MODERN ORDEALS (Principally mmm/m)

[Xtc]

ORDEAL BY WATER 1

The Preparation

Chris wasn’t getting along too well but I suppose he wouldn’t really; not like that. With his hands bound behind him, he couldn’t use his arms for balance as his bare feet trod the uneven ground and that rope that was tied securely, but not tightly, round his neck pulled him along more insistently than he would have chosen.

It was quite a warm September day and you know what they say about a British autumn: on a good day, at least the rain is warm. Chris could have vouched for the falsehood of that saying as the rain dripped from his dark hair, his ears, his nose and his chin and ran down his body leaving the blue swimming costume, which was all he was wearing, drenched and cold. At least his escort had the ponchos from their Cadet Corps uniforms to protect them.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Chris was regretting sharing his opinion of the Head Prefect with him. He now had a thick rope dog-chew, (You know: the ones with a huge knot at each end) being held tightly back into his mouth with one of his own boot laces. At least his journey shouldn’t take much more than an hour but even then he still had to face his ordeal.

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Perhaps I ought to explain. The boys’ boarding school where Chris and his escort were pupils had an unwritten rule. Anyone whom the prefects found to have done something to disgrace himself, his house, or the school could choose: either be handed over to his Housemaster or the Headmaster or let the prefects deal with him. Of course, certain offences were considered too serious to be dealt with in such a way but the staff must have known about the kangaroo courts that dealt with most misdemeanours short of illegal acts. It just wasn’t usually worth a “defendant” risking being suspended until his parents could come into the school with the subsequent danger of expulsion. Also, as far as the staff was concerned, it kept the prefects out of trouble over the weekends. So – everyone was satisfied – almost.

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Chris had been called to the prefects’ common room one Wednesday evening. He had to stand still, legs straight and arms folded behind him and look to the front (yes, it is a rather old-fashioned school) while the charges were laid. Then it was put to him: either he could undergo ordeal by water or the prefects’ next move was to report him to the Senior Housemaster. Chris was obviously guilty. He chose ordeal by water.

The prefects had various ordeals that had become customary over the years. None was dangerous if properly supervised but all were humiliating, unpleasant and time-consuming. It was not too late in the year to subject a boy safely to the water ordeal but it was much too early to make him suffer ordeal by ice and ordeal by fire was considered too lenient for Chris’s offence, so water it was. Chris was told to report, properly dressed, to the prefects’ common room at exactly 10:00 hrs on the following Saturday. He was then asked if he had anything to say. Chris knew better than that and declined the offer. He did not enjoy the next two days.

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Having a school with its own Cadet Corps and surrounded by a private estate had its advantages as far as some of the establishment’s more esoteric practices were concerned and Chris knew exactly what he was in for.

He knocked formally on the door at precisely ten o’clock and waited. The Head Prefect, Basset, called, “Enter,” and Chris did so. He stood in the customary formal pose. He was fourteen years old and, other than being a member of the football team, was not particularly athletic. Standing with his arms folded behind him and wearing just his royal blue swim briefs showed, however, that he was quite well made. Being pale, unlike most of the boys at that time of year, his complexion contrasted with his long, dark crew-cut. The school required a uniform haircut no longer than a grade six.

He tried to look around without turning his head and noticed four prefects who were already in their Corps denims, camo shirts, gaiters and army boots. Basset wore the insignia of the Staff Sergeant; two others wore three stripes and the last was a corporal.

Chris, who was, of course, referred to by his surname, was given one last chance to be reported to the Senior Housemaster. Chris declined. He was called across to the desk behind which Basset was seated and told to read the confession which had been prepared, to sign it and to sign an addendum which confirmed that he had agreed to be subjected to the ordeal. Alright, the document had no real legal standing but explaining the confession to his parents would be a painful experience. Chris signed and returned to the penitent’s posture.

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While he was signing, he noticed the equipment laid out on the table but most of that came as no surprise; he’d resigned himself to being tied up and led to the start of his ordeal. The exception was the short, thick rope with the large knots at each end. He knew it was a dog toy, and not being thick, he only hoped it was a new one because he could make a good guess as to where it was going to be positioned very soon. He wondered whether the satisfaction he had obtained from telling Basset his opinion of not only him but his parents and the rest of the prefects as well last Tuesday was worth it at that stage.

“Unfold your arms.” Chris did as he was told and soon felt the corporal, Jones, forcing his wrists to cross and lifting them higher. He tried to maintain the pose as a doubled rope was used to square-lash his wrists inescapably. Jones was an acknowledged master of the art; his bindings were always firm but never so tight that the prisoner would need to be released before punishment was complete. In less than two minutes Chris was unable to move his wrists either upwards or downwards without putting unnecessary pressure on them. He couldn’t see it but Jones had left his trademark bight hanging from his subject’s wrists in case it would be needed later.

All the while he had been in the common room, Chris had been holding the boot-lace that he’d been instructed to remove from one of his army boots in his left hand. He knew now what it was for. Basset rose from behind his desk and took the lace. He didn’t need to issue an instruction as he presented the multi-coloured rope to Chris’s mouth. The dog toy was soon lodged further back in Chris’s mouth than he would have chosen. That rope was thick; Chris hoped that he wouldn’t be gagged for long. He could hardly apologise in the hope of getting the punishment moderated and he resigned himself to the discomfort.

One of the Sergeants, Robinson, took a stiff rope that was no more than two metres long and tied a loose figure of eight about fifty centimetres from one end. Passed the shorter end round Chris’s neck and re-tied the figure of eight with the shorter end of the rope. He adjusted the resultant loop until the knot was positioned too close to Chris’s neck for him to be able to slip out of it but not so close as to run any risk of strangling him. As long as he behaved! The re-tied figure of eight was then tightened securely. As a finishing touch, Robinson formed a loop in the free end of the lead large enough for one of the escort party to slip his hand through.

By now Chris was breathing heavily but he was determined not to cry.

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You mustn’t think of the prefects’ “justice” system as being a “one-size-fits-all” regime. There were ways of dealing with more minor infringements as well, as was so useful in situations like Chris’s. The fatigue party was made up of four younger boys who had each managed to earn a de-merit in the previous week and whose consequent detentions the prefects had to supervise. The younger boys had to act as “gofers” for the main punishment detail. Before Chris was prepared for his ordeal, they had been thoroughly briefed and sent about their business.

Three of the four boys, who were referred to by the made-up rank of Lance-Private to keep them in their places, wore denims, gaiters and boots but they were only allowed their “singlets(PT)” above the waist. Most boys liked to wear the white garments tight, they thought it made them look hard. The fourth boy was Joe. He wasn’t the brightest of people but he was a nice kid who was, even so, as tough as old boots. He wore the navy cotton shorts(PT) of the Corps and his singlet. It was hard to imagine tight clothing on someone as skinny as Joe and both garments hung loosely from him. The attire made his army boots look even larger on him than they actually were. He had probably turned up at the beginning of term with a haircut that was considered too long. His current style certainly bore all the hallmarks of one of Matron’s remedial efforts.

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While the prefects got themselves ready, Chris was basically ignored. They collected their none too heavily packed bergens and, having looked out of the window, attired themselves in their ponchos. Basset gave the order for Jones to lead their prisoner forward. Chris heaved a sigh and tried to keep up with the Corporal as he dragged him along by the lead round his neck.

After about half an hour the shower of rain stopped but it took some time for Chris to feel any warmer and his garment certainly hadn’t dried out (or warmed up much) by the time he’d come to their destination. Shortly after the shower had stopped, Robinson cut out from the detail unsheathing the machete that he’d previously worn in a scabbard hanging from his belt. When he returned, he was stripping the bark from a newly cut, six-foot chestnut stave. Chris had hoped they’d forgotten that aspect of his ordeal.

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Once prisoner and escort had arrived at their destination, Basset announced that it was time for a brew. Out came the hexi-burners and mess tins and the bevies were well on the way. Jones told Chris to sit cross-legged and he tied the end of the lead crudely round his ankles. It was really just more humiliation; Chris knew better than to try to escape. Needless to say, he was not offered refreshment.

Before the tea and biscuits had been finished off, a somewhat breathless Joe ran up to Basset, stood to attention and saluted. Basset simply said, “Report,” and Joe adopted the school penitent position with his feet together and his arms folded behind him. That posture coupled with the rain- and sweat-soaked singlet made him look even skinnier than ever.

“Base Camp established, Colour Sar’nt.”

“Very good, courier. Guard the prisoner and stand easy.”

“Yes, Colour Sar’nt.” Joe moved across to stand in front of Chris, stood feet apart with his hands behind him and looked straight ahead.

Chris noticed the copious amount of mud that covered most of the skinny kid up to nearly his waist and assessed the theoretical state of the terrain that he had just run through. The White Water was going to be deep.

Tea and biccies having been consumed and any necessary urination having been undertaken, it was time for the Prefects to pay attention to their prisoner.

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“Courier, get this crap cleared away and into your duffle bag. Make sure the mugs are washed up by the time we get to Base Camp.”

“Yes, Colour Sar’nt”

“And did you get one de-merit or two?”

Joe didn’t want to answer but it was obvious that Basset already knew the answer. “Two,” he mumbled. “Err, er m two, Colour Sar’nt.” He corrected himself more loudly.

By now the hexis had gone out so Joe carefully folded their still warm bases and put them along with the mugs, spoons and packaging into the duffle bag that he’d carried on his back.

“In that case . . . Corporal, tie his wrists. He can run back like that.” Joe didn’t dare protest in case his Judge-and-Executioner decided to hobble him as well. It HAD been known.

Joe thrust his arms through the draw cords of the lightly laden bag and was about to hitch it into place when Robinson said, “Hold it! Wait a minute. Colour Sar’nt?”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“The rain’s stopped. The clouds are clearing and the sun’s been out for some time now. Why should we carry our ponchos when he could take them for us?”

“Very good, Sergeant. See to it, Lance Private.”

Joe slipped the draw chords from his shoulders and resignedly collected the still sopping garments. He folded them carefully dry to dry, rolled them and stuffed them into his duffle bag. It was not so empty now, nor so light. He slipped the now bulky package onto his back. Jones needed help to address his task. Thompson, the other Sergeant, went to his comrade’s assistance. In comparison to the thick-set Robinson, Thompson was slim and rather dark-skinned with ready dimples in his mischievous face. He lifted the pack high, rested it on Joe’s head and held it in place. Robinson tied Joe’s arms, firmly palm to palm behind him and asked Thompson to hold the bag in place. Joe guessed that he was going to have his thumbs bound as well. He was right but after that he had some difficulty not earning himself further torment when Robinson announced that he had not yet finished.

By the time Joe’s skinny arms had been tied so that his elbows touched, he was not a happy soldier, especially when Thompson released the duffle bag, allowing it to fall into place against Joe’s immobilised arms.

“Good work, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Alright, Lance-Private, off you go. And don’t take too long.”

Joe didn’t know what Thompson meant by not taking too long; his journey from Base camp probably took about twenty minutes but there was no way he was going to make his way back as quickly even though he was a good cross-country runner. At least there was no way Thompson could find out how long it took him. Or was there?

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At precisely nine o’clock that Saturday morning, the four thirteen-year-olds who were to form the fatigue party reported to the Prefects’ Common Room. Upon the command, “Enter.” They presented themselves in the penitents’ posture in front of Basset’s desk.

They noticed that the prefects were already engaged in minor acts of torture against three First Year boys. They’d probably not had their ties done up properly or worn them too long or too short or some other violation of some equally important rule. They wore their full school uniform (a bad enough punishment on a Saturday, surely) and were standing with the toes of their highly polished black shoes about a foot from the wall against which their noses were squashed. With their arms folded behind them, they had to stand there until they were released.

The hardened young criminals were ignored while the Fatigue party was briefed.

Joe was told that he was dressed in his shorts because he was to act as courier. Once the party had established a base-camp, he was to take the quickest cross-country route to where Chris was due to commence his ordeal and report the fact. The others were to act as a draught team for the ancient trek cart that the school used for Scouting or Corps activities. They would use the cart to transport a frame tent, a field kitchen, supplies, and various things for the comfort of the prefects. They were to be allowed their ponchos except, of course, Joe who would not be allowed his when he was running.

Thompson handed a manifest to one of the team and told them to load up and, “Be quick about it”.

The draught team was dismissed and the Prefects turned their attention to their guests.

“Alright, oiks, don’t move, just listen up.” There then followed a boring lecture about standards and pride and letting themselves down and other uplifting topics. The three sufferers hoped it wouldn’t go on too long. “Very well, stand at alert.” The boys stood upright, brought their feet together and folded their arms behind them. Other than that, they didn’t move.

“Stay in your uniform until you get ready for bed tonight and don’t be so sloppy in future. Understand?”

“Yes, Basset,” replied three weary, insincere voices.

“Dismiss.” The smartly blazered boys withdrew. Such punishments were more inconvenient than anything else and certainly the victims couldn’t get up to anything dressed like that.

TBC

[Veracity]

Always enjoy seeing the return of a classic.

[Xtc]

Thanks for checking in.

[blackbound]

You're really one of the best at these.

[Xtc]

Thank you but so are you in your own field.

[Xtc]

ORDEAL BY WATER 2

The Ordeal

With Joe embarked upon his uncomfortable return journey it was time for Chris to start his ordeal by water. The White Water was narrow for the first half of its four-and-a-half-kilometre journey to the beach but, with all the contributory streams in flood, it soon became quite deep. Chris was going to have to wade the entire length of the river. But not before he’d been properly prepared.

Robinson picked up the newly shaved Chestnut stave and Jones freed Chris’s ankles and hauled him to his feet. The stave was placed between the convict’s back and his arms and he was told to make sure he didn’t let it slip. Chris was determined that it would not; Basset was obviously in a vindictive mood.

Robinson went to work; he doubled a rope and looped it over the back of Chris’s neck. He brought the bight down over his left shoulder, across his chest and round his back until he could drape it over the stave just outside his left elbow. The two ends of the rope were then dealt with in a similar manner until they were draped over the opposite side of the stave. The two free “ends” were then entwined and pulled apart forcing Chris’s elbows closer together. He couldn’t help grunting with the pain as his wrist bonds were forced to dig into his flesh. Robinson knew that Chris had a long time to endure his ordeal yet and loosened the knot slightly before tying it off again.

Chris managed to keep the stave in place so that his escort would have no excuse for increasing his torment. It was a matter of a couple of minutes before he found his elbows tied to the stave, leaving Robinson with plenty of spare rope. The “ends” were crossed over his back and passed up under his armpits and knotted behind his neck. Robinson made a small “adjustment” causing the stave to be raised very slightly before the “ends” were shortened with a chain of loops and tied out of the way onto the middle of the stave.

Chris now found his arms almost totally immobilised.

Basset took his Swiss army knife and cut the bootlace holding the dog-chew in Chris’s mouth. After all, it wasn’t HIS boot lace. “Prisoner, you now have one last chance to be reported to the Senior House Master. Will you take it?”

“No, Colour Sar’nt.”

“Very well, do you need a drink before we start?”

“Yes please, Colour Sar’nt.” Even though he’d been gagged for the best part of two hours, Chris was actually even more in need of a piss than a drink but he could think of a less embarrassing way of dealing with that than being “assisted” by Jones or any of the others. Jones helped Chris to drink from his canteen; Chris hoped he could hold out for just a few more minutes. “Thank you, Corporal.”

As the canteen was stoppered, it was time for Chris’s ordeal to commence. At least it looked as though he wasn’t going to be gagged again.

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One they had arrived at the beach, the fatigue party had found a nearby level patch of grass and pitched the sturdy, olive-green frame tent and rigged their own bashas in a nearby stand of pine trees. Pinkie, a strongly built rugby player stripped off his singlet, took a spade and dug the necessary pit. While he was doing so, the others constructed the field kitchen and filled two blue barrels with water drawn from the river. Once the tables had been constructed and the folding chairs (prefects for the use of) had been unfolded, it was time for Joe to report that base camp had been established. It would have been easier for him if they’d used a walkie-talkie, but that was precisely the point. He knew that he’d better report as soon as possible and thought he’d go cross country, handrailing the river and cutting across the meanders rather than take the longer route via the better tracks. It was a decision that he was to come to regret by the time his legs and shorts were evenly coated with mud.

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Even though Chris was well aware of the rules, Basset summarised them for him as the “law” required. Ordeal by water required the prisoner to enter the river as near to the source as possible and simply walk down the middle of it to the beach, a distance of some four and a half Kilometres. Easy enough, you might think, that would take a bit over an hour but you would be mistaken. Not only was the prisoner bound and the river bed well supplied with deep holes but the resistance of the water made making progress difficult. The convict could get out of the river and take a rest whenever he wanted to but there was a snag: if he did, he would be taken back half-way to the source before being allowed to continue his ordeal. Chris was determined to tough it out and complete his ordeal in one try. He only hoped that the recent rain would not have made the river too deep.

Robinson produced a climbing rope from his pack and found the middle before wrapping it twice round Chris’s torso and tying it reasonably firmly in front of him. He then looped one end twice round Chris’s right bicep and tied it loosely before repeating the procedure round his left arm. Robinson’s somewhat harsh voice assured Chris that it was his safety belt. Chris considered it to be more like a baby’s reins. In truth, the rope served both purposes. If the Prefects were in an especially vindictive mood, it could also provide considerable drag as their prisoner struggled to complete his ordeal in the shortest time possible.

Thompson took one end of the climbing rope and Jones took the other and they coiled them loosely prior to slipping them over a shoulder and under the opposite arm. There was plenty of rope left loose which they tucked between the prisoner’s arms, his back and the spar.

Bergens were hoisted onto backs and prisoner and escort took their positions.

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Joe arrived at Base Camp, relayed Basset’s orders and asked his fellow defaulters to untie him.

“Did Basset say that was OK?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’ll be OK.”

“But did he SAY so?” Obviously, Joe couldn’t swear to any such thing, he simply assumed that he’d be untied once he arrived. The others apologised but, not wanting to incur Basset’s ire themselves, decided to play it safe. In spite of his language, Joe couldn’t really blame them.

Dylan, a rather bulky lad with glasses and numerous freckles, unloaded Joe’s duffle bag. At least Joe wouldn’t have to help with the chores, and Dylan gave him a drink from his canteen. He would have liked to be rid of the bag and the unpleasantly sweaty singlet. In fact, he would have appreciated a complete change of clothing but it didn’t look as though he was going to get one for some time. At least the sun was now shining brightly so perhaps Joe could dry off gradually.

After the washing up had been done and a washing line rigged between a couple of pine trees to accommodate the prefects’ ponchos three of the boys settled for some arduous sun-bathing while Joe sneaked a sit in one of the prefect’s chairs. That, however, was a short-lived act of defiance because having his arms bound in the way they were caused serious discomfort so Joe had to settle for lying on his front or his sides while waiting for prisoner and escort to arrive.

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Jones went to the far side of where the river would soon be and Thompson stayed where he was as they allowed some of the rope that they had recently tucked away to unravel. Chris took a deep breath and headed towards the trickle of water through some very boggy surrounds. The river soon became well over knee deep and, considerably wider. All along its length the White Water had quite deep banks which meant that the reeds would not impede the leads holding the victim in place. The absence of bank-side trees also ensured that the river was the ideal place for the Prefects to torture miscreants.

Being in cold water Chris couldn’t hold on for much longer and he took an unnecessary dive into a slightly deeper stretch of the river after about ten minutes. That allowed him to sneak a quiet pee whilst pretending that he was having trouble regaining his footing. The Corporal and Sergeant pulled the rope tight and asked Chris if he needed to be hauled out. Chris assured them that he didn’t and was soon much relieved.

The first kilometre took Chris nearly half an hour and he managed to keep his footing except for his “dive”. From then on, the depth of the water varied between thigh high and waist high and progress became more difficult with the famous deep holes in the river bed taking their toll. As the river became wider Thompson and Jones released more rope, enabling them to keep to firm ground. It took Chris well over half an hour to reach the half way point whereupon the “guides” decided it was time for a rest.

Chris was offered the opportunity to leave the river. Chris declined. He did wish, though, that they’d chosen a stretch where the river wasn’t over crutch-deep to take a breather. The prefects sat and chatted away inconsequentially whilst ostentatiously ignoring their prisoner. Chris had no choice but simply to wait and put up with it.

After about ten minutes, Basset and Robinson took over guiding duties and Chris resumed his determined trudge. When the prefects next decided it was time for a break, the water had varied between waist high and chest high. The going was now really slow and the Prefects had to take great care of their charge. Several duckings had occurred but Chris had recovered his footing fairly easily but he was starting to consider asking to be allowed a rest on the bank. He knew the Prefects would be delighted to allow it but the thought of being taken half way back before being allowed to continue steeled him for carrying on. Not only that, he didn’t want to give the bastards the satisfaction of extending his suffering. He thought that he must have less than an hour to go.

The last leg was slow but uneventful. Chris’s progress was hindered not only by the consistently (if you don’t count the odd pothole) chest deep water but also by the amount of free rope needed to deal with the ten-metre width of the river near its mouth. It was causing considerable drag but eventually Chris saw that for which he had been looking for several hours.

He saw Base Camp and, more significantly, the wide track that crossed the river just before the beach.

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Basset saw Base Camp and didn’t like what he saw.

“Why is that man not in uniform?” Basset indicated Pinkie who had not replaced his singlet after his digging exertions.

“Sorry, Colour Sar’nt!” Pinkie had adopted the penitents’ stance.

“Since you don’t like your uniform, you’d better get it off. You’re on nurse-maid duty while this wretch completes his ordeal. Keep your pants on.”

“Yes, Colour Sar’nt. Thank you, Colour Sar’nt, Sorry, Colour Sar’nt.” Pinkie knew what was in store for him, he’d been on jankers for an ordeal by water in the past. He spent no time getting stripped down to his tight, white boxers. School uniform rules require white underwear but, in a surprising concession to the boys’ preferences, they were allowed to choose the style within limits. Pinky packed his clothing carefully and resumed the penitent posture.

“And why is that man still tied up?” By now Dylan and Smitty were also standing up straight with their arms folded behind them.

“We didn’t know we were allowed to untie him, Colour Sar’nt.” Upon reflection Basset thought that was fair but he wasn’t going to let them know that!

“Lance Private Smith,”

“Yes, Colour Sar’nt.”

“Get him untied.”

Chris seemed to have been forgotten, not that he was looking forward to the traditional last part of his ordeal but he did want to get it over with.

“Permission to speak, Colour Sar’nt.”

“Granted.”

“Permission to change, please, Colour Sar’nt.”

Basset looked the newly released Joe up and down and granted his permission for Joe to lose the not yet dry clothing. “Denims. Excused boots.”

“Thank you, colour Sar’nt.” Joe wasted no time stripping off and towelling himself down. He was soon in dry white briefs, his denims and a clean white singlet. Even though he was allowed not to replace his sodden boots, Joe still applied his trouser ties and bloused the legs as though his boots were in place. He thought he’d play safe and adopted the penitent position alongside Dylan.

Dylan was told to take four ropes and find four trees to which to tie them “Just in case someone’s going to need them.” After showing mercy to Joe, Basset was obviously now out for blood!

“And one of you, get the brew on. I’ve got a mouth like the inside of a camel’s jockstrap and we’ve got some business to complete. Lance Private Pink, with me.”

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Chris had already had some time to assess his situation as he stood in the river looking towards the two pipes that ducted it under the track. These pipes were inconveniently lesser in diameter than Chris’s height even before the layer of pebbles had been deposited on their bases over time. The tide was nearly fully out so, even with the recent rains, there was more than enough clearance between the water level and the top of the pipe for Chris to be able to avoid ducking his head completely. That’s what he was really dreading because the track was at least four metres wide and, with the verges of the track, the tunnels must have been at least seven metres long.

The problem remained: how to get that bloody stave through the tunnel.

Pinky might have been a tough little muscle monkey but even he gave voice as he jumped into the cold river and the water reached over his boxers. Upon surfacing again, he waded over to where Chris was waiting. From past experience Pinky knew what was required of him and, as he approached him, he asked Chris, “Ready mate?” Chris nodded.

“Lance Private Pink,”

“Yes, Colour Sar’nt?”

“Untie that long rope and bring it over here.” The wet rope that was trailing in the water was not exactly easy to untie but it was soon consigned to the bank and Pinky turned away and started to return to the prisoner.

“Not there. Bring it over here.”

Pinky, who probably did have a forename but he never used it and neither did his friends (although it was rumoured that his mother used it when he was in trouble), resignedly returned to the bank, which was over chest level to him, and hauled himself laboriously out of the water. He adjusted his sagging boxers up as best he could and dragged the rope over to where Basset had indicated. One look at the Colour Sergeant’s face told Pinky that his labours were not yet over. It took him some time to coil the rope in the expected manner and secure it against unravelling before Basset announced himself satisfied and allowed him to deposit it on the ground.

There was no point in Pinky’s entering the water carefully this time so he just ran and bombed in and swam the few metres to where Chris was none too patiently waiting.

“Aw’ right, mate?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Ready?”

“Let’s go.”

Both boys made towards the pipes and Pinky entered the left-hand side one. “Turn sideways, mush, I’m here to support you.” Chris did as Pinky suggested and started sidling along the pipe whilst trying not to crouch any more than was necessary. His progress was slow but uneventful, other than for the ingestion of several mouthfuls of peaty water.

The boys who were on jankers did manage not to cheer when the two boys appeared from the far end of the pipe and, as the river spread as it met the beach, it became shallower and Pinky left Chris to return to the campsite. Chris thought he’d better keep walking into the sea just to stop the Prefects claiming that he had not reached the river mouth and forcing him to suffer the second half of the ordeal again. By the time the stave was well submerged and the waves were making it difficult for Chris to keep his feet on the sea-bed, Basset called him in.

TBC

[Xtc]

ORDEAL BY WATER 3

Base Camp

As Chris completed the last few metres of his ordeal, Pinky presented himself to Basset.

“Permission to speak, Colour Sar’nt.”

“Granted.”

“Permission to change, please, Colour Sar’nt.”

“Permission denied. Take those sodden boxers off and towel yourself down. Then you can wear your towel until lights out.” Pinky wasn’t pleased with the response but he could handle it and within five minutes his brown towel was doubling as a rather long kilt.

Well before Pinky had finished towelling down, Chris came to stand before the Prefects. Lance Private Smith, towel this boy down.” In what was now a warm, sunny afternoon that wasn’t really necessary but Chris thought better of pointing that out and had to submit to the humiliating, and very soon embarrassing, ministrations of the slight blonde. At least he didn’t have to strip him of his swimming costume first.

“Lance Private Lewis, bring your muffler here, please. Lance Private Hill, first aid kit.” Dylan ran to his rucksack and Joe headed for the green box with the cross on it.

Chris knew that his ordeal by water was over, that he’d acquitted himself with honour (important in a boys’ boarding school) and that he’d got it over with as quickly as possible, but he also knew that he’d be given some time to “consider his misdemeanours” before being released.

Robinson moved forwards to supervise Chris’s preparation for his time for contemplation. He told Dylan to wrap his muffler tightly round Chris’s eyes and tuck the end in. Even though the scarf was open netting, by the time it had been wrapped several times round the prisoner’s head, it rendered him effectively blind. Basset was obviously feeling less vindictive towards Chris now that he had stoically accepted his punishment and successfully completed his ordeal so he allowed Chris the protection of Dylan’s scarf before Robinson instructed Joe to use micropore, “And use lots,” to complete the blindfold. Even with his school regulation haircut, without the scarf, that much tape would have hurt when he got to be allowed to remove it.

“The rasping voice of the stocky sergeant continued. “Untie his arms. Not his wrists. Don’t forget to coil the ropes properly.” As Dylan and Joe each untied a rope holding the chestnut stave in place, Chris couldn’t completely suppress the yelps and grunts occasioned by the return of at least minimal movement of and proper blood-flow to his arms. Even the binding round his wrists had loosened somewhat during the ordeal but not enough to allow Chris to slip his wrists free even if he wasn’t under supervision.

Robinson took hold of the lead that was still hanging from Chris’s neck and led him over to a tree. Chris was told to sit and cross his ankles, which he did and prepared to have them fastened with the lead again. Robinson didn’t bother. After all, what was the point? Chris was efficiently blindfolded and would be under guard throughout his remaining time under punishment. He was grateful to have the tree to lean against.

“Lance Private Pink, guard him.” Basset’s voice again.

“Yes, Colour Sar’nt.”

Pinky, who had returned to the penitents’ position, unfolded his arms and ran to stand in front of Chris. He adjusted his towel and resumed the stance.

-----00000-----

“Lance Private Smith, pack those ropes away.”

“Yes, Colour Sar’nt.” Smitty ran to do as he was ordered.

“Fatigue Party, fall out.” Even though the boys on jankers needed constant supervision, there was no point in making them stand up straight at all times. Their punishment was really just being prevented from doing what they wanted for the weekend and their labours made the lives of the prefects a lot easier as long as they did what they were told. And if they didn’t, well, torturing them was always fun.

The next two hours passed relatively pleasantly for everyone except perhaps for Chris and Pinky.

-----00000-----

“Fatigue Party, fall in! Not you, Pink!” On Basset’s command, the other three boys ran to come in front of Basset and folded their arms behind them. “Lance private Pink, bring the prisoner over here.” All four defaulters were soon lined up with Chris standing in front of them. “Lance Private Pink, remove the prisoner’s blindfold.” Pinky scrabbled around the micropore tape with his well-bitten nails and quickly stripped the white tape from round Dylan’s camo scarf. He carefully tucked the tangled remains into his towel; he had to be very careful if he was to maintain his “clothing” and avoid further punishment for littering. He then unwound the black and green scarf, folded it carefully and laid it at Dylan’s feet. Robinson told him to put the litter in the appropriate receptacle and to fall in.

“Private Curtis, you have undergone ordeal by water. Your confession and the document accepting your punishment will be kept but will not be reported anywhere unless you raise the matter. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Colour Sar’nt.”

“You have been given some time to consider your future conduct. I shall not expect to see you up before me again.”

“No, Colour Sergeant.” This was a mere formality on both sides and neither boy betrayed any sincerity in his voice. Basset actually liked this spirited kid: alright, he did wrong but he accepted his punishment and acquitted himself well. He had a funny feeling their paths would cross again.

“Report to the Prefects’ Common Room. Dismiss!” It took Chris a few seconds to take in the implications of what had just been said. There he was still dressed in just his blue briefs and with his hands still bound behind him and he was expected to return to school. He could try to untie himself but, having been subject to Robinson’s tying, that would still take some time, or he could just run back to school as he was where everyone would see him but where one of the Prefects would untie him. That was the better option than being told NOT to report to the Prefects. The last kid who had been left to find someone else to untie him, met with a similar reaction to the one that Joe had met and it took him two hours of struggling and pleading before anyone would take the chance of releasing him.

After no more than a few seconds Chris made off at a steady jog to get to the better tracks back to school.

TBC

[Xtc]

ORDEAL BY WATER 4


The Court

Chris’s ordeal was over (nearly) and it was time to assess the Fatigue Party to see who was in need of further punishment. The Prefects could usually find some excuse for increasing a defaulter’s punishment as they had already done with Joe and Pinky and it was time to see who warranted further torture. But not before dinner.

Smitty was put on cooking duty and the famous “dog-food” stew, prepared from tins of stewing steak and vegetables, was soon accompanied by “wallpaper paste” or “Smash” as the manufacturers called it. Having the younger boys on jankers meant that there was no need to skimp on the supplies. They had to transport a well-equipped field kitchen and all the pans and there was no need for the Prefects to lift a finger towards food preparation. Sounds like an opportunity for Smitty to get some revenge really, doesn’t it? Problem: he had to eat the food as well. So did his mates.

Dylan was detailed to set the Prefects’ table (must maintain standards, you know), Joe was put on notice that he was to wait on table, and Pinky that he appeared to be dressed for washing up. Whilst not engaged in such domestic matters, the Fatigue Party adopted the penitents’ position. They knew the Prefects would be looking for any excuse.

Dinner was served and the younger boys had to catch their food in between other duties. No dining table and crockery, even if it was plastic, for them; they sat on the ground and ate from their mess tins. Pinky finished all the washing up, including the large Dixie, and the fatigue party was all present and correct and ready to face judgement.

-----00000-----

The Judge and jury gathered behind the trestle table. The Judge (self-appointed) asked the guilty men to detail the reasons for which they earned their de-merits. These were obviously dangerous criminals.

Dylan admitted that he was out of bounds without permission. He’d just climbed a fence to search for and retrieve a football from the undergrowth and hoped that no one would notice. Pinky admitted to being with Dylan.

Joe admitted turning up for the start of term with an “inappropriate haircut”. In all honesty the Prefects thought that having to sport one of Matron’s remedial specials until it grew out was punishment enough but duty called and discipline must be maintained. Besides, torturing the younger kids was fun. Joe also had to admit to being one minute late for English.

Smitty always fancied himself as a wit. The others thought he was just a smart-arse. When asked what he had done to have to join the Fatigue Party, he replied, “Madame DuCasse est une Vache.” Basset just about managed to suppress a smile, Robinson spat his biscuit across the table and the other two Prefects failed to suppress at least a minor snort each. The Head of Modern Languages was infamous for her ferocity but the Prefects couldn’t afford to show sympathy. At least they knew now who would be occupying the “bed” so thoughtfully prepared by Dylan previously.

“Do you think that is an appropriate way in which to refer to a respected member of staff?”

“No, Colour Sar’nt.” declared Smitty formally but, having nothing to lose now added, “Mais c’est vrais.” rather more quietly. He thought he might as well get his value out of the situation and that it was just as well to be hung for a sheep as a goat.

“Get ready to turn in, get over to those trees and you may use your sleeping bag to lie on.” The sleeping bag was an act of mercy; normally anyone who was staked out would have to lie on the twigs, pine needles and pine-cones littering the floor – unless the prefects could find something more uncomfortable. But, in this case, mercy was obviously called for. NO ONE liked Mme. DuCasse!

Eight boys were still trying to suppress grins as Smitty fell out and headed for his pack.

-----00000-----

That left three other miscreants to assess. First up was Joe, still bootless. He got a hard time as the Prefects droned on about standards and slovenly, worthless kids who were a disgrace to the school but their hearts weren’t really in it because Joe had been left tied up for longer than they’d intended already.

“Stand down, Lance Private. No further sanctions.”

“Thank you, Colour Sar’nt.”

The “Court” also decided that, as Pinky was already suffering the indignity of being attired in only his towel until he turned in, there was no need for him to suffer any further sanctions either.

That just left Dylan to consider with their usual thoroughness and compassion. Fairness was all and the Prefects decided that, because Dylan was the only member of the Fatigue Party who had not been subject to any sanctions in addition to his initial sentence, they should find some way of evening out the suffering. Their meanest decision was not to decide there and then what they would do to Dylan but would leave him hanging until they came up with an idea. What compassionate jurists they were.

-----00000-----

By the time Dylan’s sentence had been officially delayed, Smitty was ready. He’d stripped down to his lose, white cotton boxers, packed his uniform neatly in his pack, laid out his army sleeping bag between the trees that Dylan had prepared previously and had reported to the Prefects. He was glad that it had turned out to be a warm day.

“About turn. Towards the trees, forward march.” Smitty took the walk to the gallows closely accompanied by Robinson and Jones.

Robinson didn’t really approve of tying ropes to the trees before spread-eagling a miscreant, it made both tying the prisoner safely much more difficult and stretching him out tightly enough almost impossible. However, that was easily combated; he untied one of the ropes and got Jones to do the same to the other three. While Jones worked, Robinson started securing Smitty’s limbs. The slight blonde kid looked as though he’d not been in the sun at all that summer and his pale shoulders were liberally spattered with freckles. He knew there was no point in resisting his sentence unless he wanted to be considered a pure coward by his peers so he presented his right arm upon instruction.

Robinson had retained the middle of the fairly long rope in one hand when he untied it from the tree. Smitty found the rope looped round his forearm just above his wrist and Robinson continued to wrap it four times round moving towards his subject’s hand where he tied it off. Smitty now noticed a neatly wound rope cuff with lots of free rope hanging from it. Robinson took the cuff between his hands and “massaged” it robustly to even out any tight spots. Jones handed the next rope to Robinson who repeated the procedure on Smitty’s left wrist.

“Want a go, Corp?”

“Yeah, why not? Lance Private Smith, sit down. Knees up.” Smitty obeyed and propped himself up on his arms. Jones was obviously nearly as good with ropes as Robinson, and Smitty’s ankles were soon cuffed snugly but securely. Once Jones had finished, Thompson arrived with Dylan’s muffler which he’d recovered from the ground.

“Basset says that we need to use this because of the nature of your recent outburst.”

Smitty groaned as Corporal Jones wrapped the ends of the scarf round one another twice and pulled the knot tight. “Open up.” The thick knot in the camouflaged scarf was shoved behind Smitty’s teeth and the fabric was tied, rather too tightly, behind his neck. Jones had to hold the knot so that it didn’t slip while Thompson completed the reef-knot.

Smitty laid himself out and stretched his arms towards the trees thinking that perhaps his choice of underwear was somewhat unwise. The boxers had no buttons on the fly and all the boys were only too aware that loose boxers only contain what they are supposed to contain while the wearer is standing. Oh well, too late now.

Thompson returned to the comfort of his seat while the other Sergeant and the Corporal took an arm each. Jones watched carefully and aped his mentor. The two ends of each rope were tied behind a tree and returned and tied again in front. The free ends were then wrapped in counter directions a few times working towards Smitty’s hands and drawing the tethering ropes together. There was still plenty of rope to spare and temporary knots were used to stop the wrappings unravelling.

A very similar routine followed with the young blonde’s legs except that he was pulled tight before the initial knots were tied behind the trees. This time the final wraps pulled Smitty even tighter but not so tight that his arms and legs were raised from the ground. There was plenty of rope left for that later – “if it’s necessary”, as Robinson reminded him ominously as he and Thompson returned to their seats.

-----00000-----

“Right, men, any ideas what we do with Specky here?” Dylan’s feeling of unease increased.

“I’ve got a suggestion, Colour Sar’nt.”

“Let’s hear it then, Sar’nt Thompson.” Following the casual nature of Basset’s original question, things quickly reverted to their accustomed formality.

“Yes, Colour Sar’nt. How long is the Lance Private going to be staked out?” Thompson pointed at Smitty just in case there was any doubt whom he was talking about.

“It all depends how he behaves. Perhaps overnight. He’s not been bound too tightly, has he Sar’nt Robinson?”

“No, Colour Sar’nt there’s plenty of room for adjustment yet.” Smitty emitted a heartfelt groan that the knot in his mouth did little to suppress.

“If I may suggest, Colour Sar’nt: tie Lewis up and let him stand guard over Smith. That will deal with Lewis’s extra sanction. It will also ensure Smith’s safety while he’s gagged. If something goes wrong, Lewis can call us.” The prefects thought that that was a good idea and, because it was one of Thompson’s, that he should get on with it while the rest took a well-earned rest from their exertions. Thompson ruefully went for the required ropes whilst ruminating on the wisdom of sharing his ideas with lazy sods like his colleagues.

It didn’t help that, once he’d got the ropes and returned, Basset said with mock sadness, “You’ll never make a Commissioned Officer. Why didn’t you make him get the ropes himself?” The reply would have meant that the Sergeant would have found himself on a charge in the real army. Thompson knew that he mustn’t take it out on his prisoner and anyhow such badinage was all part of normal Corps behaviour.

“Lance Private Lewis, prepare for punishment.” Dylan made off to his bergen and stowed all his clothing except his white boxer-briefs, which he retained, tidily in the pack. He then adopted the penitents’ pose in front of Thompson. “What do you think you’re doing, Lance Private?”

“Preparing for punishment, Sar’nt”

“Put your clothes back on and your jacket, man. And use the latrine. You’re going to be outside for quite some time.”

As a grateful Dylan ran to retrieve his uniform and relieve himself, Smitty didn’t like what he’d just heard. He also wished that he’d thought to visit Pinky’s hole in the ground before surrendering himself.

-----00000-----

“Lance Private Lewis, fetch the chestnut stave and hold it against your back.” Dylan didn’t need to be told to use his elbows to do so. Thompson adjusted the smooth stave until he was happy with the way it sat against Dylan’s back and with the symmetry of the arrangement. He then started to secure the stave to his prisoner.

A complicated arrangement of rope around Dylan’s arms just above and below his elbows and around the spar soon left his arms and the wood in close communion. Thompson hadn’t even drawn his elbows uncomfortably towards one another in the process.

Dylan wasn’t exactly the slimmest of people but, as he attempted to stand up straight, he did at least have a waist and Thompson started winding hanks of rope between Dylan’s wrists and across that waist. Dylan knew better than not to point his hands outwards as the four turns were looped into place. He also knew it was a good idea to try to force his forearms as wide as his bindings would allow. Once satisfied that there was enough rope between Dylan’s wrists, Thompson started securing the rope cuffs in place. A few turns of the doubled rope round the link trapped Dylan’s left wrist and, as Thompson wound the rope towards the spectacled guy’s right wrist, his hands were drawn closer together. Two counter turns round his right wrist, which were then tied off around the joining rope, left Dylan’s arms to all intents and purposes immobilised.

Dylan would have achieved nothing by freeing himself but, for the sake of form, the remaining rope was taken behind his back, threaded between his upper arms a few times and knotted out of the way of his hands.

“Lance Private Lewis, you will watch over Lance Private Smith. If he has trouble breathing, report to me. If he seems to be tied too tightly, report to me. Other than that, I don’t want to hear from you until further notice. You may sit. Dismiss!”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Dylan marched in as dignified a manner as he could manage under the circumstances over to where Smitty was stretched out. The sight of a cadet in his immaculate uniform with the badge on his beret perfectly positioned but who was tied to a wooden spar looked vaguely ridiculous but Dylan was spared that sight. He sat down. He knew there was no point in trying to stand on guard because he could tell that he’d be there for quite some time and he couldn’t even engage Smitty in conversation.

TBC

[blackbound]

All of these seem suspiciously reasonable and perhaps even mild punishments.

[Xtc]

Ah, but it is a very posh school for refined young gentlemen.

[Xtc]

ORDEAL BY WATER 5


Overnight and Afterwards

For the next couple of hours, Joe and Pinky were stood down and could spend their time as they pleased within reason and the older boys started the inevitable kick-around. Other than the inconvenience of not being able to spend their weekend as they chose, things weren’t really all that bad for all the defaulters all of the time.

Eventually the time came when the Prefects wanted to turn in so Pinky was told to prepare the drinking chocolate and Joe had to go with Jones to see to an increasingly chilly Smitty. Jones checked his bindings and thought that, now the ropes had settled, they needed tightening up a bit so Joe was dispatched to collect a large mallet and a couple of hefty wooden tent pegs. Under instruction, Joe inserted one peg between the two strands of rope between Smitty’s right ankle and the tree. “Sorry, mate”.

“Do not address the prisoner. Just twist that peg all the way round for six turns. That will do. Now hold it.” Joe was not looking forward to the next part as Jones raised the mallet ready to strike. Four hefty strokes later and Joe could release the peg before Jones drove it home. Once the second tent peg had been used in a similar way, the unfortunate Smitty was robbed of what little movement had been possible but his hands and feet were still not raised from the ground.

“Too tight, prisoner?” Smitty thought he could take it and shook his head but he did wish that he’d been allowed more clothing if he was going to be left staked out for much longer. The Prefects did take good care of the defaulters by their own standards and Joe was sent to fetch Smitty’s basha while a still bound Dylan was told to get the blanket from the first aid box. The Prefects had no intention of shifting themselves to help, and Dylan had to kneel and open the crate before trying to reach down into it to retrieve the blanket. The stave in the crooks of his elbows was being of no assistance whatsoever until, in desperation, Dylan plunged his head into the crate and pulled the thing out with his teeth. As Dylan pulled, the blanket unfolded and draped itself across the ground until he dropped it from his mouth. Dylan knelt again to shut the lid of the crate and crawled across to the blanket which, not any longer being in the crate, he could pick up in his hand. He stood up and dragged it over to Smitty.

Jones and Joe draped the blanket over as much of Smitty as was practical and covered it with his basha. Once Joe had been sent for Smitty’s towel out of his pack and four metal tent pegs, the basha was staked out over the spread-eagled boy and Jones rolled the towel and stuffed it into the hood of Smitty’s sleeping bag to act as a pillow.

“Want a drink?” With that scarf having been in his mouth for some hours, it wasn’t so much a case of “want” as “need” and Smitty nodded his head. Dylan was detailed to fetch Smitty’s canteen. Joe was told to remove the prisoner’s gag and to help him to drink while Dylan knelt to support his head on his thighs. Smitty considered pleading for mercy at that stage but foolish pride would not allow him to do so. Anyhow, he’d only have to suffer some alternative punishment later. Joe tied the disgusting scarf back into his mouth.

Dylan and Smitty settled down for a really uncomfortable night. At least Dylan heard Basset order Pinky to bring him a hot drink and to help him to drink it.

-----00000-----

Supper being over and washed up, it was time for everyone to turn in. Pinky had a clean pair of boxers for tomorrow but decided to leave them for then so that they would be clean for the morning. He simply undraped his towel, hung it from an improvised washing line and slipped into his sleeping bag. Joe was in a similar predicament, having had to replace his wet briefs from earlier. He also decided to go commando for the night. It was likely to be safer that way at morning inspection. He wouldn’t even have normally chosen to wear the tighty whiteys but he knew that, as courier, he would have to carry out his tasks wearing the type of shorts of which the Corps approved (and of which he didn’t!) Being in a boys’ boarding school, with all its games, clubs and communal showers, made such actions among the pupils unremarkable and surely Basset wouldn’t call for a turn-out before six-thirty tomorrow.

Before he could retire, Basset had to make sure everyone else was settled. “ . . . and if either of you two oiks disturbs my sleep when he’s keeping himself company, watch out!” Such remarks were not so much threats as promises and didn’t require any elaboration. Once the rest of the Prefects had settled onto their therma-rests in the frame tent, Basset went to pay what he hoped would be considered to be a last visit to Dylan and his charge. His Petzl helped him to examine the ropes securing the two young defaulters and, having declared himself satisfied, he returned to the frame tent. At that stage Dylan and Smitty gave up all hope of relief.

-----00000-----

“Lance Private Lewis, here, now!” It must have been half an hour since Basset had retired so a dozing Dylan started, struggled to his feet, and jogged away from the tree that he had adopted as his furniture for the night in order to answer the call as quickly as possible.

Upon the instruction “Enter”, Dylan forced himself and the length of Chestnut wood between the unsecured door flaps of the Prefects’ tent and stood in as upright a manner as he was capable of in the circumstances. “Now listen carefully if you want to lose that stave.” Dylan listened intently to his orders while Basset untied the ropes melding his elbows with the timber and undid the long rope that was forming his cuffs, but only the part that was behind Dylan. “Is all that quite clear?”

“Yes, Colour Sar’nt.”

“Go.” Dylan hesitated. Is that all Basset was going to do towards releasing him?

“Well, what are you waiting for, Lance Private? Go and lose that stave and get yourself untied before you carry out your orders.”

Arguing would have been ill advised because, if he failed in his task, Dylan wouldn’t be the only one to suffer. He pushed himself and his encumbrance past the canvas flaps and went across to the trees again. The light wasn’t too good by that time of night but, for the first part of his task, that wouldn’t matter too much. In between his efforts to push the stave against a tree in order to start working it loose, he reassured Smitty that “It won’t be long now”. He’d pushed the stave just about as far as he could but it still stayed stubbornly proud of the outside of his right elbow. That’s when he heard Smitty trying to attract his attention. That’s when he remembered the key word: teamwork.

Dylan knelt down near his fellow sufferer and leant over until Smitty could grab the end of the stave. The next manoeuvre wasn’t exactly comfortable for the stocky boy but it WAS effective and Smitty was soon the only person in contact with the stave. However stoical he tried to be, Dylan couldn’t suppress the yell that escaped from him as Smitty freed him from the stave. He only hoped that basset would be in a forgiving mood.

Dylan could now use his hands to complete the removal of his bindings while Smitty made further desperate attempts to attract his attention. “Hang on, mate, hang on a minute. Let me just finish this.” It must have taken ten minutes before the entire rope was draped upon the ground and Dylan could remove the scarf from his friend’s mouth.

“Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“What?”

“I was trying to tell you to get the torch from my pack. If you’d just removed that bloody gag . . .”

“Either shut up or I’ll leave you like that.” And Dylan moved away from the still protesting Smitty to find the aforementioned head torch. Having found it, he returned and stood behind Smitty’s head. “Smitty?”

“Ye . . . nghph.”

“That’s better. Now shut up and listen.” As soon as Smitty had tried to look at Dylan, Dylan forced the knotted scarf back in the blonde boy’s mouth. “Now, am I going to tie this thing round your neck or are you going to listen?”

“’iii-ungh”

“Good. Just bite on that until I’ve finished”

-----00000-----

Dylan treated himself to a muscle loosener and a short massage of his wrists and elbows, leaving his rather pissed-off friend to wait until he was good and ready. Once Dylan was satisfied with his remediations, he explained what he was about to do and reminded the little guy that, If he spat out that scarf before he had finished, he’d leave him there. Smitty was always over-fond of talking.

Dylan un-pegged the stretched out basha and removed the blanket and folded it carefully. Smitty decided that he didn’t want to be left like that because he was feeling the cold, especially on his feet. He managed to maintain a miraculous silence right from when Dylan removed the pegs that were drawing him tight up until he had untied him completely (Well, except for the understandable grunts as Dylan removed the tent pegs and the ropes unravelled.)

“Right, I’m off to bed. You can get this lot put away.”

Smitty removed Dylan’s muffler from his mouth and asked him at least to leave him his Petzl.

“Oops sorry.” Dylan removed the torch from his forehead, tossed it to his mate and made for his basha.

It took a good ten minutes after Dylan’s departure for Smitty to get his (not exactly mighty) muscles working again after which he re-rigged his basha between a couple of the trees to which he had recently been secured using one of the ropes that had served the same purpose.

Once he had stowed all the other ropes, unused pegs and the mallet in the appropriate receptacle, he then dragged his Bergen the short distance from where he had left it and climbed into his sleeping bag. By the time he had retired, Dylan had stowed his uniform as neatly as possible in his Bergen, found the underpants he wanted for the morning, placed them towards the top of his pack and had stripped to his boxer briefs, climbed into his sleeping bag and was already well away. That was the worst bit about being the last to retire, thought Smitty. He was, of course, sure that he himself didn’t snore like that.

-----00000-----

The night was clear and cold but all the boys had decent mummy sleeping bags and no one suffered from that cold. It presaged a fine day and, even before Basset called the Fatigue Party to get “hands off cocks, on socks”, the sun had been up for the better part of half an hour. It was still a bit chilly and damp underfoot but as far as the boys were concerned only a real wimp would complain about it.

The defaulters knew the morning routine: scratch, latrine, wash, inspection. By 07:30 hrs Pinky had put his clean boxers on and done about fifteen minutes exercise before getting himself a bowl of water from one of the barrels and ducking his head in the barrel. After that, ablutions were, to say the least, cursory and only undertaken to enable him to pass inspection. Hair shampooed and ducked into the barrel again (It was always a good idea to be first.), face, neck (and behind his ears), hands and armpits washed, Pinky was left with only having to clean his teeth. The other boys followed similar routines. Well, not the Prefects; Jones shouted at Pinky to make sure the boiler was on. They liked warm water.

By 07:45 hrs the four defaulters were ready for inspection. Four uniforms were laid out, four towels and four face flannels had been hung up to dry, four mess tins and spoons (“British racing pattern”) and four mugs had been laid out according to regulations. Four defaulters, wearing only their clean underwear (or nearly clean in Joe’s case) stood in penitents’ position ready for inspection. Joe, having a greater skin to muscle ratio than the others, felt the mild morning chill and was determined not to be seen shivering. Pinky was used to worse than that when he took his habitual early morning exercises. He actually looked quite comfortable with the experience.

Pinky met with approval and was dismissed to get his uniform and start the Prefects’ breakfast. Joe was asked why he had laid out a clean pair of shorts and told that he wasn’t on courier duties that day and that he should wear his denims. Joe was sent to prepare the Prefects’ mess and help Pinky.

Dylan and Smitty passed inspection, dressed in their denims and clean singlets and were sent to dismantle the Bashas and to stow both their kit and that of the KP’s.

The rest of the morning was fairly boring and involved the defaulters doing all the work while the Prefects lazed around giving orders. At about 11:00 hrs, the Prefects hitched their lightly laden packs onto their shoulders and prepared to leave. They reminded the fatigue Party to make sure everything was packed correctly and to report to the Prefects’ Common Room once they had dragged the trek cart back to Corps HQ and unloaded it.

-----00000-----

It was a good two hours before all the kit was packed and nearly another hour and a half before the old cart had been hauled back and unloaded. That gave the defaulters plenty of time to consider whether they’d like to undergo an ordeal or not, to tell exaggerated stories of how they could stand up to ordeal by ice or by fire but generally to come to the conclusion that such situations were best avoided. Of course, it was also the general opinion that they had withstood their own sufferings heroically.

THE END

[Xtc]

OK, that's how Chris survived his Ordeal by Water.
I am sure that all involved have learnt their lessons from the event. Aren't you?
Nah, Pinky found himself in trouble again, so did Joe. At least Pinky behaved himself for long enough to have to suffer Ordeal by Ice.

If there is any interest, I shall tell you about it.

[blackbound]

Consider me interested!

[Xtc]

Indeed, I shall. It will, of course, be a very genteel procedure.
Thanks for checking in.

[Xtc]

What follows is the second of four tales concerning the Prefects and their charges.
It should be up as soon as I complete the edit.
Wish Pinky luck.

[Xtc]

ORDEAL BY ICE 1

The Preparation

By the time Pinky had got to the Prefects’ Common Room, at exactly 10:00 hrs on that Saturday morning, the customary torture of the younger kids was underway. Pinky had been there himself before; once when he was cheeky to one of the Prefects and once when he’d had the temerity to have his collar button undone as revealed by the knot in his tie being too loose. He knew he’d just have to adopt the customary penitent’s pose (feet together, legs straight, arms folded behind him) until the Prefects were ready to deal with him. That morning the customary grin was missing from his moon face.

-----00000-----

The First Years were wearing just their white cotton p.e. shorts, white briefs, and trainers and were obviously going to be sent on a compulsory cross-country run after the prefects had inflicted just a little initial discomfort first. Bare-chested cross-country running was a favourite punishment for the time of year. A favourite, that is, among the Prefects; not so much among the younger boys who were standing on tip-toe with their toes about three feet from the wall, arms straight and with just the tips of their fingers in contact with it.

Pinky knew that there would be a tacit contest to see who would be the last to break; honour demanded it. Also, the subsequent punishment run would be less prolonged for the one who could last the longest.

Of the three: a blond, a red-head and a mixed-race kid, the smallest was the blond and he was obviously about to either collapse or beg for mercy. After about a minute, he did so and was told to adopt the penitent’s position until the others were ready. Once the red-head had collapsed, the Prefects told both him and the other kid to stand up straight with their arms folded; and money changed hands as the Prefects paid off their bets.

-----00000-----

There was a useful large pond about a mile away from the school building, which made a good obstacle round which the First Years would have to run, making a circuit about two-and-a-half miles long on reasonable surfaces. The Prefects’ Common room, being up on the first floor, gave a good view of the whole circuit especially with the use of field glasses. There was no way the runners could cheat.

Basset, the Head Prefect, addressed the defaulters. “Hancock,” The blond boy stiffened, “Three laps, hands bound.”

Billy Hancock didn’t look very pleased even though he had a good idea what to expect, but he did manage to hold things together and reply, “Yes, Basset. Thank you, Basset,” as a sturdy Prefect called Robinson approached him and told him to cross his wrists. Before long, Billy’s hands were fastened behind him with something resembling a square-lashing that held him securely but that didn’t seem to bite too badly into his wrists. Robinson was good at his work.

As Billy was being secured, the other two defaulters were sentenced. “Lukas,” the fit looking re
d-head tensed, “Two laps.” Ryan Lucas indicated his acceptance. “Jones, one lap.” Dean, the athletic looking dark-skinned lad, spoke up.

“Yes, Basset. Thank you, Basset. Permission to speak, Basset?”

“Speak.”

“Please Basset, we’re all in this together and Billy’s not the most athletic of us. Please. I’ll take one of his laps and stay with him.”

The Prefects consulted among themselves and Thompson announced the decision. “We’re pleased to see Jones accepting joint responsibility and we’re prepared to accede to his petition on two conditions. One: he is bound as well, . . .”

“Yes, Thompson, Thank you, Thompson. Accepted.”

“. . . Don’t interrupt. Please report to me after your run and we’ll decide your extra punishment.” Dean nodded but remained silent. “Two: Lucas is bound as well. Do you accept?”

Dean had replied too promptly in the affirmative and now Ryan did so more reluctantly. Honour demanded . . .

Before long both Dean and Ryan were bound but it must be said that Robinson didn’t exactly tie Dean too strictly. During the process the three prefects discussed between themselves whether the three runners should be roped together but, always the considerate tormentors, they decided that would not be necessary. Admittedly that was really because they thought they’d get away with things so far if a member of staff saw the defaulters but doubted whether they’d get away with anything more demanding.

“Prisoners, a-tten-TION!” Three boys immediately stood feet together, legs straight and as upright as they could. “Two laps – no more than half an hour. Go!” With that, Basset dismissed the three cross-country runners and turned his attention to his coffee and biscuits.

Pinky waited patiently.

-----00000-----

It wasn’t the time of year to be dressed like that but Pinky knew the rules and he even accepted them. It was better than appealing to his Housemaster and having his parents informed that their son was in default in some way and he knew the prefects would dredge up all previous form, either real or constructed and really lay it on thick. All he had done was to take a short cut across the Prefects’ lawn to avoid being late for maths. He still had to look forward to paying for the de-merit that he got for being even later than if he hadn’t tried to take the illegal short cut in the first place.

Pinky had been to the Caribbean with his family for Christmas and, as he stood there, his black swimming costume, the brief-cut type required for school swimming lessons, contrasted comically with the stripe of pale flesh between their waist band and the sharp tan-line about two inches above it and the less defined ones just above his knees. No, early January was NOT the time to be dressed like that. Pinky was fit and broad shouldered, a sturdy, muscular rugby player. Just crossing the quad dressed like that in the snow had been bad enough already and he knew he still had an “Ordeal by Ice” to suffer. At least his mates had reassured him that it was easier in the snow than it would be in a really hard frost. He didn’t know about the little “extras” that lay in store for him.

Basset wiped his mouth and addressed the round-faced fourteen-year-old. “Have you completed your prep?” Pinky had already had a really thrilling Friday evening clearing all his weekend tasks before reporting to the Prefects ready for punishment so he affirmed that he had.

“Do you have your confession?” Pinky had lodged it in the only place available to him in his circumstances: sticking up from the waist band of his swim briefs. He handed it to Basset and folded his arms again. Basset examined the document which, along with the other paper on the table which Pinky would have to sign saying that he accepted the punishment he was about to undergo, would be used if he dared to complain to higher authority about his treatment. Let’s face it: if he hadn’t accepted the ordeal, the Prefects still had his previous confessions to hold against him. He knew he was stuffed. He did rather plan, though, to wreak his proxy vengeance on Basset’s little brother when he became a Prefect in his turn. A man can dream.

Basset outlined the ordeal, even though Pinky was well aware of the routine, and handed him a short plastic scraper. One of the privileges of being a Prefect was being allowed to bring a car to school as soon as you’d passed both parts of the Driving Test. Such cars were parked up against the building containing the Prefects’ Common Room. Pinky was glad there were only three of them. “Alright, Pink, put this on your ankles then you can get started.”

Pinky wasn’t expecting that and really wondered why the Prefects had it in for him. “Oh, come on, Basset, there’s no need for that. Why should I ever try to escape?”

“It’s for the sake of the others so that, when they see you, they won’t want the same to happen to them. Now put it on and don’t forget to remind me that you questioned an instruction when you’ve finished.”

Pinky knelt and padlocked the chain securely round his right ankle in silence and soon followed it up by locking the other end around his other ankle. That left him with a rattling hobble about two feet long between his ankles. Robinson inspected it and pronounced himself satisfied and Basset put on his warm outdoor coat and collected his car keys. “Let’s get started, Pink. Quickly, I don’t want to get too cold out there.” It wasn’t exactly a cold place to which Pinky wished his chief tormentor would go at the time.

TBC

 

[Xtc]

ORDEAL BY ICE 2

Another Hardened Criminal

Basset followed Pinky as he made his clumsy progress downstairs to the ground floor and out into the snow-covered driveway. Pinky knew that he’d have to scrape all the snow from the vehicle and he really wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Wait a minute, I’ll just unlock the steering.” Basset unlocked the car, sat in the driver’s seat, unlocked the steering and told Pinky to “Just push it back to the other side of the drive so that I can watch from the window. Don’t knock into anything, will you?” Obviously, Basset couldn’t see anything through the snow-covered glass but he knew that Pinky would not think that it would be a good time to take some revenge. Pinky braced himself; he pushed his arse against the bonnet and used his shackled legs to push the vehicle to the other side of the drive stopping every so often to look behind him. When he had finished, there was a bum shaped indentation in the snow on the front of the car and two rather indistinct scrapes on either side of it where Pinky’s hands had been placed. An already cold boy now had very cold feet and a very cold (and wet) arse.

“Right, don’t scratch it. Get all the snow off. I’m going back in the warm.” Pinky mentally wished the departing Basset the compliments of the season and wondered how he would be able to minimise the imminent unpleasantness. At least the car was a mini and Pinky managed to keep bodily contact to a minimum while he shifted the snow off the windscreen and the other windows. Even the short bonnet didn’t require his intimate acquaintance with cold metal. At not quite five-foot-five it was touch and go whether he would have to lean on the car to clear the snow off the roof but the “touch” was neatly avoided. He wasn’t looking forward to clearing the other vehicles, especially Robinson’s battered old Range Rover.

Just as Pinky finished, Basset and Thompson appeared with the keys to Thompson’s old “Beetle”. Basset seated himself in his car and told Pinky to push it back to where it was previously. Pinky bent down and pushed against the Mini with his hands. “No, not like that, turn around and push it. I’ll use the brakes when you’re there.” Pinky glared. Then he turned around, pressed his back against the freezing glass and his backside against the equally unwelcoming metal and pushed. He could have done with being able to separate his feet more at the start of his endeavour especially the part before he heard Basset’s voice, “Oops, sorry, forgot the hand-brake.” He immediately nearly lost his footing as the vehicle started moving and he nearly earned himself another extension to his punishment but Basset couldn’t hear what he said with the windows up and Thompson was too busy laughing to do anything about it.

-----00000-----

With the rather battered Mini Traveller back in place, Thompson seated himself and waited. Pinky looked at the bonnet of the beetle, looked at Basset and raised his arms in a question. “Alright, you can push it with your hands this time.” Even so, Pinky had to get down quite low to get a grip on the rounded bonnet. Once in position, Thompson disembarked and told Pinky to fetch him from his study when he had finished. At least the rounded shapes of the VW’s profile made Pinky’s job easy but he couldn’t avoid making contact any more. Having failed to remove all the snow from the roof, Pinky had no choice, his thighs, abdomen and, more distressingly what lay between them had to make close contact with the side of the car. It was a good job that Thompson couldn’t hear the actual terms Pinky used to describe him (and his “heap of German rubbish”) at that stage but he did probably hear the initial squeal as the scantily clad Third Year made intimate contact with his transport.

The job done, Pinky clanked his way indoors and back upstairs. He thought he’d forgotten what warmth was. He walked along the wooden floored corridor and knocked on Thompson’s study door. Upon obeying the call to enter, Pinky stood in the penitent’s position and waited for Thompson to address him. Thompson turned from his desk and faced the still-shivering Pinky who was trying to tough things out. He had a rather triangular shaped upper lip and his mouth was slightly open as he tried, unsuccessfully, to prevent his teeth from chattering.

“Well?”

“Please, Thompson, I’ve removed all the snow from your car.”

Upon seeing the state of the younger boy, Thompson asked, “Need a piss?” Pinky nodded and clamped his arms tighter against his body. “Right, turn left outside, second door on the left. Go.” Pinky didn’t need telling twice and made off as fast as his chained ankles would allow while Thompson considered the situation. Pinky was a tough, stoical kid but was he fit to continue? The sound of his kettle coming to the boil broke the Prefect’s pensive mood – of course he was. Thompson threw a tea-bag into his mug and pored boiling water over it. By the time he had poured long-life milk into the tea along with a generous, and un-measured, quantity of sugar, Pinky knocked on his door again.

This time the defaulter wasn’t shivering quite so much but Thompson said, “Drink this.” and handed the mug to the younger boy.

Pinky looked confused but, after some awkward body language, took the mug and brought as much of his hands into contact with it as he could. “Thank you, Thompson.” He was still standing straight-legged as he slowly sipped the hot, sugary liquid. Being a bit of a health-freak Pinky didn’t normally take sugar but he didn’t think he’d be wise to point that out in the circumstances. Thompson returned to his assessment of Pinky’s state. Torturing other kids was always fun but it would never do to go too far.

Pinky slowly sipped the tea out of existence and, when he thought he could pad things out no more, offered the mug back to Thompson. “Thank you, Thompson.”

“Ready to get back to work?” Pinky never would really be so but that’s not quite how the words came out.

“Ready, Thompson.”

“Good man. Go and get Robinson tell him to bring the keys to ‘The Beast’ with him. I’ll see you in the drive.”

-----00000-----

Pinky shoved the VW back against the building with Thompson on board while Robinson climbed into ‘The Beast’ and waited. The vehicle was heavy and Pinky had trouble pushing it backwards but, eventually, he succeeded watched by Thompson who finally decided that he was fit for continued punishment. The two prefects retired to watch from a nice warm Common Room.

Pinky was cold, his black swimming costume was wet and there was no way he could keep his distance from the Range Rover. He made a thorough job of clearing the vehicle and provided ten minutes quality entertainment while doing so. He even had to jump up to reach as far across the roof as necessary, in effect sliding down the sides of the vehicle on his belly as he landed. He finished but then he had a problem: was he supposed to wait or was he supposed to go and tell Robinson that he could move his motor back to its normal place? He stood, in the penitent’s posture, while he thought.

Robinson knocked on the window and called him in. Pinky wasted no time obeying.

-----00000-----

Once he had knocked and entered the Common Room, Pinky noticed another First Year being given the treatment from the prefects. He was in full school uniform and lying face up on the floor with his hands behind his back and his ankles bound together. Pinky knew he’d have to wait.

“Over to the wall. Arms folded, toes and nose against the wall; we’ve got another oik to deal with first.” Pinky knew his ordeal was not over but at least he was in the warm again. Basset then turned to the curly-headed boy and reminded him, “I said, ‘Straight’!”

The little kid was being forced to raise his feet about a foot from the floor and keep his legs straight. Thompson was keeping track of the time when he succeeded. As soon as the victim’s legs fell to the floor, he’d add ten seconds to the total time.

Robinson’s voice interrupted, “Do they look straight to you?”

“It’s difficult to tell, really, when he’s dressed like that.” Thompson replied.

“Yes, you’re right! I know.” Basset sat down on the kid’s legs, untied his ankles and wrenched the polished black shoes, one of which was without its shoe-lace, off his feet. Other than slight yelps of surprise, the First-Year boy knew better than to say anything or, indeed, to make any noise at a. He could guess what was about to happen and it came as no real surprise when Basset dismounted and pulled his charcoal grey trousers off over his feet. The little kid’s pale legs contrasted with his black ankle socks and the baggy black boxers that he hoped would cover his embarrassment.

“Black boxers?”

Y – yes, Basset, It’s the weekend and I thought . . .”

“Well, you thought wrong, Minor. We’ll deal with that later.”

“Yes, Basset.”

Basset told the boy, who turned out to be Basset Minor, to roll over and raise his feet again. He did so, revealing not only that his wrists had been bound palm to palm but also that his thumbs had been fastened together. That was where the missing shoe lace was. Basset soon had his little
brother’s ankles bound again after whipping off his socks and he asked Robinson to throw the other shoe-lace to him. This time Basset Minor (or Christopher to his friends) had his big toes bound together and pulled towards the rope round his ankles. Pinky changed his mind about his plans to torture Basset’s little brother in the future.

“That’s better, roll over again. How much shall we add on for the uncertainty?”

“Ten minutes?”

“Seems fair.”

Not to Basset Minor it didn’t but he was too defeated to do anything more than issue that strange cross between a moan and a sigh.

“How much of your Saturday you take up doing this is up to you. Get on with it and think about whether you’re going to walk around the school with your shirt un-tucked in future.” Christopher Basset looked up to the ceiling and lifted his legs, keeping them as straight as possible and determined to keep them raised for as long as possible

TBC.

[blackbound]

Ah, nothing like the loving ministrations of an older brother.

[Xtc]

I think Basset Minor might disagree.
Thanks for the support.

[Xtc]

ORDEAL BY ICE 3

Angels and Scarecrows

Robinson announced the return of the cross-country runners and Pinky was told to wait where he was while they were dealt with. He was happy enough to do that all the while he was in the warm.

Following a knock on the door, two dirty and cold boys and one just plain cold boy entered. They stood straight-legged facing the large window in which the prefects were sitting.

“Anything to say?”

After an awkward pause it dawned on Billy what was required and the formulaic, “Yes, Basset. Sorry, Basset. It won’t happen again, Basset,” and similar disingenuous statements were repeated in turn by the other shivering runners.

“Right. Go and get a warm shower and put your school uniforms on for the rest of the weekend.” The far from clean Billy and the still immaculate (except for his trainers and up to just above his ankles) Ryan left as quickly as they could without even waiting to be untied. They could sort that out once they were back in the dorm. The initial punishment was bad enough but having to dress in uniform all weekend would mean that they were announcing to any staff who saw them that they were in trouble for something and they wouldn’t be allowed to go to the Rec. Room or the Film Club or any of their normal weekend activities.

-----00000-----

While the other two fled, Dean stood his ground. “Well, Jones, what is it?”

“Please, Basset, I interrupted Thompson. I had to remind him.”

In between instructions to Basset Minor such as, “Straighter - - higher - - lower .” and news bulletins such as, “Ten minutes left - - no, that’s another ten seconds” and similar remarks, Thompson considered the case against Dean. He decided that he might as well join Pink in the next stage of his ordeal.

The others thought that was fair as long as he was treated more leniently than Pink who not only questioned an instruction but also had some sort of detention to serve because of the de-merit. Robinson suggested a compromise, “OK, angels for him but scarecrows for him.”

Both boys sagged, they knew what was meant by “angels” but Robinson had to explain what he meant by making Pinky do “scarecrows”. Pinky still accepted and, just to show what nice guys they were, the Prefects excused him from having to return tomorrow for the de-merit offence. That would suit both parties. Pinky thanked the Prefects without moving his already rather snub nose from the wall.

Robinson told Pinky to come and untie Dean, who was then sent to get the ropes from his fellow runners while Pinky was sent with the key to the cleaners’ cupboard to get a couple of long-handled mops. He soon returned looking far from happy.

-----00000-----

“Last chance, Pink: do you want to back out?” Not only did Pinky know that, if he were to do so, his past offences would be presented to the Senior Housemaster and to his parents but, even if that were not the case, his pride would not allow him to pull out once he had initially accepted the sentence.

He stood, arms folded behind him, awaiting his fate.

Dean soon returned and confirmed that he accepted his version of the ordeal and the prefects put their warm jackets on. Robinson told Pinky to stretch his arms along one of the mops that he had lodged on his shoulders. He then started his illustrated lecture.

“I call this ‘blanket stitch’ it holds an oik’s arms straight without digging in too badly – except round the wrists and under the armpits, perhaps.” While the lecture proceeded and Dean waited apprehensively, Robinson tied Pinky’s right wrist to the head end of the mop handle and warned him not to let go of the other end. He then worked towards the other end of the mop handle making loops round both the handle and Pinky’s right arm at about four-inch intervals until he got to his arm-pit. Robinson’s rather grating voice continued as he made a knot and re-commenced his “blanket stitch” starting with another knot near Pinky’s left arm-pit. He was right: Pinky could hardly flex his arms at all. The defaulter was not looking forward to making his way downstairs again. This time not only would he be hobbled but he’d also have to descend sideways.

Robinson gave him another chance to pull out. Pinky just looked at him.

“Jones, bring that other rope with you. And that other mop.” The execution party departed for the killing ground leaving Basset Minor bound on the floor with the instruction, “Don’t go anywhere, will you?”

-----00000-----

The party proceeded to an area where the snow had not been disturbed and Dean was told to start his snow angels. Reluctantly he lay down on his back and complied. He counted, “One, two, three, four, five.” as he swept his straightened arms and legs through the snow.

“Stand up, Jones - over there - down.” Dean was guided to an undisturbed patch of snow where he repeated the exercise. After he’d completed five snow angels, Basset told him to do the rest face down. Dean managed not to say what he was thinking.

After having swept out four face-down snow angels, Robinson told Dean that that would do. The dark-skinned boy’s cotton shorts had absorbed a lot of water that the heat of his body was doing little to warm up and they were now making a very poor attempt at concealment.

“Jones, tie his ankles to that mop. Make sure they’re well apart.” Pinky had just had to stand in the cold looking like a scarecrow while Dean underwent his ordeal. Now the poor younger kid had to get his freezing fingers into action to secure Pinky’s ankles. That was clever really because there was no way Pinky would struggle against Dean’s tying because, if he did so successfully, Dean would be put through even more unpleasantness.

“OK, Jones, well done, now piss off.”

“Please Basset, permission to speak?”

“Speak.”

“Please may I stay with Pink? I’ll untie him afterwards.” That was impressive; the twelve-year old had turned down his opportunity to get comfortable again in favour of looking after a fellow sufferer who, as far as the Prefects knew, wasn’t even a friend of his.

“Very good. You can help. Go up to the study and untie the other oik. Serve him right for the uniform transgression. He won’t need his trousers, we don’t want him to get them wet, do we?”

Dean departed to get Christopher.

-----00000-----

Pinky was hoping that he wouldn’t have to wait too long before starting what Robinson had styled “Snow Scarecrows” but Dean’s cold fingers were far from nimble as he freed Christopher’s limbs and digits. Christopher immediately made to replace his trousers before Dean gave him the bad news. Such language from such a young boy!

Dean returned with a barefoot and bare-legged (but still blazered and be-tied) Basset Minor just as Basset Major was telling Pinky to shuffle over to an undisturbed patch of snow. Each “step” was accompanied by an involuntary grunt until Basset was happy with Pinky’s location. “Jones, Basset Minor, lay him down.” At least Pinky didn’t have to crash down.

The defaulter was left lying on his back in about six inches of virgin snow before Robinson gave the order, “Start your exercises.” and Pinky flexed his body forcing both his limbs and the mops to sweep aside the snow until Robinson pronounced himself satisfied. Dean and Christopher, of course stood feet together, arms folded behind them until Robinson told them to help Pinky to his feet. Dean had the unvoiced thought that Christopher wasn’t really being treated fairly. He was undoubtedly right but Basset Major somehow didn’t think that he’d be complaining to his parents!

Three more “snow scarecrows” later and Pinky had gradually moved towards the surrounding wall where the snow had been driven into a deeper drift. Still Pinky didn’t complain although he was shivering uncontrollably as Christopher and Dean, under careful instruction, laid him face down in the deeper snow. Even though he was wriggling around on grass, the freezing ground wasn’t exactly soft under Pinky’s body as he did his best to complete his ordeal.

“Very well, that will do. Stop now, Pink.” Pinky came to a shivering halt in the snow. “Basset Minor, Common room, nose and toes against the wall ‘til you’re spoken to. Jones, untie Pink and get back to the Common Room, nose and toes as well. Pink, get the cleaners’ cupboard key from me and return the mops. Ring them out first then report to the Common Room with the ropes. Don’t forget to coil them properly: alpine coil. Understand?”

Pinky indicated that he understood and everybody went about their business.

-----00000-----

When Pinky clanked his way back to the common room, Dean and Christopher, who had still not been granted permission to dress properly again, were standing against the wall and both of them had nearly stopped shivering. Pinky laid the ropes on Basset’s desk and swapped the cleaning cupboard key for the keys to the padlocks that were holding him in chains. He had already taken advantage of the warm water in the cleaners’ cupboard to assist his return to normal temperature but he still really wanted to clasp himself where he felt was coldest rather than folding his arms behind him as he knew he would be expected to do once he’d freed himself.

Once Pinky had laid the padlocks and chain on the desk and was standing properly, Basset spoke. “Why are you standing before me?” Pinky recounted his “offence” including the “questioning an instruction” incident and made a totally insincere apology to the Prefects. “Thank you, Pink. Well done, very bravely borne. Dismiss.”

Pinky didn’t believe what he was hearing. Wasn’t he going to have to stay in the custody of the Prefects? Wasn’t he going to have to wear uniform for the rest of the weekend?

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Nothing, Basset. Thank you, Basset.” So saying, Pinky took his leave before the Head Prefect could change his mind. On his way back to his dorm, he decided that it would be better to play safe and put his uniform on at least for the rest of the day – and he’d remember to put on white underpants.

Basset continued, “Jones, turn around. Very impressed. A team player. Just don’t expect any favours next time. But there won’t be a next time, will there?” Dean’s assurance was just as sincere as Pinky’s apology. “Don’t bother wearing uniform until Monday. Dismiss.” Dean was taken completely by surprise but wasted no time running to his dorm to get out of the clammy shorts and briefs he was wearing, taking a prolonged warm shower and slipping into something more comfortable.

That left the Head Prefect’s little brother to deal with. He wasn’t looking forward to what might be coming next as his big brother called, “Basset Minor, turn round. Now - - what are you wearing that you should not be wearing?” How could Christopher answer? He could guess what would happen if he answered honestly and he really didn’t fancy removing his boxers even if he was still wearing his shirt. “Well, no answer?” A dejected Chris shook his head. “I see you know the answer. Well here are your choices: first, get ‘em off and make your way back to your dorm with your hands on your head . . .“ Christopher’s mouth hung open silently. “Or second, you may dress until lunch time, go to lunch and then return to polish all the Prefects’ shoes and then spend some more time facing the wall until I think you’ve learnt your lesson. Your choice.” The rest of Christopher Basset’s Saturday afternoon was probably the most tedious he had ever spent.

THE END

 

[Xtc]

OK: That's all about the Ordeal by Ice. Now, there's just one completed tale to tell (unless I get round to finishing "The Men From The Zoo"). That is the Ordeal by fire. Poor Joe, you might remember him.

Thanks for the support, @blackbound. Such expressions keep me going.

[blackbound]

Telling an author one enjoys their writing - as I did this part, looking outside at the unusual bounty of snow - is the least one can do. Unfortunately, too many don't.

[Xtc]

I must confess that I am as guilty as most.

[tiedinbluetights]

Well, I've only read the first two parts of Ordeal by Water, and I've enjoyed the read! I like the premise, an all boy's boarding school where being expelled would be the greatest shame.

I to don't comment as often as I probably should. My problem with commenting is that I have a fixation to catch up from start to latest instalment before commenting on a story I like. Given the many good multi-parted stories on here, that could take decades, if not an entire lifetime, before I comment on every single one I've enjoyed parts of. I'm trying to break that habit. So many stories to read ...

[Xtc]

I sympathise with your plight! Thank you for breaking your rule.