her friend a few moments before. She was torn between embarrassment and terror as the cane touched her bare bottom to commence.

“This was possibly the longest forty-five seconds of her life but she felt the cane tap her bottom two or three times before she received the first stroke, which felt worse than her wildest dreams and made her cry out, and she knew another eleven would be impossible.”

“She managed not to cry out as she received the second stroke, which was lower and she could see the clock out of the corner of her eye and the anticipation as it approached each 15 second point was dreadful, because it signalled another whack was coming. After the sixth stroke, she heard the Base Commander move from standing at an angle to a position immediately behind her where he had a ‘perfect’ view, and to her absolute shame he praised the fitness instructor on a ‘first class’ caning with all six lines across the bottom being perfectly symmetrical.”

The second part was much worse than the first and she understood now why her friend had cried out. The seventh stroke was the first that landed on top of a previous one and was unbelievably painful.

“The caning seemed to be going on forever and she even lost count at one stage. The fitness instructor was clearly an expert because all 12 stokes were within the three inch band across the middle of her bottom. She tried her best to stay still and quiet but there were certainly some of the strokes that made her cry out.”

Both woman had to stay at attention why the room was restored and then the commander spoke to them saying “that they were both very lucky to have been offered an unofficial punishment and whilst they might find sitting down painful for a few days and that they would carry some marks for a week, their service record would remain clean.”

Our heroine was later caned again by the same instructor and whilst she bore no rancour for either punishment, she has remained fascinated by corporal punishment ever since and admits that it formed the basis of many sexual fantasies.

“There are many variants and in her mind that she was actually stripped naked, or that she was caned on the bare in front of the whole unit, or that she was taken from behind after being caned whilst still being over the vaulting horse.” But to be sure at the time she did not enjoy it at all.

=

Not sure about the source of this anecdote but the rank structures mention were compatible with those still in place up until the 1970s and although the detail suggests that the story was included in a salacious magazine at some point it does have a ring of truth about it.

This unusual snippet was sent in by Karl Gauss so many thanks to him.

The women soldiers pictured above got in some seriously hot water after posing semi-naked and posting the pictures on the Internet.

As the New York Post reported:

Israeli military officials did not divulge the exact nature of the punishment they face but blasted their lack of professionalism stating, “The commanding officers disciplined the soldiers as they saw fitting,” the army said in a statement.

 In an effort to encourage female conscripts to stop stripping, the military instituted a series of lectures that stressed the importance of staying clothed while on duty.

 Apparently the lectures had little effect on the women because the group published three more photos after they were disciplined. In the new pictures, the women are seen wearing very skimpy underwear while they cover their breasts with rifles…. (second picture top)

Interestingly there appears to be some welt marks on the bottom of the girl in the first picture. Maybe she had been in trouble before and the commanding officer punished her as he or she “saw fitting” that time too.

Some time ago I came across a little piece of military history regarding the home front and the use of photography for keeping up the morale of men off fighting. Certainly by the time of both the Crimean War and the American Civil War photography was available to the officer classes among the British, French and Union Army.

It is by no means clear how widespread this practice was, but there is a suggestion that some young wives and sweethearts of serving officers (and some men) had risqué portraits taken of themselves (much like the themed one above) in order to keep their men’s spirits up.

One can well imagine that these women kept this naughtiness from their families and many a Victorian father would have been outraged and all that that promised. Remember this was the age of the birch and strap which were not spared when it came to a young woman’s bottom. Remember too that the same young ladies may well have been required to lodge with older relatives, sister’s, or even their imperious mother-in-laws.

One can speculate too what their husbands would say (or do) on returning for war to confront the butter-wouldn’t-melt demeanour of demure women who had dared all.

I couldn’t find more of substance on this. A selection letters from the First World War had these two little snippets.

Dear Bell,

Thanks for the items you sent, especially the socks and the other thing. That certainly was a surprise. Now I really am looking forward to when I can come back home.

And this…

Some of the men have been sent pictures of their girls got up in bathing suits and sometimes even less. I would hate to think of you getting up to such antics and if you ever did you and I would have words when I got home. The respectable portrait of you that you had made last summer is more than enough for me.

Pictures from the First War are relatively common and abound on vintage erotica sites, but many from earlier times were printed on glass and would have been lucky to survive the post in the first place and are now mostly lost or are in private collections.

“Eyes right,” the Senior Wren all but screamed, “And stand straight woman.”

Catherine came to attention more or less correctly, this time remembering where to place her thumbs.

“You are not in Tonbridge bloody Wells now,” the Senior Wren continued to berate her, “This is the Royal Navy,” she continued.

Catherine Havers felt every nerve jingle and for a moment she even forgot that this was all for a docudrama. For all intents and purposes she was back in 1941 getting screamed at by a battle-axe of a woman sailor.

“March her in,” said a weary voice. Its owner an over-tall stern looking man with steel grey at his temples beckoned from through the open door from his place at his desk.

Captain Jerome Grey was the commandant in charge of cadets and quite frankly he would rather have been at sea. All the shouting was doing little for his headache.

“Hats off,” the NCO said at last as she herself came to attention.

Grey looked up to confront a terrified looking red-head with deep blue eyes. They hadn’t met before so he had to pause to remember his script. He had no idea she would be so beautiful.

“A red head I see, always trouble in my book,” he said grumpily as he stalled for a second. Then he read the charge sheet. “Two ticks this week already and that was before you caught smoking on duty…”

Catherine froze before blurting out “Yes Sir,” her stock phrase this week. Then she remembered that it might be ‘aye sir, or aye, aye sir or… Also she resisted the urge to rub her bottom at the mention of the ‘ticks.’ Earlier that week she had acted out a tick sanction, namely six of the best from her cadet captain.

The punishment had been carried out with a short thin stick that had been laid across her bare bottom while bending. It had hurt far more than she had expected, but she was proud of the fact that she hadn’t yelled out or cried. Not even afterwards.

The whole thing had been filmed in case that had been all that Catherine could handle. Erin had explained that the footage could be used in the extended DVD if she went ahead with the main event.

“All right, leave this with me,” Grey sighed.

“Aye Sir,” the Senior Wren bellowed and with a bare nod to the guard they smartly wheeled about and marched out.

“You know what happens now don’t you Havers?” Grey sighed.

“Yes Sir, I mean aye sir…”

“A COs 30; have you anything to say before we proceed?”

Catherine opened her mouth breathily and wondered that she had any spit left. Then she drew it into a determined tight line and shook her head.

“You must answer,” Grey growled.

“Oh sorry Sir, yes Sir, I mean No Sir, nothing to say Sir.” She managed.

“Please remove your tunic, your skirt and your slip etc… leave your other underwear on until I tell you,” Grey intoned.

As he spoke he stood up and removed his own jacket before retrieving a stiff black cane from the cupboard.

“Oh God,” Catherine whispered as she carefully and somewhat slowly obeyed him.

*

Catherine’s dawdling hadn’t gone down well and the usually calm and serious Captain Grey began barking at her like a headmaster. Quicker than she could have believed she soon found herself standing in her period knickers, blouse and tie.

A flush of red at her cheeks spread like a forest fire and twice as hot as filled her face and encompassed her neck.

“My predecessor was a grab the ankles man, but you girls aren’t tough enough,” he said dropping a chair into the middle of the floor. “So you can bend over and grab the base of the seat.”

“Yes Sir,” Catherine said in a thick voice and all of a fluster made an awkward attempt at bending as if the chair might bite.

“Knickers down,” he barked, not acknowledging that he had forgotten the order, “And then bend over.”

There was a shush of cotton on thighs as Catherine’s bare bottom and legs were exposed to the air and she felt her blush reach her ears. This was far worse than before and bending was excruciating especially when he ordered he ‘right over’ so that her bottom stuck right up.

Grey hadn’t counted on the intensity of the view and suddenly became aware of the hidden camera. A life in the real navy had left him curious about the old days, but trying to retain a professional air when confronted with a fulsome a trim bare bottom was a challenge.

He remembered his brief training: 30 strokes at six to eight second intervals. He eyed the clock, it should take around three minutes.

For Catherine herself time slowed to treacle and with her bottom so exposed it felt like days. The touch of the stick to her bottom was electric and she flinched.

“I haven’t touched you yet girl,” he muttered and tapped her twice more.

Catherine’s breathing was audible but even and she tensed.

As per his training Grey waited a beat and then struck.

The hiss preceded the groan and Catherine jerked, clawing the air and then the base of the seat by turns as she rode out the sting. While across her bottom a sharp line emerged like reconnaissance photo in the developing lab.

Grey waited.

The second stroke was worse and this time there was real pain in her tone as she moaned.

Grey focussed on two scarlet lines across very pale flesh before he landed another cut under them both.

“Ah-yah,” Catherine wailed as she bit so hard into her lip she feared drawing blood.

Too slow, Grey thought and quickly added a fourth and then after a slow five-count a fifth and sixth.

Catherine jerked at each, a whine escaping from clamped jaws at each impact. Someone had put razor slashes across her bum and little devils were rubbing in some salt. Her even breaths were louder and faster now and she took a moment to wipe a single tear from her left eye.

Seven was a bitch and eight, nine, 10 only got worse. By her first dozen she chuckled to a sob and tears were falling freely from her blood-rimed eyes.

Grey took the decision to press on to 15, the halfway mark before pausing. By this time Catherine’s bottom, becoming though it was, had become textured with purple lines with red spilling over the welts to form one angry sheen of red from her thigh-tops to a line level with the top of her bottom cleft.

Catherine was no longer stoic and had taken to indulgent sobbing through ragged breaths.

Grey looked around for an intervention, but as Catherine had not made her signal, an opt out he wasn’t aware of, he turned back to the pain ravaged bottom to complete his mission.

The stroke interval grew until by 26 strokes he was waiting more 10 seconds before caning Catherine. The clock told him it had been four minutes now. Her bottom had become an interesting combination of colours and textures to say the least. Grey wondered if he should stop anyway.

Catherine screamed out at each stroke now and her bucking for several seconds afterwards threatened to tip over the chair.

“Please Sir, how many more,” she croaked.

“Just four,” he said gently. Probably broke character there.

Catherine nodded.

Grey caned in hard and then after a slow count to four did so again. He had to wait for the penultimate but when it came he added the last almost at once.

Catherine’s back was arched and her bottom back-jutting and taught as she vocalised the last impact. She had long since stopped caring about any dignity of her posture.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” Grey intoned and as if it was perfectly natural turned away to pretend to exam some paperwork.

The caned woman got unsteadily to her feet and repaired her uniform to parade ground duty, or some approximation of it. She was till buttoning her tunic when the Senior Wren returned to march her out.

*

“How was it?” Erin was grimacing.

Catherine was smiling through tears whilst unrepentantly clawing at her bottom through her 1940s skirt.

“Hard to do actually, by the end,” Grey put in.

The two of them were facing the camera for a brief feedback.

“I’ll say,” Catherine gasped. “That was… oh God… intense.”

“You say you had a great Aunt who experienced this for real during the war?” Erin asked.

“That was real enough for me,” Catherine’s eyes were bloodshot from crying but she was grinning. “But yes, that’s right… I have always been intrigued.”

“I think I held back… I mean it would have been faster during the real… back then,” Grey said sagely, stopping himself from undermining Catherine’s experience.

“Yes, but remember that that is going by the book. What we explored here was the human element. Don’t you think your 1940s counterpart wouldn’t have felt the same?” Erin suggested.

“I suppose,” Grey agreed.

“Catherine, how do you feel about it now?” Erin asked turning to the dishevelled woman.

“Ask me in a few days, oh God,” her hands countered another burning assault as she wonder if the caning would ever stop.

“I’ll do that,” Erin chuckled.

During my absence I had several emails asking about my historical articles and was there a book. Now there is a good idea. The answer is not at the moment, but I have picked up a few titbits here and there. In this vein I had several requests for more about the caning WRNS during WW2.

I am not sure if I have published some of this material before but here is a quick snippet of what I could find.

WRNS were established in 1939 under the Civil Establishments Branch at the Admiralty. They were therefore often considered as civilian workers rather than members of the service. Wrens could be punished, including discharge from WRNS, disrating, suspension, stoppage of leave and deductions from pay. They could also be charged in a Civilian court. They couldn’t be court martialled. Wrens remained free of the Naval Discipline Act until 1977.

Up until then they were constituted under the same military law and procedures as laid down for boys and other cadets. This allowed a loop hole in the Kings (later Queen’s) Regulations preventing corporal punishment.

One serving WRN reported:

“Often you would get a soft officer who would just give you a dressing down. Failing that there was a procedure to follow. After ensuring the offending girl had understood the offence, the officer would then to order them to disrobe down to the necessary. The woman was expected to pull down her service knickers to her ankles and bend over. She could then expect anything from between six to 36 strokes of the cane across her bare bottom depending on the offence and the level of authority of the officer carrying out the punishment.

A six was called a tick and was usually administered by the supervising office. Where this was a male officer he might cane across the knickers or skirt, but he was not obliged to allow this dignity.

My usual officer was a woman and she would always cane the bare bottom and could hand up to 24 strokes, although thankful she would often only give you 12.

The most dreaded punishment was a ‘commanding officers 30.’ This could under some circumstances be increased to 36 strokes and was particular dreaded as our CO was a man.”

A contributor to FemFirst contributed this:

“I asked my mother-in-law about this topic. She’s an old lady, but quite open about worldly subjects. When she was in the Wrens in WW2, was there corporate punishment for minor offences? And what kind?

She told my wife and I that it did happen fairly often. On a base she was posted to, there was one old male officer who was notorious for handing out beatings to the younger Wrens for trivial offenses.

Surprisingly, my mother-in-law, who says she was punished in this way twice, still doesn’t know whether there was any sexual motive or whether the officer was just a very strict disciplinarian from another era!”

Despite this regime it was recorded that between 1940 and 1942 only 37 wrens out of 11,000 deserted.

Nor was this type punishment limited to war time.

Mrs Gwen L, Cobham, Kent wrote:

I attended a Wrens’ Naval Cadets training school in London, in the early 1950s. We were subjected to similar discipline, which did sometimes include being caned on the behind, though it wasn’t bare but over our knickers. I don’t think it did me any harm, but I don’t think it did me any good either. What I do know is, bullying still went on, but we did tend to show more respect to authority and we were certainly not as rude as our modern-day counterparts, male and female.

Mary S, who served up until 1975 claimed that although corporal punishment was not allowed “taking a good hiding could get you out of all kinds of scrapes.”

“If you were lucky, taking six or 12 across the bum was better than going on report. I even heard of a girl having her knickers taken down and going across an officer’s knee for a bare bottom spanking. Definitely not in the book, but it happened and quite frankly, so what? Literally, worse things happened at sea.”

Previously we have discussed CP for women in the Royal Navy during and after the Second World War. Women were not fully incorporated into the Navy until the 1957 Naval Discipline Act, but until then they had been formulated under boy cadet rules and technically, and sometimes actually, subject to corporal punishment.

This entailed anything from six-of-the-best to 30 strokes administered to the bare bottom, usually but not exclusively by a women officer. Although most accounts suggest that bare bottom canings were relatively rare by the 1950s, whilst being de rigour during the war.

What hasn’t been discussed so much is CP in other military services and in other countries.

One account has a serving British Army woman driver getting an over-the-knee spanking from her male officer after skiving off to a pub. There will be more on this another time.

Unofficial spankings and CP seems to be more common than the official kind in some services.

In WWII a mid-ranking women officer was tasked to investigating inappropriate behaviour to serving WAVS. On interviewing one woman she was told, ‘he spanked me.’

The officer replied, “Oh phooey, is that all? If I wrote up a report every time some peace time brat got a spanking in the service I would drown in paperwork.”

The woman protested, “You don’t understand,” and in a whisper added, “He spanked my bare bottom.”

The investigator shot back wearily, “Oh honey, who hasn’t been spanked on the bare bottom?”

This was according to an ex-service forum referencing some war memoirs by veterans. This exchange was allegedly from I Was a Girl Sailor. Needless to say I could not find the book so this remains apocryphal.

More directly Tom emailed me during my down time to say that his sister was caned on the bare bottom several times while serving in the Australian Navy in the 1970s. He claims that she always said it was “no biggie,” and better than getting written up for going AWOL, drunk on duty and “some other stuff that involved messing around with some weapons.”

He said that she was generally caned with other girls by a male officer in the presence of women officer. She was made to bare and bend with her hands on her knees to receive 12 strokes and once 18 strokes. For the weapons incident she was caned bending over a table and received 24 strokes. “It hurt like fucking hell,” she told him, and after she couldn’t “sit down too well that time.”

I also have some notes about Thailand and Singapore somewhere, but that is for another day.

A few weeks back a comment to The Last of the Old Style WRNS Discipline, this time about a woman serving during World War I prompted me to revisit this strange subject. I found a completely new account and new some snippets.

This is an edited excerpt from WS Holly:

The Petty Officers – male NCO’s – gave us instruction in everything from how to polish a badge to how to stand to attention in a regulation manner.   They generally kept their hands to themselves:  but not always, when well away from prying eyes…   And they had a very important edge.   Should they deem it necessary, they could at any time order one or more of us to bend over to receive up to six swats on our bottoms from their swagger sticks.   We were not covered by Royal Navy rules and regulations, and the WRNS high command had ordained that we would be considered to be “boys” until we were 21.   Flogging had long gone from the Royal Navy – but boys (usually cadets undergoing lengthy training) could be caned:  therefore, so could we until we old enough to avoid such treatment.

Later in the account:

And now on the final Wednesday, we got our hands on the Sten-gun – or tommy gun, as we usually called it although it was nothing like an original Tommy Gun. Two clips for each of us to discharge into the butts, one rating at a time, who was expected to cleanly and methodically turn a single target sheet into shredded paper.

Being the lanyard wearer I was the last to go.   And, in the time-honoured tradition of HMS Ardent, when I discharged my second clip, I did so in the manner of some American gangster, and splattered bullets backwards and forwards across all five targets.

The flight burst out into cheers of mutual congratulation:  for being on that range for that session, our passing of the course was thereby assured.

The sudden appearance of CPO Wagnett from out of nowhere caused the smiles to freeze and an expectant hush to settle over all of use.

She looked directly at me.   “Seawoman Canberra:  please explain yourself.”

I stood to attention, the barrel of the Sten gun pointing to the ground by my left foot.   One always stood to attention when addressing a Chief Petty Officer.   “I am completing firearms training, Ma’am.”

“You discharged your weapon in a reckless and dangerous manner.”  Cold, hard, relentless.

I pursed my lips and slightly bowed my head.  Female CPO’s did not discipline ratings themselves.   From her words, I knew that I was in deep trouble.   If I was sent to the guardhouse, I would probably get six of the best from a rattan cane.   I became acutely away of my bottom, and waited – almost in fear – for her next words.

“I am putting you on charges.   You are to report to the Commander’s Office at fourteen hundred hours.   West, Southwark – you will act as escorts.”  My two friends came to attention to acknowledge their instructions.

Later still:

He was probably late forties, with the weather beaten face of a seafarer.   He looked back at me with the intent stare of a professional going about his duty.   I was the sole item of interest in his life until I was removed from his office – and I felt as though he could feel every tremor in my body that I was trying to hide from him.

“Sir, 387 Seawoman Canberra!” announced 3/O Rice.

“Charges?”   I might be the entire centre of his attention, but it would be as short a time as he could reasonably get away with.

“Reckless discharge of a firearm, Sir.”

“Evidence?”

CPO Wagnett took over.   “Sir, having had reports that ratings were discharging Sten guns in a reckless and dangerous manner at the end of Range Practice Six, I positioned myself outside Number One Firing Range at eleven thirty hours today.   There I saw Seawoman Canberra firing a Sten gun, backwards and forwards over a range of five targets, swinging the weapon, at her hip, from side to side.   This was not in accord with standard procedure for firing a Sten gun.   I then asked her to explain her conduct and she said that she was completing firearms training. Sir!”

“Any questions?” he asked of me.   Good Lord no.

“No sir.”

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“No sir.”

“You do realize that aircraft landing to the right of the Firing Range might have come into range of your fire?”

“No sir.”

“The foolhardy rarely think of the consequences of their actions.”   He turned to 3/O Rice.  “Anything known?”

“No Sir.   A clean sheet while enlisted, and no existing record when she was recruited.”

“Canberra, I could send you to the Brig for this.   I could even summon you for a District Court Martial.   But you have good promise, and good easily pass a commissioning board in due course.   Will you accept my punishment?”

I knew exactly what that meant.   Informal corporal punishment never went on your permanent record – everything else did.   He was asking if I would take a beating in exchange for keeping my record sheet clean.

“Yes sir.”   And on that whispered phrase, my fate was sealed.

“You are to be caned.”  That was not unexpected.

He looked down at a sheet on his desk.   “The absolute maximum I can sentence you to is thirty six strokes.”   He looked up at me and transfixed me with his cold stare.   “So that is what you will get.   Report back here in fifteen minutes, in gym wear.”

I momentarily felt quite sick, and a sense of absolute terror gripped me.

“Escorts and Accused – Right ‘Hun!”    But then the automatic response to military training took over, and I found myself, almost like a robot, first facing my friend’s back, and then marching to the small dormitory where I slept, in one of those wooden huts.

When we marched back to the main admin area a few minutes later, I was in black PT shorts and white shirt.   With a uniformed rating in front of me, and one behind me, we announced to the world my imminent fate as clearly as if we were carrying banners bearing the words “About to get thrashed”.

My face constantly burned in embarrassment, and I did everything to avoid eye contact with any other trainee.

This was going to be bad.   I would be ordered to touch my toes.   I was expected to simply stand and take it.   If my resolve failed, then my escorts were to assist the CPO and 3/O in holding me over the Commander’s desk while he completed his task.   He would complete it – I had already stated that I would accept his punishment.   The only question left to answer was whether I had the moral fortitude to take my medicine without kicking up an unseemly fuss.  I certainly hoped so.

It was not that long ago, back in sixth form, that we occasionally got caned by Miss Deane.   Even I had suffered at her hands for several sharp reminders.   She was not particularly strong armed, but could raise a welt and cause a tear or two.   And even dear old Dad whacked quite painfully with his slipper whenever mother thought such treatment was needed to correct some errant behavior or another.   I had taken all of those, in my stride, without issue.

But a naval caning?   36 cuts?   I had serious doubts that I would not last out the entire set.

And as I and my two escorts, followed by CPO Wagnett and Third Officer Rice, marched into the Commander’s office, I realized that I would soon find out just how tough I really was.

He was standing by the side of his desk, holding a cane made out of ash wood.   Three and half feet to four feet long, a wicked half inch in diameter, just looking at its white sheen made me feel as though I was about to gag.

He was wearing his jacket, three gold rings denoting his rank.   He continued to wear it – not needing to take it off in order to give himself a freer and firmer swing.  Such finesse was quite unnecessary.

Without being told, Jenny and Pat moved over to stand by one wall, alongside the CPO and the 3/O, leaving me alone in the centre of the room.  They would stand there as silent witnesses – unless their services were required to secure me fast while any remaining strokes were delivered.

The commander pointed to an area in front of his desk.   “Stand there, Canberra,” he instructed.

I moved into position.

“Place your feet shoulder width apart.”   This I did, slowly and deliberately.

“Touch your toes”.   I bent right over.   I could always easily touch my toes, the only sensation being a slight tightness at the back of my knees.   I did not notice the tightness on this occasion, only the vulnerability of my buttocks and the pain they were soon to endure.  I could see his polished shoes as I looked at the carpet behind me.  My leg muscles were taught, and they were sheened in light perspiration.

“Pull your shorts down.”   That was difficult.  No man, other than my father and our doctor, had ever seen my bare bottom.   Pulling them down was with excruciating embarrassment.  I was not wearing underwear;  we never wore underwear under gym kit.    I blushed furiously, but my face was hidden from his view, and from all the others in the room.   That was something.

“Thirty six strokes,“ he announced to us all, as if we needed reminding.

I felt the cold hard wood tap against the centre of my bare backside.   I took a deep breath, scrunched up my tummy and braced myself.  And that last few seconds of waiting was, I think, the very worst moments of my ordeal.

The cane made a hell of a crack as it bit into me for the first time.   The small room compressed the sound and seemed to magnify it. It drowned out that initial mewl of pain I made.   If so much pain came from a single cut, I surely would not last out to the end.   All I could do was hang on as long as possible.

For he had hit me with all the force he could muster.   And I understood why that should be.   There was nothing personal in it, this was naval discipline in action.   His duty was to inflict has much pain as 36 strokes of the cane could inflict, and he was simply carrying out his duty.

It did not matter that a young girl was bent, semi-naked, before him.   If this had been a cadet ship for males, and he was beating a boy, the strokes would have been identical in both cases.

Within the next couple of strokes I started crying freely, but silently – for a while.

I was not keeping count.   But CPO Wagnett was.   “Six!” she suddenly announced.   I was panting deeply, sweat glistening on all four limbs, and sobs racking my frame.

I lost all track of the number again– it was simply a case of standing still, keeping one’s head down and waiting for the next stroke to do its damage.   I was getting a little vocal – but my yelps and howls were not that loud:  almost as if I was addressing them to just myself.

“Twelve!”   Oh God – only a third of the way through?   The pain was pretty bad by now, and I really thought he would break my spirit with that god-damned piece of wood.

But I lasted to “Eighteen”, and although in more pain than I had ever previously experienced, I knew I was going to make it.   Passing the half-way point was psychologically very significant.

My tears flowed harder, my muted shouts of pain became more acute – but the number left to come was getting constantly smaller.

By “Thirty!” the pain had merged into a single mass of fire across both cheeks – the crack adding to the zest, but some sort of saturation level had been reached so that the agony simply carried on unabated.

And then, finally! – the most welcome sound of CPO Wagnett announcing “Thirty six!”

There was a silence for five or more seconds.   I remained in place, still touching my toes, trying to contain the pain, tears still dripping onto the carpet between my feet.

“Take over, Third officer,” the Commander said and left the room so that the five of us had a few moments alone.

I dropped to my knees, put my forehead on the carpet and stretched my hands far out to either side, clenching and unclenching my fists.   I could not bear to touch my bottom – the pain was still too much to bear, and even my own fingers might inflame it beyond endurance.

“You took that well, Canberra.”   That was Third Officer Rice’s only direct comment to me from then until I left the unit and out of her sphere of influence.

“Wagnett, she is excused duties for 24 hours – we need her on parade rehearsal Friday”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You two – escort back to her dormitory.   She may take her meals there all day tomorrow.   Make sure she eats.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Pulling my shorts back up took a long time.   And limping back to barracks seemed to last forever.

But then it was face down on my bed for 24 hours, with more than one ship mate who wanted to see the unholy mess that 36 strokes had made of my bottom.   The serious pain lasted two days, and a memento of it ached for the best part of a week.   It took many months for the marks to completely fade.

And for why?   The Navy had wanted to stop the practice of wild firings to mark the end of each course.   They needed to make an example of someone to ensure the message was learned by all – a scape goat if you will.   From the Navy’s point of view, their assured victory in the matter was far more important than the welts my buttocks had to bear.

However, I did march off the parade ground on the following Saturday to collect my travel warrant.   Those who really, really knew me well might have spotted a slight limp in my step.   But the rest of the world would never have guessed.

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Kenny Walters gathered some caning memories, some possibly drawn from this blog and many others have already bene published (such as the now infamous Daily Telegraph letters). Here are the edited highlights I hadn’t seen before.

…Another story brought to my attention concerns a young Women’s Royal Navy Service (WRNS) officer who began her first posting at a Naval base in the West Country and on her first day was surprised to enter her immediate superior’s (also a WRNS) office door and find a young female trainee bent across the desk being caned on the bare bottom.

Further investigation by the young officer revealed that offenders were given the option of being caned or being put on report to the Commanding Officer. This young officer was herself caned on a couple of occasions for serious breaches in her duty.

Where informal spankings seem to have been carried out by serving men, other reports suggest that on all women establishments caning was a more routine and formal affair.

In another account.

At a base near Valetta on Malta during World War Two it has been suggested that anything from twelve to thirty strokes with a cane were meted out by the senior female warrant officer. These bare-bottomed punishments were administered both routinely in private and on occasions before the assembled ‘ships company.’

One young Wren said that during the worst privations of the attacks on the island, healthy young women often did not know if they would live or die and they, like their boyfriends, were serving irregular hours. Consequently young women were frequently late on duty, discovered in compromising situations and on many occasions caught pilfering or hoarding rations.

“Under the circumstances taking a quick shellacking was the least of our worries,” said one former service woman. “After one particular party I remember seeing quite a parade of red and mauve-lined bottoms in the shower block at the change of the duty.

As if to reinforce these stories, I was then told of similar things from an entirely different source. One concerned a woman who was barely eighteen when she joined the Wrens, again during the Second World War. After a few months training she was posted to Malta where she worked as a clerk/typist at a large base near Valetta.

This lady said that overseas the discipline was a lot stricter than in England and that Wren ratings were subject to corporal punishment in the form of caning. The commandant of the base, a woman described as being in her forties and well-spoken, was responsible for hearing all cases and imposing appropriate sentences, including the cane. She was said to be fair but quite intolerant towards any Wrens that misbehaved.

Soon after arriving at the base, the young clerk/typist and three of her new pals were not back at base in time after a night out. They were caught trying to sneak back through the perimeter fence.

All four found themselves appearing before the commandant the following morning who sentenced them each to six strokes of the cane across the seats of their knickers. They were taken immediately to the gymnasium where they had to change into PT kit. Each in turn then had to bend over a vaulting horse for their canings to be applied across the seats of their gym-knickers by the Chief Wren (equivalent to Chief Petty Officer), a stout masculine looking woman with a very sour face. The cane used was slim and whippy with a crook handle and similar to those used on boy cadets.

Some time later, three young Wrens were found guilty of stealing from the stores and selling the goods on the black market. They received a period of detention in the cells followed by canings in front of the ‘ship’s company, as the base was referred to.

The two younger girls, aged eighteen or nineteen, were to receive ten strokes each and the slightly older girl, adjudged to have been the ringleader, was sentenced to twelve strokes. They again had to change into PT kit and take their turns bending over the vaulting horse but this time their gym-knickers were pulled down before the same Chief Wren thrashed their backsides. Afterwards, they were lined up facing the gymnasium’s wall bars and handcuffed with their arms stretched up so the rest of the Wrens could inspect the damage to their backsides.

The return to this subject was prompted by a comment to this blog by Janice J

She wrote:

My grandmother served in the WRNS during WW1 and she was caned a few times she told me.

I know she was classed as fit for ‘mobile service’ which meant she could be posted away from home and that she was a driver. I don’t think CP was official but there were heavy fines and I think ‘taking a bit of stick’ as she called it was preferable.

She had a few stories – she said she had an easy going officer to drive for but one night thinking he would be a few hours she took the car off to go and get some supper and generally skive off. When she got back the officer had been stranded and had had to cover for her.

The next day he gave her a bollocking and when she answered him back he took her over his knee and gave her a ‘jolly good spanking.’

She said she deserved it and usually he was a good laugh. But later she got another officer and pulled the same stunt. She was sent back to the training pool and had to contend with ‘a right old battleaxe’ she made her drop her draws and bend over for a dozen with the cane. Gran said it hurt like the devil but still better than a fine.

She only got ‘short duties’ for a while which meant she was under this woman who caned her more than once. She told me she was rarely without ‘a bruised bum’ for a few months.

Later she was posted to lorry driving.

As you will not doubt know today is VE Day. It is the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Europe at the end of the Second World War. Despite the lock down there is nothing but flags around our way and I have even seen single household ‘street parties’ getting underway. Never were garage tops and roof gardens ever put to better use.

No one is getting spanked, not even our very good friends the Germans, who have also been celebrating.

However, I did do some digging to see if their were any spanking angles relating to World War Two. There are many.

Winston Churchill’s daughter was spanked by a American GI while herself serving. It was later recreated for laughs in a British newspaper for morale purposes. I could not find that picture but I did find another from 1942, again played for laughs. A certain Miss Chapman on war service neglected to telegram home to her worried parents so when she got home her father expressed his disapproval in the traditional manner. That homecoming was recreated for comic effect in a wartime propaganda poster for the US Telegram service (pictured above).

If anyone is any doubt as to the very real morale benefits of a good spanking, Daily Mirror comic strip heroine, Jane, was frequently spanked for misadventures and is said the British 8th Army made significant advances on the day she was depicted as fully nude in the strip.

To return to an old favourite I just came across an old WW2 Royal Navy anecdote about a woman called Jenny who served in the Women’s Royal Navy Reserve during that war. I had meant to publish before my sabbatical of a couple of years back. Not sure of its source now, or indeed its veracity, but for what it is worth here it is.

Further to the account about the caning of women sailors in the Royal Navy. My Aunt Jenny served in a small naval establishment in the West Country (England) during the war. I am honestly not sure what rank she held but I do know that she worked with a small team tracking and filing communications linked to the Atlantic monitoring of U-Boats in some way. She never really talked about the military side of things.

She did tell me about the grizzled old officer who was her commander fed up to the back teeth, as she told it, with a lot frivolous young women late on duty and coming late back from the town after a visit to the pub. She said anyone caught out of line was called to his office for a rollicking and quite often a ‘good hiding.’

I was shocked, but she told it as a ribald tale and always laughed about it. She said if they were lucky they would just get a spanking – swats on the seat of the skirt with a plimsoll while bending over. On at least one occasion she got a bare-bottomed spanking over his knee with a short piece of wood. “A thorough affair,” she said, that always left a girl sobbing and with a very red bottom. I gather she wasn’t the only one.

More often, she said, it was the cane. Up to 30 strokes while bent over a desk, always on the bare, and usually with a witness. Jenny told me that she lost count of the number of times she got a good hiding in this way, and apart from the first time, when she got 12, she never got less than 24.

“It was completely embarrassing and meant to be,” she told me. A funny look would come over her, sort of wistful. She told the same stories often and always like they were fond memories.

She and two friends were once caught climbing a barbed wire fence late back from town. Her friend tore her skirt badly and she admitted they were drunk. All three got hauled in to see the old man the next day and each got 30 hard strokes, all on the bare bottom as usual. Jenny said she couldn’t sit down for two or three days after.

From the way she talked it all sounded quite routine and often fairly informal.

Ruth T, Salisbury

That, folks is all I know about this account.

Here is more on this here and a perhaps prescient story here along similar lines.