DESCRIPTION OF A GENUINE BIRCHING (we used to live in terror of the birch when I was at school)

TWENTY MINUTES THAT CHANGED MY LIFE

A birching at Haslar Senior Closed Borstal - Gosport Hants in 1937.

WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ ACTUALLY OCCURRED. THE TELLER OF THIS TALE IS STILL ALIVE AND WELL. WHAT HE EXPERIENCED WAS ALSO EXPERIENCED BY MANY OTHERS IN BORSTALS IN ENGLAND...

For me, as I approached my teens, authority was something to be thwarted and opposed at every turn and so I was constantly getting into trouble. I wanted excitement and enjoyed taking risks.

For quite some time I got away with it but in the end I was caught and had to appear in juvenile court. As I was only fourteen I escaped with just a lecture and a stern warning that any other offences would be dealt with severely. I simply ignored all this and was soon at it again, stealing from shops and breaking into houses and stores. Inevitably, I was ultimately caught and again brought before the court. This time I was sent to an approved school for a year.

The purpose of such places was to reform youth like me - to improve their social attitudes and behaviour - but in my case things did not work out that way. The school was strict and the cane and strap were used often to punish breaches of regulations and many other types of offences.

Apart from my constant defiance, I also absconded twice, on the second occasion burgling a house. Each time I was brought back and punished with the cane, receiving ten strokes on the first occasion and fifteen for the second. These were among the most painful punishments I'd had to date - the second of them, particularly, deterred me from trying further escapes. On each occasion I had to report to the punishment room in the evening, dressed only in underpants, bedroom slippers and dressing gown. I was then ordered to remove the robe, lower my underpants and grasp my ankles with my hands. The cane cracked down with real severity, wringing yells from me and making me regret committing the offence.


But even this did not deter me, and eventually, aged 16, I was sentenced to 18 months in borstal. Almost immediately I got into trouble yet again, for punching an officer.

Judgement was passed. “It is high time you learnt respect for authority. As many previous warnings and punishments appear to have no effect on you, it's clear that you are only able to understand the sternest measures. You will receive eighteen strokes of the birch." As the magistrates words sank in, I felt a pang of fear. Dazed, I was taken from the court and then back to solitary confinement in the Borstal - a small room with a bunk bed, a small wooden table and little else.

The Superintendent had told me that my sentence had to wait confirmation from the Home Office, which would take two weeks or more; meantime I would remain in isolation from the other lads. Eventually, one morning an officer came to my room and took me to the superintendent's office. I stood to attention while he read out the contents of a letter he was holding; the sentence of birching had been duly confirmed and would be carried out the following day in the gymnasium at 8 o'clock in the evening, in the presence of the other inmates and the staff.

It was a grey day in November. Every now and then I could hear rain falling and the wind in the trees. Getting through that day was going to be almost as hard to bear as the punishment. As the hours slowly went by, my fear steadily rose.

I had to admit to myself that the sentence was perfectly fair and deserved; it had been decreed by the law, so there was no chance of dodging it. At five o'clock my clothes were taken away and I was issued with a pair of underpants, some soft, zip-up bedroom slippers and a dressing-gown. Finally, after what seemed the longest two hours ever, I heard keys unlocking my door at about ten minutes to eight. Two officers had come, and without a word each took one of my arms.

They conducted me down a long passage, then another, gripping me firmly as I padded along in my slippers until we reached the gymnasium. One of the officers pushed open the double doors while the other one steered me through them. Out of the corner of my eye I could see some of the assembled lads, but I stared straight ahead, where I noticed that the preparations for my punishment had been made. At the far end of the Gym, the floor level had been raised by putting down stage blocks, and on top of these, in the centre, was a vaulting horse.

I was now led down the room until I was just a few feet away from the stage. the officer with me now told me to slip off the dressing gown, and he took it away. The superintendent then stood up and walked across to face me and the audience (I later discovered this numbered around eighty, the other lads, all of the staff, a matron, a doctor and some Home Office representatives, both male & female.)

He read out the charge. "For striking an officer and repeated disobedient actions, you are sentenced to receive eighteen strokes of the birch on the bare buttocks! Do you wish to say anything?" "No, Sir." I answered in an unsteady voice. "Very well. The punishment will now be carried out."

For the first time, I spotted an officer standing on the stage, to the left of the horse. Evidently he was the one who would be punishing me. Another officer came up to me and said quietly. "Get 'em down, lad." and I lowered my underpants so that my bottom was fully exposed. then he ordered. "MOUNT." and I had to bend over the edge of the vaulting horse, with my stomach lying on top of a thick roll of blanket which raised my bottom so that it stuck out prominently. Several officers now moved forward to secure me.

My wrists and ankles were tied to the legs of the horse, then another strap was wound round the middle of my back; lastly, four more straps bound me to the horse: one round each forearm and one round each of my calves. I was so firmly secured that movement was virtually impossible. Panic-stricken, I stared ahead of me where the medical officer was seated next to the matron. A door to the side of the stage opened and in came an officer carrying two buckets of water he put down on the stage. From one of them he removed a dripping bundle of twigs and handed it to the punishing officer. I had never seen a birch before; it was some four feet long and had a spread of about eight inches at the spray end. It was big, bushy and fearsome. The big officer walked around the horse and took up position behind me.

The order was given. "START COUNTING!", and in a shaky voice I called out "ONE" and so began an experience that I can still remember in every detail, after so many years. There was a long pause after I called the number, then I heard a loud swish and the first stroke descended. It landed with a resounding crack and I felt the wetness of the twigs - but not, to my huge surprise, much pain. All I felt was a slight tingling.

I called "TWO", again a long pause-all of ten seconds - then the soaking-wet twigs again landed on their target; and again I hardly felt a thing. I couldn't make it out, from the loud impact, the officer had obviously used a lot of force, yet other than a somewhat greater tingling, I hadn't been hurt. I began to wonder if the birch's alarming reputation was overblown. What I did not know - yet - was that it takes a few strokes for the effects of the birch to penetrate fully.............

"THREE" Once again the officer paused; then I hear the swish, closely followed by the feel of he birch as it made contact with my bottom. this time it did hurt, not all that much, but enough to hint at what was to come.

I counted "FOUR", another lengthy pause, then the birch came down hard. It was the worst stroke so far and I really felt it. I wasn't looking forward to the next one. "FIVE", Pause. Why did he have to wait so long each time; was it to take careful aim?, or was it to let me fully feel the pain before the next stroke? Perhaps it was for both of these reasons.

“FIVE…” “SIX…” “SEVEN…” “EIGHT…” “NINE…” “TEN…” “ELEVEN…” “TWELVE…”

The medical officer was looking at me intently and I had a sudden hope that he might intervene and halt this appalling punishment. I felt even more hopeful when he stood up and walked round behind me, evidently to inspect my bottom. Then I heard him murmur "O.K. Carry on" and he resumed his seat..... So there was no mercy for me.

Yet again those cruel twigs had fanned out to contact the whole target area, imparting an unbearable sting. Again & again. Still sobbing and pleading I croaked...... "EIGHTEEN".


I had mounted that horse still a defiant youth, stubborn and rebellious. I dismounted it, staggering, a changed lad. Neither at that moment nor ever again had I the slightest desire to buck the system and challenge the powers-that-be. And it had only taken about twenty minutes to cause that transformation! The magistrate who had sentenced me would be pleased: I HAD learned respect for authority. No way ever again did I want to bend over for a birching. It had been unbelievably severe, and the punishment had certainly been effective. I had learned a terribly painful lesson. My straps were unfastened and the matron helped me climb stiffly from the horse.

I was taken back to my solitary cell and examined briefly by the doctor, after the matron had raised my dressing-gown and pulled down my pants, as I lay on my bed. She then applied anti-septic soothing cream to my thrashed buttocks, before eventually pulling my pants up again.

I lay there as she washed her hands, with my pants clinging tightly to my sore, ferociously stinging bottom, hot because of the birch but cold because of the cream. She sat to attend to paperwork, and then gathered her things before leaving without a further word.