Date: Sat, 28 Jun 2003 10:26:36 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 6

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons
alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance
to actual bases, locations, is coincidental.

This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions,
customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to
remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back
then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the
bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not
continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right
and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also
contains proscriptions, restrictions, do's and don'ts that I don't see or
hear any of you thumping bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you
some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible
Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, the bankrupt and increasingly
irrelevant United Nations, please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever
cause you're touting. I have no time for claptrap.

As this work contains scenes of explicit sexual acts of a homosexual
nature, if such erotica offends you, please move on to a tamer site. If
your mainstay in life is Bible-thumping cant, please move on. If you are
not of legal age to read, possess or download writings of an erotic nature,
or if possession, reading, etc., is illegal where you live, please move on.

This story is written in an age without worry, and as such unprotected sex
is practiced exclusively. I urge all of you to NEVER engage in sexual acts
without proper protection. The life you save will be your own.

I will respond to all e-mails (except flames). Please contact me at
paradegi@rogers.com

Many thanks to Peter, my editor, who always knows the right phrase to use
when I manage to screw up the syntax.


The Boys Of Aurora: Chapter 6


After finishing his lunch The Gunner managed, with surprisingly little
difficulty, to extricate The Phantom from Chef's clutches. Chef, for once,
had more than enough hands available for the work that needed to be
done. Martin and Clifford, primed with milk, cookies, and cake, were busily
peeling and chopping onions, carrots and celery, which would be roasted
with Mr. Fujimoto's prime chickens to give them flavour.

Randy and Joey, behaving themselves, were giving the chickens their
pre-roasting bath, cleaning the cavities and salting them. Sandro was
industriously larding the baking pans while Ray and The Phantom loaded the
dirty lunch dishes into the gaping maw of the dishwasher.

Chef was more than pleased with what the cadets had done during his
absence, so much so that he had promoted both Joey and Randy to the rate of
Able Cook and was fulsome with his praise of Ray's, Sandro's and The
Phantom's ability to cope in extraordinary situations. This caused all five
boys to eye him suspiciously.

Chef waxing lyrical with praise was an immediate cause for alarm and
usually meant that they would pay for his praise somewhere down the
line. Being in an expansive and generous mood Chef had readily agreed to
The Phantom taking two hours off work to get his driver's license,
conveniently forgetting that The Phantom had come in at 0600, four hours
earlier than normal and had been saddled with helping Ray to get breakfast
going.

After dropping The Phantom off at the licensing office and leaving his car
for the youth to use for his road test, The Gunner walked downtown. It was
a typical summer day in British Columbia, warm and sunny and The Gunner had
an enjoyable walk, discovering that Comox was actually a pretty little
town, with shops and restaurants lining the esplanade bordering the
harbour, which was filled with fishing boats and small sailing craft. There
was a wonderful view of AURORA across the broad waters of the harbour and
he regretted not having a camera with him.

The Gunner spent a pleasant half-hour or so just wandering about, taking in
the local scenery, admiring the flowers that seemed to fill every spare
inch of open space, watching the tourists, amazed at the activity, which
should not really have surprised him. Comox was after, all was said and
done, a tourist town, as well as a seaport and, in many ways, a fishing
village. It was a small town of neat shops, large wooden homes, and sturdy,
steadfast churches. As he wandered the small business district he wondered
what life would be like, living in this small piece of Eden. A piece of
Eden he had never really seen at all. He drove by the town every morning
and every evening and had never really seen it and had only been downtown
twice, both times for dinner with Joel.

Continuing his stroll The Gunner stopped and leaned against the metal
railing that lined the water side of the Esplanade, enjoying the gentle
breeze that blew inland from the Strait, and watching the pleasure craft
darting about the harbour.

>From the Esplanade he walked on through the town and over to the market
area, and was amazed at what appeared to be a magical carpet of flowers,
flowers of seemingly endless variety and colour. He admired roses,
carnations, Queen Anne's Lace, ferns beyond description, intoxicated by the
mingled perfumes of the blossoms.

>From the flower market he returned to the main shopping street and found
the trophy shop that stocked a wide variety of shields and trophies and
supplied many of the small awards and mementoes for both HMCS AURORA and
CFB Comox. From the large stock on hand The Gunner chose the shields and
crests that would be handed out to the cadets at the Passing Out Parade. He
chose the lettering and style for the citations and arranged for
delivery. Since the awards would be kept at AURORA rather than going home
with the recipient, he also arranged for smaller, separate shields, which
would be given to the award recipients.

His business in the trophy shop completed, The Gunner went off and found a
small sidewalk cafe where he enjoyed a cup of coffee and a
cigarette. Directly across the street from the cafe was a small shop
selling artefacts and relics of ships and the sea. On the sidewalk in front
of the shop two long book bins flanked the door. The windows of the shop
were crammed with bits and pieces of china, old photographs, menu covers
and yellowed passenger lists from long gone liners.

After finishing his coffee and cigarette The Gunner crossed the street and
browsed through the somewhat battered selection of books, finding a small,
thin volume of the History of the RCN in World War I. A very thin volume,
if the truth were told. With only two ancient cruisers, and some small
requisitioned yachts and tugs to sail with, and for the most part confined
to fisheries patrols, hydrographic and tidal surveys, the RCN had not fired
a shot in anger. The Gunner also found a volume on Naval Protocol, which he
thought might be a good addition to the Ship's library. He went inside to
pay for his selections and was amazed that such a small shop could stock
such a huge and eclectic collection of maritime artefacts. There were
paintings and models, more pieces of crockery and, in a large cabinet
lining the far wall of the shop, a collection of ship's silver. The ship
models ranged from elaborate builders models to obvious products of local
craftsmen: hand-carved fishing boats, models of CC1 and CC2, Canada's first
submarines (vintage 1914), "primitive" models of seafarers and a set of
dominoes carved from whale ivory and baleen.

The proprietor of the shop was a small, wizened little man wearing a
yarmulke. He was dressed, much to The Gunner's surprise in a lightweight,
long-sleeved summer shirt and long trousers, surprising in that almost
everybody in town wore the universal rig of the day, shorts, short-sleeved
shirt and sandals. When the shopkeeper introduced himself The Gunner
detected a slight, European accent.  German? Possibly Polish?

"Ah, the Navy's here," said the little man who had introduced himself as
Jacob Schoenmann. "Are you from the base or the other place?"

"The other place," replied The Gunner as he handed over the two books. "I
work with the Sea Cadets."

Mr. Schoenmann nodded his understanding and rang up the purchases using an
ancient brass cash register. "Such nice boys. Always so polite."

"They come in often?" asked The Gunner.

"Every once in a while. The models attract some of the boys. I hate to
disappoint them when they ask for the plastic model kits, which I don't
carry. One, you might know him, goes to the same synagogue as I do in
Courtenay."

"That would be Sandro. He's a cook."

"A very nice young man. He does you credit." Mr. Schoenmann handed the
books back to The Gunner. "Will there be anything else?"

The Gunner looked around. "You have quite a collection. It's hard to know
where to begin."

Mr. Schoenmann nodded his agreement and sat down beside his cluttered
desk. "Mostly civilian artefacts." He pointed to a long table piled with
china plates; crystal glasses and assorted serving bowls and dishes. "When
a ship is taken out of service the owners sell off the fittings and
fixtures. There's quite an interest in the old liners, you know."

"Pacific liners?" asked The Gunner as he walked to the table. He picked up
a small white saucer. In the centre was the burpee, or house flag, of the
NYK Line. He noticed that there were several lines represented, CP
Steamships predominating.

"Yes, for the most part," replied Mr. Schoenmann. "I do have some things
from the Atlantic liners." He indicated a small table on which was a varied
collection of brochures, deck plans and menus. "Everybody wants the
Atlantic liners. Normandie, the Queens, or the other great liners, ships of
the '20's, the '30's, I have a market for, but not the older vessels."

Mr. Schoenmann rummaged through the papers and brought out what appeared to
be a small booklet. On the cover were engraved two female figures
supporting a plain white star. The bottom half of the cover was an
engraving of a ship's compartment, a reception room of some sort. He handed
the booklet to The Gunner.  The Gunner opened the booklet and saw that it
was a dinner menu from the R.M.S. Titanic dated the 14th of April 1912. He
read through the menu and chuckled. "They ate well. I would have thought
that this would be worth a great deal."

Mr. Schoenmann snorted. "Not much of a market for her, I'm afraid.  She
sank on her maiden voyage, you know." He picked up a set of deck
plans. "The Lancastria, lost in 1940 with great loss of life." He shrugged
expressively. "Disaster doesn't sell."

The menu intrigued The Gunner. "Still, it's interesting. What are you
asking for this?"

"Everything on that table is $3.00. Look around, enjoy. Perhaps there's
something else you'll like. In the mean time, let me show you my Navy
items." Mr. Schoenmann pulled himself erect, a small grimace of pain
crossing his face. He saw the look of concern on The Gunner's face and held
up his hand. "Not to worry, just a little arthritis."

The Gunner returned Mr. Schoenmann's smile and looked around. For a Navy
buff there was quite a lot of "Navy things", brass port and starboard
lamps, sextants, miniature ship's wheels and binnacles, the Laws of the
Navy engraved on glass and brass plaques, some models of corvettes -
obviously hand made and very beautiful.

As Mr. Schoenmann was looking for his album of Navy photographs The Gunner
could not help thinking that the old man did not get his knobby and
misshapen hands and fingers from arthritis.

"Ah, here we are," said Mr. Schoenmann as he held up a large,
sepia-coloured photograph. "It's a little faded but interesting." He handed
the photograph to The Gunner. "The officers of HMCS RAINBOW in 1910,
including the Canine Complement, Able Dogs Driver and Mimi."

The Gunner looked at the photograph and smiled. There were, besides the
dozen or so officers, two dogs in the picture. "Surprising they had
dogs. Usually the ship's pet was a cat."

"Sailors being sailors are attracted to animals. Believe me, I know."

"Really?"

"Yes, I saw some Naval service in the old country, the Imperial German
Navy. I was in the Great War."

"What Branch?"

"In 1914? No branch," replied Mr. Schoenmann with a grin. "In August 1914 I
was a Naval Cadet, fresh out of the Academy in Kiel. Later, and after the
War, I was a Deck Officer." He settled in his chair and crossed his hands
over his surprisingly flat stomach. In the manner of all old veterans
Mr. Schoenmann was inclined to reminisce. "I was in SMS DRESDEN, a light
cruiser, Captain Ludecke commanding. A fine ship of the East Asiatic
Squadron. A good ship, a clean ship."

The Gunner thought a moment. "You were at Coronel . . ."

Mr. Schoenmann nodded. "And the Falklands. What a battle! Every ship but
mine was sunk! SCHARNHORST blew up taking Admiral von Spee with her. Also
his two sons. Very nice young men."

"Then you were a prisoner as well? HMCS GLASGOW sank DRESDEN while she was
anchored in Chilean waters. "

"You know your history, young man!" Mr. Schoenmann slapped the desk in
glee. "So often nobody listens anymore to the wanderings of an old man!"
The Gunner agreed silently. Too often the experiences of the older
generation were dismissed out of hand by the younger generation. "In the
event, no, I was not a prisoner," Mr. Schoenmann continued,
remembering. "We scuttled the ship and rowed like demons for the Chilean
shore. I spent the rest of the war working out of the Embassy in
Valparaiso."

"So you had a pleasant war."

The old man shrugged. "I had a pleasant career, which was difficult for a
Jew in those days. Still, I managed it. I was an officer, and a genuine war
hero. I never rose above the rank of Lieutenant but it was a good
life. Until 1933."

"I'm sorry," murmured The Gunner. He had spent many nights at sea curled up
in his bunk with a book, almost always history, and he recalled reading of
the swift elimination of Jews the Nazis had so insidiously wrought on the
pitiful remnant of the German Navy left after 1918.

"Don't be, it was a long time ago." Mr. Schoenmann moved to the large
cabinet at the end of the shop. "I managed to survive, at least." He waved
his arm to indicate the contents of the shop. "In a way this shop is the
result of my survival. In 1939 my family and I were forced to leave
Germany. We bought passage on a liner to Cuba."

"The St. Louis", said The Gunner immediately.

Mr. Schoenmann nodded his confirmation. "The St. Louis."

Left unsaid was the knowledge that the voyage of the St. Louis was perhaps
one of the blackest pages in the history of two nations: Canada and the
United States of America.

In May of 1939 the German liner St. Louis, carrying 907 German Jewish
refugees sailed for Havana, Cuba, in search of freedom. The Cuban
authorities, faced with a wave of vitriolic anti-Semitic propaganda
instigated by the local Nazis, refused to allow the Jews to land. The ship
sailed, its passengers filled with despair, hoping to find a haven, any
haven, anyplace but Germany.

Despite a wave of outrage that assailed them two men, one for political
reasons, one because he was anti-Semitic, refused to consider asylum for
the Jews of the St. Louis.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt, President of the United States, faced with an
election in 1940, and influenced by the anti-Semites of his State
Department and the vitriolic bigotry of the Midwest and the Bible belt,
bowed to political necessity and turned away.

In Ottawa, William L. Mackenzie King, Prime Minister of Canada, influenced
by the anti-Semites of his Department of Foreign Affairs and of his own
opinion that there were already too many Jews in the Dominion, followed the
lead of his American cousin, and the signs reading "No Jews Allowed" went
up in the Customs sheds of Halifax and Saint John.

"You landed in Antwerp?" asked The Gunner presently.

Mr. Schoenmann nodded slowly. "And stayed. Some of the passengers went to
France and Holland. The lucky ones managed to be accepted by England."

The spectre of the Holocaust, with all its terrors entered the cramped
shop. The Gunner's father had seen Dachau, and refused to speak of it. The
Gunner's reading had told him that for all but 287 of the Jews of the
St. Louis Antwerp had only been a way station on the road to Auschwitz.

"Young man, terrible things happened. Do not dwell on the past."
Mr. Schoenmann smiled thinly. "Do not dwell on it, my friend, but always
teach your young men to remember it." He bent down and opened one of the
doors that lined the bottom of the cabinet. He pulled out a small figurine
and handed it to The Gunner. "Enough of my past. A remembrance of your
past, I think."

It was a sailor, painted in natural colours, wearing gaiters, web belt, a
field pack, and holding a bayoneted rifled at his side. The figurine was
mounted on a round wooden base, and was about ten inches tall. "Say, this
is very interesting," replied The Gunner as he admired the figurine. "Gosh,
It brings back memories." He recalled the mind-numbing drills of
CORNWALLIS, the Halifax Natal Day parades he had marched in, the
Remembrance Day ceremonies where he had stood stock still, resting on
reversed arms, wearing his beloved old blues. "Wherever did you get it?" he
asked, totally taken with the little sailor. "I've never seen one before."

"An older gentleman, a collector, quite elderly, he painted them as a
pastime."

The Gunner examined the figurine. It was porcelain, glazed, and the
painting was very detailed. The little figure was a three-badge stoker. He
had a sudden idea. "We're having a Prize Giving next week. I think the boys
would much rather have something like this than a plaque."

Mr. Schoenmann smiled. "I'm sure they would. There is a glass dome for it
and a small brass plate for some engraving . . ." He clapped his hands.  "
. . .A most admirable gift."

"Do you have any more?" asked The Gunner.

"Only seven all together. The gentleman who made them, alas, has passed
on." Mr. Schoenmann began rummaging through the locker, pulling out the
remaining six figurines, in the process pulling out another object. "Each
figure has a different trade badge and rating . . ." he was saying when The
Gunner interrupted him.

"What's that?" asked The Gunner, reaching out to take the object. It was a
perfect reproduction of Nelson's Column, complete with lions, mounted on a
matching stand. He examined the engraving incised on a cartouche that
formed part of the decoration. "Presented to the Steamship Lord Nelson by
the Corporation of the Town of Nelson, British Columbia, 1923" he read.

"A presentation piece from the town to the ship. The town is still
there. The ship was broken up in 1948."

"Ship's silver, then?"  The model intrigued the Gunner.

"Plated, I am afraid. It's a nice piece but not a seller. Not much call for
table silver these days. At least not from the smaller ships. If it was
from one of the Atlantic liners, maybe."

"Still, it's nice. I'll take the figurines and if the price is right, I'll
take this."

Mr. Schoenmann thought a moment. "From a Former Naval Person to a Serving
Member, would $50.00 be too much?"

"Do you have any more pieces that look interesting?" asked The Gunner. His
idea had grown and he knew he now had the perfect way to establish a
provenance for the biggest piece of the Dining Room.

The shopkeeper began pulling out his treasures, explaining that since they
were all considered too old fashioned, and from ships that no one had ever
heard of, there was little market for the larger silver pieces. He found a
silver cigar box from the Duchess of Atholl. "A nice ship, one of four
sisters," Mr. Schoenmann informed The Gunner. "She was sunk in the Atlantic
in 1942." Some silver ashtrays followed.  "From the Empress of Asia,
another war loss."

"However do you find these things?" asked The Gunner, amazed at the variety
of artefacts.

Mr. Schoenmann shrugged. "People steal." he said simply. "I buy what they
steal." Then he smiled and chuckled. "Actually there is a large number of
collectors interested in souvenirs and artefacts of the old liners. We
correspond, we buy, we sell, and we trade with one another."

After the Gunner had made his selections they discussed prices. All were
low, as ship's silver was not as popular with the collectors and tourists
as were the models and china. They were, Mr. Schoenmann explained,
considered old fashioned and little better than dust collectors.

"You'll never get rich charging those prices, Mr. Schoenmann," said The
Gunner as he settled the bill.

The shopkeeper smiled grimly and then pulled back the sleeve of his
shirt. The Gunner looked and saw the letter and five blurred numerals
tattooed there.

"Sometimes, young man, life is all the wealth you need."

******

After revisiting the trophy shop where he ordered an additional, special
shield, and laden down with his purchases, The Gunner was walking back to
the licensing office when his Land Rover slid effortlessly alongside of
him. He looked and saw The Phantom, a huge grin on his face, waving a small
piece of paper. "I'm legal," crowed The Phantom as The Gunner stowed his
packages and got into the car.  "No sweat."

"I never doubted you for a minute," returned The Gunner as they pulled away
from the curb. "Would you mind telling me where we're going?"

"Not at all.  I have to do a RAS for Tyler, so we're going to my
house. Then to the Kmart."

"A Replenishment at Sea?" He smiled knowingly.  "Tyler's out of booze."

"Yeah. What with the two parties and the wet downs, he ran out. You're okay
with me doing this, aren't you?"

The Gunner nodded. "Tyler's legally old enough to drink. As long as he
keeps it under control, I don't have any objections."

"It's not as if they get blitzed every night, Gunner. The Twins hardly
drink at all. And I've never seen any of them drunk . . .well, maybe Harry,
but that was only the one time and it was his wet down."

The Gunner laughed. "Phantom, I know they drink, and I know how much they
drink. I also know that they don't abuse the privilege, and it is a
privilege. I just don't want the Old Man doing rounds on Friday and having
a jug fall out of the locker he's inspecting. And why are we doing a pit
stop at Kmart?" The Phantom laughingly explained Kevin's laundry woes. The
Gunner chuckled, then frowned slightly. "I really don't think it's a good
idea, Phantom, for you to replace Kevin's pink drawers. He might take it
the wrong way."

"What way?" There was a trace of anger in The Phantom's voice. "He needs
the underwear. He can't just wear nothing. It's unhygienic, you know!"  The
Gunner shook his head. "Phantom, I agree with you up to a point. However,
how would you feel if out of the blue somebody bought you some underwear?
Wouldn't you be just a little wary and suspicious? Guys do not ordinarily
buy underpants for other guys."

"Suspicious?" began The Phantom. "There's nothing to be suspicious
about. All I am doing is trying to do him a favour and you make it into
something . . .oh SHIT!" He realized now what The Gunner was getting
at. "He'll think maybe I'm trying to get into his pants, won't he?"

The Gunner nodded his agreement. "A jug of Clorox bleach would be better,
Phantom, safer as well." He gave The Phantom's leg a light pat. "Remember,
Phantom, what I told you earlier. People will pick up on something that so
far as you are concerned is totally innocent and aboveboard, and make the
worst of it. Unless of course you are trying to get into his pants?"

"I most certainly am NOT!" replied The Phantom hotly. "Granted, he's a good
looking guy, but he's not my type at all! Why would you even think that I
would want to get into his pants?" He waved his hand and the car swerved
slightly.

"All I'm trying to do is to help out one of the guys. What's so wrong about
that?"

"First of all, calm down and keep your eyes on the road and your hands on
the wheel," ordered The Gunner mildly. "I would much prefer that you have
your hissy fit after we've stopped the car."

"I am not having a hissy fit, Gunner. I resent what you said." The
Phantom's face was stony and there was fire in his eyes. "I'm just trying
to help out a guy is all."

"And you should be commended for your charity," said The Gunner with a
slight grin.

"Thank you Saint Stephen!" snapped The Phantom sarcastically.

"I am no saint and all I am trying to do is to point out to you that
impulsive acts of kindness between teenage males just might be
misinterpreted."

"Interpret it any way you like, Gunner," returned The Phantom. "I am not
trying to get into anybody's pants. Including yours!" he finished
ominously. Then he turned and pretended to look into the driver's side
mirror. He smiled a small, evil little smile. The Gunner's words of caution
had given him the genesis of a wickedly delicious opportunity: Ray wanted
to get into Kevin's pants. Therefore, if getting Ray into Kevin's pants
took some new underwear, or Clorox, or whatever it took to smooth the way,
it was a small price to pay.

The Gunner was smart enough to know that he was just going to dig himself
into a deeper hole if he continued on. He did not doubt that Phantom was up
to something. He also did not doubt that he would wait a long time for
Phantom to tell him what he was up to. Rather than pursue the issue The
Gunner decided to let the matter slide. There was no point at all in going
on about it. When Phantom got his knickers in a twist he could not be
talked to. The Gunner decided to smooth the waters. "Would you like to know
what I bought?" he asked, breaking the silence, his eyes bright with
amusement. There was just something so damned, wonderfully, deliciously
sexy about Phantom when he sulked.

"No!" The Phantom's voice was cold.

The Gunner did not pursue the issue and presently they were pulling into
the driveway of The Phantom's house. "Are you coming in to help or would
you prefer to stay out here?" asked The Phantom, as he got out of the
car. "I wouldn't want you to think that the neighbours were misinterpreting
your actions."

The Gunner raised his eyes to heaven but said nothing. He got out of the
car. Smiling, he followed The Phantom into the house.

******

The Phantom's house offered a cool refuge from the summer heat. It was
typical of the middle-class houses of the era in that much of its basement
had been converted into a "rec" room.

Reached by a winding, narrow set of carpeted stairs, the room occupied
fully half the deep basement. The floor was carpeted with worn, light green
carpet tiles. The walls had been lined with fake oak panels. Along one wall
was a fully stocked wet bar. The furniture was old, comfortable,
overstuffed chairs and sofas, lumpy refugees from the rooms upstairs. The
far wall, which bisected the basement, gleamed dully in the harsh light of
the overhead fluorescent lights, and was broken by two doors, one at the
far end of the bar, the other in the middle of the wall.

The walls of the room were hung with a varied collection of family
photographs, almost all of them showing The Phantom and his brother in
various sports uniforms and poses: The Phantom, age 8, when he played for
the Little League; Brendan in full football gear; The Phantom at 14,
wearing a skimpy swimming suit, proudly holding a trophy of some kind.
Scattered around the room were trophies for swimming, baseball and
football, all testifying to the athletic accomplishments of the two
Lascelles boys.

The Phantom slipped behind the bar and walked to the far end where he
pushed open the door leading to his father's liquor supply. The Gunner
followed and stopped at the doorway to gasp at the sight. To his right was
a floor-to-ceiling wine rack, every nook of it containing bottles of
wine. Stacked on the floor three boxes high was case upon case of liquors
of every description. The Gunner whistled his awe. "Jesus!" he muttered as
he examined some of the cases. His eyes widened as he read the brand names:
Cutty Sark, Smirnoff, Crown Royal, Vat 69 were some of the brands he
immediately recognized. None of the liquor was cheap, he noted. "Your Dad
has enough booze here to last a lifetime," he said to The Phantom, who was
rummaging around looking for an empty box.

"This is only about half of what he gets," replied The Phantom. "Everybody
wants to keep on the good side of the Chief of Patrol." He began opening
cases of liquor, choosing bottles with studied care. He knew what his
friends in the Gunroom drank. "Every Christmas Eve we have a big block
party. All the neighbours get together and sing carols and end up here. We
get rid of quite a bit, actually." The Phantom's voice was flat.

The Gunner sighed. Then he growled low. "Phantom, come here, will you?"

The Phantom straightened. There was a small, knowing smile on The Gunner's
lips. Despite himself The Phantom responded and moved forward and into The
Gunner's open arms. "What?" The Phantom asked as he felt The Gunner's arms
encircle his waist, pulling him close to his warm body.

The Gunner gazed into The Phantom's deep, wonderfully green eyes. "You are
so cute when you're pissed off at me," he smiled.

The Phantom's lips met The Gunner's. He felt The Gunner's hands slipping
down the waist of his trousers and into his boxers. He pulled away and
rested his head against The Gunner's strong, broad chest, listening to his
soft, whispering voice, feeling the warm hands sliding across his hips and
gently cupping his genitals.

"God, you are such a monster," groaned The Gunner as their crotches met.

"And you are such a bastard," returned The Phantom with a giggle.

"I am so! A prime, number one, Grade-A, Canadian bastard who loves you so
fucking much it hurts."

The Phantom raised his head and pulled back a little. "In that case, I'll
forgive you," he said softly.

"That's very gracious of you," replied The Gunner, "seeing as how I didn't
do anything to be forgiven for."

"We'll talk about it later," murmured The Phantom as he allowed himself to
be led to one of the lumpy sofas. He chuckled. "A lot later."

******

The wind had died and the Spit sweltered under the oppressive heat. On the
parade square activity had been suspended and the cadets, stripped to the
waist, bickered and grumbled as they sat in what little shade there was,
sweating and cursing, even the Twins, who had long boasted that the heat
did not affect them and that they never perspired. The galley, which had a
flat roof, retained the heat, so much so that even with all the windows
open to catch so much as a wisp of air, the place was at least ten degrees
hotter than it was outside, and everybody was cranky.

After spending a pleasant and satisfying hour together in the basement rec
room, The Phantom and The Gunner had stopped at the Kmart and then returned
to AURORA to find Chef in full roar. Joey and Randy were pouting, Martin
and Clayton were off in one corner scowling and peeling potatoes, Ray and
Sandro were snapping at each other and arguing about the sauces that Sandro
was supposed to be making for the fish entree. Observing that things were
back to normal The Gunner beat a hasty retreat, which earned him a snarling
accusation of cowardice from The Phantom.

The Phantom made himself as useful as he could, trying not to let the sight
of the half-naked boys distract him. So oppressive was the heat all of the
galley workers, except Chef, had stripped off their gunshirts and tees and
were working bare-chested, with towels around their necks to help absorb
some of the perspiration. The Phantom found the sight of them, with the
waistbands of their underpants peeking over their belted trousers, rivulets
of sweat coursing down their hairless chests, exciting and strangely
erotic, so much so that he welcomed the chance to go into the dining hall
and serve the First Dog Watchmen as they straggled in for their supper at
1530.

With the Watchmen fed The Phantom decided to screw the pooch for a while
and went out to the loading dock. He undid his shirt and sat on the edge of
the dock, flapping his open shirt, trying to cool down. To the west the
Dockyard looked deserted. The YAGs had departed somewhere, probably up
island, and nothing was stirring down there. Across the all but deserted
harbour - even the seagulls had seemingly called it a day - the town of
Comox shimmered above the flat calm waters, waters so calm that the cadets
would say that the harbour was as flat as piss on a plate. He lay back,
supporting his upper body on his elbows.  It was, he thought idly, too hot
to smoke or fuck.

Ray came onto the loading dock and sat down beside The Phantom. He, like
The Phantom, was suffering from the heat, more so because his groin was
steaming and the leg bands of his briefs were rubbing him raw. The Phantom
saw Ray wince slightly as he rubbed his crotch and advised a good, long
shower and a healthy application of baby powder.

"Showers are off, or haven't you heard?" replied Ray. "Jesus, I wish I
could just strip naked and jump into the bay."

"Well, its one way to cool off. What happened to the water?"

Ray explained that there was not enough pressure in the pipes that ran from
the town, the result of too little water in the reservoirs that stored the
water coming down from the mountains. "Everybody's restricted to one shower
until the reservoirs fill up again. Greg was around with the order while
you were gone. Everybody gets one shower, and everybody has to shower
together. Pusser scrubs: one minute of water, one minute to soap up, and
one minute to rinse."

"You're lucky then." The Phantom struggled upright and rubbed his shirttail
across his chest. "Cooks are exempt. Engineers as well. Cooks because of
the hygiene aspect, engineers because they work in the engine room where
it's hot all the time."

Ray shuddered. "I love Chef a lot, but not enough to shower with him!"  The
Phantom joined in Ray's laughter. "Too bad Kevin's not a cook. It would be
a good way to check him out."

Ray stared at The Phantom and then shook his head. "I can wait."

"Ray, have you got the hots for him?" The Phantom asked seriously. "I mean,
have you got the tingly dick, ball-shrinking hots for him?" The Phantom
gave a Ray a devilish smile.

Ray gave The Phantom a fuck off look, and then relaxed. "You saw the fool I
made of myself at lunch. What do you think?"

"Not too much of a fool, since I was the only one who noticed." He gave
Ray's arm a small squeeze. "Ray, you're allowed to look, you know."

Ray turned and looked at The Phantom. "But, Phantom, I want to do more."

The Phantom chuckled quietly. "Can't fault you there, Ray. Not at all!"

Ray sighed wistfully. "I do want to do something with him, but I don't
think he'd go for it."

The Phantom lay back against the cold concrete and covered his eyes with
his arm. Then he raised it and looked directly at Ray. "Ray, Kevin is just
like every other swinging dick around here, horny. Under the right
circumstances . . . you'll never know unless you try."

"But I don't love him!" returned Ray.

The Phantom groaned and shook his head. "What the hell has that got to do
with it? Do you really think that I was madly in love when I started
visiting guys in the middle of the night? Do you think that the Twins fall
in love with every guy they fool around with?"

"Well, no, I suppose not," conceded Ray.

"You fool around with a guy because you both want to fool around! It's that
simple. You do not have to rush out the next morning and pick out your
china pattern, for fuck's sake." The Phantom sat up and pulled Ray to his
side. He put his arm around his winger's shoulder. "Look, what it boils
down to is sex. You want it. Kevin might want it. I don't know because I
don't know him that well."

"I'd look a right fool if I tried something, now, wouldn't I?" snapped Ray.

"Probably, not to mention getting the shit kicked out of you if he's not
into guys."

"That helps a hell of lot. And you sure don't seem all that upset that I
want to sleep with another guy!"

The Phantom stared into the bright sunshine. It was time for Ray to get on
with his life. "Ray, I am not upset. I want you meet other guys. I love
you, yes, and maybe, and I say maybe so that you don't get your hopes up,
we may very well sleep together. Fooling around with you is one
thing. Making love to you, and having you make love to me, quite another."
He stood up and walked to the end of the loading dock, scuffing the metal
edge with his shoe. "I love you, and I want you to be happy. In some ways I
would like to be the person to bring you to that happiness." He returned to
where Ray was sitting, squatted down and placed his hands on his friend's
shoulders. "But I realize that I am not that person. Right now you might
think I am, but I'm not."

"And just how am I supposed to find this mythical person?" asked Ray
sarcastically.

"You do what every other gay guy does. You meet other guys, you very
carefully choose whom you'd like to sleep with, and then you do it."

"But how would I know, and I don't want to chase every set of balls in
sight! I'm not some a kind of slut!"

"Nobody asked you to be," replied The Phantom calmly. "You play it smooth,
you play it cool. You play it very carefully because you do not want to get
a reputation. If you play it right, the guy will make the first move, and
when he does that . . ." He sat back and grinned. "You always get the other
guy to make the first move. When he does, one thing will lead to another."

"I don't think Kevin's gay, so why would he make the first move?" replied
Ray, his tone doubtful.

The Phantom snickered loudly. "Ray, it's call sex and it's called
experimenting. Almost every guy I've been with has been straight. They've
also all been horny and believe me, a stiff prick has no conscience."

Ray giggled. "Boy, is that right!  But Phantom, how will I, I mean how will
I know if Kevin is willing?"

The Phantom stood up began doing up his shirt. "Ray, believe me, you'll
know."

"That's a help, that is!"

"Okay then, try this on for size. You're horny for Kevin. You want to get
in his pants so you have to figure out a way to get him in a situation
where you can find out if he'll let you get in his pants, right?" Ray
mumbled something about telling him something he didn't know. The Phantom
ignored him. He rubbed his chin and then snapped his fingers. "Showers!"

"What about them?" asked Ray, confused.

The Phantom chuckled. "The regular showers are off, right?" he asked.

"Yes, I just told you that!"

"Don't get all huffy, just hear me out." He pulled Ray back into the
building and into the washplace. "Voila, showers!" he exclaimed
triumphantly.

Ray rolled his eyes. "Okay, showers! Now that I've seen them, just what in
the fuck am I suppose to with them and what has Kevin got to do with
. . .?"

"Ray, really, can't you just shut up and listen?" asked The Phantom in an
exasperated tone.

"Talk!" replied Ray throwing his hands in the air.

"Kevin has got to know by now that the entire Ship's Company is restricted
to a three-minute shower, which in this heat is useless." He pointed at
Ray. "You are in a position to offer him unlimited water so you wait until
he's complaining about not being able to shower and you offer him one
here!"

"That's devious." Ray thought a moment. "But yeah, I can do that."

"Just make sure Matt isn't around. With the water restrictions he'll want
to take a shower and three's a crowd, if you know what I mean." Then The
Phantom waggled his eyebrows and smiled a small, wicked smile. "Unless of
course you want to get into Matt's pants, too."

"Phantom!" yelped Ray, shocked that Phantom would even suggest such a
thing.

"Okay, okay. Now, that's step one." The Phantom was warming to his plan and
the ideas were coming thick and fast. "That will at least give you an
opportunity to check him out. If you like what you see you go to the next
step."

"Which is?"

"You offer him some clean underwear. You saw how embarrassed he was talking
about having nothing but pink pants, so you offer him some nice, clean,
white briefs and . . ."

"Which I don't have!" Ray was getting pissed off. Would Phantom ever get to
the point? "And even if I did he'd never fit into mine. He's a lot beefier
and must outweigh me by . . ."

"I do," interrupted The Phantom. "Briefs. Snowy, white, brand new briefs!"

"You do?"

"I bought them in town this afternoon. I also bought some bleach, but
that's a non-starter. If there's no water for showers there won't be any
for washing clothes."

"Okay, I take your underwear, which I can't for the life of me understand
why you bought them because you never wear briefs and in this heat I'm
sorry I have them on . . ."

"I bought them so you can use them, dummy!"

"Me? Well thanks, Phantom, but I have more than enough to last me."

"Not you, you twit. You give them to Kevin.  Haven't you been listening?"

Ray shook his head and walked into the locker room where he sat down on one
of the battered wooden benches that lined the room. It was beginning to
dawn on him that Phantom had put a great deal of thought into this
proposition. "Phantom, I cannot understand what you want me to do," he said
wearily.

The Phantom sat down beside his friend. "Consider this Lesson One in
Seduction 101. First, you get Kevin in the shower. Then, as a gesture of
friendship you offer him these extra underpants that you just happen to
have in your locker. They're too big for you because I fucked up and got
the wrong size. Are you with me so far?"

"Okay, I can go along with that. I always keep extras anyway so . . ."

"Good." The Phantom cut him off abruptly. "Now then, after the shower, and
the gift giving, you offer him a cool place to sit down and have a
chat. The lounge maybe?" The Phantom thought a moment. "No, Chef's
office. There's a fan in there."

"That's some leap forward, Phantom."

"Maybe, but it will work." The Phantom emphasized his words by squeezing
Ray's shoulder. "This heat will not let up for a day or three. Unless it
rains, which I don't think it will. You offer Kevin a place to keep
cool. After all day baking in the sun the barracks will be hot boxes."

"Okay, I con him into Chef's office. Then what?  I wave a magic wand?"

Chef began bellowing in the galley. They were wanted. Ray stood up and as
they began to walk into the dining hall The Phantom replied, "No, you wait
for him to wave his magic penis!" He chuckled knowingly. "What you do is
get him to start taking about sex and ask him about his girlfriend - a guy
that good looking has got to have a girl friend - and let him carry the
ball or balls because I'll bet that before you know it he'll be complaining
about how horny he is and how all he can do is jerk off and . . ."

"That's all well and good. What if he's not horny? What if he's not
interested?" asked Ray, a note of hesitation in his voice.

The Phantom grinned. "He'll be horny. Hell for all you know he might be
horny and gay!"

Ray's jaw dropped. "Kevin, gay?"

"And if he is, my friend, he'll let you know it and if that's the case you
wave your magic penis at him and let the good times roll!"

******

Two hundred-odd miles to the south and east, in the shadows of the
foothills that rolled west and north to join the Canadian Rockies, Michael
Chan set aside the document he'd been reading and leaned back in his
leather chair. He was beginning to get a headache, as he always did when he
was forced to read the chicken scratching that his business partners in
Hong Kong insisted on using in all their correspondence. He picked up the
letter and glared at the Chinese ideographs.

The letter was an insult to his dignity. His business partners, obnoxious
and as arrogant as only the Chinese can be, assumed that he was proud of
his heritage, which he most assuredly was not! He did not look Chinese; he
did not feel Chinese; he did not think Chinese.

Michael had inherited his looks from his grandfather, a loud, raucous, hard
drinking, hard-swearing Scotsman and the hardy Scot's genes had given him
his height, his slimness, his warm, dark brown eyes and high cheekbones. As
a young man he had bemoaned his only two "Chinese" features: his hair,
which was straight and very black, and what he called his Chinese eyes. The
first he kept short, the second had been, from Michael's perspective,
"corrected" by cosmetic surgery. Michael, who owned what was reputed to be
the best Chinese restaurant in Vancouver, with all the Chinese flummery and
frippery expected in such a place, categorically refused to allow anything
remotely Chinese to intrude in any other aspect of his private life,
including his house.

As soon as he could Michael had left the family compound, a huge, Regency
complex built around two large courtyards. The house, which stood directly
to the north of his own home, contained a series of large, multi-roomed
apartments housing his aunts, uncles and innumerable cousins. He snorted
contemptuously at the thought of so many people living cheek-by-jowl, all
related and all of them fighting and screaming in their abominable
Cantonese! Was it any wonder that even though the place was just beyond the
red brick wall that marked the northern boundary of his estate he only
visited once or twice a year?

Michael had deliberately turned his back on all things Chinese. He had left
his family home to live in an apartment until the estate he now owned came
on the market. He had purchased the 64-acre estate, torn down the
nondescript wooden house that had stood in the grounds, and built his house
in the manner of a classical 18th Century, Georgian, country house.

The house suited his character and lifestyle. Solid, quiet, classical,
symmetrical, the plain orange-brown Banbury Stone bricks accented with
limestone trim; the grounds of the estate filled with flowers and trees;
the rooms filled with carefully selected antique English furniture; the
walls were wood-panelled or painted in soft colours, and hung with fine
18th century portraits (including a Turner and two Lawrences) and
landscapes, including four by Constable. It was the home of a solid, quiet,
cautious man.

Michael Chan was a cautious man. The nature of his business demanded
it. Every day every room was swept for listening devices by a very well
paid technician using the most up-to-date and state-of-the-art detection
equipment. Around the perimeter of his sprawling official estate were
motion and sound sensors and any intruder, no matter how small, was
immediately detected and identified by closed circuit television monitors
that were watched and manned every hour of the day and night in the
Security Control Room, a steel and concrete bunker located in the basement.

A shadow crossed the windows looking out onto the wide terrace outside his
office. Michael looked up and saw one of the Security men passing by. The
man, like all the men employed to guard and patrol the grounds, was young,
not more than 25, and Chinese. He had been carefully recruited in Hong Kong
and even more carefully trained by Major Meinertzhagen, ex-Guards, ex-SAS,
and Chief of Security. The perimeter guards were a concession to his Hong
Kong business partners. There were certain lines that even he dared not
cross.

Thinking of the Major caused Michael to glance at his watch, a wafer-thin,
plain, Patek Phillipe. Not yet 4:30. In a few moments Laurence and Noel,
nominally under-butlers, would enter and arrange the tea things. Promptly
at 5:00 the Major, as he did every day, would knock discreetly and
enter. They would take tea and discuss the day's events and the security
arrangements for the Conclave.

Michael rose from his desk and walked to the floor-to-ceiling French window
that overlooked the terrace and the formal gardens. He was pleased to see
that the English gardeners were almost finished with their plantings. He
was so pleased that he made a mental note to increase the bonus each of the
gardeners would receive when they finished their work and boarded their
flights for home. He opened the door and walked onto the terrace. It was
really a beautiful afternoon. There was a cooling breeze blowing from the
mountains. The new plantings had taken well and the lush, green expanse of
lawn was perfectly groomed. The terrace was immaculate, without a speck of
dust, a twig, not even an errant ant to mar the flagstone surfaces.

The gardens were in full bloom. Closest to the house were the roses he so
loved, filling the air with their scents and pleasing the eyes with their
wonderful colours, reds of every shade, yellows, pale gold, lavender, the
colours of the rainbow and more, each bush a masterpiece of the
horticulturist's art, each bearing an illustrious name: 'Reine Victoria',
'Tartarus', 'Duchesse de Montebello' and so on. Bourbon roses, Old Growth
Roses, Hybrid Teas and Noisettes. The list went on and on.

Nearest the terrace was Michael's favourite rose, officially called 'Anna
de Diesbach'. He much preferred its other name: 'Gloire de Paris.' Behind
him, carefully trimmed, was what many considered to be the apotheosis of
Noisette roses: the magnificent 'Gloire de Dijon' climbing upward toward
the eaves of the house.

Thinking of the roses caused him to frown. His rose gardens were without
doubt the finest and richest in the province. The seasonal flower gardens,
banks and beds of rhododendrons, azaleas, camellias, magnolias, fuchsias
and hydrangeas were just as magnificent, as were the Broadleaf Maple, Choke
Cherry and Black Hawthorne trees that bordered the estate. Off to his
right, surrounding the old stable yard and mews was a grove of flowering
Pacific Dogwood. The combination of trees and flowers presented a wonderful
portrait. Which no one ever saw.

Michael clenched his fist. Another reason to hate his heritage. He might
live in a fine house in British Properties; he might own furniture and
paintings that caused collectors and museum curators the world over to
salivate with envy. No matter that Karsh and Beeton had photographed his
gardens. In the end it gained him nothing for at the end of the day his
name was Chan! Had his name been Chandler the world would have beaten a
path to his door. Instead, only two people had had the courtesy to call on
him: Catherine Leveson-Arundel and Mary Randolph Putnam, the President and
Past President of the Rose Society of British Columbia. Both ladies called
regularly for tea, and both had left behind a small gift, Mrs. Arundel the
'Dijon' and Mrs. Putnam a cutting from her own prize-winning 'Paris'.

He glanced at the clear, cloudless sky then looked across the lawn and
beyond the line of trees that bordered the estate. He could see the slate
roofs and tall chimneys of the houses that marked what was called, for
simplicity's sake, the East Village. There was another, smaller village to
the south, and one to the north. There was no West Village due to the
simple fact that he did not own, as he did the hundreds of acres to the
East and South, the land to the west. The acreage to the west, thousands of
acres of virgin forest, Douglas Fir, White Spruce and Lodgepole Pine, was
Crown Land, and not for sale at any price.

The villages, only five or six small cottages each, housed the members of
the outside Security Force. Unlike the men who patrolled the grounds inside
the high brick walls, this force was composed of Brits, with a sprinkling
of Americans, every man either ex-SAS or ex-Rangers or Navy SEALS, and each
man handpicked for the job. The outside men were quite deliberately
Caucasian.  They roamed the woods and farmlands outside the estate in a
variety of disguises and ostensibly for a variety of reasons. There were
nature and riding trails meandering through the forests and the sight of
hikers and riders was commonplace. As the Major had pointed out, having
white hikers and riders was much more sensible in a place where, except for
Michael's own family, any Chinese in evidence was more likely to be there
to wash the laundry rather than ride the horses.

Michael heard the clatter of the tea table being laid and wondered if
either of the two men preparing the tea things would be on duty
tonight. Both men were white, as were all members of the Household
Staff. Both men were ex-Royal Marine Commandos and had been sent off to
school in England to learn their cover trades as under-butlers. It was, he
thought, a bit much to ask them to be footmen during the day and then have
them wandering the house half the night on guard duty. He would speak to
the Major.

Michael re-entered his office and murmured his thanks to the two men. They
nodded in acknowledgement and left the room quietly and discreetly. Michael
sat back and thought of his own lifestyle. Quiet, discreet, low-key and
very conservative in all things. Major Meinertzhagen, who was listed on the
household accounts as the Comptroller, was a case in point. His outward
facade belied his inner steel and ferocity.

The Major might wear impeccably tailored, double-breasted, pinstripe suits
(tailored by the best Bond Street bespoke tailor, whom Michael also
used). He might speak in the dulcet and cultivated tones of a Sandhurst
graduate (which he was). He might also, if provoked, or requested to do so,
inflict great physical harm, quietly and discreetly, of course, as
witnessed only this morning when the Major had joined him for coffee and
quietly informed him that Gerry James Omanski would ride in no more
parades.

Dismissing thoughts of the lowlifes of Vancouver and Victoria from his
mind, Michael settled into one of the Hepplewhite pale-green and gold
upholstered armchairs that flanked the Sheraton tea table. Almost
immediately the door leading from the corridor opened and Laurence, dressed
now in his formal livery of brass-buttoned, black tailcoat, buff waistcoat,
Windsor collar and plain black necktie, entered carrying a large silver
salver of sandwiches. Behind him, immaculately dressed as always, followed
Major Meinertzhagen carrying a large wicker basket filled with yet more
papers. After setting the basket on Michael's desk the Major joined him at
the tea table, adjusting the knife-edged trousers of his black, pinstriped
suit. His heavily starched white shirt gleamed; his Guards tie was
perfectly knotted.

Michael glanced at the wicker basket of papers, and then nodded to
Laurence. "Thank you, Laurence, I shall pour."

Laurence bowed his head and left the room. They sat in silence, sipping
their tea, enjoying the exquisite brew. All too soon business would intrude
on their quiet interlude. "I've had Hambleton's latest sales catalogue in
the post," said the Major, taking a sandwich. "Mrs. Putnam's Constable is
listed."

Michael cocked an eyebrow as he reached for a smoked salmon and watercress
sandwich. "An admirable lady."

"Formidable as well," murmured The Major. Mrs. Putnam feared no man,
including Major Meinertzhagen.

"We must see that she receives a good price." Michael turned and glanced at
the painting over the carved marble fireplace: Constable's Flatford
Mill. "Harwich Lighthouse will make an admirable addition to the
collection, don't you think?"  The Major nodded his understanding.  He
would attend the auction and soon enough the painting would hang in
Michael's house. Michael offered a plate of Queen Alexandra sandwiches to
the Major. "Thank you, no, Michael." Setting aside his teacup he patted his
flat stomach and smiled. "They are very good but one must watch one's
figure." Michael chuckled. The Major was fanatical about his weight and
keeping in what he called "fighting trim."

The Major's refusal was their signal to begin the evening's work. They
always followed the same routine: a cup of tea, a sandwich or two, a remark
concerning friends or acquaintances, and then, business. "General Minh has
requested a meeting," began the Major tentatively, broaching a subject that
he knew would raise his employer's hackles.

"No.  Let him do business with his own kind." Michael's voice was hard.

The Major stifled an exasperated sigh. The General, once Commander of the
3rd Military District in Vietnam, had fled with his family and his fortune
intact. Outwardly an urbane, civilized, cosmopolitan Francophile, he was in
fact a vicious, venal, greedy little man who had more than once
demonstrated that he was not to be trusted. Michael loathed him and would
not meet with him for any reason. The Major, being a pragmatist, moved
on. "Uncle Harry Lee sends his thanks for your assistance with the Omanski
problem."

Michael waved this away and picked up a piece of pastry. "The man was a
nuisance. Had he confined his nonsense to annoying Uncle Harry he would
have been ignored. His disrespect for the military was not to be
countenanced."

This caused the Major to smile. Michael had never served a day in any
military, yet his respect for it was legend. He admired their order and
discipline. The military also figured largely in his plans to expand the
Order. Which led him to inform Michael, "Laurence and Noel have made
application to join the Order."

Michael's eyes widened. "Really. Ordinary or professed?"

The Major coughed delicately. "Professed." There were some things, in
particular a man's sexual orientation, that he disliked mentioning.

Michael smiled a small smile. "Really, Richard, you are such a prude. It is
not that you do not know what the Order is about, or who comprises the
membership of the Order."

The Major smiled thinly and shrugged. "Frankly I was surprised when they
declared themselves. They certainly kept that part of their lives close to
their chests."

"The Royal Marines are not known for tolerating homosexuals in their
ranks. Quite the opposite, I should think."

"As bad as the Guards Regiments," replied The Major sadly. "But not
surprising. Homophobia is endemic in the British Forces."

Michael thought carefully before he replied. The Major was a very private
man and revealed nothing of his past by word or deed if he could help
it. "I have always admired your sense of honesty and fair play, Richard,
not to mention your loyalty to your men."

Meinertzhagen squirmed in embarrassment. He had only done what any
gentleman would have done. "RSM Chard was with me in Malaya, and in
Vietnam. He was a fine soldier"

"Still, your loyalty cost you a great deal."

"Not really. It was time to move on in any case." The Major's tone was one
of finality. The matter was closed for the moment.

Michael was wise enough to end the discussion of the Major's past. "Both
men are aware of the first requirement?"

The Major nodded. "It is not necessary in Laurence's case. His mother gave
him his gift for life before she took him home from hospital. Noel has
spoken to Doctor Reynolds and understands the procedure. He thinks it a
small price to pay."

Michael nodded. "They will need three professed knights to sponsor them."

"That should not be a problem. They are fine lads and better Marines. If I
were professed I would sponsor them in a minute. As it is I can only
recommend to you that their candidacy be accepted."

Michael thought a moment. "Mention the sponsorship to Richard Maslen. He's
already sponsoring his young friend. He will accept your
recommendation. Stephen Winslow as well.

Meinertzhagen looked sceptically at Michael. "Bit of a conflict of interest
there, perhaps?"

"Why?" demanded Michael.

One of the Major's roles was that of Devil's Advocate. "Willoughby and
Hunter will use it against him once they learn of it," he pointed out. "As
they will use his age to argue against his election as Chancellor. He is
only, what, 26?"

Michael stood and began to pace the antique Wilton carpet that covered the
hardwood floor of the office. He did this as a means to vent his almost
uncontrollable anger. "Let them try!" he snapped. "They are meddlesome,
senile old men and because of them, and those like them, the Order has
become moribund and hidebound, going absolutely nowhere, filled with old
queens who are more interested in molesting their Pages than in the good of
the Order." He pounded his right fist into the palm of his left
hand. "Willoughby has been Receiver of the Common Treasure for 30 years and
has not increased our revenues by one penny. Hunter has been Hospitaller
for 26 years and because there are no hospitals to administer he has done
exactly nothing for 26 years! Neither of them have done a thing to increase
our membership."

The Major nodded coldly. "They've already complained that I've refused to
send the hearses for them."

Michael laughed mirthlessly. In the mews were kept the "hearses": two
Rolls-Royce Phantom V limousines and three Daimler limousines, all painted
in Royal maroon livery. A full-time mechanic kept them in perfect working
order. They were rarely used. Michael eschewed ostentation in everything,
including his motorcars. "You will send the most nondescript rental cars
you can find," he said coldly. "They will ride in them or take the bus."

The Major nodded.

"Major, I must have Winslow!" Michael declared suddenly. "He is part and
parcel of what I want to do for the Order. We must expand! We must have
young men of hope and courage. We must!" He sat down and rubbed his
forehead wearily. "There are winds of change blowing through our land. The
old ways are going. Many are already gone. Old prejudices are being blown
away. Our time has not yet come, Major, but it will come and we must have
young men of vision and daring in the vanguard. Young men like Stephen
Winslow and the young men he will find for the Order."

"He would be invaluable, given that he is so involved with the younger
members of the Armed Forces," agreed the Major.

"He is indeed. At the moment he is involved with training 200 young
men. Who knows how many of them could become members of our Order better
than Stephen? How many of those boys who will soon become men will respond
to him? He is a great friend of the Arundel boys. I know for a fact that he
is involved with a young man, a civilian."

At the mention of Cory and Todd the Major cringed slightly. He had met
them, and considered them obnoxious, disrespectful brats. They, in turn,
considered him an officious old wreck, and called him Major Nuisance behind
his back. The last time the Twins had visited the estate with their mother
they had spiked the Major's drink of Kahlua and milk with Ex-Lax, a
chocolate flavoured laxative. Fortunately, he had not required
hospitalization.

Michael had seen the cringe but ignored it. It his own way, in his own
time, Richard would have to make his peace with the Twins. "In September
Stephen returns to the Reserve Training Unit and every weekend from then
until next April he will be training young Reservists from every province
west of Ontario. From April to September every fortnight he will welcome,
and train, 40-odd different and diverse Reservists from all across the
country! Think, Richard, think of the opportunities he will have to assess
and evaluate hundreds of young men!"

"I agree, but there is still the Council . . ."

Michael pointed at Richard. "Hear me, Richard, and mark me well. Though the
Heavens may fall, Steven Winslow will be Chancellor of the Order before the
sun sets on Saturday!"

******

At 1700, as the fiery orange sun began its descent into the western
horizon, those cadets who felt like eating, and were willing to change into
the rig of the day, straggled into the Mess Hall. Most preferred to stay in
or near the waters of the swimming beach, hoping for an errant breeze to
cool the air.

Those cadets who ate, and there were relatively few, stuck to salads and
cold drinks, emptying the jugs of ice water and fruit drinks. Chef, who had
been this route before, was not worried. The uneaten roast beef would
appear again as hot beef sandwiches. The haddock he would flake and make
into a kedgeree for breakfast.

With so few cadets eating Chef, after sternly warning them not to lop off
anything vital, set Randy and Joey to carving the roasted chickens (pans of
roast fowl filled every flat surface in the galley). Ray and Sandro manned
the food lines, with few takers. It was so slow that The Phantom left Matt
and Kevin to attend to the officers and Chiefs, and went into the galley to
go over his idea about the meal chit with Chef. Chef thought it a good idea
and agreed to take The Phantom's draft to the Base printing office the next
day. He had to attend a meeting there in any case so it was no bother to
him.

Greg came in, cranky, and delivered The Phantom's typed and collated lesson
plans. Doc came by and after handing out salt pills to all and sundry sat
down with Kyle, Andy and Dave Eddy, insisting that they join him in a
refreshing cup of tea.

Little Big Man slithered in, early for once, and ate a double portion of
roast beef, potatoes and vegetables. While Sandro's back was turned he went
'round the buoy and snagged a second piece of cake. Ray saw him, but let it
pass. It was far too hot to argue with evolutionary U-turns such as Little
Big Man.

Harry, grumpy and out of sorts, came by and collected his Bandsmen. Martin
he sent off to Cleaning Stations, scrubbing out the Chiefs heads and
washplace. Clifford was sent to the School of Wind where he joined four
other brass players. Together they would form a Brass Quintet and play at
the Captain's Garden Party.

Chef returned to the dining hall where he grumbled at Tyler about the lack
of hands and the amount of work that had to be done. Tyler looked at Val
who nodded, left, and returned with four of the Duty Hands. These Chef
employed buttering the hundreds of slices of bread that would be needed for
tomorrow's sandwiches.

At 1800, when the Second Dog Watchmen closed up Harry, who was Duty Chief,
sent over some additional hands. These, with Matt and Kevin supervising,
were employed in cleaning the tables and scrubbing the decks in the dining
hall and the galley.

With dress restrictions lifted the Twins came 'round to cadge something to
eat. They were dressed in shorts and sweat-soaked tees and The Phantom took
pity on them and made sandwiches.

Shortly after the Twins entered, David, Billy and Chad with, as The Phantom
had expected, Nick in tow, returned and announced that they would like to
become stewards.

Nick was as tall as Chad, but not as beefy. A typical gunner he kept his
blond hair cut short, high and tight on the sides, with just enough on top
to make a part.

Aaron and Killian, also gunners, came in and asked about becoming
stewards. Aaron was short, but well muscled, with dark red hair and
freckles. Killian was clean and trim, with lightly curling blonde hair and
a rosy pink complexion. He had perfect teeth and a ready smile.

Pleasantly surprised that he had so many volunteers The Phantom called Matt
and Kevin over and gathered all the cadets together in one corner where he
began to explain their duties and his plans to train them
properly. Presently they were laughing and enjoying their first lesson.

Ray left the steam table and joined The Phantom and the other boys. He
liked being with them and enjoyed their bantering and silly jokes.  He also
enjoyed sitting beside Matt and sneaking quick glances at Kevin.

The Twins, with Tyler and Val, sat to one side, sipping ice water, watching
the antics of the other cadets, and listening to Tyler trying to convince
them that it was in their best interests to have a Chiefs and Petty
Officers Mess Dinner. Harry rolled in with Chris, Harry complaining loudly
and profanely about the iniquities of brass players and the stupidity of
the Canteen Mangler for allowing the Coke machine to go dry.

Chris, who'd been sitting around the Gunroom moping (Jon was Duty), had
accompanied Harry to the Canteen and then, when they found that there was
no cold pop available, to the Mess Hall, where there was at least ice
water. He was trying to mollify Harry, to no avail. They joined Tyler's
group. Engrossed in their own affairs, nobody noticed the thin figure
sitting glowering in one corner of the dining hall.

******

Little Big Man's steel-grey eyes narrowed as he looked daggers at the
cadets gathered around the tables. The embers of envy and hatred smouldered
deep within him. God, how he hated them, all of them.

He had spent much of the afternoon, his pen filled with venom, detailing
the latest atrocities committed against him, the pages of the letter he was
writing filled with hatred against the Twins who had ridiculed and mocked
him; hatred against Tyler and Val for believing the lies and slanders of
the other cadets and sending him into exile; hatred against The Phantom,
who had cost him what few friends he had, and hatred against his brother
who had abandoned the teachings of his parents, the Brotherhood and the
church and allowed himself to be corrupted by perverts and molesters. God,
how he hated them all.

Paul Greene's hatred of his brother had been growing within him from almost
the day of Matt's arrival, when he had attended the Chiefs and Petty
Officers' wet downs. Little Big Man's hatred had deepened and become
wormwood and gall as he watched Matt's popularity grow. He watched with
hate-filled eyes as Matt, who was sitting beside The Phantom, put his arm
around his friend's shoulders - an innocent gesture signifying
little. Little Big Man all but spat in disgust at Matt's gesture. God, how
he hated them all. His eyes narrowed. "Look at them," he thought angrily,
"fawning over the little faggot!"

As Little Big Man watched Cory said something to Matt. Little Big Man was
too far away to hear what Cory had said, but he was close enough to see
Matt laugh and flip Cory the bird, then stand up and wiggle his ass at
him. God, he growled low, that his own brother could do such a thing!

His own brother, a fucking queer! And all because of the Twins!

******

Little Big Man, hiding in his dark corner, his hatred bubbling over, had
never known love and never having known it would never understand that
love, innocent and sexless, could and did exist in the bonds that grew
among teenage boys. He could never understand Matt's popularity, not
realizing that Matt was everything he was not.

Where his brother wandered through life with a sneer on his thin, arrogant
face and snarling insults, Matt was happy and smiling, friendly to
everyone. He liked everybody, including Matron. Two Strokes, a boy not
known for his forbearance and tolerance of gunners, enjoyed Matt's company
when he came to visit in the Gunroom.  Matt had done nothing special at
all, merely shown both Matron and Two Strokes a little respect. Matt never,
for instance, used Two Stroke's nickname, even behind his back, always
referring to him by his full name and rate.

Matt had managed to endear himself with Matron simply by visiting the Sick
Bay and showing an interest in what she did and listening politely to her
complaints. He would drop by unannounced, just to pass a little time,
sometimes after Secure, sometimes during Stand Easy, and join Doc and
Matron in a cup of tea and chat. In the end Matron thought him a lovely boy
and Doc tried to talk him into considering a career in medicine.

Unlike Little Big Man, who skived off at any opportunity, Matt hated to be
idle. His job as Weapons Yeoman was neither all that difficult nor
time-consuming. To fill in his day he visited Sick Bay to chat with Doc and
the Matron. He would wander into the galley looking to help out if needed,
which Chef appreciated. Matt liked being The Phantom's Assistant Chief
Steward, admitting to himself that he had a bit of a crush on the older
boy. He felt comfortable with Phantom and instinctively knew that he could,
for some reason he did not quite understand, tell Phantom anything without
fear of recrimination or displeasure.  Unlike his brother, who refused to
allow any feelings that remotely suggested love to enter his soul, and
verbalized his contempt for those who expressed such feelings, Matt was not
afraid of his feelings of special fondness for The Phantom, nor for his
frank adoration of the Twins, particularly Todd, whom, as he had admitted
to The Phantom, he loved.

Little Big Man was a bigot and a racist. Matt was not. He readily accepted
the Twins for what they were, two wonderful, caring boys who happened to be
gay. He would not allow the bigotry that consumed his brother to blight his
friendship with them.

The Twins in turn loved Matt. At first, as they later freely admitted,
their attraction to him had been more than just friendship. Matt was a
strikingly handsome young man of the type that appealed to both Cory and
Todd. He stood 5'7" tall, with short, blond, slightly curly hair, had
clear, sky-blue eyes, a firm, slim, and very trim body, a ready smile, and
a friendly disposition.

Matt was aware that he was attractive to both Todd and Cory (more so after
their inspection of him in their motel room back in Victoria), just as he
was aware that in his own way he was attracted to them, Todd more than Cory
to be sure, but attracted to them, though not, as he often told them,
sexually.

The Twins accepted Matt's often declared straightness without too much
disappointment. They liked him, and they wanted to be friends with him, so
they were. Their friendship with Matt did not, however, prevent them from
teasing him unmercifully. As they grew closer they quickly learned that
Matt gave as good as he got and adamantly refused to allow their teasing to
upset him because he knew that it was not malicious (as it had been with
his brother) and that teasing him was just one of their ways of showing
affection for him.

Only one thing marred Matt's relationship with the Twins and The Phantom:
fear. Not the fear that he might be homosexual. Matt had been very much in
love before and, given the feelings he had for Todd, he did think that his
feelings for boys far out weighed his feelings for girls. Being gay was
not, to Matt's way of thinking, the end of the world. He could accept being
gay. What he feared, what gave him nightmares and made him break into a
cold sweat, were the reprisals that would be visited upon him when he
returned home if his brother had even an inkling of the closeness of his
relationship with the Twins or The Phantom. What he feared most, however,
was the utter devastation that would descend upon him if either his brother
or his father had the merest hint that he might be gay. They did not need
proof, only suspicion, and because of their suspicion they would very
likely kill him.

******

The personification of Matt's fears sat watching the cadets as they laughed
and chucked shit at one another, engaging in the harmless banter of teenage
boys as they accused each other of all manner of sexual peccadilloes, with
each other, with imagined females, and in Harry's case, an animal or
two. The more he listened the angrier Little Big man became. Time and
again, in lecture after lecture, in sermon after sermon, he had been told
that such talk was perverse and sinful. Seething with righteous anger
Little Big Man watched as Matt nonchalantly rested his elbow on The
Phantom's shoulder, laughing at something one of the boys had said.

Harry quite unknowingly set Little Big Man off. He stood up, stretched, and
then did what he always did from unconscious force of habit: he reached
into his shorts to adjust The Pride before sitting down.

Little Big Man, almost blind with disgusted rage leapt to his feet. Matt
might be too stupid to recognize a nest of Sodomites when he saw one but he
was not. Enough was enough. He walked to where Matt was sitting and grabbed
him by the arm. "Get up, now!" he snarled at the totally startled Matt.

Matt struggled free. "What the . . ." He glared at his brother. "What the
hell is your problem, Paul?"

"You associating with these . . ." Little Big Man, a contemptuous look on
his face, waved his arm, indicating the entire group.

"They're my friends," countered Matt angrily. "Fuck off, Paul, and leave me
alone."

Too far gone Little Big Man reached out and grabbed Matt's arm again. He
raised his fist. "You're coming with me, Matt, away from this nest of
. . ."

Matt cringed. He had seen the look on Paul's face before. Little Big Man
drew back his other arm. Matt needed to understand and the only way for him
to understand was . . .

Kevin's hand flashed out, encompassing Little Big Man's fist. He twisted,
yanking Little Big Man's arm backward as he did so. "Let him go, asshole,"
ordered Kevin quietly. "Let him go or I break it." Little Big Man, writhing
in pain, released Matt. Kevin, a sneer curling his lips, twisted his arm
viciously. "Matt told you to fuck off. Why don't you?" he asked, releasing
Little Big Man.  Little Big Man took a step backward and looked around the
semicircle of cadets. The four gunners who had been washing the deck had
dropped their mops and were staring stonily at him, their fists
clenched. Matt was one of them and they always took care of their
own. Harry was half out of his seat, struggling to get away from Val who
had wrapped his arms around Harry's waist and was trying, not without
difficulty, to hold him back. Cory, angry beyond endurance, was muttering
threats at Little Big Man and at Todd who had wrapped his arms around his
brother and was holding him back. Cory was in a killing rage and Todd
embraced him tightly.  He knew what would happen if Cory got loose.

The Phantom, growling incoherently and mad with rage, was slowly rising in
his seat, his fist so clenched the knuckles were white. "I warned you, you
little FUCK!" he yelled as he rose to his full height. Before he could leap
on Little Big Man strong hands pushed him down.

"Phantom, sit down now!" ordered Tyler who had suddenly appeared behind The
Phantom's chair. He glared at Little Big Man.  "Get out, now!" he ordered,
pointing toward the door. "Get out before I let them have you."

Little Big Man looked at the faces of the cadets. For the first time in his
life he saw the face of real, unmitigated hatred. He was bright enough to
know that he had crossed a line but too stupid to let it go. "You come with
me now, Matt, and I'll forget about everything I saw."

"LIAR!" screamed Matt. Had not Ray held him back he would have attacked his
brother. Years of physical and mental abuse, of beatings and bruises, of
hatred and bigotry had festered within Matt. The great monstrous carbuncle
that had sapped his spirit and driven him to the brink of self-destruction
burst when he screamed the one word: LIAR. Still struggling, trying to get
away from Ray's surprisingly iron-like grip, Matt yelled again. "LIAR!
You've been a liar all your life. You've done nothing but hate all your
life. You are a liar and a bigot and a racist and YOU ARE NO BROTHER OF
MINE!"

Little Big Man nodded brusquely. "I know what you are now, Matt," he
hissed. "When I get home . . ." he began dangerously.

Matt dug in the pocket of his bell-bottoms and a silver coin flew through
the air and dropped at his brother's feet. It was a twenty-five cent
piece. "Why wait?" asked Matt with a lopsided grin. "The telephone's in the
breezeway flats. I'm sure the Beast of Uplands will take a collect call
from you!"

Little Big Man sputtered angrily. "How dare you talk about Dad like that!
All he wants, all I want . . ."

"What you want is what you think I'm getting!" Matt's voice was a scalpel
slash through his brother's brain.

Little Big Man was livid. His fists were clenched and he shook with
impotent rage. Rage and shame, for The Beast was stirring deep within
him. Matt's thinly veiled accusation of homosexuality was a telling
blow. He took a step forward.

Kevin stepped in front of him. He ignored the strangled cries of outrage
behind him as The Phantom, in a murderous rage, demanded that Tyler release
him. To his left Cory was struggling vainly against Todd's tight grip,
cow-kicking at his brother, growling like a caged animal. "Go ahead,"
whispered Kevin ominously. "Oh, please, go ahead and try something!"

"Leading Gunner BERKELEY!"

Tyler's roar brought all struggling to a screeching halt. Three heads
popped out of the serving hatches as Sandro, Joey and Randy looked out to
see what was going on. Chef, a menacing look on his face and a cleaver in
his hand, pushed open the serving door.

"Yes, Master at Arms?" Kevin was coldly, determinedly, calm.

"You WILL back away, Leading Gunner!"

"Master at Arms!"  Kevin acknowledged Tyler's order and took one very small
step away from Little Big Man.

"Petty Officer Greene!"

"Master at Arms?" spat Little Big Man.

"Get out, NOW, and report to my office at 0600."

Little Big Man, defeated for the moment, nodded curtly, wheeled, and
slammed from the Mess Hall.

******

The door had barely slammed closed behind Little Big Man when Matt wailed,
sobbed and collapsed against Ray. Todd released his brother and before Ray
could react took Matt in his arms, hugging him close. Matt buried his head
in Todd's shoulder and began sobbing. "Oh fuck, man, oh fuck," he wept
softly.  "I am so dead."

"No, no," whispered Todd, his cheek pressed against Matt's soft hair. "No,
shush, now, it will be all right."

"Todd, you do not understand."

Cory joined Todd and Matt. He embraced them both. The other boys, stunned,
moved closer, reaching out to touch and stroke their sobbing friend and
shipmate. They were all so engrossed in trying to comfort Matt that they
did not hear three muffled oaths as Chef smacked one large and two small
firm, well-packed bottoms. They did not hear Chef's muttered command for
Sandro and the Brats to get back to work. They did not hear Chef come into
the dining hall. In one hand Chef held a tumbler half full of dark rum. In
the other were two bottles of Pusser's Neats. He handed the tumbler to Matt
and placed the bottles on the table. "Drink it, Matt, and no argument."
Chef looked at Tyler. "I know, a service matter between Chiefs."

Todd set Matt down in a chair and pushed the drink toward him. "You heard
Chef, drink it."

Matt nodded dumbly and picked up the drink. He was beginning to regain
control of his emotions. "Chef, I'm not much of a drinker and this is rum
. . ."

"Matty, will you just drink the fucking rum!" Tyler gestured toward the
tray of plastic glasses. "The rest of you, get a glass. One for Chef, too."

Chef shook his head. "Thank you, my boy, but no. This is your show Tyler
lad. If you need me I'll be inside." He bent down, patted Matt on the
cheek, smiled at him, and left.

Matt took a huge slug of rum and almost choked. Hacking and coughing, he
slumped against Todd, who had not left his side. Tyler pounded Matt's back
and looked at the other cadets. "This is the real stuff, gentlemen. All of
you can have a drink, but mix it with water."

The cadets poured their drinks and as directed, made their way to the water
fountain. They sat down at the table, sipping quietly, not knowing what to
do. Matt sobbed intermittently, then shook his head. He smiled at
Todd. "I'm okay, Todd, honest."

"Maybe," agreed Todd. "And maybe not. But no matter what, Matt, you have
friends to help you."

Matt smiled thinly. "My friends are here, Todd, they cannot help me at
home."  Tyler sat down beside Matt and put his broad hand on Matt's thin
shoulder. "Matt, will they beat you?"

Matt nodded slowly. "By the time Paul gets finished I'll be lucky if they
don't kill me. He'll never forget or forgive what I said to him."

"Will he call your father?" asked Val.  "Is he that low?"

"No and yes," Matt took a sip of his drink. "Paul will wait until he gets
home. He gets off on telling tales about me. He likes to see the look on my
face when he lies his fucking head off." He took a firm grasp of Tyler's
hand. "Paul likes the personal touch," continued Matt with uncharacteristic
sarcasm. "Believe me, Tyler, he'll spare no one. By the time he's finished
embellishing his story everybody in this room, hell, every swinging dick in
AURORA will be a pervert of one kind or another."

Tyler glanced at Todd. So, Matt did not know about his brother's letter
writing.

"I'm well and truly fucked, Tyler," Matt declared sadly. "I know it. About
the only thing I can do worse is to tell Paul that he's right, I am a
faggot." He immediately regretted his words. "Ah, shit, Todd, Cory . . ."

Cory shook his head and smiled. "Matt, we know you're not a queer, or a
faggot, or anything like that. As far as I'm concerned . . ."

"And me," interjected Todd.

"Yes, and Todd. We've heard it all before. Please, do not apologize." Cory
looked around the room, daring someone to disagree with him. The other boys
said nothing. They all knew that the Twins were gay and while some of them
might not comfortable with the Twins' sexuality, they were at least
tolerant of it.

"Still, I'm sorry," insisted Matt, glancing discreetly at Phantom who had
insisted that the word not be used in the dining hall. The Phantom pursed
his lips and remained silent.

Harry stood looking thoughtfully at Matt. "What will happen, when you get
home?"  Matt sobbed, then straightened. "Paul will tell my father
everything he thinks he knows. He'll add a few juicy details - it doesn't
matter that they're not true - and my Dad will either beat the living shit
out of me or throw me out into the street."

"Come again?" Harry came from a loving, caring family. Family was
everything and no one, no son, was ever rejected.

"He'll beat me, then he'll throw me out after telling me to come back here
to my . . ."

"Queer friends?" finished Val.

Matt nodded. "That's what he'll say. Sorry, but that is exactly what he'll
say."

For a moment no one moved. Then Kevin stood up. He walked to Matt, knelt on
one knee and placed his hand on Matt's leg. "Matt, I live in a row house in
Hamilton. It's not much, and my Dad, he works in a steel mill, but he loves
me, he loves all his kids. I share a room with my older brothers. They're
real perverts but if you need it, and don't mind perverts, my bed is
yours. I can sleep on the couch."

Matt giggled through his tears at Kevin's description of his
brothers. Before he could comment that he didn't mind perverts, as most of
the guys he knew were perverts, Ray let out a yelp. "Hamilton!" he snapped
indignantly. "Now why would he want to go there?" he demanded to know.
"You come to my place, Matt.  Rockcliffe is a hell of a lot closer to
Uplands than Hamilton is. I'll kick my brother out and you can have his
bed. He can sleep on the couch!"

"Balls to that," snapped Val. "You get your ass out to Saskatoon! You want
family? Hell man I got more family than there are soldiers in the Eyetalian
Army! You come out to my place. My Mama will stuff you full of pasta and
put some meat on you! My Pops will teach you how to make grappa and . . ."

"Turn him into a bootlegger!" boomed Harry. "Matt, you get your skinny ass
one forty miles due north of Winnipeg, Matt. Farm life, that's the life!"

The Phantom snorted. "Really, Harry, now why would he want to do that? You
had six brothers when you left the farm and you're always bitching about
having to share a room with one of them. Or is it all of them?" He turned
and gave Matt a squeeze. "You come to Comox. It's a one horse town, but the
folks are friendly, and my Dad's a real pisser!"

"And a cop." Nick waved his finger at Matt. "You come home to
Gananoque. Now that's the place. I live in a houseboat and it's wall to
wall babes in heat during . . ."

"As if you'd know what to do with a babe in heat!" Chad turned and grinned
at Matt. "Haliburton, that's the place.  God's country. There's hunting and
fishing, and . . ."

Before he knew it Matt had instructions to come and live in twenty
different and diverse towns, villages and cities (and one farm). The boys
were so busy extolling the virtues of their home places that they did not
see The Gunner push open the galley door and peek slowly into the dining
hall.

Todd listened quietly. Matt's vulnerability touched a chord deep within him
and he realized that for all his denials, he was starting to fall in love
with Matt.  "Matt will come to live at Number Two Clarence Square," he said
suddenly. His voice was very firm and positive, so positive that Cory shot
him a questioning look. Todd ignored his brother and continued on. "My
folks already know what is going on. We told them all about the bruises,
and other things, when we saw them in Victoria. My dad can't do much,
Matty, but he's already got a friend looking into your situation."

"He has? But, Todd, I'm . . ." Matt was about to say that he was just
another cadet and that Todd owed him nothing.

"You're our friend, Matt, never forget that," replied Todd with some
emotion.

"Besides, I figure it's time I got a new baby brother."

"What's wrong with the one you have?" asked The Phantom. "He seems okay to
me."

"Good, you keep him." Todd grinned at Cory, who grinned back. "You try
living with him."

"I wouldn't mind," replied The Phantom. He waggled his eyebrows at Cory,
who gave The Phantom a salacious leer back.

Todd pretended not to have seen the looks and sniffed disdainfully. "Just
wait until you have to share a house with him. He's forever leaving his
dirty underpants all over the house, in his room, in the library, in my
room. Then he steals mine!"

Cory's lips curled in mock anger. "Talk it up, cock cheese."  He looked at
Matt, a huge grin breaking his face. "Todd has an underwear fetish, he
likes to sniff my shorts. And his feet stink because he has this aversion
to water."

"They do not, scrotum breath!" retorted Todd.

The other boys began to laugh so hard that all further arguments between
the Twins ceased. The Gunner laughed quietly at the exchange and looked at
Chef. "Well, one thing's certain, young Matt will never have to worry about
where he's going to lay his weary head."

Chef agreed sombrely. "A sad thing, this, Stevie. Is there nothing we can
do?"

The Gunner thought a moment. "The Command Chief Gunnery Instructor is a
good friend of the Base Chief Warrant Officer at Uplands. A word to him
might help."  "Phone him Stevie. Use the phone in my office."

The Gunner nodded. "I'll do what I can, Chef."

"Do your damnedest to get through to the Chief that Matt is in danger. I
feel it, Stevie, Ray feels it and so does Phantom."

"I'll do what I can," replied The Gunner. "So will the Command Chief
Gunnery Instructor." And so will a certain ex-SAS Major, when I explain the
situation to him, he finished silently.

******

Ray finished wiping down the stainless steel serving tables and glanced
around the galley. Finally, they were finished. The sandwiches were made
and packed in the boxes, the chicken carcasses were in the huge soup
kettles, waiting for tomorrow, when Chef would add the celery, carrots,
onions, water and bouquets garni that would turn them into stock. Kevin,
Joey and Randy were just finishing the last of the cleaning. Chef had gone
home, as had Phantom and The Gunner.  The dining hall was empty.

The cadets, after their run in with Little Big Man, had not stayed all that
long, drifting away when they had finished their drinks. Matt had wanted to
stay and help with the box lunches but Tyler had insisted that the Twins
take him back to his barracks and put him to bed. Shortly after the Twins
left with Matt, Tyler, Val and Harry returned to the Gunroom taking, as
Chef noted snidely, the bottles of rum with them.

Making the box lunches had not been all that time consuming. The Defaulters
had buttered the bread while Chef cut the cakes and pies that would
accompany the sandwiches. Sandro had put the cans of juice in the cardboard
boxes so it was just a matter of setting up an assembly line, making the
sandwiches, bagging them, and putting them in the boxes. Everybody had
mucked in, even The Gunner, after he had made some mysterious telephone
calls in Chef's office.

Ray glanced at the clock. It was 2215 and time to call it a day, and time
for a shower. He waved Kevin and the Brats over and told them to take
off. Tomorrow would be a long day for the cooks. Not only was there
breakfast to be made, they had to hand out the box lunches and spend the
day on the ranges.

"My bed sure will look good," said Kevin as he stripped off his sodden
gunshirt.  "A shower will do me a world of good."

Joey giggled. "You're too late. Showers are off."

"What?" Kevin stared at the clock and then groaned. "Fuck, he's right."

Ray pretended to have forgotten the shower restriction for the cadets. They
were supposed to have showered at 2130, all together, with the Killicks of
the Mess timing them. Kevin sniffed his armpits and rubbed his gunshirt
across his firm, muscled stomach. "Jesus, I stink."

"He can use our showers, can't he Ray?" asked Randy, unaware of his
serendipity.  Thank you, Randy! Ray sighed inwardly. Maybe, just maybe this
would be easier than he thought. "Sure he can," agreed Ray without
hesitation. He gestured toward the far end of the galley. "Go and get some
clean things and then come back and shower."

"What about the restriction?"

Ray noticed that Kevin was still rubbing his hard stomach with his
gunshirt. He also noticed that the band of Kevin's briefs that peeped about
the waist of his trousers was a pale pink. He also noticed that Kevin had a
clearly defined and very curly treasure trail leading from under the waist
of his trousers to his cute navel. Ray could feel the end of his dick
tingling.  He turned and began wiping down the already clean counter top.
The sight of Kevin's half naked body was turning him on and, while he would
not say no to a session with Kevin, he did not want to telegraph his
desires by showing off the growing lump in his pants. Not in front of Joey
and Randy in any case. He was not about to tempt fate with those two.

"We're cooks so we can shower any time we like," explained Joey.

"Which is what you're going to do now," instructed Ray. "The pair of you
need it, bad."

Kevin laughed and punched Joey's shoulder. "I think he means you stink."

Both Randy and Joey could hardly argue the point. They did stink, their
bodies smelling of grease, and food, and early adolescent sweat. Ray
watched them go, Randy and Joey to the showers, Kevin to his barracks to
fetch a change of clothing. He smiled at the sight of Kevin's firm butt and
sighed. "Well, if nothing else," he thought as he reached down to adjust
his raging hardon, "at least I'll get to see what Kevin's hiding under
those pink drawers!"

******

Kevin hurried to Barracks 8 where he dug out a clean pair of shorts, some
socks and his Pusser gummers. He did not bother with any clean briefs. When
he had told Phantom that everything he owned was dyed pink he was not
exaggerating, and had had to borrow a clean gunshirt from Billy to wear
when he served the lunch crowd.  Kevin had also borrowed a second gunshirt
from Nick to wear when he served dinner. He was, however, all right for
tomorrow as every cadet had been issued combats, which, since they were
brand, spanking new, he had not needed to wash. As he pulled his clean
shorts from his locker the back of his hand brushed against the rough
material of the combats that hung there. "Shit," he muttered. The combats
were as rough as a badger's arsehole and would probably scratch his ass and
parts to rat-shit because there was no way he was wearing pink underpants
again. His barracks mates had had a field day this morning when he was
forced to put on the fucking things and he was not about to have a repeat
performance.

Mind it could have been worse. He could have pulled his bonehead play back
home. He had three brothers, the two older boys, Kieran and Connor, steel
puddlers. Now that would have been a real disaster because when you came
from the toughest part of Steel Town one colour you did not wear was pink,
and older brothers knew no mercy when little brothers fucked up.

Gathering up his clean clothes Kevin left the barracks. At the far end of
the row of barracks he could see the island of light that marked the Mess
Hall, and as he drew near the huge building he saw two of the lights go
out.  Ray, he thought, closing up for the night.

Kevin walked through the darkened dining hall and into the washplace and as
he stripped off his soiled, sweat-stained clothes he could hear the water
running in the showers. Naked, Kevin went into the showers and saw Randy
and Joey grab-assing and splashing each other. They looked him up and down
as he walked over to one of the showerheads and turned on the water.

Paying no attention to the Makee-learns, Kevin soaped up, luxuriating in
the lukewarm, body cooling water, did not notice as the two boys positioned
themselves, Randy on Kevin's right, Joey on his left, and he was so
engrossed in scrubbing away the day's sweat and grime that he did not see
them carefully examine every inch of his body. He was about to reach down
and scrub away the day's spunk from his genitals when he heard Joey gasp
loudly. "Wow!"

"Yeah, wow!" echoed Randy.

Kevin turned his head rapidly to either side and saw the two wide-eyed boys
staring at his crotch, a little stunned at their open admiration of his
penis and testicles. He glanced down at his parts, looked at the two boys,
then at himself again. Both boys' almost identical penises were soft,
hanging over low-hanging sacs containing small oval balls.  Compared to
them he was huge.

"Gosh, it sure is big," said Joey. He licked his lips and grinned at
Randy. "It's bigger than Phantom's or Ray's."

Randy nodded his agreement. "And a lot thicker."

Kevin, who was hearing more than he wanted to hear, dropped his hand over
his exposed dick and balls. "Don't you guys have anything better to do than
to check me out?" he demanded. He was embarrassed at their open
curiosity. While this was not the first time that his parts had drawn
admiring glances from the other guys while he was in the showers, he drew
the line at little boys.

"No," answered Joey frankly. "It's nice. Can we touch it?"

For a moment Kevin lost himself in joining the mutual admiration society's
examination of his most private member. He couldn't blame them for
looking. He did have a nice set of upper deck fittings, even if he did say
so himself. His flaccid, perfectly circumcised penis rose out of his thick,
dark and very curly pubic bush, hanging over his very large, oval balls
which were contained in a high hanging, smooth, almost hairless sac. Kevin
knew to the fraction of an inch exactly how long his dick was. He and Adam
Preston, his best friend, had fooled around one Saturday morning last
spring and measured their dicks. Kevin soft measured exactly 4.3 inches
from root to tip (they were using his mother's measuring tape) beating Adam
by and inch and a half. As for when they both got hard, well now, that was
a whole different story, which Adam refused to believe at first, so they
measured twice. Kevin hard stood proudly upward, 7.3 inches of firm flesh,
and almost 5 inches around. The downside of the afternoon's measuring was
that Adam was awed and a little afraid of what his fondling produced and
would never do anything but jerk his best friend off.

"So, can we touch it?" repeated Joey.

Before Kevin could tell them that no, they definitely could not touch his
dick, two sharp cracks in quick succession echoed through the showers. Both
boys yelped, jumped, and grabbed their stinging bottoms. They turned,
snarling, to see Ray standing behind them, his palms open.

"That hurt, God Damn it!" yelled Joey as he rubbed his smarting behind.

"Yeah, it hurt, Ray!" Randy looked back to see if there was a mark on his
round, pink butt.

"Good!" snapped Ray. "I meant it to! What did Phantom tell you two clowns
about behaving yourselves?" He pulled both boys to the far side of the
room, ignoring Kevin's puzzled look. Ray bent his head and spoke
softly. "Look, I didn't really mean to hurt you and I should not have
smacked your asses, but guys, you just can't go around checking out other
guys like that."

Randy and Joey knew that Ray was right, and they nodded slowly.

"You don't know Kevin all that well," continued Ray quietly. "What if he
was like Little Big Man?"

Joey gulped and his eyes bulged. "Jeez, Ray, we never thought of that."

"And he does have a real nice dick," offered Randy. "Almost as nice as
yours."

Ray knew the beginning of a snow job when he heard it. "Enough already!" He
grinned slightly. "We'll talk about that tomorrow. It's late. I want you
both to get dry and get to your beds. Will you do that, please?"

Joey glanced at Randy who nodded ever so slightly. Joey beckoned Ray to
bend lower. "Can we come back later?" he whispered in Ray's ear.  "Please?"

"A lot later, okay? Wait until the Duty Watch have done Rounds."

Both boys grinned. If Kevin had not been present they would have hugged and
kissed Ray.  Maybe even given his dick a pull. "Thanks, Ray," they replied
in unison, grinning.

Ray returned their grin. "Please, please, be very careful, okay?'

Joey and Randy gave Ray a quick hug. As they pulled away Ray whispered
again. "And you guys are right. He does have a beaut!"

******

Kevin was curious about all the whispering but said nothing. He guessed
that Ray was giving both of the youngsters shit for looking at him. Not
that he minded.  Hell, if you got it, you flaunt it.

"Sorry about that," said Ray as he joined Kevin in showering.

"Ah, not to worry. They're just kids, and curious."

"Too curious," returned Ray, embarrassed at his own frank curiosity.

If Kevin noticed Ray doing exactly what he had smacked the Brats for doing
he gave no sign. He scrubbed and rinsed, and, not entirely unconsciously,
made a show of washing his penis and testicles.

Ray couldn't help himself. He kept darting glances at Kevin, hoping that he
would not notice. Ray also offered a silent prayer that he would not pop a
boner, but, Oh God, was Kevin beautiful!

All too soon as far as Ray was concerned Kevin rinsed off and walked into
the locker area. He quickly rinsed and followed.

Kevin was just finishing drying himself with his towel when Ray came into
the locker room. He saw the quick glance the other boy gave him and turned,
hiding the smile slowly creeping across his face. Ray was checking him out,
which did not bother him in the least.

Ray's heart was beating faster than it ever had before. He was totally
mesmerized by the sight of Kevin's naked body. By any standards Kevin was
prime, Grade-A Stud! Not only did he have a dick to die for, his body,
thanks to frequent yard work after school and workouts in the school gym
where he wrestled, was well-muscled, with strong thighs and a hard, firm,
stomach. Like all the boys Kevin sported a well-tanned upper body although
from his waist down to his crotch his skin was pale white, his tan lines
showing that he favoured the brief patterned bathing suit. He had a firm,
round, melon-shaped butt, and his nicely shaped legs and firm taut thighs
were a lighter shade of tan, and covered from ankle to butt with a dusting
of dark brown hairs.

Ray tried to be as nonchalant as he could as he watched Kevin step into and
pull on his dark blue gym shorts. "No underwear?" he asked casually.

Kevin scowled and shook his head. "Better bare-balled than pink! I am not
wearing pink underpants!

"You going to wear those shorts to bed as well? You can't go buck ass, you
know."

Kevin snorted. "Nah. I'll go bollocks free. Unless somebody from the Duty
Watch lifts up the covers and looks nobody will ever know."

Ray saw a small opening. He reached into his locker and pulled out the
clear-wrapped package of briefs that The Phantom had given him. He threw
the package at Kevin who caught it deftly. "You can have those, if you
like," he said shyly.  Kevin looked at the package and then at Ray. "Hey
man, these are new. I can't take your underwear."

"Why not? I think they'll fit you. Phantom got them in town today. The
undies he bought are a size too big for me, so you can have them." Ray had
just, unconsciously, obeyed one of the rules of the unwritten Code. Every
word he had said had been the truth, just not quite all the truth. "It's no
big deal," continued Ray. He pulled a clean pair of briefs out of his
locker. "They don't fit me, so you might as well have them."

Kevin grinned. "Okay, sure. I'll give you the money for them, okay?" He
pushed down his shorts, stepped out of them and ripped open the package of
underwear. "Hey, Ray, there's three pair in here."

"So? Keep 'em all. Like I said, they don't fit me."

Kevin nodded his thanks and slowly stepped into the briefs then pulled them
up and over his glorious fittings. He made a bit of a show as he reached
into the underpants and adjusted his dick. He looked at Ray and
grinned. "Gotta put the monster just so," he explained.

Ray returned the grin. "I sure don't have that problem." He was about to
look for a clean tee, then decided against it.  "So, Kevin, you want to do
something, go to the canteen maybe?"

Kevin shook his head. "Nah, thanks anyway. The place will be like a hot
box. It's probably as hot as this place." He made a show of wiping his brow
with the back of his hand.

"It might be cooler in the lounge," said Ray, trying to keep the eagerness
out of his voice. "If there's a breeze we open the windows and it's quite
comfortable. That's if you want to, you know, sit and talk?"

"Sure.  It beats lying around the mess listening to everybody complain
about the heat."

Ray was a little surprised at Kevin's ready agreement. He wasn't about to
complain, however, and he was determined to play it as coolly as he
could. He led the way into the lounge where there was a breeze coming in
through the open widows. A very light breeze to be sure, but a breeze and
the room was marginally cooler than the locker room. "Hell, this is almost
as bad as the showers," Ray said in an offhand way, hoping he could think
of a way to get Kevin into Chef's office.

"It's not so bad," replied Kevin. "At least there's a bit of a breeze."

Ray pretended to agree. He walked to the open window and flapped his
arms. "The trouble is, it's from the north. When the breeze is from the
north it just blows right on by. What we need is a wind from the west," he
babbled, "It comes over the mountains and it's always cool . . ." He turned
to see Kevin heading for one of the sofas. The last thing Ray wanted was
for the object of his lust to get too comfortable. He decided to act as if
he had just had a sudden thought. "Hey, Kevin, I know a better place.  Come
on."

"You do? Where is it?" asked Kevin as they left the lounge and entered the
dining hall, which was dark, lit only by islands of ruby light from the
emergency lights spaced around the perimeter of the room.

"Chef's office. Some of his windows face north. There's a fan in there,"
explained Ray, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice and not adding
that there was a first aid kit with petroleum jelly in it. "We'll grab a
couple of beers out of the fridge on the way."

"Beer? There's beer in the fridge?"

"Yeah. Here, take my hand. This place is a maze. If you don't know your way
around you can run into something and really do yourself an injury."

Kevin extended his hand and felt the warmth of Ray's hand in his. He
allowed himself to be led into the galley and over to the fridge.

Letting go of Kevin's hand Ray opened the fridge and took out two beers. He
kept the door open for a few seconds, and allowed himself a small glance at
Kevin's hard body. Ever so slightly he sucked in his breath. Kevin had a
body built for tighty-whiteys. His dick was crisply outlined under the
smooth cotton fabric that flowed over the two perfect mounds of his ass. He
handed the beers to Kevin and then closed the fridge. Chef's office was
only a few steps away.

Ray pushed open the office door and entered. The lights of the Guardhouse,
which was located across the roadway, a bare fifty yards from the Mess
Hall, dimly lighted the office. "I'll turn on the desk lamp so we can have
some light."

"Why bother?" asked Kevin as he moved to the sofa. He sat down, his legs
spread, blatantly exhibiting the sweet mounds of his balls and penis.

Ray nodded and reached for the fan that stood on top of the filing cabinet.
After turning it on he shut the office door. He turned and for a brief
moment his heart stopped. Kevin was sitting at the end of the sofa, his
body bathed in the glow of the distant lights.  Ray hesitated, feeling his
penis stirring, then turned the door lock.

The soft click of the tumbler of the lock turning was not lost on Kevin. He
took a sip of beer, looked at Ray and smiled his killer smile. "You going
to stand there or are you going to sit down?" he asked with rising
anticipation.

Forgetting that his beer was sitting on Chef's desk Ray tried not to be too
obvious as he sat down beside Kevin.  Close, but not too close.

Kevin stretched his arm along the top of the sofa, and then squirmed a
little, seemingly making himself comfortable.  His arm was a scant inch
from Ray's warm back.

"Um, that was nice, what you did for Matt," Ray began tentatively. He
glanced quickly down and admired the bulge in Kevin's briefs.

Kevin brushed away Ray's words. "Matt's a gunner. I'm a gunner. We look
after each other. Little Big Man is a prick.  I hate pricks." He shrugged
and smiled his killer smile again. "I just wish Tyler would have let me,
you know, lay a beating on him." He slowly lowered the bottle of beer he
was holding to the deck, and then dropped his hand in his lap.  He began to
fondle his penis.

Ray gulped at the motion. "Ah, well, there's a long lineup to do that."

Kevin smiled and glanced sideways at Ray. He saw where Ray's eyes were
riveted, staring directly at his crotch. He also saw the colour rising in
Ray's cheeks, as they both recognised the unintentional but clever double
entendre in Ray's words. Kevin was laughing inwardly and his eyes sparkled
with glee. He'd seen the looks that Ray had been giving him all day and he
had a good idea of just what Ray was up to. First the offer of a shower,
then the clean briefs. Ray wanted him. Which was fine. He wanted Ray just
as badly as Ray wanted him. Kevin's only question was whether to play the
game or cut to the chase. He decided to play the its-just-a-guy thing game
for a little while. "Can I ask you a question?" he asked abruptly.

Ray hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Sure."

"Are those two brats queer?"

"Well . . .I . . ." began Ray, stammering.

Kevin moved his arm and his hand found the nape of Ray's neck. He rubbed it
slowly. At the same time he moved his leg, touching Ray's warm thigh. He
felt Ray jump. "Hey, Ray, its no big deal if they are."

Ray could feel Kevin's warm leg against his. Small beads of sweat broke out
on his forehead. "I think maybe they're just, you know, experimenting with
each other." He shrugged. "A lot of guys, um, they fool around, you know."

Kevin grinned and nodded. "Not much chance of doing that around here." A
small look of panic crossed his face.  "Not that I want to, not with the
kids, I mean."

Ray saw a small opening and took it. "Have you, um, have you ever fooled
around, Kevin, I mean with another guy?"

"Sure have!" replied Kevin a huge grin splitting his face. The game had
just come to an abrupt end.

Ray almost fainted at the perfection of Kevin's teeth and smile. He managed
to get some measure of control and carried on. "You have?"

"Damn straight. It's no big deal, Ray." Kevin continued to rub Ray's
neck. He could see that Ray was responding, squirming ever so slightly at
his touch. He leaned to one side and breathed slowly in Ray's ear. "I won't
say no, Ray."

Ray looked into Kevin's clear, blue eyes and saw a twinkle of
. . .amusement?  Lust? His eyes returned to Kevin's crotch. Kevin dropped
his hand away to reveal his bulge, slightly larger than normal, forming a
tent in his briefs. Ray knew a come-on when he saw it. Wordlessly he leaned
closer to Kevin and dropped his hand onto the warm, hardening shaft of
flesh hidden by the white cotton fabric. He slowly drew his hand along the
length of Kevin's quickening erection.

At Ray's touch Kevin raised his hips slightly and his breathing seemed to
stop for a moment. "Yeah, oh yeah," he breathed slowly.

Ray turned his body, pressing his now hard penis against Kevin's thigh. He
leaned forward and his lips pressed against Kevin's. Kevin struggled a
little. He and Adam had fooled around a lot, but they had never kissed. He
felt Ray's tongue pressing against his lips, probing gently. He felt the
warm hardness pressing against his body and his lips parted, accepting the
sweetness of Ray's mouth.

As Ray stroked him softly Kevin let out a low moan. "Mmmmf, God, Ray, does
that feel good," he groaned as Ray's finger's found his now leaking
dickhead. He shivered as the pleasure coursed through his body.

Ray left Kevin's dick and moved his hand up toward his chest, caressing the
soft treasure trail that reached from under the waistband of his new briefs
to his navel. Just as slowly Ray's other hand moved downward, then slipped
under the waistband of Kevin's briefs, his fingers caressing and stroking
the warm, slightly rough underside of his mushroom head.

Briefly Ray rested his hand against Kevin's hard chest. He could feel and
hear Kevin's heart beating rapidly under the warm, firm muscles. He moved
his head and kissed Kevin's neck, his tongue slowly following the lines of
Kevin's smooth collarbone, moving down to Kevin's browny-pink nipples
centred in small, round aureoles. Kevin, caught up in the lust that was
overpowering him, felt that what Ray was doing to him was more than fooling
around. Ray was making love to him and Jesus, Jesus GOD; please don't let
him stop doing it!

Ray's tongue flicked across Kevin's left nipple. His lips found the small
ferrule and sucked gently, coaxing it to hardness and setting Kevin to
writhing and groaning with pleasure. "Please, don't stop," moaned Kevin as
Ray suckled his other nipple. He groaned loudly and repeated his
plea. "Dear God, do not stop!"

Smiling slyly Ray dropped his hand to Kevin's crotch, finding the massive
hardness still hidden by the hugely tented briefs, briefs damp with the
precum leaking from Kevin's stimulated, throbbing organ. Resuming his
gentle stroking Ray moved his head downward, slipping to his knees as he
followed Kevin's treasure trail, sniffing and licking until his progress
was stopped by the wide elastic band of Kevin's new briefs. Kneeling
between Kevin's spread legs Ray reached up and slowly began to pull down
the offending briefs. Kevin raised his hips and his underpants were down
and off his body.

Ray gasped slightly as Kevin's penis, released from the constricting cloth,
bounced slightly. Almost worshipfully Ray licked along the full length of
Kevin's thick, wonderfully soft-skinned hardon. His eyes took in the length
of it, the dusky pinkness of it above his circumcision line, the
wonderfully formed helmet of it. God, was it beautiful. Wrapping his arms
around Kevin's thighs he ran his nose through the dark, curly bush of hair
encircling the throbbing shaft. He buried his face in Kevin's groin,
marvelling at the wonderful odour of flesh and soap and sweetness that lay
there. His moist lips kissed Kevin's balls, nipping gently at the scant
hair that lined his love trail. Then he opened his mouth and softly closed
it around Kevin's blood engorged helmet.

Kevin writhed, totally overcome by the pleasure coursing through him. He
wanted to cum but what he was feeling was so fantastic that he wanted it to
go on and on. As Kevin groaned and moaned loudly, Ray grasped the thick
base of his erection and took as much of Kevin into his mouth and throat as
he could. He moved his mouth slowly up and down the throbbing shaft,
sucking steadily on Kevin's jerking dick, causing him to shudder as the
ecstasy building deep within his balls engulfed him. Breathing harshly,
Kevin moaned loudly. "Ray, I'm gonna cum . . . I can't . . ." Kevin had
reached the point of no return.  He was going to blow and dear God
. . .dear GOD . . .

Ray sucked all the more rapidly, anxious to taste the wonderful nectar that
knew was about to burst from Kevin's perfect cock.

Kevin began thrusting gently and before he could warn Ray his dick
thickened and spasmed. Holy fuck, he was THERE!

Ray all but whimpered with happiness as jet after jet of thick, warm, sweet
ambrosia smashed into his mouth, coating his tongue and throat. He moved
his mouth slightly upward, just covering the top part of Kevin's spewing
cock. He sucked and swallowed rapidly, not wanting to lose a single drop.

Kevin continued to pump his hips in sharp, tiny thrusts, groaning as his
balls emptied. As the last of his ejaculation dribbled into Ray's mouth he
yelped and pulled away. Like many teenagers his dickhead was sensitive
after such a voluminous and intense ejaculation, so sensitive that he could
not bear to be touched.

Groaning loudly, trying to gain some measure of control, Kevin laid his
head back against the bulkhead, his eyes closed. He could feel Ray nuzzling
his inner thighs, then running his tongue around his shrinking organ and
loosening balls. He looked down. Ray was still kneeling between his knees,
staring back at him, his brown eyes soft and warm.

Ray saw Kevin's soft penis, slick with his spit and the scant residue of
Kevin's ejaculation, resting atop his wrinkled ball sac. As he watched
Kevin's penis slowly slid to one side, coming to rest against his groin.

Kevin reached down and pulled Ray to him. He could feel Ray's hard flesh
pressing against his stomach, warm, wet from the precum that leaked in a
steady stream from his piss slit. He smiled, kissed Ray and then pulled
back. "Oh, man, that was wonderful," he murmured softly. "No, it was beyond
wonderful."

Ray grinned and licked Kevin's nose. "Do you have the Duty tonight?"

Kevin shook his head as he giggled and began moving downward, slowly
licking the warm soft flesh of Ray's slightly heaving chest.

******

The Phantom sat morosely on The Gunner's bed slowly packing away the shirt
The Gunner had just handed to him. The Gunner's beat up old leather
suitcase was on the bed beside him, open, not yet filled with the shirts,
boxer underwear, socks, and whatever clothing the man would need for his
weekend in Vancouver. Noting the sad look on The Phantom's face The Gunner
left the open drawer he'd been emptying and sat down beside the boy. "It's
not the end of the world, Phantom.  I am coming back, you know."

"I know," admitted The Phantom grudgingly. "I still don't want you to go."

The Gunner sighed. "Phantom, you always knew that sooner or later this day
would come."

"So I knew it. I still don't have to like it."

"Phantom, I'm only going for three days at the most. If you mope like this
now I really don't want to be around when I go for three months!"

"I'm not moping," snapped The Phantom stubbornly.

The Gunner embraced him and gave the boy a slight squeeze. "Phantom, this
time it's me. Next time it might be you. It's the way of it, sometimes. Now
come on, let's finish this packing."

The Gunner stood up and returned to emptying his dresser drawer, feeling
deep down inside that there was more to Phantom's moping that just his
going away for three days. The incident with Matt, probably. "You know,
Phantom, this is the first time anybody's ever helped me pack," he said
lightly as he handed the boy some rolled socks. "It feels kind of strange."
He returned to sit beside The Phantom. "The first time I went away from
home there was nobody. I was living with the local Vicar and his wife. As
far as they were concerned I was just a boarder, a poor orphan boy who
needed a roof over his head until I graduated high school. They were kind,
but helping me pack was not in their job description."

"The first time, that was when you went to join the Navy?"

The Gunner nodded. "Yes. I was hardly older than you are right now. I was
alone, and very afraid. The first year, it was bad. I was scared, and
lonely, and homesick for something that wasn't there anymore."

"Oh, Gunner, I'm sorry! I was being such a jerk again!"

"Don't get all maudlin on me, Phantom," said The Gunner as he moved to the
bed. He sat, his back against the headboard, his legs stretched along he
mattress, open. "Come here, you little monster." He smiled warmly and held
open his arms. The Phantom scooted over and nestled his body between The
Gunner's legs. The Gunner wrapped his arms around him and held him close,
enjoying the moment. "Before, I never once regretted leaving anyplace,"
said The Gunner quietly. "Now it's different. Now I have you." He buried
his face in The Phantom's hair. "Now I have you."

"And I have you," replied the Phantom softly. "Forever and always."

"Want to fool around?"

The Gunner could feel The Phantom shaking his head, no. Then he
giggled. "Well, maybe, a little, later." He raised his head and looked at
The Gunner. "I know you don't like me to ask you to do something but . . ."

"You want me to do something about Matt." finished The Gunner for him.

"How do you . . .?"

"Easy, I was listening at the galley door."

The Phantom squirmed and glowered at The Gunner. "That was sneaky, Gunner."

"Oh, was it now?" asked The Gunner, smiling. He gave The Phantom a slight
squeeze. "I have to be sneaky. You have that gang of thieves and cutthroats
you hang out with who tell you everything they see or hear! You never tell
me anything, so I have to sneak around!"

The Phantom snickered. "You gotta do what you gotta do, it's that simple."

The Gunner laughed and rubbed The Phantom's chest. "I wish I saw life as
simply as you do, Phantom."

"I'm a simple guy. So, can you help, please, Gunner?"

The Gunner decided not to comment on the plaintive tone in Phantom's
voice. The boy was very worried and concerned about his young
friend. "Phantom, I met a man today. He was Jewish, and he had a tattoo on
his arm." He gently caressed The Phantom's face. "He was a veteran of the
First War, a Naval officer. After the war he continued to serve in the
German Navy. Then one day he was no longer a Naval Officer. He was just a
Jew." He buried his face in The Phantom's hair, smelling the clean
freshness of the boy. "I've read the books, Phantom. I've seen the
pictures," he whispered. "I listened to that sad little man today and I
realized tonight, when I saw Little Big Man in action, I realized that in
another time and in another place I was just like that Jew, only instead of
a yellow star on my chest I would be wearing a pink triangle."

The Phantom had read the same books, and seen the same pictures. "And Paul
Greene would be wearing a black uniform and carrying a stock whip!"

"You know then?"

"Yes. Little Big Man has to be stopped. Somehow, some way."

"We can only do what we can do, Phantom. We cannot resort to violence. That
would only play right into the hands of the people he serves."

"Matt's in danger, Gunner." The Phantom closed his eyes and bit his
fist. He wanted to tell The Gunner just how much danger they were all
in. How much danger he was in. "We have to do something, Gunner!" His voice
was hard.

"I know that, Phantom, if you will shut up for one minute, I will tell you
what I am already doing."

The Phantom made a face. "Okay, I'm shut up."

"A first.  Usually the only time you're quiet is when you're asleep."

"Gunner!"  The Gunner nibbled The Phantom's ear, just a little. "I called
my friend, the Command Chief Gunnery Instructor.  He will call the Base
Chief Warrant Officer who will summon Sergeant Greene into his office.  He
will tell the asshole that there's been a report of child abuse by him, or
someone close to Matt.  He will also tell him that there had better not be
any more reports."

The Phantom snorted. "And that will work?"

The Gunner shrugged. "It will tell the Sergeant that someone outside of his
family knows about him beating Matt.  If nothing else it just might make
him pause before he raises his hand again."

"And if he doesn't pause?  You should know Matt is deathly afraid of going
home."

"I know, Phantom, I know," replied The Gunner insistently. "Because I know
I am also going to talk to another man I know."

"What kind of a man?"

The Gunner hesitated, and then spoke slowly. "Phantom, he's a man who will
do everything he can to ensure that Matt is safe. I heard Matt say that his
father could very well throw him out of the house. If that happens,
somebody will be there to see him safe to wherever he wants to go."

"He'll want to go to Todd," said The Phantom softly. "He doesn't know it,
but he's really in love with Todd."

The Gunner was surprised at The Phantom's words. He had never before so
much as breathed a word about what the other boys felt or said about each
other. "Does Todd feel the same way?"

"He says he doesn't, but I'm not so sure. You saw how Todd reacted after
Little Big Man left the dining hall. I think he's going to be in love with
Matt sooner or later. Matt will want to go to him. Will your friend be able
to arrange that?"

The Gunner ignored the note of doubt in The Phantom's voice, all the while
damning the secret he was forced to keep. He wanted to tell The Phantom
exactly why Little Big Man had to be handled carefully, but he
couldn't. There was far too much at stake. Major Meinertzhagen was a very
resourceful man. The question was, of course, was he resourceful enough?
"Yes," The Gunner said with all the conviction he could muster.

"Okay. Just remember, I'll hold you to it." The Phantom hoped that the
doubt he felt was not echoed in his voice.

"Phantom, I have absolutely no doubt that you will. Now then, are there any
more dragons to slay? Is there anything else you might want me to do?"

The Phantom giggled, quickly gave The Gunner a peck on the lips, and
smiled. "Well, maybe fool around with me. A little."

******

Thunder grumbled across the sky and a light drizzle of rain began falling,
cooling the scorched and dusty earth and pattering gently on the flat roof
of the Mess Hall. Ray, sated, satisfied and sore, awoke slowly, feeling the
warm body he was sprawled across squirm slightly. He was lying on top of
Kevin, his nose buried in the curve of Kevin's neck, his arm wrapped
tightly around his newfound lover's chest. Their dicks, soft, sensitive
from their sex, were pressed together. God, it was good. Another low peal
of thunder rent the unearthly silence. Ray nuzzled Kevin awake with his
tongue. "Wha . . .?" murmured Kevin at the first touch of Ray's warm, moist
lips on his neck.

"Come on, Kevin, it's late, we have to go."

Both boys struggled awake. They scooped up their underwear and hurried,
naked, from the office, through the galley and dining hall into the showers
where they cleaned their bodies of the evidence of their newfound love. As
the hot blast of water washed away the dried remnants of their time
together Kevin leaned over and kissed Ray's neck. "This isn't a one night
stand, is it?" he asked apprehensively. What had happened between them had
been wonderful, so wonderful that he could not find words to describe it.

Ray turned off the shower and smiled at Kevin. "Only if you want it to be."
Kevin shook his head emphatically. "I don't. Fuck Ray, I don't!

"No regrets?"

"NO! Jesus, it was, it was . . ."

Ray stroked Kevin's warm, smooth cheeks. "For me, too."

As they dressed Kevin looked at Ray, his eyes filled with love. And
concern. Until tonight his sexual experiences had been limited to listening
to his two older brothers making out and jack-off sessions with Adam. Deep
down inside he felt euphoric and fulfilled. He was no longer a virgin and
he never wanted the feelings to end. "Ray, tonight was . . . wonderful," he
said suddenly. "I, uh, well, um, I hope I didn't, you know, disappoint
you. I've never made . . . love before, and well, I . . ."

Ray pulled his shorts up and slipped his tee over his head. Then he leaned
over and kissed Kevin deeply. "You didn't disappoint me. You were
everything I expected, and more." He saw Kevin's face light up and the
special glimmer that came in Kevin's eyes, a glimmer that Ray was not at
all sure he wanted to see. He liked Kevin, Lord knew that, but something
was bothering him. Something he could not yet put his finger on, something
that he would have to think about later, when he was alone. Ray held out
his hand. Kevin grasped it and Ray pulled him upright. "It's very late
Kevin, and we really can't stay," he said softly.

Kevin grinned sheepishly. He had hoped that Ray might want to . . . but Ray
was right. It was very late so he allowed himself to be led out of the
change room.

"Why are we going this way?" he asked a little plaintively as Ray led him
toward the rear of the Mess Hall.

"We can't go out the main door because they'll see us from the
Guardhouse. We'll use the door from the loading dock."

Kevin pulled Ray up short. He nodded with his head. "Ray, didn't we turn
out the lights in the lounge before we left?"

Ray looked and saw a small sliver of light coming from under the door
leading to the lounge. "Shit, someone's in there," he grumbled.

Kevin went white. "Oh, man, it's Chef.  Come on, we have to get out of
here!" He began to pull violently on Ray's arm.

Ray jerked himself loose from Kevin's grip. "Calm down, Kevin, it's not
Chef. He went home hours ago." He pushed the door to the lounge open and
looked in. He gestured to Kevin and walked inside.

The small space was filled with the odour and acridity of sex. Joey and
Randy, once Makee-Learns and now Brats, were sprawled on the sofa that
stood beneath the open window, their arms and legs entangled, their heads
close together. Their small cocklets, smooth, and all but hairless, were
touching, Randy's slightly flared arrowhead just touching Joey's classic
little acorn. Both were slick with the residue of their lovemaking. They
were both sound asleep, snoring softly.

Kevin looked into the lounge and snickered. "It looks like we're not the
only ones who spent the night," he whispered.

Ray chuckled. "Well, we can't leave them here. Chef will pitch a fit if he
walks in and sees them like that." He grinned broadly. "Dirty little
buggers!"

"Does that make us dirty big buggers?" asked Kevin, laughing.

"In more ways than one," retorted Ray. "Come on, give me a hand. We have to
get them back to their beds."

"How do you plan on doing that?"

"Carry them, of course," replied Ray. "Now, where are their clothes? Oh,
there. Kevin, gather up their stuff. I'll take Joey if you'll take Randy."
While Ray slowly lifted Joey from Randy's body and cradled him in his arms
Kevin quickly picked up the boys' shorts and briefs from the deck where
they had thrown them and stuffed them into the back pocket of his
shorts. He gathered up Randy and together they carried the boys from the
building, putting the bulk of the Mess Hall between themselves and any
prying eyes in the Guardhouse.

Ray could feel Joey's warm bottom in the crook of his arm. He could also
feel a cool stickiness. He giggled, but said nothing. Joey squirmed a bit,
then nuzzled

Ray's bare chest. "Ray," he mumbled, still half asleep. "Smell nice. Cuddle
with me?"

Ray grinned and kissed the top of Joey's head. "No cuddling tonight. You're
going to bed."

"Okay.  Where Randy?"

"He's fine," replied Ray as they passed the corner of the Mess Hall. "Kevin
has him."

Joey opened one eye, looked at Kevin, then closed it. "Kevin nice, too. Has
a nice dick. Big!"

"You never mind the size of Kevin's dick. It's time you were in your bed,"
replied Ray. He looked at Kevin and winked, then smiled a large, pleased,
knowing smile.

Kevin ducked his head and returned Ray's wink.

Joey raised his head and whispered fiercely in Ray's ear. Ray grinned at
Kevin.

"That's between Kevin and me. A gentleman never kisses and tells, Joey."
Joey opened his eyes, peeked coyly at Kevin, then whispered again in Ray's
ear. Ray stopped dead in his tracks at the bottom of the steps leading to
the Cooks Barracks. He smacked Joey's bare bottom. "You dopes! Next time
get some Vaseline. It works a hell of a lot better than spit!"

Kevin laughed so hard that he almost dropped Randy. "Well you DID say that
they were dirty little buggers!"