[camp life] doing the dirty work

What was it Pooh once said?

When you are a Bear of very little Brain and you Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it. [Milne's use of capitalization was inspired]

No matter, it's cathartic to get it all off the chest, the 2nd previous post and this one too. This episode from my youth shows even better than the other one the mindset of the people I target:

When I was in secondary school, every so often the masters would encourage us to apply for Lord Raincliffe's Camp [name changed to protect the guilty], a seaside summer camp for bringing together boys from industry and … well … us.

The theory was that by putting boys into a situation of adversity and the common pursuit of overcoming obstacles, throwing them together as it were, bonds of camaraderie would develop and class barriers would be broken down.

It was a laudable aim but had some unfortunate implications. For a start, there could only be camaraderie of this kind if there was first some common adversity and the only real adversity at a seaside camp was human and the only human adversity was a common adversary or to be precise, 20 of them.

In other words, it was necessary to create an "uber-class" of 20 hated bastards who would do what is variously called bullying, bastardization and I think hazing, as the Americans refer to it. It was a thinly veiled "Prefect" class, with one difference:

The traditional roles were reversed.

This class were known as "Skivvies" and they did all the work - the kitchen work, the cleaning, the wood chopping, the upkeep of the camp - these 20 did it all.

The 100 boys, on the other hand,arranged in 5 huts, each colour coded, were known as "Groupers" and they did nothing but play games, swim, eat and suffer bastardization on occasions.

Refer to the diagram at the foot of the post for the camp layout.

The camp was situated at the end of a three mile track, which itself came off a long highway back to one of our main cities. It had no fences or gates, just a huge archway and a "common green" in the centre, around which were arranged the kitchen/dining, the huts and the Skivvie HQ.

The worst moments were at night and at mealtimes. With all boys seated at the long Viking tables in their groups and the Skivvies wearing black shorts and footwear and sitting cross-legged on the floor down the main isle, 10 on either side, a horn would blow and in would come King Skivvie,[some years older than anyone there], with his two henchmen either side. He'd be wearing the mayoral chain of office and hat.

All would rise until he motioned them down again in a casual gesture. Then he'd go through a catechism with his offsiders:

"Have we the name of the offending toady who failed to help his fellow Grouper today at 07:20?"

"Yes, your Highness."

Then the boy's name would be read out, ten Skivvies would leap upon him and drag him out before anyone could utter a sound and we heard he'd been thrown, fully clothed, off the wooden bridge into the stream which led down to the sea.

The thing never stated but always rewarded was teamwork. Any individualism in the form of not supporting your group was punished in some way or other.

The Groupers were never told what was right and wrong - they soon worked it out for themselves and woe behold any boy who stepped out of line in this way. It was the only rule in the camp - help your fellow Grouper.

One night our group had had enough and we planned a breakout. Though our money had been taken for "safe keeping", we thought we'd successfully bribed one of the Warders … oops … Skivvies … to give us enough to get home.

The notion that there might not have been a bus available at 02:00 had not crossed our minds.

Came the big night and it worked a treat. We'd left bolsters in our beds, everything had been planned to a T and we slipped out of the camp. Fearing the worst and expecting the alarm to be given at any moment, we moved in military formation [the independent school boys had had officer cadet training at school].

Nothing happened.

The money had not been forthcoming and we decided to get even with the "non-traitor" who had failed to meet us and hand over the dosh and it was a combination of that motivation and the realization of the futility of the whole thing that made us turn around and go back to camp.

You can imagine our shock when next morning,the Skivvies all sported broad grins when they woke us but not one word was ever said about the breakout. There were no punishments. Nothing.

Not so for one boy.

I remember he was always a bit of a malcontent who told us he'd had enough and was leaving the next night. We heard he'd made it a good long way before the Skivvie Van picked him up and he spent the rest of the night at Skivvie HQ.

The following day and for the rest of the camp, he said not a word about that experience. It was only the following year, when I became a Skivvie myself that the secret was out.

That was an experience.

We were only there because we'd been invited from the previous year. What the quality was which they were looking for I still, until recently, didn't know. Now I do.

The hazing was quite scientifically applied, was not random in the least and was designed simply to reinforce the rule of camaraderie in the camp. That doesn't excuse it but that was why.

The trouble was, certain of the Skivvies took to the hazing with relish and I confess I was one. I won't say the cruel streak was positively encouraged but let's say I was only once warned by a Senior Skivvie that I might have gone too far and that was for operational reasons and for deviating from The Plan.

In other words, one must never be an individual.

Each of us had a whistle hung around our neck and we were advised never to remove it for any reason. At the least sign of trouble, it was to be blown and all 20 skivvies, even if asleep, were to wake and rush to the aid of the whistleblower [interesting employment of the term].

It certainly kept the plebs in line. One evening I unwisely found myself isolated and surrounded by seven Groupers. Whether their intentions were evil I know not because even as I reached for the whistle, they scattered.

As for our individualist friend from the previous year, we had one of his type this year as well and he was manhandled into a closed room deep in Skivvie HQ and "re-educated" for a few hours by Senior Skivvies who took it in turns. [To become a Senior Skivvie, one had to attend the camp a third year.]

Effectively, he was shown the Grand Plan, if he promised never to divulge it. The consequences of divulging it were made clear. He was shown why they were doing as they did, that it was for the greater good of the camp, that there was nothing personal in it and so on.

It always finished with King Skivvy coming in about 03:00 and having a cuppa tea and a personal chat with the miscreant. I never saw the method not work.

What was never said, seen or even thought about was who was actually behind the Skivvies. Well, we did know that - the Senior Skivvies, of course. And behind them - King Skivvie, who was basically a fourth year camper.

But who was behind him?

We found that out each camp when we were visited by what I'll carefully term the Queen's representative, our actual Queen Elizabeth II. It was true. And not only that but - can you believe it - chariots, resplendent in livery, were brought in from a shed and this man actually stepped into one of them with one skivvy beside him - me on this occasion - and the chariot was pulled by a car driven by King Skivvy.

All groupers were lined along the circular ring path and the Skivvies near the end.

Other men had arrived by now from the city and I recognized one of them, vaguely connected with my father and the Masonic Lodge. He recognized me and came over for a few words. I have to say it was one of my proudest days ever in my life. Even now I think that.

They were met by some others - all were suited - and they first went into Skivvie HQ, where we were all lined up and the Oueen's rep offered us some words of advice, one or two homilies and some humour and we couldn't help but be impressed by the easy grace and gentlemanliness of them all.

Quite frankly, we were in awe.

We spotted them at different places around the camp, dirtying their polished shoes and then they seemed to disappear. These were the men who ran the camp [not the Queen's rep of course].

Far cry from my savage depiction in the previous post.

That's because that's what I knew then and the previous post was what I know now, having first grown into one of them and then eventually finding myself cut adrift from them all and their society. You see, I'd transgressed.

I'm a miserable sinner, you know, a bad'un and we all know what happens to such as I, don't we?