"Aurora Crusade" is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2006 by John Ellison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
WARNING: This story may or may not contain graphic depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal where you live.
The options offered in this prologue are the author's and not offered for debate. They reflect the times and the thinking of the author's characters. The author adheres to the old admonition that sex, politics, and women are never discussed in the Mess and will not respond to flames or yellow dog Democrats, Bible Bangers or Right Wing Republicans.
Aurora Crusade
Prologue
A gust of wind slammed against the window, setting the panes to creaking softly. Hard, heavy snow blew against the double-paned glass, a light pattering of noise that disturbed the quiet of the library. The Phantom, seated in a huge wing chair beside the roaring fire, reached down to massage his bad leg. It always ached in cold weather, and standing around for hours did not help it at all. He was, as he remarked to Colin after the Service, jolly glad that they rode in carriages back to Flagstaff House. Otherwise, the cadets would have had to carry him!
Flagstaff House, for the first time in a week, was as quiet as a tomb. The day had been long and the guests, after a heavy luncheon, the Collar Day processions, a reception, and then a formal dinner, had all retired early. Colin, "Mr. Congeniality" as always, had been the first to waggle an eyebrow, kiss The Phantom lightly on the cheek, and sidle off to his warm bed. Cory and Todd Arundel, usually the most confirmed of night owls, yawned expressively and took their leave, Cory whispering seductively into Roger Homes' ear, and Todd draping his arm over Matt Greene's shoulder. Harry von Hohenberg sniggered at them but said nothing.
The Phantom had given Harry a dirty look but he also said nothing. It had been a long haul but finally, Cory had found some measure of peace with Two Strokes - most surprising, given that the tall, slim, Vulcan-featured Two Strokes had hidden his true feelings well behind the stern mask of a policeman. The Phantom wondered idly if he would ever learn what really happened between Two Strokes and Thumper.
As for Todd and Matt, well, that had been predetermined. Matt had been in love with Todd since their time as Sea Cadets in HMCS Aurora. Back then, mind, Todd had been on some sort of moral high horse, the silly dip, and had refused to love Matt as anything other than a younger brother. The Phantom was convinced that Todd had deliberately embarked on a torrid, but short-lived affair with Harry, simply to turn Matt away, which had been exactly what happened. Matt, disappointed, but realistic, had said to hell with Harry, literally and figuratively. He put any thoughts of Todd from his mind and had gone off to the Flag Locker, to enjoy himself with Nicholas Rodney, the Yeoman of Signals.
A low, sardonic chuckle rose from The Phantom's throat as he remembered the early days, the days before the Boys of Aurora finally found their true selves, and their true loves and partners.
Another gust shook the windows and The Phantom glowered. Collar Day in December was really too much! He could count on the fingers of one hand the celebrations when it had not snowed, or rained, or sleeted down sheets of ice, or all three! It was a wonderful day, of course, but he wondered if the resulting colds, bouts of bronchitis, and whatnot were worth it. Colin had suggested that a leaf be taken from the Royal Family and the Order celebrate Collar Day "officially" in say, June, when the weather was warm on the plain above the Ottawa River.
The Phantom was seriously considering Colin's suggestion. Having an "official" Collar Day in mid-June, say, would allow more of the gentlemen scholars to learn something about the Order that educated them and, in many ways, protected them. More than half of the boys had been gone off on Christmas holiday - the fees paying boys and those with family winging off to wherever. Christmas was a time for families, of course. As it stood at the moment, only the Letter Boys, so-called because of the Letter of Guarantee the Order sent to the CAS and the other social services guaranteeing their care, remained - and those few boys whose families for one reason or another did not want them around at Christmas, or any other time for that matter.
Having Collar Day in June would also eliminate the inconvenience of it all. Many of the Knights could not simply pack up and take a holiday. This year, 2005, Christmas Eve fell on a Saturday. As many, if not all, of the Knights had careers, this meant that they could not possibly leave before then, and in truth Arnprior was not an easy place to get to in the middle of a cold, snowy, winter. The original Boys of Aurora always managed to make the ceremony, bringing their children, which The Phantom thought wonderful. Yet, as Grand Master, he also had to think about the Knights who stayed home, the traditional place to be for the two days of Christmas. Jeremie Cher was a case in point.
Jeremie Cher had not, in almost 30 years, come to a Collar Day, simply because he lived so far away and was building not only his career, but beginning a family. His presence here at the Hospital today had been an accident. Jeremie Cher's wife had family in Ottawa and, having just given birth to a son, naturally wanted to show him off. What better time than Christmas? It had been convenient for Jeremie Cher to attend. Collar Day in June would allow him the time to plan to attend.
The more The Phantom thought of it, the more he felt it necessary to move Collar Day to the summer. There was another factor that The Phantom had to consider as well. With half, or more of the students gone, the three-week period of Christmas meant that the Maintenance Staff could put to rights the depredations of the boys and minor defects that plagued any large institution. Alex Grinchsten, who was Governor of the Hospital, and responsible for the general upkeep, made it plain that he could not paint rooms when his staff were called away in the middle of everything to hump bags and shift furniture and tables!
Collar Day in June would also certainly cut down the complaints from the Housekeeping staff, specifically Randy Lowndes, who ran the place, and bitched and moaned about the salt ruining boots and shoes and robes, which his footmen and housekeepers had to put to rights.
Joey Pelham, Master of the Household, was also complaining. How, he had asked, could he arrange a dinner for 100 plus Knights, with all the panoply and flubdubs, when there was no place to hold it! Joey, in spite of his histrionics, was right, of course. There was really no place to hold a grand dinner or Investiture.
They had tried the Riding School, but the cooks complained that the sawdust got into everything, and did one really want to eat in a hall smelling of horse? The Chapter House was adequate, all wood-panelling and stained glass, very well suited for an ecclesiastical function, but much too small and Simon Keppel, Dean of the Chapter, nittered on about the cooking smells that lingered after every large function. The Phantom doubted that it was as bad as Simon maintained, but he had to consider that the Chapter was supposed to be a separate entity, The Priestly Society of St. John of the Cross of Acre. The priests could be very territorial when they put their minds to it! A new hall was definitely needed!
The Phantom knew what he had to do: He would consider his options further, discuss it with the Council and hopefully, with a minimum of yelling and screaming a new hall would be built and Collar Day celebrated without a bloody great blizzard to worry about.
In the meantime, there were the boxes.
Every day a Federal Express truck rumbled up the drive and deposited anywhere from ten to thirty boxes, which contained correspondence from around the world, letters and reports, financial statements and applications, all of which demanded the Grand Master's attention as soon as possible.
Engrossed in his boxes, The Phantom did not hear the door to his study open. The thick, Oriental carpet that covered the floor of the room muffled footsteps of the tall, stocky, dusty blond-haired young man who had entered.
"Hello, Papa," whispered the young man as he bent down and kissed The Phantom's cheek.
The Phantom started and then, the pleasure at seeing his oldest son before him rising in his green eyes, he lurched painfully to his feet and embraced the young man. "David, oh, David!" was all he could manage.
"I'm home, Papa, safe and sound, with all my bits and pieces," returned David with a grin.
Holding his son at arm's length, The Phantom asked, "But . . . I thought . . . how . . .?"
Laughing, David helped his father back to his seat and sat on the arm of the wing chair, his hand gently playing with an errant strand of The Phantom's hair. This was an old childhood habit, and represented the first bond that had developed between David and his "Papa".
"But David, I thought you were in Iraq, in Basra!" protested The Phantom mildly. "And you might have called and . . ." He regarded David's travel-worn and rumpled combat clothes. "You look like a bag of dirty dhobey!" He sniffed audibly and added, "And, dear son, you have not quite shed the dust of Iraq from you!" He atoned for his mild complaint by gently cupping his son's hand. "It is wonderful to see you," he whispered.
David could feel the warmth of his father's love dissipate the travel fatigue and mild aches. "It's Christmas, Papa, I couldn't stay away."
"Christmas was yesterday," The Phantom pointed out. "And we sent you . . ."
David's hand slid down the back of The Phantom's head and came to rest on the back of his neck. "I received the packages, and . . ." His voice trailed off and then he spoke again, quietly. "Some of the boys didn't receive anything other than what the Red Cross and the NAAFI handed out so I . . ."
"Played Santa Claus." The Phantom completed his son's statement. He smiled into his son's eyes. "That's your mother in you. She was a very kind, very loving lady."
"You're not angry?" asked David, a little surprised.
"Not really," replied The Phantom with a sly grin. "Your Daddy Colin and I packed far more than you could possibly use. And Randy and Joey had to add their bits, and when I told your Uncle Cory he had to throw in some tins and . . ."
"Papa, who threw in those damned yellow silk underpants?" he demanded in mock anger.
Laughing, The Phantom explained, "Randy! He thought you'd like the silky feel of them!"
Shaking his head, David said, "I might have known. I gave them to a corporal who said they were ever so sexy - and silky! It's not every day you hear that from a Royal Marine and of course we drank all the booze . . . how did you get it past the inspectors? But it was lovely Papa and . . ."
Scarcely able to control his excitement at being home, David stood up. "Papa, I stink!"
"I beg your pardon?"
David reached out and began to pull The Phantom out of his chair. "Papa, I want to take a bath! Come and sit with me, and scrub my back, like the old days, when I was little. Please, Papa?"
"But David! Aren't you a tad old for that?" protested The Phantom as he allowed himself to be pulled gently into the bathroom that adjoined his study. "You are 21, and rather . . ."
"Oh, Papa, don't be such a stick in the mud," returned David, brushing aside his father's protest. He reached down and turned the taps. As the tub began to fill with hot water David stripped off his clothing. When he was down to his striped boxer shorts he grinned. "Come on, Papa! You're blushing!"
"I am not," returned The Phantom. He lowered the toilet seat cover and sat down, looking at his handsome young son. "My leg hurts!" he lied. He was so proud of this silly, sentimental young man.
David whipped down his boxers and stood before his father, naked. "See? Everything I went away with, I brought back!" He raised his leg and quickly sat down in the tub, only to sit right back up. "Holy fuck! That's hot!" he howled.
"Well add more cold water, loon!" responded his father. He noted that combat had certainly roughened his son's language, not that The Phantom minded at all. He remembered that when he returned from his first cruise with the Navy he had returned home and at table had asked his mother to "Pass the fucking' salt, please!"
"Remember how I always did this?" asked David, referring to his childhood habit of sitting in the tub while it filled.
"I remember," said The Phantom. He remembered every moment of his son's childhood. Just as he remembered every moment of the twins' and the triplets' childhoods.
"Papa, are there any bubbles?" David asked.
Shaking his head, The Phantom rose and looked through the medicine cabinet that hung over the bathroom sink. He had not expected to find any "bubbles" but much to his surprise he found a small jar of Lavender Bath Salts. "Randy was in, it seems," said The Phantom as he opened the jar and poured the beads into the bath.
As he watched the small beads burst into bubbles, David asked. "How is Uncle Randy?"
"He's fine, and so is your Uncle Joey. Still as crazy as coots, the pair of them," replied The Phantom.
David fished around and withdrew a large sponge. He gestured with it over his shoulder. "My back, please, Papa," he said.
The Phantom took the sponge and began the old ritual of rubbing his son's back in tight, concentric circles. "You used to purr like a kitten when I did this when you were little," murmured The Phantom nostalgically.
"Yeah, and then the twins would butt in and one of them would grab my dick and spoil the mood," responded David with a snicker. "Gosh, Papa, this brings back memories. Remember when we first came to live with you and Daddy Colin, and how we used to climb into bed with you when there was thunder?"
The Phantom did not reply. He had known the horrors of war, and knew that his oldest son had seen those same horrors, smelt those same smells, and heard the same thunderous explosions that meant death and destruction. David was babbling, perhaps, but he was also washing away the sights and sounds of war. He was home, and he was renewing his ties with home. He was safe, and no longer had to worry if the van parked halfway down the street was packed with C4, or the pile of rubbish, or the lonely corpse lying beside the highway was in fact an IED, ready to explode without warning. He no longer had to fear the sweet-face young boy in the long, baggy robes of a desert tribesman, and wonder if hidden under the robes was a belt of explosives, ready to pull a cord and be transported, a martyr, to Heaven, there to live on nectar and ambrosia and be served by 47 virgins, at least The Phantom thought it was 47 virgins.
David was returning home.
"How are my little brat brothers?" asked David and he shuddered slightly at the touch of the sponge on his back.
"They are fine. Full of piss and vinegar," replied The Phantom, smiling.
"Are Daniel and Dermot still tight with Phil and Steve Arundel?" he asked. He winked at his father and added with heavy sarcasm, "Now there are two mature young men!" He leaned forward and turned on the hot water tap again. "I swear, Papa, there isn't water hot enough to take the aches away."
The Phantom knew the feeling. It would take some time before David calmed down. He also knew that David, in the manner of true veterans, would never tell anyone what the aches, and the pain he felt deep within in body, meant.
"They are fine. And what do you mean, 'mature young men'?" asked The Phantom. He waved the sponge toward the all but overflowing bathtub. "David, there's too much water."
After fumbling around and finding the plug, David let some of the water drain away. He regarded his father seriously. "Papa, they're at the age," he said seriously. "And if I know the triplets, they're not far behind."
The Phantom's eyes widened. "Oh," was all he could manage. Then he recovered. "Well, we, Colin and I, we've had The Talk with them. We were both your age, and theirs, once, and we, well, you know David we never withheld the truth from any of you."
"You sure didn't," replied David. He sat back, luxuriating in the bubbles. "I don't know who was more embarrassed when we talked, you, Daddy Colin, or me!" He reached for the sponge and began to rub his broad, smooth chest. "You both stammered away and the words you used!" He laughed, "Nattering on about 'penis' and 'vagina'." He regarded his father a moment and the Devil came into his eyes. "Whatever happened to 'pecker' and 'twat'?"
The Phantom almost fell off of his seat. "David!"
"Come on, Papa, I knew the words. You'd be surprised what schoolboys gossip about."
"No, I wouldn't," returned The Phantom. He rose and reached into the tall, wooden locker next to the bathtub. He pulled out a heavy, white, bathrobe. "Now come along. You're as red as a boiled lobster." He looked at the rumpled boxers on the floor. "You'll need clean underpants," he observed.
David nodded. "There's a pair in my carryall bag. I left it just outside the door." Reluctantly, David stood up. He looked down and regarded his genitals. "Damn it, Papa, whatever happened to the theory that things expand when heated, and contract when cooled? Look at me! All I've got left is a little nub!"
Laughing, The Phantom handed his son a towel. "It's called shrinkage," he advised seriously. David smiled as his father draped the robe over his shoulder. He stretched languidly. "Gosh, I feel clean for the first time in months!"
Together they returned to the study. While The Phantom poured them both a large drink, David retrieved his bag, and found some clean boxers. After slipping them on he and his father settled on the sofa. Before very long David had settled his body lengthways on the overstuffed sofa, his head in his father's lap. Yet another childhood habit.
"You should get to bed," The Phantom said as he gently caressed the close-cropped remnants of his son's hair. "You must be exhausted!"
"Ah, I'm just a little tired," admitted David grudgingly. "But please, Papa, I just want to lie here with you for a little while."
"You must have had a gruelling flight," said The Phantom. He regarded David a moment. "Which reminds me, however did you get here?"
"I hitched," replied David with a grin. He stifled a yawn. "I suppose someone's in my bed?"
The Phantom nodded. "The house is full to the rafters. I think Randy put Rob and Marc in your room."
David nodded. Collar Day had always meant sharing a bed with someone. "I guess that means I sleep with you and Daddy Colin." He looked up at The Phantom and grinned. "I promise not to take advantage of you."
The Phantom gasped loudly. "David!"
Laughing, David snuggled his head deeper into The Phantom's lap. "Come on, Papa, it's not like I don't know what goes on." Once again he looked upward at his father, his eyes twinkling. "You explained everything." Then he shrugged. "Just so you know, I'm not gay, although I have experimented." His voice was flat, as if admitting to one's father that one had had a homosexual affair was something one did every day.
The Phantom abruptly stopped rubbing his son's head. He knew of David's friendship with Harry Windsor and for a brief moment a vision of his oldest son deflowering the youngest grandson of one of the most powerful women in the world flashed through his mind.
David sensed what his father was thinking. "You have a very dirty mind, Papa," he said dryly. "And no, Harry and I did not. He's a beautiful guy, I mean, really a beautiful guy, and so is his brother. They are also straight, as in arrow straight."
"You sound disappointed," replied The Phantom jokingly.
Shaking his head, David smiled. "Not really. Although I am jealous!"
"Jealous?"
"Yeah, jealous," returned David with a leer. "Before I shipped out I had lunch at Buck House with Harry. William was swanning about - between girlfriends, I think - and joined us. Anyway, we ended up going for a swim." He winked conspiratorially. "We skinny dipped and beside those two I look positively clunky!"
The Phantom chuckled. "You take after your father in more ways than one!" he confided.
"My real father, or Daddy Colin?" asked David with a snigger.
"Both!" returned The Phantom laughing.
Joining in his father's laughter, David continued. "They are beautiful guys, Papa, I mean really beautiful." He squirmed a bit. "I know a straight guy isn't supposed to say another guy has a beautiful dick, but damn, Papa, Harry and William are well, beautiful."
"David, boys and men have been checking each other out ever since the first cave man saw the second cave man. We've all done it. Your Uncle Harry says it's just natural for a guy to want to see what the competition has to offer."
"Trust Uncle Harry," grumped David. "If I didn't know that he was a professed Knight I'd think he was a dirty old man!"
"He is a dirty old man," responded The Phantom with a grin. "Which is natural, seeing as how he was a dirty young man!"
"Does he still brag about 'The Pride of the Fleet' and the 'Escorts'?" David asked.
"Constantly. He can be very boring when he puts his mind to it."
David chuckled. "Well, Papa, I can tell you in the strictest confidence that Uncle Harry's been dethroned."
The Phantom looked down at his smiling son. "William or Harry?"
"William by a mile, or at least an inch," returned David. "And Papa?"
"Yes?"
"Don't believe everything you read on one of those anti-Semitic, ill-informed web sites you browse."
"Which means?"
"Which means that if they came looking for a knighthood they wouldn't have to worry about Article 24!" Again he shrugged. "Apparently an operation for a 'hernia' corrects a mother's ignorance in more ways than one!"
The Phantom started. "Now that's a well-kept secret."
"Sure is," replied David blandly. He lapsed into silence.
The Phantom waited and then asked carefully. "David, were you, um, tempted?"
David continued his silence, and then replied. "Not really, no. I love them too much, and respect them too much. They've never hinted. I looked, but I didn't touch." He rolled his body slightly and looked deeply into his father's eyes. "Papa, I've tried it and at the time I liked it."
Intrigued, for he had not had this sort of a conversation in years, The Phantom said, "I hear an unspoken 'but', which leads me to think that you've had second thoughts?" He gently stroked the top of his son's head. "So tell me, not your cup of tea? Guilt feelings?"
David sniggered. "Not hardly! At the time it surprised me, a little, but . . ." He looked at his father. "We were in the showers, after a soccer game, and he got hard, and I got hard and that's how it started. Afterward I did feel a little, strange I guess. But it didn't feel wrong, and I did enjoy it."
"One incident is hardly important," said The Phantom. "It happens all the time."
David took a deep breath. "It was more than one incident," he admitted.
"David, you don't have to tell me anything," remonstrated The Phantom gently. "I learned a long time ago that boys will be boys. Having sex with each other is part of growing up. It usually ends as quickly as it began."
"Weeelll," drawled David, "it didn't end for a long time, about a year, really."
"Really?" replied The Phantom idly, not giving his son a hint that both Colin and he had been a little more observant than David knew.
"Yes. Papa, my first kiss was not from a girl. When I lost my virginity, it was not with a girl." David's voice was low. "To be honest, it was the best sex I ever had!" He grinned. "Maybe the Ancient Greeks had the right idea, you know, allowing their sons to be with other boys, and men."
"And now?" asked The Phantom carefully.
"Oh, I'm riding the other bus." David squirmed a bit uncomfortably. "There's this chick I met in Iraq, an American girl." He ducked his head sheepishly. "We, um, connected."
"It seems to me, if memory serves, that there have been very few 'chicks' that you've not connected with," replied The Phantom tartly. "I just hope you practiced safe sex!" David made a face. "Of course I did. You and Daddy Colin never let up on that point!"
"David, we never tried to influence you in any way. We were prepared to love you, no matter how you turned out. Both Colin and I reasoned that you would probably be with a boy, just as we think the triplets are doing more than just sleeping together." The Phantom ran his hand gently through his son's hair. "We love you, son. I know it took you a while to understand us, our relationship, and for a long while we were afraid that you might be a little ashamed of us."
David quickly rose up and hugged his father tightly. "How can you say that, Papa? We saw how much you loved Colin, and how much he loved you! We, I, was never ashamed of you!"
Abruptly, David left the sofa and refilled the glasses. "God Damn It!" he swore loudly. The decanter clanked loudly as it rapped against the crystal glass. "I went to fucking war because I believed in what the Americans were doing! I've had my ass shot at by some flyblown Arabs who don't know dick about anything but dying for Allah! I damn near had my head blown off when an RPG hit my vehicle!" He turned and looked at his father. Suddenly, tears streamed down his face. "And my best mate died in my arms! He died in my arms, Papa!"
The decanter fell to the carpeted floor with a dull thud, the Scotch staining the carpet, making it look like blood. David raised his hands to his face and wept. "In my arms, Papa!"
Instantly, The Phantom was at his son's side. He led the young man to the sofa, sat him down and held him closely, not saying anything, because there was nothing he could say that would lessen the pain David felt.
Presently David regained some measure of control. He buried his head in The Phantom's shoulder. "It's so fucking unfair," he whispered. "Guys are dying for what purpose? Georgie died for no reason! God damn Bush, God Damn Blair and all the rest of those fucking politicians!"
"Georgie?" asked The Phantom.
"We met in Lympstone," said David, nodding his head slightly. "He was a goofy little fuck of a guy from Manchester. He . . . he . . ." David raised tear-stained eyes. "Papa, I loved him."
"So," The Phantom thought sadly, "my dearest son has found something that so few men ever find. David has joined the Band of Brothers, and knows the agony of losing something so dear that words can never explain it."
"We called him 'Dawg', because he was always yapping like a little terrier," explained David. "But his name was George . . . Georgie, and he was skinny, and blond, and a typical Brit goof!"
"But you loved him," whispered The Phantom.
"Yes, Papa." David hugged his father closely. "Please don't be disappointed."
"Now why would I be disappointed?" asked The Phantom. "We raised you to be who you are, what you are. We never tried to influence you and we never worried that you might fall in love with another boy, or a man. If you did, you did. Both Colin and I thought it best to let you find your own path. For a variety of reasons we hoped you would not follow ours, but then we also knew that as a boy you would be curious. All boys are, David." He gave David a hug. "Which is why we never said anything when you slept with us and, shall we say, explored the terrain."
David tried to pull away. "Papa! I . . . uh . . . oh shit!"
"Shall I tell you a secret?" asked The Phantom.
"A secret?"
The Phantom laughed at a memory. "When Randy and Joey were about thirteen we once had occasion to share a pallet in the Mess Hall. They were very inquisitive when they were young, and later told me that they had . . . studied the terrain while I was asleep."
"Papa!" Then David laughed. "So I'm not the only dirty little bugger in the litter."
"That is exactly what Kevin Berkley called Randy and Joey, dirty little buggers," said The Phantom with a huge smile. Then he added, "But you are not a dirty little bugger, nor are your brothers."
"They got you?" David gasped. "Hell, I thought it was only me!"
"And Colin," said The Phantom. "He was ever so upset at first. I told him that at least he didn't rise to the occasion!"
"Papa, you are a dirty old man!" exclaimed David with a sad smile.
"Of course I am," replied The Phantom. "I have six sons!" He gently kissed David's lips. "David, I've been there, remember? I admit that I was a little surprised when your explorations happened, but what was I to do? What was Colin to do? Were we to rant and rage, and punish you for being inquisitive? When you brought that special young friend home for the first time and he spent the night, and we knew that you were doing a little more than playing computer war games, were we to storm into your room and cast him into the darkness?"
"You knew about . . .?"
"David, when a boy finds a special friend, a parent knows. Your eyes sparkled and you actually strutted a bit when you were with him, almost as if to say, 'Fuck you, world! I've found the best guy around and he's mine and I'm his!' So yes, we knew."
"But Papa," exclaimed David, "You never said! Daddy Colin never said!"
"At the risk of being repetitious, we wanted you to find your own way," said The Phantom. He chuckled softly. "We did wonder what was so fascinating about our upper deck fittings, though. After all, they are not so very different from your own, or those of the other boys."
"Your hair is grey and you're wrinklier!" responded David with a small laugh. "And thanks, Papa, for telling me that you knew. I've been feeling guilty about that for years."
"You shouldn't," said The Phantom. "Little boys have been checking out their fathers for generations and generations. Little boys, who eventually become big boys, have also been checking each other out for generations and generations. One day, when you're older, about 35 or 40, I think . . ."
"Papa, I'm a veteran now," mumbled David, implying that he had grown old long ago.
"Well, I'll show you an album. The photos were taken when I was fortunate enough to be a part of whaler crew. The snaps are not shocking, but they certainly are . . . revealing."
"You mean the album you keep in the desk in your room?"
"David, you snooped!"
"Sure did," replied David, not at all feeling guilty about snooping. "How did you think I knew that Uncle Harry had been dethroned? I've never seen him without his clothes on but . . ."
The Phantom laughed loudly. "And I suppose you told your brothers?" he asked.
David shook his head. "Nope, they told me!"
"Well, I'll be damned!" exclaimed The Phantom. "Here I was worried about you, and now it seems I have not one, but six little perverts running around!"
David smiled at his father and then knelt down and, with a small bar towel, began to wipe up the spilled liquor. As he dabbed away the Scotch he said quietly, calmly. "I made a decision on the trip home."
"A decision?"
Turning his head slightly, David's eyes locked on The Phantom's. "Remember what you told me when you explained how, and why the hospital was founded, why you're what you are, and what you fight for?"
The Phantom thought a moment. "Evil flourishes when good men do nothing?"
Standing, David wiped his hands with the towel, threw it on the drinks cart, and returned to sit by his father. Taking his father's hands in his, David said, "I'm a good man, Papa, and evil flourishes. I plan on fighting that evil."
Taken aback, The Phantom stared at his son for a long time. David was in turmoil about something, something that had hurt him deeply. "The war?"
David nodded. "Partly, but not in the way you think."
"Are you opposed to it? So many are."
"Papa, when you went ashore the first time, who did you care about? You were the man in charge, and you had a job to do, but Papa, what was foremost in your mind?"
"Keeping my men alive," The Phantom answered promptly. "Doing my best not to let them down, to lead them the best way I knew how, and to try to ensure that they came home safe. I lost some, and their memories are burned in my mind and soul. I remember the ones who did not come home, David. I see their faces every day and every day I ask God to forgive me for failing them."
"You didn't fail them," David said with a knowing, gentle smile. "It was their time, and every soldier knows that when he straps on the body armour, takes up his weapon, and goes out into the boonies, it might be his time. When we take the Queen's shilling, or Uncle Sam's dollar, we know we're eventually going to be called to go into harm's way. You knew it and my father knew it. Every soldier in every war knows it."
Regarding The Phantom a moment, David then stretched out on the sofa again. He lowered his head into his father's lap. His eyes brightened. "I love you Papa, and I'll tell only you how I feel."
Sensing that the war had affected his son deeply, as had the death of the young Englishman, The Phantom nodded. He said nothing. David had to be allowed time and patience.
"Papa, out there, we're doing our best. I've seen things that were, and are, horrible. We're fighting a war for a bunch of low down ungrateful bastards who don't give a damn, and I don't mean just the Iraqis. They're a bunch of religious nuts more interested in pursuing some perverted version of the Koran. They hate the Americans, they hate the Brits, and they hate each other. All they want to do is kill. That's what they live for, what gets them off."
David's eyes darkened. "Do you remember, years ago, there was a T-shirt making the rounds? Remember, on it was printed 'Kill 'em all and let God sort 'em out!' Well that's how I feel."
The Phantom could only nod his agreement. He was not entirely out of the loop, and the Old Boys Network still functioned. He had seen the reports, listened to the whispers. He had read the newspapers, seen CNN lead the charge against the war, listened to the self-seekers and the whiners. He had seen the claws come out in the Wicked Bitches of Capitol Hill, Clinton, Pelosi, Feinstein and Boxer. He had heard Bill Clinton, and the peanut farmer, who was a better carpenter than he ever was a president, putting in their two cents worth. Chamberlain and Daladier might be in Hell, but their memory lived on in the Great Appeasers, Kennedy and Kerry.
Ordinarily, The Phantom did not discuss politics. However, he would make an exception for his son. "The war is not popular, David," he ventured. "It has gone on too long and sadly, Americans were never good in the long run. Rot sets in, politicians see political gain, and retired generals stick in their oars and muddy the water."
David snorted. "Papa, we know all that!" He regarded his father a moment. "The soldiers, the grunts, the swingin' dicks, know what is going on back home, not only in the States but here, in Canada, and in England! We are soldiers, Papa! All we ask is that we get to do our jobs and a chance to come home! We don't need the backbiting politicians, or the so-called 'grief stricken' mothers, parading in front of the White House!"
The Phantom gently stroked his son's smooth face. "The Americans are a wonderful people, David. They are kind, and generous, and . . ."
"Misguided, homophobic, easily led around by the nose and so ready to believe the Big Lie!" snarled David. "Oh, the boys in Iraq, they're great. They're true soldiers. I'm not talking about them! I'm talking about the politicians." He looked at his father. "You know that when Bush leaves the White House the new president will pull out of Iraq."
Sighing, The Phantom nodded. "I suspect it will be a Democrat and he - or she - will campaign on a 'Bring The Boys Home' platform, influenced by the cowards who have run away to take up residence here and apply for refugee status, and the appeasers that infect American society. It has happened before."
David sniffed. "Vietnam, Lebanon, Somalia, so why not Iraq?" he asked. "Once again men will have died for nothing. Just as Georgie died for nothing!"
The Phantom regarded David a moment and then asked perceptively, "You and Georgie were more than just buddies?"
Blushing, David nodded. "He loved me, Papa. In a way, I loved him. He made me feel warm, and wanted, and safe. The guys in my section, and the Colour Sergeant, figured out what was going on. They were okay with it. Some of the American boys knew, but they didn't say anything. Life was bad in a lot of ways, but when Georgie was with me, life was good."
Small tears appeared in David's hazel eyes. "When he died, something in me died as well," he continued. "The Colour Sergeant knew that I was hurting and he made me accompany Georgie home. Uncle Edouard and Andreus were at the airport, waiting."
The Phantom nodded. "Edouard would have seen the flight manifest."
David did not seem to have heard his father. "It was a long flight, from Basra to Baghdad and then Germany. It was on the flight to Germany that I decided that so far as I am concerned, it's time for a new crusade, and the Americans are the enemy!"
"What!" The Phantom's eyes grew wide. "David! You cannot mean that! Think of what you just said!"
"Relax, Papa, I haven't converted to the perverted religion of terror."
Relieved, The Phantom asked, "Then would you mind explaining to your poor old Papa just what it is you mean?"
David's voice was steady, and much too calm. "Papa, when we got to Baghdad and boarded the American flight to Germany there were six men also waiting - four American MPs and two prisoners. The MPs carried side arms and the prisoners were shackled! Shackled, as if they were murderers!"
"What had they done?"
"They were fags, queers, butt fuckers, and those bastard MPs used every one of those terms! One of the prisoners was an officer, a lieutenant, and the other a sergeant. They'd been caught together. The MPs reserved their venom for the officer, and wouldn't let him have so much as a cup of water."
"The American military have a long history of prejudice and bigotry against gays," The Phantom observed lamely.
"Yes, well, they met their match in me!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Papa, I was sitting in a cramped airplane, with the body of my lover - and Georgie was my lover in every sense of the word - in the cargo hold, and here were these four dip shits spewing hatred and prejudice, treating two fighting men with such disdain that I couldn't stand it. I challenged the MP Sergeant quite deliberately."
"You didn't hit him, did you?" "Nah," replied David, a note of self-disgust in his voice. "I should have. But I dared him to stop me when I gave the two prisoners some water." He shrugged expressively. "Since there were 26 other Bootnecks on the plane going home on leave, and only four shit heads, you can guess who won!"
The Phantom, who had had a few run-ins with the Red Caps in his time, breathed a sigh of relief. "It's good you didn't hit them," he said, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Meatheads become very vicious when cornered."
"Fuck 'em," retorted David. While he appreciated his father's attempt at humour, he was deadly serious as he said, "What did you expect me to do? Was I to sit back and do nothing?" Again he looked deeply into his father's eyes. "Would you have just sat there, and done nothing?" he challenged. "Did you, or did you not, when you were younger than I am now, help bring down a network of paedophiles? Did you, or did you not, with Uncle Cory and Uncle Matt's help, take on the US Navy SEALS, and win?"
The Phantom wondered nervously how his son knew so much about his past. He had no opportunity to ask, however, as David raged on.
"You forced the dickheads in Ottawa to let you lead a raid in the first Iraq war that won you the Victoria Cross and . . ." He grinned impishly. "Did you, or did you not, tell the Chief of the Defence Staff, and Jean Chretien, not once, but twice, to put their policies where the monkey put the nuts?"
The Phantom squirmed nervously. "Well, yes I did, but I was much younger then!" he protested feebly.
"Balls, Papa, with all due respect," countered David. "You were a brash, outspoken, pain in the ass whom Chef called a 'pestiferous brat' until the day he died."
"Chef was always a man of strong opinions and grand exaggerations," returned The Phantom with a small smile.
"And so are you, and so is Daddy Colin and so am I!"
Sighing heavily, The Phantom mumbled a denial that he was given to exaggeration and waited impatiently for his son to explain what he was planning to do.
"Papa, I love the Americans, I love the soldiers, and the Marines, and every time one of them made the ultimate sacrifice, I grieved. You have your Band of Brothers, and now I have mine. Most of my brothers are Americans, but some are British." David's eyes narrowed, hazel colouring to the dark flint of determination. "And I will be damned to Hell - or Ottawa - before I let the Yewnited States of Amurricca condemn good men just because they are gay!"
"But David!" exclaimed The Phantom. "You've already passed the Regular Commissions Board and your name is down for Sandhurst!"
"So?" asked David archly. "Sandhurst can wait! The 44 weeks that I would have to spend there can be better spent in Arlington, with Uncle Andy Berg!"
The Phantom thought quickly. "David, I applaud your enterprise, and your desire to do something." He held up his hand as his son struggled to rise from his lap. "Now, shut up and listen to your old man!"
David felt his father's fingers slowly ruffling his hair. For the first time in a very long while he felt . . . comfortable and safe and warm and loved. "Well, okay," he muttered as he squirmed into a more comfortable position.
"First of all," began The Phantom, "we are working on the problem, but it takes time."
"But . . ." David began to protest.
"Quiet, whelp, and listen!" growled The Phantom. "Now, we all know that Bush can, with the stroke of a pen, remove the prohibitions against gays serving the U.S. Military. He can do what John de Chastelaine did back in 1995 - but Bush will not!"
"Because of the Bible-bangers!" snapped David contemptuously.
"Partly, and partly because of ignorance and bigotry, prejudice and hate, and the unfortunate American insistence not to see life as it really is," returned The Phantom. "In 1976, Edmund Stennes, who was a loathsome man, amongst other things, funded a campaign of disinformation and misinformation. He played to the bigots and ignorant, and the anti-Semites and now all over the United States little boys are condemned to suffer and be placed in mortal danger, denied through ignorance and bigotry the gift for, and of life!
"Bush believes, because of the Big Lie told every day by the Right Wing nutters, that homosexuality is immoral and against God's Law. Stennes used medical quacks and crackpots to get his message across. Bush uses the Bible and the likes of Pat Robertson to get his message across: 'The Bible condemns us, and therefore God condemns us'!"
"But Bill Clinton promised action in his first campaign," protested David.
"Yes, he did," agreed The Phantom. "And we were fools to believe him. Bill Clinton is, was and always will be, a self-seeking politician, who rode the pro-gay bandwagon for a little while. We, the Order, supported Clinton because we were stupid enough to believe him."
"The 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' policy?" queried David.
"Yes. It didn't work, and we underestimated the venality of Clinton and the power of the Pentagon." He shrugged. "We did not make that mistake with Bush, and wrote him off as a Queen's Hard Bargain. He won't change, and he won't antagonize his power base, the Bible Bangers, the Religious Right and the ignorant. He can't run again, but he will do everything he can to ensure that Congress is dominated by Republicans - mid-term elections are coming up, you know."
"In other words, I'd be fighting a lost cause?" asked David, unable to keep the dejection and disappointment from his voice.
Shaking his head, The Phantom gently pushed his son away. He stood and took David into his arms. "No cause is ever lost, David, unless men simply give up. Now, come along. I'm tired, and I am sure that you must be as well."
"But, Papa . . ."
The Phantom ignored his son's whining tone. "You'll sleep with Colin and me. You used to like that, when you were younger." He frowned. "Then you became that most obnoxious of creatures . . . a teenage male!"
As they left The Phantom's study, David looped his arm in The Phantom's. "I used to love it when we were together, Papa," he said, embarrassed. "When Dad died, and then Mummy, I felt so alone!"
"Of course you did. It was only natural that you would," replied The Phantom kindly. "Colin and I wanted you to know that we loved you very much - we still do - but we also knew that you had to come to terms with the deaths of your parents in your own way, in your own time. If sleeping with us helped, then I am glad."
"It helped," stated David. "And . . . to be honest, there were times after I became an 'obnoxious teenager' when I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with you and Daddy Colin."
"And make a . . . what did you call it when you slept between us? Ah, yes, a 'son-wich'!"
David echoed his father's soft chuckle. "Do the twins, or the triplets, do they come to sleep with you?"
"They do," replied The Phantom with a smile. "Of course, it gets rather crowded when they all decide to make a 'sons-wich'!"
Laughing at the thought of his brothers all squirming and giggling together in one bed with their fathers, David then asked, "And Daddy Colin, does he still wear tightys?"
"Tighty-whiteys, the bastions of morality, as Chef once called them," The Phantom quoted.
"I've always found them binding and constricting" returned David. "And they are so tack-aaayyy"
"Tacky they might be," said The Phantom, "but Colin still clings to them."
"Oh, well, some mothers do have 'em," said David as they came to the door leading to The Phantom and Colin's bedroom. David stopped and asked, "Daddy Colin won't be angry if we wake him up?"
"He won't be asleep. When I'm doing the boxes he likes to sit in bed and read." The Phantom smiled. "He wears spectacles now, and please, he's very vain so try not to make a big deal about it."
David gave his father a nudge. "Silver threads?" he asked.
"At least we still have our own hair and teeth!" returned The Phantom. "But, well, we are not getting any younger."
"And being Grand Master of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre is not going to keep you young," observed David. "You work too hard, Papa."
"There is much to do, son," replied The Phantom as he opened the bedroom door. "So much to do."
"A new Crusade?" The Phantom thought as he undressed in the privacy of his dressing room. Through the open door he could hear Colin and David laughing together as they teased and harried each other.
"They come in colours, now, Daddy," David exclaimed, laughing.
"White!" snarled Colin defiantly.
"And they have designer labels! Calvin Klein, Versace . . ."
"Hanes! Jockey! Stanfield! Fruit of the Loom!" growled Colin, not giving an inch.
"I know! Boxer briefs!"
"What?"
"They offer the snugness of tightys and the length of boxers!"
"Balls!"
"Boxer briefs keep them in, too!"
Laughing quietly and shaking his head at the antics of his soul mate and his son, The Phantom slowly filled the large, wood-framed bath. He liked a bath before bedtime. It allowed him to soak and think.
As he lowered himself into the bath, The Phantom thought again. "David wishes to start a new Crusade, against a powerful enemy."
Enemies, there were always enemies. Edmund Stennes had been an enemy, an enemy with powerful friends. Still, he had died screaming. Paul Greene, always referred to as "Little Big Man", had been an enemy. He had died begging God for forgiveness, pleading for the Redemption he knew awaited him. Doctor Bradley-Smith, a Knight, a gifted man of medicine had crossed over and given himself to evil. He had died . . .
Enemies, all gone. Their power destroyed, themselves destroyed by the power of the Order.
As the hot water soothed away the day's fatigue, The Phantom reflected. Stennes, Greene, Bradley-Smith had done what they did for money, for the illusion of power. The new enemies, the men and women David wished to bring down, were entirely different. They were good people; people who wanted to do good, but people who were so . . . what was the word he wanted . . . brainwashed? It was as good a word as any. They had been assaulted, brainwashed on every level, by Biblical propaganda, made to believe from the moment of their birth that God had ordained a certain order, an order that did not included gays or lesbians.
In many ways the Americans were the most wonderful people on earth. In other ways, they were the biggest fools on earth. They lived in a dreamland of morality and democracy. They could not face reality. They ventured forth to spread the gospel of democracy, not realizing that it was not necessarily the best form of government, or the form of government many people, equally brainwashed by priests and rabbis and fakirs and mullahs, wanted or needed. The Americans could not understand the differences in cultures. Because they could not understand the differences, Americans could not understand why nobody understood them.
Reflectively, The Phantom ran the washcloth over his chest. These are the people that David wanted to fight! On the one hand, The Phantom agreed with his son. On the other, he knew the power that ignorance held over them. And yet . . .
An isolated incident, on an airplane, had driven home one of life's harsh realities to David. He had come from a world of war, where men died every day, where the world of men was understood, where he and his Georgie could love and be loved, into a world where men still died, but the love he had had for his Englishman was forbidden.
David had reacted against brutality and ignorance. He had not known, or realized, that the MPs were only doing what their culture, their upbringing, their education had taught them to do. The MPs had been taught bigotry and hatred, and that a faggot deserved the nightstick he got upside his head. Their Bible, their preachers, their teachers, their fathers, their instructors, had all said it: "The only good queer is a dead queer! A right thinking American hates them, as God hates them!"
The Phantom felt like weeping. His son, his beloved son, had to be made to see the light. His determination was laudable, commendable even, but hardly rational. And yet . . .
The image of the Tapestry came into The Phantom's mind, the long, flowing, vibrant Tapestry, woven of unbreakable threads, a Tapestry formed in adversity because of hatred and venality and bigotry.
The Tapestry, begun on a wind swept, barren spit of land, born out of a dream of desperation and yet filled with hope, the warp of it crowded with the images of those who went knowingly to their fate.
The Tapestry, crowded with the figures of the Band of Brothers, the Boys of Aurora, of Knights dead, and Knights yet unborn.
The Tapestry, faded in parts, glowing with life and honour in others.
"What would you have done?" David had demanded.
The Phantom sat up abruptly. He knew what he must do. Colin would forbid it, just as The Gunner had raged and forbidden it. Pete Sheppard would shake his head and advise against it, just as dear, sweet, lovable irascible Chef had shaken his head. And yet . . .
All around him was the evidence that man can rise up and make a difference if only he would take the first step. This Hospital, this shelter, this haven, had begun with a token peppercorn, $5.16 taken from the pockets of an angry, disillusioned, determined boy. A boy who would not take no for an answer, who would not stand by and allow evil to flourish. A boy who had begun his Crusade so many years ago.
HMCS Aurora, the Basilica of Ste Anne de Beaupre, the stone house that stood upon the cliffs overlooking the grey waters of the mighty waterway, the plain, homely little building that was the first hospital - all had become a part of the fabric of the Tapestry.
The Phantom remembered them all, remembered the weaving of the new panel to the Tapestry, woven so long ago . . .
To Be Continued In Chapter One . . .