9 April 1951
Dear Diary,
I woke today before dawn. I tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t, knowing that my penal flogging out on the 4078th parade ground was to take place at daybreak.
You can well imagine the trepidation I was feeling. My drumhead court martial had resulted in me being sentenced ... unfairly I might add ... to no fewer than 96 lashes with a cat! My God! I wasn’t sure that anyone could possibly endure that many.
Even the doctors seemed a bit concerned when they visited me last night. Captain Jolly was thinking about the possible need for a casket and Captain Wragg alluded to the possibility that Colonel Phlebas might intervene before my whipping got too far out of hand. I could only hope.
As I write, Lieutenant Brave lies against me ... sleeping blissfully ... her head resting on my shoulder. Together we had quite a night, as evidenced by the lingering scents inside the tent of sexual arousal, alcohol, Joan’s Horney Potion, and Captain Goldman’s god-awful cologne ... not to mention the sheen of sweat on our naked bodies reflecting the flickering light of the overhead lantern..
Let it be understood, dear diary, that I shall be eternally grateful for the way that Erin steadfastly defended me against all odds, earning for herself, in the process, a nasty little string of contempt of court sentences, amounting collectively to 48 lashes. As promised, she had my back ... and never gave up ... and I feel sorry that she will have to pay for it with a terrible scourging of her own bare back.
Along with feeling sorry for myself and Erin, I began to blame myself for all that had happened. Let’s face it, diary .., I really fucked up this time!
Why? Well you know as well as I do. It’s because I can’t stand perceived injustices, and rather than pausing to consider the consequences, I always fly into action, impetuously shooting off my mouth with a barrage of complaints or indignantly uppity remarks.
In this case I went way over the top, thinking that I could teach this odd collection of misfits at the 4078th, who have the effrontery to pose as officers and doctors, a lesson they’d never forget, by writing to General Praetorius. After all, I had once allowed the General to deflower me in his suite back at the Mayflower Hotel in DC. Surely, he owed me one, right? Well, dear diary. It certainly didn’t turn out right!
At my side, Erin stirred just then and murmured something in her sleep that sounded like, “You Honor, I object.” I stroked her cheek and bussed her on her forehead. Poor thing. Tried so hard. Never gave up. And now ...
Then my mind shifted to Head Nurse Eulalia and the admonition she had given Erin and me about standing tall on the parade ground and taking our punishments dutifully and without complaint. I had to admire her for knowing her way around ‘this man’s army’. Indeed, she made it a ‘this woman’s army’. After all, being thoroughly humiliated, beaten and abused, and then asking for more, can be erotically satisfying ... provided one adopts the right mindset. One can even train oneself to absorb and enjoy such things. Perhaps I’ve just been going about things with the wrong attitude?
That thought and the tingle it stirred deep inside me was interrupted by the distant thunder of a new pre-dawn Chinese barrage starting up. I’d all but forgotten about those pesky characters during the night. Though, I guessed that what I was about to endure out at the whipping post had to be better than what might happen to me were I to fall into the hands of the Red Chinese. Eulalia was right! Go out there when the time comes, step up, take the lash, and do her proud.
But, what would it actually be like to be whipped? I had never experienced such a thing. Sure, the Captains had paddled my bare ass that night in ‘the Swamp’ when they got me so smashed I hardly knew what they were doing to me. and I’ve seen pictures and someone showed me a fake-looking grainy film one time. But all that was different. This was to be a case of serious corporal punishment. There would be pain, and lots of it. Ninety-six lashes in all ... with a cat ... all up and down my bare backside. How bad would it be? Would they draw blood? Would I scream? Would I cry?
And there would be shame! The whole fucking unit watching, and visitors too! Carnival atmosphere. Come one and all to see the spectacle of Lieutenant Moore’s naked dance of shame under the lash! Every dreadful moment recorded for the record, no doubt, by Corporal Rodent’s ever ready camera. Imagine the crowding at the camp bulletin board. Oh Shit!
Uh oh.
Sorry, dear diary. They’re coming for me and Lieutenant Brave now. I can hear the boots of the guard detail crossing the parade ground. Just a few more lines before I have to go.
The tent flap has sprung open. Sergeant Connoisseurs is in charge, accompanied by Father Paul, looking very solemn, and by Sister Messaline, who’s eyes are aglow with rapturous delight as she takes in Erin’s and my naked, sweat-sheened bodies.
“Get up! It’s time! On your feet. Macht Scnell!” screams Connoisseurs as he releases us from the cuffs and chains that tether us to the tent pole.
“I’ve one request, please,” I say softly as I struggle to my feet. “Please allow Lieutenant Brave the opportunity to go to the whipping post wearing her slip. My flogging ... my punishment for my crimes ... is, after all, the main event here. And I deserve to go naked. But Lieutenant Brave’s flogging is incidental and secondary to mine. We’re it not for me she would not be going to the whipping post at all. So. Please. Allow her at least some dignity, if you will.”
He seemed surprised, but then he clicked his heels and nodded.
I bent down, snatched up Erin’s slip from where it lay on the tent floor and handed it to her. She accepted and wriggled into it.
Then Father Paul asked everyone to bow their heads while he intoned a few words of spiritual comfort.
“Dear Lord, look down this morning upon Lieutenants Moore and Brave as they dutifully step up to their whipping posts and raise their arms above their heads to be tethered in place. Look down with everlasting grace upon their youthful straining bodies, stripped naked and bared to the morning sun and the horrible promise of the lash flailing against their pale unblemished flesh. Look down with pity on them as the twist and writhe, crying for mercy as stroke after stroke stirs their quivering asses and wraps around their ribs to bite at their bouncing tits. Look down upon them with rising ... uh ... excitement ... as ... oh dear! I fear I can’t go on!”
“It’s alright Father ... “ intervenes Sister Messaline as she rushes forward to mop his sweating brow and gently stroke the unmistakable bulge rising in the front of his trousers.
Outside, another rumble of distant artillery breaks the uncomfortable silence surrounding Messaline’s devoted attention to the good Father’s rising stress.
“Ahem. Achtung!” intercedes Sergeant Connoisseur, hastily. “Hands behind your backs now for cuffing. Sehr gut. Danke.”
An embarrassed Lieutenant Brave and I comply meekly.
Head Nurse Eulalia will be proud, I think to myself as the cuffs snap shut around my wrists. I’m going out there head held high.This is it!
“Alles ist fertig,” reports Sergeant Connoisseurs who has stepped over to the tent flap to peer out on the parade ground. “Sun is rising. Loxoru and Houser are waiting outside. To the fife and drum now. Line up! Lieutenant Moore first. Ready! March!”