The colonel proceeded to launch into a well-prepared plea of mitigation covering five full sheets of paper. Not only did he repeat every aspect of the case that was in my favour, but he also went into every detail of my family background, placing special emphasis on the fact that I had a seven-month-old son to look after. He brought forward an impressive list of character references. I was almost embarrassed. The essential thrust of the pleas was an endeavour to demonstrate that basically I was not criminally inclined and therefore was not a suitable candidate for jail, but rather that as a man who had served in the forces I must be deemed to have some substance. The incident in the bar had simply been a temporary and uncharacteristic aberration, which could be penalized with a short, sharp sentence. The colonel ended by making a strong plea for corporal punishment.
'Well…' said Justice Ferguson, a little bemused, 'it certainly didn't do me any good at school, but I sentence you to six strokes of the cane. The sentence will be carried out at Stanley Jail. Take the prisoner away.'
Thank fuck for that, I thought as I was led down the stairs in the dock that disappeared below court, that's great. At least I've got a fighting chance of saving my Army career now. My mind was hardly on the sentence at all. When I heard the judge refer to the cane, I felt as if I was back at school. It felt like nothing more serious than a visit to the headmaster's study.
I was taken to a holding area beneath the courts which consisted of one large transit cell full of pimps, prostitutes and drug-pushers – the fallout from that day's hearings, the dross from the seething social cauldron that was Hong Kong. It was midday. I would have to remain there until late afternoon when the courts rose and the full complement of convicts had been assembled ready for onward transport to their appointed place of punishment. I didn't relish the prospect of five minutes in that cell, let alone five hours. Hardened faces looked up and took my measure as the door clanged shut behind me and the key clicked in the lock. The inside of the cell consisted simply of a concrete block running around the edge, a hole in the middle of the floor serving as a primitive – and very public – latrine for both males and females, and nothing else. The floor was filthy and stank of urine and human faeces. There was no ventilation and it was unbearably hot.
I suddenly realized that I was very thirsty. Not only had I not had a drink all morning, but the heat and tension had combined to make my thirst all the more fierce. I called to the guard. 'You! Get me some water!' I was in no mood for playing the part of the humble prisoner.
Fortunately, the guard, although little surprised at my forthrightness, appeared to comply with my demand. He wandered off down the corridor and came back a moment later carrying a plastic cup of water. His face broke into an ugly, malicious sneer as, deliberately dangling two fingers in the water, he passed the beaker through the bars.
I looked at it in disgust. The rim was cracked, chewed and dirty and a film of grease scummed the surface. God knows what bacteria were swimming in the filthy liquid ready to infest my already tortured guts. I grabbed the beaker from the guard's hand, and shouted angrily, 'You must be fucking joking,' and threw it full in his face with all the venom I could muster.
He reeled back incensed and, with water still dribbling from his chin, said menacingly, 'I'll have you, I'll have you my boy. No one does that to me and gets away with it. My mates at Stanley will deal with you, my boy.' He would have been even more incensed if he had realized that I was not going to be incarcerated at Stanley Jail, that it would be all over in a few hours and that his mates would never have a chance to get near me. I strode defiantly over to the concrete block, stared fixedly at one of the prisoners sitting there until he reluctantly shuffled over to make room for me, and sat down to wait.
Late in the afternoon, a Black Maria with two Chinese warders arrived. The guard muttered a few more threats, prodded me in the ribs with a truncheon and handed me over to the warders. The warders frogmarched me up the stairs to the back of the court, out into the high-walled courtyard, where I quickly gulped in welcome lungfuls of fresh air, and into the Black Maria along with several other dangerouslooking characters. We drove in complete silence through the city streets, into the cross-harbour tunnel and over to the south side of Hong Kong Island.
The Black Maria backed into the courtyard of Stanley Jail, the door was opened and the prisoners filed out under the guard into the reception area. I was first in the queue. The other characters who had been brought with me watched somewhat sullenly as I was processed through the jail system. I was stripped naked and searched, all my valuables were removed, placed in a brown envelope and put into a locker, then my clothes were given back, minus belt and shoelaces. I was then stripped by the same two warders who had brought me there and marched across the courtyard. It was early evening. All the prisoners were lining up holding pitifully small wooden bowls to collect their supper of rice and scraps of meat. Far from feeling nervous about the impending punishment, I could focus my mind only on the size of the bowls. Thank God I'm getting out quick, I thought, I wouldn't last six weeks here, let along six months. I'd starve to death!
We entered a building and walked down a long corridor. As we went along I imagined that the person who would administer the caning would be a normal-sized Chinese. Thank fuck they're all small in China, I thought with relief. I pictured a diminutive figure with a copy of a holy book under his arm to prevent him from raising the cane too high – just as I'd seen at public floggings in the Middle East. I was in for a shock. There, at the end of the corridor, I saw him. Stripped to the waist, wearing PT shorts and pumps, with big muscles, broad shoulders, hands like shovels, his arms folded across a barrel for a chest, the monster was waiting. A mountain giant from north Mongolia. I felt the first shivers of fear clutch my stomach.
We turned left at the bottom of the corridor into a large, windowless room. At the back of the room was a long desk at which sat six sternfaced prison officials: governor, deputy governor, head warder, a psychiatrist, an Indian doctor and finally a nurse. Over the left stood a vaulting box with a thick leather strap dangling loose from each of the four legs. Behind the box there was a rack of solid rattan canes lined up like snooker cues. The monster went over to the rack and started to examine the canes. It was a scene straight out of some Dark Ages dungeon. The knot in my stomach drew tighter.
'Prepare the prisoner.' The governor had spoken.
The warder to my left ordered, 'Strip down naked. Sit in a chair while the doctor examines you.'
Once more I suffered the indignity of standing naked in front of a row of officials. The Indian doctor came over and gave me a cursory examination. He looked at my eyes and my tongue, prodded his stethoscope over my chest and took my blood pressure. With my heart beating at a rate of knots, it was no surprise when the doctor exclaimed, 'My goodness! Your blood pressure's high! Have you been taking any sort of drugs recently?'
I saw my chance. I clutched at the straw. 'Yeah, I've been on Mogadon and Valium for the last four months.'
The doctor stepped back in horror and went for a whispered conversation with the governor. However, it did no good. They saw through the ruse. The doctor returned, shook his head and sat down.
The two warders then hauled me over the bondage apparatus so that my legs were completely off the ground. As I lay spreadeagled I caught the ominous odour of stale vomit left by previous detainees. I screwed my nose up in disgust and started to breathe through my mouth to avoid the noxious smell. It brought to mind something I'd read about torture sessions in medieval chambers. When the prisoner, through the sheer weight of the pain, was beginning to lose consciousness and black out, the torturers, intent on extracting every last drop of suffering, would set light to a greasy rag and hold it below the prisoner's nostrils. The acrid smoke from the flames would sting the unfortunate man back to wakefulness, make him vomit and thus revive him for the next round of torture. As the warders unceremoniously hauled me further forward on the box, I deepened my resolve not to show any
signs of reaction to the punishment, not to yell out or show any emotion whatsoever. It would be stiff upper lip to the bitter end. This would be my way of resistance, of maintaining my dignity, of showing them they could not really get to me. I would end up winning this particular contest, this battle of wills, at all costs. They could beat my body but they could not beat my mind.
My legs were strapped in, then two canvas pads were placed across my back – one to cover the small of my back to protect my kidneys from any badly aimed blows and one across the top of my thighs to protect my testicles. As my wrists were strapped to the front supports, I thought, sod it, every day is a bonus after Mirbat.
The doctor came round, brought a chair and sat next to my head. He whispered almost apologetically, 'Oh, for goodness sake make sure your tongue is well back, make sure you keep your teeth clenched, make sure you keep your head still. I will hold your head to keep it from whipping back.' Experience had taught him that victims of this barbaric punishment are quickly broken by the beating rod, their reserves of willpower soon overwhelmed by the pain. And that the pain itself bites deeper with each stroke, giving greater and greater impetus to the overwhelming reflex action of jerking the head back.
The governor nodded his head. The chief warder, in a high-pitched, near-hysterical voice, shouted out, 'Number one.' The monster swished the cane twice in the air to build up momentum to let me know it was coming. The next second it bit into my flesh like a branding iron. My body jerked involuntarily upwards to try to relieve the pain, but the spasm fell back on itself. There was nowhere for my body to go. I was completely immobilized. The straps bound me tight and dug cruelly into my ankles and wrists.
The first stroke had been delivered with unnerving ferocity. It was as if the monster was taking revenge on me for some grave personal insult. With nowhere for my body to move, the agonizing pain simply stabbed deeper and deeper, with a strange shuddering motion like the aftermath of an earthquake. With the first strike the blood vessels immediately beneath the surface of the skin were completely ruptured. My lungs convulsed and sucked a sharp intake of breath through my clenched teeth. With my eyes watering and my head reeling, I was in a state of semi-shock. The intensity of the experience was beyond description. I hadn't expected anything remotely like this. I needed something to focus on, something to hold my senses together. I began to count off the strokes, thinking, every one is one step nearer freedom.
Swish. Swish.
Thwack.
The second blow seared into my flesh and racked my body. I barely resisted the impulse to scream out. The bleeding from the dozens of torn vessels was already welling up into a large, crimson contusion.
'Take some deep breaths. Try to relax. Try to absorb the cane. Don't resist the strokes.' The feverish tone and rising urgency with which the Indian doctor delivered his well-meant advice seemed only to convey a sense of incipient panic. I strained to hold my focus: number two, four more to go to freedom. My brain felt tightly compressed, my teeth were firmly clenched.
Swish. Swish.
Thwack.
The impact of the third stroke jolted down and made my legs kick outwards, wrenching at the leather straps in the process. Each one was searingly more painful than the last. The monster was an expert. They were all DCs – dead centres. Each blow landed on exactly the same spot as the previous one, intensifying the torture tenfold. The third one had split the skin right across. The pressure that had been building up from the damaged vessels below now found a sudden release. The blood began to flow freely. Three down. Three to go.
Swish. Swish.
Thwack.
The next hit thrashed into me with a strange slapping sound. With unerring accuracy the fourth stroke again hit the wound dead centre, causing blood to splatter up onto the small of my back and over my upper thighs. Since I was unable to move, all my insides seemed to be writhing around trying to release the suffering.
'For goodness sake, don't move your head. Take some deep breaths. Come on now, deep breaths.' The doctor was now gripping my head like a wrestler, tighter and tighter with each successive stroke. He was leaning forward, his face right next to mine, his mouth babbling directly into my ear.
The fourth impact had made my tongue jolt up to the roof of my mouth. This was swiftly followed by a burning sensation in my nose as a corrosive taste curdled up through my throat and into my mouth. A feeling of nausea flooded through me. I willed myself not to capitulate. I was determined not to give in, not to show any sign of weakness. The urge to vomit beat through me like storm waves on a beach. I was saved only by the fact that having been in court and then in the holding cell I hadn't had anything to eat all day. If there had been any undigested food in my stomach, by now it would have been strewn over the floor.
Swish. Swish.
Thwack.
Jesus! I inwardly screamed. It felt as if the fifth blow had bludgeoned and torn right into the muscles. The deep groove was now a mass of blood and gore. I felt feverishly hot. I was sweating profusely. The leather beneath me had become slippery with perspiration and allowed a fraction more movement. I had thought carrying the tripod on the death march during Operation Jaguar was bad enough, but I have never to this day experienced such excruciating pain. It was as if somehow the pain was bolted onto me. It was so intense it felt as though it couldn't be part of my own body; it felt alien, sinister. I had a tremendous urge to rip it off. I felt that if only I could tear it off I would be free of it.
'Breathe. Don't resist. Breathe. Don't resist.' By now the doctor sounded almost incoherent.
Five down. One more left. I tensed for the final stroke.
Swish. Swish.
Thwack.
Bastard! The sixth stroke seemed to bite down to the bone. Every muscle was jarred rigid. My whole body was consumed in a furnace of pain. I took some rapid breaths. For a moment I couldn't move. I was totally paralysed, then I felt the influx of relief sweep down my spine and lighten my whole body. Number six! I'm a free man! They can't touch me now!
'Release the prisoner.' The governor barked the command and two warders came forward. They unstrapped my wrists and ankles, undid the canvas pads and yanked me roughly to my feet. As I stood up, another wave of nausea and dizziness hit me. I felt like spewing over the pair of them. I started retching violently, but managed to hold it back. The agonizing sensation in my buttocks was overwhelming. The movement of my muscles and the change of gravity had forced more blood to the lower half of my body. Only one opiate thought eased the pain: I'm free – they can't do any more. In a few minutes I'll be out of Stanley Jail forever.
The doctor, now somewhat calmer, handed me my clothes and told me to get dressed. It was an agonizing operation. Every slight movement, every minor lift or twist of my body, altered the configuration of muscles and sinews around my buttocks and redoubled the intensity of the pain. I struggled into my shirt first. I then looked at my underpants. The very thought of having anything tight upon the wound made me feel faint. The underpants were filthy anyway. A nerveracking, three-day court case in the humid atmosphere of Hong Kong had left its mark in no uncertain terms. I paused, then slung them into the corner of the room as a farewell gift to the prison authorities, thinking, 'Those tossers can clean that up.' I eased myself into my lightweight trousers. Having got the waistband as far as the buttocks I could hardly pull any further, so I left them hanging down at the back, unzipped at the front and loosely held together just enough to avoid being arrested for indecency. The thought then suddenly came into my mind – what am I going to do now?
The decision was made for me. The torture-chamber door opened and in came a man in a white coat pushing a stretcher on wheels. The doctor said, 'You'd better get on here now and we'll take you to the prison health centre where we'll give you some medical aid.' No one offered any assistance as I struggled onto the stretcher and lay face down.
We trundled back down the corridor to the medical centre. I was becoming stronger and more rebellious the fur
ther away from the torture room we went. I kept on thinking, they can't do anything more to me now – I'm free. In the medical room I saw an orderly standing around appearing to do nothing. I pointed at him and said, 'You! I want a jab for tetanus straight away!' The startled orderly looked around for some assistance, but the two warders had already gone. 'Yeah, you! I want a jab for tetanus right now! Move!'
He scuttled away to the fridge and got out a little phial, found a syringe, filled it up and gave me a jab in the arm. He then proceeded to dress the bloody wound. 'I cannot dress this wound – it is far too severe, too open. It will be too sore for you. All I can do is put on some antiseptic powder.' After he'd ministered to me, he pointed down the corridor to the prison reception where I'd come in and said, 'You can go now.'
I eased myself off the stretcher, still grasping the waistband of my trousers, trying to keep them up, still in extreme pain and still thinking, what am I supposed to do now? My thoughts had changed from savouring freedom to wondering about practicalities and feeling anxious about how I was going to get back to Gunclub Barracks. All I got from the reception staff were unsympathetic sneers as they handed over the brown envelope and pointed me towards the little door in the corner of the huge prison gates. I was thinking hard. It must be at least five miles to Gunclub. How am I going to get back? There's no way I can sit down in a taxi.
Soldier I Page 20