Boys of Aurora

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

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

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

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

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

The Boys Of Aurora: Chapter 11

As night descended on Heron Spit, the cadets and officers who lived aboard settled into their Silent Hours routines. Harry, after showering, donned a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and then went off to visit his Sea Puppies, who were listlessly complaining and grumbling about the heat. Even with all the windows open their barracks was an oven.

Harry told his young charges to take their mattresses, pillows and counterpanes out to the harbour side of their barracks. Tonight they all would sleep outdoors. In the interest of modesty he also told the boys to put on their shorts. They all trooped outside and set up camp, the Sea Puppies chattering and giggling as they settled down for the night. Harry sat to one side, joking and laughing with the younger boys, watching and listening as in ones and twos the Puppies drifted off to sleep.

As the last of the cadets drifted off Harry sat for a while, watching the harbour lights and listening to the faint sounds of laughter and music that drifted across the harbour from the town opposite, enjoying the soft night. When the Duty Watch wandered by he walked with No "H" and Two Strokes down the row of sleeping boys, listening to their soft breathing, adjusting a counterpane here and there.

When No "H" and Two Strokes disappeared around the corner of the barracks Harry thought about holding a live fire exercise with the Pride. The memory of the dream he'd been having when Cory woke him up still lingered. He slipped his hand down the front of his shorts (he wasn't wearing any underwear) and let his fingers toy with the warm, sculpted head of the Pride. Harry was quite enjoying himself when one of the Puppies grunted and squirmed in his sleep. Harry quickly withdrew his hand deciding, reluctantly, and in the interest of decency, not to bother jerking off. There were 38 inquisitive cadets sleeping around him and it would be better not to chance it than to have one of them wake up while he was in mid-stroke. He sighed heavily, crossed his arms and laid his head back against the barracks wall. Harry loved his Puppies, but being a Sea Daddy was a pain in the ass at times.

In the Cooks' barracks Randy and Joey unpacked their clean laundry and carefully rolled and folded the gunshirts, underwear, T-shirts and socks to the regulation pattern before stowing everything away in their lockers. Since they were as ready as they ever would be for tomorrow's inspection - their bells and gunshirts ironed and hanging in readiness, their boots spit shined to a high gloss - they took out clean towels and briefs and sat impatiently on the steps of the barracks, waiting for Chef to leave.

The boys watched and giggled at Kevin, who paced up and down in front of the Mess Hall, went into the Mess Hall, left the Mess Hall, paced nervously back and forth, then ran into the building through the main doors when Chef emerged from the side door. They grinned evilly at each other as they waited for what they thought was a decent interval, giving Kevin and Ray (who they knew had been with Chef), time to settle into whatever routine they were going to settle into.

While they were waiting impatiently No "H" and Two Strokes, doing Rounds, came down the path. The boys quickly hid their towels and greeted the Officer of the Day and the Duty Chief. Two Strokes chided them for being out on such a hot night. Joey protested that the barracks were too hot to sleep in and please, Chiefie, they just wanted to catch a breath of air. No "H" told them not to stay up past Last Post and then he and Two Strokes walked off in the direction of the canteen. Randy and Joey waited a little while longer and then scurried over to the galley showers.

After a cooling, tepid shower they walked hand-in-hand, naked, into the lounge, and settled on one of the sofas. They necked and fondled each other for a bit, and at first they were quite content. In a very little while, however, they both began sweating profusely. The small lounge had become a hotbox and they had not dared to open the windows in the room for fear of attracting the attention of the patrolling Duty Watch and as the temperature in the room rose higher they both decided to hell with it. It was too hot to fuck or fight, so they took another shower, returned to their barracks, and went to bed. Before he drifted off to sleep Randy whispered, wondering facetiously where Ray was. Joey giggled but said nothing. He had a very good idea exactly where Ray was, and who he was with.

" . . . So, what else did he say?" asked Kevin as he ran his fingers down Ray's treasure trail. They were lying on the opened sofa bed in Chef's office. Ray was lying spread-eagled with Kevin between his legs. Because the shades were drawn they had left the small desk lamp on, the dim light casting dark shadows toward the ceiling.

Ray groaned slightly as Kevin's hand found his balls and began kneading and rolling the firm ovals of delight. He glanced down and saw Kevin's erection, hard, very pink, and pointing straight at him. Ray reached down and rubbed the head of his lover's dick with his thumb, wiping away a minute drop of precum. Kevin retaliated by running his tongue along the underside of Ray's hardon. Ray squirmed and moaned softly, "God, that feels so good!"

Kevin giggled and licked the firm, pink, mushroom-shaped head of Ray's dick. "So?"

Ray looked at Kevin through hooded eyes. "Are we fucking or talking?"

Kevin laughed and straddled Ray's chest. "Both," he replied. He bent down and kissed Ray's nose. "You have a nice nose, Ray. And a nice dick." He lowered his body slightly, stopping when he felt the heat of Ray's dick touch his balls. He began dragging his balls up and down the length of Ray's increasingly hard cock.

Ray, who was enjoying what Kevin was doing to him, decided to get it over with. The sooner he shut Kevin up the sooner they could get down to some serious loving. "Well, if you must know," he began, "after he told me how much he cared for me, and admitted that he loved me like a son, and told me that no matter what, he would always feel that way, he beat about the bush some."

While Ray was talking Kevin continued to rub his balls up and down the length of Ray's incredibly smooth, iron-hard cock. Ray began panting heavily so Kevin backed off and returned to his original position between the boy's legs. "Go, on," coached Kevin. "What else?"

Ray caught his breath and sailored on. "Like I said, he beat about the bush, then he finally said that it didn't matter to him that I was gay."

"Good of him to say so," interrupted Kevin. He bent forward and seemed to be examining Ray's hardon.

"Do you want me to continue?" asked Ray impatiently.

"Sure."

"Well shut up and listen." He squirmed in delight as Kevin once again licked his dick. "Kevin, I can't concentrate if you keep doing that."

Kevin giggled and rolled to one side. He snuggled close to Ray and threw his arm across his chest. "Brief rest. I was getting too horny, anyway."

Ray growled in frustration. "I really don't see what Chef said to me has to do with you."

"Come on, Ray, he's not stupid. He had to know that we were in here last night."

"He does," confirmed Ray. "He told me that he understood that I would want to have sex with someone, and he was okay with that, so long as the guy treated me okay and that it was what I wanted to do."

"A guy does have urges, Ray, especially at our age." Kevin leaned over and kissed Ray's nipples. "Did I ever tell you that you have the nicest tasting skin?"

"Keviiiin," moaned Ray.

Kevin took the hint. "To be honest I'm surprised that he didn't turn down the sheets and put a rose on the pillow."

Ray sniffed. "Don't tell me. 'Rogering on the Range' again?"

"No, Chatelaine," replied Kevin with a wide grin. "You should read some of the stuff they put in that magazine. It's better than Penthouse."

"And how would you know?" demanded Ray.

"My mother subscribes to Chatelaine and my brothers buy Penthouse," said Kevin. He snuggled closer to Ray and gently rubbed his nipples. "Then what did Chef say?"

Ray squirmed at Kevin's warm touch. "Not much. He just said to make sure that the door was locked and the shades pulled down. Then he said he really didn't care what I did so long as I didn't do it in the middle of the parade square and frighten the Duty Watch and Kevin, just what the fuck are you doing to my dick?" While Ray had been chattering away Kevin had moved his hand down Ray's body until it rested on his warm genitals. Then, using his thumb and forefinger, he had been busily feeling Ray's dick. "Measuring your dick," Kevin replied truthfully.

"Measuring . . . Kevin, have you lost what little brains you had?" Ray struggled and rolled away from Kevin. "Why don't you just take a picture?"

"Hey, I never thought of that!" Kevin raised himself on one elbow. "Isn't there a Polaroid camera in the Ship's Office? I could get it and take a picture . . ."

"Oh, no you will not!" Ray jumped off the sofa bed and cupped his rapidly deflating erection. "Under no circumstances am I going to let you take a picture of my dick."

Kevin lay back and started laughing. Then he sat up and reached out his arms. "Come on back to bed, Ray. I promise, no pictures." He laughed softly. "But, fuck, it would sure give me something to look at when the wind is blowing across the lake, and it's ball-shrivelling cold and the windows are rattling and I'm in bed and alone and . . ."

"Chatelaine again?"

"Nope," replied Kevin shaking his head. "Women's Magazine."

"Jesus!" exploded Ray as he returned to the bed. He lay beside Kevin, but shook him off when he reached over to touch him. "You have gone nuts!"

"No," sighed Kevin. "I'm just making sure that I never forget you."

"And just what does measuring my dick, or taking a picture of it, have to do with 'remembering' me?"

Kevin began rubbing Ray's belly, tracing slow, delicate circles around and around the soft skin. "I've thought a lot about what you said this morning. I accept that we'll only be together for a week, so I want definitely to make the most of what time we have. I also want you to understand that I am not a fuck buddy. I love you, and I always will."

Ray was not prepared to continue the argument from this morning. "Kevin, I told you the way I feel and . . ."

"And I'm telling you how I feel," returned Kevin with some heat. "Look, Ray, I've known since I was ten that I liked guys. Until I met you I never did anything serious with another guy. Oh, I've fooled around some, with Adam, but all it ever was, was fooling around. He was just a guy to jerk off and to jerk me off."

"Ten? And you and Adam, you never . . ."

"Nope, just played around and jerked each other off." Kevin scooted closer and spooned himself against Ray. "Ray, I know that what we have is going to end. Until then, with or without your permission, Raymond James Cornwallis, I intend to enjoy every inch of you. I will lick you, suck you, smell you. I will make love to you and, I hope, you will make love to me. I will feel you in me and me in you. Later, when I've saved enough money, I am going to take a trip up to Ottawa and you better not give me any bullshit excuses. I'll get a room at the YMCA and we will spend every minute of my visit in there. I will go to every cadet regatta, every sail past, every event that comes up, just to be with you."

"Kevin, I . . ."

"No, Ray! That's the way it's going to be!" Kevin's firm jaw was tight. "Either that, or I get out of this bed, put on my pants and go back to the barracks!"

The look on Kevin's face told Ray that he was deadly serious. Kevin was determined to be a lover, and not a fuck buddy, which in a way flattered Ray no end. Kevin was offering his total devotion, no questions asked. "Kevin, I, um," stammered Ray. "Kevin, you're only 15, for cripes sake! You know that I don't love you. How can you possibly think that a year from now that you'll feel the way you feel now about me?"

Kevin pounded the pillow under his head in exasperation. He moved away from Ray and got off the bed. "Look, Ray, I may be only 15, but I know what I want," he said as he fumbled under the bed for his underwear. "When I was ten my Uncle Larry decided to get married." He grinned ruefully, and continued on. "Actually, he knocked some girl up and had to get married. My father decided to throw him a stag at the house. They had some dirty movies. My Dad and my brothers thought that I was asleep. I wasn't. I snuck down the stairs and sat there, peeking through the banisters, watching the movie. While they were all hooting and hollering in the living room looking at twats and tits I was sitting on stairs with the front of my Fruits pooched out with the biggest hardon a guy that age could muster! I was looking at the cocks and balls and I looked and looked and knew that's what I liked. I jerked myself off in my underwear, Kevin, twice, and when one of the actors in the movie sucked the other actor's cock, I came again. Okay, they were dry cums, but, Ray, I CAME!"

Kevin pulled on his T-shirt shirt and reached for his gym shorts. He glared at Ray. "I know what I want, Ray." He jerked his shorts over his underwear and stood up. "I'm fuckin' out of here." He walked around the end of the bed and had just reached out to unlock the door when Ray rolled quickly out of the bed, stood up and whirled him around.

Kevin's words had struck a chord deep within Ray for he suddenly realized that Kevin really did love him and that he was not playing a game. Last night he had not told Kevin the truth, for while he had wanted sex, all that Kevin could give him, last night he had wanted sex from The Phantom more, so in a way there really had been three people in the room. But not now, for Ray's world had turned upside down. Kevin loved him. Kevin wanted him and would pursue him, no matter the cost. Kevin was offering him something The Phantom never could, or would, offer: deep, abiding, unconditional love. While he realized that he loved The Phantom, Ray now knew he needed Kevin more. He didn't understand why he felt this way, but he did understand that he could not refuse such a love. Kevin wanted them to walk together down the road that led to a bright, golden sun, and Ray knew that he wanted to be with Kevin when he reached the end of the road.

"You better mean what you said!" Ray roughly pushed down Kevin's shorts and underpants. He began stroking and fondling Kevin's balls and dick with one hand while he pulled him closer.

Kevin tried to push Ray away. "I meant every fucking word, Ray. I know I'm not Phantom, and I know you'll never love me the way you love him. But whatever it takes to make you happy, I'll do."

Ray grinned. "I know." He pushed Kevin's T-shirt up and over his head. "Now come back to bed, please."

"I'm not your fuck buddy," warned Kevin.

"And I'm not yours," returned Ray as he pulled Kevin toward the bed. "We're lovers, and now I'd like to make love to you."

Kevin's reply was muffled as Ray's lips pressed against his. He couldn't resist this slim, handsome boy. His arms encircled Ray's naked body and they pressed close together.

Kevin lay on his back with his legs in the air while Ray's tongue lavishly washed his brown, crinkled hole, shivering in delight with each stroke of Ray's tongue, and wiggling in ecstasy. "Ah, Jesus, Ray, I want you to fuck me," he groaned.

Ray raised his head and slowly ran his lips and tongue along the furry gap of skin between Kevin's hole and balls. "Soon," he whispered as he began kissing Kevin's tightening scrotum.

Kevin groaned and arched his body, flinging his legs as far back as he could. He wanted Ray in him. He was breathing harshly, his dick hard and leaking precum incessantly. He wanted to get fucked! "Please, Ray," he whimpered.

Ray straightened and reached for the tube of Vaseline sitting on the small lamp-table beside the opened sofa. He uncapped the tube and was about to lubricate his full five inches of hard, dark pink flesh when Kevin reached out and took the tube from his hand.

"Let me," asked Kevin. He squeezed a generous dollop of the lubricant onto the palm of his hand and then reached down, coating Ray's boner liberally, stroking the hard, warm, sleek penis, gently masturbating Ray.

Ray squealed and tried to pull away as Kevin ran his palm over his sensitive, crimson-hued helmet. "Oh, my Lord Jesus!" breathed Ray softly. "Jesus, Kevin, that feels so fucking good!"

Kevin snickered. "That's what it's supposed to do," he replied with a grin. He released Ray and squeezed another generous portion of lubricant onto his fingertips. He winced slightly as he thrust his lubed fingers into his love hole, then thrust in and out several times. Then he reached out and pulled Ray onto his body. He could feel Ray's lube-slicked dick rubbing against his belly. Ray began humping Kevin and kissed him. When their lips parted Kevin pushed Ray upward.

Ray nodded and pushed his body backward. He straightened and knelt between Kevin's legs, the tip of his dick just touching Kevin's slightly distended hole. Kevin wanted him to fuck him, but Ray was not going to do that. Instead, he was going to make love to Kevin, to return to him in full measure the pleasure and ecstasy he had been given last night. He reached down and fingered his iron-hard erection. "Jeez, Kevin, I'm so small!"

Kevin laughed. "You let me be the judge of that!" He groaned loudly as the slick head of Ray's dick brushed against his hole. It was time. "Now," he whispered. Ray pushed his hips slowly forward, using his hand to guide his turgid organ. There was very little resistance as the curved head of his dick disappeared into Kevin's body.

Kevin grunted softly and he lifted his hips as high as he could. "Yeah, that's it Ray. Fuck, that feels good." He was totally relaxed, wanting to feel every inch of Ray that he could. He pushed back and half of Ray's hardon slid into him.

"Holy fuck," exclaimed Ray, his mind reeling at the tightness of Kevin's channel, of the electricity that arced through his body. He pushed again and his entire dick slid into Kevin. Guided by instinct, and by what they had done the night before, he waited for Kevin's body to adjust, his thick pubic bush pressed firmly against Kevin's love trail, Kevin's low-hanging balls resting against his belly.

Kevin pulled Ray to him and buried his head in Ray's neck. "Yeah, Ray," he muttered. "Slow, real slow, make me feel it, make it good for both of us." He felt Ray nod his head, his hair tickling his nose.

Ray set a strong, enjoyable, slow rhythm that pleased them both. As Ray thrust into him Kevin felt the head of Ray's dick slide against his prostate. He gasped as a lightning bolt of ecstasy flashed through him. He clutched Ray's body, slipping his tongue into, then around, Ray's ear. Kevin's probing tongue in his ear was so erotically sensational that Ray began thrusting hard, quickening his pace. He began grunting loudly. "Ungh . . . Ungh . . ." he grunted, his dick thrusting deeper and deeper into Kevin, deeper than it seemed possible.

With each thrust Ray's dick bumped against Kevin's prostate, causing him to groan and buck, his body jerking wildly. "Aaah . . . Fuck . . . Fuck . . ." Ray growled loudly with each inward thrust. He was so stimulated that he was unaware of the electricity he was sending through his partner's body. He could feel his hard, taut belly rubbing across Kevin's balls and solid, leaking dick, a feeling so sensuous that he could barely comprehend what was happening to him, conscious of nothing but the succeeding waves of amazing sensations that radiated outward from his trembling dick, sensations that pushed him closer and closer toward the plateau that leads to Nirvana.

Ray began increasing his pace wanting, yet not wanting, the incredible release that he knew awaited him. Ray stifled a scream as he thrust deeply into Kevin, nearing orgasm. "Kev . . . Kevin! Gonna . . . Gonna cum . . . Sweet JESUS . . . Gonna CUM . . ." His dick thickened, pulsed and his balls pumped, his cream flying outward from dick. He threw his head back, his mouth gaping. "Ungh... CUMMING . . ." he groaned, biting his lip to keep from shouting as euphoric glory rolled through his body. He thrust his dick deeply into Kevin and his hips convulsed as he pumped faster and faster.

Kevin could not control himself. The combination of Ray's restrained shouting, Ray's belly rubbing across the heated underside of his boner, and the intensity of feelings as Ray's dick ravaged his prostate was too much for him. His body tightened and he began to suck avidly on Ray's neck as his dick spurted his seed, his orgasm so intense that he humped Ray's sweat rimed belly.

Lost in uncontrollable lust they sucked and pumped until Ray, totally exhausted, collapsed on Kevin's chest. They lay there, overcome, lost in the bliss of aftermath of incredible orgasms, their bodies flushed and heated. Once again their lips met. They held their kiss, moaning and clutching each other until finally Ray rolled aside.

"Oh, GOD!" Was all Ray could say as he gulped huge lungs full of air. "Oh GOD!"

Kevin turned on his side and his hand caressed Ray's heaving stomach. "And you were worried about the size of your dick!"

In Barracks 2, where the Storekeepers and Signalmen slept, Rob lay disconsolately on his bunk, listening to Ryan's muttering in his sleep. On the other side of Ryan was David lay in his rack, snoring loudly. Except for the sounds of sleep the barracks was very quiet. Rob tossed and turned, unable to sleep. He was hot and feeling more than a little guilty. After Secure Ryan had carefully locked Stores and, atop of pile of carefully placed blankets, they had fucked themselves into near exhaustion, their couplings lustful and robust.

Ryan, while he much preferred the passive position in their lovemaking, had readily agreed to Rob's insistence that he experience every aspect of the joy of lovemaking. He had happily slipped between Rob's raised legs and what he lacked in technique he more than made up for in enthusiasm. Unfortunately, a by-product of their manic thrusting had been the return of Ryan's problem. Tonight, as they showered, Rob had seen Ryan wince when he retracted his foreskin to clean the glans of his penis.

Rob blamed himself. He knew about Ryan's problem, and always took great care when manipulating Ryan's penis, being careful not to pull too much on the delicate membrane covering the head of Ryan's slim cock. Ryan had dismissed Rob's genuine concern over the state of his dick and insisted that he was all right. He had taken one of Doc's pills and gone to bed.

Rob was not so sure and he spent much of the night carefully watching his dark-haired lover for any signs of discomfort. He had almost convinced himself that he was worrying over nothing when he got out of bed and lifted the light counterpane covering Ryan's slumbering form.

Ryan stirred slightly as the cover was lifted from his body. He crooked his leg and squirmed a little. He was feeling no pain, thanks to the pain killers Doc had issued him the first time he had reported his problem.

Looking at his sleeping lover Rob saw that the front of Ryan's briefs were stained, a dime-sized spot of crimson spoiling the pristine whiteness of the cloth. Rob cursed silently and gently pulled the counterpane over Ryan. He returned to his bed vowing that tomorrow, before Divisions, Ryan was going to see Doc and if Doc wanted to do the operation then and there, he, Rob would hold the little French fuck down!

Barracks 8 was quiet. Almost all of the gunners had decamped to the outdoors, spreading their blankets and pillows on the soft grass between their Barracks and the drill shed. Brian lay on his bunk, staring into the gloom, reconciling himself to Dylan's decision. Phantom had been right. What was done was done. It was time to move on.

In the Wardroom Andy was lying awake in his own bed. For a long time he had lain there, hoping that Kyle would roll over and invite him to share his bed. It hadn't happened and he could hear Kyle's slow, rhythmic breathing. With sleep refusing to come Andy finally got out of bed and padded into the Wardroom lounge. He left the lights off and sat in total darkness, staring into the black nothingness. He desperately wanted Kyle to come into the room, smile his silly-ass smile, and tell him to come to bed. But that was not going to happen. Not now.

Andy moved sluggishly, too depressed and oppressed by the heat. It was nights like this when he remembered Marty, when he remembered the nights when they'd been on night exercise in the woods around Parris Island, huddled together, scared shitless, jumping at every move and whisper of wind, almost too scared to move for fear that the Gunnery Sergeant would find them and discover what they'd been doing.

God did he miss Marty. Andy missed the big farm boy dogging his every footstep; he missed the infectious grin, and the quiet, unassuming way Marty had of bringing him down to earth from one of his flights of martial fancy. Dear, sweet, Marty; friend, buddy, lover, dead now since January of '69, and buried in a wind swept cemetery somewhere in Montana.

While he had accepted that Marty was dead, Andy had never truly gotten over it. They had shared too many love-filled nights before Marty shipped out to Vietnam, in fleabag hotels and tumbledown motels, in North Charleston, in nameless little hamlets up and down the Carolina coast, in hostelries where no questions were ever asked and two men together raised no eyebrows. From that first day, at Parris Island, they had been friends. At the end of their Boot Training, they had been lovers and for thirty glorious days they had Leave. They had lain together, loved together, and learned together. Marty would have understood about the money.

Andy snorted. Money! A lousy 25 bucks! Canadian bucks at that! For want of a nail a kingdom had been lost. For his refusal of a loan a lover had been lost because Kyle simply refused to understand about the money, nor could he understand that Andy, as a former Marine and an Officer in the USN Sea Cadets, he could not, and would not, borrow money under any circumstances, and certainly not for something so frivolous as a Mess Dinner.

Andy had tried and tried again to explain that his sole income was the pay he received from the US Navy League. As an O1 (Ensign) he received $466.20 per month, with no incentives and no allowance for quarters, which was a bitch since he had to pay $50.00 lounge and scrounge to the Canadian Sea Cadets for feeding and housing him. He had also tried to tell Kyle that he would not see his pay until he returned to Seattle and the paperwork was pushed through. His disability pension was banked for his future education. At the thought of his so-called pension Andy sniffed in disdain. His pension was based on his USMC rank in 1969: E5, buck Sergeant, $211.50 per month. No allowances, no lounge, no scrounge.

Andy was, in short, all but broke. Almost every penny he had coming in was allocated to house him or feed him, or clothe him. There was no room in his budget for Mess Dinners and as his personal honour would not allow him to borrow the money from Kyle, he had refused Kyle's well-meant gesture of a loan. Kyle, accustomed to the casual, freewheeling world of the Sea Cadet Officer, had called Andy stiff-necked and bull headed. In turn Andy had told Kyle that he was a spoiled rich kid who didn't know the meaning of deprivation.

Harsher words had passed between them and finally, angry beyond endurance that their relationship was ending for such a trivial reason, Andy had stomped away, leaving an open-mouthed Kyle staring after him. Since then not a word had passed between them and when it had come time for bed Kyle had ostentatiously left his underwear on and crawled between the sheets of his bed and turned his back to Andy.

With a heavy heart and filled with loneliness Andy had retired to the Wardroom where he sat listening to the faint night sounds and the faintly ringing bell of the marker buoy at the entrance to the Comox channel.

In the Chiefs Mess Val slept soundly, unaware that his cabin mate was consumed with doubt, tossing and turning, barely understanding the feelings that more and more filled his mind with longings that always, always returned to Val.

Tyler had exchanged his briefs for a pair of wide-legged shorts and he lay atop his bunk, his hand massaging his raging hardon, his mind whirling with thoughts of Val, hoping that just once more the night visitor would slowly open the mess door and kneel beside the bunk . . . just once more.

His hand began to move faster and faster

In the Gunroom the Twins slept soundly, oblivious to the grunts and groans coming from the other side of the bulkhead. Thumper, his masturbatory rites observed, snuggled under his checked coverlet, his hand thrust down the front of his underwear, protecting his most prized possessions. Beside him Fred snored away quietly, twitching occasionally, sleeping fitfully, his body bathed in sweat.

Jon's and Chris's bunks were empty. They were in the Ropewalk ignoring the heat, loving one another. Harry's and Nicholas's bunks were also empty. Harry was bunked down with his Sea Puppies and Nicholas was with Andre.

Greg awoke slowly, then noiselessly left his bunk. Taking great care not to wake either of the Twins (they were notoriously light sleepers), he felt around the bottom of his sea chest and found what he knew was there. As quiet as a wraith he left the Gunroom and sat on the stoop so recently vacated by the Twins. He opened the bottle and raised it to his lips, feeling the roughness of the vodka as it burned its way down his throat.

Nicholas and Andre walked the length of AURORA and set up their camp on the shore of the channel leading into Comox harbour. They took great care to ensure that their makeshift pallets were just below the small rise that marked the tree line and well above the high tide mark. The sky overhead was clear and very black, the moon having not yet risen, an ebony carpet for the millions of diamond stars that shone above the Spit. There was no breeze to speak of and the waters of the channel were flat calm.

The boys stripped down to their briefs and lay on their improvised beds, staring at the million points of light overhead, and from time to time reaching over to gently caress each other. "It is so beautiful here, Nicholas," sighed Andre contentedly. He squirmed slightly and moved his body as close as he could to his lover's, feeling the warm flesh as their hips and thighs touched. He laid his head on Nicholas's firm, chiselled chest and rested his hand on Nicholas's flat stomach. Andre was very happy.

Nicholas buried his nose in Andre's hair and then kissed the top of his head. "It's beautiful because I'm with you, petit," he murmured softly. He slipped his fingers under the elastic waistband of Andre's briefs, the tips of his fingers just touching the thin pubic bush hidden by the boy's white underwear.

Ever since the fateful bus ride back from Victoria they had been fervent, if intermittent lovers. They had not yet fully consummated their union, first because there was really no place they could, and second, and more importantly, they had an unspoken agreement to allow their relationship to take a slow and natural pace.

Andre gave Nicholas's left nipple a small lick. "This is better than the Flag Locker, Nicholas."

Nicholas chuckled in agreement. As Yeoman of Signals he had access to the Flag Locker, a square, small compartment lined with shelving and so full of bunting, flags, poles and assorted signalling paraphernalia that there was barely room to move, let alone make love. Andre, while he was "Sticks" or Lead Drummer in the Band, had no access to the School of Wind outside of Duty Hours. After 1600 the school was usually locked up tight and only Harry had keys to the place. Mostly they met in the Flag Locker, sitting on one of the only two pieces of furniture small enough to fit into the cramped compartment: a student's desk, behind which was a wooden chair. When he needed to use the desk Nicholas had to climb over it to reach the chair. They would hold each other, feel each other, and explore each other, delighting in the sensuous and exotic feelings they discovered. Unspoken was the realization that to make their union complete they would, eventually, do it.

Nicholas was not at all sure that he was ready to make love to Andre, nor was he all that sure he was ready to have Andre make love to him, assuming that Andre even wanted to. He did love Andre, and he wanted their first time to be right, to be something they both felt was right, and to do it when they both knew that it was time.

Andre frankly adored the tall, slim young man whose arms held him so lovingly. When they were together it felt so wonderful, so natural that he wondered why he had ever bothered to listen to his two brothers, the priests; frustrated, wizened prudes that they were. He wanted Nicholas in every way possible.

"Nicholas?"

"Yes, petit?"

"When we go back to Montreal, will we be together?"

"Andre, je t'aime. Je vous adore tout mon coeur et toute mon ame. Je toujours volonte," replied Nicholas. He pulled Andre close to him and kissed him deeply. "I mean it, Andre. I love you with all my heart and soul."

"It will be difficult, to be together always," warned Andre sadly.

Nicholas lay back and sighed. "I know. Damn, Andre, I wish there was some place we could just go and be ourselves, just be together."

Andre nodded his agreement. He reached into Nicholas's briefs and cupped his soft, warm genitals. "I do not think I will like it if we can only see each other at Cadets. We cannot even see each other after school."

"We will see each other, Andre. We just won't be able to sin." Nicholas laughed and tickled Andre.

Andre screamed and wiggled, and called Nicholas a very dirty name. He rolled away and then rolled back, panting, giggling when Nicholas's hand squeezed his penis through his underwear. "You must be careful, Nicholas, or Andre le Petit will become Andre le Grand!" he said through his giggles.

Nicholas responded by slowly moving his hand between Andre's legs and kneading his balls. He gave Andre a quick peck on the lips. "When we get back to Montreal we still have two weeks left before school starts, right?"

Andre nodded and moaned softly. Mon Dieu, Nicholas had a delicate touch.

"My folks have a summer cottage up near Mont Tremblant. Would your folks let you come and stay with me, just for a few days?"

"Maybe. Or perhaps your folks will let you visit me at my uncle's farm. It is in the Gaspe and very isolated. I would like you to come, Nicholas."

"Will we be together? Will we be able to sin?" asked Nicholas. He continued to caress and massage Andre's cock and balls. "I know we will at my place. You can share my room." He bent down and licked Andre's belly. He loved the taste of this boy. His skin was so soft and warm. "God, Andre!"

Andre responded by raising his hips, thrusting into Nicholas's squeezing hand. He could feel the front of his briefs dampening as the precum oozed steadily from his erect penis. He reached down and pulled Nicholas's hand away.

"What? Why did you . . ." asked Nicholas, confused.

Andre smiled and began pushing down his underpants. "Please, Nicholas?"

Nicholas knew what Andre wanted. He nodded and lowered his head, kissing the skin-covered crown of Andre's thin penis. He slowly pulled Andre's foreskin down, revealing the wet, purple glans, which gleamed and shone in the starlight. Nicholas took Andre into his mouth, sucking softly. With his free hand he cupped Andre's balls, not at all surprised to find them tight. They had not had sex for two days and they both needed release badly. Andre whimpered and shivered as Nicholas's tongue bathed his unsheathed shaft, crying softly as the ultra-sensitive head of his mouse began pulsing.

Moving his head up and down in slow, deliberate spiralling motions, Nicholas brought Andre to the brink of glory. Muttering and groaning Andre began to thrust deliberately, desperate to empty his balls into the warm, wet, sensuous mouth that enveloped him. He felt the wonderful feeling building in his groin and began breathing heavily. Tabernac, Taber . . . NAC! "Nichol . . ." moaned Andre loudly. Then his body began to jerk and his hardon began spasming. Nicholas tasted the thick, sweet, juice that filled his mouth.

Andre arched his body and his eyes rolled back in his head. He thrust upward, his exposed cock head pulsing as it released more and more of his incredibly glorious nectar into Nicholas's mouth. Nicholas continued to suck until Andre, his helmet screaming with sensual overload, yipped and yelped, then pulled away. He collapsed, breathing so heavily that he could not speak.

Grinning madly Nicholas quickly pushed down his briefs, kicked them aside and flung himself onto Andre's body, kissing him open-mouthed, sharing with him the last vestiges of his shattering orgasm. Andre wrapped his arms and legs around Nicholas, who began to hump and rub his stone-hard cock against the side of Andre's still hard erection.

Nicholas could feel the sensitive underside of his penis being savaged as he thrust through the thin bush of wiry black pubic hair that circled Andre's cock and balls. He could feel his orgasm building. He felt his balls filling and his dick, that wonderful, marvellously circumcised dick, being ravaged as he thrust faster and faster, his heated rod made hotter by the intensity of the heat generated by the equally thrusting boy beneath him. "Oh my God, petit, Oh, God, petit!"

Groaning, Nicholas flung his head back and his face contorted as his balls all but exploded. "PETIT!" shouted Nicholas as his piss slit gaped open and a huge gout of juice squirted forcefully across Andre's sweat-slicked belly. Andre thrust upward again, feeling the hot, sticky fluids spurt in a seemingly never-ending stream from Nicholas's swelled and turgid organ. As his dick jerked Nicholas growled and moaned. "Ah FUCK! PETIT!" and as his cock ejected the last of his seed Nicholas arched his back so hard that Andre had trouble holding on to him.

Finally, it was over. Breathing harshly Nicholas fell forward and buried his face in Andre's shoulders; his hips jerking slowly until, like Andre, his dickhead began screaming. He pulled away and rolled to the side, then reach out and pulled Andre to him. "Dear, sweet, God, Andre, that felt good." His hips jerked back quickly as Andre tried to finger his cock head. "Please, petit, no."

Andre giggled and kissed Nicholas, a small, gentle peck on his lips. "Le petit Nicholas, he liked that, oui?"

Nicholas stuck out his tongue and grinned. He had never pretended to greatness, as so many other boys did. He knew that he had a good, solid six inches, which had Andre beat by an inch. "Le Grand Nicholas didn't like it. He loved it!"

They lay in each other's arms, enjoying the thrall of their lovemaking as it began to slowly ebb from their flushed bodies. Andre loved just holding Nicholas. His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along his lover's tanned, soft skinned body. "You are very beautiful Nicholas," he said with a contented sigh.

"So are you." Nicholas kissed Andre deeply. When their lips parted he smiled and ran his fingers through the boy's hair. "I love you, Andre."

"I know. I know because I also love you, my beautiful maudit Anglais," whispered Andre.

"Pas autant que je t'aime vous, mon ange merveilleux, adorable Francais-Canadien!"

Andre snickered and reached down, running his forefinger across Nicholas's slick, soft helmet. Nicholas winced slightly but said nothing so Andre continued to rub softly. "I cannot be an adorable angel, Nicholas," he sighed theatrically. "I too much enjoy sinning!"

"Well then, you can be my little French-Canadian devil!" Nicholas said with a grin. He kissed the tip of Andre's nose and then pulled away, signalling the end of their lovemaking.

Andre nodded, understanding. The head of Nicholas' penis was very tender - it always was after the tall Yeoman had squirted - just as the tete of Andre's petit souris screamed if touched after he'd squirted. He laid his head on Nicholas's chest. He could hear the soft beating of Nicholas's heart, and his eyes closed. He was contented, happy, and very much in love.

Vancouver Airport was as quiet as any airport ever got. As The Gunner walked down the long concourse from his plane he observed the usual denizens who seemed always to inhabit airports: students with knapsacks and bedrolls camped beside the airline counters, waiting for a cheap seat to become available; bedraggled tourists, always with at least two screaming children, waiting impatiently for the redeye to anywhere to board; a clutch of nuns (Why were there always nuns in airports?) sat in a row on one of the uncomfortable benches that were standard fittings for airports, quietly chatting or saying their beads. Except for the bar - overpriced and packed - the other shops and booths lining the concourse were dark.

As he approached the Passenger Pickup area The Gunner noticed a dark haired young man coming toward him. The young man was not tall, but he was slim, his well-cut black suit accentuating his firm, muscled body. He had a square jaw and his close cut, curly black hair and mirror-shined shoes bespoke a military past. When he was within a few feet of The Gunner the young man stopped. "Sir Stephen Winslow?" he asked, without a trace of obsequiousness. His well-modulated, accented voice immediately identified him as British.

The Gunner coloured slightly, embarrassed that his purely honourary title was being used. "Yes."

The young man smiled and reached out for The Gunner's suit bag and suitcase. "My name is Laurence, Sir Stephen. Mr. Michael asked that I meet you."

"That was kind of him," replied The Gunner as he handed over his luggage. The look on Laurence's face told him that he clearly expected more bags. "That's all there is, Laurence."

Laurence nodded discreetly. "If you will come this way Sir Steven, the car is outside."

The Gunner followed Laurence to the loading platform where he found waiting for him the most magnificent motorcar he had ever seen, a long, black, Rolls Royce 1962 Phantom V. His eyes widened at the luxury and unparalleled elegance the car represented. The excellence of the coachwork was enhanced by a sterling mascot on the bonnet: a silver Crusader Knight rising out of a walled city, holding a cross. "Wow," whispered The Gunner, knowing that his reaction to this magnificence was exposing his plebeian origins.

Stone-faced, Laurence opened the door to the limousine, revealing the Spanish leather and carved walnut interior. He was not at all surprised at The Gunner's awe. His origins were just a plebeian as The Gunner's, having been born in RN Ratings Housing in Gosport. "It is a bit much," murmured Laurence as he settled himself in the back seat beside The Gunner. He leaned forward and spoke softly to the young man seated behind the right-hand wheel. "Home, please, Noel."

As the motorcar slowly pulled away The Gunner noticed what seemed to be a small battle raging further down the platform. Beside a lime green, four-door, well weathered Ford sedan stood two white haired, elderly men, one of whom was gesticulating wildly at a small, Chinese man who was shrugging and shaking his head. Behind the elderly gentlemen was a small pile of matched luggage. Beside the luggage stood two black suited, thin, pale, fey young men. The Gunner did not recognize the two younger men. He did know the two older gentlemen: Willoughby and Hunter, respectively Receiver of the Common Treasure and Hospitaller for the Order.

The Gunner cast Laurence a sideways glance. He recognised the deft hand of Michael Chan. A message had been sent. And received, if the glares directed at the Rolls as it rolled by the Ford were any indication.

"Why am I getting the impression that me riding in this car is less for my benefit and more for that of two certain gentlemen?" asked The Gunner quietly. He could feel two pairs of hostile eyes boring into his neck as the car left the loading area.

Laurence cocked an eyebrow and smiled knowingly. Obviously this young man deserved every bit of esteem Mister Michael expressed for him. He opened the side panel beside him and brought out a red, gold tooled portfolio. Then he pressed a small ivory button on the control panel built into the armrest of the seat. The back of the car was immediately filled with a soft glow of light. "Mister Michael feels that the right gesture at the right time speaks volumes." He opened the portfolio and handed a paper to The Gunner. "Your schedule, sir."

The Gunner took the paper and read it. In addition to two full days of meetings and ceremonies he noticed that each day he would start out from the house in British Properties. He pointed to the first item of business. "Another gesture?"

Laurence glanced at the paper and smiled. "Mr. Michael asks that you spend your time in the city at his home. He asked me to assure you that the accommodations will be much better than the Best Western." Then he grinned, widely, showing perfect white teeth.

The Gunner laughed uproariously. He liked this young man. "Michael's 'gestures' are as subtle as a whack between the eyes with a two-by-four."

Laurence joined in the laughter. "The amount of subtlety depends on the stubbornness of the mule!"

The Gunner thought of a certain jug-eared green-eyed mule and their recent conversation in Comox. Then his smile turned into a slight frown.

Laurence saw the frown. "Is there a problem, sir?" he asked.

The Gunner shrugged slightly. "I had hoped for an hour or two of free time. Still, no matter." He smiled thinly. "Anything else in that Pandora's box?"

Laurence gave The Gunner a sheaf of papers. "Mister Michael's thoughts on certain issues, Sir Stephen. He asks that you read these papers and comment later on."

The Gunner cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. A quick read through the papers told him that Michael was planning major changes. In some respects he was about to stage a palace coup. "Have you read these?" he asked, indicating the papers.

"Absent a Page, Mister Michael has asked me to be your Secretary. I am to assist you in every way possible. In order to assist you, yes, I am privy to the contents of those documents."

The Gunner considered Laurence for a few moments. "We will, I take it, be working closely together?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps you will tell me a little about yourself." The Gunner shifted slightly in his seat. Laurence seemed a nice young man, and obviously he enjoyed Michael's trust. Still, he did not know anything about his new 'Secretary'. "You might begin with telling me which Service you were a member of."

Laurence straightened his back. "Royal Marines, Small Boat Service. I had seven years with them. I am still a member of the Royal Marines Reserve." He nodded toward the driver. "As is Noel. We are not yet members of the Order. We have been in Mister Michael's service for two years. I am 26-years old."

"Are you my minder or my advisor?"

Laurence gave The Gunner a long, steady gaze. "With respect, while there are some who need 'minding', you are not one of them. Mister Michael speaks highly of you. Major Meinertzhagen shares Mister Michael's opinion. If they did not you would not be riding in this motor car and I would be back at the house polishing the silver!"

Suitably chastened, The Gunner returned the papers to Laurence. "Did they tell you that I am opinionated, stubborn, and brute ugly when I want to be?"

Laurence nodded and smiled slightly. "They did. They also told me that you insist on perfection, that you do not suffer fools gladly, and that you insist on absolute honesty. They consider your personal integrity to be above reproach, that you have never, and will never, abuse, or use your authority or power to further your own ends."

"I have a terrible temper."

"I am aware of that."

"I can't abide a liar or dishonesty of any sort."

"I assure that I am not a liar and I am still a Royal Marine."

The Gunner thought of Andy. It could have been him sitting in the car instead of Laurence. "I speak my mind, and I can be very blunt," The Gunner continued with stern honesty. "I give honest opinions and I expect the same in return. If I ask your opinion I expect an honest answer, no matter how unpleasant the answer might be."

"Understood," replied Laurence calmly.

"If you fuck up, you fuck up once," The Gunner warned bluntly. "If I fuck up, or am about to fuck up, I'll expect you to whack me in the balls if you have to."

Laurence grinned. He was very pleased indeed at The Gunner's bluntness and plain speaking. "Then it is a very good thing indeed that the Major showed me where he keeps the two-by-fours."

Michael Chan was waiting at the bottom of the double steps leading up to his house. When The Gunner got out of the limousine he advanced a few steps and held out his hand. "Stephen, how very good to see you again." He shook The Gunner's hand and turned to indicate the Major, who was standing a few paces away. "You know Major Meinertzhagen?"

"Only by reputation," replied The Gunner honestly. He shook the Major's hand. Major Meinertzhagen smiled warmly. "As I know you. I suspect that both our reputations have grown with the telling."

Both Michael and The Gunner laughed. Michael stretched out his arm, indicating the house. "Shall we go in?" Inside the house Michael led The Gunner and the Major into his office. He went immediately to the drinks cart. "I trust you had a pleasant flight. Scotch?"

The Gunner nodded. "Rather boring, actually." Which was true. The plane had been empty except for the flight crew. The only other passenger booked, the Army Warrant Officer who had been snoring on the bench in the Departures Lounge had actually been passed out and missed the flight. Since White Knuckle Airlines was not known for the quality of the amenities it offered its passengers there had been no in-flight anything.

Michael smiled knowingly. "We shall have to do better than that." He passed out the drinks - no ice, The Gunner noted - and sat on the tapestry sofa flanking the fireplace. "So, Stephen, what do you think of Laurence?" Michael took a small sip of his drink, his poker face giving no indication why he had asked the question.

"He seems, at first glance, a very competent and personable young man. I rather like him," replied The Gunner. "You are up to something", he thought.

Michael looked at the Major and nodded. The Major reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it to Michael who barely looked at it. "And at second glance?"

"I gave him a rough time coming here. He didn't back down." The Gunner sipped his drink, thinking, "You are definitely up to something."

"Once a Bootneck, always a Bootneck," sniped the Major.

The Gunner chuckled and looked at Michael. "Another gesture?" he asked. "And so is the Major."

Michael shook his head. "Not at all. The reception committee and the car were, I admit, somewhat less than subtle gestures. Laurence was not, and is not, a gesture. He is, if you will, a test."

"A test?" The Gunner looked into his glass of scotch. "And here it comes."

"Stephen, as Chancellor you will be asked to approve future members of our Order." Michael stood up and replenished the drinks. "On your word, based on your intuition and your judgement of character, rests the future of our Order. Some would call it a terrible responsibility."

Once again The Gunner noticed Major Meinertzhagen staring intently at him, and realized that this conversation was some sort of a final examination. "I take it Laurence is a candidate?" asked The Gunner carefully, not taking his eyes from the Major.

Michael nodded and said, simply, "Yes, a candidate."

"And one whom they want badly," thought The Gunner. "Well, my lads, I might be cheap, but I am not easy." He looked levelly first at Michael, then at the Major. "Any decision I might make will be made without fear or favour, and not subject to outside influences. It will be based on his qualifications and my impression of him. And I might say no."

Major Meinertzhagen shot Michael a look. Few men had ever told Michael 'no', and fewer still had been given the opportunity to regret saying it. Michael's face was expressionless. Michael ignored the Major's look and said, without a trace of anger, "That goes without saying."

The Gunner was not afraid to make a judgement call. "Then yes, I would accept Laurence as a candidate."

"Without asking if he was a member of the Brotherhood?" asked Major Meinertzhagen, rising from his seat.

"Does it matter? A candidate's sexuality has never been an impediment. It matters only that his candidacy will eventually lead to the betterment of the Order."

"You approve of him, then?" asked Michael pointedly.

"Enough to sponsor him?" put in the Major.

The Gunner replied without hesitation. "Yes. So long as he has two other sponsors and either has been, or is willing to be, circumcised." The Gunner reached out for the piece of paper that The Major had handed Michael. "I'll sign Laurence's petition now.

When the Major left the room Michael waited until the door closed before he looked at The Gunner. "Would you have said no? Would you have said no, knowing that Laurence enjoyed the Major's patronage?" He paused for effect. "And mine?"

The Gunner looked levelly at Michael. "If, on balance, I felt that rejecting Laurence was better for the Order than accepting him, I would have said no."

"Why did you say yes?"

The Gunner thought a moment. "Michael, there are far too many in the Order who are satisfied with the status quo, or with feathering their nests. Or advancing their special 'pets'."

"And Laurence will not?" Michael smiled inwardly. He had not misjudged this man.

"No. Laurence strikes me as a strong, steady, level-headed young man." He shrugged and smiled. "Also, I cheated. I knew who the high and mighty personages supporting him were." He stood up and walked to the drinks table where he poured another drink, then raised the decanter at Michael, who shook his head, declining another drink. "I won't lie to you, Michael," continued The Gunner as he resumed his seat. "I know of your reputation. I've heard the rumours and I saw the look Meinertzhagen gave you when I told you I might have said no. I also know that the good Major is, shall we say, a man who believes in direct and final action."

Michael nodded. "Go on."

"Michael, if you wanted a yes man you would not have asked me to be your Chancellor. You are the type of man who leaves little, if anything to chance. You have what you euphemistically call friends all over the place. They have no doubt told you that I am not a pushover, that I will not compromise my principles and I will not, under any circumstances yield to pressure simply to please you."

Michael smiled slowly. "Perhaps my powers are greatly exaggerated."

The Gunner took a small drink from his glass. "With the greatest respect, Michael, bullshit!"

Michael laughed softly and shook his head. "Stephen, you will make a wonderful Chancellor!" He stood up and walked to where The Gunner was standing. "Soon, very soon, Stephen, we will talk about my plans. Tomorrow, you will be elected Chancellor. I will have only one request for you."

"Which is?"

"Find me one thousand Laurences!"

As dawn approached a warm wind began blowing across the Spit and the denizens of the various nomad encampments began waking. Harry, feeling gritty, sweaty, and out of sorts, woke his Sea Puppies and sent them into their barracks to wash.

In the Ropewalk Chris and Jon, sated from too much sex and tired from lack of sleep, kissed each other awake, dressed and went outside where they sat and watched the sun rise.

In the Wardroom Andy uncoiled himself from the chair he'd spent the night sleeping in and groaned loudly. His back and neck were killing him. He shuffled from the lounge and into his cabin. The dim light from the hall illuminated the foot of Kyle's bed. Andy stood there, looking at the sleeping form. As he watched, Kyle stirred and rolled over, turning his back. Andy sighed, went to his locker, pulled out his dhobi gear and left the cabin.

In the Chiefs' Mess Tyler woke with a start. He sat up and looked around. Val had hardly moved during the night. He was lying flat on the top of his bunk, naked, his legs slightly spread, his morning woody standing tall. Tyler stared at Val for a long time before getting out of bed. He quickly stripped off his shorts, freeing his own morning erection. His mind was reeling with mixed feelings of desire and revulsion. He told himself that he should not be looking at Val, that he should not be thinking what he was thinking.

Tyler rummaged in his locker, trying not to make too much noise and wake his sleeping roommate. He found his shaving gear and a dingy towel and as he turned and as he walked softly by Val's sleeping body he stopped and stared at Val's morning woody protruding from his boxers, the head glistening damply in the dim, morning light.

Moaning softly, Tyler reached out his hand and his fingers barely crossed the curving head of Val's penis, feeling the heat of Val's erection. Val's penis twitched and a small drop of clear liquid squeezed from his piss slit.

Tyler, as if touched by liquid fire, quickly snatched his hand away then hurried from the room. As he turned the corner into the corridor leading to the heads he raised his hand to his lips, tasting the warm, slick effluent that barely coated his fingertips, tasting a little bit of Val.

In the Gunroom the Twins slept on, while Thumper, who had heard Tyler leave his Mess, burrowed under his thin coverlet. He slipped his hand under the elastic waistband of his briefs and slowly stroked the firm flesh rising from his groin. He closed his eyes and slowly pumped his morning hardon, shrugging that he had to change his undies anyway. Greg stirred restlessly, oblivious to everything around him, dreaming bad dreams, his alcohol-fogged brain deadening the pain the dreams brought him.

At the end of the spit Andre woke slowly, blinking away the sleep. He moved his head slightly and nuzzled Nicholas's pubic bush. Andre loved the smells of this handsome English boy and he breathed deeply. Then he moved again and his lips found the round, firm, and lovely pink head of Nicholas's soft penis. Andre sucked slowly and Nicholas stirred.

Complaining loudly, 200 boys began their morning routines. There was no water for showers. There was enough water for the older boys to shave and enough water to wash pits, groins and the thin film of dried perspiration and windblown sand that seem to cover them all. After washing, the cadets began dressing. Their first problem was what to wear under their sports gear. Unlike Harry, who never wore a jock if he could help it, the rest of the cadets obeyed regulations, putting on their supporters over their underwear. Which was fine except nobody had any underwear and nobody wanted to wear crusty jocks. As Killian put it, he only had one set of upper deck fittings and while, he admitted, his fittings hadn't gotten much wear and tear thus far, he wasn't taking any chances. He would go negative jock and let the Chief PTI say what he liked.

The second problem was the uniform of the day. Each cadet had two uniforms, Number One Blues, and Number 11 Whites, white drill bells and jumper. Each uniform was worn with a heavily starched and ironed gun shirt. Both uniforms, while sharp looking and, to the cadets' teenaged minds, designed by God to show off their bodies and drive the opposite sex into paroxysms of sexual desire, the blue serge cloth and white drill had a tendency to roughness. Killian's tackle was once again held up as an example.

The Sea Puppies, who weren't all that hot to trot about bouncing around the parade square at the crack of dawn, went in search of their Sea Daddy and whined to Harry, who was in mid-tirade at Thumper for beating off in bed. His mood was not improved when Thumper pointed out that Harry was known, on occasion, to do exactly the same thing, only louder.

The Twins, convulsed with laughter, hid under their coverlets. Two Strokes, who had a Guard and Steerage, pretended to be asleep, praying that Harry would not notice that he was naked under the covers and that his own 4-inch mount was at Action Stations.

Harry, who was just as eager to avoid morning exercises as the next cadet, listened and heeded the plaints of his Puppies. He marched into the Petty Officers Mess and woke Mike who, while normally the most placid of individuals, was not at all amused by Harry pulling on his big toe and demanding that he "WAKE UP!" Mike was hot, he was sweaty, and he was hornier than a two-peckered owl in the moonlight. Phillip had had the Morning Watch so they had not had a chance to be together last night.

"You have a problem!" announced Harry loudly. There was a muttered growl and a curse from behind him. He turned and saw Little Big Man staring at him. Harry gave him a withering look. Little Big Man wisely decamped to the heads to wash up.

"What problem, and please, Harry, don't yell." said Mike as he crawled out of his fart sack. Much to Harry's surprise Mike was as naked as the day that he'd been born.

"My Sea Puppies have pointed out that you insist on them wearing jocks!" growled Harry indignantly.

"Me?" Mike's eyes widened. "I didn't write the fucking regulation. Go and complain to the guy who did."

"He's not here, you are," returned Harry. "Most of the boys don't have anything to wear under their shorts. Do you want to be responsible for 38 sets of tackle being rubbed raw while you make their owners jump up and down?"

The thought of 38 Sea Puppies whining was not a pleasant prospect. Mike tried to temporize. "Well, Harry, I really don't know what I can . . ."

"You can ease back on the exercises is what you can do!" snarled Harry in reply. Mike thought a moment, idly wiping away the rivulet of sweat coursing down his bare chest. "How about if we cancel this mornings exercises?" he asked with a grin. "It's better than having you bitch at me after 38 kids have bitched at you."

Harry was shocked. He could scarcely believe that Mike Sunderland would utter such heresy. He cocked his head, waiting for the sound of the Veil in the Temple of Jockdom being rent asunder to roll through the Mess. "Cancel? Just forget the whole thing?" asked Harry warily.

"Sure," confirmed Mike. He turned, rummaged in his locker and pulled out a pair of shorts. "See these? They're all I have left. I'm in the same boat as everybody else. I've been too busy to do a laundry so I'm down to these." This was the truth. Mike had been busy, only he was not about to tell Harry that he'd been busy making out with Phillip, called the Assistant, every chance they got.

"We'll have to run it by Tyler . . ." said Harry sceptically.

Mike shrugged and pulled on his clean shorts. "So we'll run it by Tyler."

As they walked down the length of barracks Harry put one arm around Mike's shoulders. "You know, Mike, I couldn't help but notice, but, well, your dick has gotten bigger."

Mike stopped dead in his tracks. "Harry, you're nuts. And what are you doing looking at my dick?"

"Well, you will wave it in the breeze for anyone to look at, Mike," replied Harry blandly. "Now, come on, how'd you do it? Exercise, a special diet?"

"Harry . . ."

Harry began easing Mike toward the door leading to the Gunroom. "I'm not asking for me, you understand. The Pride is as perfect as it can get and you can't improve on perfection."

"Harry . . ."

"It's for Two Strokes, you see. He's not a bad guy, even if he can be a prick sometimes."

Mike pushed open the door to the Gunroom and entered. Harry had not released his hold on him. Mike was not sure what Harry was up to. He was also not sure what Harry was going on about. He hadn't noticed any sudden growth spurt down there.

"Come on, Mike, you can tell me," continued Harry. "You know what it's like to go through life with a small dick. Two Strokes is in the same boat. He's a little feller, you know, and if we can help him I think we should help him."

Mike looked up and saw Two Strokes, who had been in the washplace having a stoker's scrub, strolling down the Gunroom. Mike couldn't help but notice that Two Strokes was a little feller. He also did not dare tell Harry that any growth he might have had - and which certainly could not have helped Two Strokes - was due to Phillip, and what they'd been doing together. After all, that which is used develops, or so the saying went.

Two Strokes, oblivious to the discussion concerning his most private and prized possession greeted the two teens. "Hey guys, how they hanging'?" He could not understand when Mike suddenly broke into uncontrollable laughter.

The Phantom awoke at 0400 feeling exactly like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. He had not slept well, tossing and turning most of the night, fretting and stewing away the hours, berating himself for what he had said to The Gunner. He left his room and went into the bathroom where he shaved, poked and pulled at the incipient bags under his eyes, growled at his reflection, showered, dressed, and then drove to work.

After greeting Chef, Ray, Sandro and the Brats, The Phantom puttered around, waiting for the early morning diners to show up, not saying all that much. Chef, on the other hand, was in a wonderful mood. He'd had a solid eight hours sleep, Ray and Kevin had not left too much evidence behind in his office, Randy and Joey were working like little beavers, Sandro was actually smiling, and nobody had burned, dropped or ruined anything. His infectious good humour left The Phantom unmoved, which meant something was wrong. Phantom was normally an open, gregarious young man and walking around with a face on him like a smacked arse was not normal for him.

Chef watched and listened, and learned nothing beyond the fact that Phantom had driven The Gunner to the airport last night. Ray was as much in the dark as he was.

As breakfast progressed word filtered through that not only was morning callisthenics cancelled but that the dress for Ceremonial Divisions would be sports gear. Word also came down that laundry would be collected at 1000 and taken to Base.

Chef, worried, watched as The Phantom listlessly went about his duties. Finally, using the table linens stored in the Wardroom Store as an excuse, he called The Phantom into his Office. "So, Phantom, do you want to talk about it?" he asked after The Phantom had settled on the sofa.

The Phantom remembered Brian telling him that sometimes it just helps to talk about things. He looked at Chef, his face crestfallen. "The Gunner and me, we sort of had a fight," he admitted with a sad look on his face.

Chef raised an eyebrow. "Sort of?"

"Well, I said some things about, um, certain things, and I really hurt his feelings."

"May I ask what the argument was about?"

The Phantom squirmed a bit in his seat. "Well, it really wasn't an argument, Chef. It was just, well, he was talking about this Order or whatever, and he started to tell me about these Knights and how they found a piece of the True Cross and . . ."

The Phantom's sceptical tone caused Chef to raise one eyebrow. He said nothing, however. During his years as Proctor to the Order he had heard that same tone many times. Phantom would require a careful and delicate touch and . . .

The Phantom saw the look on Chef's face. No, it couldn't be. Chef wasn't . . .

Chef stood up and extended his hand. "Pax Vobiscum, Phantom."

"Come on, hurry up," said Rob impatiently. He turned and motioned at the small, thin figure that shuffled some five paces behind him. Ryan mumbled something about some people not having to worry about their danglies as he kicked at the gravel of the path. Rob scowled and waited until Ryan caught up to him. "Look, all Doc is going to do is look at you."

"And then start hacking away at my dick!" retorted Ryan.

"He didn't last time," replied Rob with an impatient gesture. "And he's not going to hack away at it!"

"You don't have to worry, it's not your dick!"

"Ryan, even if he does have to circumcise you it's for your own good! You know that!"

"Major Phelps says it will mutilate me."

"It's not Major Phelps's dick that dripping!"

"It will hurt."

"What do you think anaesthetic is for? And pain killers"

They stopped outside of the canteen and sat on one of the benches in the breezeway flats. Ryan ostentatiously sniffed his armpits. "I stink. I need a shower. You always shower before you see the doctor."

"They have a shower in Sick Bay. I'm sure if you ask, Matron will let you use it."

Ryan shuddered at the thought of having to confront Matron. "I don't have any underwear on. I can't let Matron see me without any underwear on."

"It's not Matron who's going to see you," replied Rob calmly. "And unless you pull down your shorts how is she going to know?"

Realizing that he was getting nowhere, Ryan tried another tack. "Major Phelps says that if I get my foreskin cut off I won't be sensitive down there anymore. You know, when I have sex, it won't feel . . ."

Rob growled. "Ryan, do you remember what happens to me when I blow my load?"

Ryan giggled at the thought. Rob bucked, rolled, moaned, groaned and all but howled at the moon when he ejaculated, which did not say much for the loss of sensitivity argument. "Major Phelps says I'll get trauma."

"You'll get what?"

"I'll get trauma. I'll have nightmares forever about my foreskin."

"I have nightmares about your fucking foreskin!" Rob was losing his temper. It was obvious that this Major Phelps critter had brainwashed Ryan with everything negative he could think of. "I was circumcised when I was three days old. I do not remember it, I have never thought about it, and I sure as fuck never had nightmares about it!"

Rob's patience had worn thin and his sleepless night had diminished his tolerance for Ryan's continued, whining reluctance. He stood up and began to walk away.

"Where are you going?" demanded Ryan.

"Back to the barracks. I have to pack my laundry for the pick-up after Divisions."

"But you said you'd stay with me!"

Rob rounded on Ryan. "Look, Ryan, your dick's a mess. You know it, I know it! Either you take care of it or you don't. It's your dick. Just do something, for Christ's sake."

Ryan reached out and pulled Rob's arm. "Rob, I'm scared," he said softly.

"I know, Ryan, I know," replied Rob. Taking a deep breath he sat down again and put his arm around Ryan. "Ryan, I only want what's best for you. All I'm saying is go and see Doc. He might not even think you have to be clipped. He fixed you up the last time."

Ryan sighed heavily. "The last time he put some stuff on it to stop the bleeding. It hurt a little." He looked at Rob and snickered. "But not as bad as the time I used the styptic pencil."

His eyes wide with shock, Rob gasped, "You used a styptic pencil on your dick?" He reached out and rubbed Ryan's bare arm. "Fuck me, Ryan, that shit burns!"

"Tell me about it. I sure danced around after I did it."

"Now who would ever tell you to do something as stupid as that? That stuff is for when you cut yourself shaving! You use it on your face, not your dick!"

"Well, I was bleeding and my Dad . . ."

"God damn it to hell!" Rob exploded. The very thought of poor Ryan putting styptic on his dick was appalling. That his father had suggested it was too much. Then he remembered that Ryan's father hadn't drawn a sober breath in years, and wouldn't know a foreskin from the foc'sle at the best of times. "Ryan, I am not asking you to do anything you don't want to do. I am telling you never to use that styptic stuff again."

"Don't worry, I won't." He stood up and gestured for Rob to follow. "Come with me to Sick Bay, please?"

As Rob and Ryan slowly made their way to Sick Bay the other cadets hurried past. 0800 was fast approaching and Ceremonial Divisions were imminent. Everybody wanted to get Divisions over and done with because they also had Captain's Rounds to look forward to.

The cadets formed in their Divisions under the direction of the Chiefs and Petty Officers, the Guard, with Kyle in front, waited on one side of the parade square. On the other side The Band, Harry to the fore, waited impatiently. The sun, while still low down the horizon, was very hot. There was a slight breeze blowing from the shore, but it was warm and did nothing to cool down overheated bodies.

Harry fidgeted and squirmed as the sweat coursed wetly down his sides from his armpits, and down the inside of his legs from his crotch. Like all of the other cadets he was dressed in sports gear and his T-shirt was soaked. His shorts, under which was nothing but Harry, clung wetly to his ass and crotch. He glanced irritably at his watch. He glared as Nicholas raised the Prep flag up the mast. Harry grimaced, groaned, squirmed and wiggled as a small, annoying rivulet of perspiration began coursing its way down his penis.

"Harry, please, you make want to pee," whined Andre.

"Are we ever going to get this show on the road?" asked the Bass Drummer. His name was Lucius but everybody called him Fozzy, as he bore a striking resemblance to the bear of Muppet fame.

Harry consulted his watch again. He looked over toward the Headquarters Building. There was still no sign of the officers. "Right," he growled. He turned and fixed his eye on the musicians. "Number Seventy-Two, fortissimo!"

In the Executive Officer's cabin the officers had gathered for morning coffee and to discuss the day's coming events. The Commanding Officer had joined them and was explaining his reasoning for not doing an inspection when there came such a blast of music - the brass section of the Band, fortissimo - that Dave Eddy jumped in his seat and spilled coffee all over his last set of tropical white trousers. Fortunately the coffee was lukewarm.

"What in the hell is that!" yelped Andy as the music continued to soar.

Sub-Lieutenant Ramseur, newly commissioned and new appointed Band Officer, smiled thinly. "Also Sprach Zarathustra, by Richard Strauss," he said with a throaty chuckle. "More familiarly known as the Fanfare and Overture to 2001:A Space Odyssey."

"Ha, ha, ha," snarled Dave as he tried to wipe away the coffee stain with a paper napkin. "HAL will be proud of the little darlings!"

Number One stifled his laughter by pretending to cough. Father decided that his pipe needed filling urgently. Andy, ever the helpful Marine offered Dave his napkin. Wally and No "H" decided that a raid on the pastry supply was in order.

"Now, David, do calm down," soothed Father. "We are overlong and it bodes hot this day. So hot I think we'll dispense with Ceremonial Divisions." He looked at Number One. "I think we'll just do a quick look at them and then have them do a run through of the Ceremony of the Flags." Number One nodded his agreement. "The laundry situation is solved?" asked Father.

"The truck will be here at 0930. They can do their smalls in town at the Laundromat. Base has laid on some buses."

The Commanding Officer frowned. "I wish we could tell them that the water situation had improved." Father studied his pipe. "A most uncomfortable situation, really. I know. When I was in HERMIONE, on the old China Station one of the condensers went out and we had no water . . ."

Number One harrumphed loudly. Lately Father had developed a tendency toward reminiscing at the drop of a hat. Once he got started it was difficult to shut him up. "The Met boys tell me that there's a front moving up from the south. We should get some rain by tomorrow night. Cool things down a bit," he said quickly, hoping that Father would take the hint.

Father glared balefully at the Executive Officer. "But not enough to raise the water pressure." There was another blast of music from the parade square. "Gentlemen, the natives are getting restless." He stood up and led his officers from the room.

"The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things," said Doc, "Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, and whether Ryan should have a little operation."

Ryan was sitting on the examination table, a hangdog look on his face. He raised his eyes and gave Doc a sad look. "It's gotta happen, huh?" He was wearing only a thin hospital gown, which was open at the back and his bare bum was sticking to the paper covering the table.

Doc nodded. "Ryan, me lad, if I didn't think it necessary I wouldn't suggest it to you." He hoisted himself into a sitting position beside Ryan. "You have a problem, and it's not going to get any better. I can give you more pills for the pain, I can clean you up, I can give you a lecture on personal hygiene, but the fact of the matter is that you need to be circumcised." Ryan sighed and laid his head on Doc's shoulder. Surprised at this show of trust and affection, Doc put his arm around Ryan's shoulder. "Ryan, it is not the end of the world. You have your surgery and in two or three weeks you'll be as right as rain."

"Will it hurt?"

"Once the local wears off, yes, but only for a little while."

"Major Phelps said that it hurts for weeks and weeks."

Doc managed to keep his temper under control. "Major Phelps is full of shit," he said firmly. "He doesn't believe in circumcision so he's lying through his teeth and using myth, exaggeration and old wives' tales to frighten you into making the wrong decision." He gave Ryan a soft hug. "There will be postoperative discomfort. It's an operation, after all. During the procedure you won't feel a thing, I promise."

"It won't look, you know, ugly, will it. I mean, all scarred and ripped up and . . ."

"Major Phelps again?" asked Doc gently.

Ryan nodded.

Doc ground his teeth to keep from bellowing imprecations at the so-called Doctor Major Phelps. He took a deep breath and looked directly at Ryan, who was shaking slightly from nervousness. "The only scar will be a pale ring around your penis. You've seen the other boys. What do they look like?"

Ryan thought a moment and pictured Rob in his mind's eye. He smiled shyly. "Pretty nice, actually."

"You want to look like that?"

Ryan nodded slowly.

"Then you shall, I promise you!" Doc jumped off the table. He held Ryan's hand and squeezed gently.

"Will I have to go to hospital?" asked Ryan.

"No. We'll do it here. The procedure takes about an hour. You'll spend the night in the ward and tomorrow, if there's no bleeding or complications, you'll go back to your own little bed."

"And it won't hurt?"

"Not at all. I'll use a local anaesthetic." Doc grinned widely. "Unless you want me to find a bullet for you to bite on?"

Laurence pushed open the door and walked into the bedroom, the soft, green carpet cushioning and silencing his footsteps as he approached the tall window. He stopped and pushed aside the pale green and gold-figured drapes and the hard rays of the morning sun streamed into the room, filling it with natural light.

The Gunner had awakened the moment he heard the door to his room opening. When he saw that it was Laurence, come to wake him, he stretched and yawned. He looked up and saw the slightly coved and moulded ceiling above his bed. If only Mother could see him now.

His room was large, but not overly so, and cozy, rather than opulent. The walls were papered in a Regency pattern paper that matched the draperies that hung on the windows. The furniture, including the bed, was very old, and very solid. Across from the bed was a working fireplace flanked by two pale beige, rather plain sofas. There was a chest-on-chest that gleamed with the patina of age, a partner's desk and a gentleman's dressing table. Beside the dressing table was a silent butler, on which were hung his blazer and grey flannels.

Laurence bid The Gunner a cheerful good morning and motioned for Noel to come into the room. Noel carried a large silver tray on which sat a coffee service, a china teapot, cups and several covered dishes. He quietly began setting the table that stood in the middle of the room - a round, heavy piece inlaid with magnificent marquetry. Noel pulled one of the chairs that stood under the windows up to the table and waited patiently for a very self-conscious and embarrassed Gunner (he had slept as he normally slept, in his boxers and T-shirt), to get out of bed.

Laurence, as if it were an every day occurrence, went into the adjoining dressing room and returned with a large, dark blue robe. The Gunner nodded his thanks and reached for the robe. Laurence shook his head slowly and held the garment out. The Gunner, even more embarrassed, allowed Laurence to slip the robe over his shoulders. He walked to the table and sat in the chair that Noel held out for him. Noticing that Noel was wearing a white jacket The Gunner groaned softly.

"Is there a problem, sir?" asked Laurence as he gave Noel a what the fuck did you do? look.

The Gunner looked at the two clearly worried men and chuckled. "I totally forgot that I promised to run an errand for a friend. Noel's jacket reminded me."

Both Laurence and Noel were visibly relieved. Michael had told them that the man was to be coddled, pandered to, and made happy in any and every way possible.

"Perhaps I might be of assistance?" offered Laurence.

"I really don't want to bother you, Laurence."

"I assure you, sir, it will be no bother. Now then, what can I do?"

The Gunner stood up and walked to the bedside table where he picked up the small leather portfolio in which he carried his papers and notes. He opened it and found the piece of paper he was looking for and handed it to Laurence who glanced at the paper and then extended his arm toward the table. "Please sir, your breakfast. Coffee, croissants and some fruit."

While The Gunner had once seen service in a stately home he had never been served. He found it both embarrassing and pleasant. "I had hoped for an hour or two free time," he said, indicating the piece of paper in Laurence's hand. "The man I need to see is the Chief Storekeeper at HMCS DISCOVERY. I'm hoping he has some stewards jackets I could borrow."

Laurence glanced at the paper again. There was a name, and a list of sizes of jackets. "Naval stewards?" he asked looking up. "Navy blue stand-up collar and cuffs?"

The Gunner nodded. "Yes. Looking at Noel's jacket reminded me that I promised to get some." He sipped some of the coffee Noel had poured for him. The liquid was hot, and delicious. "I thought you were a Bootneck."

Laurence smiled. "I was, and am, as is Noel. However, before we joined the SBS we were Fleet Marines. We did a commission in CUMBERLAND. In addition to manning "Y" turret during Action Stations we were officers' stewards."

"Comprehensive pretending to be public school, if you get my meaning sir." Noel's burr betrayed his Scottish ancestry.

"You must forgive Noel, sir, he's really very Bolshie at heart," said Laurence with a slight smile.

The Gunner saw a look pass between the two men. He'd seen that look before and knew at once that they were more than friends and he suspected that when Laurence went to bed last night he'd not slept alone.

"Och, just because the Queen says a mon is a gentleman it does nae follow that he is." Noel sniffed and tilted his nose in the air.

"Are you always this outspoken?" asked The Gunner. Noel's frankness was refreshing.

"Unfortunately, he is," answered Laurence. He quickly shooed Noel from the room. "You must forgive him. He still has a few rough edges."

The Gunner motioned for Laurence to sit down. "I still have a few rough edges." He looked steadily at Laurence as he reached for the coffee pot. "Coffee?"

Laurence nodded, feeling a trifle ill at ease. He was supposed to be the servant around here.

"Michael asked me to find him a thousand Laurences," said The Gunner as he poured the coffee. "Which leads me to think that he has plans for you. You're no servant, Laurence." He put the coffee pot down. "So then, what are you? Counsellor? Advisor? Future confidant? Hardly a spy, I think. Knowing Michael he has a dossier on me at least an inch thick."

Laurence smiled. "Two inches thick, actually. Did you really shell the Dartmouth Ferry?"

The Gunner laughed. "A youthful indiscretion that continues to haunt me!" He shook his head in remembrance. "Mind, the story did come in handy last month when two of my cadets pissed in the pickles."

"They sound a handful. Two hundred-odd boys," said Laurence.

"They can be," agreed The Gunner. "Fortunately, they know me, and I know them." He looked directly at Laurence. "Which cannot be said for you."

"I'm afraid you'd find me a most boring fellow," replied Laurence calmly. While he had a chequered past, not too many people knew about it. And he was not at all sure that he wanted to increase that number.

"Laurence, if you and I are to work together, I need to know the measure of you. Last night I signed your petition to become a Professed Knight. That tells me that you are homosexual. You told me that you were a Royal Marine. You've given hints about this and that, but you've said nothing substantive. While I am sure that Michael and Major Meinertzhagen know everything there is to know about you, I would like to know you better, and not in the biblical sense. That's not the way I work."

Laurence took a sip of coffee then carefully placed his cup on the table. "I am not privy to Mister Michael's grand plan. I do know that I am to work with you, which is why I was made privy to your dossier. We are alike in many ways. Surprisingly so."

"Really?"

"Yes. You had your awakening in CORNWALLIS. Mine was in Vietnam."

"Vietnam?" The Gunner asked, surprised. He had heard rumours, but then . . . There was obviously much more to Laurence that either the Michael or the Major had let on.

Laurence nodded. "I was there at the same time that you were there, although in a far different capacity. Contrary to popular belief there was still an American presence in country, although very hush-hush."

"And you were a part of that . . . presence?"

Laurence nodded and began, "You are no doubt familiar with the LRRPs teams? Well . . ."

The Phantom blew out a long, slow breath of air and stared, wide-eyed, at the man before him, a man he no longer knew. This man looked like Chef, his voice sounded like Chef's, but he was not Chef. This was no Falstaffian buffoon concerned only with enjoying life and taking the mickey out of poor unsuspecting, innocent Sea Cadets. The man seated before The Phantom was warm, yet a trifle distant, articulate, and very intense. In every way he was not Chef, but of course he was Chef who had, quietly, and with a clarity that The Phantom never suspected, talked about the Order, a story of triumph and tragedy, of resurgence and rebirth, not of heroes, but of men.

When he was finished Chef sat back and looked fondly at the confused young man sitting before him. "Stevie loves you, Phantom. When he was talking to you last night he was about to offer you a great gift."

"I didn't know," whispered The Phantom. "He never said anything, really. He hinted a bit, but that's all."

Chef nodded knowingly. "He couldn't, you see. As a Knight he could propose you, but it was not up to him to talk to you about the Order. Another man, namely me, would do that."

"He said that," replied The Phantom. He suddenly looked at Chef. "Chef does that mean that you're . . ."

Chef laughed heartily veiled allusion. "If I am it will come as a hell of a shock to my ex-wife. Not to mention Madam Ada and more than a couple of professional ladies in Halifax." The old Chef was still there, but subdued.

"But, Chef, if you're not . . ."

Chef leaned forward and looked at The Phantom. "One does not have to be homosexual to be member of the Order. While the Order was originally founded by and for gay men, as time went by heterosexuals, men of courage, men of kindness, men who were and are willing to sacrifice their lives and fortunes, but never their honour, defending the belief that all men are created equal, not just the ones who are heterosexual, came to be included. There are not many, sadly."

"And the Order helps all gays in trouble?"

Chef shook his head emphatically. "Not pedophiles, nor men who get themselves into trouble by their own stupidity, Oscar Wilde comes to mind. I am sure you have heard of him, although stuck in this abysmal backwater I tend to doubt it."

The Phantom immediately sprang to the defence of the Comox school system. "Have too! He was an English playwright." The Phantom had studied Wilde in English Lit, and the town library system had his books, well, all but "The Picture of Dorian Grey" and, for some reason, the "Ballad of Reading Gaol."

"He was also a most indiscreet man who brought all his troubles on to himself," advised Chef gravely. "Mr. Wilde insisted on defending his so-called honour when there was no need to. Then he got up in the dock and made a complete fool of himself. No, the Order would not help him. It will help a gay man who through no fault of his own is being discriminated against."

"That's what I want to do." The Phantom squared his shoulders and looked sternly at Chef. "Evil exists when good men do nothing!"

"A noble, and sadly, true sentiment, Phantom," agreed Chef. He cocked his head and returned The Phantom's stare. "And while I applaud your intentions, I must warn you, dear boy that noble causes quite often come with a heavy price."

"There have been too many dead, too many years of bigotry and hatred!" The Phantom's smooth, handsome features reddened. "Something must be done, Chef."

"Even if it means being ostracized by your family, and your friends?" asked Chef kindly. "Even if it means the loss of your fortune? Think well, Phantom. At the moment the Order exists in the shadows. Sooner or later it will stand alone in the sun, and there will be a host of people more than willing to bring it down."

The Phantom nodded with purpose and finality. "I will do whatever it takes. I am a gay man! I accept that fact, and it is a fact, Chef. I have a God-given right to be me! To be whatever I want to be, whether it is a doctor, a lawyer, or a Naval officer. I will fight any man - or boy - who tries to take that right away from me!"

Chef thought a moment. "By fair means or foul? I say that because there might come a time when you will be asked to trod a darker path."

"By fair means or foul," repeated The Phantom grimly. "The enemy knows no rules. I can, and will, if I have to, play the game their way. I am not afraid, Chef. I am not a coward."

The intensity of The Phantom's answer startled Chef. He held up his hand. "I never suggested that you were, Phantom. I merely suggest that you might be called upon to make a sacrifice that will be hurtful, and, in many ways harmful to you and your reputation."

"Chef, I don't lie. I don't cheat. I don't steal. I believe in my friends, and they believe in me. If I have to fight for them, I will. If I have to die for them, then so be it. With or without the Order, that's the way it's going to be!"

Ryan was very bored. Relaxed, but bored. He was actually a little sleepy for Doc, after his initial examination had given Ryan a very mild sedative to help calm him down. Rob had stayed for a little while but had to leave to attend Divisions. When Rob left Ryan had taken a shower, which felt wonderful. Matron, seeing his embarrassment, had given him two clean hospital gowns so at least his butt wasn't sticking to the Naugahyde upholstery of the chair he was sitting in. Ryan listened to the usual shouts, bellows, crashes and bangs associated with Divisions, had a pee, looked out the window to see what was going on, then had another pee. Both times he had carefully followed Doc's instructions to gently retract his foreskin and carefully wash his glans with the antiseptic soap provided by Matron.

No one had shown up for Sick Call, which immediately followed Divisions, which meant that nobody but Rob knew why he was sitting here in the waiting room.

After Divisions there was a lull of almost an hour. Ryan had nodded off and was awakened by the crash of the guns being fired for the Ceremony of the Flags. He listened to the bands playing, and, being an old hand (he'd been a more or less willing participant in the Ceremony for three years) knew at once that the guns were half a beat off from the music, which meant that there would be hell to pay.

Todd, the Battery Commander, was an exacting and precise gunner. The Saluting Battery was supposed to fire 21 rounds at precise intervals while the Band played The Maple Leaf Forever and the Colour bearers slow marched around the parade square. The last round was fired at exactly the same time as the last note of music was played. Most people would have been satisfied with an error of half a beat. Todd would not and the gunners would be practising again this afternoon.

There was another lull and Ryan felt his eyes growing heavy. He was about to settle down to another nap when the door crashed open and Father, trailed by Number One and Tyler, charged into the room. The Commanding Officer, full of bonhomie and bluster greeted Ryan in a loud, cheerful voice. "Well, young Ryan, I understand that my Storekeeping Cavalier is to become a Roundhead!" Father bellowed.

Ryan almost died on the spot. So much for keeping his little operation between the Medical Staff and himself!

Father and Number One sailed on into Doc's office leaving Tyler to stay with Ryan. Tyler, seeing the stricken look on Ryan's face sat down beside him and gave his shoulder a small punch. "Are you okay?" he asked sympathetically.

Ryan smiled shyly. He liked Tyler, who had always been kind to him. "A little worried," he admitted. He nodded toward the closed door to Doc's office. "Are they talking about me?" he asked, blushing slightly.

Tyler nodded. "The Old Man has to sign off the paperwork. Once he does, Doc can do the surgery."

Ryan was a little puzzled. He'd thought that the whole matter was between him and Doc. "What paperwork?"

"Before you came here your parents signed a medical waiver that basically makes you a ward of the Commanding Officer, sort of your guardian," explained Tyler. "That's so that in case you have an accident, or something bad happens, the Commanding officer can see that you get immediate treatment and nobody has to run around like mad things trying to find your parents."

"Good luck on that one, mate," thought Ryan. Under normal circumstances his mother would be out taking his brothers and sisters to day care or school, and then she would go to work. His father, well, from noon on he spent his time propping up the bar in the Sergeants' Mess, where he'd stay until he fell off his bar stool (a not uncommon occurrence) or ran out of money.

"Don't worry, Ryan. Doc knows what he's doing." Tyler smiled and gave the younger boy a most uncharacteristic hug. "It will all be over soon."

The door to Doc's office opened and the Commanding Officer entered the waiting room. He sat down beside Ryan and gently patted the boy's knee. "Ryan, the Doctor has recommended that you undergo medical circumcision due to what he has diagnosed as recurring balanitis. As your Commanding Officer I want to be sure that you understand fully just what is going to happen to you."

"I understand. He's going to cut off my foreskin," replied Ryan slowly.

Father nodded. "He's explained that there are other alternatives?"

Ryan thought a moment. Doc had explained that his condition could be controlled by medication and, as Doc put it, stringent and meticulous hygiene. In addition to having to take a pill three times a day, every time he went pee Ryan would have to wash himself with a special soap, which was basically what his doctor back home had him doing. Ryan looked evenly at Father. "Sir, have you ever been to a hockey game? A real hockey game, in an arena?" Ryan asked.

Father was not a hockey fan and freely admitted that he had never attended a hockey game. He admitted to being partial to football and had stood in the stands on many a Saturday afternoon watching a match. He shook his head. "I prefer a good soccer match," he replied.

"Have you ever had to pee . . . sorry, have you ever had to go to the bathroom during the match?" asked Ryan.

Father caught Ryan's drift and smiled, nodding his understanding. He had visions of the poor little devil trying to faithfully follow doctor's orders in a crowded pissoir under the baleful eyes of a hundred excited football fans.

"I'll lose the skin, then," said Ryan as he returned the Commanding Officer's smile.

Matron, dressed in pale green surgical scrubs led Ryan into the examining room, which had been prepared for surgery. The examining table had been draped with a sterile sheet and a small metal table, on which lay the instruments Doc would use for the procedure, stood at hand. After helping Ryan remove his gowns Matron directed him to get on the table, which he did. He also covered his genitals, hiding them from her view.

Matron smiled a secret smile. Ryan was not the first young man she'd assisted in the operating theatre and they had all reacted the same way. She handed the boy a small paper cup. Ryan looked doubtfully at the pill in the cup. "What's this?" he asked.

"Diazepam, 5 milligrams. It's to help you relax."

Ryan took the pill and lay back. With great reluctance he removed his hands when Matron told him to. He felt a cold moistness and raised his head. Matron was applying some sort of liquid to his groin. "What's that," demanded Ryan, his voice panicky.

"My, aren't you the inquisitive one," returned Matron. "If you must know it's a eutectic cream. It's an anaesthetic so that when Doctor injects the local you won't feel the needle."

"Oh."

Matron calmly finished salving Ryan's groin and then drew a clean sheet over his naked body. "Now we wait for a while and then Doctor will be in. You're not too frightened are you?" she asked.

"No," lied Ryan.

Matron patted his cheek and assured him the Doctor knew exactly what he was doing and that everything would be all right. She left the room and Ryan was alone for about a half hour when Doc came in. In his hand he held a large syringe, and before Ryan could say a word Doc said with a slight chuckle, "Matron tells me that you are an inquisitive little chap and that you want to know everything."

Ryan nodded silently.

"Well," said Doc as he pulled down the sheet covering Ryan's body, "what I have here are 200 megs of Marcaine and Xylocaine. It is a local anaesthetic, which I am going to use as a dorsal penile block. What that means is I'm going to freeze your tackle so that you don't feel anything when I do the surgery." He gently stuck the needle into Ryan's groin. Ryan winced but did not cry out. Doc clucked and muttered as he deftly anaesthetized Ryan's crotch. When he was finished he went off to change.

Matron returned and began the final preparations for Ryan's surgery. She bathed Ryan's penis with Betadyne, explaining that it was an antiseptic solution, and then placed a surgical drape over him. Except for his penis, he was covered from neck to ankles. Doc returned, dressed in surgical scrubs. "Well, Ryan, it's that time," he said gently. "It's not too late to change your mind."

Ryan swallowed and shook his head. "I want to do it, please."

Doc nodded and reached down. He squeezed the head of Ryan's covered penis. "Feel that?" he asked.

Ryan felt pressure, but no pain. "Nope, nothing."

Doc squeezed harder and still Ryan felt nothing.

"Right. We shall begin." Doc picked up a surgical pen and made a ring around Ryan's penis, marking where he would make his excision. Then he picked up his scalpel.

Matron saw the look of fear that came into Ryan's eyes and slipped her hands into his. "It's all right, Ryan, you're in good hands," she said soothingly, thinking of all the hands of frightened boys she had held while the doctors worked on them. For a few brief moments she was back in the hastily established field hospital in St. Stephen's College, Hong Kong. December 1941, and there were Japanese soldiers in the hills behind the school buildings. Later, after the horror had passed, she remembered the internment camp where she was imprisoned and, later still, the MASH unit in Korea.

Ryan saw a side of Matron that no man or boy, except for those young soldiers and sailors she called 'her boys', ever saw. He smiled at the portly woman. Suddenly he was no longer frightened and no longer heard Doc droning away about external preputial incisions and retracted foreskins.

The Phantom, still slightly stunned at what Chef had told him, put the finishing touches on the officers' table. He'd had to set the tables alone, as all the stewards were still on the parade square. From the sounds drifting in through the open doors of the dining hall it was obvious that their performance this morning had been less than perfect. >From all the yelling it was evident that Todd would accept nothing less than perfection.

Chef had reverted to his old self and was bellowing in the galley. One of the four new Makee-Learns had done something. Chef pretended that he couldn't tell one from the other. They were all from the same town (Thorold, on the Welland Canal), were all 13-years and some months old, and all had brown hair. If he needed one of them Chef would bellow all four names, which were Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, although Luke's real name was David, but since "The Rifleman" was a frequent rerun on television back home and since David's last name was Cain . . . Chef maintained that he felt as if he were reciting The Litany of the Saints whenever he wanted a Makee-Learn.

The Phantom smiled at Chef's bellowing and was about to take a short break when a tall, slim figure entered the dining hall. He looked up and saw Greg advancing toward him, an envelope in his hand.

Greg looked terrible. He had bags under his eyes and his skin was a pasty grey. His T-shirt and shorts looked like he'd slept in them. With shaking hand he held out the envelope.

The Phantom took the envelope and then leaned forward. He sniffed, detecting a slight odour of alcohol, vodka, unless he missed his guess. "You've been drinking," he said flatly. "You look like shit and when was the last time you had a shower?" He stuffed the envelope in his pant's pocket.

Greg shuddered and burst into tears. He buried his face in his hands and shook his body from side to side. "Please, Phantom, please . . ." He sobbed and lowered his hands, revealing the tears as they coursed their way down his haggard cheeks. "I can't go to jail. I can't!"

The Phantom grabbed Greg's arm and quickly led him into the lounge where he grabbed the weeping boy by the shoulders and shook him fiercely. "Stop it!" he ordered. "You are not going to jail! Nobody is going to jail!"

"But . . ." Greg wailed piteously.

The Phantom resisted the urge to slap the quaking Writer. "Listen to me! You will not go to jail."

"But Phantom, there's another letter!" Greg slumped on the sofa. "There's another letter!"

"All right, there's another letter. What's in it?"

Greg looked at The Phantom, his face full of confusion. "I . . . don't . . .know," He began slowly. "I didn't open it."

"Then what are you worried about? You don't even know if you're mentioned!" With a look of disgust The Phantom drew the envelope out of his pocket, ripped it open, and quickly scanned the crabbed writing. What he read made him turn almost as white as Greg. Little Big Man had written his father that Matt was having an affair with The Gunner! He'd seen them all but making love! He'd seen them in the Mess Hall. A grown man had put his hand on Matt's bum! He'd rubbed Matt's bum and Matt, why he had loved it!

Stunned at the accusation The Phantom sat down abruptly in the chair opposite the sofa. He tried to think. When? Then he remembered. It had been on Wednesday, at lunchtime. The Gunner had come in late, with Number One, and Matty had groused about it. The Gunner had given Matt a playful pat on the bum, but that was all it was, damn it! He read on and was surprised to learn that The Gunner even had a pet name for Matt: "Boychick". The Phantom snorted so loudly that Greg, wallowing in self-pity, jerked his head up. "What?"

The Phantom shook his head. "Nothing," he muttered. "Nothing you should concern yourself with."

The Phantom finished reading the letter and laid his head against the back of the chair. The letter was a damning collection of innuendoes, suppositions and lies. A repetition of the other letters, really. As for writing that Boychick was a pet name of endearment for a lover, hell and sheeit, The Gunner called everybody boychick sooner or later!

For five or more long minutes The Phantom ignored the sniffling Greg. Echoes of words and phrases, flashing images of Jeff and Robbie, came and went. He heard again Chef's words and wondered if he was one of Chef's men of courage and kindness, one of those men willing to sacrifice everything, their lives, their fortunes, all save honour.

He thought of the Twins, his wonderful friends and lovers. He thought of Todd, denied his greatest wish. He thought of Cory, strong, wilful, and full of concern for his brother. He asked himself how high a price the Twins were willing to pay to avoid embarrassing their parents. He thought of Harry who would willingly endure anything rather than betray his love for Stefan. He looked at Greg, once the sharpest, brightest Writer AURORA had ever known, now a broken husk of a boy so afraid that he drowned his fears in alcohol.

A chill passed through The Phantom's body and he was afraid, knowing in his deepest heart of hearts that he had to trod a darker path. He knew what he had to do and prayed that he had the strength and fortitude to do it.

The Phantom stood up slowly and walked to where Greg was sitting. He pulled the still weeping boy to his feet and looked at him. Greg, puzzled, did not struggle as The Phantom bent forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Greg, I want you to stop crying," The Phantom said quietly. "Will you do that for me?"

Greg nodded dumbly, sniffed loudly, and forced his tears to subside. "I'm sorry, it's just that . . .Phantom, I can't eat, I can't sleep . . ."

"Ssh, Greg, it's all right." The Phantom gave Greg a warm hug. "I want you to listen to me, Greg, and I want you to do something for me."

"Okay, yeah."

The Phantom took Greg's hand and led him into the locker room where he stopped before his locker, opened it and took out his razor and a can of aerosol shaving cream. The Phantom handed the razor and shaving cream to Greg. "I want you shave, Greg, and then shower. I want you to take a long, hot shower."

Greg nodded. "But, Phantom, what will I wear? I don't have any clean clothes." He leaned forward and whispered. "Phantom, I don't even have any clean underwear!"

"Not to worry," replied The Phantom soothingly. He pulled a clean T-shirt, a pair of shorts, and his last clean pair of boxers from the locker. He handed the clothing to Greg. "I know you prefer briefs but I'm a boxers man, so these will have to do. Now, please, go do as I ask."

While Greg showered The Phantom went into the galley and motioned for Ray to come alongside. "What's up?" asked Ray.

"Ray, I want you to make an omelette. Eggs, bacon, peppers, whatever you have. When it's cooked bring it into the lounge."

A little puzzled, Ray nodded his agreement. "I can warm up some of the hash browns from breakfast as well. You want coffee, too?"

Seeing the look on Ray's face The Phantom decided to tell him the truth. "Greg's in a bad way. He's been drinking and he needs food. Please, Ray, cook up something for him." He paused and squeezed Ray's shoulder. "And please, the less Chef knows, the better."

Ray knew that Phantom would not ask if it was not important, so he readily agreed and hurried off to cook the food.

The Phantom then motioned for Joey. "I want you to find Harry, and tell him that I need him."

"Okay, but where is he? You know what he's like," began Joey. "He flits around like a blue-assed fly."

"Don't swear, Joey," replied The Phantom out of habit. "Try the School of Wind. And tell him, please, I need to see him."

Harry, a worried look on his face, rushed into the lounge and saw The Phantom staring out the window. "Phantom, are you all right?" Harry placed his broad hand on The Phantom's shoulder. "Joey was so vague I didn't know what to think." The Phantom turned and smiled a small smile. "I'm all right, Harry, truly." He pointed to the letter lying on the deck where he'd dropped it. "There's been another letter."

Wordlessly Harry followed The Phantom's finger. He slowly walked to where the letter lay, stared at it, then picked it up. He sank into the chair, read the letter through, then stared at The Phantom, a looked of despair on his face. "Harry, are you my brother?" asked The Phantom quietly.

Harry was insulted at the question and voiced his outrage. "Of course you're my brother! Fuck, man, you're more than my brother. I love you. How could you ask me that?"

The Phantom ignored Harry's outburst. "Harry, as my brother I am going to tell you something. You must promise not to become angry with me."

Harry sensed that The Phantom was deadly serious. "Okay."

"I have decided that the time has come to settle with Little Big Man. I will do it in my own way, and you must never question my method. What I have to do could end up in disaster. What I am going to do to Little Big Man will make him leave everybody alone."

"Are you going to hurt him?" asked Harry, surprised at the depth of emotion in The Phantom's voice.

The Phantom thought about that for a moment. "In a way, but not physically. I will not stoop to physical abuse. All I will tell you is that when I am finished he will never bother you, or Stefan, again."

Harry looked at The Phantom and saw a coldness in his friend's eyes that sent a chill through him. "Phantom, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to look after Greg," said The Phantom as he took the letter from Harry's hand. "He needs you. He's very vulnerable right now and he needs a friend." He nodded toward the shower room. "He's in the shower. When he's finished Ray will bring him some food. Make him eat it. I've given him some clean clothes but he really should have his own. If you gather up his kit I'll see that it gets washed?"

Harry was flabbergasted. Here Phantom was, announcing that he was going to settle with Little Big Man, and he's going on about Greg's dirty dhobi. "No need. Everybody's heavy-duty stuff is going to Base laundry today. The small stuff, T-shirts and undies we'll do in town. The Old Man has given us a half-holiday this afternoon. We're all going ashore."

"Good. Take Greg ashore. Look after him and later, make sure he goes to bed and gets some sleep."

"Sure, okay, but, Jeez, Phantom, is that all? I can . . ." The Phantom walked to Harry, bent down and kissed him full on the lips. Harry struggled half-heartedly, then moaned softly. "Pha . . . Phantom . . . I . . ." he stammered when The Phantom pulled away.

"I love you, my brother," smiled The Phantom. "You are my most wonderful brother. Please, look after our brother Greg." And Harry? Speak well of me."

Stunned at the intensity of The Phantom's kiss, Harry watched dumbfounded as The Phantom left the room.

Lunch was a loud, boisterous affair. For the cadets a promised afternoon of freedom, albeit supervised, beckoned. Life, at last, was good. Their laundry had been sent off to Base, a new supply of bed linen had arrived and, with luck, the swimming pool in town would not be crowded.

It had really been a Red Letter day! First morning callisthenics had been cancelled. Then Captain's Rounds had been postponed until next Tuesday. What more, really, could a guy ask for? Clean clothes, clean beds, good food and an afternoon exploring the souks of Comox.

Chef, who had reverted to type, was bellowing and chivvying his Makee-Learns and teasing the other cadets. He announced that it was much too nice to be stuck indoors so supper would be barbecue, with the officers cooking (which was news to them). There would be steak, all the boys could eat, and chicken (those damned chickens) and, for those would wanted it, grilled halibut (it was Friday, after all, and the Pope, senile old fool that he was, wasn't infallible so far as Chef was concerned). There would be salads and baked potatoes, with sour cream and bacon and chives. The duff tables would groan under the weight of sweets and cakes and pies.

The Phantom, wondering what Chef was really up to, raised his eyes to Heaven and kept his own counsel. He had much more important things to think about than Chef's silliness.

In his own devious way, Chef had a plan. He knew, of course, about Phantom's laundry run into town. He also knew that in order to use the Admiral's Dining Room a provenance had to be established that firmly proclaimed the silver, china and glass to be from the Lascelles family, and he had decided that what better way to establish that provenance than to have a dozen or so independent witnesses haul the boxes and crates now resting in Phantom's basement back to AURORA?

Chef returned to the Mess Hall and studied his territory. He watched the cadets as they laughed, ate, played grabass, ate, chucked shit at each other, ate, and generally enjoyed themselves. He watched The Phantom mooching around, silently serving the officers their lunch, and put the boy's reticence down to their conversation earlier in the day. Phantom had a lot to absorb and a lot to think about.

Chef's mind was whirling, as he thought of what needed to be done. He would need transport, of course, and a driver. There was a perfectly good half-ton sitting outside of the Headquarters Building. Sandro had a Military 404 Driver's Licence, but Chef wanted him to go with the other boys and enjoy himself. Sandro also needed transportation from The Phantom's house to Father's, and Father would not appreciate him pulling up to his house in a bloody truck. Better for Chef to drive him in his own old Chevy.

Chef scanned the Mess Hall and spotted Nicholas who was, as usual, sitting with Andre. His eyes brightened. Nicholas, who also had a 404, suitably bribed, could drive the half-ton. Cackling, Chef rubbed his hands together. Transport problem solved.

Next a Work Party, and what better place to find willing, strong, boys than right here? And what better willing, strong boys than the stewards? The Phantom had solved their laundry problems, free, gratis and for nothing. It was time that the boys learned that no good deed ever goes unpunished. He turned and pushed open the swinging door leading to the galley, thinking, as he bellowed The Litany of the Saints, that Phantom had a pool in his back yard, had he not?"

Grim faced and tight-lipped, The Phantom sat in the shadows of his house, watching as the other boys swam and dove in the pool, lounged and generally relaxed. In front of him lay the Twins, with Randy and Joey close by. Matt as usual was never far away from Todd and Cory. At the moment he was in the pool, yelling and gesturing for Todd and Cory to join him.

The Work Party had made short work of loading the Admiral's Dining Room into the half-ton and The Gunner's Rover with china and crystal. In the trunk of Chef's battered old car the more valuable silver pieces had been crammed. The whole evolution had taken less than an hour to complete.

The stewards had been joined by Nicholas, who was needed to drive the half-ton, and where went Nicholas, so went Andre. At first Nicholas had been reluctant, but Chef had promised the use of a washing machine and dryer (neglecting to tell The Phantom until they arrived at the house), a swimming pool that was not crammed with a hundred other people, and permission to go round the buoy twice at supper.

Sandro, while protesting, had been included in the work party. As Chef pointed out, Sandro was excused duty on the weekends anyway, and Chef wanted him to have a break. There were more than enough hands in the galley. Ray could look after things, and he had four Makee-Learns to help him. He also had Kevin. Joey and Randy had been included because they whined loudly and made heart-warming appeals to their Honourary Big Brother. If only to shut them up Chef had granted their appeal. Now, as the boys cavorted in the pool, Chef was happily rummaging in the basement, selecting the wines he would serve on Monday at Tyler's dinner.

A shadow crossed The Phantom's line of sight. He looked up and saw Sandro walking toward the deep end of the pool, and realized that Sandro was an extremely well built and handsome young man. The Phantom looked around. They all were, these active, virile, more than attractive boys. Aside from the Brats they were all of an age, really, sixteen and seventeen years old, with strong, firm bodies, slim, with flashing eyes and killer smiles, beautiful as only boys who have just entered the full flush of masculinity are beautiful, full of life and glowing with that special aura of maleness unique to teenaged boys.

What proud young peacocks they all were, uninhibited, unconsciously determined to show off to their fellow males. Sandro was wearing a pair of swimming trunks he'd brought from Russia, a blue and white striped suit so brief and thin that every nook, cranny and fold of his genitals was revealed.

Killian strolled by, tall, blond, clean cut, every one of his short-cut hairs in place, his slim body accentuated by a pair of black Speedos that outlined clearly his perfectly proportioned, circumcised penis nestling above his large, oval testicles. Fine, blond hairs peeked out of the dark fabric of his suit, adding to his allure.

The Phantom heard a shout and raised his head to look at Nick and Chad, both blondes. Nick had a smooth, finely muscled chest devoid of hair, Chad was heavier, with a fine dark forest outlining his pectorals and darker treasure trail that disappeared under the elastic band of the briefs he wore under his shorts. Nick was similarly clad and as they dove and jumped, their legs spread wide, brief flashes of white cotton hinted at the hidden treasures beneath.

Sitting at the edge of the pool Nicholas and Andre dabbled their feet in the cool, clear blue water. In a way, they were chalk and cheese, Nicholas, tall, his muscles all but formed, his clear eyes bright and clear, full of love for the shorter, boyish figure beside him. Andre, no longer a boy, not yet a man, happily content to be sitting with his adored Nicholas.

There was another shout and hoots of laughter. Aaron, short, attractive, with dark brown, almost black hair, was howling and raging at Billy, a tall, frankly skinny boy, as ass-less as Two Strokes, who was frantically trying to move out of the way of his thrashing friend. Aaron had forgotten his bathing suit and had been swimming in his tartan boxers, or at least he had been until Billy pulled down his underpants. Aaron, threatening mayhem on Billy, struggled to pull his shorts up, not at all caring that his smooth genitals were blatantly exposed for everyone to see. They were all guys, after all, and they'd all seen his dick before, so what was the problem?

In front of The Phantom, Todd and Cory, his wonderful, adorable Twins, teased and chivvied the Brats. The older boys had commandeered two air mattresses and were sprawled comfortably in the sun. Randy and Joey had to make do with their beach towels spread out on the hard, concrete pool-surround.

The Phantom sighed heavily, wondering if on Monday these same wonderful, handsome stewards of his would still be his stewards, if his friends would still be his friends, if his little brothers would still look at him with love. Or would they all, if the fates were unkind, look at him and turn away?

The boys lazed away the better part of the afternoon, laughing and talking, chowing down on pizza, which they had coerced Chef into sending out for. They talked of many things, including Ryan's little operation. Rob had told David, of course, and David, when someone had mentioned not seeing either Rob or Ryan all morning, had told the others. There was a general round of sympathetic wincing, after which there was a general round of commiseration for those who hadn't been circumcised a few days after they had been born. Sandro quickly rolled on his stomach and Andre look quizzically at Nicholas who said he'd explain it all later.

Matt floundered out of the pool and flopped down beside Todd. His wet bathing shorts clung to his body and clearly outlined his smart, crisp cock and balls.

Joey gave Matt's crotch an approving glance. "See, I told you, Randy, just about everybody is," he said with a giggle. "Even Matt."

"What do you mean by that crack?" growled Matt.

"They don't mean anything," said Cory hurriedly. He glared at Joey, who glared back. "I would think that you two would have better things to do than to go around checking out baskets and bulges," said Cory, a mild note of warning in his voice.

"We don't," returned Randy honestly. "Besides, Matt has a nice basket."

The Phantom snapped out of his reverie. "Randy!"

"Well he does," insisted Randy. Then he sniffed. "Even if it is kind of small."

The boys ignored Matt, who was snarling quietly at their insult. "Sandro has a nice basket, too," said Joey, gazing at Sandro, who was pretending that neither Brat existed. "Nice bum, too."

"That's enough," snapped The Phantom, so loudly that the Twin's heads snapped around and Matt gave him a funny look. All three boys knew that something was biting The Phantom's ass. He'd been moody all day, not at all like The Phantom they knew.

"They are only funning," said Cory carefully. The Phantom seemed to be pissed off about something and he did not want to make matters worse.

The Phantom saw the hurt look on Joey and Randy's faces and immediately apologized. "I sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you two, but you have to behave in public."

Joey was about to reply that The Phantom's back yard was hardly a public place when Todd silenced him with a glance.

Todd looked at The Phantom. "You seem, well, angry about something," he said quietly. "Is it something the boys have done? Or Cory? Something I've done?"

The Phantom stood up abruptly. "It's nothing you've done, Todd, or the boys," he said softly. He almost added that it was something he was going to do but stopped himself. Matt and the Brats were innocents and would, if he had anything to say about it, remain so. He gestured toward the house. "Can you come up to my room? I need to tell you something."

"Sure." Todd gave Cory a quizzical glance and stood up. Cory, as much in the dark as his brother, did likewise.

Randy and Joey started to rise but The Phantom stopped them. "Please, stay here with Matt," he said as kindly as he could. "I need to talk to Todd and Cory alone."

Joey and Randy suspected that something important was going on but silently agreed to follow The Phantom's direction. They adored him more than he realized and they would do what he asked. Matt, while wondering what was going on, readily agreed to look out for the two younger boys. "If you need anything, Phantom, you only have to ask," he offered.

The Phantom smiled his thanks. "Promise me, Matty, that you will never change," he said softly. Then he jerked his head toward the house, motioning for the Twins to follow him.

There was something in The Phantom's voice that frightened Randy and Joey. Randy slipped his hand in Joey's. "What's wrong with Phantom?" asked Randy, trying hard not to show his fear.

"It's like he's saying goodbye to us," said Joey. "He's not going away, is he Matt?"

Matt, his eyes filled with concern, stared into the darkened house. "I don't know, Joey, I just don't know."

Upstairs The Phantom led the Twins into his room and motioned for them to sit on his bed. He then opened his bureau drawer and brought out a piece of clothing he thought that he had stored away for good and all. He turned and looked at Todd and Cory. "Little Big Man has written another letter. You two, and the others, are not mentioned. The Gunner and Matt are." He held out the dark woollen ski mask, and took a deep breath. "Tomorrow night, when all the officers are ashore, I am going to settle with Paul Greene once and for all," he said with quiet firmness.

Then he waited for the explosions of biblical wrath that he knew would come.