Private Ends

Photo-story from Janus 116

Private Saffron James, 19, stands to attention with her bugle under her arm, nervously awaiting the arrival of a superior.

When the door opens, the man is a stranger, drafted in from another regiment to conduct her disciplinary interview. Like the clothing, furniture and accommodation she has lived with for the past eight months, he smells of standard-issue army property: functional and unadorned.

‘Your cases are packed?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Sergeant Morris said I should be prepared for instant discharge, sir. He said I am not shaping up as a soldier and that if I only want to play pretty music, I should go to the Conservatoire, sir.’ Tears sting her eyes but she strives not to shed them.

‘So you want to be a musician?’

‘Yes, sir. I joined the army to improve my playing and get real experience of life that I wouldn’t get at music college.’

‘And has this been proven to be the case?’

‘Yes, but I’ve found it difficult to adjust to army life.’

He circles her, saying nothing. Then he raises her chin so that their eyes lock. ‘Somewhat unconventional aren’t you? Lose the bugle and MARCH!’

The order takes her by surprise, but basic training has taught her to obey with alacrity. She is uncertain where she is to march to, but a general wall-to-wall perambulation seems to satisfy the officer. When she returns for the third time to her original position she is told to halt and remove her camouflage tunic.

The long-sleeved green vest that is now revealed is a little more flattering, but this seems of no consequence to her interrogator.

‘Drop the trousers.’

She balks. Basic training did not cover stripping off in front of male officers without good cause, but this man will determine whether she keeps her job and he carries a riding crop that lends a curious authority. Her hesitation annoys him and he yanks open her flies and tugs the heavy-duty trousers over her hips. Her underwear brings more disapproval: those panties are definitely not regulation issue.

‘Turn: hands on cases, legs straight,’ he barks.

She complies, but her legs buckle almost immediately as the crop slices without warning into the back of her thighs. A rustle of fabric and a disturbance of the air warns her that the weapon is being raised for a second strike and she half-turns, hobbled by her dropped trousers, a hand desperately trying to fend off the blow.

‘Discipline, girl: it’s what the army runs on. From the food you eat, the time you wake, wash and work to the clothes you wear. You don’t care for it, do you? You thought you’d join up, get some free music lessons, see the world and leave to become a rock star. Well, it doesn’t work like that. Get back in position.’

Slowly, her lower lip trembling, she bends over her luggage once more. The whip comes down a dozen times in rapid succession, making her cry out raucously and stamp her constrained feet. Above her yells, the lecture on military merits continues.

‘The army values its musicians just as it values its caterers, mechanics and drivers. They have jobs to do and the appropriate talents to perform them. In return they get a satisfying career and all the training available. But they are soldiers: they fight in wars and defend the civilian population. Every one of them is a hero. In battle, we don’t care if your flute’s a bit sharp: we want to know you can drag a stretcher single-handed through the firing line; we need you to give some basic first aid and keep your head; you have to fetch and carry so that the soldiers with the fire-power and the hardware can do their job efficiently.’

Saffron hears the words but can hardly absorb them. Her buttocks and thighs are ablaze. Nothing has prepared her for this experience and her mind is whirling: can he do this? will she be allowed to stay if she submits or is it just a prelude to her dismissal? She sobs and sniffs in a very unmilitary way.

‘Hands on head!’ She stands and places her palms on her scalp, wincing as the crop strokes her lasciviously.

‘You need the kind of discipline that isn’t available at Basic Training Camp,’ her chastiser rumbles. ‘Take off your vest.’

Without hesitation she slips the garment over her head, revealing a bra that goes well with her knickers, but not with combat gear. This time, though, instead of a disparaging comment there is a simple order to discard all underwear. This necessitates removing the fallen trousers, too, although she has not been told to take off her boots. Saffron struggles to maintain her balance whilst wrestling the thick fabric over the clumpy footwear. She is embarrassed but presents herself for inspection as though on parade in full uniform.

The anonymous officer is sitting on her suitcases and indicates she should drape herself across his lap. She guesses what is to come and whimpers with humiliation. A large, heavy palm strikes each buttock, over and over, without hurry. Every spank re-awakens the weals from the crop, driving the burning stripes deeper and implanting a new layer of pain and discomfort on her skin’s surface. Her superior’s free hand presses her down over his lap, chafing her naked breasts against the rough fabric of his uniform. She knows better than to refuse her punishment, but her blonde mane tosses and her feet thrash the air as the calloused palm impacts relentlessly on her exposed rear.

‘March!’ he commands, and she scrambles to her feet, eager to obey. Shoulders back, knees high, eyes front, she traverses the room. Her engorged buttocks tic involuntarily through the mottled shades of red and purple but she ignores the discomfort to fulfil the order to the best of her ability.

She is a musician. She will be a soldier. If this caring officer will allow it.