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 write me at my e-mail home address: paradegi@rogers.com

The Boys Of Aurora: Chapter 17

Monday, the first day of the last week of the AURORA Training Year, dawned crisp, clear and bright. A soft breeze, bringing with it the smells of the sea, blew gently across Heron Spit. At 0600 Young Brown, as he had been every morning since the first week of July, was in the Ship's Office. As the second hand on the office clock swept past the 12, he flicked the ON/OFF switch, activating the Ship's communications system. He then raised his bugle to his lips, puffed out his cheeks, and began to blow Wakey-Wakey, the high, strident notes shattering the morning quiet. The bugle's fast-paced notes called the cadets to rise and shine, to let go their cocks and grab their socks, to shake a leg. The sun had risen and a new day awaited them.

In the Guardhouse Nicholas, the Duty Chief, glanced at his watch and gave Chad, the Duty Quartermaster, who was sleeping contentedly on the narrow wooden bench that flanked the door, a slight shake. Chad snuffled and muttered and turned on his side. Nicholas gave him a sharp smack on his ample behind. Chad swore under his breath but crawled off the bench and shuffled over to the Mess Hall for the morning coffee. With Chad functioning as normally as he ever did, Nicholas rapped lightly on the door of the Duty Officer's Cabin. In response to his knock Nicholas heard a muffled "I'm up."

Presently the door to the cabin opened and No "H", wearing only a pair of sagging green-striped boxers, shuffled across the Guardroom, heading for the heads and his morning George. Nicholas grinned as he watched No "H" scratch first his crotch, then reach around and scratch his butt, in the process pushing down the back of his boxers and exposing a generous portion of his pale, white backside below his deep tan line. As the door to the heads closed Nicholas recorded in the Ship's Log that at 0600 the Watch On Deck had been called and the Duty Officer awakened.

In the galley Chef and his cooks had been up and doing since 0500, preparing breakfast for the 214 cadets and staff on board. Depending on who showed up from Base and other venues, the cooks would prepare upward of 700 meals this day.

In the barracks, the Gunroom and the Petty Officers Mess the bugle call elicited the usual chorus of curses, threats to Young Brown's genitalia, loudly voiced questions as to the actual existence of Young Brown's genitalia, moans, groans and assorted complaints and gripes, ranging in volume from the bellowing and roars of the older cadets to the muted muttering of Harry's Sea Puppies, 38 skinny boys who thought it unnatural that anyone, especially themselves, should be forced from their beds at such an ungodly hour on a bright, sunny, summer morning.

The mood of the cadets was not improved when the Killicks of the Mess began their morning ordeal: getting everybody out of bed, cleaned into sports gear, and out onto the parade square where Mike and the Assistant waited patiently.

When the first notes of the bugle sounded Cory was sitting on the barracks stoop. He had been up for well over an hour, watching as the daylight began to streak the cloudless night sky with rays of light, and listening to the critters chattering their annoyance as the first of the sun's rays called them to continue their never-ending preparations for the coming winter months. It was Cory's favourite time of the day.

Shortly after the last of the bugle notes died away the barracks door opened and Todd emerged. His eyes were still heavy with sleep and his sun-bleached hair was tousled and awry. Uncharacteristically there was no morning bulge in the dark blue gym shorts that he was wearing. He sat down beside Cory and gave him a quick hug and an even quicker kiss on the cheek.

Cory, surprised, for Todd was not usually this affectionate in the morning, gave his brother a questioning look and raised one eyebrow. "You're awfully chipper this morning," he said with a slight, knowing grin. He gave Todd a small nudge in the ribs. "Managed to pick just the right music, did you?"

Todd coloured and swallowed. "Uh, yeah, we did, some really good pieces," he replied too quickly. "We picked some really good pieces, and a good piece for the Salute. It's call the Garb of Old Gaul and it's a good piece, Cory and . . ." He shut up abruptly, finally realizing that he was babbling.

Cory stared at his brother and then broke into a gale of laughter, his hearty chuckles grating on Todd's nerves. "You're embarrassed!" he chortled.

"I am not!" snarled Todd with a threatening grimace. His colour deepened and his eyes narrowed.

Giggling, Cory nodded his head enthusiastically and then waggled his eyebrows. "Ah, but you are," he insisted with a huge, shit-eating grin. He leaned his head his closer to Todd's and whispered, "I got up at 0300 to take a pee and I saw you and Harry saying goodnight. You were standing in the middle of the barracks yard, in the rain." He snickered with glee. "It was very romantic," he finished, deadpan.

A look almost of pain flashed through Todd's eyes. "Maybe too romantic," he murmured quietly.

Cory thought a moment and then flashed his brother another grin. "My Stars and Garters!" He began snickering, barely able to control himself. "Dare I think it? Dare I say it?"

"You can think what you like!" snapped Todd with some heat, his look thunderous. If Cory dared to trivialize what had happened between him and Harry, Cory might live to regret it! "Just be careful what you say!"

In all their 17-plus years Cory had never seen his brother so rattled over one of his sexual escapades. For some reason Todd was, well, not upset, but certainly uneasy and uncertain about what had happened. Cory slipped his arm around Todd's slim, sleek waist. "Want to tell me what is bothering you?" he asked as he gave Todd a gentle squeeze.

"Nothing is bothering me," insisted Todd stubbornly.

"Balls!" returned Cory. He pulled away from Todd and gave him a quizzical look. "If nothing is bothering you why do you have a look on you as if the ship's cat died, the funeral is this afternoon and you are the Chief Mourner?"

"I do not," replied Todd weakly, his heart not really in his denial.

"You do," insisted Cory. "Which is really surprising, because from what I saw you and Harry hit it off big time. You cannot deny that you made love with him last night."

Todd, for the first time in years, blushed and smiled shyly. "Yeah, we did. Last night was . . ."

"Wonderful, special, glorious," finished Cory with a grin. "Pick one or all the above." He gave Todd a serious look, for he had a very good idea just what was bothering his brother. "You made love to Harry. From the way he was acting I would also say that Harry made love to you."

Todd nodded his confirmation. "That doesn't bother you?" he asked suddenly.

"No, why should it?" replied Cory, more than a little confused.

"Cory, I made love to Harry," said Todd looking directly at his brother. "He made love to me."

"Okay, you made love."

"That's it?" asked Todd, surprised. He had expected at least some massive pouting.

"Yes, Todd that is it," replied Cory with exaggerated patience. "I do not know what you want me to say, or do. You went to the School of Wind with Harry. You both knew that you were going to fool around. Hell, I knew that you were going to fool around."

"But, it was Harry!" snapped Todd. "You remember him? He's the guy who's been number one on your wish list for years, and you've lusted after him since we were 12-years old! You used to beat off every night moaning about him!"

Cory started to laugh again. "So that is what this is all about," he exclaimed. "You think that I am upset because you and Harry got it on? You think I am pissed off because you and Harry . . ." He stopped speaking and stared at Todd. "I knew it! It's not so much how I am reacting, but how Harry, and you, are reacting!"

"I do not know what you are talking about!" sniffed Todd.

"Oh, but you do!" Cory shook his head. "You and Harry are serious about each other and you do not like it at all!"

"Bullshit!"

"No, it is not bullshit!" returned Cory. "What started out as a bit of rumpy-pumpy in the School of Wind has turned into something you don't know how to handle! Admit it, Todd, you've fallen for Harry!"

Todd's shoulders slumped. "Cory, I do not know how I feel! Part of me wants him, always. Another part of me says that come the end of the month our relationship is over."

"Don't bet on it," replied Cory. "Harry is just as serious as he can be." He gave his brother another nudge with his elbow. "I did not notice him standing in the rain with Greg."

"Cory, I don't know what to do!" moaned Todd. "With all the other guys it was always about having a good time. But, with Harry, it's different!"

"Of course it is," replied Cory, nodding his agreement. "Harry has always been special to you, and to me as well. He would be special without the sex."

Todd looked uncomfortably at his brother. "Cory, after last night, I kind of think that Harry might not, you know . . ."

"Ah, so now we come to the moment of truth," replied Cory quietly. He moved as close to Todd as he could and even though it was broad daylight he slipped his hand down the front of Todd's shorts.

"Cory, The horde will be out any minute for PT!" warned Todd.

"Hush, Todd, and let me talk," returned Cory, unconcerned. "Now, I think that what is really bothering you is the fact that Harry has made a choice. Last night he made up his mind that he wants you. Not me, you."

"Cory, I . . ."

"I'm not finished Todd," replied Cory. "You and Harry stood in the rain at zero three double bubble, cuddling and kissing. Harry wants a serious relationship and, knowing Harry, for as long as that relationship lasts you will be the only one he'll be with."

"I feel like such a shit," groaned Todd. "If I had stayed with you last night this would never have happened."

Cory shook his head, gave Todd a squeeze, and pulled his hand from Todd's shorts. "I think it would. On Friday night Harry found a part of himself he only suspected existed. Last night you helped him find the true Harry von Hohenberg. What remains to be seen is just how serious Harry is."

"I'm not sure how serious I am!" returned Todd. He stood up and gestured toward the parade square where Mike and The Assistant waited for the cadets to form up for morning callisthenics. "We'd better get our asses in gear. PT calls us."

Cory, not at all that anxious to play the jock, nodded his reluctant agreement and as they slowly walked down the path toward the parade square Cory put his arm around his brother's shoulder and gave him a squeeze. "When you've got it all figured out, why don't you ask Harry what he wants to do?" He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "Other than the usual."

Todd knew that Cory was trying to cheer him up. He returned the grin but said nothing. They carried on to the parade square and took up their positions behind the Gunnery Platoon.

The harried Chief PTI dreaded the last week of training. Everybody seemed to contract channel fever. There was little work to be done, and as a consequence the Devil found plenty of workshops. Mike stared out over the parade square, viewing with jaundiced eye the shuffling gaggles of cadets making their reluctant way to their positions on the square. Behind him, looking pale and anxious, stood Phillip, called the Assistant. Mike snorted. Cowering was more like it. Phillip might be a tiger in the sack but when it came to facing the cadets on the last days of summer he was a downright cowardly lion.

Last year Silly Bugger Season had started with the Band marching to callisthenics wearing nothing but their parade boots and strategically draped football jerseys tied around their waists. Instead of their usual brass instruments they played Fuck YA; Fuck YA, on kazoos (McLean and McLean having enjoyed a very brief popularity, which lasted for as long as it took Father to find out about and confiscate the LP of their scatological songs). On kazoos for Christ's sake!

The "Great Shaving Cream Raid" had followed the kazoos the next night. Selected cadets were targeted by stealthy bands of junior cadets who visited each barracks in turn and, after ascertaining that the victim was asleep, lifted the front, or back of his underpants (depending on how the victim was sleeping) and emptied a can of shaving cream into the hapless victim's drawers. This led Harry, after viewing the crusted remains of a can of Gillette Foamy that lined his butt crack, to observe that he did not know where he had been but it sure looked like he'd had fun while he was there.

Silly Buggers was all harmless fun, and the only way the junior cadets could get back at the seniors without fear of repercussion. The schoolboy pranks were just that: pranks where beds were short-sheeted, boot laces mysteriously tied into a jumble of knots, and so on. It all ended on the night of the Passing Out Parade at the barbecue with a Sod's Opera, where just about anything went. Mind, there were some who thought that Two Strokes losing his virginity was a tad over the mark.

With the usual groaning and dripping the cadets beat a reluctant path to the parade square, shuffling and dragging their feet. As they formed up in their Divisions, Mike cast a wary eye over the lot of them. He did not trust any of them and so long as he avoided any exercises that had the cadets bending over (thus affording the little bastards the perfect opportunity to moon one another and him) or any exercise that brought their hands in the general vicinity of their waists (thus affording the same little bastards the perfect opportunity to pull down the front of their shorts and hang a rat at him).

Much to Mike's relief the cadets seemed to be in as good a humour as could be expected at 0615, and the day's exercise started out as they always did, with jump-ups. Harry behaved himself, the Twins kept their complaining down to a dull roar and the Band was properly dressed. As the exercises progressed Mike began to relax and Phillip was positively beaming. No pink, round bottoms or little boy (or big boy) rats had been exposed to public view - at least not yet.

As 0630 approached the Assistant smiled nervously as Mike winked at him. The morning, so far as they were concerned was almost done. Just one more exercise, which the cadets would excel at, since all they had to execute were 25 deep knee bends.

"Right, then," bellowed Mike as the cadets assumed the position. "At the count you will begin the exercise. One!"

There were 194 cadets on parade. At Mike's count of one, 193 cadets slowly assumed the squat position, their knees bent, their hands on their waists. One cadet assumed the squat position more slowly than his comrades. He lowered his hands to his waist and a sly, knowing smile creased his young, immature features. Then he let loose with what sounded like a long, wet fart. Phillip almost fainted as the sound reached him. Mike glared at Harry, whose fanfaronades of morning flatulence were legend, and thus the prime suspect. Harry returned the glare. For once he was totally innocent. The Sea Puppies were not.

Like all 13-year-old boys, Harry's Sea Puppies found a particular fascination in the human body's ability to produce noxious gases and the ability of some humans - Harry in particular - to expel this gas seemingly on demand and at will. Harry was infamous for his ability to produce a noisy, evil-smelling commentary for just about any occasion. The Sea Puppies found this hilariously funny.

The Sea Puppies either knew about, or learned about, the nonsense of the final week of training from an older brother who had attended one or the other of the Sea Cadet camps. This was particularly true of the boys from the small towns where families were large and boys were expected to play hockey in the winter, baseball in the summer, and join the local Cadet Corps. Little brothers almost always followed bigger brothers into the same Corps, and it was not uncommon for little brother, as he prepared to leave for AURORA or ONTARIO, or wherever, to be taken aside by big brother and told what to expect at camp. Expurgated versions predominated. Little brothers did not need to know that you mooned the Chaplain's wife in the middle of the Gloria, or waved your fid at passing motorists while travelling in the Duty Bus from Toronto to Kingston. Little brothers tended to get pissed off at big brothers, and blab to parents, and the less little brothers knew about what big brother was up to the better for all concerned.

As the end the training year approached, after much giggling, arguing and an occasional slap upside the head, the Sea Puppies had agreed that an acknowledgement of their Sea Daddy was definitely in order. Harry was their hero. He yelled at them, encouraged them, gave them a smack when they needed it, and tucked them in bed at night. Harry listened to them and they loved him for it. They all decided that something special needed to be done, something unique, something that Harry, had he known about it, would have participated in with all the enthusiasm and gusto he was famous for.

At first the Puppies were in a quandary. Simon Keppel, a normally shy, black-haired youth from Burnaby, and a boy who rarely said anything to anybody, pointed out that just about everything had already been done. They had mooned some Japanese tourists in Victoria, and swum nude in the motel pool, which more or less left the fid factor lying useless beside the gangway.

Simon's last remark led several of the boys to nod sagely. After all, none of them had all that much to write home about. Evan de Courcy, a pimply-faced 14-year-old from Thorold, and by mutual consent the owner of a fair candidate for succession to the Pride, griped that a dick was a dick and, since they had been flashing Mike and the PTI Staff for damned near two weeks ever since they had stopped wearing jocks to morning PT, everybody had seen everything that was to be offered by the denizens of Barracks 5 had to offer. There was no shock value in exposing themselves, unless, of course, they painted their parts blue, like the Wodes.

Of the 38 Sea Puppies, maybe two even knew who or what the Wodes were. But they all knew that there was no way they were going to paint, or dye, their dicks and balls blue. They loved Harry, and on the surface it was a good idea but really, who wanted to go home and explain to his mother why his dick was the colour of a blueberry Popsicle? Besides, they didn't have any blue dye handy.

In the end it was Bobby Beuniet, a transplanted Belgian (by way of Harrow, England), a tall, gangly, spindly-legged cadet with a huge nose and who spoke with a crisp, determined upper class "U" accent, who suggested a 21-Fart Salute. After a moment of stunned silence, the Puppies enthusiastically debated, and accepted the idea. Harry was the King when it came to gratuitous farting. What better way to show their love and respect for Harry than to honour him with a salute of farts?

They debated how they would manage to produce the wind and volume they all seemed to feel was demanded for such a salute. Before very long someone suggested baked beans. Everybody knew that if you ate baked beans in quantity, you farted. And what was provided, in quantity, each and every morning at breakfast? Why beans! An unending, bottomless supply of baked beans just sitting there, waiting to be eaten.

Having determined that baked beans would increase their flatulence, it was decided that to test the theory they would have to eat beans. So they did and each morning for a week 38 New Entries filled their plates with baked beans (even those who professed to dislike the dish), and waited patiently for nature to take its course, to mixed results.

Approximately half of the cadets began breaking wind at the most inopportune moments. Some had no noticeable increase in their farting levels one way or the other, and two (some called it poetic justice), Simon and Bobby, ended up constipated and had to visit Matron, who dosed them with cod liver oil.

Disappointed, but not defeated, the Sea Puppies had all but abandoned the idea of a 21-fart salute when Bobby, more through luck than enterprise, stumbled across what was euphemistically called a "novelty shop".

On Saturday afternoon the Sea Puppies had gone ashore to do their laundry, shop, or swim in the Comox town pool. Nominally in Dave Eddy's charge they all disappeared as soon as his back was turned, scattering to the winds. Bobby, as he often did, wandered about the town, enjoying the day. He stopped at Mr. Schoenmann's shop where he browsed a bit, and then went on to the market where he munched his way through lunch on the free samples the stallholders and merchants always had on offer. Being in uniform guaranteed that he always received a little bit extra.

Lunch over, Bobby answered the call of nature and, on leaving the public toilets, lost his bearings and turned right instead of left, walking into a hole-in-the-wall called Baillie's Box, an eclectic collection of faux Ming vases, garishly painted plaster garden gnomes, boxes of itch powder, glass bong pipes, plastic toys and inflatable dolls, suitable for every taste.

Bobby, who had once window-shopped the sex circuit of Piccadilly Circus, was not impressed with the offerings of Baillie's Box. He had no use for itching powder, bong pipes or inflatable dolls, suitable for every taste. He was about to walk away from the tawdry display when his eye fell on a small, square bit of rubber all but hidden by the tackiness crowding the streaked and cracked shop window. A slow grin creased Bobby's face. What he was looking at was a whoopee cushion, a staple of slapstick and an object beloved by schoolboys the world over.

The market for such items as offered by Baillie's Box being somewhat depressed, all items were on sale at half-price. Gleefully, Bobby bought five whoopee cushions, the shop's entire stock.

On Saturday night Bobby presented his purchases to the assembled Sea Puppies. Instead of watching the movie being shown in the Drill Shed (it was "Bambi") they spent the evening perfecting their technique and practising the intricacies of sounding a 21-fart salute using whoopee cushions, and hiding the pocketbook sized cushions on their persons. They also decided that Bobby, since he had thought of it, and found the cushions, would have the honour of firing the first round.

Bobby opened the ball by pressing a water-filled whoopee cushion taped to his waist. Five seconds later Simon followed suit. Mike's jaw dropped open and the Twins fell over, overcome with a fit of the giggles. When the third round of the salute, courtesy of Evan, rent the air, Harry fucked up the count by letting loose a fart of magnificent loudness. The Twins began rolling around in the dirt, totally overcome. Thumper, who was behind Harry, and in the line of fire, did a quick duck walk backward and crashed into Two Strokes. Fred's dick fell out of his shorts and Greg collapsed, clutching his belly and laughing so hard he wet himself.

Mike, angry beyond control, and failing to see the humour in the exercise, began screaming for the cadets to stop. They ignored him and the salute continued. Mike jumped up and down and made to charge. Phillip and Tyler grabbed him and held him back.

The laughter and Mike's screams of outrage attracted Val, who had stayed in bed, enjoying a self-awarded Guard and Steerage. He came charging onto the parade square, waving his arms and blowing his whistle. Jon and Nicholas, who were trailing Val, tactfully pointed out to the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor that he might project more of an air of authority if he had some pants on. Val looked down and saw that he was wearing just his green tartan boxers.

The noise of laughter grew louder at the sight of Val in his underwear. Nobody seemed to be paying all that much attention to Mike, who had suddenly stopped screaming. He stood, stock still, his body rigid, not struggling and no longer hearing the mocking laughter of the Sea Puppies, not feeling the restraining hands on his arms. Suddenly, for Mike, there were only two people standing on the dusty square, himself and the slim, handsome boy with light brown hair whose emerald green eyes bore into him. Those eyes, those green, flashing eyes . . .

When The Phantom arrived in the galley for work on Monday morning he was in a wonderful mood. His soul-cleansing confession to the Gunner had left him feeling clean and whole and, while he had had only four or five hours sleep, happily spooned against the man he loved above all others, he felt no fatigue. The galley, as he expected, was humming with activity. Ray and Sandro were bickering, Joey and Randy were giggling, the Litany of the Saints was complaining, and Chef was grumpy, all in all the beginnings of a normal day in the galley of HMCS AURORA.

At first glance the galley looked like the aftermath of a particularly posh jumble sale. There were dishes and crystal glasses, silver candelabra, sterling bowls and trays, silver salts and pepper casters, a huge silver-gilt epergne, piles of embroidered linen, boxes of flat silver, all seemingly scattered at random across every flat surface. Spread across the two long, stainless steel worktables was a cornucopia of food. There were boxes of pork chops and the inevitable breaded veal cutlets; there were large, stainless steel trays of salmon steaks and huge wicker baskets of fresh prawns, lunch and dinner entrees to be. There were crates of vegetables: carrots, onions, cabbage, lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers. There were splits of strawberries, blueberries and raspberries and boxes of grapes, white, red and purple. There was a wooden basket of peaches, fresh and succulent, and tissue-wrapped apples from the mainland orchards of the Okanagan. The produce of the lush and fertile valleys of British Columbia waited to be turned into small masterpieces of the culinary art. On a side table huge silver trays held fruit-filled pastries, gleaming gemlike, fresh baked rolls and croissants, ready for the Commanding Officer's Elevenses. And the bloody chickens were back, thawing on a service table outside of Cold Stores.

Rather than risk the wrath of Chef, The Phantom went to work. He first helped Ray in loading the trays of breakfast bacon and sausages into the gaping maws of the ovens. Then he helped Mark and Luke to prepare the fresh fruit salad that Chef set out every morning for the cadets' roughage. When the salad was finished he helped Sandro mix the pancake batter.

Shortly after 0600 The Phantom left the galley. He was carrying a large urn of coffee and behind him trailed Luke and John, each bearing a large tray laden with pastries and rolls, with Matthew, as Tail End Charlie, carrying a bowl of fruit. The coffee, rolls, pastries and fruit would be placed on the large table in the Wardroom where the officers could graze placidly until breakfast was ready. As he walked back toward the galley The Phantom stopped, as he often did, to watch the early morning dog and pony show, chuckling at the silliness of the assembled cadets as they grumbled and complained their way through morning callisthenics. As he watched the exercises proceed with predictable sameness, The Phantom realized why the cadets played their little games. They were bored silly! Every morning, except Sunday morning, they performed a set, never varying, series of exercises. Invariably they started with running in place, to get their hearts started and their lungs breathing, proceeded through pushups and jumps, ending with deep knee bends. The monotony of the exercise program led to boredom, which led to impish behaviour, directed, unfairly, at Mike.

Watching the cadets, The Phantom realized that they were all victims of a structured routine that was designed not only to keep them physically fit, but also to act as a team, a structure that was rigidly enforced and never, ever, varied because the BRCN (Cadets) said that all PT training was to be done to a certain pattern, in a certain way. It was the same with everything the cadets did. If the Book said it was to be done, it was done. No questions asked, no names, no pack drill. He recalled seeing a movie - he could not remember which one - where there was a line of dialogue that went "So let it be written, so let it be done!" He snorted loudly. It had taken what amounted to an Act of God to get Chef to change the menus and vary the food served. It would take an equally powerful Act of God to get Mike to change his ways. It was written and it would be slavishly done!

Mike Sunderland, whether he knew it or not, was just as much a victim as the cadets were. He was the Chief Physical Training Instructor. He believed every word of the Book when it came to early morning exercises. In the eyes of his superiors Mike was an excellent and professional Chief Petty Officer. He knew the Book, he knew the Regulations, and he knew the ROUTINE! Sadly, what Mike had forgotten, if he ever knew it, was that the idea was to have fun. He followed the Book and he never had any fun.

The Phantom shook his head and was about to head back to the galley when he heard the giggling. He had been too far away to hear the opening salvo of the 21-Fart Salute, so he had no idea what had set the cadets off this time. He looked up and saw Cory and Todd cracking up and Thumper duck walking backwards, and crashing into Two Strokes, setting him to snarling. The Phantom glanced quickly over the heads of the laughing cadets and looked first at Phillip, called the Assistant, who was cringing, and then at Mike. He saw the look of anger on Mike's face turn to one of hurt, and then back to anger.

As he heard the mocking laughter, The Phantom found himself becoming angry. He was not angry with the cadets. Mike was always the butt of their silliness. Every morning for a month and more the little brats, ably abetted by the older boys, made fun of Mike and his obsession for sports and physical exercises. Every morning they made a fool of Mike. Every morning! And every morning Mike would lose his temper, scream and yell, or stomp off the parade square in a high dudgeon, never realizing that he was making a fool of himself. As he watched, The Phantom felt the anger rising in him. God Damn It! Mike, for fuck's sake do something other than screaming and yelling! DO SOMETHING!

Suddenly, The Phantom's eyes found Mike's. He looked directly at Mike, his green eyes flashing with the deep anger and frustration that he felt. The Phantom wanted to rush onto the parade square, to kick butt! But that he could not do. This was Mike's show and Mike had to act. As The Phantom stared at Mike, their eyes locked together, The Phantom's face softened. Mike deserved better than being mocked and made fun of, but he would not do anything about it for he was a gentle giant of a boy, one of those souls who accepted every knock that Fate dealt them, never complaining, never really doing much about it.

The Phantom's anger began rising again. He remembered every moment of the times when he had visited Mike. He remembered the lust they both felt turning into something deeper. He remembered Mike's taste, his clean smell, his wonder at what was happening to him, and a painful realization came over The Phantom. Mike was one of his boys.

Something terrible and wonderful had happened. They were not objects, there to satisfy his sexual urges. The Phantom did not understand why, he just knew that by allowing him to do what he did, by giving him their seed, their most intimate feelings, they had become a part of him. They were his boys.

They were ALL his boys. Ray, Andre, Sylvain, Sandro, Steve, Rob, Ryan, all the boys he had deliberately visited in the night. David, Anson, Thumper, Brian and Dylan, Tyler and Val. The Phantom had given each one a pleasure that they had never thought existed. He had returned to them, a small band of boys, and in returning he had given them a small part of himself.

Last year the boys had been simply objects, to be exploited. This year though, this year was different. Suddenly each boy meant something to The Phantom. He had been drawn to them in a way that he could not understand. He had wanted them, and not the others. He had wanted THEM. He had wanted them all, not as mere penises attached to a body, not as just another notch on some mythical bedpost, but for some deeper meaning, for an indefinable and unexplainable feeling he had for them. He had visited them because they had become his boys.

They were all his boys, just as Sandro, Ray, the Brats and yes, even the Litany, were Chef's lambs. If one of his lambs was hurting so did Chef hurt and, being Chef, he would do what had to be done to stop the hurt. The Phantom shook his head sadly. One of his boys was hurting and a feeling of utter helplessness came over him. He wanted to absorb Mike's hurt and pain; he wanted to lash out at those causing the hurt and pain. He wanted to rush out onto the parade square and . . . The Phantom saw Mike's face, a mask of pain. "Mike," he thought, "you must do it. I cannot help you, my friend. You alone must do it!"

As they stared at each other Mike suddenly started. His jaw dropped and he took a step back. He knew. He knew now who it had been. He knew now who it was who had first shown him love and faith and compassion. Those eyes, those emerald eyes, so full of fire, full of wonderful, courageous enthusiasm, those flashing eyes of the boy who had given him his love, bored into him, begging him to be worthy of that love!

Mike looked around, breaking the gaze that was drilling into him, and realized what a silly, fucking, stupid, little game they were all playing. A mean, vicious, hurtful game, a game that caused pain and humiliation, not only to himself, but also to someone who had shown him for the very first time what a wonderful, glorious thing it was to be an eighteen-year-old boy! Mike had to make the pain in those piercing, emerald green eyes go away. He had to erase the look of hurt that seemed to fill the eyes of the boy who had first loved him. The boy who had never humiliated him, had never made fun of the size of his dick, his gerbil's dick . . .

It came to Mike. The other boys, the younger cadets, called him Gerbil Dick. Mike smiled and laughed. Boys, it might be the smallest dick this side of the Ontario border, but damn and hell, it had dwelled in a palace of pleasure that they could never imagine. He whipped down his gym shorts and jockstrap, gyrating his hips and waving his dick at the dumbfounded cadets. There you go, boys. Take a good look at the Gerbil's dick. And have a look at the Gerbil's balls! Hey, boys, you all have a damn good look because this is the closest you will ever be to utter, wonderful, glorious, horrifying PLEASURE! He remembered Phillip's words, the words he had spoken when they first became lovers.

" . . . Somebody did you not once, but a couple of more times," Phillip had said as they lay together in the office. "It was not the size of your dick he was interested in. It was you." Once again Mike felt Phillip's warm hand as he stroked the knob of his dick. Once again he heard Phillip's voice. " . . . There are two hundred dicks on this shit ass piece of dirt and yours was the one he sucked."

Mike, a slight smile toying with the corner of his lips, looked at The Phantom looking at him. Yeah boys, he wanted me. He didn't want you! He wanted old Gerbil Dick, so look some more! Go ahead, boys, have a real good look. He laughed louder as more of Phillip's words flooded back to him and he recalled the memory of Phillip waving his smooth, soft dick at him. " . . . You see this? It grows to just under seven inches. It's a handsome weapon. So fucking what? Nobody snuck into the Mess and sucked IT, did they?"

DAMN STRAIGHT ON THAT! Look boys. Take a look the Gerbil's fine, handsome weapon! It might be small, but damn, boys, you can take your eight and ten and twelve-inch COCKS into your hands and wait, 'cause that is all you're going to get! HE didn't want your whoppers, he wanted this, he wanted the Gerbil's DICK! Mike glanced over at Phillip, who had a look on him as if he'd just been smacked with a cold fish. Dear, sweet, lovely, wonderful, goofy, fucking PHILLIP! Phillip hadn't fucked him. He had made love to him. Of all the cadets Phillip had made love to him! Mike suddenly turned around, bent over, and exposed his bum to the disbelieving cadets.

Have a good look at this, boys. Have a good look because somebody LOVES me! ME! Not you, not anybody else. ME! Mike waggled his arse and grinned at Phillip, thinking, knowing, that he was in love with Phillip, the goofy fuck!

As Mike had begun his uncharacteristic exposé, a deep, rolling laugh exploded from the depths of his being. Val was so startled that he almost swallowed his whistle and Tyler, for a brief moment, thought that Mike had cracked. Mike, with tears of laughter streaming down his face, shook his head. "The little bastards!" he howled. He shook off Phillip and Tyler, whirled around, pushed down his jock and ground his hips at the cadets, waving what had to be the smallest dick in the West at the parade. The cadets were so shocked at Mike's actions that they stopped their giggling and laughing, then gaped as Mike turned around and mooned them! The assembly was even more shocked when Mike bent over, spread his ass cheeks, and exposed his brown, wrinkled pucker. Jaws dropped as Mike wiggled his butt back and forth, and some swore that his brown orifice winked at them!

Harry, who had been trying to maintain a dignified air of ignorance, stopped in mid-knee bend and fell forward. His body shook with laughter and he pounded the dirt of the parade square. The Twins covered their eyes and peeked through spread fingers, giggling and snickering. Fred fell backward and lay on the ground, his dick exposed, while Val ran back to the Gunroom to put on his pants. Tyler, shaking his head walked away.

Mike straightened and pulled up his jock and shorts. He looked at the cadets, nodded briskly, as if to say, "And fuck you all," and. His back straight and proud, his head held high, turned on his heels and walked back to the Drill Shed.

The Phantom had watched, transfixed, laughing as Mike finished his routine. He saw Harry fall to the ground, pounding the earth as he laughed his ass off. He heard the muted cheers of the cadets as Mike slowly pulled up his laundry. He saw the Twins jump on Mike, laughingly rubbing his short-cropped head and pummelling his back. Laughing with Mike, not at him.

Their eyes met once again and The Phantom nodded. Mike would be all right now. He turned, starting to return to the galley, then stopped. He looked at the Assistant and grinned a knowing grin. "And if the look on Phillip's face is anything to go by," he thought, "Mike is in for one hell of a hissy fit of jealousy when Phillip gets him alone!"

As the pandemonium abated Simon and Bobby watched as the Chiefs pummelled Mike's back and smacked his ass, laughing as they walked towards their quarters. Simon crossed his thin arms across his equally thin chest and glowered sullenly at the departing Chiefs. Bobby gave him a querulous look. "Bobby, when we thought up the 21-fart salute the idea was to honour Harry, right?" asked Simon.

Bobby nodded his head. "Yes, that was the original idea."

"We also wanted to get back at Mike, right?"

"Well, yes."

Simon glared at Bobby. "Then how come I get the feeling that Mike got back at us?"

Bobby grinned widely. "Because, Simon, that is exactly what he did," he drawled quietly. "He repaid us for all the times we made him look foolish, for all the times we deliberately fucked up his part ship." He put his arm around Simon's shoulder. "And that, Simon, is why he is a Chief and we are not!"

"I saw it, but I do not believe it!" snarled Phillip as he closed the door to Mike's office. "Of all the people, you, quiet, take-it-on-the-chin Mike, never-say-shit Mike, actually showed his dick and asshole to the world."

Mike snickered as he began to strip off his sports gear. "Yeah, I guess I did," he said as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. He pushed down his shorts and jock, stepped out of the garments and threw them aside. He looked at Phillip, wondering what was biting his ass. Phillip stood beside his locker, all but ripping his sports gear off his body. He stepped out of his jock and all but hurled it into the open locker.

Mike cocked his head and look quizzically at his assistant. Phillip was pissed off at him for exposing himself to the cadets. Why? It hadn't been Phillip's dick waving in the breeze, nor had it been his asshole winking at the congregation. "Come on Phillip, it was good for a laugh," he said smoothly, a silly grin on his face.

Phillip scowled at Mike and shook his head angrily. He turned and rummaged in his locker, looking for some clean briefs, muttering under his breath. "I never thought that he would do that. Not my Mike!" Mike heard Phillip's muttering. He heard the words and realized that Phillip had taken their relationship to a whole new level. "It's bad enough that those little brats tried to make a fool of you," continued Phillip as he straightened and waved his underpants at Mike. ". . . but you . . . Stop that! Mike, what the fuck's gotten into you?"

Mike had moved forward and taken Phillip in his arms. He had a strange look on his face and, as Phillip began to struggle, he leaned forward and kissed his lover. Gasping, Phillip pulled away, struggling to stay upright. "Damn it, Mike, stop that!"

Mike shook his head and pulled Phillip to him. He enfolded his lover if a deep embrace, grinding his hard penis into Phillip's crotch. Phillip could not refuse Mike's embrace.

"Damn you, what are you . . ." muttered Phillip as Mike smothered his words with a lust-filled kiss. "Damn you."

Mike closed his eyes and his hands found Phillip's smooth, hard buns. "Lock the door," he whispered as he pulled away from Phillip's hard body.

"Mike, this is hardly the time . . ."

Mike put his hands on Phillip's waist. "Today was a long time coming, Phillip. I finally realized that for most of my life I've been letting people do things to me, make a fool of me, and laugh at me. Until today I did not know that what they really wanted to do was to laugh with me. I just would not let them."

"Ah, fuck, Mike, they always wanted to laugh with you," replied Phillip slowly.

Mike nodded. "The old Mike didn't know it" He fell silent and a faraway look came into his eyes. He saw again those green eyes boring into him. Eyes filled with, what? Anger, frustration, encouragement, eyes urging him to DO SOMETHING. Mike held Phillip close and mentally returned to the parade square. He heard again the loud, farting noises, heard again the snickers and giggles and laughter. And he saw him again, standing there, his arms folded, his face, his face soft, and his eyes . . .

Phantom.

Phantom leaning against the serving line, watching and listening, smiling his wonderful, lopsided smile, amused at the antics of the boys. Phantom smiling a knowing smile as he served them their food; Phantom, on some errand or other stopping to watch as the cadets practiced their drill routines or played their games on the parade square, nodding his approval and then hurrying on.

Closing his eyes, drinking in the sweat-scented odours of Phillip, Mike remembered looking over the heads of the laughing boys this morning and seeing the emerald eyes boring into him, eyes filled with pain, compassion, anger and daring and Mike knew!

He knew now who had come to him in the night, knew who had visited him such indescribable pleasure, who had brought out of him all his secret longings and who had given him the courage to return the love Phillip had offered him so freely.

The green eyes had softened and it was as if a message had flashed between them. They are making a fool of you again, the message flashed, just as they have always made a fool of you. They are playing their game with you and if you do not do something, they will win, just as they have always won.

As he watched the laughing cadets Mike suddenly realized the truth. He suddenly knew what they were doing! They were always making him to look the fool! He saw again the flashed penises, the round bums mooning him, heard the snickers and giggles and laughter, always the laughter, and always at his expense. Good old Gerbil Dick, never-say-shit Gerbil Dick!

What's it like to be hung like a stud budgie, Gerbil Dick? Phantom never called him that. Phantom had never laughed at his small parts. Phantom had loved him and come back to him! Suddenly, Mike knew and he knew that those eyes held faith in him, and, in a strange, strange way, love, and he knew what to do.

Now released from his reverie, Mike opened his eyes and saw Phillip staring at him, a strange, odd look on his face. He bent his head and gently kissed Phillip's warm, smooth lips. Phillip was stunned and surprised. This was a Mike he had never seen before. Mike was never the aggressor. Mike was always sweet, and gentle, and passive. A small grin creased Mike's face. "I won the game. Finally, I beat them at their own game," he whispered. "I won."

Phillip's fingers brushed against Mike's smiling lips. "What game? I don't understand!"

Mike looked into Phillip's eyes. Of course Phillip didn't understand. Phillip would never understand because Phantom had never come to him in the night, had never loved him, had never made love to him. Phillip would never understand, or know. "It was all a game, Phillip," he whispered. "A stupid little game, a game where they pushed and tried to see how angry they could get me. And they always won."

Phillip could feel Mike's hands slowly caressing his body, moving downward. He rather liked this new Mike. He didn't understand this new Mike, but he loved him. "But you won today," he whispered. "And stop playing with my dick!"

Mike laughed quietly. "I like playing with your dick. It's a beautiful, wonderful dick." He gave Phillip a small peck on his lips. "It's a dick I am going to play with for a long, long time."

"You are?"

Mike nodded. "I love you, Phillip. I love every part of you, and I want you with me, always."

Swallowing hard, Phillip looked into Mike's eyes and said the words that he had wanted to say for a long time. "I love you, Mike."

Mike nodded. "I know."

"You were never a summer fuck, I . . ."

"I sorta figured that out, Phillip," replied Mike softly.

"You did?"

"I did," replied Mike with a slow nod of his head. "I knew it when you started yelling at me for showing off my dick and ass. If I was just your summer fuck you wouldn't have cared."

Phillip grinned shyly. "Yeah."

"We are going to be together, Phillip, always." It was a command, not request.

"Aw, Mike, you know we can't," returned Phillip. As much as he wanted to stay with Mike, they had to face reality. "Mike, you live in Duncan, I live in Lethbridge! We will never see each other!"

Mike shook his head. "We will. I will find a way."

Phillip squirmed as Mike's hand moved along the furry trail of his perineum. "We'll find a way," he murmured. He gazed into Mike's eyes and saw them harden.

Mike had remembered the first time they had been together. He remembered Phillip's matter-of-fact bragging about his conquests. "No more football players, no more short stops or pitchers, no more soccer players," growled Mike. "I mean it, Phillip."

Phillip grinned. "They're a bunch of losers," he said with small nod of his head.

"And I am a winner," replied Mike. He returned Phillip's grin. "To the victors belong the spoils."

Phillip chuckled and nuzzled Mike's neck. "And I'm the spoils?" he asked with a giggle.

"Fuckin' AYE on that," growled Mike.

Phillip drew back. "And just how do you plan on spoiling me?"

Mike's hands found Phillip's admittedly skinny buns and pushed them forward. Their crotches ground together. "Lock the door and I will be very happy to show you," Mike growled huskily.

The Twins were still chuckling over the antics of the Sea Puppies, and marvelling at Mike's surprising reaction, as they ate their breakfast. They were sharing a table with Tyler and Val, and were being deftly served by Matt and Nick.

Matt was in a mood though, and not his usual chatty self. He seemed withdrawn and barely looked at Todd as he served the plates of food. When he withdrew he gave Todd a long, sad look. The tall, blond-haired Nick was also in a mood. He had a face on him like a thundercloud and kept darting venomous glances at Chad, who was seated at the gunners table, yawning, stretching and scratching, eating his breakfast.

"I wonder what's biting those two," asked Val as the two stewards moved out of earshot.

"Channel Fever?" asked Todd. "Everybody seems to have it. He looked sideways at Cory, who said nothing and seemed to be concentrating on his plate of bacon and eggs.

"Well, I hope they're in a better mood tonight than they are now," snapped Tyler. "All I need are some pouty stewards!" He jammed his fork into his breakfast sausage.

Val looked across the Mess Hall and saw The Phantom beckon to Matt and Nick. Val saw The Phantom whisper something to the two boys, who nodded and disappeared into the galley. "It looks like Phantom has the matter in hand," he said as he reached for the jug of maple syrup. He poured half the contents of the syrup jug over the huge pile of pancakes on his plate. "Stop worrying."

"I have to worry!" replied Tyler. "The Captain is dining with us. We have three American cadets dining with us. Chef has pulled out all the stops." He glanced at his watch. "I have to speak to Chef, and see if there is anything he needs us to do."

"I think that between Chef and Phantom they have everything clewed up," replied Todd.

Tyler rubbed his napkin across his lips and stood up. "I'm sure they do. However, there are always last minute chores that need doing." He looked seriously at Cory, Todd and Val. "I do not need, or want, any fuck-ups. I also do not want Chef or Phantom to think that we don't appreciate what they are doing, or to think that we are leaving all the work to them. To that end immediately following Divisions there will be a meeting of the Chiefs and Senior Petty Officers in the Gunroom. Pass the word." He turned abruptly and walked into the galley.

Val was not long following Tyler out of the Mess Hall. The Twins lingered, Cory uncharacteristically quiet, and only toying with his food. Todd kept casting glances at his brother, whose mood had obviously changed. Finally, unable to tolerate Cory's silence, he spoke in a harsh whisper. "What the hell is the matter with you? Have I done something?"

Cory sighed and shook his head. He smiled thinly at Todd. "You've done nothing. And that, I think, is the problem."

Todd rolled his eyes. "Cory, I have no idea what you are talking about."

Cory pushed his plate of half-eaten food away and nodded toward the door. "Not here."

They left the Mess Hall and walked to the far side of the parade square, where they stopped, looking out onto the green-blue waters of the Strait. The only sounds were the washing of the waves upon the pebble-strewn beach and the screams of the gulls as they soared and fought above the white-capped waves. Cory squatted down and stared ahead, gathering his thoughts. Then he turned and looked evenly at his brother. "From the way Matt was acting, I think he knows that something is going on between you and Harry. At least he suspects."

Todd snorted. "How can he know anything?" He squatted down and joined Cory. "How can he suspect?"

Cory shook his head. "He was in the Gunroom last night. He saw you leave with Harry."

"Which means nothing," snapped Todd. "We made no secret of where we were going or why we were going there!"

"True," Cory agreed with a curt nod. "But what you do not know is Matt stayed until Lights Out."

Todd groaned his frustration. "And that means what? That he spied on me? That he deliberately stayed late to see if I came back on time?"

Cory shrugged. "Perhaps." Once again he stared at Todd. "But know this, Matt is not stupid and he is in love with you."

"God damn it!" Todd pounded the hard-packed sand. "We have been around this course before! I told you then, I'm telling you now, I will not allow Matt to love me! He can be my brother, he can be my friend, but he cannot and will not be my lover!"

"And I've told you, you cannot stop it." Cory reached down and took up a fistful of sand. "Matt knows what he wants."

"No, he only thinks he wants it," returned Todd. "He's infatuated with me. I understand that. I do not have to accept it."

"True," agreed Cory without further comment. He threw away the sand and started walking back toward the buildings on the far side of the parade square. Todd followed him.

"Cory, please listen to me! Matt is only 15." Todd reached out and grabbed Cory's arm. "He's just going through a phase. He only thinks that he is in love with me. Please, Cory, try to understand."

"I do understand, Todd. I've been there, remember?"

Todd thought of the time, three years ago, when Cory . . . "Then you know. Three years ago you stopped something that you knew deep down could never, should never, happen. I am doing the same thing now." Todd rubbed Cory's arm. "In many ways, I love Matt, and because I love him he has to find his own way. I cannot and I will not help him go down our path, Cory."

"I'm not ashamed of what I am, Todd," said Cory, bristling.

Todd reached out and clasped Cory's arms. "Nor am I. But I know how hard it is, and I do not want Matt to go through what we have gone through. I do not want him to be hurt the way we have been hurt." He released his brother and his hand brushed Cory's cheek. "Just as you did not want him to go down our path."

"He was too young, Todd, and he was going through that stage we all go through. He did not know who he was or what he wanted. I could not take advantage of him."

"You did the right thing, Cory. Which is what I am doing when it comes to Matt. He is not gay, and I am not going to let him do something he just might regret for the rest of his life."

Cory nodded his understanding. As Todd had said, he'd been there. They began walking again.

"He'll be there, tonight, you know," said Todd suddenly.

"I know."

"Has he ever . . .?"

"No. Oh, he says hello or nods his head when I'm down in the Dockyard when his YAG is in. That's about all," replied Cory with a slow shake of his head. "If anything, he avoids me." He shrugged. "Perhaps he's avoiding temptation."

Todd chuckled. "Or what might have been."

"One less worry, at least," replied Cory, a sad look on his face.

Todd stopped suddenly and held Cory back. He nodded with his chin toward a thin, skulking figure hurrying along the path toward the Mess Hall. "I'll get the tape recorder and the underwear," said Cory quietly.

"Yes, it's time we took care of that worry," replied Todd. "I'll wait for you."

Little Big Man had spent all of Sunday either in his bunk or hiding. His fear drove his paranoia. His memories of what had happened had come flooding back to him as he lay on the deck of the toilet stall. He was convinced that only one boy had actually pleasured him. The other had just stood there, listening and watching. As he lay in his bunk he had cried bitter tears of self-condemnation and recrimination. He had allowed the Beast to overpower him and he knew what would happen to him if word of what he had done ever became pubic knowledge.

As Sunday progressed Little Big Man calmed down. No one approached him, and he took great pains to avoid seeing anyone, which was the easiest part since no one was speaking to him in the first place, and no one really cared what he did so long as he did it away from them. He had avoided breakfast. Hunger drove him to lunch. As expected, he was roundly ignored. Matt, seeing his brother on the serving line, had turned his back and walked into the galley. Ray and Sandro were their usual snarly selves and served him with as ill a grace as possible.

Dinner was a repeat of lunch. No one bothered him and no one said anything to him. He began to breathe easier and was half-convinced that his secret was safe. The boy who had fucked him would say nothing. It was in his best interests not too. Who wanted to be labelled a fag? Little Big Man had convinced himself that if, and it was more and more becoming a big if, the boy talked, a defence could be mounted. The boy had molested him, had sexually assaulted him, and had raped him. There were two sides to every coin and Little Big Man was a practiced, expert and very convincing liar.

There was no evidence that anything had occurred. The boxer underwear were sealed in a green plastic gash bag, already removed by the Duty Hand, and resting under at least eight other green plastic gash bags. The soiled sheets and coverlet were roughly folded and waiting in the pile of other bedding for Base Laundry to pick up on Monday morning. There was nothing to indicate that the filthy, sex-stained linen in the pile came from his bunk. There were no witnesses to the act. Mike and his fuck buddy, Phillip, had been on Duty, and had not returned until long after the event. Mal, Willy and Jack had heard nothing. Had they, they would have said something. They hated him with passion and would never have let such an opportunity slip by.

There was, however, still the mystery of the blond-haired boy standing beside his bunk shortly after the act, and before Mike and Phillip had returned to the Mess. Tossing and turning, Little Big Man could not get the image of the boy out his mind. Damn, who could it be, and why would he be in the Petty Officers Mess in the middle of the night?

The more he thought of it the more Little Big Man convinced himself that the boy had to have been part of the Duty Watch. They were the only ones who had reason to be wandering about during the Silent Hours. It was their job to do Rounds! Of course, that was the answer. Someone from the Duty Watch had come into the Mess to do Rounds and stumbled across . . . Stumbled across what? A sudden thought, a vague memory, popped into Little Big Man's brain. Of course!

Little Big Man had spent half his career in the Sea Cadets stomping through barracks and Mess decks in the middle of the night. He had seen some very interesting sights, not the least of which had been cadets in the throes of what was politely described as a nocturnal emission.

Stifling his laughter Little Big Man knew then that he had the answer. It did not matter who the cadet was. He would never betray the Code. No one was so low that they would spread it about that they had seen another guy having a wet dream! He had seen it happen more than once and had never opened his mouth. The other cadets might hate him, but they would never betray the nighttime trust placed in them. He lay back in his bunk, a small, smug, smile on his face. He could, and would, scream rape if he had to, but he doubted it would come to that. The evidence was destroyed, there were no witnesses, and the Code would protect him.

Little Big Man awoke on Monday morning as the last notes of Wakey-Wakey echoed. He waited, listening to the other cadets. From the complaints and curses he knew that Mal was performing his morning ritual. Dirty pig! Eventually the Mess quieted. He remained in his bunk, dozing. He should have been out on the parade square with the rest of the Ship's Company performing callisthenics. He should have been, but was not, because he knew that no one would miss him. One of the advantages of being a non-person was that no one cared what he did, no one cared if he missed a parade. He was out of sight and out of mind.

He tried the showers. They were still turned off so had to make do with a stoker scrub, which left him feeling as gritty as he had been before washing his pits and crotch. He waited until he was certain that the Mess Hall would be all but empty before going over for his breakfast. On his short walk to the Mess Hall Little Big Man saw the Twins standing in the middle of the parade square. He ignored them.

The Mess Hall, as Little Big Man expected, was empty of cadets. The food line was abandoned, as it always was this close to closing time. He could hear the cooks and stewards chattering away in the galley as they went about the washing up. He helped himself to some bacon and eggs and carried his tray to his usual table just inside the door. He had barely started eating when two tall, slim, blond apparitions slid onto the chairs on either side of him. He was about to snarl an epithet when Todd slid a small, brown bag in front of him. Little Big Man stared at the bag. He looked at Todd, then at Cory. The looks on their faces told him that they knew something. He pointed with his chin. "What's that?" he demanded, dreading being told what the bag contained. He had a suspicion of what was in the bag.

"Your property," replied Todd, his face stony.

"A mutual, shall we say, friend, thought that you might want your, um, property, returned to you," said Cory, his words coldly spoken, his face as stony as Todd's.

"Our mutual friend also hopes that . . ." continued Todd.

" . . . Your evening together was enjoyable," finished Cory.

Little Big Man took in a sharp breath. His mind raced feverishly. They could not possibly know. They could not. "I have no idea what you two fags are talking about," he said evenly. "I never spent an evening with anybody!"

"Ah, but you did," replied Todd, a small, knowing smile breaking his lips.

With shaking hands Little Big Man turned the brown paper bag over and over. "Nothing happened and I don't know what you're on about." He pushed the bag away.

Todd bent his head and whispered in Little Big Man's ear. "Shall I whisper what happened, Paul?"

"You sucked a cock, you fucked some guy's ass." Cory whispered in Little Big Man's other ear.

"He sucked your cock, he fucked your ass," murmured Todd, his voice silky, his words without rancour. Todd did not know exactly what had happened in the Mess on Saturday night but he figured, what the hell, go for the gold. "How many times did you cum, Paul? How many loads did you blow?"

Little Big Man shook his head violently. "Nothing happened," he protested vehemently. "You have no proof that anything happened."

Todd leaned back in his chair and looked at Cory, who nodded slightly. In the inner pocket of Todd's jumper was the tape recorder, which contained all the proof they needed. Todd had every intention of playing every word recorded on the tape of the recorder. But not yet. He was determined that when Little Big Man left AURORA he would leave with one thought in mind, get out of the Sea Cadets, and stay out. Paul had to leave knowing what would happen to him if word got out. Todd also wanted Little Big Man to suffer. "We do not need proof," he said slowly. "You know the drill, Paul. You know it because you've done it." He cocked his head and raised his right eyebrow. "A word in the wrong ear, a look when your name is mentioned, a whispered innuendo."

Cory smiled. "Remember how it works, Paul?" he asked, continuing Todd's line of thought. "Word gets around. There are guys here from all over the country. And they all like to talk!"

"Remember last year, Paul?" asked Todd with a chuckle. "Remember what happened, and how Two Strokes got his name?"

Cory giggled. "Within a month everybody knew exactly how and why Roger Home became Two Strokes." His face hardened. "Think what they will call you!"

"One word at the right time, in the right place, Paul," continued Todd, his words full of venom and threat, "and every Sea Cadet from Baie Verte to Cape Scott will know that Paul Michael Greene is a queer, a faggot."

The colour drained from Little Big Man's face. "You wouldn't dare," he gasped.

Silently Todd reached out his hand. Cory took out the tape recorder and gave it to his brother. Carefully Todd placed the recorder in front of Little Big Man and pressed the "Play" button. The tape whirred and hissed.

At first there was nothing but static. Then, strange, rustling noises, then, the words, oh, God, the words! Little Big Man sat rigid with fear as his muffled, strangled words flowed from the small plastic box. " . . . Fuck me . . . Fuck me hard . . . Please, fuck me. I want you to fuck me . . ." The tape whirred softly and the sounds of low moans seemed to echo through the dining hall.

Little Big Man reached out to silence the tape recorder. "Turn . . . it . . . off . . ."

Todd's strong hand gripped Little Big Man's hand in an iron, vise-like grip. "There's more. And you will listen."

The tape continued to spool forward, muffled moans, inarticulate muttering flowing from the speaker. Then there was silence. Then, unbelievably, Little Big Man heard his growling voice. "Harder . . . Fuck me harder . . . Stick that COCK in me!"

Cory reached over and stopped the tape.

For a long time Little Big Man stared at the tape recorder. He turned and glared, his face, his eyes, his being, filled with hatred. "You bastards! You set me up!" he snarled through clenched jaws. "You were there! You planned it!" Todd laughed quietly and shook his head. "No, we did not set you up and we were not there," he said truthfully. He was not about to confirm any suspicions Little Big Man might now have.

"When certain details of, shall we say, your extracurricular and very unorthodox activities came to our attention . . ." Cory pointed to the tape recorder. He spoke with quiet, fierce, relish. Revenge had been long in coming. But then, revenge has always been a dish best eaten cold.

"So unorthodox, though I understand enjoyable, were those activities that, when we heard of them, we were hard pressed not to take a leaf from your book and trumpet the news of them throughout the ship." Todd knew that his every word was a knife plunging into Little Big Man's flesh.

Cory plunged the knife deeper. He leaned back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Imagine what would happen if we hooked this tape up to the ship's communications system."

"No!" Little Big Man pushed away from the table and ran from the building. At the foot of the steps he vomited what little he had eaten. Confused, he turned and was about to run onto the parade square, where the cadets were assembling for Divisions, when Todd stopped him and pulled him aside.

The Twins pushed and led Little Big Man down the narrow walkway between the Mess Hall and the Cooks Barracks and into the woods. Todd, seeing that Little Big Man was about to have a fit of hysterics, slapped him soundly.

Little Big Man recoiled and, marginally in control, hissed his hatred of the Twins. "You fucking cocksuckers!"

Todd held up his hand. "Spare us the terms of endearment. We might be cocksuckers, but we are not the ones on tape."

"You set me up," repeated Little Big Man. He was thinking now. "You conned some guy, somebody, to come into my Mess. You're behind it! You're behind all of it! And don't bother to deny it!"

"We can, and do, deny it," snapped Todd. "Admittedly, we were on the periphery, but it was not our idea. You have many enemies, Paul. One of them conceived the idea and he executed the idea. We did not."

"Who is he," demanded Little Big Man. "I demand . . ."

"Who he is you will never know!" Cory fisted Little Big Man's jumper and shook him. "And you are in no position to demand anything. We have the tape, and believe me, we will use it."

Little Big Man was no fool. The Twins would, if given the opportunity, destroy him in a minute. Less than a minute since they had ironclad proof of what had happened. He could not scream rape. He could not claim that he had been molested. His own words gave the lie to his defence. Yet they had not destroyed him. They were here, confronting him. Why? That was the question. Why had they not . . . And then it dawned on him. They wanted something. Quid pro quo, you do for me, I do for you. "What do you want?" he asked icily. "You wouldn't be telling me what you know unless you wanted something, so what is it?"

The Twins exchanged a glance. Paul Greene was not quite as stupid as they thought he was. They had underestimated him. They would not do so again.

"What do you want?" Little Big Man rasped.

"Your silence," said Todd calmly. "What you have seen here, what you have heard here, stays here."

"Anything else?"

"You leave the Cadets."

Little Big Man smoothed the front of his jumper. Leaving the Sea Cadets was not a problem. He would have to do that anyway since the family was moving to Germany. He could live with that. As for promising his silence, well . . . Then he saw the look in Todd's eyes.

Cory handed held up the paper bag. He smiled evilly, his blue eyes flashing with anticipated triumph. "Nothing happened. No one shared your bed." He waved the paper bag in Little Big Man's face. "No one took your spermy underpants."

Little Big Man reached out and snatched the paper bag from Cory. His anger rose and he ripped the bag open. A pair of white briefs fell to the ground. He stared at the white cotton underpants and saw that they were stained and soiled.

"I believe you will find a label with your initials on it sewn into the waistband," pointed out Cory unnecessarily.

Little Big Man stared at the white cotton bundle at his feet. He looked up and saw the determined looks on the Twins' faces. "You two will stop at nothing," he snarled through clenched teeth, his face pale with fear. "Even blackmail!"

Todd waved his hand airily. "Blackmail is such an ugly word, Paul. We prefer to think of it as constructive persuasion." He leaned forward and stared into Little Big Man's fear-filled eyes. "Listen to me, Paul, and hear me well," he warned, his eyes cold and was without pity. He would take no prisoners. "Make no mistake about what I am going to say to you. I will destroy you. I will destroy you utterly."

"Just tell me then, tell me what you want me to do!" returned Little Big Man. He was calmer now. It was enough to know that the Twins were not going to expose him. As to their terms, well, he was smart enough to realize that there was no point in going to panic stations until he knew exactly what it was the Twins wanted.

"All in good time, Paul." Todd crossed his arms and took a deep breath. "But first I want you to understand what it's like to be a queer in the real world, in the world outside the gates of AURORA. I want you to understand what will happen to you if we open our mouths."

Cory stared at his brother. Jesus, Todd had never been this incensed. He had always before shrugged off the slurs and name-calling; he had always been the calm, cool one. Todd had always walked away from Little Big Man and his kind. Someone, Cory could not remember who, had said that Phantom had a fire inside him, an unquenchable, blue-flamed fire that made him as hard as carbon steel. Cory now realized that the same fire burned in his brother. He now knew that the same fires of resolution and determination drove Phantom and Todd. Todd would destroy Little Big Man and do it with the same amount of regret he might feel when swatting a fly. Phantom had crossed his Rubicon on Saturday night. This morning, at this time, in this place, Todd was preparing to make his own crossing.

"You keep saying that I hate you," said Todd evenly. "You're wrong, you know. I do not hate you." He paused and took a deep breath. "I detest you. I loathe everything you are and everything you and your kind represent. I am everything you are not and can never be!" Little Big Man did not reply. He glared with hate-filled eyes at Todd. Todd tapped his chest. "But, more importantly, I have something you have no conception of. I have love, and caring, and compassion. I believe in fair play and I believe in helping my friends. You, you have nothing but hate. One day that hatred will consume you."

"And you care?" asked Little Big Man with a snort of disdain, a small part of his backbone returning.

"No," replied Todd honestly.

"Then get on with it. Tell me what you want."

Todd's lips curled into a sneer. "Before I do, I want you to know that if you ever go back on your word I will make you a pariah." He took a step closer and pushed his face close to Little Big Man's. Their noses were touching. "In the real world you can lie, you can steal, you can rape a girl." His voice was calm, his words deliberate. "People will forgive all those sins. You will be rehabilitated. You will be allowed to pay your debt to Society with no repercussions. But, and hear me well, let people think that you've sucked a cock, and you are toast! Your family will disown you. Your friends will despise you and strangers will go out of their way to avoid you. All that I can and will do to you, Paul."

"We will do it to you," interjected Cory without hesitation. He wanted Little Big Man to know that Todd was not alone in this, and that because he was not alone there would always be someone ready to continue his fight. "We, Todd and me, we can make you out to be the biggest queen in the country." He laughed mirthlessly. "We can do it because as we all now queers recognize their own kind."

Todd shook his head sadly. "It has been our experience that people are more than willing to believe the worst about other people, particularly people they dislike and distrust."

"You tried it last year," continued Cory, his words mirroring Todd's thoughts. "You accused us of sleeping with guys we never slept with. You accused us of doing things we never did."

Todd smiled fondly at his brother. "You forgot though, that people have a strange habit of not believing people they know to be a liar, and a fraud. You tried to invent situations that never occurred, and the other guys knew it. You failed then, you failed this year. You failed because we did not sleep with anyone. We did not have sex with anyone. And the other cadets knew it."

"Including the boys you thought were your allies." Cory's demeanour softened. "You lost those friends, and other boys who would have been your friends. Including us. We could have been friends, Paul."

"You? You?" spat Little Big Man. He looked at each Twin in turn. They might have it in their power to destroy him, but they would know exactly how deep his hatred of them ran. "I hate you," he said, his voice filled with loathing. "I have always hated you. I will always hate you." He clenched and unclenched his fists. "You think that because you're rich, because you go to some fancy school, because you have powerful friends, that you're something special." He flipped his hand at Todd. "Well, so far as I'm concerned, you're nothing but a couple of fucking faggots."

"Oh, we are, are we?" drawled Cory, a nasty tone in his voice. He held up the tape recorder. "I could argue the fact that it is our parents who have money, not us."

"Or that our school is so fancy that it does not have a pool and the gym was condemned as unsafe," continued Todd.

"Or we could argue that all our friends, our so-called powerful friends, are here," said Cory with a rueful smile. Then he brightened. "But, then, we would also have to say that we are special."

Todd's hard face softened. "There is one thing though. We are special, Paul. We are special because of our friends."

"But more importantly . . ." With a vicious thrust of his thumb Cory pushed the rewind button on the tape recorder. Then he stopped the taped and his thumb stabbed at the play button. Once again Little Big Man's groans of lust flowed from the small black box. "You dare call us cocksuckers? You dare call us faggots?" Cory snarled, his face livid. He stopped the tape and sneered at his nemesis. "Unlike you, we can prove what you are!"

Todd patted his brother's shoulder, calming him. Cory's temper very rarely truly got the better of him, but when it did the ensuing eruption was volcanic. The last time it had happened had been during the ball game, when Nicholas had pulled down Cory's shorts. Nicholas did not know it, but when Cory had charged at him, there had been blood in his eye. Todd saw the same look in Cory's eyes as he had seen back then.

Todd slowly pulled his brother back. There was no point in arguing further with Little Big Man. Truth was a stranger to him. Fact had no basis unless it was contained in the hate-filled writings of bigotry and intolerance. "It is obvious now, that all you understand is pure, brute, force. So be it," he said harshly. He stared at Little Big Man and an arctic wind blew across the Spit. "Our terms are simple. When you leave here you deny that you saw or heard anything remotely sexual. What you say, and how you do it, is of no concern to us. There are no gays here, and when you wrote your letters you made a mistake, you misunderstood the situation. It was all just grab-ass and totally innocent."

Little Big Man started. Letters? How could they know about the letters he had written home? Only one other person knew about his writing home. Matt! "I can still deny everything," he returned hotly, trying to think. His mind raced. "I can deny that I had sex with a guy. You can't prove that it's my voice on that tape."

Todd laughed sarcastically. "We don't have to prove it's your voice. You have to prove that it's not your voice!" A look of triumph crossed his face.

Little Big Man stared at Todd, saw the look in his eyes and knew that what he'd just been told was true. The Twins did not have to prove anything. He also remembered the blond-haired figure standing beside his bed. Matt! It had been Matt standing there, looking at him, covered in spunk and moaning deliriously about wanting to be fucked hard. Matt was in on this as well! Matt had seen him and Matt would support the Twins. Matt hated him, and Matt would, like the Twins, want his revenge for all the past hurts, the beatings, and the slurs. Matt would back up everything the Twins said or did. His shoulders sagged. The bastards had him, and they knew it. "It's your word against mine," he said weakly, reluctant to admit that the Twins had won.

"Yes, in some ways it is," agreed Cory nonchalantly. "But then, Thou not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it IS an abomination," quoted Cory with a huge grin. "Leviticus 18, Verse 22."

"What?"

Todd continued for his brother. "If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood SHALL BE upon them. Leviticus 20, Verse 13."

"We know all the biblical verses condemning homosexuality," said Cory. "Both Old and New Testaments." He smiled. "Perhaps you would care to hear some more? Samuel? Matthew, perhaps, or St. Paul's Epistles on the subject? They are always a show stopper."

"Why would I want to hear that," snapped Little Big Man.

"Why? Because those verses are the ones that will be hurled at you when your Fuehrer, Tumbrel, finds out all about the real Paul Greene," replied Todd, a note of gloating in his voice. He appeared to think for a moment. "Or is it Reverend Tumbrel? He does lead some crackpot pseudo-religious outfit called the True Aryan Church, doesn't he?"

Little Big Man gaped. "How did you . . .?" He snapped his mouth closed. The Twins had unknowingly once again given him the proof he needed. They could only have heard about Tumbrel and the Church from Matt. His suspicions were confirmed.

Cory smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, Paul, how naive you are. You've heard about the Old Boys Network? Well, we are a part of the Old Queers Network." Todd stared at his brother. Cory knew as well as he did that there was no such network. Paul might be naive, but he wasn't stupid. But then again, maybe he was. Like all bigots of his ilk Little Big Man was convinced that there was a worldwide conspiracy of Gays, Jews and Blacks waiting to take over the world and corrupt honest, decent, God-fearing white folk. Todd let Cory spin his fanciful tale.

Actually, Cory thought that Paul Greene was just stupid enough to swallow the bullshit he was spouting. He continued happily on. "We have friends, Paul. Here, in Ottawa, in other places you have no idea about. A simple telephone call and everything we know, and this . . ." he held out the tape recorder, " . . . will be made known to your father and to your so-called Reverend." Cory continued to wax lyrical.

Little Big Man stared at Cory, convinced that every word he was saying was the truth, because the words confirmed what he'd been told back home. There was a conspiracy. There was a worldwide web of gays who had access to every level of society. They were everywhere. His father had told him. They were in the established Churches, in the police departments, in the government, in the military. Cory did not realize that he was preaching to the choir. Little Big Man believed!

Cory was so convincing that Todd, who had been standing, staring, his jaw open, even he half-believed his dippy brother!

"So, Paul," said Cory, winding down, "we can, and we will find out if you've talked about things. If you talk, well, things will become most unpleasant for you."

"And we will not hesitate, Paul, remember that," finished Todd. "We will use anything and everything at our disposal."

Cory assumed a pontifical air. "And the enemy of the people entered the city; and the people cried unto the Lord their God for deliverance from their enemies; And the Lord God heard their cries and sent the Angel of the Lord unto them; Lo, the Archangel Michael descended from Heaven and laid waste with a fiery sword all the vanities of Satan' Jeremiah 53 Verse 10."

Now that was too much for Todd. With great difficulty he managed to restrain himself and not give Cory a good kick. Jeremiah 53, indeed! Todd had read just as much of the Bible as Cory had, and had attended just as many Bible Study classes (although, admittedly, he tended to sleep through most of them) and he knew that there was no such a verse. Jeremiah 53! Bloody hell! It was time to end this silliness. He took the tape recorder from Cory's hand. He held out the tape recorder and smiled grimly. "My brother tends to think in Biblical terms. I prefer Aesop: The shaft of the arrow has been feathered with one of the eagle's own plumes." He waved the tape record slowly. "Losers often give their enemies the means of their own destruction."

Little Big Man's knowledge of the Bible was minimal best, and while he didn't know Jeremiah 53 from Jerking Off 101, he did understand the allusion. The Twins would do what they said they would do. Between them and their friends, they could and would destroy him. He had to agree to their terms. He had no other option. He looked at the Twins and nodded slowly. "That tape, it never gets heard by anyone?"

"If you keep your side of our bargain," replied Todd firmly.

"How can I be sure of that?"

Todd gave Little Big Man a pitying look. "You have my word of honour. No one will ever hear what is on that tape."

Little Big Man considered this. He had to admit that the Twins, while many things, were not liars. When Todd pledged his honour nothing would make him break that pledge. Little Big Man gave Cory a questioning look.

Cory nodded. "My word of honour."

"I'll keep quiet. And I'll make it right with my father," Little Big Man conceded grudgingly.

"No letters to Daddy, carrying tales?" asked Todd. He was not at all sure that Little Big Man had not made the connection about the letter to SIU. He might not even have known of his father's letter writing. It was far better to speak in generalities. Better to let him think that all they knew about were the letters home.

"No letters," confirmed Little Big Man.

"Telephone calls?" queried Todd.

"No!"

"No tales of anything when you get back home?" Todd wanted to be very sure that Little Big Man would say nothing, and do nothing, in the future. "I said I wouldn't," flared Little Big Man. "I'd be stupid to open my mouth."

"Yes," agreed Todd coldly. "Especially when you consider the consequences if you do."

Little Big Man bent down and snatched up the soiled briefs. He glared at Todd. "I will keep my end of this bargain. It will cost me a beating, but then, that doesn't worry you at all, does it."

"No," replied Todd flatly.

"Can I go now?" Little Big Man made to push between the Twins. Todd's hand stopped him.

"There is one more thing," said Todd, with steel in his voice.

"Now just one minute," snapped Little Big Man. "I promised to make things right, I meant it!"

"This has nothing to do with what you promised." Todd pushed Little Big Man ever so slowly away. "This has to do with Matt."

"Matt? What has Matt got to do with this?" Little Big Man, his suspicions once again confirmed, wanted to hear more. "Well?"

"You hate him. We know it. We want you to leave him alone," began Todd. "To that end, understand that Matt is under our very personal protection. He is never to be beaten again. You will protect him from your father, or all bets are off."

Cory rose to the fore. "If, when Matt gets home, and we hear that he's been knocked down by a bus, we'll have to suspect that one of your Hitler Jugend was driving the bus. If we hear that Matt walked into a door and broke his nose, we will have to think that perhaps one of your wannabe SS Truppen was holding the door. If we hear that while playing hockey someone smacked Matt on the ass and raised a bruise on his bum, well, we will have to assume that one of your buddies was holding the stick."

Todd groaned inwardly. Cory was seeing far to many gangster movies! God, he sounded like Don Corleone!

Once again Little Big Man missed the allusion. "Nothing will happen to Matt. He's my brother, for fuck's sake!"

"That meant nothing before," returned Todd hotly. "Just remember, Paul, if anything happens to Matt we will really get nasty. And you know how nasty queers can get!"

Little Big Man nodded. He was not at all surprised that the Twins wanted to protect one of their own. As much as he would have liked to make Matt pay for his treason he knew full well that the Twins would make him pay dearly if any harm came to Matt. "Matt will be safe. From me, from my father, from . . . certain friends," he promised.

Todd arched an eyebrow, unwilling to release the hook. "And?"

"I will not talk about you, or anybody. I will leave the Cadets. I will keep my part of the bargain."

Todd nodded curtly. "Good." He motioned to Cory. "Our business is finished. It's time for Divisions."

As he watched the Twins leave Little Big Man seethed inwardly. He had made the best of a bad bargain. The Twins might not believe him, but he would keep his word. He did not know how he would be able to convince his father that everything he had written had been just wishful thinking and bad judgement, but he would do it.

Little Big Man watched as the Twins fell in with their Division and snorted. He was not quite as stupid as those two fags thought he was. The two fags had talked about letters. There was only one way they could possibly have known about his letter writing. Matt!

The tape recorder tape! Little Big Man remembered now. The second time he had demanded to be fucked had been after the spectral phantom had left him, had been when that strange slim, blond boy was standing over him. He now knew who that boy had been. Matt!

Little Big Man's eyes narrowed and his lips curled in a thin, feral smile. The Twins were not as smart as they thought they were, not by a long shot! They had confirmed his every suspicion about Matt and no matter what they said, Matt would pay for his treason. Little Big Man knew that he would have to be careful. He did not doubt that they Twins had contacts in Ottawa, had some queers in Ottawa who would spy on him. Fine, Matt would be safe as houses. In Ottawa.

An evil smiled curled Little Big Man's thin, pale lips. The Twins had been so intent on threatening him that they had forgotten one minor point: Germany! In Germany there were people who knew how to deal with queers, and friends of queers. There were people who would not hesitate to dispose of a distasteful problem. The more Little Big Man thought of it the more a sly grin crept across his fox-like face. He would have to be very careful, of course. If Matt met with an accident in Germany, and word got back to the Twins . . . They would use every dirty trick in the book. He chuckled to himself. But then, his friends were known to use a dirty trick or thirty when required.

Little Big Man knew that he could live with the not too onerous terms of his agreement with the Twins, and he would abide by those terms, up to a point. He would keep his brother safe, fat and sassy, so long as it served his purposes. When Matt was no longer useful, and he was sure that the Twins were not going to wreak vengeance on him or reveal his innermost secret, Little Big Man would strike.

He would have to talk to the Leader, though. The Leader would understand what they were doing to him. The Leader always understood and the Leader always knew just what had to be done. Little Big Man crushed the thin cotton underpants in his hand. He would have to think of a story to tell the Leader, who could never know what really happened. The story would have to be convincing, though. The story would have to be believable and Matt's guilt would have to be proven beyond doubt.

He hurried to the dumpster standing outside the Mess Hall and threw the soiled underpants into the mass of garbage and kitchen waste. Then he hurried toward the Dockyard, thinking of the night Matt had screamed and attacked him in the Mess Hall. That alone was cause for dire punishment. Little Big Man snorted and smiled. He had found an answer to one of his problems. Matt had hanged himself with his own tongue. The incident in the Mess Hall could be reported at the right time, and with the right embellishments, Matt would no longer be a problem.

Little Big Man looked over his shoulder and saw the Twins, laughing with their mates, laughing with Matt, waiting for the Divisions to start. "Laugh," he thought. "Laugh now, Matt, because when we get to Germany you won't have much to laugh about."