Date: Tue, 3 Jun 2003 19:51:14 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Phantom Of Aurora: Chapter 22

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).


The Phantom Of Aurora: Chapter 22


It never ceased to amaze The Gunner that no matter how well-planned an
evolution seemed to be, or how forewarned the participants happened to be,
nobody was ever, in the entire history of the Navy, actually ready when
they were supposed to be. He watched as heretofore calm, well-organized
cadets went to panic stations over seemingly innocuous things. Web belts,
buckles and gaiters, which everyone was sure they had packed in their bags
had, during the night, grown little feet and scampered from the rooms.

Briefs and boxers, pristine white only the night before, were now,
inexplicably, blue, black, and in one case, fire engine red. Boots that
were spit-shined unto the ninth generation were suddenly dull and
pitted. Socks that had been perfectly mated only the day before were now
alone. Uniforms that had left AURORA ironed and sparkling in their
whiteness were wrinkled and spotted with stains of unknown origin. To make
matters worse the Sea Puppies and general Training Cadets billeted in the
Barracks, who were supposed to be dropped off at the Parade Muster Point,
were brought to the motel, adding to the general confusion.

The Gunner, Andy, Kyle and Dave, assisted by the senior cadets, managed to
bring a measure of order out of the chaos that reigned in the motel
corridor. A boot polishing party was organized, extra underpants were
borrowed, and the Twins, with Matt and Nicholas, set up an ironing
station. The Twins had long ago learned to travel with an iron and an extra
can or two of spray starch.

As 0900 approached the cadets finally managed to get themselves
organized. Their uniforms were pressed and their boots were polished. When
the last pair of trousers had been ironed to starched perfection the Twins
left Nicholas and Matt and returned to their room where they waited
patiently for Harry to finish showering. When Harry emerged they scurried
into the bathroom to shave and have a quick shower.

After showering Harry began dressing. He slipped on a pair of clean
underpants, then his gunshirt, then his starched, white bell-bottoms. After
buckling his belt he opened the closet door to use the full-length mirror
that hung there. As he combed his hair he began a slow pivot, admiring his
reflection. Greg, who was sitting on their bed, saw Harry and
grinned. Cory, who for once had finished his ablutions before Todd, came
into the room. He stood back, shaking his head, but frankly admiring
Harry's uniformed body.

Harry could see both Cory and Greg admiring him. He continued his slow
pivot and then stopped, his back to the mirror. He looked over his shoulder
and frowned. Then he swore quietly.

"What the fuck's the matter, now?" asked Cory.

"My bells," replied Harry.

Cory motioned for Harry to turn around. "There's nothing wrong with
them. They're pressed and quite frankly, Harry, you have a bum built for
bell-bottoms." Cory chuckled and repeated the last phrase, emphasising his
unintentional alliteration, "A bum built for bell-bottoms!"

Harry grinned, then frowned again. He was thinking of the day before the
Church Parade last month, when an admiring Stefan had inspected him. Harry
remembered Stefan's words. "You must always look your best, Harry," Stefan
had said, "because you're leading the Band after all.  Everybody will be
looking at you, they always look at the Band first, you know . . ." Harry
remembered the softness of Stefan's hand when the boy had smoothed down his
jumper. Then he remembered something else Stefan had said. "You look very
handsome, Harry.  Harry, have you ever thought of switching to boxers? Not
that briefs are not all right, I wear them myself, you know, but I can see
your briefs line under your pants and it sort of detracts from the overall
effect, if you know what I mean. You have a very nice bum. Not like me. I
have a skinny bum.  But you do have a very nice bum and it should look
smooth." Harry scowled. "You can see my briefs lines," he said as he began
to unbuckle his belt, "and that won't do."

Greg groaned and rolled his eyes. "Who cares? So what if your so-called
briefs lines are showing. Your jumper covers your ass and anyway, who would
know?"

"I would know, and Stefan doesn't like me to show my ass off like that,"
replied Harry seriously.

"Harry, look around you! Stefan isn't here," returned Greg, exasperated at
what he considered to be more of Harry's nonsense.  "He's in Edmonton and
couldn't possibly know if your 'briefs lines' are showing."

Harry carefully removed his bells. He hung them over the back of a chair
and stared evenly at Greg. "Stefan is always with me, Greg, and you would
do well to remember that." He turned abruptly and left the room.

Cory and Greg could hear Harry bellow for Tyler and demanding the loan of
white underpants, boxers, not briefs. Greg smiled weakly at Cory and asked,
"What did I say?"

Cory sighed. "Look, Greg, when it comes to Stefan, Harry is, well, Harry is
totally in love with him."

"I know that!" snapped Greg. "What did I say that pissed him off?"

"Nothing," replied Cory. He reached into his kit bag and pulled out some
clean boxers, sat on his bed and look evenly at Greg. "Harry was warning
you," he said.

"And what the fuck does that mean?" demanded Greg. He stood up and began to
pull on his trousers, glaring angrily at Cory. "Well?"

"What happened last night, was last night," answered Cory as he continued
dressing, quite unperturbed by Greg's palpable anger. "There is only one
boy in Harry's life, and that boy is Stefan. Harry will fool around with
you, and be your fuck buddy, but he will never be in love with you. He
wants you to understand that."

Greg sat down and pulled on his boots. He began to pull angrily at the
laces. "I understand that, Cory. He doesn't have to warn me. I know I'm
just his summer fuck buddy."

"As he is yours," replied Cory evenly. He put on his jumper and zipped it
up. "You got him off, he got you off. He did not force you to do
anything. You did not force him to do anything. He will let you beat him
off or blow him, just as you will let him do the same things to you."

"And all it was, and will be, is sex!" Greg slapped a gaiter around his
left leg. "No emotion, just sex. No feelings, no commitment!"

Cory stood up and took his white uniform out of the closet. He looked at
Greg, sadness in his eyes. "Yes, and that's all it will ever be, Greg. What
Harry is telling you is that when it's over, it's over. When he boards the
plane to go home you will be out of his life. A memory."

Greg pulled on his jumper and reached for his cap. "Which Stefan will never
be!" he declared hotly as he rose and left the room.

******

After showering The Phantom went into the bedroom and began
dressing. Because Randy and Joey had returned with Ray, he had put on his
underwear in the bathroom. His modesty did not go unnoticed by Ray who
wondered if The Phantom's modesty was for his benefit or for that of the
Makee-Learns.

The Phantom's sudden fit of modesty did not extend to The Makee-Learns, who
happily stripped naked, not at all ashamed that their cocklets and ball
sacs were on full view.  What few inhibitions they might have brought from
home (and growing up in rural Alberta they had few), they quickly lost in
AURORA, where nudity, and semi-nudity, was part of communal living.

Much to The Phantom's surprise he felt uneasy at the sight of the two
prepubescent boys walking about naked.  God knew nudity had never bothered
him before, and certainly not since the sailing trip.  Still, he felt a
vague uneasiness and told the two boys that it was time to get dressed and
to hurry up and have a quick wash. Both boys quickly disappeared into the
bathroom.

Ray, who felt no uneasiness at all, and in fact was quite used to seeing
Randy and Joey naked, and had been since they reported aboard, held The
Phantom's tunic for him. "Want to tell me what that was all about?" Ray
asked as he smoothed the back of The Phantom's tunic.

The Phantom smiled crookedly. "Ray, I don't know. When I'm around guys my
own age, it doesn't bother me."

Ray moved and stood in front of The Phantom and began doing up the buttons
of the jacket. "But it does with the Makee-Learns?" he asked, leaving the
top button and the collar undone.

The Phantom nodded. "It makes me, uneasy. I just don't feel comfortable
around naked boys that age." Ray pulled on his jumper and zipped it up. The
Phantom handed him his black silk and he slipped it under the collar of his
jumper. "I know this guy," said The Phantom as he tied Ray's silk with the
tapes of his jumper. "He's 18, and he's fucking his brother."

Ray did not catch The Phantom's meaning. The thought of having sex with his
younger brother Jeffrey appalled him. But then he did have an older
brother, Tommy, who had a very nice set of parts and . . . "You're not
fucking him, and if the brother is willing . . ." he said noncommittally.

"The brother is 12," explained The Phantom, "and I'm not all that sure that
they're fucking. I do know that they're doing just about everything else."

Ray frowned. " Jesus!"

The Phantom nodded. "Yeah, Jesus. I guess I'm just a bit of a prude. I can
go along with guys our age doing things together. We're old enough to know
what we want to do."

"What makes you think this kid isn't. Or Randy or Joey for that matter?"
asked Ray. He sat on the bed, bent over, and began to put on his
gaiters. "Joey is old enough to know that he doesn't want his brother
playing with his dick. Maybe your friend's brother is old enough to know
that he likes what he's doing with his brother. Different strokes,
Phantom."

The Phantom had to agree. "Well, I guess I just don't get turned on by
little boys. "

Ray flashed a huge grin. "You like 'em big, huh?"

The Phantom chuckled. "As if either one of us can talk," he said as he
picked up his cap and left the bedroom.

******

The Gunner answered the light rap on the bedroom door, smiled at The
Phantom and motioned for him to come in. As he passed the closed bathroom
door The Phantom could hear the water pounding in the shower. Andy, wearing
snow-white boxers and a T-shirt, was sitting on the edge of the bed he had
shared with Kyle, fitting his epaulettes to a white officer's tunic that he
had borrowed from Kyle.  He grinned and waved at The Phantom, who grinned
back.

"I see you're almost ready," said The Gunner as The Phantom stood in the
middle of the room.

The Phantom nodded and pointed to his open collar. "Dress me, please," he
smiled.

The Gunner's fingers shook slightly as he did up the top button of The
Phantom's tunic and then fitted the hooks and eyes that closed the collar
of the tunic. It was all he could do not to take the boy in his arms.

Andy watched as The Gunner gently passed his hand over The Phantom's firm
chest, smoothing the fabric of his jacket, and wondered if he and Kyle
would ever have what The Gunner and The Phantom had.

"There, Phantom," said The Gunner. "All tiddly." His eyes softened and his
heart skipped a beat. God did Phantom look wonderful. The white uniform fit
him perfectly and complemented his tanned skin and glorious, emerald eyes.

The Phantom smiled and put on his cap. "I suppose I'll have to salute
somewhere along the line. How does this look?" He saluted and held it,
waiting for The Gunner's appraisal.

"Not bad, Phantom," said The Gunner. He reached up and adjusted The
Phantom's hand. "Just remember how I showed you. Keep your hand and wrist
straight, in line with your forearm. And bend the hand forward so you don't
show your palm."

"Because I might have tar on it and Queen Victoria would not approve,"
laughed The Phantom as he brought down his hand.

The Gunner brushed away an imaginary piece of lint from The Phantom's
shoulder. "Yes." His lips formed a smile. You remembered."

"I remember a lot, Gunner." The Phantom reached up to touch The Gunner's
face then, remembering that Andy was in the room, quickly brought his hand
down. "So, what's next?" he asked.

The Gunner picked up his green uniform jacket and slipped it on. "First we
go down below and meet your escort. I told you about him." The Phantom
nodded and moved toward the door. The Gunner waved at Andy. "It's 0900,
Andy. Are you and Kyle going to be ready soon?"

Andy shrugged. "I will be. Kyle is in the shower and then he has to dress."

"Well, goose him along, please. We need both of you to march with the
troops."

"Goose him and you pry him off the ceiling," quipped Andy. "He claims he's
very sensitive in the nether regions."

The Gunner was about to answer, "You'd know!" but thought better of it. "As
long as you're both outside by 0930. We have to be at Laurel Point Park no
later than 1000. And we still have to unload the guns from the trucks."

"We'll be down, no danger," assured Andy. He stood up and laid the tunic on
the bed.

"See you down below," replied The Gunner as he and The Phantom exited the
room.

******

Andy rummaged in his suitcase and brought out a pair of white sports socks,
the only type of white socks he owned, which he considered good enough to
wear with his white tropical uniform.  He had never expected to be wearing
a Summer Dress, Long, White. As a USN Sea Cadet officer he was not paid,
and had it not been for the small disability pension his wound entitled him
to, he would have been on the streets. Basic uniforms were supplied to him,
but high-collared white jackets were not issued. They had to be purchased
by the officers at their own expense and that was an expense that Andy
could not afford. "Fuck," he thought, "not only can I not afford a jacket,
I can't even afford the fucking white dress socks I'm supposed to wear."

He returned to the bed, sat down and began to pull on his socks. His
financial situation was parlous, to say the least. His Veterans Benefits
would cover his university tuition, barely, which meant that everything
else, little things like food and rent, books, and clothing, would have to
be worked for. Which meant he would have to go back to a job he hated,
waiting tables. What he would be paid as a member of the USMC Reserve, if
he were accepted, would help, but as someone once said, you'll never get
rich in the military.

The bathroom door opened and Kyle emerged, a towel loosely tied around his
waist, vigorously drying his hair with another towel draped over his
head. Andy sighed at the sight of the slim-waisted, darkly handsome young
man he loved so desperately, still wet from his shower, his smooth body
beaded with droplets of water, a small mound tenting the front of his
towel. Andy felt the old familiar feeling and his dick jerked. Before Kyle
could react Andy reached out and in one swift movement turned him around
and pulled Kyle's towel.

Kyle yelped as Andy's warm, moist mouth enveloped his flaccid
penis. "Jesus, Andy, what the . . . ah, come on Andy, we have to . . ."
Kyle writhed and stammered as his cock swelled and lengthened in Andy's
mouth. As Andy cupped his low-hanging balls Kyle moaned softly and gently
pushed his hips forward. "Jesus . . . Andy . . ."

Andy withdrew his mouth and slowly ran his tongue along the underside of
Kyle's rapidly hardening erection, savouring the sweetness of it and the
man smell that Kyle exuded, even fresh from the shower. Almost reverently
Andy began kissing Kyle's secret spot, the small knot of flesh just under
the classically curving mushroom head of his dick where it joined his
smooth shaft. As his lips passed over the spongy-hard helmet Andy's tongue
flashed and the small drop of precum that had oozed from Kyle's reddened
dick slit disappeared.

With soft, light touches of moistness Andy's lips moved slowly up and down
Kyle's rigid, blood-heated organ, his tongue crossing and re-crossing the
sex-darkened helmet, licking away the colourless precum that flowed freely
from Kyle's excited organ. With one hand Andy fisted the thickened base of
Kyle's iron hardon and with the other gripped his own pulsing erection,
which stuck straight up through the slit in his boxers. He pumped slowly,
synchronizing his hand movement with Kyle's short, sharp, hip thrusts.

Kyle responded to the exquisite feelings coursing through his body, a low
growl rising in the back of his throat. As Andy lip sucked his secret spot
he could feel his balls contract and his dick spasm. As the first harbinger
of his massive load dribbled from his hard mushroom, Kyle thrust his head
back and pushed his hips upwards, filling Andy's mouth with his sweet
cream.

Andy sucked and licked Kyle's spewing dick, his tongue scourging Kyle's
secret spot, his mouth sucking, swallowing hungrily, not wanting to lose a
single precious drop of his lover's wonderful nectar. Within seconds of
Kyle's volcanic eruption Andy's dick jerked and a huge jet of his cum
blasted upward, spattering against his T-shirt. His dick pulsed and jet
after jet flew upward, hitting his chin. His dick seemed to pump an
unending stream of semen that dribbled and snaked down his shaft and over
his rapidly pumping hand. Andy continued to pump and suck until both of
them were dry.

Kyle, the exquisitely sensitive head of his dick afire with delight as
Andy's tongue passed over it, yelped and pulled away abruptly, unable to
tolerate the incredible pleasure that electrified his still hard organ. He
collapsed onto the other bed, breathing harshly, flushed with the afterglow
of a fucking superior blowjob.

Andy lay back on their bed, propping himself on his elbows. His soft dick,
slick with his juice, his helmet glowing, hung passively from the slit of
his boxers.

"Holy fuck, Andy!" moaned Kyle. He squirmed as the ecstasy flowed slowly
from his body.

Andy chuckled. "Spontaneous sex is the best sex."

Kyle groaned and pulled himself erect. "Jesus, Andy, that was good."

Andy beamed. "I bet you say that to all the Marines."

Kyle swallowed heavily.  "Only one." He stood up, his legs quivering. "I
don't think I can walk," he grumbled.

"You don't have to walk, just march," laughed Andy.

Kyle lay down on the bed beside Andy. Their lips brushed. "Of all the
Marines, in all the bedrooms, in all the world, why did I have to fall in
love with you?"  "I turn you on? My dick is a thing of beauty? I can suck
you dry? All of the above?"

Kyle glared at Andy. "I'm serious, Andy. I'm in love with you."

"I know that," replied Andy quietly. "And I'm in love with you." He pushed
Kyle away. "Come on, hotshot, we have to get moving. I'm covered in cum,
and your dick needs washing. Also, duty calls." He climbed out of bed and
began stripping off his soiled underwear.

Kyle rolled off the bed and took Andy in his arms. "Andy, we have to
talk. About us."

Andy hugged Kyle and kissed him. "I know. Let's just get today over and
done with and tonight, together, we'll decide what to do."

"Tonight, then."

******

Lieutenant (Navy) David Clayton was 24 years old. He stood just short of
six feet tall, and had a stocky build. His hair was what was described as
dirty blonde. He had a ready smile and an easygoing disposition. He had
known The Gunner just over five years and he was the only man that The
Gunner trusted implicitly.

As The Gunner had told The Phantom, his relationship with the young
Lieutenant was one of trust and friendship, nothing more and nothing less,
a relationship born on the "playing fields of STADACONA", nurtured in the
adversity of a Naval Cadet Training Frigate, and fired in the crucible of
mindless hatred and bigotry.

In April of 1971 David Clayton was a 19-year-old junior at Dalhousie
University. He was also a Naval Cadet under the UNTD Programme and just
beginning his second, or Sea Phase, of his training, which was misleading
in that the first four weeks of his training were spent in the Fleet
School, Halifax, where his theoretical skills in Navigation, Gunnery and
Engineering were honed in the trade shops and Boat Shed of the Dockyard.

Every morning he and 73 other Naval Cadets formed the Halifax Naval
Training Divisions on the parade square at HMCS STADACONA where he first
noticed a tall, slim young man, who was a member of the Parade Staff. The
same young man, who was not all that much older than David, also taught
Gunnery and Parade Training. As an Instructor the young man - he was a
freshly promoted Leading Seaman - was knowledgeable, intelligent, and very
funny, always cracking a joke. He was also a holy terror when one of the
Untidies screwed up. For some reason that David could not understand he
felt an attraction to the young gunner, an attraction that was not sexual,
for David was a committed heterosexual, but an attraction nevertheless, as
if two likes were calling to likes, with an underlying, indefinable need to
bond. While David did not understand the attraction, he did understand that
neither he nor the Leading Gunner could form an attachment or a friendship
because Naval custom, tradition and rank conspired against any relationship
between them.

As an Officer Cadet there was little chance of forming any relationship
with someone from the Lower Deck. The ratings lived in a different world,
with different values. As an Officer Cadet, David could have slept in his
own cabin in the Wardroom Officers Mess, as two of his mates from
Dalhousie, Hal Simmonds and Marty Vandeman did. As a native Haligonian he
was billeted ashore, which meant that he could go home at nights and on the
weekends. The Leading Seaman shared a room with three other sailors in
Atlantic (or "A") Block. He could have been born across the street in the
North End Tavern, but each night he was expected to sleep in the bed
assigned to him on the third deck. He ate in a separate Mess, without table
linen or stewards to pass the salt. He drank in the Junior Rates Mess or
the Wet Canteen in the Dockyard, where beer flowed freely and cocktails
were considered effete and just a little queer.

Officers and ratings. They lived in different worlds; each with its own set
of rules and each with a large "No Entry" sign posted on the gates. For
four weeks the only contact David had with the Leading Seaman was in class
or on the parade square. At 1600 they went their separate ways. There were
no debriefing sessions after class in the Wet Canteen or the Wardroom
Lounge. No friendly games of basketball in the gym or swim tournaments in
the pool, or sailing on Bedford Basin. Naval Cadet David Clayton was
Wardroom and Leading Gunner Stephen Winslow was Lower Deck. There was no
bridge between the two.

Impressed as he was by the young Leading Seaman, David never imagined that
they could never be friends, or even acquaintances. They spoke only in
class or, rarely, after class, when David had a question, which was
answered firmly, very politely, and with no hint of familiarity. Theirs was
a strictly Instructor/Student relationship, so much so that at the end of
his four weeks in Fleet School all David knew was the Leading Seaman's
name, Stephen Winslow, that he was graduate of Whale Island, and that he
was one hell of an instructor, even if he did scare the shit out of the
Untidies every morning at Divisions when, the steel heels on his glossy
parade boots sparking against the asphalt of the parade square, he began
his Walk of Doom, slowly walking up and down the ranks, checking uniforms,
haircuts and the shine of their shoes,.

What neither of them knew was that the odyssey of their friendship would
begin at the gangway of the Cadet Training Frigate and lead to a
rain-slicked cemetery in the North End of Halifax, where David learned that
bitter tears could not restore a friendship betrayed.

******

HMCS PARKDALE was a converted Prestonian Class Frigate of 2300 tons
burthen, armed with one 4-inch gun mounted forward, one 40mm twin AA gun
mounted aft and four 40mm Bofors single mounts mounted port and
starboard. On the quarterdeck were mounted two Squid ASW mortars.

PARKDALE had begun her service life in 1943 as a River Class Frigate,
serving honourably during the last days of the Battle of the Atlantic,
firing her lone gun at the Nazi sea defences on the beaches and cliffs of
Normandy, and patrolling the Korean Coast from December of 1951 until June
of 1953. In 1957 she was refitted and modified, designated a Prestonian
class frigate, and seconded to the Reserve Training Fleet, sailing the
Great Lakes each summer, crewed by Naval Reservists.  In 1969 she underwent
yet another refit and was designated a Cadet Training Ship, where the young
men who would one day command Canada's Navy would gain practical, hands-on
experience.

Originally designed to house 140 officers and ratings in minimal comfort,
PARKDALE had been refitted to house 40 Permanent Force officers and
ratings, and 100 cadets, in minimal comfort. The officers were housed aft,
their cabins grouped around the Wardroom. Ratings and Cadets were housed in
four messes, on two decks, the Mess housing the Permanent Force ratings
separate from the three Messes housing the Cadets.

On the 7th of June 1973, newly designated Acting Sub-Lieutenant Clayton,
burdened with a kit bag, two suitcases, and a garment bag, struggled up the
gangway of HMCS PARKDALE. David much preferred the former Naval rank of
Midshipman, which the Naval Cadets were gazetted after their first year of
training. Unification, only two years old, had finally trickled down to the
UNTDs and while they still wore the old pattern fore-and-aft rig, complete
with white turnback and button on the collars of their blue uniforms,
Ottawa had decreed that they be referred to as Acting Sub-Lieutenants.

Ahead, and behind him, another 82 freshly minted Acting Subbies, jockeyed
for space and elbowroom as they joined the ship. Lining the rails the
Permanent Force crew viewed the new arrivals with cynical and jaundiced
eyes.

There was the usual confusion of joining ship. The trainees were directed
forward and down a steep ladder to a large compartment. Bare tables and
benches were placed in rows on either side of the compartment. The deckhead
was hidden by pipes, cables and trunkings, all painted grey. The deck was
covered with tiles of a sickly green colour. There was a small serving
hatch through which two stewards peered morosely at the trainees. This
compartment, totally utilitarian, was the Cadet Mess Deck, where they would
eat. It was as cheerful as a workhouse.

They were met by the Cadet Training Officer, a large, sad-faced Paymaster
Commander, who was not at all pleased in his new appointment, having
happily spent the past five years in HMCS ONTARIO where, as Wardroom
Secretary, he had managed to acquire enough to buy a small bed and
breakfast in the Annapolis Valley. Since the trainees were only allowed two
beers a day, and there were only six officers in the Wardroom, his vision
of adding a small, but very elegant, dining room, to the B & B was fading
rapidly.

With the Cadet Training Officer was the Master at Arms, stick thin and as
bald as billiard ball. Like all Masters at Arms he was a no nonsense, by
the Book, everything in its place, type of man. Under his direction the
problem of accommodating the Trainees was solved by strictly allocating
each body its own special niche in the ship.

Each trainee was given a Station Book, which listed his mess, his sleeping
billet in one of the three messes aft, the number of the mess table where
he would eat his meals, and the heads and washplaces where he would empty
his bowels and bladder and wash his body, and the gunroom where any needed
classroom instruction would take place. The Master at Arms sternly
impressed on all the trainees that they were not, repeat not, to stow their
books or instruments, eat their meals, keep their clothes or wash
themselves in any other space than that allotted to them. Everything had a
number. The Station Book, which they were to keep on their persons at all
times, was to help them all remember their numbers. Finally, just to be on
the safe side, each trainee was given a name tally to remember who he was.

When eventually David found himself in his Mess, he was shocked to find
that the refit had not extended to sleeping accommodations for Officer
Trainees. The Forward Lower Mess was a long compartment that extended to
either side of the ship. There were no bunks. Overhead, fitted to the
deckhead, were neatly and precisely aligned, hammock bars, spaced so that,
when all the hammocks were slung, each trainee had the eighteen inches of
air space allowed by Regulations.
 Along the port and starboard sides of the Mess were ranged grey, wooden
lockers, the only storage space available to them for their kit and which
doubled as seats for the three Formica-topped tables evenly spaced down
each side of the mess. Just forward of the Mess was a small compartment
containing another Mess. This space housed the four Seaman Instructors
detailed (kicking and screaming) to be "Snotties Nurses", one Leading
Seaman each from the Gunnery, Seamanship, Engineering, and Communications
branches.

The Gunnery Instructor was Leading Seaman Winslow and, as was the custom,
the trainees were instructed to call him "Guns." The Seamanship Instructor
was "Buffer", the Engineering Instructor "Stokes", and the Communications
Instructor "Bunts". Unlike the trainees' space the Instructors' Mess
contained bunks, metal lockers, and a comfortable sitting area.

The first day aboard PARKDALE was spent in ship familiarization, stowing
kit, and learning how to sling their 'micks. They also learned their
Special Sea Duty stations, and were given a large diary in which they were
to record their daily routine, items of interest, and so on. The Executive
Officer would inspect this diary daily and woe betide the trainee whose
diary was boring or lacking in details.

On the morning of the 8th of June, 1973 HMCS PARKDALE let go all lines and
proceeded down harbour via the Eastern Passage, the first day of a three
months' cruise. Clayton, Simmonds and Vandeman were Special Sea Sailors,
part of the Cable Party, their duty station the foc'sle, where they kept
watch over the ship's anchor, which had been cleared away, ready to be let
go in an emergency.  There was really not all that much to do so the three
young men watched the scenery as the frigate transited the
passage. Presently a long, low, well-appointed building came into
view. Ranged around it were a series of smaller, more compact
buildings. All were set in peaceful, verdant, tree spotted lawns and as the
ship drew abreast of the complex, which was in reality the Nova Scotia
Hospital for the Insane, Vandeman turned to the Foc'sle Petty Officer, a
tall, cadaverous, morose man of middle years who was quietly puffing on his
pipe. "Say, PO, what's that place?" he asked.

The Petty Officer stared a moment at the buildings, looked at the trainees,
tamped his pipe and looked back at the buildings. "Officers' Finishing
School," he rumbled, succinctly summing up his opinion of officers in
general and officer trainees in particular.

******

In later years, when he was in a particularly nostalgic mood, David Clayton
would slowly leaf through the pages of his diary for that period in his
life and wonder how they had survived the trip. They had barely cleared the
buoy marking the entrance to Halifax Harbour when the alarm bells sounded:
Man Overboard, Starboard Side To, and the first of a seemingly never-ending
series of drills, evolutions, and exercises.

Man Overboard was followed by a Fire Exercise, which was followed by Action
Stations. Bugles sounded constantly, Bosun Pipes trilled and shrilled hour
after hour. From Halifax to Liverpool, Nova Scotia, there was drill after
drill, interspersed with Blind Pilotage exercises, Blind Anchorages,
Replenishment at Sea exercises and raising and lowering the sea boats. At
1600 they secured and set the Sea Watches, steaming south toward Cape
Sable. The trainees had just sat down to supper when the alarm bells
sounded a Fire Drill. The mythical fire extinguished, they had just settled
down to finish their now cold supper when a Man Overboard drill was called.

By 2300 the trainees were so exhausted that they could barely sling their
'micks, most of which were ineptly secured. Had it not been for The Gunner
inspecting each 'mick, half of the Mess would have ended up on the iron
deck. Finally, everybody not on watch was comfortably ensconced in their
'micks, lulled by the swaying motion as the ship rolled in the gentle
swells.

At 0230 the fire bells sounded and total confusion presaged total
disaster. As the bells clanged and the overhead tannoy demanded the
presence of the crew to Emergency Stations, the trainees rolled out of
their 'micks and stumbled through the darkness. Nobody remembered where
they had dropped their clothes and nobody could remember where he had
stowed his life jacket. When the shouting and tumult subsided Clayton found
himself on the quarterdeck dressed only in his white boxer shorts and one
sock (he had lost the other one somewhere between the Mess and the
quarterdeck). Simmonds was naked except for a life jacket he had stumbled
over. Vandeman was nattily dressed in striped pyjamas and his peak cap. Not
one of the Officer Cadets was properly dressed for an emergency. It was
not, as the Captain later opined, the Snotties' finest hour.

Sometime during the morning watch they were finally secured and the
trainees straggled back to their 'micks. It was then that David Clayton
first began his lifelong friendship with The Gunner, who was waiting at the
bottom of the Mess ladder. The trainees expected a rocket. They got a
measure of understanding and a ladle of compassion. David and Simmonds were
shivering uncontrollably. The North Atlantic at night is cold in any
season. The Gunner draped blankets over their shoulders and told all 23
trainees to find a cup.  He and Bunts brought out the rum and each trainee
was given a tot, 2 1/2 ounces of good, dark, Navy rum, which took the cold
out of their bones. Then they were told to go to bed.

And so it began, the long, slow process of two men of divergent backgrounds
and, as the time and the place would have it, from different classes
bonding, the two becoming, in a way, one. Neither quite understood how it
happened, or why it happened. They knew only that they were experiencing
something that came to other men perhaps once in a lifetime, an experience
that came only to men.

>From Cape Sable they steamed west, then slowly began the long, arcing
curve into The Bay of Fundy. More drills, more blind anchorages, more and
more training as they steamed across the Bay and anchored off Grand Manan
Island, where they traded bottles of rum for scallops and lobsters. The sea
boats were lowered and rowed to a quiet, deserted beach where, with steaks
from the ship's cold stores, everyone enjoyed a leisurely Surf'n Turf
dinner.

For Leading Seaman Winslow and Acting Sub-Lieutenant Clayton it was nights
of standing sea watches, anchor watches, and talking. They found that they
liked one another. The Gunner found that he could care for another man
without having any sexual feelings for him. Acting Sub-Lieutenant Clayton
found that not all Naval knowledge was in books, and that he could love
another man without having any sexual feelings for him.

They steamed the length of the Bay of Fundy, most nights anchored in some
small, coastal bay, where they learned that life at sea, while lonely, had
its compensations. They grew to know one another, they learned of each
other's fears and hopes.  Only one secret remained between them.

They spent the first weekend in Saint John, New Brunswick, home to the
highest tides in the world and, as luck would have it, they were both duty,
and spent the weekend solving the problems of the Navy.

They left Saint John and sailed across to Digby, where the trainees were
bussed to HMCS CORNWALLIS, the Naval Recruit Training School. Here they sat
the first of six written examinations, the first hurdle on the road to
their commissioning. The Gunner stayed aboard, not willing to revisit his
old school. There were too many sad memories, one too painful to be
remembered, too full of hurt and hatred to be forgotten.

>From Digby they sailed south to Yarmouth where they tied up alongside the
Government Jetty. Huge, white canvas awnings were spread over the foc'sle
and the quarterdeck, and fairy lights rigged. For three days they learned
the ins and outs of Naval protocol and how to avoid the pitfalls of
interaction with civilians.

The ship was open to visitors during the day and those trainees not on
Watch acted as tour guides. Clayton was a natural at welcoming the hordes
of civilians that swarmed over the ship, very much at ease with strangers,
and capable of making the kind of small talk that said nothing. Thanks to
the gentle prodding and intelligent insight of his mentor, he was able to
give a quite good tour of the vessel.

That first evening there was a reception on the quarterdeck for the town's
dignitaries. The stewards and cooks, who had been this way before, put on a
presentable spread of food. The Chief Steward mixed up three different
punches, each just a touch more potent than the other. Hal Simmonds, a
quiet, dark-haired, stocky boy, discovered that there were amateur
musicians among the stokers and, cornet in hand, cajoled three of them into
forming a Brass Quartet, so there was music, which pleased the Captain, who
liked a touch of class at his receptions.

All the trainees, properly scrubbed and dressed, attended the reception,
acting as hosts and greeting their guests. They made sure that each new
arrival was greeted with a smile and a drink. Clayton thought the whole
thing a waste of time and money until The Gunner told him that it had been
his experience that most young ladies loved a man in a Naval uniform,
especially if he had a drink in his hand.  All in all it was a very good
evening and Clayton discovered that a White Lady (Cointreau, gin, ice,
lemon and cherries, stirred well), properly presented to a young lady,
could lead to a pleasant walk along the beach. He also learned that sand in
one's Jockeys could be damned uncomfortable.

>From Yarmouth they sailed west, exercising all the way to Portland, Maine
where they put in for the night. The ship was met by the local US Navy
representatives, who told the trainees which bars to stay away from
(thereby ensuring a boost in the sale of liquor and beer in the
establishments as visiting Canadian officer cadets satisfied their
curiosity) and invited them to a party. During the transit to Portland, The
Gunner, much to his surprise, learned that ship handling came naturally to
him. In Portland, Acting Sub-Lieutenant Marty Vandeman learned that when a
lady of the lesbian persuasion said no, she meant no. The scars were
healing nicely by the time they returned to Halifax.

Portland a happy memory, they steamed south by east, heading for Baltimore,
day steaming for the most part, anchoring in a friendly bay or quiet
harbour for the night, past Gloucester and Boston, to Provincetown on Cape
Cod, where they rendezvoused with HMCS PRESERVER, to take on fuel, dry
stores, mail and movies. As the ships sailed alongside the Buffer fired the
Costain Gun Line, which would carry the light jackstay lines from the
frigate to the supply ship. Just as he fired the PARKDALE heeled and the
projectile went over the supply ship and became entangled in the radar
antenna mounted on the foremast. As was routine, rather than wait for the
deck crew on the frigate to rig a new line, the Buffer on the supply ship
ordered his projectile rifle fired.

The weighted plastic projectile was well aimed and arced toward the
frigate. Unfortunately, the rating firing the gun had not allowed for
windage and instead of falling across the midships section the projectile
flew through the open bridge windows, almost taking off the noses of The
Gunner and David Clayton, who were manning the engine room telegraphs and
monitoring the distance line between the two ships. David considered it a
very educational experience in that he learned a shit locker full of new
swear words. The Gunner did not take kindly to being shot at.

Once the replenishment exercise was completed the ships steamed together
until Nantucket was abeam on the starboard side. The PRESERVER continued
on, steaming south, heading for Bermuda, while the PARKDALE turned west.

A mile south of the island, between Smooth-Hummocks and Cisco, the ASW
types dry fired the Squids, and then let the Trainees have a go, who
promptly forgot that it was all just an exercise and two depth charges went
flying, scaring the bejezus out of a fisherman who was trawling less than a
mile away, and ruining the fishing for a week.

>From Nantucket they steamed west over to Narragansett Bay, past Newport,
sailing around Prudence Island, blind pilotage every inch of the way. With
Prudence Island safely behind them they anchored off Newport where the
honey barge came alongside so that the ship's bilge and sewage holding
tanks could be pumped out, a boring evolution until the hose, through which
the combined liquid waste of 140 crewmen was being pumped, ruptured,
inundating the Chief Engineer and six trainees with a noxious wave of
effluent. After being hosed down they were sent to the Sick Bay were they
were fed massive doses of tetracycline and gamma globulin.

Once the mess on the deck had been hosed away the frigate exited the bay,
past Block Island, steaming east toward Nantucket Island where there was
ample sea room. When they were well clear of Block Island The Gunner showed
the trainees how to make radar deflectors using aluminium foil, a wire coat
hanger and a broomstick. They all had a turn at the old antiquated SPQ-2
radar set, tracking the motor cutter and the Captain's gig, which had the
same radar echo as the hundreds of low-hulled fishing boats that infested
Nantucket waters, as they sailed around the island.

With Nantucket receding aft, PARKDALE began a leisurely passage
southward. The Captain, given the proximity of the Nantucket Measured Mile,
decided to hold engineering drills. He called for "Full Steam Ahead" and
everything proceeded downhill. David Clayton received a rocket for not
requesting clarification of the order (as demanded by QR&Os). The Chief
Engineer tied down the safety valves and the starboard generator blew
up. The lights went out and the steering engine packed it in. PARKDALE
wallowed in a following sea for six hours before everything was put to
rights. The Gunner exercised the trainees in the art of firing a proper gun
salute, which experience they put to good use when they made the turn into
Chesapeake Bay and saluted Fortress Monroe, the occasion somewhat marred
when Marty Vandeman lost count and The Gunner breathed fire on him.

They continued south by west, past Montauk Point, passing close inshore
down the coast of Long Island, and past New York, in transit for Baltimore,
exercising during the day and anchoring for the night in some placid bay or
tiny harbour, where they swam or fished or listened to the pickup band as
it tooted away on the quarterdeck. After sunset there were movies in the
Cadets Mess Deck.

Baltimore was a bust. The trainees sat the first of their Watchkeeping
Exams and by the time they were all finished writing it was time to clean
into their glad rags and act as hosts for the Captain's Reception. Nobody
went ashore. The next day there was an open house, with another reception
in the evening. In the morning of the third day they left Baltimore,
sailing close inshore and practising Action Stations and Repel Boarders
Drill all the way to Norfolk, where they fired a raggedy salute as they
passed the Naval Base there. The Gunner was not amused.

>From Norfolk the training ship sailed northward and on the 30th of June
entered Boston Harbor. They tied up at the USS CONSTITUTION Jetty in the
Charlestown Naval Yard, an evolution that caused no end of apprehension on
the part of the more seasoned hands in that the Commanding Officer gloried
in the nickname "Crash" (one collision at sea, two groundings, and a large
dent along the starboard side thanks to an ill-fated attempt to come
alongside the ammunition jetty in Bedford Basin). In the event, the
venerable "Old Ironsides", moored permanently in the Navy Yard, was not
added to the Captain's list of unfortunate misadventures.

As the next day was the 1st of July, Canada's National Day, up went the
awnings and lights, and the ship was dressed overall. There was a welcoming
dinner for the Dockyard Commander and his officers in the Wardroom, and a
reception on the quarterdeck. The next morning The Gunner supervised the
firing of a 21-gun salute, the pickup band played O Canada (slightly off
key) and the ship was open to visitors and those trainees not on Watch were
invited to Building 5, which housed the Officers Mess, where there was
another reception. The Marines from the US Marine Barracks challenged the
crew to a game of baseball on the wide lawns outside of the multi-storied,
ancient barracks, complete with hot dogs, hamburgers, and beer. The
Canadians lost, and invited everybody back to the ship for some BEER!

That night there were fireworks, a formal dinner in the Wardroom, and a
monster reception on the quarterdeck, after which The Gunner was given a
personal tour of the Marine Barracks (occupied continuously from 1810) by a
slim, pug-nosed Marine Lance Corporal named Eric, with a crooked grin and a
blond brush cut, who proved to The Gunner's satisfaction that US Marine
Lance Corporals look just as good out of their dress uniforms as in them.

David Clayton was taken on a tour of Boston Common by a young lady who
professed to be a student at Vassar, and learned that the gift that keeps
on giving can be cured by the administration of a Pecker Checker's Cocktail
(a combination of powerful antibiotics) delivered in the fleshiest part of
his posterior by a cackling Sick Bay Tiffy with a blunt hypodermic
needle. He also learned that such a gift was also accompanied by a "No Sex
for 90 Days" Order and a stern lecture from the Chaplain (P).

******

>From Boston they sailed north, heading for home. As they expected, the
passage north was one long series of exercises and drills. They paused,
briefly, at Louisbourg, but saw little of the historic, recreated fortress,
for thick fog blanketed the whole area. The place might have been
interesting on a warm, sunny day. In the fog and damp of Cape Breton it
took on a special bleakness.

>From Louisbourg they sailed to St. John's, Newfoundland, Newfyjohn to the
sailors on the old North Atlantic Station. They sailed through the Narrows,
past The Battery and Glenridge Crescent, marvelling at the high rocky
cliffs that surrounded the town and harbour, with the Cabot Tower high
above on Signal Hill, looming over city below.

They managed to reach their jetty at the end of Harbour Drive without
hitting anything. Once the frigate was secured alongside the gangway was
rigged and leave piped. Being almost Commissioned Officers, those trainees
not required for duty (which was everybody except David Clayton), cleaned
into proper going ashore rig - suits or blazers and grey flannels, white
shirts, ties, and a hat. David, as Officer of the Day, watched them leave
the jetty, hurrying up the sloping street for the fleshpots of Water
Street.

It was almost obligatory that the trainees visit The Crow's Nest, which had
begun life as the Officers' Mess for ships stationed in Newfyjohn on the
North Atlantic Convoy run, from 1940 until 1945, a safe haven for the
officers of the corvettes and destroyers that husbanded the convoys of fat
merchant ships across the North Atlantic. Now a private club, The Crows
Nest was housed on the top floor of an old warehouse and was reached by a
steep, rickety flight of wooden stairs. The windows of the clubroom
overlooked the harbour and the room itself was a shrine to those who had
risked their lives to keep the escorts afloat and the sea-lanes between
North America and the Old Country open.

The place was a room full of memories. On the walls of the dingy room were
ships' crests, photographs, drawings, cartoons and mementoes of the ships
and men who had sailed forth from Newfyjohn to fight the Battle of the
Atlantic. Pride of place was given to a portrait of Admiral Mainguy, a
short, dynamic man whose uniform never seemed to fit him, who by force of
character and hard work kept the convoy escorts supplied and manned.

In that corner Harry DeWolfe entertained his officers before taking command
of HMCS HAIDA. Over there the officers of HMCS SPIKENARD held a farewell
party before sailing out with convoy SC.67, steaming east to meet her fate
off of Iceland. Memories of good men lost flooded the place and when
someone suggested a pub crawl the lads were glad to leave.

Water Street was a blaze of lights, and the sounds of laughter and loud
music poured from almost every other doorway. They were young, they were
sailors on shore leave, and they would live forever. Later no one could
remember the number or names of the pubs they visited. No one could
remember when Hal Simmonds left them.

For The Gunner and David Clayton the night was long and full of exuberant,
friendly drunks. There was no trouble and so long as those returning aboard
could navigate the quarterdeck without incident, and find their way down
below, they were not logged as returning aboard intoxicated. One of the
last to return had been Hal, slightly dishevelled, but relatively sober,
and smiling a secret smile.

They stayed for two days and for two days The Gunner noticed that every
time Hal walked past a group of his peers there were muffled sniggers and
knowing looks. When he asked David what was going on the boy stammered,
blushed, and then told him. A man had picked up Hal Simmonds, drunk, in one
of the bars. They had driven to Signal Hill and there Hal had been the
recipient of his first blowjob.  Sadly, Hal made two mistakes. His first
mistake had been leaving the bar with the stranger. His second mistake had
been telling Marty Vandeman all about it.

The colour had drained from The Gunner's face when he heard the news. Hal's
peers might think the whole episode a cause of mirth. The Commanding
Officer would not. Hal's peers, being liberated, freethinking young men,
might think that a blowjob was a blowjob, and who cared how one came by
one. The Commanding Officer would not. He had two phobias, a pathological
hatred of all things Oriental, and an even greater hatred of deviant
homosexuals.

No one ever knew which little bird flew swiftly up to the bridge and
whispered in the ear of the Commanding Officer. All anyone knew was that
Hal was piped to the Old Man's cabin and shortly thereafter confined to the
Sick Bay, relieved of all duties pending the ship's arrival in Halifax.

When they tied up alongside Jetty 3 in the Halifax Dockyard there were two
civilians waiting - SIU had been informed. Hal was ignominiously hustled
off the ship and into a waiting car. The last that all but two of his
shipmates ever saw of him was the back of his head through the rear window
of the car that would take him into the Dockyard.

>From the moment Hal left the ship his fellow trainees distanced themselves
from him. The word was out that Hal was queer, and nobody wanted to be
tarred with that brush. No one would willingly admit that they had
associated with a queer.  For two days SIU investigators questioned each
trainee closely. No classes were held and no Boards sat. Two of the young
men flatly refused to speak to the investigators and were promptly
"separated". David took the coward's way out and told the investigators
that while he did go to Dalhousie with Hal, he barely knew him, really, and
no, he had never had any reason to think that Hal was queer, which was not
surprising. They weren't all that close, you know.

The Gunner, saddened at David's actions, kept his own counsel and said
nothing. He avoided the Trainees as much as possible. He was saddened, but
not surprised.  He had seen it all before. No one in the Navy would ever
admit that they knew a queer, or knew that one of their fellows was queer.

Four days after Hal Simmonds left the ship the Chaplain (P) called the
Midshipmen together. They met in the Cadets Mess Deck and there they
learned that Hal Simmonds was dead.

******

August 6th, 1973, Halifax, Nova Scotia, and a fierce, cold, rain lashed the
city. A lone figure, bareheaded, shoulders hunched, plodded slowly down
Windsor Street. The figure stopped before the large house numbered 217 and
looked up at the wide, carved wooden doors. On either side of the doors a
small, discreet, bronze plaque bore the name: Playfair & Hulse, Funeral
Directors. Acting Sub-Lieutenant David Clayton mounted the three low steps
leading to the doors and halted. He squared his shoulders and steeled
himself.  Then he pushed open the doors and entered.

David had seen the funeral notice in the Halifax Herald, so small that he
had almost missed it. The obituary had listed the name, date of death, and
date and place of the funeral, with no loving relatives listed, and no
mention that the deceased had been in the Navy.

The entry hall was empty. Above a small table was a black and white notice
board. On it was listed one name, the date of the funeral, and the room
where Mr. Harold Simmonds was resting: Room 6, on the 2nd floor. David
climbed the wide stairs leading to the second floor and followed a long
hallway that led toward the rear of the funeral parlour. At the end of the
hallway was a glass door. Beside it was another black and white sign
bearing the name of the person resting within. As he neared the door David
could hear a loud voice raised in anger. A voice he recognized.

"I don't give a fuck, damn it!" The Gunner shouted.  "I want to know what
the hell is going on here."

David heard the low, soothing murmur of another voice. As he pushed open
the door there was another explosion of anger.

"Don't give me that crap! He was a sailor, damn you, and I want to know
just what the fuck you think you're doing."

The room David had entered was small, and windowless. Against the far wall,
bare, and in need of paint, a grey, cloth-covered coffin sat on a low dais.
In either corner of the room was an armchair and table with a lamp on
it. In the middle of the room stood a short, plump, formally attired man,
and a visibly angry Leading Seaman, who was wearing his old square
rig. Their argument was so intense that both men barely noticed David as he
entered the room and sat in one of the armchairs.

"I am only doing what I was told to do," said the undertaker patiently. He
began to wring his hands. "I did the best I could under the circumstances."

The Gunner snorted. He angrily pushed the undertaker aside and strode to
the coffin. "The best you could? Is dressing him in half a suit the best
you could do?" He flung open the top of the box and peered in. "I thought
so!" He slammed the lower lid of the coffin shut. "That boy is naked from
the waist down. Does doing your best not include putting a pair of pants on
him?"

David, white-faced, stood up and walked to the coffin. He looked down at
the painted and powdered face of the boy he had denied only days before. He
looked up and saw that the recessed overhead lights were pink, another
subterfuge to fool a grieving family or friend. He turned and glared at the
undertaker. "Why isn't he wearing his uniform?" he demanded loudly. "Where
is his flag?"

The undertaker groaned and turned to this new antagonist. "As I have tried
to explain to the Leading Seaman, the Benevolent Fund only allows so much
and . . ."

"What fund? What the fuck are you talking about?" David took a step
forward, his fists balled.

The Gunner stopped him. "The RCN Benevolent Fund is paying the bills."

"But, I don't understand. Hal was in the Navy. He was never released. The
Navy . . ."

"Does not bury queers!" finished The Gunner cruelly. He took David by the
elbow and led him toward the door, stopping to turn and glare at the
undertaker. "Close the coffin, and wait in your office." He turned to
David. "You come with me."

The Gunner led David down to the main floor lounge, a finely appointed room
filled with comfortable chairs and sofas. He motioned for David to sit and
took out a packet of cigarettes, extracted one, lit it and inhaled
deeply. Then he looked at David. "As far as the Navy is concerned Hal never
existed. They bear no responsibility for him. As far as the Navy is
concerned its responsibility ended the day he was declared a queer."

"Don't call him that!" snapped David. "He wasn't a queer."

"How would you know?" asked The Gunner harshly. "You barely knew him,
remember?"

"That's not fair, damn you, Guns!" flared David.

"Yes, it is," returned The Gunner. "He was your friend and you turned your
back on him. Just like all the others, just like his family."

"His family? I don't understand."

"Our gallant Captain made it his business to tell Hal's family exactly why
he was being released from the Navy. Do you want to know what they said?
What they did?"

David cringed, taken aback at the depth of The Gunner's anger. He was so
shocked that it was several seconds before he could regain his
composure. "What . . . I saw the obituary. There was no mention of his
people at all," he said, shaking his head, his voice a whisper.

"There was no mention because his family disowned him. Hal's father came to
STADACONA and told him that no matter what happened he deserved what he got
and that he wasn't welcome at home anymore. He didn't want any queers in
his house! When the MP's called and told him that Hal was dead do you want
to know what he told them? Do you?" David shook his head. The tone of anger
in The Gunner's voice changed to one of utter disgust. "Hal's father, his
fucking father, said that he had no son named Harold. He also said that so
far as he was concerned all queers should be dead."

David buried his face in his hands. "Enough, stop it!"

"No!" The Gunner shook David. "He was your friend until you found out that
he was gay. You went to school with him. You slept in the same Mess with
him, ate at the same table with him. You knew him, David. And you turned
your back on him."

"You son of a bitch!" David, choking with rage, leaped from his seat and
swung wildly, almost connecting with The Gunner's chin. He raised his fist
again. "You cocksucking son of bitch!"

The Gunner grabbed him and held his arms. "Think about what you did to that
poor boy before you call me names.  Think about him sitting, alone in a
bare room with just a bed to sit on, afraid, abandoned by his friends and
denied by his family. Think about what must have been going through his
mind. Think about his fear and his despair. Think about how utterly
disgusting we, and that includes me, made him feel about himself. Think
about what was going through his mind when he smashed the glass he used to
drink from, and what he was thinking about when he picked up a shard and
placed it against his wrist." He pushed David away. "Think about him lying
in that room upstairs, half dressed, destined to lie in some Potter's Field
in a grave with eight other people. Think about what cowards we were. Think
about it, and then call me names."

The Gunner dropped his glowing cigarette and ground it into the fake
Axminster carpet. He turned on his heels and was almost at the door when
David stopped him. "What are you going to do?"

The Gunner looked at him. "I'm going to see that he's treated in death with
something that was denied to him in life. I'm going to see that he's buried
with respect and dignity." He strode from the lounge and went to the
undertaker's office. He threw open the door and stood in front of the
startled mortician's desk. "How much?" he asked.

The undertaker sat back in his chair.  "Please, I don't want any trouble."

"Answer my question. You're a businessman. How much?" He barely saw David
quietly enter the room.

"It depends on what you want," replied the undertaker. He was indeed a
businessman.

"I want Hal out of that orange crate you have him in. I want that muck
cleaned off his face and a proper job done. I want you to call Rathbone's
on Barrington Street and have them send over a proper Midshipman's
uniform. I want them to send over underwear, socks and shoes and I want you
to dress him properly. I want you to have them send over an officer's hat
and a sword. And make sure there's a sword knot on it." The Gunner reached
into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and began to
throw money on the desk. "I want a priest . . ." he turned to David. "An
Anglican priest?"  David nodded and The Gunner continued, his voice
tight. "I want Hal in your chapel with a priest saying prayers for his
soul."

The undertaker nodded and made a few notes on the scratch pad in front of
him. "And the final interment? We have him scheduled for the Fund's plot at
Fairview Cemetery."

The Gunner snorted. "Call the cemetery. Have them open up a new
grave. Somewhere nice, with trees. I think he'd like to lie under the
trees."

The undertaker raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "That might be, um,
costly. The rain and all . . ."

For the first time David spoke up. "Do it. Whatever it takes, do it."

"And you are?" asked the undertaker.

"My name is David Clayton. My father is Joseph Clayton. I'm sure he'll
vouch for me."

The undertaker smiled. "The President of the Nova Scotia Trust Company is
well known to all Haligonians," he began unctuously.

"Cut the crap," snarled David. "Just get the damn grave dug."

******

At five o'clock that same afternoon David, dressed in his best uniform,
returned to the funeral home. He found Hal laid out in the chapel, his
mahogany casket draped with the Canadian flag. On either side of the coffin
was a small display of flowers. David sat and stared at the calm, still
face of his friend. Hal was properly dressed in a Navy uniform, brass
buttons, white turnback and all. The makeup had been toned down and he
looked at least presentable.

Presently David heard the sound of leather slapping sharply against the
marble floor of the chapel. He turned and saw The Gunner enter the room. He
was carrying a large triangular bundle of cloth, a Naval Officer's sword
and an officer's white cap. He marched up to the coffin and pulled the flag
that covered it away, letting it fall to the floor. The Gunner then
carefully, with almost religious dedication, unfolded the bundle he had
brought with him and draped the White Ensign over Hal's coffin and then
placed the sword and cap on the Ensign,

David gasped at the disrespect shown to the Canadian flag. The Gunner heard
him and turned. "The country that flag represents turned its face away from
Hal, just as it has turned its face away from every gay who has ever tried
to serve his Queen and his Country! Just as it will turn its face away from
me!" Before David could respond a priest entered the chapel.  The
undertaker accompanied him.

The Service in the chapel was mercifully short. After the service Hal was
borne to his final resting place in Fairview Cemetery, his coffin carried
to the grave by The Gunner, David, the undertaker and his assistant, and
two of the cemetery workers. The grave was, as requested, under a small
tree, and located not too far from the black granite stones that marked
that the final resting places of the dead from the Titanic.

Once the coffin had been positioned on the frame that would be used to
lower it into the ground the undertaker removed the hat, the sword and the
Ensign. With professional decorum he handed the mourning artefacts to The
Gunner who in turn handed the sword to David. Then he asked that the coffin
be opened.

The lid was lifted and Gunner knelt down on one knee. He carefully draped
the Ensign around the body, put the cap inside, and then leaned over and
kissed the boy's cold, cold, forehead.

David, wracked by great heaving sobs, barely heard the priest intone the
last Prayers for the Dead. Clutching the sword to his chest he did not see
the coffin slowly being lowered into the ground. He did not hear the clods
of earth falling on the coffin as the cemetery workers began to fill in the
grave. He did not feel the slight tug on his arm as The Gunner led him away
and he did not hear the haunting notes of the Last Post sounding over the
city of the dead.

******

The Gunner and Lieutenant (N) Clayton embraced warmly. "You look tired,"
said David as he broke their embrace. He pointed toward The Phantom with
his chin. "And I think I know why."

"Now, David . . ."

David shook his head. "He's a little young, isn't he?"

"He'll be 18 in November."

David's eyes clouded. "Almost as old as . . ."

The Gunner nodded and squeezed David's shoulder. "Hal's gone, David, and
there's nothing we can do but remember him. Did your Dad do the flowers?"

"Yes, same as always.  It's three years, today.  I wish I could have been
there."

"Me too."

David shook himself slightly. "Anyway, introduce me to your young friend."
The Gunner called The Phantom over and introduced him to David. They
overtly sized each other up. "Well, at least he's not rough trade," thought
David as he shook The Phantom's hand. "A good, firm, handshake. He's not
some Nancy boy and he looks good in the uniform. He's clean and the uniform
suits him." David slowly nodded his approval. "The Gunner could have done
worse." He looked at The Gunner and then he looked into The Phantom's
emerald eyes. There was steel in those green eyes, a look that said don't
fuck with me, ever.

The Phantom regarded his future host and escort, trying to remain
dispassionate and to not judge a man on first appearances. He saw a young
Naval officer with a ready smile and felt his firm handshake. Then The
Phantom looked into David Clayton's brown eyes and saw the man's soul. He
saw a man of quiet purpose, a man of dedication and committed to his
friends and his Navy. There was no subterfuge, no sign of betrayal or guile
in David's dark eyes. The Phantom saw a man of firm conviction tempered
with understanding. He saw a man he would be pleased to call a friend, and
he smiled.

******

While The Phantom went off to roust the Twins the pool area and the small
courtyard of the hotel began to fill as the cadets, dressed and fed, milled
about, waiting for the buses to arrive. The Gunner and David Clayton were
chatting quietly when the in the sighs and giggles from the girls sitting
along the edge of the pool momentarily distracted them. The girls had been
attracted by the noise and organized confusion and had come out of their
rooms to watch the show.

The Gunner nudged Lieutenant Clayton and laughed quietly. David smiled
widely at the sight of Harry, Tyler, Val, Stuart, Steve, Greg and Nicholas
frankly strutting their stuff, promenading along the edge of the pool,
showing off to the giggling girls and enjoying the feminine adoration as if
it were their due.  Joey and Randy, who were at that age, were disgusted at
the antics of their seniors. As far as they were concerned girls were a
form of exotic pest, best left alone lest they do something weird, such as
tell you how cute you were, which caused blushing and squirming.

The Gunner left David and The Phantom and told the Chiefs to get their
asses in gear. Andy and Kyle wandered down and they began organizing the
troops into a semblance of order. All but 30 of the cadets were dressed in
white, square rig, Class I uniforms. Stuart, Steve and 28 Gunners and
Boatswains were dressed in work dress uniforms. They would not be marching
and had been detailed to go to the grounds of the Provincial Legislature
where they would unload the two guns and set them up for the Ceremony of
the Flags.

Number One rolled up in a battered old Volvo (which he had borrowed from
his brother-in-law, with whom he and his wife were staying). He surveyed
the troops and announced that the Band Officer seconded from CFB Esquimalt
would not be in attendance. His wife had gone into labour (for the 57th
time it seemed). Andy was detailed off to march beside the Band.

By 0930 the troops were ready and began to board the buses, which, much to
everyone's surprise, actually arrived on time. Randy and Joey, who had no
desire to march in a parade, whined, wheedled and stroked Chef's ego, which
resulted in their being included in David's official party. This suited
Chef, who went off to meet some mates in the Chiefs Mess.

The Gunner took all three boys aside and gave them their marching
orders. "Now look, you three." he began, "you will be sitting on the
Reviewing Stand with the Lieutenant Governor, The Commanding Officer, and
their wives. The Twins' father and mother are also going to be there, so be
on your best behaviour."

All three boys nodded solemnly. David Clayton snickered, which earned him a
dirty look from The Gunner. "Come, on, Gunner, I got couth," protested The
Phantom indignantly.

"Yeah, we got couth," echoed Randy and Joey. Actually, they weren't all
that sure what the Gunner was talking about but, being Sea Cadets, they
figured they had it.

"Perhaps," replied The Gunner doubtfully. "But please, do not scratch
yourselves in places you shouldn't scratch in public."

"That means leave your ass and balls alone, no matter how much they itch,"
explained The Phantom to the Makee-Learns.

David had to move away.

"Phantom, this is no joke!" The Gunner moved about, smoothing the back of
The Phantom's tunic and pulling down Randy and Joey's jumpers. "You
represent the Sea Cadets so be on your best behaviour." He glowered
menacingly. "So, no belching, farting, or gobbling the food at the
reception." He turned to David. "And keep them away from the punch,
David. It's spiked and it's deadly!"

"Oh, Stevie, relax. They won't be any trouble, will you guys?" All three
boys enthusiastically shook their heads. "See?" asked David looking at The
Gunner. "So can your Mother Hen routine." He motioned to the staff car
parked on the street.  "Let's go, you clowns."

As The Gunner watched them climb into the staff car he smiled a secret
smile. Phantom's first formal function. He will be good, and it will be
good for him.  One step at a time, one step at a time.

******

Laurel Point Park was the designated muster point for all parade
participants. The small, pretty little piece of greenery was located
between Victoria Harbour and James Bay. Directly across from the Park were
Songs Point and the Dockyard. At the very end of the park, at Laurel Point,
there was battery of saluting guns, manned by Naval Reservists, who would
fire a salute to mark British Columbia Day.

The buses containing the cadets pulled into the park just as the first gun
was fired. This elicited an angry hoot from the ferry to Bellingham,
Washington, which happened to be passing. The cadets milled around waiting
for the Parade Marshals to get their act together.  They would march in
four platoons, two led by Harry's brass/reed Band, two platoons led by
Sylvain and his Buglers.

The park was a cacophony of noise, as the bands, bagpipes moaning and
groaning, brass instruments blaring and drums rolling, tuned their
instruments and drums, squealing pipe bands vying with sounding brass. In
counterpoint the saluting guns on Laurel Point crashed and echoed across
the water. There were flower-covered floats - the boast was that BC used
more flowers, and variety of flowers, on the floats than any parade in
North America, including the Pasadena Parade of Roses. There were floats
from the City of Victoria, the Province, the Service organizations, and the
surrounding towns and municipalities, each vying the other in design and
splendour.

There were marching bands from every high school in the area, all sadly
modelled on the American Drum and Bugle bands, all drums and bums, and all
wearing a variation of the West Point Cadet uniform. There were visiting
bands and marching units from south of the border. There were pipe bands
from the Legions, the pipers and drummers in kilts and towering bearskins,
and an Arabian flute band from the Shriners, in burnooses and caftans, and
curly toed shoes.

There were clowns in gaudy makeup and outrageous costumes, baton twirlers
in spangles and sequins, vintage cars and enough fire engines and rigs to
fight a ten-alarm fire. The military was out in force, with detachments
from the Militia, including the Duke of Connaught's Own in their
traditional Regimental dress, The British Columbia Dragoons, The Seaforths
in their distinctive kilts and bonnets, and the Canadian Scottish Regiment
(Princess Mary's) in bearskins and plumes.

As 1030 approached the Parade Marshals managed to bring a degree of
organization out of the chaos. At 1030 the first of the Parade units
started off, leaving the Park and moving along Belleville Avenue. As was
traditional, the Navy, as Senior Service, led off with the Band of HMCS
NADEN directly behind the lead unit, the Victoria PD Mounted Unit.

The placement of the marching unit from CFB Esquimalt behind the NADEN band
was, in some ways, unfortunate. The Band, dressed in traditional uniforms
and carrying the NADEN Drums - sterling silver, richly embossed with the
Navy Crest (the only set in Canada) - was followed by the Navy Marching
Contingent, which consisted of a Colour Party and 100 marchers, all dressed
in their lacklustre green suits. Victoria was an old Navy town, and the
reaction of the crowds to the passing of the sailors in Mr. Hellyer's suits
was decidedly low key, much to the chagrin of MARPAC, who glared and pouted
when the Lieutenant Governor promptly sat down immediately after the Colour
Party and Band had passed the Reviewing Stand.

The Parade would turn onto Government Street; pass the Empress Hotel (where
the Saluting Base was), and end at Bastion Square, a stone's throw from the
Victoria Bug Zoo (which many thought a fitting place to end the parade).

With Harry leading, the cadet contingent stepped out. Harry, his sash
making a colourful contrast to his tight, white, square rig uniform, was in
his glory, and set about proving beyond any doubt why he had been called to
AURORA and why he was considered the best damned Drum Major in the Royal
Canadian Sea Cadet Corps.

Harry was a ham, but a disciplined ham. He loved playing to the crowd and
he had quite an extensive repertoire. As the Band thumped and crashed
through On the Quarterdeck, he tossed his Mace high into the air. The Mace
flew upward and described three perfect turns before plummeting straight
down to slide through Harry's gloved hand. This evoked a round of applause
from the crowd gathered on the sidewalk. Harry spun his Mace, Harry twirled
his Mace, Harry threw his Mace into the air. All in all it was the
performance of a Master Craftsman.

When the Band finished playing and the drums tapped out the cadence the
cadets could hear the crowd chattering and commenting on their dress and
drill. There were oohs and aahs when Tyler marched by, magnificent in his
Number 11 fore-and-aft uniform, the gold buttons and gilt crown on the
sleeves glittering brightly in the morning sunlight. Harry, wearing his
Class I uniform, his bell-bottom trousers and jumper fitting his body like
a glove, was in his glory. He could hear the comments as he passed, and
mentally thanked Stefan, and Tyler, who had loaned him the white boxers he
wore under his uniform, though as he passed Menzies Street he wasn't all
that sure that thanks were due to the boy.

There were two men standing in the crowd, one tall, with curly blonde hair,
and built like the linebacker he'd been in high school and college. His
partner was shorter, stockier, and had a short haircut.

"Oh, Rob," Harry heard the voice of the shorter man drift over, "look at
the bum on that boy!"

"Alan, you are such a slut!" returned his partner. "That kid is young
enough to be your grandson!"

Alan was unaffected by Rob's smartass crack. "Well, as my old Granny used
to say when she chased my brother around the chicken run, 'incest is
best'."

Whatever reply Rob might have made was lost as the drummers crashed into
double drum rolls to signal the beginning of The Maple Leaf Forever, their
piece de resistance. Harry's arm went up and with his Mace he signalled for
the Band to perform a Rosebud counter march. He turned right, and began
marching through the Band, his arm raised, his hand bent back flat, the
Mace balanced and spinning slowly above the heads of the musicians. As he
passed through the rear rank of the Band Harry moved his hand and the Mace
dropped gracefully. Harry grinned at Brian, who, with the Guard and Colour
Party, was marking time behind the Band, and raised his arm. The Mace
signalled another Rosebud and Harry turned again, the Band following. As he
emerged Harry tossed his Mace high into the air, and basked in the glow of
the thunderous applause as he caught it. The feeling, as Harry later told
Greg, was better than cumming in your Jockeys.

The euphoria was short-lived. As the Band passed Menzies Street a nutter on
a bicycle, of the kind that plagues every parade, pedalled furiously across
Harry's path, laughing maniacally. With his filthy, greasy, shoulder length
hair flying in the wind created by his passing, he whizzed down the port
side of the Band, turned and almost wiped out the Colour Party.

The wraith, his hair flying then began howling like a dog baying at the
moon and pedalled furiously, brushing the arms of the cadets in Numbers One
and Two Platoons. He turned and the float from Saanich, which separated the
two cadet detachments, slammed to a screeching halt so as not to run over
the loon. Unfortunately Sylvain was just bringing his mace up to signal the
Buglers to start their set. The sudden stop of the float brought the tip of
his mace into direct contact with the Saanich Crest, all roses and
carnations affixed to the back of the float. In less than two seconds the
work of seven people was ruined.  The nutter, whose name was Gerry James
Omanski, was higher than High Mass with all candles lit, having spent the
night under the Johnson Street Bridge smoking an excellent weed grown in
the Okanagan Valley and sipping Thunderbird.

Gerry was short, overweight, and smelled, so much so that there was a
definite wrinkling of noses as he zoomed behind the cadets and in front of
the Legion Zone Command Colour Party. This was not surprising in that his
clothing, which consisted of Army surplus combat trousers, a denim jacket
cadged from the Sally Ann, and a T-shirt that he had stolen from the
laundry room in the flophouse hotel where he lived, had not seen soap and
water for months, as was the case with his body and hair (held in place by
an old Guards tie).

Gerry lived in squalor by choice. He was, in fact, a remittance man. He was
also officially listed as a deserter from the United States Army, and had
been since 1969, when he had received a buff envelope from his local Draft
Board in Albany, New York, his hometown. Being a coward of the first water,
Gerry had no desire to become a target for various and sundry Vietnamese
nationals. He had driven west to Buffalo, New York, and crossed the border
into Canada. Not wishing to endure an Eastern winter he had drifted further
west, pausing in Vancouver, where he attempted to supplement his meagre
income (a small cheque, sent monthly by his horrified mother), by peddling
the odd gram of cultivated products, much to the annoyance of certain
Oriental gentlemen who considered such trafficking their own special area
of interest, to the extent that a moonlit ferry ride across the water to
Victoria seemed wise.

As he sank lower and lower Gerry spent more and more of his waking hours in
an alcohol and marijuana induced haze, so much so that he could only tell
the difference between night and day by the fact that it was so very bright
for part of the day. Except for the clothes on his back and the bicycle,
acquired when he had stopped to chat with two very kind men occupying a
small grate behind the City Hall and who made the mistake of turning their
back on him, Gerry owned nothing.  He spent what money he stole, had sent
to him, or earned from his small scale drug dealings, on cheap booze and
cheaper women, his only real extravagance being a $5.00 blowjob once or
twice a month, and even that expense could be waived if it was the day
before the welfare cheques came out and he had a jug or three of cooking
sherry hidden in the room he rented.

When he wasn't hunkered down with his cronies, Gerry spent his time zipping
about the city, avoiding the beat cops and annoying the hell out of
people. He particularly enjoyed annoying the marchers in a parade, of which
there were many. He would whiz around the marching units, cackling and
howling, sometimes singing in a cracked and battered tenor voice.

Of all the marching units in the parades Gerry best loved annoying the
military units and the marching contingents from the Royal Canadian
Legion. They could, and did, snarl at him, and call him some very
uncomplimentary names (most of them apt) but, being men of discipline, they
never offered violence, which suited Gerry fine, him being a drinker and
not a fighter.

Gerry attended every parade, from the Battle of the Atlantic Parade in May,
to the Santa Claus Parades in early December, quite smugly disrupting the
lines of marchers, safe in the knowledge that so long as he wasn't run over
by a float chances were he would come to no grief.

He did not reckon on two factors: Harry, and the long arm of Michael Wei-Ho
Chan.

******

Harry was a virtuoso, and like all virtuosi he became decidedly cranky when
his performance was interrupted. He was prepared to accept the remarks
coming from the Peanut Gallery lining both sides of the street. As both
Cory and Stefan had told him, he had a fine looking ass, just built for
bell-bottomed trousers, so he accepted the appreciative remarks that
drifted over from the members of the audience. He was not, however,
prepared to accept the unwarranted and unwanted intrusion of some nut bar
on a bicycle.

As touchy as a prima donna absoluta, Harry growled dangerously as Gerry
whizzed by on his second pass. Harry glanced over at Andy, who was marching
beside Andre, who had been promoted to the Band, much to Sylvain's
annoyance. Andy was red with anger and his fists were clenched. As an
officer he was more or less compelled to grin and bear Gerry's antics.

Harry wished that The Gunner were with them. But he was back at the
Legislature Building, supervising the unloading of the guns. Kyle was with
the Colour Party, carrying the Canadian flag, marching in front of the
Band.  Number One was marching behind the Band, leading the first
contingent, the 50-strong Sea Puppy Company. Dave Eddy was even further
away. He was in charge of the Second Company, which was marching behind the
Bugle Band. It therefore occurred to Harry that with no officer in a
position to handle the nutter, it was up to him, as the Senior Chief
present, to remove the pest as expeditiously as possible.

A sly smile crossed Harry's face as he listened for the howling that would
signal the approach of the cyclist. As the howling drew nearer Harry, much
to the surprise of the Band, held out his arms, giving the signal to Mark
Time, the Mace pointed to his right and as the nutter wheeled past Harry's
wrist twitched. With some force Harry pushed his Mace outward, seemingly
barely nudging the madman as he streaked by.  As the bystanders watched
indifferently Gerry leaned to his right, lost his balance and crashed ass
over elbow onto the pavement, landing at the feet of two Chinese gentlemen
in black suits, who, being good, civic minded citizens, immediately knelt
down to give the poor unfortunate what assistance they could.

As Gerry was being helped to his feet the larger of the two Chinese men
grinned.  Protesting loudly, Gerry was assisted to a car parked on the side
street.  He needed, the Chinese gentlemen insisted, medical help. They,
being good Samaritans, would make sure that he received it.

When Gerry was uncomfortably, and unwillingly settled in the back seat of
the car the larger of the two Oriental gentlemen leaned in and, with a
shark-like smile said, "Michael Chan says hello, Gerry."

******

As the Parade made the turn onto Government Street Harry, the derelict
forgotten, saw the flag marking the point where he would give an "Eyes
Right" and salute the Lieutenant Governor. He gave the knock on signal for
the Band to play the March Past music and, as the first notes of Heart of
Oak crashed forth he tossed his mace.  Without looking up he held out his
hand, secure in the knowledge that his Mace would do exactly what he wanted
it to do.

The Lieutenant Governor stood and saluted and raised his eyes, watching as
the Mace went high into the air, spun three times and plummeted downward,
not daring to breathe he watched as the Mace fell into Harry's waiting
hand. As the Mace touched his fingers Harry grasped it and his right hand
came up, giving a perfect salute.

It was Harry's finest hour.

******

For The Phantom the day was, in some ways, wonderful, and in others
disturbing. Joey and Randy behaved themselves.  Mrs. Commanding Officer
fawned over him, and chided him gently about a gentleman always wearing
scent (he had forgotten to bring his after shave). The Lieutenant Governor
was extremely gracious to all three of the cadets. The parade floats were
beautiful, the marchers exuberant and the bands, including the Presbyterian
Bag Squeezers, glorious.

What disturbed The Phantom was the sense of pride and companionship that
overwhelmed him as the Band marched by the reviewing stand, brass blaring
and cymbals crashing as they played Heart of Oak. He felt a kinship with
the boys marching past, a kinship that on the one hand he felt
heart-warming and on the other hand frightened him.

He had watched the reactions of the people around him when first NADEN's
band, and then AURORA's played Heart of Oak. As the first notes blared
forth all the Naval types, including the Lieutenant Governor rose and stood
at attention. The wives of the Commanding Officer and the Executive Officer
placed their hands over their hearts, and the Lieutenant Governor's lady
dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. The depth of feeling all these
people felt for their Navy was overpowering, so much so that The Phantom
felt his chest swelling with pride, and feeling things he did not want to
feel.

The whole world seemed to be a part of a conspiracy that was slowly, if
gently, but nonetheless pushing him toward a life he was not all that sure
he wanted to live. He had overheard enough of The Gunner's conversation
with Lieutenant Clayton to know that he had no desire to go in harm's way,
which he would be doing if he joined the Navy.

Still, the reactions of the others affected him deeply, and his own
reactions surprised him. The longer he spent with the cadets, and the more
his feelings for The Gunner deepened, the more something within him drew
him toward the Navy.  His parents wanted him to join. The Gunner wanted him
to join. The problem was that he was not at all sure that he wanted to take
the Queen's Shilling.

The Phantom wanted to be a part of the Gunner's life, and realized fully
that the Navy was, and always would be a great part of that life, even if
The Gunner did as he was thinking about doing and sent in his papers. He
wanted to do anything and everything to make his lover happy. Yet he
hesitated and could not make up his mind until, that is, he spoke with
David Clayton.

When the parade ended everybody retired to the Ballroom of the Empress
Hotel. It was an ideal venue for a Naval reception and, if one were over
the age of 21, an enjoyable time could be had. If, however, one was 13 and
a half, finger sandwiches and prawn canapés were not all that
interesting. And being told, for the umpteenth time that you were cute, and
a very handsome boy, wore thin after time. Having your blue collar touched
for luck by a horde of complete strangers was also unsettling.

Joey and Randy were well behaved, but bored. They were also hungry and
wanted what was to them, real food. While they did not whine, they made it
plain to The Phantom that they would prefer to be somewhere else. The
Phantom agreed with them and asked Lieutenant Clayton if they could go back
to the Legislature Building for the Ceremony of the Flags. David, much to
The Phantom's surprise, agreed. David was really not in a party mood, the
memory of that rain swept day in Halifax weighing heavily on his mind.

They left the hotel and walked down Government Street, stopping at a
sidewalk vendor to feed and water the Makee-Learns. After he had paid for
their pop and hamburgers (with everything, all 21 condiments), The Phantom
made them sit at one of the picnic tables that dotted the promenade
overlooking the harbour. He and David sat on a bench nearby, watching the
sailboats and yachts darting and tacking across the water.

David was very quiet and there was a far away look in his eyes as he stared
out to sea. The Phantom sensed his melancholy and at first hesitated to
intrude. Still, David was The Gunner's best friend, and had shared
experiences with him and if what was bothering David also bothered The
Gunner, The Phantom wanted to understand why. "You're thinking of him,
aren't you," said The Phantom presently.

"Pardon?"

"You're thinking of Hal. I heard you and The Gunner talking." The Phantom
leaned forward and clasped his hands together. "Who was he?"

David sighed heavily. "A boy we knew. He died." He stood up and leaned on
the iron railing separating the promenade from the sea. The Phantom joined
him. David glanced at the boy standing beside him. He smiled thinly. "His
name was Hal Simmonds. He was a Midshipman with me, and The Gunner was one
of our instructors."

"And he died?"

David nodded.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

David thought a moment. He was aware that The Gunner had hopes that the boy
would, in a year or so, be wearing a uniform. He bluntly told The Phantom
Hal's story.

"Was he gay?" asked The Phantom. "Did he kill himself because he was gay?"

David looked directly at The Phantom. "Was he gay? I never saw anything
that made me think it. But he admitted to participating in a homosexual
act. As far as the Navy was concerned that made him gay."

"But he was drunk! Haven't you ever been drunk and done stupid things?"

"Of course I have. Every sailor has. But Hal was tarred with the brush of
homosexuality. My guess is that it was the first, and probably would have
been the last time, something like that ever happened to him. Unfortunately
as far as the Navy was concerned, that one drunken act made him gay, and
not fit to serve. When he lost the Navy, and then his family rejected him,
he couldn't take it."  The Phantom's eyes flashed with anger. "He should
have fought back."

David shook his head. "Some people can't handle it. Some people walk away
and try to get on with their lives. Others take a shard of glass and . . ."

"He took the coward's way out," snapped The Phantom cruelly. "Just like my
Gunner is taking the coward's way out!"

"That is the most damnable, cruel thing I have ever heard!" David was
shaking with anger. "You don't know what was . . ."

"I know enough!" growled The Phantom. "I know that no man should have to
kill himself because he's gay! I know that no man should have to leave a
Service he loves even more than he loves his life, or me, because he's gay!
I know enough that nobody, not you, not his friends, not his own people,
stood beside Hal and said, 'Fuck YOU!' to SIU or the Admiral or whoever the
fuck it was."

"You don't understand how it was, or how it is, Phantom," replied David
quietly, quite surprised at the boy's outburst.

"Oh, but I do understand. You and all your messmates were afraid that if
you stood up for Hal you'd all get called queers. You'd lose your
commissions. You were friends of a queer and that's not allowed! So you all
ran away!" The Phantom's emerald eyes were blazing and his face was flushed
with anger. "Well, no man is ever going to say that Philip Andrew Thomas
Lascelles ran away! No one! Not you, sir. Not that pigheaded, brass-balled,
wonderful man I love, who's dying inside because he thinks he has to leave
the Navy because of what he is. No way, no how, not on my watch, sir!"

Without waiting for an answer The Phantom wheeled and stomped off down
Government Street, heading for the Provincial Legislature Building. Joey
and Randy, who had heard Phantom's outburst, slowly placed their half-eaten
hamburgers on the picnic table and looked at Lieutenant Clayton. "He's mad,
isn't he?" asked Joey.

David nodded grimly.

"Where's he going?" Randy looked at his honourary big brother's back fast
receding down the street.

David shook his head, wondering just what it was that he had done. "Boys, I
think your honourary big brother just joined the Navy!"