Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. HMCS Aurora did not and does not exist. Descriptions of buildings, places, etc., are figments of an overactive imagination!
The story is set in 1976, a time of different mores and traditions, and a different cultural scene. Please do not confuse today with yesterday.
While there are no sex scenes in this chapter the overall theme of the book deals with unprotected sex between consenting adults and teenage boys. Please always practice safe sex. The life you save may be your own.
My thanks to Peter who has once again proven himself to be the best editor on Nifty. His insight and pithy comments frighten me at times, but he is invariably correct.
My thanks to all who purchased a copy of the first book in the Phantom series. I apologize for the publisher's web site. They seem to be up and down on a whim! The book is also available at Amazon and as well as BarnesandNoble. If the PublishAmerica site is down, or cranky, you might try the two alternative booksellers.
Comments are welcome. Flames are not. Please write me at my home address: paradegi@rogers.com
Aurora Tapestry
Chapter 22
Ray enjoyed being Chief Cook. He no longer had to get up at the crack of nowhere and wrestle with the stoves. He also didn't have to listen to Sandro grumbling, or Randy and Joey giggling. By the time he finished his morning routine they had been all grumbled and giggled out and well away into the breakfast preparation. All Ray had to do was supervise, although he did much more work than was expected of him, as became a proper Chief Petty Officer Cook!
The barracks was eerily empty with everybody gone. Ray was looking forward to going home, but not looking forward to going home. This barren expanse of wood and weather-beaten shingle had been his home for two months and he would miss it. He would also miss Kevin.
As he showered, Ray wondered just how he and Kevin would manage some time together after they went home. Kevin had sworn that he would come to Ottawa, book a room at the "Y", and make love for days. Ray giggled happily at the thought of him and Kevin in a room together. Kevin was a wonderful lover, and Ray adored him.
As he turned off the taps to the shower Ray frowned. Kevin and he had not had sex for what seemed like days. Chef, for reasons best know to Chef, had been staying over and sleeping on the pull out couch in his office, which sure fucked up a guy's sex life! Chef was up to something, spending a lot of time on the telephone, drinking hardly at all and being as secretive and obtuse as the Walrus when he confronted the oysters!
Leaving the barracks Ray walked over to the Mess Hall and inspected the dining room. Everything was ready - Phantom had seen to that, of course - and he saw the coffee was ready, with cream and sugar out, the steam line was hissing, waiting for the trays of bacon, sausages and red lead to be placed and that fresh loaves of bread were piled by the long rank of toasters. Everything was as ready as it should be except . . . the room was empty!
Muttering a curse, Ray marched purposefully into the galley. He had told Sandro that the dining room could not be left unattended - you never knew who would show up early - and someone had to be there when the appliances were on. Ray didn't care who, whether it be Randy or Joey, or even that red-haired skate, Calvin Hobbes, who seemed to spend more time in Aurora than he did at home! Ray wondered where Calvin slept, if he slept, as he was never in the Cooks Barracks of a night. Probably in Barracks 2, which was where the Signalmen, Bunting Tossers and Sparkers normally slept, Ray thought as he entered the galley. Not that he was complaining. Calvin was a good kid, and a hard worker and Chef like him, which was a blessing, because Chef could be a right bugger if he disliked someone, especially officers and . . .
Ray stopped dead in his tracks, not quite believing the scene before him. In front of the door to Chef's office was the entire galley staff! Randy and Joey were on the deck, bent forward, with their ears pressed to the minute crack under the door. Towering over them, Sandro had his ear pressed against the door, while Calvin had his ear pressed against the flimsy wooden bulkhead!
Before Ray could react, Sandro, who had heard the Chief Cook's shuffling footsteps, turned his head and raised his finger to his lips, demanding quiet. Then he motioned Ray forward.
"What?" Ray mouthed as he joined Sandro.
Sandro pointed forcefully at the closed door and mouthed, "Phantom" in reply.
His curiosity piqued, Ray bent down and pressed his ear against the door, and listened. The words were muffled, and sometimes indistinct, but it was evident that Phantom and Chef were having quiet words.
Chef sat calmly behind his desk, his hands folded, fingers entwined, as he listened to what The Phantom had to say. Gone was the buffoon, the Falstaffian character, and gone was the alcoholic stumblebum. Only the Proctor remained.
The Phantom had asked, his face serious, his green eyes calm, to speak privately with the Proctor. Chef, who had been more or less expecting such a request, had nodded and indicated the sofa. Once he was seated, The Phantom, calmly, rationally, and with tightly controlled emotions, had related his dream.
When The Phantom finished speaking, Chef rubbed the side of his nose. Phantom was impetuous, true. He was also impulsive and prone to making snap decisions - mostly the right decisions - but always those decisions had been based on fact and cold, clear logic. But a dream?
Clearing his throat noisily, Chef looked directly at his young charge. "As much as I applaud your motives and intentions, Phantom, I do not feel that allowing you to go off and wage a war, a war that is of no concern of yours, a war in which I believe there will be casualties, a war . . ."
"You have no say in the matter" interjected The Phantom. "I believe that Sylvain was coming home, home to his brothers. I cannot and will not ignore his call."
Chef's temper threatened to get the better of him, but he maintained control. "You cannot base your actions on a dream!" he exploded. "You cannot pass through a dark and deadly valley . . ."
"Where is your ring?" asked The Phantom unexpectedly.
"My ring? Why it's here, in the desk drawer," replied Chef, wondering what The Phantom was up to this time. He was about to open the drawer to show his ring to Phantom when the boy's voice stopped him.
"You are the Proctor and on your ring, which is of heavy gold, set with a table cut ruby, there are two coats of arms," said The Phantom calmly.
Surprised, for he knew that The Phantom had only seen his ring once, Chef nodded.
"One of the arms is that of the Order." The Phantom was not asking a question, he was telling Chef a fact.
Chef nodded. "So it is, yes."
"Your coat of arms consists of a red, 'X'-shaped cross on a blue background. The cross has a shamrock on top of it and on each of the three leaves there is a crown, an Imperial Crown. This is surrounded by a blue border which in turn has a border of small green shamrocks," said The Phantom. He gestured toward Chef's desk. "Go ahead, look."
Chef, who had never really had a good look before, found his ring and saw that The Phantom's description had been correct. He looked at the young man, somewhat awed. "And you saw this ring in your dreams?"
Shaking his head, The Phantom chuckled low as he replied, "No. It was on your surcoat." He saw the quizzical look on Chef's face and continued. "You were with us, Chef."
"I was? And what, then, was I doing?"
"You were down in the muck with the rest of us," replied The Phantom with a smile. "The officers, except for Andy and Kyle, were up on a hill, behind us. The Gunner was there, but you were down in the muck with the rest of the knights. Joey and Randy, the Litany, Ray, Kevin, and Sandro, were with you as well. You had a huge battle axe and it gleamed in the rays of the morning sun!"
"A battle axe?" asked Chef. Then he grinned. "Serves me well and good for always waving me cleaver about." He raised one eyebrow as he questioned, "Ray, Kevin, me two Brats? And the Litany?"
From outside the closed door came a low gasp. "It would seem that the mice are stirring," observed The Phantom. "But yes, all of them."
Thinking a moment, Chef said, "Well, lad, you either have a very vivid imagination or what you saw was real." Chef also wondered to himelf where Phantom's all too vivid 'dream' had had its Genesis. Some aspects smacked too much of what was happening back east. Phantom was not the type of lad to go rummaging through desks, and Chef knew with certainty that Phantom had not been in communication with Michael or The Gunner. He was about to ask some probing questions when he remembered that he had left his notes scattered about the office, notes that after a casual glance would arouse the curiosity of any lad, especially Phantom! Rather than pursue his own negligence, Chef repeated simply, "A vivid imagination!"
"You believe me?" asked The Phantom, surprised.
"I do," returned Chef. Before The Phantom could respond, he held up his hand. "I cannot think, however, that you have been called to war. While I admit to you, frankly, that there is indeed a war being waged, you cannot be a part of it."
"Chef, I am a part of it!" replied The Phantom with spirit. "Sylvain came to me, not you, not any of the others! He was coming here to tell me about something he heard or saw, something that has to do with what The Gunner is investigating. Sylvain saw or heard something when he was at his uncle's house in Ste Anne de Beaupré. I intend to find out what that something was!"
"And just how do you intend to do that?" asked Chef, his voice low, and perhaps a little dangerous. "Dead men tell no tales, unless you expect poor Sylvain to sit up in his coffin and tell you all he knows!"
The Phantom took umbrage at Chef's flippant remark and bristled. "I expect no such thing, Chef. I am well aware that Sylvain is dead!" Then, as his emerald eyes flashed, The Phantom continued icily, "I have my own money. I will pay my own way to Quebec City and I can rent a car there."
"It pains me to inform you, Phantom, that you are not 18, and therefore the rental companies will not give you a vehicle," responded the old cook, his tone just as icy as the boy's.
"Then I'll take the bus," returned The Phantom firmly. "I'm going. I would like to have the Order's help, but if it is refused, so be it."
"You are not of the Order, Phantom," said Chef coldly. "And under the Rule you cannot be until you have attained 18 years and three months in age."
The Phantom made to rise. "It would seem, then, Chef, and Proctor, that we have nothing further to discuss. I would have preferred to be one of The Gunner's 'Laurences', but no matter."
Chef quickly waved The Phantom back down. "There is much to discuss, lad!" he ordered. "Now sit down and let me think!"
"What is there to think about?" demanded The Phantom. "Your Rule says that I cannot be a knight. It does not say that the Order cannot help me."
Sighing explosively, Chef stared at The Phantom for nearly a minute. "You do not know what this is about!" he said presently. "There is every possibility that men will die!"
"I know," replied The Phantom quietly. "Just as I know that there are young men and boys at risk. You told me that!"
"I did," agreed Chef. "What I did not tell you was that The Gunner, and the Order, are investigating what he believes is a world-wide ring of paedophiles, with boys being bought and sold as sex slaves. We do not know how many there are. We do not know the stature of the men involved. We do know that one of the ringleaders is a man who will not hesitate to do harm to any who threatens his empire."
"Which is why The Gunner needs all the help he can get, why he was recruiting '1,000 Laurences'," replied The Phantom. "Tell me that is not what he is doing in Toronto!"
Chef looked embarrassed. The lad was smarter than Chef realized and the old cook could not, and would not lie to him. "At the moment, Stevie darlin' has a few . . . helpers. One is a knight; the others are not. They are at the moment gathering information, assessing it, and making their plans." He looked sternly at The Phantom. "As you should be doing."
A wry smile crossed The Phantom's lips. Chef was no fool. "I think I know what I need to do," he said presently. "I do know how to contact The Gunner." Seeing the quizzical look on Chef's face, The Phantom continued, "I have the telephone number he left on the Emergency Leave Form."
Chef cleared his throat noisily. "The Chancellor is adamant that neither you, nor any of the other cadets, become involved in this . . . matter."
"Really," drawled The Phantom. "Then let me remind you Chef, as delicately as possible, I am not a knight. I am a free agent prepared to offer his services to the Order." He smiled slyly. "I also know someone who knows the Grand Master."
Just as slyly, Chef looked at The Phantom. He could see the image of the Twins lurking in the background, but no matter. "Knowing the Grand Master and convincing him that you can be of assistance are two different matters."
The Phantom's thin lips pursed slightly. "It does no harm to speak to him. He will speak to me," he said confidently. "Or why else would he have approved your appointing a guardian?"
Although he tried, Chef could not contain his surprise. "And what do you know of this . . . 'guardian'?" he asked carefully. "Damn," he thought angrily. "I told Arnott to keep his mouth shut!" Chef frowned slightly. "And there had been that not so secret signal that Phantom had received from the young lieutenant."
The Phantom seemed to know exactly what Chef was thinking. He smiled and cocked an eyebrow. "In my dream, which everybody seems determined to disbelieve, Colin Arnott was there, near me always, and a voice which I could not recognize said something about a guardian."
There was another shocked gasp and quiet shuffling from the other side of the closed office door. Chef gave the door a baleful look. "The mice are listening, damn their eyes," he growled.
A knowing look caused The Phantom's emerald green eyes to sparkle with humour. "They'll find out all about it at breakfast, if I know my messmates," he advised with a small chuckle.
"There are times when I think we have a branch of Reuters around here!" retorted Chef. "But, no matter." He looked evenly at The Phantom. "Lieutenant Colin Arnott has not yet been made your guardian - the correct title is 'Custodis Princeps', by the way - but yes, I have spoken with him."
"And?"
"And he will be the Guardian of Princes," returned Chef. "That is not negotiable."
"Did you plan on telling me about it?" demanded The Phantom, his anger rising.
"By and by," returned Chef as calmly as he could. He gave The Phantom a small, evil smile. "Is it that the lad is not pleasing to you?" he asked.
"My relationship with Colin is neither here nor there!" snapped The Phantom huffily. "My complaint is that I was not told."
"You did not need to be told. At least not yet!" growled Chef in reply. "I am asking if he pleases you!"
"For the record, not that it is any of your business, or the Grand Master's, or the Order's, yes, damn it, he pleases me!" returned The Phantom, blushing pinkly.
"Then I chose well," said Chef blandly. "He stays."
"Are you saying that the Order will accept me?" asked The Phantom, his eyes widening. Chef's sudden change of tack was puzzling. "Or are you up to something?"
"I am up to nothing," replied Chef innocently. "And I did not say that the Order will accept your 'assistance'."
"What are you saying, then?" demanded The Phantom. "Will I go to Ste Anne de Beaupré with just my friends, or will I have the Knights of Saint John of the Cross of Acre with me?"
Chef, who knew that Michael Chan was fully prepared to accept The Phantom and his friends, no matter what the Chancellor said, debated his answer. "The Rule of the Order declares that a candidate must have eighteen years and three months of age before he can be knighted," he pointed out. "You will not be eligible until . . ." He made a quick mental calculation. "February of next year." He cocked his head. "And many of the boys are too young in any event. Why Randy and Joey have not yet attained the minimum age for candidate knighthood!"
"There are the others. They are as old as me," replied The Phantom confidently. "As for Randy and Joey, they are old enough to make their own decisions. I will not attempt to influence them in any way."
"You already have," thought Chef knowingly. "Well, they will certainly tell you, I am sure," he said aloud. "You do know that the whole of them are listening at the keyhole."
"I know."
Nodding, Chef stood up and turned his back on The Phantom. For a long time he stared out of the window of his office seeing, but not seeing, two of the YAG cadets lounging outside of the guardhouse. Michael Chan was not desperate, at least not yet. He had resources of manpower that he could draw on, to be sure. But many of the men were Chinese, and all of the others contract employees. The former might be counted on for their loyalty, while the latter . . .? Who knew? They were for the most part glorified security guards. Could a man who accepted a money wage be relied upon? To give his life, if necessary? To take a life, if necessary? Sighing, Chef returned to his seat. "Phantom, do you know what a 'Bar of Justice' is?"
Chef was not at all surprised when The Phantom nodded his head affirmatively. "Last night, after we'd had time to absorb the news of Sylvain's death, I was feeling low, and . . ." The Phantom began slowly. His features softened and flushed. "Tyler was there for me, to comfort me and I, well I told him the truth about me, about what I'd done."
"Everything?" questioned Chef. The Phantom did not know that The Gunner had come calling late in the night to talk of strange doings in the dark of the moon by a certain green-eyed, jug-eared youth. Pursing his lips and steepling his fingers, Chef nodded for The Phantom to continue.
"Tyler told me about his talk with The Gunner when they were out at the ranges. He told me his secret passwords and I told him mine. We talked."
"About the Order?"
"Yes. Val heard us - we were on the stoop at the time - and then we went into the washplace for a drink." The Phantom smiled impishly. "Cory came in for a pee and of course had to join in the conversation."
"Being a natural joiner," returned Chef dryly. "But, no matter."
"Cory has no use for the Order," said The Phantom flatly. He saw the startled look on Chef's face and added, "Well, he doesn't. His father is a member, as I'm sure you know, and Cory is not quite the dingbat he lets on to be. He's heard things, and seen things. He knew about the Bar of Justice, so he told us."
For a few moments Chef pondered just how far he should continue his examination of Phantom, and what the lad knew. Then he remembered that the mice were skittering at the door and decided that Phantom would tell them what he knew anyway! Chef was also concerned about Cory's low opinion of the Order which, since Cory was destined for great things if Michael Chan had anything to say about it, was unfortunate. With an almost imperceptible nod of his head Chef decided that the Proctor would soon visit young Cory Arundel, and returned to his role as Proctor, and Devil's Advocate. "Then you are aware of the seriousness of the Bar? Of what could be required of you?"
"Yes."
Chef leaned forward, his eyes kind, his face soft. "Phantom, it has been determined that the men involved, those actually selling the innocent lads, will face a Bar of Justice. If found guilty, there is only one punishment: Death by hanging. Can you tell me, on your honour, that you could knowingly pass such a sentence, that you could be responsible for the execution of a man?"
"Could you?" returned The Phantom. "Have you ever been responsible for the death of a man?"
Without hesitation, Chef nodded. "Not directly, but indirectly, yes, I believe I was."
"I beg your pardon?"
"When I was in the old Sioux, when I was a boy seaman, an apprentice cook, she was part of the squadron the RCN sent to Korea. Sometimes we sailed in company with Cayuga, sometimes with Athabaskan, sometimes the flag, HMCS Ontario."
A nostalgic look came over Chef's face. He remembered the days of his youth but like all true old veterans, true heroes, he never spoke of his wartime experiences. To do so seemed, at least in Chef's mind, to trade on the blood of those who did not return, to reduce one to the status of a rear echelon drone, whose only claim to fame would be to forever remind others, through his brag and bluster, "What he had done in the war!"
"Part of our job was to interdict the coastal supply routes that the Koreans and the Yellow Peril were using," continued Chef. "We would receive fire missions and bombard the coastal defences, trucks, trains, whatever was moving. I was, as I have said, a mere lad, a boy seaman, fit for little else except to have his bummed patted!" He laughed caustically. "There's more than a little truth to that song about the cabin boy!"
The Phantom started and stared at Chef. "You didn't . . ." he began carefully.
"I did not," harrumphed Chef. "The Chaplain (P), Mr. Bradley-Smith, looked after us and made certain that none of us ended up in a hammock we should not have been in!" For some reason Chef smiled. "His eldest son is a Surgeon-Lieutenant down in the dockyard in Esquimalt. He's a fine young gentleman and perhaps you'll meet him one day."
The Phantom thought that if this Surgeon-Lieutenant was as fine a young gentleman as Chef thought him to be, he would meet Surgeon-Lieutenant Bradley-Smith sooner or later. He said nothing, however, merely nodding his head.
"In the event, Phantom, as a cook apprentice and too young to be of much use otherwise, I was detailed off as an ammunition handler during Action Stations. I would pass the shells up to the guns. The guns would fire, and so yes, I suppose that indirectly I have killed a man."
"Or men," observed The Phantom. "But that is not what you meant. You want to know if I believe that some men deserve to be put to death, and would I pass sentence on them, knowing that they would die."
"And your answer?"
"Yes. Without fear or favour, I would," replied The Phantom firmly. "I take responsibility for my actions. You take responsibility for your actions. Why should I expect another man to not do the same?"
"There are many who would not," replied Chef sadly.
"I know it," said The Phantom.
"Then I will make enquiries," said Chef slowly.
"The Order will help, then?" asked The Phantom, his face brightening.
"I did not say that," returned Chef. "Do not be making a mountain just because you've found a molehill! I said that I would make enquiries with the proper authorities. I make no promises."
Shrugging, The Phantom nodded. He understood Chef's reluctance, and while he did want the Order to be involved, he was still determined to begin his quest and crusade. He then remembered his promise to Tyler. "There is one other thing," he said quietly.
"Do not be making demands, Phantom," warned Chef.
"I am not making demands. I am merely asking that you, or the Grand Master, make a consideration."
"Which is?" growled Chef. "Damn the lad! Why does he have to be so bloody sure of himself! He knows that the Order will bow to his demands, and he is demanding!"
"Sandro," replied The Phantom simply.
Chef's eyes widened. "Sandro? What about him?"
Outside the door the mice stirred to look at a thoroughly confused Sandro.
"If the Order wants me, as I think it does, it must also want Sandro. He is my brother, he is on The Gunner's list, and he will be a knight with me."
"Phantom, let me remind you, as delicately as possible," began Chef, turning The Phantom's own words on him, "that the Order is a Christian Order of Knights. Sandro is Jewish."
"And you pay lip service to Christianity, as I do," retorted The Phantom, who would have no discrimination of any kind in the Order he envisioned. "The Order has made provision for knights who are not gay. They can make provision for Sandro." He stared levelly at Chef, his green eyes clear and hard. "No Sandro, no Phantom!" he declared.
The Phantom's declaration set up a muted chorus of whispered squeaking beyond the office door. Chef glared at the door and muttered a very filthy word. Then he recovered. "I suppose that a Special Remainder could be issued - I am only thinking, mind you - and that he could be, well, let us say, an Amicus Curia, a Friend of the Court."
"Not good enough," replied The Phantom, rising to his feet. "Sandro is my brother. He will be a knight."
The firmness in The Phantom's voice gave Chef pause. Finally he nodded. "I will make enquiries," he answered grudgingly. "But . . ."
"But what?"
"If the Grand Master approves, things will be done properly. You will not coerce me, or the Grand Master, into rushing into things." Chef nodded toward the door. "The mice will have questions. What you tell them is your concern. Remember also, Phantom, that you must be sure in your own mind, firm in your own conviction, about what you are asking, about what you are thinking of doing."
"I am very sure, Chef," The Phantom replied reassuringly.
"Then go and find a quiet place. Think about what you plan to do, and how you will do it. Sit on the loading dock and smoke your cigarettes. Think, Phantom, and when you are ready, come to me."
"And the others?" The Phantom asked slowly.
"If they are sure in their own minds, if neither you, nor anyone else, has coerced them, then I will ask the Grand Master. They must make up their own minds. They must be willing to take responsibility for their actions and they must be willing to follow Phantom Lascelles out of their own volition."
"Very well," replied The Phantom. "And Chef?"
"Aye, lad?"
"Thanks."
"I've done nothing, nothing at all."
"But you will, Chef, you will," said The Phantom confidently.
"Damned pestiferous boy!" thought Chef as The Phantom pulled open the office door and set the mice to scattering. Chef reached for the telephone.
As "Wakey-Wakey" echoed through the Gunroom, calling the cadets to their morning showers, no one moved. When the last note of the bugle call died away, Tyler stood up slowly. Cory's heartfelt outburst, and Fred's declaration that Phantom would not be alone, had stirred the Master-At-Arms deeply. He needed time to think, and he needed time to speak with The Phantom.
Tyler stared at his messmates and then decided. "We have much to think about," he said quietly. "Cory has told us of miracles, Phantom has told us of dreams. Some of us believe in miracles, and in dreams. Others . . ." he looked at Two Strokes, " . . .have reservations, but no matter. Our friend and messmate, our brother, is going to ask us to join him in what he thinks is a worthwhile purpose. Fred has already decided."
There was a muted chorus of agreement from the assembled cadets.
"Now is not the time for us, I think," said Tyler. "Each of us must make up his own mind. Do we believe Phantom's dream? Do we join him in his crusade?"
Tyler's blue-eyed gaze once again swept the table.
"I want each of you to search his heart, to consider what Phantom has told us, what Cory has said. I want each of you to think very carefully on what you have been told." He turned to Cory. "There are others who need to be told."
Cory nodded. "Sean, and Phil Thornton in the YAG Squadron. And Matt."
"Rob, Steve and Stuart," said Todd. "And Brian."
"And the cooks," murmured Val. "And that little brat Calvin Hobbes. He's always with Randy and Joey," he added with a smile.
"I'll take care of Calvin," advised Nicholas. "He's on my slop chit anyway. And I'd also like to be the one to speak with Matt."
Cory's right eyebrow rose imperceptibly and a small smile formed at the corner of his lips. He said nothing, however. Matt was a gunner, not on Nicholas' slop chit. Cory now knew that his suspicions about Matt and Nicholas had been confirmed. He was happy for Matt. He was happy for Nicholas. For some reason he did not think of André at all.
"And . . . I'll speak with Stuart and Steve," said Chris. "They're Boatswains so I suppose they're on my slop chit."
"We'll go together," offered Val. "Stuart and I are old friends, after all."
Welcoming Val's help, Chris nodded. "Who will speak to Rob?"
"I will," replied Tyler. "I'll speak to Sean and Phil," offered Cory.
"That leaves Brian for me," said Todd. "As for the cooks, my guess is that Phantom will talk to Ray, who will talk to Sandro, and the Brats and Kevin will be eavesdropping!"
"Scratch the cooks, then," responded Tyler at Todd's little joke.
Two Strokes stirred uneasily. "What about Greg?" he asked quietly.
Tyler's eyes filled with a sadness he truly felt. "Greg has given us his answer," he said slowly. He straightened. "This afternoon we have a make and mend. At 1400 I would ask that you all return - those of you who wish to return. If you return I will know that you wish to hear the rest of Cory's history of the Order. If you find another place to be, then I will honour your decision. Thank you, and I think we should now get ready for Divisions."
"White uniforms, please," said Val as he rose to his feet. "The Commanding Officer is going to offer a prayer at Divisions. It is the best we can do for Sylvain."
Michael Chan listened carefully as Chef related what had transpired in his office. From time to time Michael frowned but said little. Finally, when Chef was finished, Michael spoke. "You are the Proctor, my Lord. What is your decision?"
Chef expelled a long, low sigh, and then answered, "Cromwell."
Surgeon-Lieutenant Daniel Bradley-Smith wearily opened the door to his room in the Wardroom Annex of CFB Esquimalt and breathed a sigh of relief. His roommate, a slightly overweight boat driver, was not in his bed. As he closed the door Daniel smiled slightly. After the weekend he'd had he did not need the Shadmiral whining and moaning.
As he stripped off his hospital greens, Daniel hoped that the telephone would not ring. He needed sleep, badly. As the newest, and most junior intern on staff at Base Hospital, he'd just finished a 38-hour shift in the Emergency Room. He had dealt with the remnants of a three-car smash-up on the highway leading from the JOUT training base at Albert Head. One dead, three Reservists in hospital for the next three weeks or so. He had patched up the battered wife of a senior Chief, the aftermath of a "domestic dispute" that would never be investigated or acted upon. He had sutured slashed cheeks and a cracked skull, the aftermath of a punch up in the Fleet Club. All roads might lead to Rome but in Victoria if a service member was involved, the ambulance stopped at the CFB Esquimalt Hospital. The list of injuries and mayhem went on and on.
Stepping out of his boxer underpants, Daniel saw his reflection in the mirror that hung on the door of his oversize locker. The figure staring back at him was not the same young man who had arrived in Esquimalt, a freshly minted Surgeon-Lieutenant with his MD from the University of Toronto Medical School clutched in his hand, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to take on the world. The Navy had paid for his MD and he owed them five years of his life.
He had not counted on the long hours, the constant stress and strain, on the infighting and intrigue that seemed to permeate every aspect of his waking hours, of constantly watching his back, of trying not to listen to the gossip, of forever bowing and scraping to lesser men simply because they had more gold bars on their shoulder boards than he. He had in the course of his one year in Esquimalt seen incompetence, malfeasance and sheer laziness on the part of his peers and superiors. He had listened to the constant complaining about how hard done by everybody was, how there was little money for new equipment, of this or that piece of diagnostic equipment being put "Out of Service" because it was too old and there was no money to replace it or fix it.
Daniel Dane Bradley-Smith, MD, BSc, was not a happy camper.
He looked at his reflection and shook his head. The young man that had once looked back at him was gone. Daniel was 28, with dark brown hair and clear, bespectacled eyes. He had a trim, 30-inch waist and a firm, 40-inch chest. He was not all that tall, and while he would never turn heads, he wasn't that bad looking. He long prided himself on looking at least five years younger than he actually was, with a fresh complexion and a sparkle in his eyes. There was no sparkle in the eyes staring back at him, and the face was pasty white from too many nights spent in a busy emergency room.
Grunting, Daniel looked down at his parts. Even his dick looked tired! Daniel had always thought that he had a great looking set of upper deck fittings. God knew he'd seen enough in the past year to know what he was talking about. Now, however, his penis, a pale, delicate pink with a firm-domed, circumcised head, looked pale white. His testicles, which were firm and oval, and once hanging just so, now seemed to droop.
Leaving the mirror, and the imagined horror he saw there, Daniel went to his bed and lay down. He had dreamed of becoming a doctor. He would be a healer, in a way assume God-like ways, and make a mark for himself. He had studied and studied, taken extra courses, worked his not so skinny ass off and he'd made it! Made it to what? If he was honest with himelf, he'd made it to being a commissioned drone, which was selfish and misleading, he admitted.
As a lowly intern, Daniel had rotated through the various wards and disciplines and in the doing had managed to learn quite a lot. He had worked in OB/GYN, paediatrics (where his skill as a circumciser was much admired. He left hardly a hint of a scar), surgery, Recruit Medicals, and now, Emergency. Of all the disciplines, recruit Medicals had been the worst.
As he lay in his bed, Daniel stared at the whitewashed overhead ceiling. The stress and strain of internship had been multiplied many times by the sight of a dozen or more naked young men lolling about the office waiting for their scrotums to be squeezed, for their penises to be examined, and their rectums to be probed. It had been all Daniel could do to remain calm and not give rein to his natural inclinations.
Daniel had had his first true experience at the age of 21. He had known that he was gay from the age of twelve or so, certainly by the time he had entered puberty. There had been the usual schoolboy experimentation, always ending when curiosity had been satisfied. Daniel, too aware of what society, and his schoolmates, thought of "fags", kept his secret well. All through high school he had managed to avoid temptation. All through his freshman, sophomore and junior years in Queen's, where he read for his pre-med degree in Sciences, he had avoided any entanglement, convincing himself that the life of an undergrad, with its rallies, rushes, parties and kegs and kegs of beer, was all he needed. He could participate, enjoy his life, and not worry about becoming involved. And then came Josh.
Josh was a god. Tall, blond, with thick thighs and a firm, round ass, hung like a horse, Josh. Daniel had roomed with him and for months had drooled and dreamed in silence. As much as he could Daniel had avoided anything sexual. He had actively encouraged Josh in his quest for pussy, as Josh had put it, congratulated him when he scored, and commiserated when had not. And then came Christmas.
Under normal circumstances Daniel would have gone home a week before the holiday, to spent time with his parents, and his two younger brothers. Josh would have gone off to Mariposa, to spend time with his people; normal, Christmas routine. Then both decided to attend a frat party. Daniel was never quite sure what happened, other than that they both had gotten smashed out of their minds. What he did know was that as they staggered drunkenly back to their room in the residence, Josh had slipped his arm around Daniel's waist and nuzzled him gently on the neck.
Daniel was in heaven. Once inside their room, Josh had made love to Daniel, slow, albeit drunken love. For the first time in his life Daniel had responded, as his romantic soul needed him to respond. Their first session of lovemaking had been wild, exciting, and extremely satisfying.
Much to Daniel's surprise, Josh had not skulked away the next morning. Far from being consumed with guilt, Josh had admitted that he had been trying for months to think of a way to get into Daniel's bed. Daniel had responded that all he'd had to do was ask, and could they make love again. Josh's return smile was heart melting.
Daniel fell in love. He worshiped Josh and convinced himself that when the school year ended they would find a place together. It did not matter that Daniel had been accepted at the U of T School of Medicine. He had Josh. It did not matter that Daniel was committed to five years with the Canadian Armed Forces, who had been footing the bills. He had Josh. Nothing mattered. He had Josh.
As a Naval officer, Daniel Bradley-Smith had been rated on each and every Fitness Report as being a superior, or outstanding officer. He had proven himself in crisis situations, was a calm, cool, doctor, who invariably managed by tact and politeness, to get his point across. All in all, Daniel Dane Bradley-Smith, MD, was as fine a sawbones as the Navy had seen in years.
However . . .
As a lover, and in love, Daniel Bradley-Smith was a hopeless romantic. He loved snuggling and cuddling, both before and after sex. He adored the little touches one lover made to another, scented candles in every room, a bottle of fine wine in the cooler, rose petals on the bed. He knew that his romanticism betrayed his feminine side, but he didn't care. He was hopelessly, shamelessly, and wonderfully in love.
Two nights before the official end of courses, and school, Daniel had wandered about the shops of Kingston, Ontario. He bought candles, he found a wonderful claret, and visited the florist. He visited the butcher for that perfect prime rib roast, the greengrocer for russet potatoes and spent a happy half-hour examining each tuber, choosing only those of uniform size and colour; he bought green beans and exquisite baby carrots. Then, daringly, he stepped into the chemist's and found a small box of scented bath oil.
Returning to their small efficiency flat in the seniors' residence, Daniel had prepared for his man's homecoming. Josh was always back in the flat at six on the dot, except when there was football practice. Tonight, after writing his final examination, Josh would be tired, and would welcome the fine meal, the wine, and the extra little touches that Daniel had spread throughout the place.
As the meal cooked, Daniel bathed, cleansing himself in preparation for his lover's return. After his bath he donned fresh, clean underpants, and a robe that Josh had given him for Christmas. He decanted the claret, poured a small glass - after their first drunken encounter they both agreed that being at least halfway sober helped their lovemaking. He settled himself on the sofa, and waited as the clock ticked slowly toward what he hoped would be the beginning of a wonderful night of bliss.
Daniel waited, and waited. The roast prime rib shrivelled in its juices. The russet potatoes turned into mush and the vegetables wilted into tasteless pellets.
Daniel cried for two days. He would not leave the flat, would not answer the door. Finally an old Prof, hurriedly summoned by one of Daniel's co-ed friends, managed to gain entry. He held the weeping young man, listened as he poured out his heart, and by just being there, helped Daniel through the first crisis of his life. Josh was gone, indeed had left the morning of Daniel's shopping expedition. He had packed his bags, written his exam, and driven away. Daniel had not seen or heard from his first lover since that day.
Shocked into reality, Daniel had gone on to Toronto. He immersed himself in his studies, worked in two hospitals, partied with his classmates and never allowed himself to become involved. He never revealed his homosexuality to any of his fellow medical students. He had no affairs, although several hints were dropped. He did join a fraternity of sorts, but thought little of it these days. He got on with his life. He would not allow himself to be hurt again.
Daniel debated - briefly - on whether or not to seek release in the only way open to him. He had no close friends to confide in, and he dared not declare himself to any of his fellow officers. Being gay was bad enough. Being a gay officer was tantamount to painting a target on his forehead for the SIU bozos to fire pistols at. A gay non-commissioned sailor faced a few days in cells if discovered, and a 5e discharge - Not Advantageously Employable.
The Navy loathed publicity and rather than make a production out of it, quietly discharged its unwanted sailors. Not so its officers. Officers were expected to be gentlemen, and straight. Being queer was letting down the side and that was something a proper gentleman never did. Officers were special targets and SIU never missed an opportunity to bring one down. An officer found in what was euphemistically called a "sensitive situation" could depend on being pilloried, his family informed of his shame, a stretch in Edmonton, and a small notation made on his personnel file that told the world exactly why he or she had been turfed.
Daniel rolled on his side. Sleep was more important and he would worry about his future later. Right now he wanted to think about the lads on his JOUT course, when he showered with them. Think about how they were so . . .
The jangling of the telephone broke Daniel's reverie. Cursing, he stumbled toward the ringing instrument, hoping as hs hand lifted the black plastic receiver from its base, that he was not being recalled to the hospital.
In the Public Affairs Office of the CFB Esquimalt Headquarters Building, Lieutenant (N) David Clayton signed off on the last of the overnight signals, scratched absently at his crotch, and looked at his watch. Two more hours and he'd be off watch. Two more hours and he could turn over the desk to the day man, nip back to his barracks room, shower and then off he would go for a full week's leave.
Wondering where he would go, up island to the beaches, or perhaps across to Vancouver, David turned in his chair and looked out at what was promising to be a wonderful, glorious day. What if, he was thinking, he strolled by the WRCNS Barracks and . . .?
The burbling soft tone sound of an outside call coming into his office broke David Clayton's train of thought.
"What now?" he growled to himself. "Please, no rapes, murders or mayhem!"
He picked up the telephone receiver and growled, "Public Affairs, Lieutenant Clayton speaking, sir!"
In Comox and Courtenay, Commander Stockdale, Lieutenant Commander Hazelton and Surgeon-Lieutenant Commander Reynolds went about their early morning routines.
Father showered, trimmed his beard, and smiled. He had been up half the night listening to the squalling of his grandson, thinking what a wonderful thing it was to have a boy baby in the house!
Not at all disturbed at the bawling of a lad who demanded his morning feeding, Father was wandering down the corridor toward the kitchen when the loud clanging - Father's growing deafness made turning the ring volume of the telephone up as high as it would go - disturbed his morning good humour.
"Damn and blast," Father snarled under his breath. "And what have the little brats been up to this time?"
In his trim little house, Commander Hazelton, dressed in his pyjamas and robe, opened the door and brought in the early morning paper. In the kitchen the kettle was bubbling and the tea things were ready. Once the tea was made he would carry the tray into the bedroom and he and his Missus would, as they had every morning for 32 years, read the paper and dissect the news of the day. He had just settled on to his side of the bed when from the front hall came the disrupting ringing of the telephone.
The cottage echoed with silence as Doc Reynolds, showered shaved, scented and groomed, struggled with the small gold stud that would hold his stiffly starched collar to his shirt. Doc considered himself to be one of the last of the Old Guard, someone who still dressed properly. He would no more consider wearing a shirt with a fitted collar than he would wander into the front garden of the small cottage he and his wife occupied every year in his underpants.
Doc could remember the days when an officer was an officer, and went ashore properly dressed. Not like today, when the Queen issued the only hat most of them owned to them!
His collar fitted, tie tied, and shoes shined and ready to be donned, Doc brought out his jacket for its ritual brushing. He paid careful attention to the two rows of four gilt buttons, and the two-and-a-half gold stripes on each sleeve of the jacket. He admired the crimson cloth between the stripes and then hung the jacket carefully on the butler's stand that stood in the corner of his bedroom. Later, after his morning coffee, he would put up his gongs, run a cloth over his sword belt, and make ready for the coming ceremony.
Doc was no stranger to death, of course. He saw it every day back home in the busy emergency room of the hospital. Still, it grated that one so young as Sylvain should be called home, much before time, in Doc's opinion.
He also felt that they could have done a little more, but with no Chaplain about and Sylvain not being at all popular, a few prayers at Divisions was considered sufficient.
Still, they should have done more, Doc was thinking as the telephone began jangling in the lounge.
Commander Stockdale looked out over the heads of the assembled cadets and nodded inwardly. The boys, usually boisterous and full of the imp, even on a Monday morning, were subdued, and had recited The Naval Prayer with a special fervour, as if each knew instinctively that this prayer, reserved for Sailors of the Queen, had taken on a special significance. A Sailor of the Queen had crossed the bar. He would never grow old, as the assembled cadets would grow old. Age would not weary him, nor the years condemn. Still, Father wondered, at the end of the day, at the going down of the sun, how many would remember Sylvain?
Behind the Commanding Officer the assembled officers waited with heads bowed for the final prayer. Doc, Number One, Andy and Kyle were dressed in full summer dress uniforms, with medals up and swords at their sides. Across the way Chef, magnificent in his white uniform, stood beside The Phantom who had, as had the Twins, Tyler, Val, all the young gentlemen, donned his best white uniform, their buttons and crowns gleaming in the early morning sunlight.
Across the parade square the YAG crews were ranged in five divisions, all dressed in their white uniforms, led by their officers. As his tired eyes scanned the wonderful panoply before them, a word came into Father's mind . . . Cromwell.
He wondered how many would be . . . Never mind, there was work to be done. Still the word echoed in his brain . . . Cromwell.
Opening the "Divine Service Book For The Armed Forces", the Commanding Officer turned to Page 35 of the hard, deep blue covered book; he began to read the prayer for Commemoration of the Dead.
"O Lord, the God of Mercy, unto whom all live, and who dost vouchsafe unto the souls of the faithful departed . . ."
As he read, still the tocsin rang through his head . . . Cromwell. As he prayed aloud for God to give Sylvain a place of refreshment, and a blessed rest, still the clarion call echoed . . . Cromwell. As Father asked that Sylvain be released from sin and sorrow, still the word pounded a call to battle . . . Cromwell. As he beseeched that one day they would all be united with Sylvain the word sounded again and again . . . Cromwell.
With the ending of the prayer, Father once again looked out over the assembled cadets. Cromwell. How many of them, he asked himself, would join the Crusade, place themselves squarely with the Host, and put them in harm's way? Cromwell. How many would take up the call, how many would turn their faces away? Cromwell.
A fleeting smile crossed Commander Stockdale's lips. How like Michael to sound the same watchword that Churchill had chosen as the signal to the population of England that the German invasion fleet had landed, the ringing of the church bells sounding the tocsin, calling the people of Britain, every man, every woman, and every child, calling them to fight on the beaches, to fight on the landing grounds, to fight in the fields and in the streets, to fight in the hills. To never surrender. Cromwell.
Father turned his head and briefly surveyed the small assembly of officers. He looked out over the heads of the young boys that made up his ship's company, boys who were barely old enough to understand what they were being asked to do, and barely trained to do. How could he, they, how could they all . . . And then with a clarity that surprised him, the old Commander realized what Churchill had realized, what Michael had realized. From deep within the recesses of his brain a small, misquoted line from the Bible whispered, "And God spoke unto Joshua: It is not the strength of your army, but the strength of your Faith." Cromwell.
Commander Stockdale's eyes fell again to the pages of the open prayer book and he began to pray, perhaps for his boys, more likely for himself.
"O Saviour, who didst set thy face steadfastly to go to Jerusalem to thy Cross and passion; help us, thy weak and wavering disciples, to be firm and resolute in doing those things that lie before us. Help us to overcome difficulties and to persevere in spite of failures. When we are weary and disheartened and ready to give in, do thou fill us with fresh courage and strength, and keep us faithful to our work; for thy name's sake . . . Amen"