Over a Breach of Discipline

When my elder sister joined the WRNS in 1939, they made her polish floors in Whitehall for her two weeks of probation and then posted her direct into active service - loading anti-aircraft guns at Portsmouth.   Back then, it was a sort of “if you can breathe, you can serve” attitude of a country desperate for volunteers.

But now, in 1943, things had evolved into a more rigorous system for changing fresh recruits into servicewomen.    Six weeks of boot camp – with endless drills, marches and physical fitness sessions.  Which did break up the endless sessions of spit and polish.    Those that endured it went on to one to six months of trade training before being posted to active duty.

By 1943 you even had to serve two years as a rating before having any chance of getting a commission.    

What a change for just four years of wartime.

HMS Ardent was not a ship.   It was several hundred acres of ground used as a primary training unit for the WRNS.   At HMS Ardent, we were housed in wooden huts – that came complete with their own latrines – marched around a large expense of concrete parade square and ate our meals in a very large marquis tent, which easily accommodated ten long wooden tables that could seat 50 or so each.

Most of the officers at HMS Ardent were male, but we reported directly to a Third-Officer for all matters of an administrative nature.   And she had a small admin staff of female NCOs to ensure that her orders were invariably followed to the letter.

When not in fatigues, we wore impossibly tight black skirts that made us look as if we had one single buttock – and our short uniform jackets made sure that our rumps were not hidden from view.   I do not know who designed those uniforms, but they were most unpleasant to wear.

There was a small grass airstrip to the West of our parade ground – used as a relief field for RAF and RNAS flights.   Which meant that there was a full crew of male ratings on hand to service every plane that visited us.   They, by accident or design, made us become extremely skilled at the duck and bob maneuver we needed to master in order to avoid the groping hand of a young man who wished to engage in some harmless slap and tickle.

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.  

We all resented it, but this was wartime, and personal dislike was of no importance.

As it happened, most of us were left untouched when it came to being punished by a swagger stick.   By the end of week five, over  half of my flight had not been called to bend over.     And there was only one week left before HMS Ardent became part of our personal history.

It seemed to us that each flight of trainees would always have one lame duck – Seawoman Pierce on our flight – and the comrades of each lame duck would do all they could to protect her.  It was trying to cover up for Pierce that I almost got myself six of the best, but my luck held and I avoided that and all further threats quite successfully.   Lame ducks lived a life of endless extra chores and would get a mild beating two or three times a week. Then something “clicked” and the help of her shipmates was no longer needed to keep her clear of any further trouble.

There was no chance that I could be considered to be a lame duck – I even got to wear a red lanyard so that when no officer or NCO was present, I was in charge of the flight.   That proved to be a double edged privilege …

Wednesday mornings were hell.   There was a firing range to one end of the encampment, and for two hours we were required to take turns to lie on our stomachs, in groups of five, and each of us fire five rounds of .303 ammunition at targets 50 to 200 yards away from us.

The recoil from the rifle caused its metal butt to slam into our right shoulders, leaving them bruised and even, on occasion, bleeding, after ten sets of five shots had been discharged.   The agony slowly increased over the two hour period of each training exercise, making the last turn at firing a very hated experience.

But we were military, and this was what military do.  No complaining – just rue smiles and constant massage for a day or two after each session.

It was the on the very last Wednesday of boot camp that I learned that wearing a red lanyard was not protection from all possible dangers.   Those of us who had passing grades were to march across the parade ground on Saturday morning, and pick up our travel warrants to go to our next stage of training at one of six “advanced” training schools – I was going to go on a radio operator’s course.   Those who had not got a passing grade would join the group of recruits immediately behind our flight, and undergo additional boot camp training with them – and if necessary, this would be repeated over and over – until they did pass.  Everyone eventually got a passing grade.

Our first four Wednesdays on the range had all been rifle firing.   Some of us had managed to put five bullets in a very tight group, and had got to wear red crossed rifles on our right sleeve to show what good shots we were.  And after we had sewn them on, the rest of the flight who had not gotten themselves a badge would punch us on our badge by way of retribution.   One of those rituals we went through.   It was not severe – I only got a very mild bruise that faded within a day.

The fifth Wednesday had been use of the Bren-gun – a piece of armament we had constantly been required to take apart and reassemble as one of those things that are supposed to change civilians into military.   There was no recoil when you fired a Bren!   It was great fun discharging short bursts into a distant target.   But it used up a lot of ammunition very quickly, and we were limited to one clip each.

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 honored 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.

I was on charges?   And the Commander himself would decide my fate?   Oh sweet Mother of Mercy, what had I gotten myself into?

---oo0oo---

I stood between my two friends outside the Commander’s Office.   I did not wear my hat, for I was the accused.  They did, for they were my escorts.   The theory was that if I lost self-control and tried to attack the Commander, they would protect him from me.  An odd sort of theory, when thinking back about it.

Third Officer Rice, our senior officer, and CPO Wagnett stood in front of us.

“I am deeply disappointed in you, Canberra,” said 3/O Rice.

“Sorry, Ma’am.”   It was the best I could muster.

She knocked on the Commander’s door.

“Enter!”

CPO Wagnett brought her feet together and assumed the posture of being at attention.

“Escorts and Accused, ‘Shun!”

We snapped to attention.

“Escorts and Accused, Left ‘Hun!”

We turned to the left, as one.

“Escorts and Accused, Quick March!”

And the three of us marched in single file, wheeling and weaving as necessary to get us in a straight line in front of the Commander’s desk, where we marked time until CPO Wagnett caught up.

“Escorts and Accused, Halt!”   We stopped marching on the sport.   “Left ‘Hun!”   And as I turned, for the first time I got a close look at a man who, for us trainees, outranked God himself.

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 center 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.”

I had been a good girl up until now – that should count for something.

“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.

---oo0oo---

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 center 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 center 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.

A year later, when I was exchanging Morse code messages with submarines in the Atlantic, looking back at what had happened to me at HMS Ardent, it did seem to be quite trivial in the scheme of things. 

 I even had a small tear to shed when I learned that the Commander who had beaten me had lost his life from enemy shell -fire while commanding a support ship during the D-Day landings.  I had never held him a grudge.