See How History Repeats

My father had obviously learnt something during whatever was the military training he had been conscripted into sometime in the 1950’s. At least I think that was what and when it was. Apart from a single photograph I once saw of him with about fifty other men in a sort of khaki uniform, posing in front of a row of old style army type tents I don’t know very much about his possible military past. I can’t imagine it was during World War Two as he would only have been 13 years old by the end of it, and I don’t think he took part in any engagements of subsequent major international events – such as the Korea, nor Vietnam. They all seemed to be organised as a big group ‘milling’ in front of the tents and despite the size of the group, the quality of the image suggested it was a ‘professionally’ taken posed shot. So I can only assume it was taken while at training camp or such. I just don’t know. As mentioned I knew very little about my fathers past. However. In subsequent films of Army drill sergeants dealing with difficult soldiers the old ‘carrying the rifle above the head’ as they ran around the parade ground (usually in the rain) seemed to be the army style basis for the latest physical punishment (still form two), my father had introduced me to.

The stealing was certainly wrong, there is no argument from me. Yes, I was caught out. Doing the wrong thing. Yes, I was given a physical punishment, no argument from me for that either, but, with a bonus punishment added?

Remember too, this was after I had effectively stolen just five cents (in protest to being sent out on a rainy and very cold winters night to buy a loaf of bread). What made it worse, was that I had lied to my mother when asked. Yet, ask yourself. Was the idea of inflicting such bonus physical punishment really necessary? Would it make me any more aware that I had done the wrong thing? Did it make a stronger lesson in right and wrong? No. The physical punishment had told me that. Now standing with raised arms in my room, I was thinking more about not lowering them, through fear of further physical punishment, rather than reflecting on the reason. After a time, what had seemed like an hour, but I doubt it was (although it could have been), my father returned to make me lower my arms. Now, that was when the real physical pain started. While holding my arms above my head my arms had sort of ‘emptied’ of blood. Suddenly being made to lower them, caused painful pressure tingling, as the blood flowed back into them. In fact so painful that I had wanted to put them straight back up in the air again. My father had other ideas. He grabbed both my arms and held them at my side. I had to suffer the pain. Since this was his intent, this told me my father must have had this done to him some time in his past.

(Continued tomorrow)