Date: Sun, 17 Aug 2003 12:59:03 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 29

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, dos and don'ts that I don't see or
hear any of you thumping bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you
some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible
Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, the bankrupt and increasingly
irrelevant United Nations, please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever
cause you're touting. I have no time for claptrap.

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

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

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

I apologise for the delay in posting this chapter. There were some
editorial issues that had to be settled and, when almost done, we had our
power outage. I lost nothing, as my computer was not flashed up, except
that most precious commodity, time. Things are more or less back to normal
so I hope to publish future chapters in a more timely manner.


The Boys Of Aurora: Chapter 29


Todd lay beside Harry, staring into the darkness at the dimly lit,
smoke-stained ceiling of the Unwinding Room. Harry was snoring softly, his
huge body taking up most of the narrow settee that they were lying on. His
arm was thrown across Todd's chest and the Pride, flaccid, warm, and still
wet from their recent sex, pressed softly against the equally warm flesh of
Todd's thigh.

Their lovemaking had started, as it always did, with their undressing each
other. They then proceeded to heavy petting, for Harry adored kissing and
fondling his partner. Their foreplay ended, as it always did, in a mutually
satisfying sixty-nine, which was the prelude to a slow, gentle session of
serious lovemaking, with Harry, always the dominant, Alpha Male, going
first. Harry was, for all his bull moose antics, a considerate lover and
never failed to please Todd, who in turn always managed to bring Harry to a
roaring climax.

Tonight, however, Harry had been off his feed, tired and, so he claimed,
stressed from what had been a very trying day. Dropping the Mace had been
the cause of his borrowing money, something he hated to do, and then he'd
been forced to supervise his Bandsmen, all of whom seemed to have hollow
legs! They had also proved obstreperous in the extreme while they were in
Comox, some wanting to go swimming, others wanting to spend their money,
and Harry's, in the local arcade playing endless, mindless games.

At first Harry had been his usual, undemanding self. He had slowly stripped
Todd naked, taken him in his arms, and gently and slowly kissed his way
down Todd's body. They had fallen onto the settee and from then on
everything changed. For some reason Harry, who adored having the Pride
sucked, was unusually and annoyingly aggressive. Todd had little enthusiasm
for deep throating. He wanted to taste, to feel the Pride in all its glory
and sweetness, to have his taste buds titillated and stimulated by the
smoothness and warmth that the Pride possessed and generated. His normal
method was to slowly suck the Pride into his mouth, savouring the first
five or six inches, suckling and enjoying the moment. Tonight Harry had
been overcome with lust and thrust savagely into Todd's mouth while he
sucked hard and fast on Todd's erect penis. Fortunately Harry, when he was
in this state, ejaculated quickly.

For the moment spent and satisfied, Harry had cuddled close to Todd,
wrapped his arm around Todd's chest, and promptly fallen asleep. He was
still sleeping, his soft zephyrs of warmth teasing Todd's nipple.

In a way Todd was quite happy that tonight had ended as it had. Sean's
question lay heavy on his mind. He knew that while he did love Harry, he
was not in love with Harry. Unlike Sean, neither he nor Harry was prepared
to sacrifice everything for their love.

Harry stirred in his sleep and his hand began to rub Todd's taut, warm
belly. He moved his head and began to suckle gently on Todd's left nipple,
much as a babe would seek sustenance from its mother. As he suckled Harry
began mumbling softly. Todd, who could feel the Pride rubbing slowly across
his thigh as it rose, reached around and began to stroke the back of
Harry's head.

"Nice," mumbled Harry between sucks on Todd's nipple. He moved his hand
down and found Todd's soft, warm penis. "Love you," he said with a soft
groan. "Don' leave me . . .sweet boy . . ."

At first Todd thought that Harry was awake, and was continuing on with
their love ritual. Then he realized that not only was Harry still sound
asleep, he was dreaming and he was dreaming about . . .

"Nice . . ." repeated Harry. "Nice little boy dick." He began to pump his
hips slowly, rubbing the underside of the Pride against Todd's thigh. He
stopped his sucking and pulled Todd close, his hips never losing their
rhythm. "Love you," muttered Harry. "Do it . . . do it when you're older,
sweet boy . . ." He buried his face into Todd's neck and suddenly he thrust
violent upward. "Oh, GOD! STEFAN!"

Todd felt the Pride twitch and pulse and then felt the warm wetness as
Harry ejaculated his semen over his thigh and waist. He listened, stricken,
as Harry muttered Stefan's name over and over again, his violent thrusting
not easing until he was empty. As he collapsed Harry muttered a long,
mournful cry, "STEFAAAN!"

******

Giggling, the three boys slowly pushed open the door to the galley lounge
and looked around. "See, I told you there'd be no one around," whispered
Joey.

"I'm still not sure . . ." replied Simon.

"Do you want to play like we did at the beach?" asked Randy. He reached out
and squeezed the small bulge in Simon's gym shorts.

Simon nodded slowly. In all his young life he had never imagined that
anything could feel so good. Randy and Joey were careful and very adept
teachers. For two boys so young they certainly knew a lot of ways to make a
boy feel good. As Randy continued to squeeze and fondle him, Simon closed
his eyes and moaned softly. God, had they made him feel good! They had done
just about everything he had fantasized during his nightly - and sometimes
daytime - masturbation sessions. He had learned how wonderful it was to
have his cock sucked, and to suck a cock! How glorious it was to squirt
into a warm, sucking mouth and that the taste of another boy's semen was
delightful.

Joey reached over and began to push down Simon's shorts and
tighty-whiteys. "There's nothing to worry about, Simon," he said
huskily. "The Duty Watch never comes in here."

Before he knew it, Simon was as naked as the day he'd been born. Randy and
Joey were the same. They stood, three naked boys, grinning at each other.

"Are we going to . . ." Simon ducked his head. " . . . "You know?"

Joey shook his head. "That's special, Simon. We told you that you only do
that with someone you really love." He brightened Simon's eyes when he
finished with, "But you can rub your dick up my crack. Randy's too."

Simon laughed and reached out, fisting the young boy cocks of his
friends. "Okay!"

******

The Phantom's eyes fluttered and he squirmed slightly as his mind tried to
determine if he was asleep or awake. He felt . . . nice. Warm, comfortable
. . . nice. He could feel something soft and curly tickling his nose and
breathed deeply, his senses absorbing the sweet, light, slightly musky,
clean smells of boy. He was vaguely aware of a weight on his chest and
waist, and of a warm presence snuggled against his body. His brain began to
digest the feelings caressing his body and he smiled. Then his eyes snapped
open. He raised his head. No wonder he smelt the glorious scent of boy! He
was in bed with a boy! He was in bed with . . . MATT!

The Phantom raised his head slowly and, in the pale, wan moonlight
streaming through the window saw that Matt was cuddled against him. Matt's
head was resting on The Phantom's chest, his body snuggled close against
The Phantom's, with his arm lightly resting across The Phantom's
stomach. The Phantom shook his head, trying to clear his sleep-fogged
brain. Jesus! What in the hell was he doing in bed with Matt?  He tried to
think. He wasn't drunk because he'd only had three beers all night. If he
wasn't drunk and he wasn't dreaming, then Matt actually was in his
bed. With his free hand The Phantom reached down and felt his waist. He
still had his boxers on and a quick glance confirmed that Matt was wearing
faintly glowing, cotton tighty-whiteys.

Breathing a sigh of relief, The Phantom reasoned that since they both had
their underwear on, and he couldn't smell or feel anything that would
indicate otherwise, they had not done anything. But what in the hell was
Matt doing here? And why was he lying so close to him, so close that The
Phantom could feel the ridge of Matt's crisp glans pressing into his
thigh. Once again he reached down and slipped his hand through the fly of
his boxers. He felt his soft penis. The head was spongy, warm and dry. He
ran his hand through the curls of his pubic bush. Clean. He cupped his
balls. Low-hanging. Normal. He breathed another sigh of relief.

While distracted by Matt's warm breath that wafted in soft, rhythmic gusts
across his nipple, The Phantom tried to remember everything that had
happened tonight. He'd talked to The Gunner. He'd talked to Nicholas,
confirming that he would be staying aboard and would help with whatever
scheme Nicholas had in mind. Had Matt been around? He thought
again. Yes. After cleaning the Gunroom and the Chiefs Mess, Matt had stayed
behind, spending most of the night hovering close to Todd and mooning
about.

Matt stirred in his sleep and his arm tightened around The Phantom's
waist. He rubbed his nose softly against the warm flesh of The Phantom's
chest and muttered something, The Phantom couldn't understand
what. Whatever Matt had said, he sounded happy.

While the feel of Matt's body against his was pleasant, The Phantom knew
that the boy's presence, in this cabin, in this bed, was not at all
proper. Matt should be in his own bed, alone. All either of them needed was
for the Duty Roundsman to come into the Gunners Barracks and find Matt's
bed empty. The Phantom could imagine the ensuing hue and cry, especially if
official word got back to Matt's father.

Not wanting to wake his young friend too abruptly, The Phantom rubbed his
face in Matt's fresh-smelling blond hair and lightly squeezed Matt's
shoulder. "Matt, wake up," The Phantom whispered.

Matt stirred, squirmed a bit, and opened his eyes. He looked up and saw The
Phantom looking back at him. "Hi, Phantom," he murmured. He rubbed the side
of his face against The Phantom's chest and closed his eyes again.

The Phantom growled low. "Matt, you have to wake up. You have to get up and
go back to your barracks!"

Matt, half-awake, shook his head. "No."

"Damn it, Matt, wake up!" snapped The Phantom in an exasperated tone. "And
don't tell me no!"

Matt rubbed his face again. "Okay, I won't."

"Tell me no or get up?"

"Both."

"MATT!"

"All right, keep your shorts on," returned Matt. He struggled and pushed
himself higher up the bed until his head was level with The Phantom's. He
gave The Phantom a peck on the cheek and grinned. "You smell nice, you know
that?"

"So do you," replied The Phantom. "Which is beside the point! What are you
doing here? How did you get in?" The questions tumbled rapidly from The
Phantom's mouth. "Do you know what could happen if anyone should walk in
here?"

Matt raised his head and sighed low. "The door's locked. I made sure of
that." He giggled. "Which is more than you did! You left the door
unlocked."

"I left it unlocked because Nicholas is coming to give me a shake." The
Phantom pushed Matt away and sat up. He looked directly at the boy, who was
lying back, completely unfazed by The Phantom's concern. "Will you tell me
just what you are doing here?" demanded The Phantom.

Matt stretched and reached out his hand to stroke The Phantom's jaw
line. "I heard you telling Nicholas that you were going to sleep aboard. I
waited until the Duty Watch did Rounds and I came over." He snickered.

"That does not explain how you ended up in my bed, in your underpants!"

"I rarely sleep in my Number Ones, Phantom," replied Matt glibly. He sat up
and his hands reached out and pulled The Phantom's face close to his
own. "As to how I 'ended up' in your bed? I wanted to do this." He leaned
forward and their lips met in a deep, passionate kiss.

The Phantom tried to struggle but Matt's hands held him close. Before he
knew it his mouth opened and they were Frenching. Matt groaned and released
The Phantom's head. His arms moved, his hands running rapidly up and down
The Phantom's body.

Before both of the boys realized what was happening they were on their
knees, their hips crushed together, their lips nipping and sucking, their
arms wrapped around each other's warm body. The Phantom felt his penis
harden and poke out of the fly of his boxers. Matt thrust his hips and
rubbed his cotton-covered erection against The Phantom's.

The Phantom broke their kiss. "This is wrong, Matt. We shouldn't be . . ."

Matt's lips silenced him. "Why? It's what I want," he whispered when they
drew apart.

"It's wrong," insisted The Phantom.

"No, it's right," replied Matt. He pulled The Phantom down and they lay
together, foreheads touching, their hips close. Matt reached down and felt
the warm length of The Phantom's erection, his fingers dancing lightly over
the curving, spongy head. "I know that you don't love me, Phantom. I know
that you're not Marcus, or Todd. I only know that I want to be here with
you."

"Matt, I do love you."

Matt laughed ruefully. "Don't go near the 'little brother' card,
Phantom. You love me, yes. I love you. When I told you that I wanted to sit
on the steps of the Mess Hall with you, and sneak into your bedroom so that
you could make love to me, I meant every word of it." He pressed his
fingers against The Phantom's lips, stifling any protest. "I want you,
Phantom. I want to feel your body against mine. I want to feel you in me. I
want you to give me what Marcus wouldn't, what Todd won't, give me. I want
you to make love to me."

"Matt, I'm in love with The Gunner."

"And I'm in love with Todd. I will always be in love with Todd. But he's
not here. He's over in the School of Wind, with Harry."

"Matt, be reasonable. I understand your frustration, your anger, your
disappointment with Todd, but . . ."

Matt slowly shook his head. "I want to be loved, Phantom. To be loved as
only another boy can love me. I want to be held close. I want to hear my
name whispered, to feel another boy's warmth. Just once I'd like to feel
all of that, Phantom! Just once I want to feel loved!"

"Why me?"

Matt chuckled. "Because if I had not been foolish enough to fall in love
with Todd, I would have fallen in love with you."

The Phantom looked deeply into Matt's eyes and knew that the boy was
serious. He also knew that Matt was wrong. Matt was in love with him. Matt
wanted him. He slowly pulled himself up on his left elbow, and then leaned
his head forward. Once again their lips met. Matt's arms reached out and
enveloped The Phantom. A low moan escaped his lips.

The Phantom pulled away and sat up. He reached down and his fingers found
the wide elastic band of Matt's briefs. He slowly pulled them down until
Matt's hard, 5-inch erection, released from the tight, constricting cotton,
bounced lightly against his hard, smooth stomach.

The Phantom pushed down his underpants and tossed them aside. He leaned
forward again and wordlessly began his act of love.

******

"Ah, Stevie, I cannot complain," said Chef as he took another sip of
Nelson's Blood. "Fair winds and a following sea I've had. You can't deny
it."

"I wouldn't even try," replied The Gunner sourly.

"I've had some times, I have. And I've met some fine men. Friends, many
friends, Stevie." He raised his glass in a toast. "Even you." The Gunner
cringed. Chef was off and running. "Ah, yes, I remember well the first day
I ever laid these two eyes on you," meandered Chef, a far away look in his
eye. "A skinny, whey faced lad you were."

"Whey faced! I was scared shitless!" responded The Gunner. "There I was,
standing on the Quarterdeck of the old COLUMBIA, with the Duty
Quartermaster and the Corporal of the Gangway barricaded in the
Quartermaster's Shack, hugging each other . . ."

"They were very much in love, Gunner."

"BULLSHIT! They were as scared shitless as I was because you were chasing
the Officer of the Day around the Quarterdeck with the biggest meat cleaver
I've ever seen!"

Chef seemed to think a moment. "So I was." He scowled. "The little bastard
was nicking my sticky buns. I was very fond of them sticky buns."

"You didn't have to chase him with a meat cleaver! You scared him out of
two years growth!"

"It's a good thing the Spirit Locker was open," said Chef with a grin. "I'd
have pranged him for certain, and no danger, if he hadn't locked himself in
there."

"No danger? It took three Chippy Chaps, the Padre, the Old Man and a blow
torch to get him out!"

"Still, he was the happiest Subbie in the Fleet, he was, when they did get
him out." Chef's ample belly shook with laughter. "Drunk as a lord, he
was. But happy!"

The Gunner laughed uproariously. "Chef, you're an old sinner and I'll miss
you."  "Miss me? Why would you miss me? I'm not going anywhere," replied
Chef, looking around the living room of the suite he occupied in the
Warrants and Sergeants Mess of CFB Comox.

"I've spoken with Phantom, Chef," replied The Gunner quietly.

Chef reached for the rum bottle and freshened both their drinks. "It's
time, Stevie. "I'm young enough to start over. I'll go out with an
Honourable Discharge, and a pension. I've had a good run, but it's time."

"I just hope you know what you're doing, Chef."

"I do. God has given me a second chance. I'm not going to fuck it up
again."

"You didn't fuck it up the first time," replied The Gunner with some
heat. "Your ex-wife is the one that ran off with the boy!"

Chef shook his head sadly. "I know, I know. The lad is lost to me, and well
I know it." His face brightened. "But Ray is not, and I'll do whatever it
takes to make sure that he's taken care of. I'll be there for him if he
needs me, just as you'll be there for your Phantom."

"Sometimes I think that it will be Phantom taking care of me!"

Chef chuckled. "He's a smart lad." He looked sternly at The Gunner. "You
mustn't smother him, Stevie. He's still young, and needs space to grow."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that he needs to be with boys his own age." He fixed The Gunner
with a heavy eye. "In many ways he reminds me of you when your were that
age - calm, controlled, Toledo steel wrapped in silk, yet, underneath, full
of love and compassion. He's in love with you, and that's a fact, so it is,
but at the same time he loves other boys."

The Gunner nodded. "The Twins, and Ray."

"Yes, and Ray. Ray adores him, and if Kevin is half the man I think he is,
he'll understand. As will you."

The Gunner sighed. "I know, Chef. In a way I should be angry when he goes
off with, well, Cory or Todd, or Ray. I can't be because I know it's just
his expression of his love for those boys." He reached for the bottle. "I'm
jealous, damn it. And I'm angry because I can't seem to accept that it's
going to happen. Hell, I want it to happen. I want him to know life!"

Chef nodded sagely. "You have to accept, Stevie! Oh, he'll not be
promiscuous. He's not the type. From time to time, particularly in those
times that you're not around, he'll meet someone and they'll have a brief
affair, which will be over as quickly as it began. It won't happen often,
but it will happen. He won't embarrass you, or himself. Just as you won't
embarrass him when it happens to you!"

"Me? I . . ." The Gunner stopped speaking and took a deep drink of rum. "We
talked, Phantom and me, before about this. Strangely, he's comfortable with
the fact that I just might meet an Ordinary Seaman Stud Muffin . . ."

"A what?"

"Phantom's name for a ship that might pass in the night." He sighed and
grinned softly. "We both know that our lives are intertwined, that
eventually we'll be together. We also know that yes, there will be times
when we'll . . . stray?"

"Stray?" Chef shook his head. "You've not made a commitment to each
other. He's far too young and so are you!"

"Me?"

"Yes, you." Chef's steely gaze bore into The Gunner. "Neither you nor that
boy are ready for the housekeeping and the little house with the white
picket fence. "You've got too much to do, and he's got too much to learn."

"I have?"

"You have. You are the Chancellor of an Order that needs
rebuilding. Michael chose you to be his Chancellor, Stevie. He would not
have done that if he did not think you were the man for the job. The Order
needs you, and it needs more Phantoms."

"The Proctor has returned, I see," said The Gunner with a wry grin.

"He never went away," returned Chef. The grin that was forming on Chef's
face faded. "Ah, so you know then." He nodded and muttered, "Sure and it is
of no consequence or importance for you would have found me out sooner or
later." Chef then straightened his massive shoulders and looked at The
Gunner, his eyes as hard as flint. "There's a job to be done, and we both
have a part in it." His shoulders sagged slightly. "Stevie, there is a
fight coming, a war if you will. The Order will need leaders, and it will
need foot soldiers."

"One Thousand Laurences," remembered The Gunner aloud.

Chef nodded firmly. "You're to find them. I'm to persuade them that being
gay is no sin, not immoral and certainly nothing to be ashamed of. We will
both be busy. So busy that I will use my terminal leave to travel about the
country, talking to the boys you chose. You've made a start, but only
start."

"Chef, I happen to have a career, and I am too young to retire."

"But not too young to take some time off, Stevie. You need to get away for
a while."

"I most certainly do not!" growled The Gunner. "You know, and Michael
knows, that the best and most fertile recruiting grounds are in the
Forces."

Chef waved away The Gunner's protest. "You need to get away!" He grabbed
The Gunner's hand and held it tight. "You feel too much, my Chancellor and
friend. I see the way you look at the boys when they are all on parade, in
their tiddly blue uniforms. You see in them the old days, the good days,
before the politicians fucked everything up. You want to bring back the
past." Chef gave his friend a long, sorrowful look. "You can't. The past is
the past. Remember it, cherish it, but live in the present and look to the
future."

"I'm a traditionalist, damn it!" declared The Gunner as he pulled his hand
away. "I admit it! I want the old ways back!"

"Well, you can't have them," replied Chef calmly. "They are gone, and
nothing you can do can ever bring them back. You have to make a decision,
Stevie. You have to accept the unacceptable and move on! Step back, use
that quick and analytical brain of yours and think! When your draft is up,
move on. Get away. Find a beach and sit on it. Think about what you have to
do, and how you want to do it! You've lost your happiness, Stevie. Go away
and find it again." He noticed that their glasses were empty again. "When
you've found it, come back. You've five years to make up your mind. You can
re-enlist at any time during those five years and you won't have lost
anything."

The Gunner stood up and walked to the window overlooking the small park in
front of the Warrants and Sergeants Mess, not really seeing the dimly lit
baseball diamond in the far corner or the weather beaten wooden bleachers
that flanked home plate. For a long time he stared into
nothingness. "You're right, Chef." He grimaced and then a smile broke his
face. "I hate it went you're right."

"I've had a lot of practice," replied Chef, returning The Gunner's grin.

The Gunner seemed not to hear. "I lie there, at night, in the dark, with
Phantom lying beside me, all warm and cuddled up against me like a puppy,
and I wonder how long he'll be with me. Will I lose him? Am I doing the
right thing by loving him? Then I think about how I was the one who put the
Navy bug into him! When he goes away to sea, or I do, will he find someone
he wants more than he wants me?"

"You will not lose him, Stevie. He's a lad, true, and like all lads, he'll
be sowing some wild oats. He's a gay male and it's the nature of the
beast. When he's ready, he'll settle down with you."

"I wish I could be as sure as you are, Chef," returned The Gunner. He
turned about and returned to the table. "It's hell losing someone you
love."

"Now, damn it, you stop that!" exploded Chef. "Here we go again, you and
your lost love. You can't lose something you never had!" He pointed a stern
finger at The Gunner. "You moan on about that cocksucker in CORNWALLIS
. . ."

"If there is one thing he never was, it was a cocksucker," interrupted The
Gunner.

"NO MATTER," roared Chef, setting the glasses to rattling. "He was a
bigoted, moralizing little son-of-a-bitch. He still is!"

The Gunner gasped and his eyes widened with surprise. "You know . . ."

Chef nodded briskly. "When I first approached you, back in the dawn of
time, to become a member of the Order, you told me what had happened. The
Order takes nothing at face value, and never, ever, allows anything, or
anyone, to have an adverse effect on its members if it can help it." He
shrugged. "Discreet enquiries were made. When Michael decided that you
would be his Chancellor, Rick Maslen sent that young gumshoe he's living
with out on a errand." He snickered and shook his head. "Young Britnell is
half bloodhound!"

"I saw Glenn in Victoria. He never said a word, never let on . . ."

"And why should he, may I ask? He's an investigator. He investigated and
reported what he investigated! As I said, you're rid of young
CORNWALLIS. He's as big a prick now as he was back then."

"He is?"

"He is," confirmed Chef. "He's married, has a son, poor little bugger. He
left the Andrew on an early out and went back to school. He's a junior loan
officer with Barclays' Bank. Quite respected. He is also a lay preacher in
his church. He doesn't smoke, drink, or use profanity and only fucks in the
missionary position!"

"Chef!"

"Well, perhaps he varies it a little," said Chef, grinning evilly. "Glenn
didn't get into the bedroom!" He sobered. "But he heard the man preach. His
sermon was all fire and brimstone and thundering against deviants, perverts
and unnatural men. He's a pip, is the lad. No wonder his wife looks like
she was weaned on a stoker's dick!"

The Gunner gagged involuntarily. "Jesus, Chef!"

"He is not in the equation. The point is that you've been mooning after
something that never existed. Tear up that snap of him that you carry in
your wallet! Rip it up and forget you ever knew him."

"All right, damn you," barked The Gunner abruptly. He pulled out his
wallet, found the tattered picture of the first boy he had ever loved, and
tore it into small pieces. "There, over and done with!"

Chef nodded sagely. "You did the right thing."

"I'm also going to do another right thing. Pour me a drink, please."

Chef did as he was told and waited impatiently for The Gunner to
continue. "Well?" he asked, his impatience getting the better of him.

"I'm thinking, you buffoon!"

Chef threw his arms in the air. "Jesus, Mary and all the Saints. A first!"

"Fuck you, Chef!" snarled The Gunner.

"Not in your lifetime, my man," returned Chef with a leer. "Many have
tried, none have succeeded."

The Gunner ignored Chef's lasciviousness. "My twelve years are up in
November 1978. I'll take my gong and get out." Chef nodded his
approval. "I'll do my thing, for a while. Then I'll take some of the money
my uncle is always trying to get me not to spend and spend it."

"Dare I ask on what?"

"On a college education." He looked seriously at the Chef. "If the Order is
to succeed, it's going to need educated men as officers. I'll go back to
school, and re-enrol, only this time as an Officer Candidate."

"Sit your Petty Officers Boards first, Stevie," advised Chef. "That way the
powers that are will make you an Acting Sub-Lieutenant when you re-up."

"I never thought of that," admitted The Gunner. "But, yes, that is exactly
what I will do. Once back in the Andrew I can work from within. Who knows I
might even get my ass promoted!"

Chef smiled wickedly but said nothing. Stevie did not know it, but he was
going places. That had been guaranteed when the Command Chief Gunnery
Instructor, the then Proctor of the Eastern Priory, mentioned that he had a
young gunner who just might be a worthy candidate. He'd just paid for a
funeral for a poor young lad - gay, or so it was said - and a plot of land
to bury the poor boy in. Name of Stephen Winslow and Chef please be
gentle. And, oh yes, there is also a young Midshipman, name of
Clayton. Keep an eye on him, Chef, there's a good fellow. Chef looked at
The Gunner who was looking back at him. "You will do well, I vow," was all
Chef said.

"Good! Now can we get drunk?"

"I thought that's what we were doing," replied Chef. He downed his drink
and poured another. "Did I ever tell you, Stevie me boy, how I almost lost
me virginity in a monastery?"

The Gunner almost fell out of his chair. "Lost your WHAT?"

"Me virginity," replied Chef, looking reflective. "It was when I was in the
old EDGARVILLE - the last corvette but one, and a vicious bitch she was!
She'd roll on a freshly watered lawn and the Old Man was a Tartar, so he
was! We were up off the Queen Charlottes, doing what I don't remember, when
one of the condensers went wonky. I'm not at all sure just what went
wrong. You know me, Stevie, I have no head for the mechanicals at all."

The Gunner seriously doubted that statement. If he knew Chef at all the man
could probably build an engine room with nothing more than twine, some
baling wire, a few pots and pans and bloody great cleaver!

" . . . As usual the Stokers had their thumbs up their bums," Chef was
going on, " . . .And the long and the short of it was that we had to put in
somewhere so NADEN could scrounge up a part for the bloody thing!"

"Where you found a monastery?"

"Please don't interrupt, Stevie," grumbled Chef. "We pulled into a pretty
little port on the mainland, Milford Haven it was called. There was the
Legion on one hill, and the monastery on the other. Very pretty it was."

"The Legion?"

"Yes . . . NO, ye great mug! The monastery!" Chef gave The Gunner an evil
look. "If you don't care to hear this story I shall remain silent!"

The Gunner laughed. "Oh, please Chef, I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Chef snorted. "Well, as I was saying before I was so wantonly interrupted,
there was this monastery. Trappists they were. A contemplative Order of
monks spending their lives in perpetual adoration of Our Lord and . . ."
Chef gave The Gunner a baleful look. " . . . Silence. A hard life, Stevie,
so the next time you take to complaining, I shall remind you of it."

"I'm sure you will," replied The Gunner dryly.

"Attached to the monastery was a vineyard. They grew their own grapes and
made a premium wine and brandy. Well, there was nothing for it but to
arrange a visit for the lads. To the winery we went for a wee taste of the
nectar."

The Gunner rolled his eyes. At times Thunderbird had been nectar to Chef.

"Well, I had a wee drop of the wine, then some of the brandy - an excellent
brandy it was, too. I shall have to see if there's a bottle in Comox when
next I honour that provincial village with my presence."

"The mon-as-ter-y?" prodded The Gunner.

"I'm getting there, Stevie. How can I spin a dip if you insist on
interrupting me?"

"Sorry, I'll keep quiet."

"Good." Mollified by The Gunner's insincere apology, Chef moved on. "You
know that while I do enjoy the brandy, it does not enjoy me. I had a slight
migraine, and the boys were making so much noise that I had to leave. I
strolled into the cloister of the place. Ah, sure and it was grand, so it
was, all flowers and grass. Very peaceful and serene I remember thinking,
as I promenaded. Then, suddenly, there he was."

"A monk?"

Chef puffed up like a blowfish. "Of course a monk! Who did you think it
would be, the Archbishop of Canterbury?"

The Gunner held up his hands in supplication, nodding yet another silent
apology.

"I was in white, he was in brown." A sudden thought struck Chef. "I wonder,
Stevie," he asked innocently, "and do they wear drawers under that
sackcloth?" Chef fortified himself with yet another drink of rum. "He also
had a gleam in his eye. Well, I knew full well what the wee man wanted. I
also knew that he wasn't going to get it from me. So off I went, with him
chasing me. 'Round and 'round the cloister we went. Like the Grand National
it was, with him huffin' and puffin' and me shrieking like a virgin on her
wedding night . . ."

"CHEF!"

******

Cory spread the blanket over the bed in the decrepit shack, hiding the
stains and mildew. He looked at Sean, who was surveying the littered floor
and the window, vacant of glass.

"It's not much, but it is private," said Cory sitting down on the bed.

"It's fine, Cory," replied Sean as he joined Cory on the bed. He looked at
Cory, who was sitting with his hands folded protectively over his
crotch. He reached and tenderly touched Cory's bruised face. "We don't have
to, you know."

Cory grinned impishly. "What makes you think that we are going to do 'you
know'?" he asked.

Sean coloured and squirmed. "Stupid move!" he thought angrily. "I only
meant that if we are going to be together, as lovers, we will sooner or
later, make love. We do not have to do it here, now."

Cory slipped his hand down the front of Sean's shorts. His eyes widened in
surprise. "Hell, Sean, you must mean that. You're not even hard!"

"I do mean it, Cory," replied Sean as he pulled Cory's hands from his
shorts. "Although one admits that one wants to make love to you . . ."

"Sean?" said Cory, his voice low and seductive.

Sean swallowed. "Um, yes Cory?"

"Will you shut the fuck up and take off your clothes?"

******

For Matt there was no Heron Spit; there was no AURORA; there was neither
Wardroom nor tiny cabin filled with moonlight. There was only The Phantom,
his hard, heated body thrusting rhythmically into him.

Matt's legs were wrapped around The Phantom's waist; and his arms grasped
The Phantom's upper body tightly. With each firm, gentle thrust into him a
wave a magnificent ecstasy rolled through Matt's body. He was panting,
trying to keep from screaming out at the overpowering pleasure that
consumed him.

The Phantom lay on Matt, his hips pumping. He was gasping, his breathing
harsh as he buried his face in the warmth of Matt's curving shoulder. He
had slipped his hands under Matt's shoulders and he held the boy tightly as
the pressure began to grow in his groin. He could feel the beginnings of
his orgasm building deep within the base of his always gently thrusting
penis. As he approached his climax he groaned and clutched Matt tightly.

Matt was experiencing feelings so indescribably wonderful that his entire
being was focused on the waves of pleasure that took him higher and higher
into the ether of delight. He was barely conscious of the warm wetness that
leaked continually from his own turgid, engorged erection. He knew only the
screaming delight as The Phantom thrust deeply into him, knew only that the
constant friction of The Phantom's thrusting body against the sensitive
underside of his penis was sending him flying into a place he had never
gone before. The waves of glory began crashing against him and Matt began
to whimper softly.

Above him The Phantom began growling deep in his throat. He was approaching
. . . climbing . . . He threw back his head and his body stiffened and
great waves of wonder rippled and eddied from his balls. His penis, buried
deep in Matt's body, jerked and pumped.

Matt could feel The Phantom's orgasm as it rippled through the boy's deeply
imbedded penis. He could feel the sculpted glans expanding, could feel the
first small gush of warm semen, then a tidal wave, then another, as The
Phantom thrust rapidly in short, sharp, jabs.

Panting, barely breathing, The Phantom collapsed on Matt. He exhaled a
long, low moan. What had begun with The Phantom taking Matt's slim,
perfect, circumcised penis in his mouth and slowly sucking him to Nirvana,
continued on to The Phantom's tongue penetrating his rosebud, setting Matt
to growling and whimpering with unimagined pleasure.

Matt's now forgotten flash of pain, as the slick, curving mushroomed head
of The Phantom's hard penis pushed aside the natural barrier of his
sphincter, had been replaced by exquisite sensations that sent Matt's
spirit soaring upward.

They lay together, breathing heavily, until The Phantom pulled away. He
rolled on his side, pulling Matt with him. Their lips met and they kissed
deeply. For Matt this was the happiest night of his young life, a night
that he wanted to live over and over again. He ravaged The Phantom's mouth
with his tongue, tasting over and over again the sweet joy of The Phantom
until reluctantly he pulled away.

For a long while they remained silent, each lost in the post-euphoric
nether world that Matt had never before experienced. He felt The Phantom's
arms reach out and envelop him and for the first time since Marcus last
made love to him Matt felt warm, and wanted, and loved. He reached up and
stroked The Phantom's smooth cheek. "Thank you, Phantom," he whispered
softly. "Thank you for giving me your love."

The Phantom rubbed his cheek against Matt's. "You will always have my love,
Matt," came his whispered reply. "You will always be my little brother and
you will always be in my heart."

Matt was exhausted from their lovemaking and he felt his eyelids growing
heavy. "I love you Phantom," he murmured as he slowly drifted into sleep.

The Phantom held Matt close and they slept softly until a quiet, persistent
rapping on the door and Nicholas's harsh whispers for Phantom to get up
brought them awake.

*******

Andy was half asleep when he heard the moan. He opened his eyes and rubbed
the sleep from them and listened again. There, another one. He reached
behind him and gave Kyle's soft penis a quick yank. Kyle yelped and pushed
Andy's hand away. "What the fuck!" he snarled.

"Shut up and listen."

"All I'm going to hear are your screams when I pull your dick out by the
roots!" returned Kyle. He sat up and looked around the darkened room. "What
time is it?"

Andy shushed Kyle and held up his arm. "How the hell would I know? Am I
wearing a watch?" he whispered tartly in reply.

Kyle gave Andy a dirty look, lay back down and pulled the covers over his
head. Andy gave him a punch. "What?' he snapped, sitting up again.

"I told you I heard something," replied Andy. He threw the covers back and
got out of bed.

"All right, you heard something. What? Yells, screams, a bomb going off?"

"The last time I heard that sound I was in a room in a whorehouse in
Danang," said Andy as he padded to the door. He opened the door to their
cabin and stuck his head out. He looked around and saw nothing. Every door
in the corridor was closed and the lounge area was a darker hole in the
dark hallway.

"For somebody who was supposed to be fighting a war you certainly seem to
have spent a lot of time in whorehouses!" retorted Kyle. He sniffed
audibly.

"I'm telling you I heard something. It sounded like a guy getting his rocks
off!" insisted Andy.

Kyle cocked his head and listened carefully. Except for Andy's and his own
breathing, he heard nothing. Then he leaned his ear against the bulkhead,
listening to hear if No "H" or Wally were up. "I can't hear anything."

Andy grinned. "You don't suppose that No "H" and Wally . . .?" he left his
statement unfinished.

"Now I know that you are out of your Gyrene mind!" Kyle snuggled back under
the covers. "No 'H' is engaged to be married and Wally is married and has
umpteen kids. You heard the building settling. It creaks and moans, you
know." He yawned mightily. "Now come back to bed and would you please keep
those bloody big feet of yours on your own side of the bed! Jesus, I have
never known anybody to have feet as cold as yours."

"That's what I get from all those nights in the boonies. Cold feet!" Andy
grumbled as he crawled into bed. He snuggled closer to Kyle and his hand
slipped between his lover's legs. "My feet might be cold but I do have big
feet and you KNOW what they say about guys with big feet!"

Kyle snickered. "They lie." His hand moved slowly across Andy's warm
thigh. "But I still love you anyway." He rolled on his side. "And, since
we're up . . ."

******

Todd slowly pushed Harry's enveloping arm away and left the settee. He sat
across from the sleeping boy he loved and knew that no matter what they had
now, or in the future, Harry would never be happy, would never be satisfied
without Stefan in his life. Stefan would always be in Harry's thoughts and
dreams. It would not matter whom Harry was with. There would always be
three people in Harry's bed.

Todd laid his head back against the cushioned settee and sighed. What, he
wondered, was he to do? He loved Harry, but not deeply. Harry, in return,
was devoted to him. Harry would never harm him, or hurt him in any way and,
in his own way Harry would always love him.

It was not just the sex. Todd was convinced of that. Their relationship was
one of love and understanding, held by two boys who cared very deeply for
each other. Their relationship was also temporary. It would not last, most
importantly of all because neither of them wanted it to last. Todd did not
want to end their time together. But could he live with Harry's continuing
infatuation with Stefan? Could anybody live with . . .?

Harry stirred, stretched, and sat up. He looked blankly around the room,
trying to orient himself. He saw Todd sitting across from him. "What are
you doing there?" he grumbled. He shivered. "I'm cold and I need someone to
keep me warm." He reached out his arms and waggled his fingers. "Come on,
Todd."

Todd shook his head and remained where he was. "Harry, would you mind if we
just went back to the Gunroom?" he asked quietly. "I'm tired and I would
just like to go to bed."

Harry thought a moment. "But, Todd, we haven't . . ."

"Not tonight, Harry, please?" replied Todd. He knew exactly what Harry
meant. He was frankly not in the mood to make love to Harry, even though
Harry enjoyed their coupling. "I'd like to go to bed and sleep."

Harry uncoiled himself and hurried to Todd's side. "You're not sick, are
you?" he asked, his face a mask of concern. "I didn't hurt you, did I? I
couldn't stand it if you . . ."

Todd reached up and stroked Harry's face. "You didn't hurt me, Harry. I'm
not sick. I'm just tired. It's been a long day and to be truthful . . ." He
rubbed the bruise under his eye slowly. "Cory has a hell of a left hook."

"Dammit," exploded Harry. "I am such a fucking jerk! Here you are, all
banged up and I drag you over here. All I was thinking about was myself,
about the Pride putting to sea! Dammit, I should have thought about you."

"Harry, I'm not at death's door. I'm a little sore," replied Todd, a note
of fondness in his voice. "I'll be perfectly fine." He stood up and began
searching for this clothing. "Let's just get dressed and go back to
Gunroom."

Harry, all but prostrate with guilt over his imagined selfishness, quickly
agreed. He stood up and then said quickly, "Wait. I have something for
you."

Before Todd could reply Harry's taut, tight, melon-like butt was
disappearing through the doorway. In only a few short minutes he was
back. He held out an accordion file folder. "Here," he said softly. "This
is for you."

Todd took the folder. "What is it?"

"All the music for Garb of Old Gaul," replied Harry as he began
dressing. "I want you to have Phantom's Salute. The parade was your
idea. You deserve to have something to remind you of what a wonderful,
thoughtful person you are." His face darkened. "That music is Phantom's,
and will never be played here in AURORA again."

Todd watched as Harry pulled on his clothes, thinking that the gesture was
typically Harry. Vain, selfish and all bluster one minute, sweet and
sentimental the next. He smiled as Harry turned to look at him. He would
stay with Harry a little longer. He would wait until Harry drove his pickup
up to the front door of the house. He held out his hand. "Come on, Harry,
I'll walk you home."

******

Andy's senses began to activate. Alarm bells began ringing in his head and
he started awake. There it was again, a footstep. No, a series of footsteps
and . . . He sat up slowly, carefully pulling back the covers of the
bed. He listened carefully, and then nodded slowly. Yes, there were
footsteps; there were strangers in the Wardroom.

Back in the dawn of time, when he was in the 'Nam, Andy's instructors had
emphasized over and over again that while you always listened for the
ordinary, you also listened for the extraordinary. The denizens of Vietnam,
animal, vegetable or mineral, screamed, fought, fucked, slithered, roared
and bellowed at high volume. They never shut up, from the elephants of the
Central Highlands who trumpeted, to the monkeys who screeched and
chattered, to the people, all of whom talked as loudly as they could and
sounded like a herd of ducks fucking. When everything was making as much
noise as possible, the jungle was safe. It was only when a deathly quiet
fell over the canopy of trees that warning signals went off. When
everything was quiet a grunt knew that Charlie had come into the
area. Silence meant danger. Silence, when even the snakes in the trees
stopped their slithering, meant death.

It was the same in the real world. Everyday sounds, sounds that a man
became accustomed to, were quickly absorbed. Here, in AURORA, everyday
sounds included bugle calls, the roar of a bus or truck from Base, the
sounds of cadets chattering (they resembled the monkeys in many ways),
Harry bellowing and the Twins nattering, all were everyday sounds. In the
Wardroom the sounds of the inhabitants were ingrained in Andy's
subconscious. Familiar sounds made commonplace by repetition, Wally's heavy
tread as he walked around the lounge or his cabin; Dave scampering in the
middle of the night, followed by the tinkling sound of him peeing; No "H"
settling himself, with sighs and happy groans, into his bunk; Kyle
snuffling and scratching in his sleep. Andy knew them all and he knew what
he was hearing now was not ordinary.

As he crept slowly toward the door through the darkness of the cabin, Andy
he could hear muffled voices. There were people outside and from the
high-pitched giggling, Andy knew that the cadets were prowling.

"What . . .what is it?" Kyle mumbled sleepily. He sat up and stared as Andy
put his ear to the door.

"Cadets," whispered Andy, waving Kyle to silence.

"Maybe its Kevin, come for another look at your parts," snickered Kyle.

"Be quiet!" Andy ordered as he listened again. He heard a door open slowly,
more muffled words, and then footsteps retreating. Andy remembered his
Marine training and waited. Never assume that just because things seem to
be back to normal that they are, the instructors had advised. WAIT! WATCH!
LISTEN!

Andy cracked the cabin door open slightly, and peered out. His line of
vision was obscured, and all he could see was the dimly lit corridor
leading toward the lounge. He was about to open the door wider when the
door to Cabin 5 creaked open and a blond head popped out, looked around and
then pulled the door wider. Andy blinked in surprise. Matt?

What in hell was Matt doing in Cabin 5?

"It's clear," whispered Matt over his shoulder. He stepped into the
corridor and gestured for someone, who was still inside Cabin 5, to hurry
along.

Andy watched as Matt was joined by . . . The Phantom!

"We have to be quiet, Matty," said The Phantom. He began to walk stealthily
down the corridor toward the door leading to the outside. "We do not need
an officer waking up and catching us."

Impulsively Matt leaned up and kissed The Phantom' cheek. "I don't care if
one does."

The Phantom grinned and returned Matt's kiss. "Andy and Kyle would
understand," he said quietly. "But let's not tempt fate." He pushed the
door open. "Now come on, Nicholas is waiting for us."

******

Andy shook his head in wonder and opened the cabin door. He promptly
stumbled over two boxes that had been placed before the door. As Andy
crashed to the deck snarling epithets about guttersnipes and horny cadets,
Kyle switched on the reading lamp. His eyes widened. Andy had missed the
large photograph that had been taped to the upper panel of the door. Kyle
had not. "Holy Jesus!" he breathed as he pointed at the photo.

Andy scrambled upright and stared with concern at his lover, who was
pointing a shaking finger at something behind him. Andy reached out and
flicked the light switch, flooding the cabin with light. He looked to where
Kyle was pointing, swallowed, and swore a long, almost breathless, "Jesus
Murphy!" Pushing the door all the way open to bathe it with the harsh
ceiling light, Andy stared at the photograph; a large photograph of him! A
20x24-inch photograph of him sitting on the makeshift throne that the
cadets had built over the pit they had dug on Texada Island. A large colour
photograph of him sitting with his legs spread, his genitals dangling for
all the world to see as he sat there on the throne, a shit-eating grin on
his face, a roll of toilet tissue in one hand and giving the photographer
an I-got-the-job-done thumbs-up.

Kyle was beside himself with glee. "They gotcha! They really gotcha!" he
howled between gales of laughter. He did not know it yet but his laughter
would turn to blushes when Dave Eddy, perennially an early riser, found
another equally large photo of Kyle propped against the fireplace in the
lounge. A photograph of Kyle posing like some muscle-bound exhibitionist,
arms fully extended as he strained to show what little muscles he owned,
his right leg thrust back, with his parts dangling for all the world to
see.

"The little bastards!" snarled Andy as he stripped the photograph from the
door. "And what are these?" He handed the photo to Kyle, who was frankly
admiring it and proclaiming what a good likeness it was when Andy handed
him one of the packages.

"What's this?" Kyle asked as he put the photograph aside.

"How will I know until I open it?" grumbled Andy. "This one has your name
on it. The other one has mine."

Both junior officers sat on Kyle's bed as they gingerly stripped the
wrapping paper from the packages, revealing a cardboard box. "It isn't a
bomb, is it?" asked Kyle nervously.

"Don't be stupid," returned Andy. "Who would want to send a bomb to the
Howdy Doody of the Sea Cadets?"

"At least I don't go around wagging my weenie at the stewards!" retorted
Kyle as he ripped open the box. "What the . . . it's an album!"

"And what an album?" said Andy. He showed the first photograph in his album
to Kyle. The photo was a duplicate of the one Andre had propped against the
Wardroom fireplace. "And just what in the hell were you doing here?" he
asked sharply.

Kyle looked and coloured slightly. "Well, we were fooling around, posing
like we were a bunch of body builders. You should see the one they took of
Harry."

Andy shook his head. "I'm not sure that I want to," he said with a slight
grin. "And, HOLY CHRIST!"

******

Neither Andy nor Kyle heard the cabin door open or saw Dave Eddy, who had
been awakened by the sound of Andy stumbling around when he fell over the
boxed albums, seen the light, and decided to visit. His eyes flickered
across the two naked officers, and then stared intently at the large
photograph of Andy, arms and leg spread as he leaped from the bow of a
whaler. "My, you do take a good picture!" he proffered, the overhead light
dancing from the braces on his teeth as he grinned widely. He looked
pointedly at Andy's crotch, then at the picture, then at Andy again. "A
very good picture!"

******

Sean reached down and slowly ran his fingers through Cory's dark blond
pubic hairs. He nuzzled Cory's chest and sighed happily. Their lovemaking
had been intense and wonderful. "I love you," he whispered.

"I know," said Cory as he reached up and stroked Sean's hair. "If this were
a movie you would ask me if it was good for me, too."

Sean giggled. "If this is a movie then I hope it never ends." He looked up
at Cory's smiling face. "I've never made love before."

"Now you have," replied Cory easily. "Good, wasn't it?"

Sean laughed, sat up, and kissed Cory passionately. "Good does not begin to
describe what we just had!" he exclaimed. "There are no words to describe
what just happened between us!"

"I glad, because I do want to make you happy," replied Cory. He reached
down and held Sean's flaccid, flushed penis gently. It was slick with their
body juices and he ran his thumb across the top of Sean's slick, warm
glans.

Sean grimaced and sucked in his breath sharply. He saw the concerned look
on Cory's face and smiled thinly. "Sorry, it's just that the end of my
penis is very sensitive after I ejaculate."

Cory rolled his eyes and released Sean's 'sensitive' penis. "Jesus, Sean,
why can't you just say that your dick is sore after you cum?" he complained
rudely. "It's not unique, you know."

Sean, anxious not to get Cory going, quickly agreed. "I know, I know, and I
. . ."

"Don't apologize," said Cory. He reached over and took Sean's hand. "I
think we should talk a little. About us."

Sean nodded. "I meant what I said, Cory. I want to be with you, always."

"As strange as it may seem, Sean, I want to be with you." Cory grinned
slightly.

"You're a very good lover, and I do care for you."

"But?"

"Not the 'but' you're thinking of," replied Cory with a slight shake of his
head. "I just want you to realize what you could be getting yourself
into. We've our whole lives ahead of us and I want you to be sure. That's
one 'but'."

"I am sure." Sean's voice was firm and steady. "I am very sure!"

Cory raised a questioning eyebrow. "There is also Todd . . ."

"He's your brother. You love him. From time to time you'll want to be with
him. I know and I understand," replied Sean. His face softened. "Just as I
know the other 'but' is Philip . . . Phantom."

"What?" cried Cory in astonishment.

Sean lay back and put his hands under the back of his head. For a long time
he stared at the dark ceiling above the bed. "When I had my conversation
with Phantom I had the definite impression that your relationship is deep,
very deep." He looked at Cory. "You've slept with him, I take it?"

Cory nodded slowly. "I have, yes."

Sean nodded. "He cares for you, Cory. He never came out and said that you
and he were lovers, but I think I know by the timbre of a man's voice the
depth of his emotional attachment to another man. And the way his eyes lit
up when he spoke your name."

Cory rolled slightly and put his head on Sean's chest. "I can't promise you
fidelity where Phantom is concerned, Sean. He means so much to me, has done
so much for me, and Todd, and a lot of other boys. If he needs me, I'll go
to him. If he wants me, I'll be with him. I'll live with you; in time I'll
love you. I'll try to make you as happy as you deserve. Just please, do not
ask me to give up Phantom. I can't."

"You love him, then?"

"Yes, but in a special way. We've been together, and I suspect that we'll
be together again. I need you to understand that. I also need you to
understand that I am not going to be Phantom's partner. He's hopelessly in
love with . . . someone else. One day, they'll be together. Phantom and I
will never be together the way you and I will be together."

"You ask a lot, Cory."

"Would you rather I lied, or went sneaking off with Phantom? He is very
special to me, and I won't lie about the way I feel towards him. I'd like
you to understand my feelings and I am telling you about them because I
want our relationship to be open and honest." Cory sat up and hugged his
knees. "Once I've, no, once we have decided just what our relationship will
be, there will be no more boys, or men. No more Nathan. I'll be loyal to
you, and you only."

Sean reached up and stroked Cory's smooth, bare leg. "I know you will. That
is why I want you, why I love you. I accept that you and Todd, and yes,
Phantom, have a special love that I can only try to understand. I only hope
that I can share that special love one day."

Cory smiled softly. "Sean, you already do. Tonight was not some one-night
stand. I wanted you to make love to me and I want you to be my partner." He
lay back down and stroked Sean's hairless, thin chest. "Do you want to be
my partner?"

Sean leaned over and gave Cory the deepest, most sincere kiss he
could. "Does that answer your question?" he asked when they parted. "I want
you and yes, I want to be your partner."

"Good." Cory sighed deeply. "I just wish that we could be together, you
know, soon."

"We're together now. We'll be together as much as possible when we go
home."  Cory shook his head. "No, you don't understand. I want to live with
you, to be with you. But we can't."

"No, we can't," replied Sean. "I told you how my parents would feel about
us. I have to think about what will happen when they do find out about
us. It won't be easy, but I will be with you."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Cory. He rose up and looked at Sean's
perplexed face. "Is there something I should know?"

"Cory, I start UBC in September," began Sean. "The more I think about it
the more I want to be a doctor. That means four years of premed, four years
of medical school, then internship and then specialization. I can swing it
with student loans and hopefully a scholarship. One of the reasons I'm
joining the Naval Reserve is because I will get paid while I'm on
duty. I'll need the money, to be frank."

"Your parents won't help?"

Sean laughed caustically. "Oh, my dad will pay my tuition and my lab
fees. I have to pay for my books and living expenses, and residence fees if
I decide not to stay at home. I couldn't, and, wouldn't, expect to him to
keep me while I'm at the university." He shook his head. "However, I'm
thinking ahead. If my parents find out that I'm not only gay, but have made
a commitment to another boy, they'll turn me out. They won't contribute one
red cent. I'll be on my own and if they find out about us I just might be
living with you sooner than we both think we will."

"I can help," said Cory softly. "And before you get all pouty hear me out."

"I don't want what money you have, Cory. I'm not some gigolo out to get my
hands on your bank account."

"You wouldn't get much," replied Cory truthfully. "My father is rich, not
me. I have an allowance, and that's it until I'm 21."

"What happens then?" growled Sean. "Is your allowance stopped and you have
to live by your wits?" Sean was determined to make Cory very aware that he
had no interest sharing Cory's wealth.

Sean's sarcasm was not lost on Cory, who ignored his new lover. He forced a
laugh. "Hardly. On my 21st birthday I inherit the money my grandmother
Leveson left me. I can do whatever I want with the money and since we're
going to be partners . . ."

"NO!"

"Come on, Sean, why 'No'?"

Sean's eyes bore into Cory's. "Because that is the way it's going to
be. I'll love you with all my heart. I'll put up with your antics; I'll
walk from Burnaby every day just to be with you. BUT I WILL NOT TAKE YOUR
MONEY!" Sean folded his arms across his chest. "I would appreciate it if
the subject were not raised again."

Cory rubbed his cheek against Sean's chest and his hand reached down to cup
his lover's testicles. "All right, Sean. No more talk of money," he said,
wondering if the Order had a little cash set aside for deserving young
knights. He would talk to The Gunner about Sean. But first . . .

******

"It's hell getting old," thought Chef as he finished his business in the
bathroom. First thing, every morning, out of bed, and into the heads. After
flushing the toilet and washing his hands Chef returned to his bedroom and
sat at the small writing desk that stood opposite his rumpled bed. On the
desk was a small pile of documents and a photograph contained in a leather
frame.

As he did every morning and always before going to bed at night Chef picked
up the photograph and stared at the picture. It had been taken the
afternoon the boys had returned from their sailing trip. He remembered the
day well. He'd been standing on the jetty, watching the two whalers, each
festooned with underwear, slowly coming alongside. He had insisted that
Stevie take Ray along for the boat trip, and then fretted and stewed for
two days, wondering if the boy was fitting in, was doing well. Then Ray was
back, sunburned, windblown, bug bitten, but a happy, vibrant boy who had
rushed up the jetty and hugged Chef, his arms barely reaching around Chef's
ample belly, and looked up, his eyes filled with love. "I missed you,
Chef," he'd said in that little boy voice of his. Four small words and Chef
had fallen in love.

Sniffling, Chef put the photograph aside and picked up the first piece of
paper in the pile, his service record, computer generated now, not at all
like the old records, and as he scanned the paper his eyes fell on the very
first entry. Had he ever really been 18 years old? Chef read down the form,
seeing that everything was recorded in cold bureaucratese, from his date
and place of enlistment, to his present draft in AURORA. Stapled to the
service record was another piece of paper that detailed leave due, terminal
leave due, and pension payable.

Setting aside the printed records Chef picked up a long piece of linen
bond. His old, very old, and first Service Record (RCN), had begun when
there was no such thing as a computer. Every item on this bed sheet sized
piece of paper, triple folded, was written in ink. He noted his old
official number - they did everything by Social Insurance Number these days
- was written in thick, black ink by a strong hand. His first ship, his
first shore posting. It was all there. He ran his finger across the small
triangle printed onto the upper right hand corner of the document. Dark,
black as death letters proclaimed: "To be removed if Dishonourably
Discharged." Chef snorted. They'd come close a few times, but a glib tongue
and a fast-talking Divisional Officer had saved his then skinny behind. He
put the Service Record aside. Too late now. No nameless clerk in some dingy
office back in Halifax would be taking the scissors and circumcising his
record!

His hand found another piece of paper, cream coloured bond, with a bold,
squared Royal Coat of Arms Letterhead engraved in red. He read the letter,
and then found a blank piece of foolscap. He unscrewed the top of his
fountain pen and began to write, first the date, Wednesday, 18 August 1976,
then the address. In his neat, firm, copperplate handwriting he
respectfully declined the offer of employment from Sandringham.

Next he picked up his official request for retirement, read it, and signed
his name with a bold flourish. After putting aside his pen he folded the
request and put it in an envelope. He would drop off the request, and his
letter to Buckingham Palace, in the Base Orderly Room on his way to work.

Work! He glanced at the clock sitting on his bed table and
grimaced. 0430. It was time he was stirring. And time that rapscallion
Stevie Winslow was moving!  Chef lumbered into the darkened living room and
saw The Gunner, stripped to his boxers, sprawled across the length of the
sofa, one arm dangling, his fingers touching the floor. Chef shook his
head. Unlike young Stevie, he could hold his liquor! He walked to the sofa
and reached down to shake The Gunner's shoulder, trying not to notice that
The Gunner's morning woody was sticking up through the flies of his boxers.

"Get up, Stevie me lad," said Chef. "It's time we were stirring ourselves."

"Fuck off and leave me to die in peace," snarled The Gunner, showing the
effects of being halfway between very drunk and woefully hung over.

"You are much too young to die. Now get out of your bed, and be a good
lad," wheedled Chef.

"Go away, you fat leprechaun!" The Gunner waved his arm wildly. "I think
I'm going to be sick."

"Not on my settee, you're not," returned Chef. "Will you get up, then?"

"NO!"

"Ah, well then, you leave me no choice." Chef reached out and his fingers
gave the tip of The Gunner's morning woody a sharp thump.

The Gunner, his greatest possession under attack, sat bolt upright and
yelped loudly. Chef, certain now that The Gunner was awake, and had his
attention, did a lumbering pirouette around the room. "Gunner's got a
hardon! Gunner's got a hardon!" he crooned in a singsong voice. He
continued his little dance, Hyacinthe Hippo costumed by Omar the Tentmaker,
laughing and singing his little song.

"At least I can get one!" snapped The Gunner as he stuffed his woody back
into his underpants. "Which is more that I can say for an old poop of my
acquaintance."

Chef stopped his dancing and assumed a hurt air. "Ah, Stevie, 'tis a cruel
man who takes the mock of a poor, old sailor, so he is." Then he grinned
widely. "Such a phenomenon is not unknown to me, I'll have you know. Why
only last week I woke up with the most wonderful erection." His grin turned
to a crestfallen look of sadness. "Then I had a pee and the thing went
south with the rest of me attributes!"

The Gunner groaned and held his head in his hands. "I don't know what got
into me!" he mumbled between groans.

"About a gallon of Captain Morgan Issue Rum," replied Chef. He began
puttering about the small kitchenette. "I'll put the kettle on and we'll
have a nice cup of tea. It will settle your stomach." He looked at The
Gunner and shook his head. "Why don't you go into the bogs and have a good
spew. You look decidedly unwell."

"I am unwell," growled The Gunner. He lay back against the sofa
cushions. "It's all right for some, those that have galley slaves to do all
the work. I've got a ton of papers to shuffle AND I've got to get into town
and pick up some trophies."

"You've plenty of time, and so you do." Chef began hunting for the tea
bags. "It's not yet 0500 and you don't have to be on parade at all this
morning. Now, sit up and I'll make your tea."

"I don't know what you're in an all-fired hurry for," mumbled The
Gunner. He hiccoughed and grimaced. "God, I am going to be sick." He
shuddered and belched.

"It's not that I don't trust the lads, but you never know," said Chef, a
crafty look on his face. "They might take it into their heads to stick
their little fids into something they shouldn't stick their little fids
into."

The Gunner grew pale. "Chef, they're your lads. They would never do
anything like that."

As the kettle whistled Chef got out two cups. "So many an officer has
thought, Stevie. Ah, I could tell you many a story about officers' cooks,
and stewards, and the things they did with their little puds."

The Gunner's faced went grey. "I'd rather you didn't."

"Take the steward in the old METIS. A terrible wee man he was. Hated
officers with a passion," replied Chef, pretending not to have heard The
Gunner. "Why he became a steward I shall never know." He tried to look
reflective. "From Labrador City he was. Tall and lanky, like a reed, he
was. The boy would be after dipping his wee man in the First Lieutenant's
sherry."

"Chef, please don't."

"Every night before dinner down would come the First Lieutenant to the
Wardroom. 'Steward,' he'd shout. 'A sweet sherry!' Well, the steward would
give him a sweet sherry, so he would."

"Chef, for the love of God, don't tell me how he sweetened the sherry!"
"Stevie, are you sure that your all right? You've become positively green
about the gills."

"Thanks to you and your sweet sherry!"

"We had rum," replied Chef. "It was the First Lieutenant of METIS who had
the sweet sherry. The silly man never caught on that the steward, just
before he'd bring the glass out would pull out his wee man and dip the end
of it in the glass of sherry."

The Gunner felt his stomach heave.

"The steward's wee man was like him, long and lanky. He'd not been given
the gift for life and had a foreskin on him as long as a bishop's nose!
He'd dip his wee man in the First Lieutenant's sherry and swish it
about. And when he was really pissed off he'd skin his wee man back and
. . ."

The Gunner bolted for the bathroom and slammed the door.

"I take it you don't want to know about the special tartar sauce the
steward made up every Friday," shouted Chef. "The captain said it was the
best he ever tasted, and had a special bite to it!" He began cackling as
wracking heaves echoed from the bathroom. "Hehehe. Works every time!"

******

Simon Keppel was in the half-world between sleep and wakefulness. He felt
tired, but very happy. That he was tired was not surprising. Joey, Randy
and he had not slept for more than an hour or so after sneaking out of
their barracks and into the galley lounge. They had, as Randy put it,
played, and played and played! Simon was exhausted!

Simon was lying between Randy and Joey, with his 3-inch erection firmly
imbedded in Randy's firm, round butt cheeks, with his right arm was draped
across Randy's thin waist. His fingers were idly toying with Randy's
marginally longer boner. Behind Simon, Joey snuffled in his sleep and Simon
thought that very soon Joey would turn and imbed his boner in his butt
cheeks, which was as close as either of the other two boys would allow
Simon to get to their bums. Not that Simon was complaining. He would have
liked to do what Randy and Joey did, but both of the boys insisted that you
only did that with someone very special and Simon should save himself until
that very special boy came into his life.

Snickering, Simon began to slowly pump his hips and his fingers began to
twirl around Randy's throbbing, miniature erection. Simon began panting as
he felt the wonderful tingling harbinger of pleasure building in his
tightening balls. He started groaning and began to thrust rapidly, very
quickly reaching the pinnacle and not at all aware of the muffled shouts
and laughter coming from somewhere in the Mess Hall.

Spent, his orgasm draining from his body, Simon slowly came back to
reality. He was startled to hear a shout, muffled and indistinct, but
definitely a shout. He sat up and listened intently, his face growing
pale. Someone was out there. He quickly shook Randy. "Randy, the Duty
Watch!" he whimpered.

Randy, who had been enjoying Simon's version of Wakey-Wakey, opened his
eyes. "Why did you stop? It felt good."

Simon shook Randy again. "Listen, somebody's out in the dining room. It's
the Duty Watch!" he whimpered, a note of panic in his voice.

Randy listened and gave Simon a withering look. "Don't be stupid. The Duty
watch is sound asleep in the Guardhouse." He grinned. "Sounds like a party
out there." He sat up, reached across Simon's body and gave Joey's plump
bum a poke.

"Wha . . . Simon, I told you . . ." snarled Joey, not at all pleased at
being so rudely awakened.

"It wasn't me," whined Simon as he struggled from the nesting bodies.

"It was me," announced Randy. "Get up. Something's going on out in the
dining hall." He stood up. "Where are my undies?"

"Where you left them," snapped Joey as he knuckled the sleep from his
eyes. He listened and cocked his head at Randy. "Whoever it is they sure
are making a lot of noise." He joined the other two boys in scrambling for
his underpants. He did not realize that the pair of white briefs he pulled
on were Simon's, who had put on Joey's briefs. Later Simon would have the
devil's own time in explaining to his mother how a pair of someone else's
underpants ended up in his laundry.

The three boys left the lounge and crept, barefoot and wearing only
tighty-whiteys, down the corridor leading to the dining room, which seemed
to be lit up. Joey pushed open the door leading from the corridor to the
dining room and stuck his head out. On the far side of the room Ray and
Kevin, also clad only in their white briefs, stood in the doorway of the
galley, staring at the scene before them.

In the middle of the room Nicholas and The Phantom were studying
something. Andre, together with Matt, was putting boxes on top of what
looked like place mats set on the Chiefs' table.

"What I had in mind was we put these all in a row," Nicholas was saying as
the three boys walked over. "You know, just like they were in the whaler."

The Phantom nodded. "Good idea. But how do you know who was where?"

Nicholas laughed and held up a life-size enlargement, black and white, of
what was obviously a picture of a male, bent forward at the waist, with
only his well-curved butt, legs, and a seductive hint of testicles dangling
between his spread legs showing. Two hands spread the butt cheeks, exposing
the puckered little hole. "This is Andy." He pointed. "See the scar on his
right butt?"

Randy, Joey and Simon craned their necks to look at the photograph. "Holy
fuck!" gasped Joey. "I can see his shit hole!"

"A HAIRY shit hole," amended Kevin who, with Ray, had come out of the
galley to see what all the commotion was about.

"What in the hell . . ." began Ray. He braced against Kevin as he leaned to
look at the photo in Nicholas's hand.

Nicholas snickered at the sight of the two boys in their underpants. "This
is only one of the pictures I took. If you like it so much . . ."

Ray grimaced. "Pictures of assholes, literally speaking, don't turn me on."

"It's a good job that I didn't put any of them in your album," returned
Nicholas with a grin.

"My what?" Ray looked at Kevin, who shrugged.

"Your album. Which is sitting on your bunk and which you would have seen
had you been in your bunk." Nicholas looked at the two now blushing boys,
thinking that he did not blame Ray one bit for spending the night with
Kevin. He let his eyes take in Kevin's firm, muscular chest, the crisply
contoured muscles of his stomach, and the bulge in Kevin's
tighty-whiteys. The cotton material barely concealed the smooth, pink
length of Kevin's soft penis, the glans, large, clean and flushed, clearly
outlined.

The Phantom followed Nicholas's gaze and smiled appreciatively at the sight
of Kevin's briefs-clad body. Kevin was one hell of a hunk with his clothes
off. Then he turned to the three younger boys who were hovering and, if The
Phantom was seeing right, drooling over Kevin.

"Where the hell did you three spring from?" asked Nicholas.

"And where's your pants?" demanded Ray.

"In the lounge," replied Joey easily, ignoring Ray's scowl. "We slept there
last night." He gave Nicholas an impudent grin. "Got any more of those?"

"Yes, and no you can't see them," replied Nicholas. "At least not yet," he
muttered under his breath,

"Go and put some clothes on," ordered The Phantom. "Ray, you too. Kevin,
would you please get dressed and help Matt with the set up?"

Grumbling, the five boys went off to change. Nicholas snickered and shook
his head. "It seems that Andre and I are not the only two having a
'special' friendship." He cocked an eyebrow. "Ray and Kevin?"

The Phantom swallowed and coloured slightly. He nodded slowly.

Nicholas rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He was, however, secretly
pleased that Ray and Kevin were together. Hell, Ray was positively glowing!

"Tell me again just how you plan on arranging the pictures," said The
Phantom, quickly changing the subject.

"In exactly the same order they were in when they mooned us," replied
Nicholas.

"How are you planning to do that?" asked The Phantom, surprised. "Let's
face it, one bum hole looks pretty much like another." He grinned. "Some
are just hairier than others." He took the picture of Andy's scarred behind
from Nicholas. "They were all bending over and pulling their cheeks
apart. You can't see anything but bum!"

Nicholas roared with laughter. "True, up to a point," he said. "However,
there are clues."

"Pardon?"

"Clues! For instance, we know that they were all lined up, stern to
bow. Andy was first, then Chris, then Steve, then Rob, then Stuart,
followed by Greg, with Val forward."

The Phantom thought a moment. "Seems right, from what I can remember."

"The camera does not lie!" intoned Nicholas. "I took these pictures in
sequence. Each frame is numbered so all I had to do was to make sure that
the numbers of the prints, which I wrote on the back, followed
sequentially."

The Phantom scoffed, "Hardly clues!"

"I agree," replied Nicholas. "We all agreed that there would be no names,
or faces to identify, right?"

The Phantom nodded. "We want to embarrass them, not get them arrested!"

"True. But, if you know what to look for, you can tell who is who!"

"Come on, Nicholas. A bum is a bum!" The Phantom looked at the photograph
again. "You took these in black and white, so skin colouring, hair colour,
are out."

Nicholas nodded. "But not the details." He pointed to the jagged scar on
Andy's behind. "We all know about Andy's scar. We saw it enough." He walked
to the table and pulled out another 20x24 picture and held it out to The
Phantom. "That's Val."

The Phantom looked. The subject was bent over, cheeks spread. The bottom of
his ball sac was just visible, as was the tip of his penis. "How can you
tell? You can't see anything. Except for Andy's scar, they are all pretty
much the same!"

"Look at the right hand," instructed Nicholas.

The Phantom looked and grinned. "Well, I'll be damned. He's wearing a
ring."

Nicholas nodded. "So is Stuart, but Stuart's dick is longer than Val's, and
you can clearly see it." He handed the photo of Stuart to The
Phantom. "Also, Stuart's ring has no stone in it. Val's does."

The Phantom laughed and shook his head. "And how do you plan on displaying
them?"

"Like I said, in sequence, on the far wall." He reached for some more
photos. "What do you think of using these?"

The Phantom looked at the photos and paled. Each one was a waist to thigh
photo of a naked male, genitals on display. He gulped when he saw his own
photo. "Nicholas, we said that we wouldn't use any of the pictures of the
other guys," he managed to gasp. Then his eyes widened. "You didn't
. . . the officers and please don't tell me . . . THE GUNNER?"

Nicholas grinned wickedly. "My mother did not raise a fool, Phantom." He
shook his head. "I thought about using their pictures but decided I liked
my ass where it is."

"That's a relief. The Gunner will have a fit as it is when he sees what
we've got going on in here!"

"As big a fit as when he sees what's tacked to the inside of his office
door?"  The Phantom's jaw dropped. "Nicholas . . ."

"Don't worry, Phantom, I made sure that none of the officers' pictures, or
The Gunner's, will be on public display." He snickered. "Except for
Kyle's. Andre propped his against the Wardroom fireplace!"

"He did?"

"Yep. Full colour, too." He held out another large photograph. "Now, what
do you think of this?"

The Phantom stared in disbelief at the photograph, and then shook his
head. "Harry will either kill you, or being Harry, puff and crow!" He
smiled. "Mind you, it is a very good likeness." He held the picture out to
get a better view. "A very good likeness," he murmured, as he looked at the
full frontal picture of Harry, naked, and jumping up with obvious joy. The
Pride and the Escorts, every curve, ridge and fold detailed, were in full
view. It was a magnificent photo of a magnificently handsome boy. The
Phantom remembered when it had been taken. Harry had just scored what would
prove to be the winning goal in a game of beach soccer, and was celebrating
loudly. The Phantom also remembered that the Twins, on the opposing, and
losing team, were expressing their disdain by waving their willies at
Harry.

"Harry, being the vain git that he is, will love it," opined
Nicholas. "And, knowing him, he'll want to know why I didn't enlarge it
more." He took the photo from The Phantom and shook his head. "The best I
can do is 20x24 inches. I could have gone a bit higher, but then you lose
definition."

"Then Harry would kill you," said The Phantom with a laugh. "It would never
do to have the Pride lose definition."

Nicholas returned the laugh. "So, where shall we put this? Above the galley
door, perhaps? Maybe on a easel so that when the guys first come into the
dining room they . . .?"

******

Chef's old jalopy pulled alongside the Mess Hall just as the cadets were
being dismissed from morning PT. Chef parked the car carefully and then
grunted and groaned his way out of the car. He stood up, stretched, and
sucked in a huge lungful of air. "A fine morning, Stevie," he bellowed,
frightening the seagulls that were having breakfast in the depths of the
garbage dumpster. "And the start of a fine day! I can feel it in me bones!"

"After what you packed away last night I'm surprised you can feel
anything," returned The Gunner sourly as he got out of the car.

"Ah, Stevie, don't spoil the day or me mood," replied Chef with a
grin. "Now come along and I'll make you a nice, settling breakfast. Weak
tea, dry toast, a custard perhaps."

The Gunner followed Chef into the galley and saw that the place was
humming. With breakfast for all the cadets only a scant ten or so minutes
away, the galley staff were hurrying to get everything ready. Chef nodded
complacently. They were good lads, all of them, and he would hate to see
them go tomorrow. Well, except for the Litany. Impudent little buggers they
were.

The Gunner helped himself to a cup of coffee - black - and looked
around. "Where's Phantom?" he asked Ray, who was hurrying by with a tray of
bacon. For some reason the boy blushed redly.

"He's in the dining room, Chief," replied Ray as he hurried past.

The Gunner shrugged and took another look around. For some reason the boys
seem unusually, well, giggly. Randy and Joey were busy making pan fried
potatoes and snickering. They were also shooting looks at Chef and
giggling. Sandro, not a morning person, and usually humming some Russian
dirge, was actually smiling as he stood at the grill flipping ham
steaks. The Litany, bustling in and out with flats of eggs and loaves of
bread for the toaster, were also snickering and looking to where Chef was
standing.

Chef, while he wondered what had gotten into the boys, said nothing. The
place was running like a well-oiled machine. He wasn't about to interfere,
his motto being that if it wasn't broke, don't fix it. He poured himself a
cup of coffee and sat down, gesturing for The Gunner to join him.

"They all seem happy," said The Gunner, nodding with his head as he sat
down opposite Chef. "Not their usual surly selves!"

"Ah, Stevie, they are boys. Boys are happy one minute, pouty the next." He
sipped his coffee, made a face, and added three spoons of sugar to the
liquid. "Never let a Russian make the coffee, Stevie," he said as he took
another tentative sip. "I think they boil their socks in it."

The Gunner gagged. "That's all I need."

"Now, Stevie, you get that coffee down you, and if it doesn't come right
back up I'll fix you something soothing." He heard loud guffawing from the
dining room. "Now then, what are they up to now?"

The Gunner listened. "Sounds like a party," he grumbled. "This is bad
coffee . . . Chef, where are you going now?"

"There is too much levity of the morning," replied Chef ponderously. "Much
too much levity.

Chef bustled out of the galley and into the dining room. The Gunner was
sipping his coffee and not paying attention to the sudden silence that had
descended. He was just raising his cup to his lips went a horrendous scream
rent the air.

"OOOOOH, MYYY GAAAAAAAAAWD!"

******

Chef's bellow of shock and outrage was followed by a horrendous crash of
something being dropped on the deck. The Gunner, his hangover and aching
head suddenly forgotten, leaped to his feet and fought his way through the
scrum of galley cadets blocking the doorway. In the dining room he saw
Chef, his right hand clutching his chest, his left pointing a shaking
finger at the portrait of Harry Triumphant, being helped to a chair by The
Phantom and Ray.

The Gunner looked around and saw the photographs. BUMS! Boy bums!
PENISES. Cadet Penises! "Holy Jesus!" he swore when he recovered from the
shock.

"I doubt He's up there!" howled Chef. "My heart! I can't stand it." He
clutched his chest. "The place looks like the Leman Street Yeshiva on bath
night!"

Before Randy or Joey could utter a smartass comment The Phantom and Ray
clapped their hands over the young boys' mouths. Randy squirmed and broke
free. "Where's Leman Street," he asked in a loud whisper.

"In the East End of London you ignorant lout!" yelled Chef. "And a yeshiva
is a school where nice Jewish boys go to learn how to be rabbis! Nice boys
who don't go around taking pictures of each other's . . ." He groaned
piteously. "For sure, 'tis me heart. Twenty-five years in the Andrew, and
never a black mark against me. Now . . ." He pointed around the
room. "Look, Gunner. "'Tis me death, I tell you!"

The Gunner was not going to ask what Chef was doing in a yeshiva, in East
London, or the downtown business section of Hell for that matter. He did
not want to send Chef off on one of his reminiscences, at least not with so
many impressionable boys about. "There is nothing wrong with your heart,
Chef," he said calmly. "And it's not as if you've never seen a dick
before." The boys tittered and The Gunner glared them into silence.

"I MIGHT HAVE," roared Chef. "But the Lieutenant Bloody Governor hasn't!"
He fell back in his chair. "A restorative. Aye, a wee drop of something to
restore me old heart."

Both The Phantom and Ray rolled their eyes. The Phantom turned to
Sandro. "There's a jug of something in Chef's office. Find it and pour him
a glass before I have a heart attack!" Sandro grinned and hurried into the
galley.

Chef continued his grumbling. "An array of anuses! Dear God!" He clutched
The Gunner's hand. "What if Number One sees them? Or Father? They're not
well, you know. They could very well keel over and drop dead in fright!"

"Number One is going directly from his house to the airport to meet the
Lieutenant Governor," replied The Gunner smoothly. "And Father isn't due
aboard until 0900."

Chef gave The Gunner a dirty look and noticed that he was losing his
audience. The cadets had decided that Chef's fit of histrionics was just
one of his usual shams, and went about their normal business. Randy and
Joey helped Ray to clean up the bacon he had dropped all over the deck and
the Litany went off to inspect the photos. By this time the other cadets,
hungry for their breakfasts had started to stream into the dining
room. Chef listened to their tittering, and outright laughter as they
started to compare pictures and, since Harry's was the only identifiable
picture, wondering loudly whose dick was whose. Seeing The Gunner laughing
Chef scowled. "Laugh if you will, Stevie. But who's to say that there's not
a snap of you up there?" He gave The Gunner a sly grin.

The Gunner quickly searched out The Phantom. "There isn't . . ." he began,
his face paling.

"Of course not," replied The Phantom. "We wouldn't do that to you. There is
no picture of you, at least not . . . here."

The Gunner noticed the pause and looked levelly at The Phantom. "Where?"

The Phantom snickered. "Your office. A nice big one. It shows all your
wrinkles!"

"Damn Two Strokes," snapped The Gunner. He was about to hurry to his office
when Sandro reappeared. He was holding a glass of something. "What's that?"
demanded The Gunner.

"Sherry," replied Sandro in all innocence.

None of the cadets could understand why The Gunner suddenly clapped his
hands over his mouth, turned deathly white, and ran into the galley heads
as Chef roared and shook with laughter.

******

The Great AURORA Photo Expose, or Staff Cadets Revealed, was not the
immediate success Nicholas had hoped it would be. Far from being insulted
Stuart, Steve and Rob were flattered and insisted that they should have
been consulted when the grand title "Pride of the Fleet" was
awarded. Stuart and Rob should have been. Both boys were the proud owners
of fine, handsome jewels. Steve remained unconvinced that he was out of the
running (because of size) and thought that points should have been awarded
for physical beauty, symmetry and colour. Greg, when he saw his picture,
shuddered and demanded a re-shoot, saying that Nicholas had not captured
his best "side". Nicholas retorted that an asshole was an asshole and that
Greg fit the bill in more ways than one!

Mal, who had aired The Monster before PT, was forced to endure the slings
and arrows of Willy and Jack's wit as they inspected the photos. They had
been forced to listen for weeks while Mal declaimed the beauty and size of
his Monster. Now that they had photographic proof that the Monster was not
monstrous at all, they informed Mal that he was sorely lacking, not only in
aesthetics, but also in size. Willy opined that, except for an exceedingly
ugly foreskin, which was half his dick anyway, Mal had nothing to write
home about and Jack expressed the hope that in future the Monster would be
aired at the dark of the moon, if only to hide its minuscule and
insignificant size! Mal had not been amused.

Mike was depressed for all of five minutes, telling Phillip, called the
Assistant, that there wasn't a dick on display that was as small as
his. Phillip replied that while Mike's dick might never win a size contest,
he at least knew how to use it. He waggled his eyebrows and both cadets
decided to forego breakfast.

Ray had expected Kevin to be upset. After all, they were lovers, and more
or less committed to each other. Having your lover's jewels on display was
hardly the 'in' thing, so far as Ray was concerned. Kevin was not at all
upset. He grinned and drew a smile from Ray by telling him that his dick
was cute, and it was the first time he'd seen the thing soft!

Thumper, with Two Strokes, came into the dining room. Thumper studied the
photograph of Two Strokes' parts and grinned. "Not bad, Roger," he
said. "But, do you really fuck with that thing?" Two Strokes, muttering
curses under his breath at Nicholas's perfidy, went off to fetch his
breakfast. Nicholas smiled happily. Revenge, while still a dish best eaten
cold, had been exacted, and while the dish was small, it was delicious
indeed.

Dave Eddy, still chuckling at the thought of seeing Andy's picture, with
the added attraction of discovering a photograph of Kyle's naked body
displayed in Wardroom lounge, gasped at the sight of so many dicks. When he
saw that at each place at the officers table there were glossy 11x14
photographs of both his messmates, he grinned and shook his head. Up to now
he had only half-believed the stories about the sailing trip. As he took in
the photographs a twinge of regret flashed through him. Andy and Kyle had
been a part of something very special, and he hoped that in time they would
both realize it. Then he went off to examine the other photos, wondering if
perhaps someone had taken a snap of him as he emerged from his impromptu
dip in the motel pool back in Victoria.

No "H", with Wally Higman, had trailed Dave into the dining room. He
examined the photos carefully and then voiced the thought that while Andy
was impressive, he'd never catch a codfish with that thing and as for Kyle,
well, he might catch a lobster, if it was old and myopic. Wally roared with
laughter and offered to send pictures of his two infant sons, both of whom,
or so he claimed, had Andy and Kyle beat by a mile.

The Phantom caught Nicholas's eye, his smile mirroring the Yeoman's look of
blissful satisfaction. The true perpetrators of the great offence had
finally suffered humiliation.

Sandro, with his own circumcision looming in the not too distant future,
took the opportunity to comparison shop, while Ryan, with his circumcision
healing nicely, thank you, took the opportunity to compare ring positions
of the penises on display.

The Sea Puppies entered the dining hall in their usual horde, chattering
and generally making nuisances of themselves. They were all fresh from
their morning shower. They thought that the pictures were a hoot, and since
they had been checking each other out for weeks, wandered about, commenting
rudely on the barely more mature opposition. Bobby Baugnier stood in front
of the photograph of Harry and, remembering the contest to determine who
best owned the next contender for the title, studied Harry's picture
carefully. When Evan walked over to stand in front of the picture Bobby
looked him up and down, looked pointedly at the Pride and then more
pointedly at Evan's crotch. "How old are you again?" he asked with a
malicious glint in his eye.

"Fourteen. Why?" replied Evan, a little stunned at the photograph of Harry.

"You better hope for a growth spurt," Bobby said with a smirk. He looked
directly at what was in truth a respectable fourteen-year-old bulge in
Evan's bell-bottoms. "A big growth spurt!"

******

Chef, his humour gone, lay prostrate with shock on the sofa in his office,
bewailing his fate, sipping at a large glass of 'medicine' The Gunner had
poured for him, moaned, groaned, and generally bitched to the heavens.

Secretly thinking that the whole thing was a delicious hoot, The Gunner
pretended to sympathise, but added, "Come on, Chef, they're only some
photos from the sailing trip. There's nothing out there that you couldn't
find in any reputable art gallery or photo museum."

"If the museum was in Soho, or Greenwich Village!" snarled Chef in
return. He took a huge drink of his high-octane medicine. "Naked young
men," he moaned. He fixed The Gunner a baleful look. "With one old man
thrown in to add balance and perspective!"

Ignoring Chef's insult, The Gunner continued, "Now Chef, it's not as bad as
all that. You have seen naked men before and you did say that the pictures
in the dining hall looked like bath night in a yeshiva, so it's not that
. . ."

"That was different!" Chef moaned loudly, drained his glass and held it out
for a refill.

Chuckling, The Gunner refilled Chef's glass with the 175-proof
medicine. "How is it different?" he asked. "They are only some pictures of
the boys having fun, being boys, swimming . . ."

"Swimming naked!" Chef pointed out.

"So what? You can't stand - sorry, lie - there and tell me that you never
went skinny dipping," returned The Gunner. "Even you were a lad once!"

Chef gave The Gunner a malevolent glare, and then affected a nostalgic
air. "Well, I do admit to that." He smiled wistfully and took a sip of his
medicine. "Ah, well do I remember those days of my youth, swimming with me
schoolboy chums, sunning ourselves on the banks of the River Liffey."

"What were you doing on the banks of the River Liffey? I thought you were
raised in Newfoundland."

"So I was," countered Chef. "That does not mean I was never on the banks of
the River Liffey," he finished enigmatically.

The Gunner wondered if he should take a drop of Chef's medicine, hair of
the dog, and all that, and definitely helpful when Chef was off on a tear.

"Ah, such innocence we had back then, Stevie. Like St. Honoria's Cherubs,
so we were."

The Gunner gave Chef a strange look. He wasn't at all sure that there was a
St. Honoria in the Calendar of Saints, although he was sure that the
Saint's name was not pronounced to rhyme with gonorrhea!

"Ah, well do I remember the long, warm days of summer as we idled on the
banks the Liffey," Chef went on, his eyes half closed, and lying through
his teeth. "It was heaven, Stevie, sheer heaven, what with the life-giving
sun fair warm on our skins, and a warmth in our hearts after giving thanks
to the Blessed Virgin that it was summer, and not spring, and that we had
not to contend with the depredations of the Liffey salmon.

The Gunner started, and almost reached for the bottle. "Salmon? What
salmon?" he demanded.

"Why, the salmon of the River Liffey," replied Chef, his tone implying that
only an idiot did not know about the salmon. "Ferocious beasts they are, as
long and as thick as a drover's arm, so they are, and as evil-tempered as a
Mother Superior at a meeting of the Holy Rollers, when they're in spawn."

Despite himself, The Gunner started to snicker. "Come on, Chef, you don't
really expect me to believe that!"

Chef rolled himself into a sitting position. "'Tis all true, Stevie, on me
oath," he replied, placing his hand over his heart. "They spawn in the
spring, great herds of them, so there are, fighting the torrent of the
river as it roars down to the Irish Sea. 'Tis a glorious sight, so it is,
with the beasts leaping and splashing. I shall take you there one day."

The Gunner's eyes drifted to the bottle of medicine. He had no doubt where
the Liffey salmon leaped gloriously.

"Every spring up the river they would come," Chef went on, a smile forming
on his lips. "There would be no swimming then for the creatures, wicked
things that they are, take delight in nipping at the appendages of
unsuspecting schoolboys, so they do. Sure and 'tis no great pleasure having
your appendage nipped by a fish, Stevie."

The Gunner groaned and threw up his hands. "Dammit, Chef!"

Chef laughed uproariously, spilling half his drink. He held out his glass
for a refill and as The Gunner poured, said, "The pictures will be coming
down soon enough, I'm thinking."

The Gunner nodded. "I told you about the other boat mooning us?"

Chef nodded. "Schoolboy pranks." He chuckled softly. "Ah, Stevie, there's
hope for our Navy yet, with boys such as them coming in." He fixed The
Gunner a look. "You'll be having a wee word, though, with the lads, about
the albums?"

"I will," replied The Gunner firmly. He thought a moment. "Mind you, I
think the boys will know enough to keep the albums their secret."

"They're smart lads, to be sure," agreed Chef. He stood up and waddled
toward the door. "And you must show me the contents of the book that I
heard Phantom tell you is sitting on your desk."

"Uh, Chef, well I," began The Gunner, embarrassed. He didn't know that Chef
knew about his album.

"But save it for a gloomy day, a day when the heavens fair weep with
rain. "'Twill be good for a laugh and cheer us both!" He halted, and leered
at The Gunner. "Better yet, we'll take a swim in the River Liffey, in the
spring, and tempt the wee fishies with your appendage!"

******

At the Chief's table the food was growing cold. Those cadets of the sailing
trip who had not helped with the decorations, had passed down the steam
line, loading their trays with their usual hearty breakfasts and,
chattering excitedly at the artwork, went to their usual places, where they
were surprised to find their personal gifts. The food forgotten, Rob, Two
Strokes, Tyler, Val, and the others, their habitual hunger suppressed by
curiosity, opened the boxes to find the beautiful faux-leather albums.

Tyler and Val, who were sharing the Chiefs table with Mark and Tony, opened
the albums carefully, not expecting to find . . . more pictures. Tony, his
eyes all but bugging from his head, snickered as Tyler turned the pages of
his album. Mark, his eyes wide at the wonder of the photographs, viciously
elbowed his lover and recognized what Tony did not. Where Tony saw only
naked boys with flaccid fittings, Mark also saw beauty, artistic beauty in
the composition of the pictorial compositions. Where Tony saw dicks and
balls and bums, Mark saw masterful renderings of natural, healthy,
magnificent forms of teenage youth.

Mark looked around the room and saw the other cadets who had been on the
sailing trip, poring over their albums, perusing Nicholas's
selections. Some sat, mouths agape, somewhat stunned. Others, Harry
included, slowly turned the pages of their albums, reminiscing silently,
remembering the circumstances of where, and when, each photo had been
taken, ignoring the laughter and excitement the albums evoked from the
other cadets.

In small groups the junior cadets gathered around their Chiefs, their meals
forgotten as they looked at the photos, the boys slowly coming to the
realization that before them was a photographic record of something very
special.

As they leafed through their albums Tyler, Val, Harry, the Twins, Ray, Two
Strokes, Chris, Greg, Stuart and Steve, quickly discovered that each album
was unique, and that every photo reflected the particular interests and
sensibilities of the individual for whom each album had been assembled. And
they found, as Mark had found, the beauty; not only in the subjects, but
also in the way each picture had been crafted.

As the comparisons continued individual cadets would look up to smile at
Nicholas, who was standing quietly off to the side, their smiles expressing
appreciation and gratitude. Cory, who had learned more about the project
after Sean had left the harbourside cafe, quietly let it be known that
Andre had also contributed greatly to the effort, especially his obvious
artistic talents.

As more and more cadets murmured their appreciation and thanks, Nicholas
beamed and motioned for Andre to stand beside him. He placed his arm around
the smaller boy's shoulders and drew him to his side. As Nicholas smiled
and squeezed his lover repeatedly, Andre smiled lovingly at Nicholas and
shyly at the other Chiefs.

In the galley doorway The Gunner and Chef, who had been mystified at the
sudden silence that had fallen over the dining hall, looked at each other
and knew instinctively what the other was thinking. Chef nodded slowly.
What had begun as an act of revenge, had become a collaboration of love,
and another unseen bond of friendship had been forged between the Band of
Brothers, between the Boys of Aurora.