by Chef Troy

I went to military school from seventh grade until I graduated from high school. My wife and I were talking one night about how schools were prone to spank first and ask questions later when we were kids, and it reminded me of this story.

When I was a freshman or sophomore in high school, I hadn't completely learned that I needed to keep my mouth on a short leash. That year we got a new Commandant in Charge of Discipline, a retired military man named Sergeant-Major Hunt. (you can imagine the behind-his-back nickname he acquired within nanoseconds of arriving on campus.) He had one of those killer paddles with the holes drilled in it to reduce wind drag. It whistled when he swung it. And I, you may be astonished to learn, was frequently one of the hapless cadets waiting outside his office before class to receive the Whupping of the Day.

We were all convinced that there was no spark of humanity in the man. No soft side to appeal to, no sense of humor, nothing. He was just a yelling, paddling automaton. (He looked EXACTLY like G. Gordon Liddy - make of that what you will.)

And I did a wickedly accurate impression of him.

One day three or four of us were waiting outside his office for him to come out of the mess hall and lead us into the Whupping Room (his office) one by one. I was trying to keep up the spirits of my fellow POWs by "doing" Commandant Hunt, and they were all laughing their asses off.

Then came one of those awful moments when everyone stops laughing at the same time. I was about to ask why when I felt eyes boring a hole in the back of my neck. I looked over my shoulder and there he was, his eyes red and burning (I thought at the time that it was because he was a DEMON; now I wonder if maybe he was just hung over). Without a word, he gestured to his office door, and I slunk inside while the others no doubt were wondering if I would scream before I died.

Without waiting to be prompted, I put my hands on his desk and assumed the position, trying for the dignity that the king of France showed before being beheaded. I waited. And waited. Eventually I looked up to see him sitting in his chair, shaking with silent laughter. I began to hope that I might survive this after all. After a moment, he wound down and picked up his paddle. I once again prepared to be beaten to death, only to hear him say in his nasal drill-sergeant's voice, "You're such a great actor... make this look good."

And he proceeded to beat the hell out of his naugahyde sofa, producing loud, echoing swatting noises, while I gave an academy-award caliber performance of gritted-teeth yelps and half-stifled howls of pain. Then he let me go. I walked stiff-legged with pretended pain and wincingly kept touching my buttocks as I walked past the other paddle-ees, who I'm sure to this day are convinced that he nearly killed me in there.

I never saw Commandant Hunt in quite the same light after that.