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 home address: paradegi@rogers.com

The Boys Of Aurora: Chapter 18

The Phantom had little time to think about Mike and his relationship with Phillip. There were 214 cadets to be fed their breakfast. Along with Sandro, Joey and Ray he manned the steam line, dishing up the scrambled eggs while at the same time keeping an eye on Matt and Nick, the Duty Stewards. At first he found little to fault the two boys. Matt was much quieter than normal, and moved with quiet efficiency, not missing a beat as he served Val and Tyler. Nick, at first glance, seemed his normal self. He always had a serious look on his face although underneath the Gloomy Gus exterior he was actually quite a happy young man. His eyes, shining with hidden laughter, always betrayed him.

As the breakfast ritual continued The Phantom noticed subtle differences in Matt and Nick. Matt, while he managed a thin, wan smile at Val and Tyler, barely noticed Todd and seemed to avoid serving him, leaving Nick to take Todd's order and fetch it from the steam tables. Nick, for some reason, kept shooting glances at the main door. When Chad entered the glances turned into a long, penetrating look of, while not quite rage, certainly controlled anger. Something was obviously bothering both stewards and, while whatever it was did not affect their efficiency, their moodiness was noticed by Tyler, and Todd had to know that something was bothering Matt.

The Phantom called for Randy to take over his station and motioned Matt and Nick over. When both boys were next to him he looked at them sternly. "Now look, Matty, Nick, I don't know what got you two off your feed but, please, knock it off. We have a lot of work to do today and tonight. If you're pissed off about something, or somebody, can you please settle whatever it is? If I've done something, please tell me."

Both boys hung their heads. Matt was the first to speak. "It's not you, Phantom," he murmured. He gave Nick a worried, sideways glance. Whatever it was that was bothering him, Matt would not speak of it in front of Nick.

Nick was equally reticent about what was bothering him. He mumbled that he was just out of sorts this morning, which was a lie. The looks that he'd been giving Chad were a dead give-away. Whatever Chad had, or had not done, obviously had pissed Nick off.

The Phantom sighed inwardly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tyler go into the galley. There were a great many things that he and Tyler had to talk about. He had no time to mediate, to stroke, or to slap recalcitrant stewards. "Look, if I can help either of you with whatever it is that is bothering you, I will. I'm here all day, so come by at Stand Easy and we'll talk."

Both cadets nodded. Nick looked at The Phantom. "Maybe. Maybe later. It depends on how the practice goes."

Matt agreed with Nick. "The Gunner is taking the parade. You know how he is, what he can be like when it comes to parades."

The Phantom got the definite impression that both cadets were looking for an excuse not to talk to him about their troubles. This was fine with him. He would help both of them, if they would let him. If not, they were on their own. "Whatever time is convenient," he replied. He would not press the issue. "Just remember that from noon on you are here, helping set up for the Dinner. If you don't want to talk to me, fine, it's not a problem. Just get settled what needs to be settled by noon. Now go and put out some more of the fruit salad and tell Chef we need more eggs, please." When the two stewards disappeared into the galley The Phantom returned to the serving line. He was not there more than a few minutes when Luke came out and told him that Chef wanted him.

Chef was seated at his table with Tyler. Chef motioned for The Phantom to join them and when the boy was settled Chef began going over the final details for the Dinner. While they were talking, a florist's truck pulled into the loading dock. The flower arrangements for the table had arrived so Chef went off to complain to the florist. Tyler had to leave as well. The Parade would be forming for Divisions and there were things that he had to do beforehand.

Ray, Sandro, Randy and Joey came into the galley, each boy holding a plate of eggs, bacon, sausages and toast. The Phantom marvelled at the amount of food that the four skinny boys could pack away. Ray called over that everybody had been fed, except for Little Big Man who, as usual, was the last one to eat. He had just come into the dining hall and could serve himself. Leaving the table The Phantom walked over and pushed the outward turning door open. He saw Little Big Man seated at his usual place, the table just inside the main door, chowing down on a huge plate of food. He sniffed. Paul Greene was a greedy little man who always took more that he could possibly eat.

The Phantom was about to close the door when two blond spectres slid into the chairs on either side of Little Big Man. He was much too far away to hear what the Twins were saying to Little Big Man but, as The Phantom watched, Todd slid what looked to be a brown paper bag across the table. There followed what appeared to be heated words. Then Cory handed his brother a small, oblong, black plastic object, a tape recorder. It was obvious that the tape recorder had been turned on. Little Big Man listened to whatever it was that had been recorded, paled, and rushed from the Mess Hall. The Twins quickly followed.

The Phantom slowly closed the door and walked over to where Ray and Sandro were sitting. He helped himself to a cup of coffee from their carafe, a small, satisfied smile curling his lips. The final skewering of Little Big Man had begun.

As the morning progressed The Phantom was as busy as he had ever been in his life. Just the basic preparations for the Mess Dinner seemed to take on an all-consuming life of their own. While everybody else was busy with the breakfast washing up, The Phantom armed himself with his copy of "Feeding for Special Occasions", a sheaf of notes that Chef had given him, a vague idea of what he needed to do, and set to work.

The first order of business, it seemed to The Phantom, would be setting up the table. Tyler had finally given him the final figures. There would be 38 people dining: 35 cadets, including the Americans and the boys from the YAG Squadron (Tyler, responding to a whining appeal from the Squadron Chief, had added the five Buffers of the YAGS. Chef had acquiesced with as ill a grace as possible), and three officers. Chef and Tyler had also agreed that the best, and easiest table to serve would be one long one. The Phantom cleared away the wooden folding tables from the far corner of the dining hall and then set to work in forming the dining table. He manhandled the six-foot, wooden tables into a long rectangle, six tables long by two tables wide.

When the table was formed he stood at the end of the wooden expanse and mentally began placing the chairs. There would be two diners at either end of the table. The rest would be spaced along it, with Tyler, as Mess President, and the Commanding Officer, as Guest of Honour, seated at the middle of the side of the table closest to the far bulkhead. Directly opposite them would be Val, who was Mr. Vice, and Andy, the Senior Foreign Guest, who would be seated at Val's right.

A picture began to form in The Phantom's mind's eye. Down one side, stretching from the far bulkhead would be portable screens, with a right angle turn. Additional screens would be placed and a large, almost square, dining area formed. Nicholas and his Signalmen would drape signal flags and bunting over the partitions. In front of the two windows that pierced the far bulkhead would go the Flags: the Canadian and American forming one set, the Sea Cadet Ensign and the White Ensign forming another. Between the two sets of flags The Phantom would place a table. Draped with crisp, white linen and laden with whatever table silver he did not put on the main table, the effect would be stunning. To his right the wall of the dining hall stretched back, a bare, empty space pierced by four windows. Between each pair of windows he would place a table, balanced with yet more tables set against the partitions. These would serve as service islands for the stewards.

The Phantom paced out the proper distances he felt that he would need. There would be room enough for the stewards to serve, and a place for the small band that would play during the Dinner. When he was satisfied that he had his distances right, The Phantom stood back, nodding approvingly, visualizing the table, set with silver and flowers, crystal gleaming in the soft light of the candles set in the candelabra that would be placed down the centre of the table. Between the candelabra there would be gold, white and blue floral arrangements. The partitions, made colourful by the signal flags and bunting, would balance the whiteness of the table linen.

The Phantom wondered if he should place some flower arrangements on each of the yet to be placed middle serving tables. Some of the larger pieces of silver, perhaps? He had plenty of pieces to choose from and would have loved to be able to put the Antwerp Centrepiece out. That, however, was locked away in The Gunner's office waiting to have a provenance established and The Phantom decided that he would have to make do with the silver-gilt epergne.

There was so much to think about, so much work yet to be done. So much work that The Phantom very quickly realized that he could not do everything himself. Chef had warned him. A Mess Dinner was labour intensive. The Phantom would need some willing hands before anything more could be done. He would have the stewards, and a work party that Tyler had promised to send over as soon as the practice for Ceremonial Divisions was finished.

With no help in sight until Stand Easy, at the earliest, The Phantom returned to the galley where he began to take inventory. He first inspected the massive amount of silver pieces and flatware. The larger pieces had all been wrapped in a pale, pink tissue paper that Chef said was supposed to prevent tarnish. The paper had, for the most part, succeeded. Still, the pieces and trays could use a good polish.

The Phantom moved on to inspect the crystal glasses, all of which needed a good wash and polishing with a soft towel. From the glasses The Phantom moved on to the china. The Admiral's Plates, and the Minton service, which he would use for the dessert course, would have to hand washed. The gold decorations and flower paintings on the Minton would never survive in the industrial-strength dishwasher that was normally used to clean the dishes. The Wardroom china, heavy crockery, could be run through the dishwasher with minimal effort and no damage to the decoration, such as it was. The caterer had delivered the dishes that would be used for the Garden Party on Wednesday. Picking up one of the caterer's plates The Phantom examined it closely. It was rather pretty, decorated with a pale lime band edged with gold. Good, solid, honest, restaurant crockery. This service could also go in the dishwasher. From the china and crystal The Phantom walked to where the table linens were piled. The mammoth tablecloths and napkins were all freshly laundered and starched. The linens were the only things ready for immediate use.

Leaving the table linen he returned to Chef's table and sat down, preparing to make a list of what needed doing, and the number of hands needed to complete the tasks. His foot touched a small box on the deck under the table. He reached down and lifted the box, shook it and heard a slight rustling noise, and soft metal tings. He opened the box and found what looked like miniature lamp shapes, cream coloured vellum decorated with green swags of leaves of some kind or other, the swags joined by small, red and gold ribbons tied into delicate, richly detailed knots. He puzzled over the brass objects, which he had also found in the box, which looked like lampshade holders without the shades, fitted into a small dome-like base. The shades would go over the holders, which would go over the candles which would be set into the candelabra and . . . The Phantom groaned softly. Candles! He had forgotten the bloody candles! Did he have any? What colour should they be? Red, white, blue? Sky-blue pink with fucking yellow polka dots? Hell and sheeit, The Phantom cursed as he quickly added candles to his list. Someone would have to go into town if Chef's ditty box was empty of candles.

Grumbling to himself The Phantom tried to concentrate on his lists. Before too long he gave it up. All around him the cooks and the Litany were busily chopping, slicing, yapping and generally going about their business. The noise level in the galley rose steadily as vegetables were chopped, meat sliced, pots banged and oven doors slammed. When Chef began bellowing at a custard that refused to set The Phantom, defeated, retreated to the dining hall. He found a table as far from the galley as he could get, settled in, and returned to his notes.

The Commanding Officer of HMCS AURORA was all but bouncing off the bulkheads. A boy! A healthy, pink-cheeked, bouncy, baby boy! His mood was euphoric as he entered the Ship's office and greeted Greg, slapping the Yeoman on the back and offering him a cigar. In his office Father clapped and rubbed his hands with glee. A boy! After three wives and six daughters, a boy! A grandson to be spoiled! A boy!

He puttered around his office, finding the glasses that he kept in the credenza behind the desk, and the bottle of Royal Navy rum that he had laid down a lifetime ago to give a toast to his first born, which had, alas, been a girl. Followed by five more girls.

Chuckling and smiling Father did a little jig of happiness. Now there was a boy! A boy, with all the attendant noise and happy strife that a boy brought, a boy to leave the toilet seats up, to litter the front hall with cricket bats and rugby boots. Father stopped his dance. No, this was Canada so there would be ice skates and hockey sticks, baseball mitts and wooden bats, a sports bag stuffed with soiled jerseys and athletic supporters smelling of boy!

Upstairs, a boy's room, littered with orphan socks and long forgotten underpants lurking under the unmade bed; abandoned books strewn hither and yon, the detritus of a young male making navigation into and out his room a Blind Pilotage Exercise.

Father could see it all. He could hear the noise of slamming doors, the cacophony of too loud stereos blaring the latest excuse for music. Posters and photos would make the walls a montage of sports heroes and pop stars, to be replaced, as the boy grew older, with scantily clad images of movie sirens. There would be comic books and school texts and, if he knew boys, hidden under the mattress would be forbidden magazines that would be drooled and giggled over.

A boy! And such a boy! The lad had a set of upper deck fittings that would give him bragging rights in every gymnasium he would ever enter, and make him the envy of his peers. Father had heard about Harry and the Pride of the Fleet. Well, Harry had better watch out because in a few years there would be a contender for that title, even after the lad's refit, scheduled for later in the morning. There was a light tap at the door and Lieutenant-Commander Hazleton entered. Number One was grinning from ear to ear. He held out his hand. "And a very well done, sir!" he said heartily.

Father returned the grin. "A boy, Charles! A boy!"

Number One, who was the proud father of two sons and the even prouder grandfather of six grandsons, chuckled at Father's antics. He could not blame the man. He well knew the deep, inner feeling that a man had, a feeling that demanded a son. "A healthy boy, then," replied Number One with a chuckle. "Mother doing well?"

"Resting comfortably is the accepted phrase, I believe." Father held out a silver cigar box filled with King Edward cigars. He chuckled quietly. "Actually, she threatened my son-in-law with emasculation if he ever came near her again." Number One accepted the cigar and joined in the Commanding Officer's laughter. "She'll come 'round. My wife did."

Father gestured to the chair that sat in front of his desk. "Sit down, Charles, and we'll have a wee dram to the lad's health."

Before the Commanding Officer could pour the rum Greg came into the office and placed a large manila folder on the desk. "Morning mail, sir," he mumbled.

As Greg turned and left the office Father's nostrils quivered. There seemed to be a miasma of something trailing the boy. "What . . . whatever is that . . . stench?" he asked when Greg left the office.

Commander Hazleton chuckled. "Greg," he replied calmly. "And you have no one to blame for it but yourself."

"Me?" Father's eyes widened behind his spectacles. "However am I responsible for that boy smelling as if he's gone and drowned himself in sewer water!" He grimaced and shook his head. "He has to be wearing the most foul smelling cologne it has ever been my misfortune to smell!"

Number One was unfazed by the Commanding Officer's grumbling. "You ordered the water turned off." He glanced at the array of glasses on the credenza. "Boys, especially active boys, have a tendency to perspire. When they perspire, they smell. The cadets all had PT this morning. They worked up a sweat and all that so . . ."

Father nodded his understanding. "No showers afterwards," he muttered, grimacing.

"You'll get used to it, old friend," replied Number One. He puffed on his cigar. His little plan to get the water turned on was working. "You'll have a boy in the house. Your lad can be washed and his little bottom powdered." He blew out a huge ring of smoke. "Personally, I have no desire to try powdering Greg's bottom!"

Father suspected that he was being manoeuvred into something, but let it pass. He thought a moment and then grinned broadly, showing his tobacco stained teeth. He picked up a small pile of flimsies, copies of signals sent to the ship. "The world is coming to AURORA on Wednesday. I cannot have the boys smelling like dockyard navvies!"

"We can't get around it," replied Number One. "The water is only on at night. The boys are active during the day and always start off with sports. Most of the time they have a game of something after their day is finished." He raised an eyebrow. "It's either dockyard navvies or Rugged Man After shave."

"I beg your pardon?" Father cocked his head. "Whatever is that?"

"Rugged Man After Shave?" Commander Hazleton grinned. "In addition to the most disgusting underpants I have ever seen, the Canteen Mangler laid in a supply of after shave when the water was cut off. I think he charges a dollar the gallon for the vile smelling slop."

Father looked at Number One, who was smiling enigmatically. He glanced at the flimsies again and made a sudden decision. "Open the taps, Charles. Turn 'em all on. All I want to smell is soap and clean boy!"

"They can shower as much as they like, then?"

"Soap and clean boy, Charles, soap and clean boy." Father glanced at his watch. "Now then, where is the rest of the staff? We have far too much to do and . . ." There was a soft knock on the door. The Gunner, together with Doc, Andy and No "H", entered. Sub-Lieutenant Ramseur, the Band Officer of the moment, Tyler, Harry, and Chef followed them into the office. When everybody was settled the Commanding Officer waved the sheaf of flimsies at the assembled staff. "Acceptances for Wednesday's festivities." Father held up the top flimsy. "The Lieutenant-Governor has accepted. He's old Navy to the bone." Another flimsy. "The Colonel commanding CFB Comox." More flimsies. "The mayors of Comox and Courtenay."

Harry groaned softly. Each and every one of the dignitaries would require a salute, a musical salute. He glanced at the Band Officer who had assumed a look of martyrdom. The young officer's look said it all: Lot's of Band practices coming up!

Father heard Harry's groan. "Quite right, Harry me lad!" He held up the final signal. "And last, but by no means least, Vice-Admiral Sir John Frederick Salisbury Stephens, Victoria Cross, KCMG, Royal Navy, Second Sea Lord, with aides and hangers-on unto the ninth generation, is coming to visit his favourite nephew!"

"His nephew?" asked The Band Officer. "Whoever is his 'favourite' nephew?"

"Regulating Petty Officer Fisher," replied The Gunner with a straight face. "Tall, gangly boy. Always has a goofy grin on his face."

"Fred, to his friends," put in Number One.

"Whatever," growled Father impatiently, "the fact remains that we have an admiral coming to call. He's asked for no honours, but since he's an admiral he'll expect them anyway." He looked at the Band Officer. "Full salute for the admiral, George." He looked at The Gunner. "The Guard?"

"Full Captain's guard. Forty-eight ratings, two Petty Officers, one officer, one bugler."

Doc snickered. "You forgot the ship's cat."

Father glared at Doc, then carried on. "Now, Andy, Chef, you've everything arranged for the Garden Party?"

Andy nodded. "The caterer is laid on. I've told him extra waiters and no skimping." He nodded toward Chef. "In the event the caterer lets us down, Chef will prepare something as a backup."

"Chicken curry," grumbled Chef. "Hot and filling, with lots of rice."

Father shuddered. He had a very good idea just where the chickens that would be curried had come from. Fortunately anything curried gave him the pip, so he did not have to eat it. "Warn the lads," he ordered. Then he turned to Tyler. "Now then, Tyler me lad, your Dinner."

"We're getting there, I think," replied Tyler slowly. "I'm meeting with all the senior hands as soon as I leave here to divide up the work. I'll send as many gash hands as I can to the galley to help out. We'll be fine."

"Good. I'm looking forward to dining with my Chiefs and Petty Officers." Father turned to The Gunner. "Stephen, I want you to make sure that the lads have a good time this evening. Please, though, as you're the Wine Steward, mind how they go. Make sure that they do not get too stupid with the drink."

Chef squirmed uneasily in his chair and smiled weakly at The Gunner, who glared at him. "I'll take care of them," said The Gunner, giving Chef a dirty look.

"Everything is all ready to go," said Chef hurriedly, not wanting to be reminded that he had forgotten to ask The Gunner to be Wine Steward. "Phantom has everything in hand. He's a very well organized young man, is Phantom." There, that should smooth stormy waters a bit.

Father nodded brusquely. "Well, it seems that you all have everything in hand. I shan't bother you again. You all know what has to be done, so let us make it so."

The others began to rise, preparing to leave. Father raised his hand, stopping them. "Gentlemen, before you go, would you all join me in a glass and toast my new grandson?" He turned and began to pour generous amounts of rum into the crystal glasses that he had set out.

When everyone had been charged with rum, Number One raised his glass. "Gentlemen, I give you a toast. To young Master . . ." he looked at the Commanding Officer. "You've not yet told us how the boy is to be called, sir."

Father's eyes, twinkling in merriment, swept the room. "Why, he shall be called after me, of course." He raised his glass. "He shall be called Francis Albert Edward Stockman, the Second." He wrinkled his nose and swallowed his drink in one gulp. With the greatest reluctance he forced himself to include the child's father's name. "Iturbide!"

The Gunner and Number One shared a look. They both knew that Father did not care for his Spanish son-in-law. Chef, who was not aware of the animosity between Father and his in-laws, raised his glass. "To the Sprog," he bellowed. "A long life and a big dick!"

"Really, a long life and a big dick!" complained Tyler as he opened the door to the Gunroom. "Trust him to say something like that!" He turned and looked at Harry, who was following him. "And don't you get any bright ideas about tonight. The only toasts will be the Loyal Toast, the Reply and the Toast of the Day!"

"I wasn't thinking of doing anything of the kind," replied Harry, a hurt look on his face. "I would never say anything like that!"

"Bullshit!" snapped Tyler as they passed the door to the Chiefs Mess. He paused to pound on the door. "You buggers get up!" he yelled to the American cadets who were still asleep inside the Mess.

Inside the Chiefs Mess Tony, awakened by Tyler's pounding, rolled over, reached around Mark's warm, sleeping body and felt his lover's substantial morning woody. "Mmm, if that's the Angel of Death, tell him to fuck off. I've got one very important . . ." he paused and squeezed " . . . One large piece of business to take care of before I shuffle off this mortal coil."

Mark, who had awoken at Tony's touch, chuckled. "It's Tyler. He told me last night that we have a meeting to go to this morning." He rolled over, kissed Tony's wonderfully rich lips and slipped his hand through the slit in his lover's boxer shorts, fisting Tony's magnificently tumescent penis. He nuzzled Tony's neck. "Avante Italia!" he whispered.

Tony closed his eyes and moaned softly. "We'd better be careful," he whispered. "Nathan . . ."

Mark raised his head and looked over Tony's reclined body. Nathan was lying on his side, facing away from the other two boys and snoring softly. "Nathan's asleep, sooo . . ." He ducked quickly under the thin coverlet and took Tony's warm, delicious penis in his mouth. He began to suck deep and fast, knowing just how to bring the dark, handsome Italian boy off quickly.

Tony bit his lips, stifling his moans of pleasure. He reached down and ran his fingers through Mark's soft, curly hair. Before too long he began to breathe harshly and stiffened. Mark tasted the sweetness as Tony's cock erupted.

When he had swallowed the last, final drop of Tony's nectar, Mark slowly withdrew. He propped himself on one elbow and leaned forward, his tongue depositing a small drop of the exquisite juice into Tony's mouth.

Tony grinned. "Beats bacon and eggs, anytime," he said when their lips parted. "Now, it's my turn."

Mark returned Tony's grin but rolled away. "No, we'll save me for later. We have to get a move on. Tyler could come busting in here any minute."

Tony nodded his understanding. He reached up and wiped a small drop of semen away from the edge of Mark's lips. "I love you, and I hate pretending to our friends. I hate having to love you in the shadows!"

"Tony, I love you more than life," replied Mark warmly as he stood up and began dressing, "and I hate the pretence as much as you do. But it's what has to be. You know what people would say if they ever found out about us, if we ever came out. For starters, you could kiss your appointment to Annapolis goodbye." He pulled on his shorts and looked for his T-shirt. "Now, get up, and give Nathan a shake."

Tony rolled onto his side and reached down to shake Nathan. He wrinkled his nose. Nathan smelled of booze. "He sure tied one on last night." Tony shook the sleeping Nathan vigorously. "Come on, guy, it's time to get up."

Nathan muttered, growled, and shook off Tony's hand. He did not move.

"Stupid bastard has to blame no one but himself!" snarled Mark unsympathetically. "He had a good thing going with Cory and he blew it."

Tony stretched and smacked Nathan's round, firm behind. "Actually, he blew Jeremy Cohen. And Alex."

Mark gasped and stared at Tony. "Nathan and your brother . . .?"

Tony shrugged, crawled out of bed, and began looking for his clothes. "You know Alex. He likes pussy but he thinks guys give better blow jobs. He got drunk at the party. Nathan offered." He pulled on his shorts. "Alex told me all about it the next morning. He says Nathan has a gifted mouth."

Mark snorted loudly. "Yeah, well, I heard some stories about Alex." He knelt down beside Nathan and gave him a gentle shake. "Come on, Nathan. It's time to get up." He looked at Tony. "Poor sod," he said quietly. "He just can't pass up a hard dick."

"He better pass on yours!" growled Tony.

Mark stood up and smiled. "My hardons are all reserved for one guy."

"Yeah? Anybody I know?" Tony reached for the doorknob. "We better get gone. Tyler is bellowing for us."

Before Tony could open the door Mark took him in his arms. "My hardons are all reserved for some dumb Italian who has delusions of becoming a naval officer. For him, only."

As Mark and Tony exited the Chiefs Mess they did not hear the soft sob that rose from Nathan's throat.

" . . . Right, then. We're all agreed," said Tyler after explaining what he wanted, and what needed to be done, to the assembled Chiefs and Petty Officers. "Harry, you'll send your Sea Puppies over to the galley. Stuart, you and Steve will help with the table set-up. Phantom knows what he wants so it should not take too long. From there you help wherever and whenever you're needed."

"And me and my boys will set up the partitions, and decorate them," offered Nicholas.

"Good," replied Tyler with a nod of his head. He looked seriously at the other cadets. "Tonight, please, watch the booze, at least during the dinner. There will be lots of wine so for Christ's sake, take it easy. Guzzling the vino collapso and puking in the middle of the dinner is not considered good manners." Harry snorted. "The Gunner is Wine Steward. I sorta think he'll make sure that nobody gets too plastered."

"Me and Tony will go over and see what we can do to help. Mind you, Tony is not used to manual labour," said Mark, grinning. "He thinks manual labour is a Mexican."

"Droll, very droll," sniffed Tony. "Not one of your best, old son."

"What about Nathan?" interrupted Val. "I don't see his sorry carcass about."

"He'll be there, and no danger," promised Mark grimly. "It's just that he's feeling a little under the weather this morning. He'll be all right."

Harry chortled. "Give him the hair of the dog. Just the cure for Molson's Flu!" Tyler rolled his eyes. "That is just what I do not want to happen." He glared at Mark. "Tomorrow we are having one of the most important parades we will ever have. I do not want you clowns all hung over and smelling of booze!"

"What parade?" asked Two Strokes. "The big parade is on Wednesday. What's so important about tomorrow's parade?"

Tyler was aware that Two Strokes, while not as bad as Little Big Man, did not approve of the Twins' homosexuality. However, there was the fact that Two Strokes had railed loudly about the Twins earlier in the training years and, while he had calmed down since then, Tyler still did not trust him. "It's a full dress rehearsal," Tyler replied, not giving Two Strokes a chance to say anything more. "Everybody will be on parade, including all five YAG crews." He turned to Val. "I want you to concentrate on them, Val. Stuart, Steve, all your Parade Staff, as well. The YAG boys think that their shit doesn't stink." He smiled grimly. "They also think that they can march. Make sure that they can!"

Val grunted. "Those lazy gits have done nothing but swan around all summer, sailing and generally doing fuck all." He smiled at Stuart. "We'll ginger them up."

Stuart nodded and grinned. He loved training the YAG crews, the useless little gits!

"Tonight I do not want any of that crap," returned Tyler firmly. He looked at Val and then at Stuart. "Whether we like it or not ten of them are attending the dinner. Be nice and do not say anything about their uniforms. Only the Squadron Chief has a set of Number 11s. The rest will be wearing square rig." He remembered something and turned to Mark. "Tomorrow afternoon, you'll have to take our uniforms into town and get them laundered and starched. I think that the infants," he nodded at the other cadets, "can manage to keep themselves clean for the dinner, and the parade tomorrow. Unless, of course, one of them slops his food all over himself."

"You still haven't said why tomorrow's parade is so important," persisted Two Strokes.

"No, I haven't," replied Tyler coldly. He had no intention of telling Roger Home anything. He addressed the group. "Tonight, have fun. Try not to make fools of yourselves. Mark, Tony, Stuart, Nicholas, Greg, please remain. Also Harry, Todd and Cory. The rest, carry on, please."

As the other cadets filed from the Gunroom, Two Strokes gave Tyler a dark look. He knew that something was going on, something that Tyler did not want him to know about. Tyler pointedly ignored the glowering Regulating Petty Officer.

With the others gone, Tyler folded his arms across his chest and looked upward. He was not sure what he was going to say to the gathered cadets. He wanted them to understand why the parade tomorrow was so important. At the same time he could not tell too much. Phantom's reputation was at stake. Tyler knew that his own credibility, and reputation, were at risk if he betrayed too much. As he gathered his thoughts he began moving down the Gunroom. When he came to the middle of the mess table he sat down on the bench and motioned for the boys to sit down.

The Twins sat on Todd's bunk. Across from them Nicholas and Stuart sat on Nicholas's bunk. Harry took Greg's hand and walked with him down to his bunk in the corner. He gave Greg's hand a soft squeeze. Greg, beaming for the first time in days, sat as close to Harry as he could. Mark and Tony, wondering what was going on, sat on Greg's bunk.

Tyler looked at each boy in turn, a soft smile creasing his face as he looked at the Twins, the irrepressible, rambunctious, wonderful Twins. He regarded Greg, poor, foolish Greg, so wrapped up in his own problems and imagined terrors that he could not think straight. He saw Harry holding Greg's hand, and wished that Val were here. Tyler saw Harry squeeze Greg's hand. Dear, wonderful Harry, who thinks that I don't know that he was in the School of Wind last night with Todd. God, why didn't I ask Val to stay behind! He looked at Mark and Tony. They tried so hard to hide their love for each other. Tyler stopped himself from shaking his head. He was not at all bothered that the two American boys were lovers. What bothered him was the subterfuge; the sneaking about they had to endure. They tried so hard to be loud, boisterous jocks, which Tyler knew was just a huge camouflage. He had seen the looks they exchanged, and heard the soft breathing in the night when they thought that he and Val were asleep. God, he wanted Val!

Tyler looked over and saw Nicholas looking at him, a worried expression marring his handsome features. Nicholas. A stunning boy who, if Tyler was reading the signs right, had fallen in love with a beautiful French-Canadian boy. Like the Americans, Nicholas and Andre tried to hide their relationship, hide their love, hiding in the Flag Locker whenever they had the chance. Poor Nicholas. Did he not know that the Flag Locker could only be cleaned so often before someone twigged on what he and Andre were doing there? Tyler wondered how far along Nicholas's relationship with Andre had progressed. He wondered if they kissed. And he remembered the kiss, the deep, warm kiss that he and Phantom had exchanged in the galley locker room. Damn, he wanted Val!

Tyler looked at Stuart, tall, gangly, always happy Stuart. He remembered the morning when he had told Stuart that Little Big Man was going to be on his Slop Chit. He remembered Stuart throwing his boot at Steve. He also remembered the look that had come into Stuart's eyes after he had thrown the boot at his best friend. That look had contained a wealth of meaning, much more meaning than Stuart realized. Much more than Steve realized. Jesus! I have got to stop thinking about Val!

Running his hands over his face, Tyler began to speak. "Boys, tonight I'm supposed to give a speech. To be honest, while I had thought about what I was going to say, I had more or less decided to keep it simple, keep to the basics." He smiled thinly. "You know, what a great thing it is to be a Sea Cadet, and what a wonderful time we've all had being a Sea Cadet. I think you all know the kind of speech. It was going to be the usual pap we hear at every Inspection."

Todd looked at Tyler and nodded slowly, realizing that, for whatever reason, Tyler was about to unburden and that what he was about to say would be more than politically correct pap.

"So, guys, no speech. Instead, I'd like to tell you a story." Tyler's voice was low, and it was as if he was speaking to himself. "When I was a little boy," he continued, "when I was twelve or so, my Dad took me to the Canadian National Exhibition. It was Warriors' Day and I was so proud of my Dad, marching with his Legion branch, his back straight, with all his medals up." He ran his hand across his face and a faraway look came into his eyes. "To get to where we had parked the car, which was in the parking precinct at HMCS YORK, we had to pass by this huge park. Coronation Park, it's called, I think. Anyway, as you come to the road that leads down to the barracks there's a baseball diamond. On the diamond, playing a scratch game of baseball, was a bunch of kids. It was nothing fancy, just a pickup game of baseball."

Tyler did not see Val, who had come into the Gunroom looking for Stuart. Val heard Tyler's quiet voice and stopped just inside the door. He listened for a bit and then sat down slowly on Fred's bunk.

"They were Sea Cadets," continued Tyler. "At the time I really didn't think too much about them. They were playing ball, yelling, chucking shit at one another, and having fun. You know what a bunch of loons we can be."

Several of the boys nodded their heads. Harry grinned at Cory, then at Nicholas, remembering the afternoon ballgame where Nicholas had bared all of Cory's family jewels to the world. Cory glared at Harry and growled low, a terrier challenging a mastiff.

Tyler leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees. "Like I said, they were Sea Cadets. A bunch of guys, some were as young as me, some were older, just a bunch of guys, relaxed, having fun. Most of them had stripped their jumpers. Some, the Peanut Gallery for the most part, hadn't. They were wearing their caps every which way, on the back of their heads, pushed forward, pushed to the side. A bunch of typical kids having a hell of a time playing baseball." He sighed and smiled a short, sweet smile. "Most of them looked like me, you know, skinny, with a brush cut."

Mark giggled. Tyler could be describing him when he'd been twelve. He could also be describing a certain Italian boy who . . . He looked at Tony, his eyes sparkling with their secret love.

"At first the cadets didn't mean much to me." Tyler was speaking again. "They were just a bunch of kids in a funny uniform playing ball. Happens every afternoon on half the sandlots in town." Tyler snorted. "That's what I thought." His shoulders heaved. "Then I saw the look on my Dad's face, and I saw the look in his eyes."

Once again Tyler scanned the Gunroom. "I saw a look that I had never seen before. It took me a while to figure it out, but I did. It was a look of sadness, a look of remembering, a look of such intensity that I didn't, at first, understand it. It was a look of remembered days when he was in the Navy, a look of compassion, of remembered courage, a look of remembered sacrifice, a look of remembrance for all the boys he knew, boys who never came home again. A look . . . a look of . . . what does the Book of Common Prayer call it, a look of a love that passeth all understanding? Yeah, a look of such love."

Greg lowered his head. He did not care what the other boys thought of him. He slipped his arm around Harry's waist. Harry reached up and slowly rubbed the back of Greg's head.

Cory slipped his hand into Todd's. He squeezed slightly and Todd squeezed back, returning the love that Cory had for him.

Tyler's eyes widened. "I realized that my Dad wasn't seeing a bunch of Sea Cadets. He wasn't seeing that bunch of kids playing ball, he was seeing his mates, he was seeing other boys, loud, proud, boys playing pickup ball beside the jetty in Halifax. Over their heads, he wasn't seeing a building. He was seeing his corvette. He wasn't seeing Lake Ontario, filled with sail boats and stink pots. He was seeing Bedford Basin, filled with merchant ships, ships that he and his mates were going to escort across the pond to Derry. He was seeing all that. But more than that, he was seeing the love they all had for each other, seeing the unwavering determination they all had, for their ship, for their Navy, for themselves." His voice became a whisper. "My Dad was seeing again the boys he sailed with, the boys who willingly gave their lives for him, for you, for me."

Val could feel the tears coursing down his cheeks. His brave, courageous Tyler! He moved quickly down the Gunroom and sat beside Tyler. He put his hand on Tyler's shoulder. "Tyler," he whispered through his tears, "Tyler."

Tyler smiled, looked directly at Val, and nodded slowly. He was all right. "My Dad was seeing boys who had, wordlessly for the most part, sworn their love and loyalty to him, and to each other. They were his messmates, his shipmates. They came from all over the country. They hadn't known each other until they were drafted to the ship. But they were my Dad's brothers! Brothers!" He reached up and his hand covered Val's. "They were his brothers, you see. And they were never coming home again."

Stuart wiped away the small tears that had formed in his eyes. Now he understood why, every November 11, his grandfather would lock himself in his den, reappearing later in the day with red-rimmed eyes.

Nicholas forced back a sob. Now he knew why his father would go to the Cenotaph in the old cemetery with a bunch of flowers every Sunday.

Harry remembered his father, surrounded by his seven strong sons, a wreath of poppies in his hand, weeping quietly as the Last Post sounded over the War Memorial in town. He saw his father laying the wreath and, in turn, embracing his boys. Harry's father had been with the Winnipeg Rifles and now Harry understood the hugs, the kisses, the love that filled his home and his young life.

With his hand firmly on Val's, Tyler continued. "I joined the Sea Cadets that fall. I thought, maybe foolishly, that I had to follow in my Dad's footsteps. I owed him. I joined the Sea Cadets and kept looking for something I thought I would never see again. I was looking for my father's brothers. I was looking for that special look in another man's eyes. I was looking because I could understand. I could understand the devotion, the courage, and the determination of one man to love his brothers so much that he would do anything to protect them, to make them safe. A man who would fight, who would pay any price to make sure that his brothers were safe."

Todd left Cory's side and knelt before Tyler. He took Tyler's free hand in his. "Tyler, you don't have to do this."

Tyler's eyes were full of compassion and love as he returned Todd's look. "Yes, I do" he whispered. "I have to make them understand what happened, what was done for them." He looked again at his friends. "After I joined the Sea Cadets, and the years passed, I began to understand more of what my father was feeling, and why he was feeling the way he did. I began to see the love, the bonding that occurs amongst men and, yes, boys like us. Nobody understands how it happens, or why it happens, it just happens. I began to feel that special love that exists between all of us." He looked down at Todd. "I don't mean the love, the special love that sometimes happens between boys. I mean another kind of love. A love that makes a guy understand why some guys form special, wonderful unions, a love that understands that we are all unique and individual, and a love that forgives everything. A love that will never, ever, betray the trust and warmth we all have for each other." He bent down and kissed Todd warmly on the forehead. "A love that will make a man fight unto the Gates of Hell for his friends. A love that until the early hours of Sunday morning I didn't think existed anymore."

As Todd rose and returned to sit beside Cory, Tyler moved his hand and his arm found its way around Val's slim waist. "I saw the love that does not condemn, ever, a friend for being who he is. I saw something I thought only existed in my Dad's eyes, in his soul. I saw the look! I saw the green fire, I saw the determination and I saw the courage." He gave Val a slight squeeze. "I saw that look in the eyes of a boy who, when we came here, wasn't even one of us."

Harry turned his head and gazed with tear-filled eyes at the picture tacked to the bulkhead above his bunk. "Phantom," he whispered.

Tyler's head jerked up. "Yes, Phantom. A boy we all, at first, dismissed as nothing more than a civilian, a galley hand, a boy we all thought was just another townie come to work. A boy who was just the kid in the Mess Hall who cleaned up after us! Phantom."

Greg, who had been resting his head on Harry's shoulder, followed his gaze and looked at the photograph of Harry and Stefan. He reached up and touched his cheek where just a few days ago Phantom had kissed him . . . kissed him and promised that everything would be all right. Greg looked longingly at the photo of Harry and Stefan and now he understood why he would never be a part of Harry's life.

"Mark, Tony," Tyler went on, "when we were in Victoria two weeks ago, we learned that there was an enemy in our midst, a snake, who never learned what it was to be a Sea Cadet, or a brother. He is part of an organization that hates Jews, Catholics, Gays, Blacks - you name it, and he hates it. Mark, you would his beau ideal, his poster boy, a blue-eyed, blond haired white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant poster boy. Tony, you would be beyond the pale because you're an Italian, and a Catholic."

Mark stood up abruptly. As he looked around the Gunroom he was struck by the open displays of affection he was seeing. These boys truly loved each other. They felt for each other. He looked at Tony, who was smiling at him, and suddenly the years of frustration, of hiding, of sneaking about, became too much to bear. Mark loved Tony, passionately and deeply, and Tony deserved better than furtive and illicit sex in dark corners. Why should he and Tony hide something that was so beautiful? Why could they not express their love, as Cory and Todd expressed their love for one another, as Tyler and Val were expressing their love?

Tyler had spoken of love, and courage, and determination, and Mark realized that until now he had lacked the courage and determination to openly express what he felt for Tony. He saw Tyler give Val a slight squeeze. Tyler was not afraid to express his feelings for Val, nor was Greg afraid to rest his head on the shoulder of the boy he was so obviously, hopelessly, in love with. They all thought that Tony and he, and Nicholas and Stuart, were straight. Still they were not afraid to show their true feelings, their true selves to them, and for the first time Mark realized that not only were they friends, but comrades, and, brothers. They trusted one another, and understood one another, and suddenly the weight that had pressed upon him for years fell away. He understood, now, the true meaning of brotherhood and camaraderie. Mark understood, now, that none of those boys would ever sail under false colours. As he had been doing for too long.

Mark rested his hand on Tony's shoulder. He could not, and would not, continue to sail under false colours. These Canadian boys had made him, and Tony, their friend. He felt the warmth of comradeship fill him. A friend did not lie to a friend, and he knew what he had to do.

"Tyler, I might be some crackpot's beau ideal. I might be a lot of things to a lot of people, but of one thing I am certain," said Mark as he squeezed Tony's shoulder, "I'm gay." He reached down and pulled Tony to his feet and embraced him closely. "I've known since I was about 12-years-old that I loved Tony. We had braces on our teeth and knobbly knees." He kissed Tony on his cheek, and Tony returned the kiss with a look of support and encouragement. "I love Tony, and we have loved each other and expressed our love every way two boys can. We've kept it hidden, but not now. I know that if what I've told you gets back to Seattle I'm dead meat at home. It does not matter! I am tired of the lying, to myself, to my family, and to my friends. I'm 19 and for half my life I've been hiding the way I feel. I am not hiding anymore!"

Tony looked into Mark's clear, defiant eyes. He remembered the day that Mark, a scrawny, buzz-cut, 80-pound, knobbly-kneed, frightened little boy had come into his father's store to buy milk. Their eyes had met, and they had fallen in love. He smiled at Mark and caressed his face. "I love you, you damned fool!" Tony turned and faced the stunned cadets. "I'm like Mark, I'm not hiding anymore. Like Mark, I have a lot to lose if word gets out that I'm gay. It doesn't matter. If it costs me my appointment to Annapolis, fine. I'm gay. I love Mark. I've loved him from the day I first set eyes on him. I'll love him until the day I die. So, gentlemen, I am gay. I love Mark, and I am no longer going to try to hide it. If any of you have a problem with that, let's step outside. When I've beaten your ass to rat shit, I'll go home." Tony grinned, leaving no doubt in anybody's mind that he was serious and could whip their collective asses if he had to. "And remember one other thing. I said that I'd go home. I am not ever going to go away!"

The Twins shrank back. While they had known that Mark and Tony were lovers, and had abetted them in their clandestine meetings when they had last visited AURORA, they exchanged a worried look. They were proud that Mark, and Tony, had chosen now to declare their love. They wondered, however, just what reaction that declaration would elicit from the others.

The Twins need not have worried because, surprisingly, it was Stuart, whom they all thought to be straighter than a measured mile, who stood up and confronted the Americans. "You don't have to beat anybody's ass. You don't have to prove anything to me, or to them." He jerked his thumb at the other cadets, looking around the Gunroom, as if daring someone to prove him wrong. "You guys all think that I'm just some goofy fuck who doesn't know much about anything. Well, guys, I got news for you. I am not as stupid as I look. I see things, and no matter how hard anybody tries, I know when two guys are in love with each other." He looked directly at Tyler and Val. "I even know when those same two guys don't know it themselves!"

Cory and Todd exchanged a glance. Tyler and Val?

"I want all here to know one thing about me. Maybe I am gay, maybe I am not." Stuart shrugged and smiled slowly. "That's for me to find out in my own time, in my own way. What I do understand, though, is what Mark and Tony feel for each other, what they have together. As far as I am concerned, I am proud to call them my friends, proud to call them my brothers." He reached out his hand to Mark. "And if Tony goes outside, I'll go outside with my brother and stand beside him!"

Mark snorted loudly and shook Stuart's hand. "Thanks, Stuart. It means a lot."

"I ain't going to kiss you, if that's what you're looking for," growled Tony, overcome. He shook Stuart's hand and then hugged him.

"I didn't ask you to," replied Stuart with a laugh. "Kissing me would only make Mark jealous and then I'd have to fight him and whup his ass." He pushed Tony away. "So, when's the wedding?"

Harry groaned loudly. "What a fucking thing to ask! Have you no couth?"

"More than you'll ever know, you big dumb farmer!" replied Stuart, unrepentant. He looked at Tyler. "So, Phantom took out the snake."

Tyler looked at Todd. "Well?"

Todd grinned. "Let's just say that as of this morning the snake no longer has a head." His face clouded. "Phantom did something so wonderful, so damned courageous . . . He gave us the ammunition we needed to make sure that Paul Greene never bothers us again." He squeezed Cory's hand and looked at his brother. "Phantom did something that Cory and I will never forget. It was horrible, it was wonderful, and it was something that I know, deep down inside, I could never have done."

"Nor me," said Tyler. He looked at his friends. "Phantom did it for us. He thought of a plan, he executed the plan. He made us safe." He gave Val a hug. "Afterwards, after the deed was accomplished, Phantom was not alone. He was looked after, because he had to be. You don't have to know all the details. All you need to know is that for a little while he had . . . I think he'd all but lost his mind. So some of us, we looked after him as he had looked after us." He smiled softly. "I was there, afterward. And so was Val." He put his arm around Val's shoulder. "If there is any fallout, I'll be under it."

Val looked at Tyler and smiled. "If there is any fallout, you'll have me beside you."

"And me," said Nicholas, who had remained silent throughout Tyler's monologue. "I was there, in Victoria, remember?" He stood up and dared anyone to dispute his next statement. "I am just as gay as Mark, or Tony, or Todd or Cory. I am . . ."

"Jesus!" Tony started to laugh. "Here we were, so busy pretending to be such jocks, pretending to be such straight little boys, pretending not to be gay, and now they're popping out of the woodwork!"

Mark roundly thumped Tony. "Damn it, Tony, these guys are our friends!"

"He's only telling the truth, Mark." Nicholas was very calm. "I am gay. I found out that I was gay on the trip back from Victoria. I'm not sorry that I'm gay and I am sure as hell not sorry that I fell in love with a guy!"

"Oh, Nicholas, get real!" sniffed Harry. "Tell us something we don't know."

"Nicholas's jaw dropped. "How do you . . .?"

"Nicholas, you and Andre have been popping corn in the Flag Locker ever since you got off the bus from Victoria." Harry roared with laughter.

Cory gave Harry a hard look. "Shut up, Harry, you clown." He turned to Nicholas and grinned "Andre is all over you like ugly on an ape and you can't look at Andre without popping a bone."

Nicholas sat down abruptly and shook his head. "Poor Andre. He thinks that nobody knows about us."

"Nobody will, outside of this room," said Tyler. "What is between you and Andre is your business. So long as you and Andre are happy together . . ."

"Not to mention that Andre's zits have all cleared up," interrupted Harry. "Nothing like nice, steady sex to clear up your zits!" Harry laughed uproariously and gave Greg a squeeze. "You should try it, Greg."

Greg gave Harry a sour look. He did not have zits! "Harry, you can be a real jerk at times." He looked at Tyler. "We owe Phantom for something that he did. He told me, he promised me that he would make sure that everything would be all right. That Steven Tyler . . ." he looked at Harry, " . . . that Stefan, would be safe."

"He kept his promise to you, Greg." Tyler looked at the assembled boys. "I cannot tell you what Phantom did to keep his promise. I can tell you that he made a sacrifice that no man can ever ask another man to make. He did it for us. For all of us, and now, my friends, it's payback time."

"Tyler, Val, Cory and I, we tried to come up with a way to at least express to Phantom our gratitude for what he did," said Todd. "He's a funny guy. He would much rather we forgot about the whole episode and he does not expect anything in return. As far as he was concerned, he owed us!"

"It was his way of thanking us for loving him, Todd," said Cory. "He's got this thing about not allowing his friends, the people he loves, to be hurt in any way."

"As much as Phantom does not want anything in return, he's going to get it." Tyler looked at Mark. "We are going to have a special parade tomorrow. He does not know it, not yet, but he is going to be the Inspecting Officer. He is going to see a parade that is so fucking sharp he will never forget it. It will be so sharp that none of the cadets will ever forget it. They won't know Phantom is being honoured. But he will, and we will, and that is all that matters."

"Special music," rumbled Harry. "The tunes of glory and a special salute, anything and everything we can do to let him know that we love him and that we appreciate what he did for us." He shuddered, trying not to think about what Phantom had done with Little Big Man. "I admire that man, more than he knows."

"We all do, Harry," said Val slowly. "Phantom has the look that Tyler thought he'd never see again." He patted Tyler's hand, which was still firmly on his waist. "In case you think that I don't know what I'm talking about, well, I've seen the look. I've seen it in my Pop's eyes. He came over in 1919, just a baby, with his brothers. He was just old enough to join up in 1939. He has the look. He was at Dieppe, and he made it back. He was at D-Day, and he made it back. He's not much of a churchgoer, but every year, on the anniversary of D-Day, and the battle of Dieppe, he goes to church. He goes to a special Mass that he pays for. It's a traditional Latin mass, and the bastard priests charge him, big time. He doesn't care how much it costs. He pays what they ask. When the Mass is over, he stays in the church. He says the rosary. All day, until the church closes, he prays and says the rosary. Sometimes my mother stays with him. Sometimes it's one of my uncles. Next year, I'll be with him."

There was a long, heavy silence in the Gunroom. Finally Harry broke the spell. How, he wanted to know, did Tyler plan on getting Phantom into his uniform and on parade. "It seems to me that the last time we did something for him he ended up as naked as a baby," Harry finished with a grin. "Unless, of course, you plan on having a nude parade."

"Certainly not," huffed Tyler, trying hard not to laugh. "All Phantom will know is that he's going to have his picture taken. Nicholas, if Phantom asks, will tell him that he's taking a Mess picture. Phantom's a Chief so he has to be in the picture." He turned to Mark. "I'll need your car. I want Phantom driven down from the Mess Hall to the dais. Todd has something very special laid on and it happens while Phantom is going down to the parade square. Can do?"

"Sure," replied Mark with a nod. "We'll even wash and wax the beast." He turned to Tony and grinned. "Nathan has to pay for his keep somehow."

Tyler turned to Stuart. "We'll need a Piping Party. Three side boys and . . ."

"We'll be your side boys," said Tony suddenly. "Me, Mark, and Nathan."

"But you're Chiefs!" exclaimed Greg. "At least you and Mark are." He was a little stunned at Tony's offer. Side boys were always Ordinary or Able cadets.

"And that, I suppose, means that the sun shines out of our asses?" returned Tony witheringly. He stood up and placed his hand on Mark's shoulder. "As far as I am concerned hash marks and eagles don't mean fuck all at a time like this. You want to honour Phantom, and we want to honour him." He shrugged expressively. "I don't expect that I will ever know what Phantom did but I have to think that whatever it was he did was also for us. Therefore, we will be a part of the parade. I for one have no intention of standing on the sidelines."

Mark reached up and touched Tony's hand. "When we first came here, you guys went out of your way to make us, all of us Americans, feel welcome and at home." He laughed quietly. "Boy, did you make us feel welcome." He raised his head and looked at the Twins. "More importantly, you accepted us. You accepted us for who we are, not what we are. We told you our deepest, darkest, secret and nobody batted an eye."

Harry, who thought that there was altogether too much sweetness and light going on, and not at all wanting to admit publicly his relationship with Todd, at least not yet, tried to change the subject. "Fuck man!" he boomed, causing Greg to jump and Cory to give him another dirty look. "Stuart told you! You're our brothers. You can tell us anything. We trust you, you trust us!" He smiled slyly. "Also, you are of the fortunate few!"

"Fortunate few what?" asked Tony. He looked at the Twins who shrugged a "don't look at us, Harry's gone nuts again" shrug.

"You have seen the Pride!" intoned Harry.

Stuart and Nicholas almost collapsed with laughter. "We've all seen the Pride! And the Escorts," said Nicholas as he regained his composure.

"Fuck, Harry, you could fill a stadium with the guys who've seen the Pride!" Stuart shook his head and continued laughing. "About the only ones who haven't seen the Pride are the Sea Puppies!"

"They've seen it," said Nicholas with a huge grin. "They checked it out when we were at the Base pool. Andre told me that they calculated how big it gets when Harry pops a hard and had a contest to see which one of them could come close. Evan won, I think."

"Nobody comes close," opined Harry loftily. "Certainly not some pimply-face 13-year-old Sea Puppy!"

Tyler coughed loudly. "It seems that we are getting a little off subject, guys." Nicholas looked at Tyler. "Yeah, we are," he said softly. He saw Tyler's arm around Val's waist and thought that if Tyler had the brains that God had given the Ship's cat he'd forget practicing the parade and take Val into the Chiefs Mess and . . . He shook his head, dismissing the thought of Tyler and Val together. "Tyler, I was in Victoria. I was there, in your room, when you told us what Corporal Britnell had told The Gunner. I know that Paul Greene's father wrote a letter to SIU. I also know that before we left Victoria we all agreed, more or less, to just keep cool and keep our powder dry."

Stuart nodded. "I was there, too. Personally, I would like to know what made Phantom do whatever it was he did."

Val squeezed Tyler's hand. "Tell them, Tyler. Nicholas needs to know."

Tyler looked at Todd, who nodded slowly. He looked at Harry, who grumped a bit and then nodded. "We found other letters," began Tyler. "Paul made some accusations which, if made public, would have been devastating to a lot of people." He looked at Mark and Tony. "He accused Val, and me, of going into the barracks at night and molesting the Sea Puppies."

Harry growled in protest. Tyler silenced him with a glance and continued, his voice full of emotion. "Paul accused The Gunner of having an affair with Matt, who is Paul's brother. He used every innocent gesture, every misplaced word, everything he saw or heard, to make us look like the biggest den of faggots and queers since Sodom."

"The little fucking bastard!" Tony was outraged. "How could he do that? How could he accuse you and Val of molesting little boys? You're not even gay!" He shook his fist in the general direction of the Petty Officers Mess. "Little fuck! It isn't enough that he rats out his mates, he has to make up fucking stories! Who the fuck would believe shit like that?"

"Too many people, I'm afraid," replied Tyler. "People who, like him, hate gays. He, and they, know that the easiest way to destroy a man is to accuse him of being gay."

"Works every time," said Todd. "Little Big Man would have been believed, in some quarters, at least until the accusations were disproved. Phantom's worry was that while there was no doubt that Paul's accusations were nothing but a pack of lies, if the wrong person heard them, and an investigation started, the people Paul accused would suffer because the cloud of suspicion would always follow them. I believe that the expression 'Where there's smoke, there's fire' applies." He looked at Tyler. "Yes, we did, before we left Victoria, agree that we would not act because there was a Special Branch investigation underway into Paul's father's activities. Yes, we agreed that we would not, could not, jeopardize the Special Branch Investigation and yes, we agreed to monitor the situation." He sighed. "Phantom agreed with us until he read the final letter. He could not allow The Gunner to be accused of molesting Matt. So, he acted."

Tactfully neither Stuart nor Nicholas mentioned that it had been Tyler who had decided that they could not jeopardize the investigation. Harry, happily but most uncharacteristically, also remained silent. Tyler was not so dishonest as to let this pass.

"I made the decision. I made the wrong decision."

"So you made the wrong decision," replied Todd kindly. "We all make mistakes."

"It ain't no big deal, Tyler," rumbled Harry. "You can't help being a dumb Meathead."

"Harry!" Todd scowled at Harry. "Take that back!"

Tyler laughed ruefully. "No, Harry's right. I was a dumb Meathead. I should have done something about Paul Greene a long time ago. I didn't, and Phantom paid the price."

Todd could not allow Tyler to stand alone. "Phantom realized that even though we could, and did, stop the letters coming from here, there was nothing to prevent Paul from spilling his guts once he got home. Once he'd read Paul's last letter he had to act. We, Cory and me, we knew what he was planning to do. We did not agree with him, but you know what a stubborn git he can be when he puts his mind to it. We went along and we helped him before the event, and after. Frankly, he did something I don't have the balls to do."

At the word "balls" Nicholas's head jerked up. He looked at Todd and his eyes widened. He'd heard the late night talk in the Gunroom, and he had heard Cory babbling on about Paul being a closet queer and . . . Holy fuckin' shit!

Tyler had seen Nicholas's face and gave him a hard, warning look. "It does not matter what Phantom did, Nicholas. What matters now is that none of us have to worry about Paul carrying tales home."

Nicholas nodded. He would keep his suspicions to himself. He would not even tell Andre. But, Jesus, Phantom had balls! If he was right, Phantom had popped little Big Man's puppy. He had proven that Paul Greene liked dick! That took balls! He could not, however, let it go by that he was not aware of the danger he and Andre had been in. "Paul would have . . ." Nicholas slowly shook his head. "Phantom did something which, if I am right, and I think I am, makes me indebted to him for the rest of my life." He looked at Tyler and Val. "Paul would have found out about Andre and me. You guys noticed. It would have been only a matter of time before Paul noticed."

"Yes," said Tyler simply.

"Fuckin' prick!" snarled Tony. "Why the fuck can't people just leave us alone!"

"Because, Tony, that's the way of it, sometimes," replied Nicholas, his voice low. With uncharacteristic emotion he continued, "I am not ashamed of loving Andre. I am not afraid to express my love to him, and he is not ashamed to express his love to me." He grimaced and shook his head. "People will make what we have into something dirty. It isn't dirty!"

"Of course it isn't," said Mark. "There is nothing dirty, or wrong in loving another guy." He smiled at Tony. "What is wrong is that we have to hide our love, to pretend. Frankly, I am glad that we came out to you. We might not be able to tell the world, but personally I feel a lot better not having to hide my love for Tony from you guys."

"For Christ's sake, Mark!" Stuart all but stamped his foot. "I told you, man, you and Tony, you're our brothers. Harry told you the same thing. Don't you get it? True brothers are not afraid to tell their brothers anything."

Nicholas laughed. "Stuart is right. True brothers understand these things. True brothers accept without question, and support their brothers. Only a true brother would accept without question the love I have for Andre, or the love that you have for Tony." He heaved sadly. "Which is more than I can say for my own brothers if they ever find out. Elliott will shit a brick! Patrick will giggle and my mother . . ." For some reason Nicholas began laughing so hard he almost choked.

"What? demanded Stuart as he pounded Nicholas on the back. "What's so funny?"

The other boys looked at Nicholas, who waved his hand. "I'm all right, really." He fought to control his giggles. "I don't know what will piss my family off more, me falling in love with a boy, or me falling in love with a French-Canadian!" He slapped his knee. "I can hear my mother now." He pitched his voice an octave higher and widened his eyes until they were the size of saucers. "You are in love with a boy, Nicholas? You are in love with a French boy, Nicholas? Whatever is the matter with you, Nicholas? Could you not have found a nice English boy?"

When the laughter subsided, Tyler regained control of the Gunroom. "So, guys, we are all agreed? Tomorrow morning is Phantom's?"

They all nodded.

"Well, then, I suppose that we had all better get our asses out onto the parade square." Tyler stood up. He smiled at each boy in turn. "Thanks, guys."

"Don't be an ass, Tyler," said Nicholas. "We all still love you, even if you are a dumb Meathead."

The cadets filed from the Gunroom. Val held back and as Tyler turned to leave Val reached out and touched his friend's arm. Tyler turned and face Val. "Stuart was right, you know," said Val softly.

"I know."

"Are we going to at least talk about it?"

Tyler nodded his head. "Yes, we should. I want to talk about . . . us."

"When?"

"Tonight, I guess, after the Dinner. A pained look came over his face. "Val, I . . ."

Val put his arm around Tyler's shoulder and together they began walking from the Gunroom. "We'll talk tonight. Tyler. There's just one thing, though, that I need to tell you now."

"What's that?"

Val grinned slowly. "That maybe I feel about you the way you feel about me."

Harry waited for Tyler outside the barracks. When Tyler and Val emerged he noticed that somehow the two boys had finally realized what they felt for each other. Tyler had a slightly stunned looked on his face and he was blushing furiously. Val looked very pleased and was grinning a world-class, shit-eating grin. Harry suppressed his own smile. It was about time that those two dipsticks realized that they were made for each other. As the two boys came down the steps from the barracks Harry asked if he could speak to Tyler, alone. Val saw the serious look on Harry's face and took the hint. "I have to go ahead and set up the parade. You two chat," he said. He looked at Tyler, smiled, and hurried off. Tyler waited for Harry to say something as they walked towards the parade square. He was not at all sure that he could face Harry if his friend was going to say something about him and Val.

"I need you to do something for me," said Harry presently. "For Todd, really."

Tyler let out a deep breath of relief. "What about him? He's not in any trouble, is he?"

Harry shook his head. "No, he's not in any trouble, nothing like that," he replied hurriedly. "It's just that I, well, I need you to go with me when I talk to The Gunner."

"Harry, why do you need me to go with you to see The Gunner? And what has Todd got to do with you seeing The Gunner?"

"If you're with me The Gunner won't ask me any embarrassing questions." Harry blushed a deep red. He saw the quizzical look on Tyler's face and swallowed hard. "I can't let The Gunner know about me and Todd."

Tyler was well aware that Todd and Harry had spent most of Sunday night in the School of Wind. He had not commented because he trusted both of them to be careful. He suspected that they had done more than pick out some music. Harry was a normal, healthy male. Todd was a normal, healthy male. If they had decided to be together, so what? It was their business and as long as they were discreet Tyler had no problem with it. He regarded Harry, who was blushing and wringing his hands like a love-struck schoolboy. Tyler felt he had to say something before Harry peed his pants. "Harry, it's all right by me, if you and Todd . . ."

"We're lovers," Harry blurted out. "Oh, shit, Todd will kill me!"

Tyler chuckled knowingly and gave Harry a playful punch on his arm. "Harry, you dog! You and Todd?"

Harry nodded, a stupid grin on his face. "We, um, yeah. Oh, Tyler, last night we made love. It was the most wonderful experience of my life." His face fell. "Please, Tyler, don't be disappointed in me."

"Harry, you are one lucky fucker," returned Tyler. "I'm not disappointed in you. Frankly, I think it's about time you got over Stefan and got on with your life."

"You do?"

"I do," replied Tyler sincerely. "Todd is one of the finest boys I know. He's a wonderful guy."

Harry ducked his head blushed again. "Yeah, he is. I don't know what he sees in me. I can be such a jerk at times." He smiled happily. "God, Tyler, he is, well, shit, man. I'm as bad as Nicholas! Every time I look at Todd I bone up! Shit, Tyler, the Pride is aching all the time. Every time I look at him I just want to hold him and hold him and . . ."

Tyler laughed and held up his hand. "I get the picture, Harry. Sounds like you are well and truly in love."

"Oh, fuck, yeah. I mean he probably thinks that its only sex, but it's not. I'm in love with him. I'm so in love with him that I can't stand it when he's hurting or upset. I have to do something to make it right."

"Which is why you need to see The Gunner?"

Harry nodded. "I need to see him but I can't see him alone. He'll start asking me why I want this favour from him and I'll have to lie to him, and I don't want to do that."

"Why lie? The Gunner has been around the Horn, and he knows how you felt about Stefan."

"I can't tell him that I'm sleeping with his son, Tyler." Harry saw the questioning look on Tyler's face and began an explanation. "Todd and Cory, The Gunner says they're his surrogate sons. He loves them as much as they love him. I just can't walk into his office and say, 'Hey, Gunner, I'm sleeping with your surrogate son and he's hurting and I need you to help.' I just can't."

Tyler rubbed his chin and watched as Val and his Parade Staff brought some semblance of order to the assembled cadets. He glanced at Harry, who was still wringing his hands. "Val has his work cut out for him with the YAG crews," Tyler observed. He gave Harry a small smile. "Tell me what the problem is."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He liked Tyler, and he knew that Tyler would never betray a confidence. "Todd wants to be First Prefect," he said. "Of his school."

"First Prefect?"

"Yeah. You know, the head boy, or whatever."

Tyler thought about that. "It's a very responsible position. He's the buffer between the Headmaster and the students. I always thought it was a thankless job, myself. Too much politics and ass-kissing for my liking." He shrugged. "However, there's no accounting for taste."

"That's as may be, Tyler, but Todd wants to be First Prefect and he can't be because some asshole is blocking his nomination."

"Really? One of the alumni?"

Harry shook his head. "He was the First Prefect last year." Once again Harry blushed. "He's blocking Todd's appointment because, well, last year they sorta slept together. Had, you know, sex."

Tyler could not help himself. He giggled. "Harry, you do not 'sorta' have sex with another guy. You either do, or you don't."

Harry assumed an injured look. "I do not see the humour at all, Tyler! This guy is using his position to make sure that Todd doesn't get the job. Todd deserves the job. His father was First Prefect and Todd should be First Prefect. It's a tradition and this jerk off is stopping it. Todd says that the guy is doing it because he's ashamed that him and Todd had sex, and he's using Todd's being gay as an excuse to make sure that he's never First Prefect."

"I can see that happening. What I can't see is what The Gunner can do about it. He's not a part of the school."

"No, he isn't," agreed Harry. "But, he knows people. He has connections. I thought maybe he could talk to some of his friends, or talk to Todd's father."

Tyler thought of the conversation that he had had with The Gunner as they sat in the middle of the open field next to the Comox Ranges. "You are absolutely sure that Todd is being discriminated against because he's gay?"

Harry nodded enthusiastically. "It's what Todd told me, and he never lies. You know that."

Tyler rubbed the seat of his bell-bottoms. In the back pocket was his wallet and in the wallet was the piece of paper that The Gunner had given him. He looked at Harry a moment, and then grinned. "Qui descendunt mare in navibus facientes operationem in aquis multis," he quoted.

"I beg your pardon?" Harry had not really known what to expect from Tyler. He did know that he had not expected a Latin quotation.

Tyler gave Harry's arm a squeeze. "Harry, first let me say that I am very happy that you and Todd have decided to be . . . special friends. So long as you are discreet, it's nobody's business. I also want to warn you. Todd is one of the finest guys I know. You treat him right, you hear, or you'll have me to deal with!"

Harry puffed up. "I intend to!"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'll help you. You don't need The Gunner for this."

"I don't?"

"Well, maybe if what I plan to do doesn't work. Then we will need him."

Harry gave Tyler an exasperated look. "Really, Tyler, sometimes you do talk in riddles. What are you planning to do?"

"Plan? I plan to find a telephone immediately the practice is over. I plan to make a telephone call. If all goes well, you won't have to tell The Gunner anything." He thought a moment. "But, then again perhaps you and I should go see him."

"You're doing it again," growled Harry. "First you say I don't need to see The Gunner. Now you say I should. Make up my mind!"

"Okay, we are going to see The Gunner."

"Why?"

"So you and him can have a talk about a very special thing," replied Tyler enigmatically.

"Special thing? What special thing? I've seen his special thing and believe me, Tyler, it ain't all that special."

Tyler, laughing, shook his head. "All will be revealed in due course. Now, go on. The Band is waiting for you." He shaded his eyes. "They look cranky."

"They ARE cranky," said Harry with a grin. "Half of them have heat rash and the other half is on heat. It's very trying at times, Tyler, having to deal with horny horn blowers . . ."

Before Harry could finish what he was saying one of the service jitneys, a small, open-cab Japanese truck with a flatbed piled high with green gash bags, put-putted behind them. Both cadets turned and watched as the dark-haired driver pulled to a halt in front of the Headquarters Building.

"That guy looks familiar," said Harry. He studied the black-haired, slim-waisted boy as he began piling more bags of trash onto the already loaded jitney.

Tyler thought a moment. "That's the guy that Brian decked. The kid from the Laundromat."

Harry looked again at the boy. "So it is. Looks like he found other employment after all."

Logan Hartsfield slowly pushed the door to the Petty Officers Mess open and stepped inside. He listened intently but could hear nothing but the distant thumping of the Band as the cadets practiced for some parade or other. He advanced deeper into the long, narrow chamber, his sharp, dark eyes taking in everything. To his left was a small, walled off cubicle containing a bunk. He noticed that one of the lockers that formed the wall of the cubicle faced inward and, while there was a large combination style lock fitted through the hasp, it had not been closed. To his right, stretching down the length of the room was a line of five bunks. Each bunk, like the bunk in the private cubicle, was neatly made up. Between the bunks were twin six-foot, metal lockers, none of which seemed to have locks. Two of the locker doors were ajar. Logan smiled at that. Stupid kids, leaving their lockers open like that. You never knew who might come wandering in. He looked at the stout wooden chests that stood at the foot of each bunk, and smiled. Only the two chests at the end of the row had locks fitted through the hasps.

Logan had not been at all sure what he would find in the barracks. Money, he hoped. Or a decent watch, a ring perhaps, anything of value that he could pawn, or sell to one of the tourists in town, anything that would bring a few dollars from the man who ran Baillie's Box, a man who asked no questions as to the origins of the bits and baubles that Logan brought to him from time to time. As he glided silently to the first set of lockers Logan hoped to find something of value that would bring in a buck. He needed money desperately.

The sixty bucks that he had earned at Harkness Bay was long gone. His car was running on fumes and making a hell of a racket. His old man might be the town drunk but come the end of the month, if Logan did not pony up his share of the rent money, he'd be out on his ass.

Since his run-in with the cadet Logan's luck, never good, had gone from bad to worse. Miss Margaret had watched him like a hawk and when she saw him stealing from the change machine in the Laundromat she had fired him out of hand. Harkness Bay had been deserted the two times Logan had returned to the desolate, rock-strewn cove looking for custom. The desolation of Harkness Bay meant only one thing. Constable Jensen was back on duty, damn him, and rousting the queers. Logan hated Constable Harry Jensen, a cruel, small-minded man who delighted in maintaining an iron discipline in the Comox nick, a foul, dank building where Logan had been a guest of the Queen on four occasions. Jensen's ideas of discipline were enforced with a wooden billy club. Logan's fear of Constable Jensen had driven him to the job centre where he'd been given a lecture on the Christian work ethic and a job working as a minimum wage day labourer for the contractor who collected the military's trash, emptying the honey boxes at HMCS AURORA. Logan drove a small pickup from building to building, dressed in a hot, dark blue, too-tight gabardine uniform, collecting the weekend's accumulation of trash.

As he was making his rounds, Logan noticed that all of the barracks blocks were deserted. He also noticed that there was a canteen, with a small shop that sold cheap underwear, cheaper colognes and after shaves, razors, blades, candy and an assortment of the junk food that appealed to the average teenage male. A grumpy, stumpy little man, who had eyed Logan every minute he was inside the canteen collecting the bags of trash, manned the canteen. Logan ignored the old poop. A canteen, with goods to sell, meant that there were customers with money. And all those customers were at present marching up and down the dusty parade square.

Logan stopped from time to time during his rounds and watched the cadets. There were a hell of a lot of them, three hundred or more if he was any judge, tramping about the large, open square of hard-packed earth. He wondered where the cadets would keep the money they obviously had. They all lived in one of the ten barracks that dotted the base, which meant that they all had lockers to store their gear, their uniforms and . . . wallets? A wallet carelessly tossed into a locker last night when the owner undressed for bed, a wallet forgotten this morning when the same owner rushed about getting dressed to go on parade, a watch maybe, or a gold High School graduation ring. With luck, with luck . . .

As quietly as he could Logan opened the first metal locker and peered inside. There was a transverse metal shelf from which was suspended a clothes rail. Hanging from the rail were uniforms. One set of the blue uniforms had white rank badges - a crown set in a wreath - sewn on the sleeves of the jumper; the other set had gold badges. Both white uniforms had dark blue, almost black badges sewn on. There was also a white uniform jacket fitted with three gold buttons on the sleeves, a set of combats and what looked to be blue denim pants and shirts. The lower half of the locker was fitted with shelves holding more pieces of uniform. As if laid out for inspection were heavily starched gunshirts, rolled socks, neatly folded squares of cotton underpants (briefs for the most part and, except for some pale blue jockeys, all white). Logan smiled, thinking so much for the saying that the only thing colourful about the Navy was its underwear.

He continued his snooping. There were folded T-shirts, some notebooks and a BRCN (Cadets) on physical training exercises. There was nothing of value, so Logan closed the locker and opened the one next to it. It was almost a mirror image of the first, full of uniforms and personal clothing. On the top shelf there was a cheap, disposable razor, a can of shaving cream, a stick of underarm deodorant and, which brought a smile to Logan's lips, a jar of Vaseline.

Leaving the lockers Logan moved to the chests that stood at the end of each bunk, carefully opening the first one. The lid squealed loudly in the empty room and Logan froze, waiting for someone to ask him what he was doing. When nothing happened he relaxed and looked into the chest. He found more T-shirts; some folded blue jeans, a pair of polished black dress oxfords in a shoebox and, which was a real surprise, what looked to be a sequinned jock strap. Snickering quietly he knelt down and began to feel around under the clothing. His fingers touched a round object. He felt along its length. It was a bottle, obviously a bottle of booze of some kind, and from the shape of the bottle, rum, or maybe rye whiskey.

Straightening, Logan closed the lid of the chest with a soft thump and moved on to the next wooden box, not knowing that a sly, fox-like face was peering through the slightly ajar door that led to the heads and washplace, or that steel-grey eyes were watching his every move.

When he arrived in the Dockyard, Little Big Man found that there was nothing for him to do. Normally, when he wasn't hiding or goldbricking, one of the YAG Buffers, or the Squadron Chief, Anders, a banty little prick if ever there was one, would set him to cleaning and polishing, scrubbing or painting. This morning, however, all five crews were on the parade square practicing for Wednesday's dog and pony show. All the boats had been secured, with cabin doors locked and hatches dogged from below.

Left to his own devices, and with absolutely no intention of participating in the practice or in Wednesday's festivities, Little Big Man returned to the Petty Officers Mess where he lay on his bunk, staring at the barren deckhead and stewing. His encounter with the Twins at breakfast had left him angry and frustrated. Angry because he had allowed himself to be seduced into an untenable situation, and frustrated because there was absolutely nothing he could do about it except keep his end of the evil bargain he had made with the Twins. Unconsciously he slipped his hand under the belt of his denim work dress trousers and began to rub the smooth knob of his penis through his soft cotton briefs.

Paul Greene had never pretended to be the sharpest tack in the box. He knew his limitations better than anyone else. He also knew when to give up the fight. The Twins were not given to making idle threats. Everything they said they would do, they would do. They would destroy him if they had to. They would also, if he kept his end of the bargain, keep his secret. The Twins had given their word and while they might be faggots, they were honourable faggots, and they always kept their word. Rubbing himself slowly, Paul decided to accept the situation and move on. There were more important things to think about.

Groaning softly, Little Big Man thought of what he would have to do when he got home. He would have to be very, very careful in how he handled his father and that fat little prick, Tumbrel, but at the moment, he had not a clue as to what he would tell them. Not that it mattered. He had failed in his mission and they would see to it that he was suitably punished. They would keep it in-house, so to speak, but he would be punished. Thinking of the punishment that threatened him, Little Big Man's brows lowered as he thought of the traitorous Matt. Little Big Man knew that he would have to protect his brother. But, damn and fuck, how in the hell was he going to keep Daddy off of Matt's back? He had to protect Matt because if he didn't he would suffer the wrath of Todd and Cory Arundel, and whatever organization (and he was convinced that there was such an organization), they had backing them. Grimacing at the thought of what he had to do, the grovelling he'd have to do, Paul slipped his hand into his underpants and felt the warm, curving, slightly sticky helmet that topped his short-shafted penis.

Deep within him the Beast stirred fitfully.

Little Big Man lay quietly, toying idly with his hard penis, breathing quietly, watching the dust motes swirling slowly in the vibrant ray of sunlight that streamed through the window over his head, thinking further. Matt was a traitor and sooner or later he would pay for his treason. And pay a heavy price! They would be leaving for Germany soon, certainly before Christmas, and when they were there . . .

With unconscious deliberation Little Big Man unbuckled his trousers and then, raising his hips, pushed his trousers and his underpants down to his knees. His hand rested on top of his boner. He could feel the warmth of his organ under the palm of his hand. He felt the slimy stickiness that coated his rosy glans and with his fingers began to toy idly with the special spot just under the curve of his mushroom where it joined the staff.

Deep within him the Beast began to growl.

Little Big Man began to masturbate. Using his thumb he rubbed the precum that flowed from his pee slit over and around the throbbing glans of his pulsing hardon. Waves of pleasure began to roll through him and he forgot all about Matt and the Twins, remembering instead the details of what he had experienced in the early hours of Sunday morning, remembering, remembering and grunting as his body began to shake slightly. His heart began to pound and his breathing became raspy as his emotions overwhelmed him, a swirling, conflicting confirmation of the sheer, raw SEX he had experienced.

Deep within him the Beast roared.

As much as he wanted to deny what had happened, as much as he wanted to deny the feelings of ecstasy that had rampaged through his body, Little Big Man could not and as his penis jerked and spasmed under his methodical caresses he could not deny the feeling of . . . emptiness, an emptiness that was deep within his body, an emptiness that had been replaced by such feelings of extravagant fullness by a slim, smooth . . .

Deep within him the Beast rampaged out of control.

Without thinking Little Big Man slipped his free hand between his legs and probed for the small, twitching, distended orifice. He rubbed his fingers across the wrinkled opening in his body and rimmed his bunghole, groaning softly as even more pleasurable sensations slashed through him. He bent his middle finger and pressed the tip of it against the soft, silky hole. His body jerked at his touch and his finger slid in. As he pushed deeper Little Big Man's eyes flew open and his jaw dropped, amazed at the avalanche of indescribable pleasure that roared and crashed through him with each thrust of his finger. With his other hand he rubbed and rubbed his knob and from deep within . . .

The Beast began rising, howling.

Little Big Man squealed, convulsing as ecstasy overwhelmed him. His hips jerked viciously, then jerked again, and again, and again. Ropey stream after ropey stream of his watery ejaculate flew from the swollen head of his dick, spattering across his denim work shirt, dripping into his sparse, blond thatch of pubic hair, dribbling down the shaft of his spasming hardon. Squealing, his hips jerking, Little Big Man continued his mad rubbing until finally . . .

The Beast subsided, slowly sinking back, returning to its hibernation.

A deep, distant boom jerked Little Big Man back to reality. His eyes flew open and he sat up abruptly, silently cursing himself, raging inwardly at his stupidity for allowing his feelings of forbidden lust to so overwhelm him, angry to distraction that he had so lost his self control as to beat off, in his bunk, in a barracks! He looked down at his body, which was still flushed from pleasuring himself and swore softly. Fuck, look at me! Look at me, covered in spunk! Shit and Jesus, it's all over my balls, my crotch, and my fucking shirt! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

Another distant boom caused Little Big Man to swear again. He never beat off during the day. Never! Back home he was so careful that he never even beat off at night in his bed. He shared a room with Matt, who did beat off whenever he thought that his brother was sleeping. Little Big Man never gave his younger brother an opportunity to point a finger and always saved himself for his morning and evening showers, always careful that the bathroom door was locked and the water running full tilt and muffling his noises of delight when he popped his nut against the tiles of the shower stall.

There was another distant boom and the sound of brass band music. Little Big Man sighed in relief. At least the troops were still fucking around on the parade square and there had been no witnesses, this time, to his lust. He listened as the guns roared in sequence, thinking that Todd was really putting his field gun crews through their paces. Little Big Man lay for a while, enjoying the fading afterglow of what had been a monumental, ball busting orgasm, massaging his cooling semen into his skin, resisting the urge to lift his fingers to his lips, to taste . . .

Abruptly, disgusted at the thought of eating his own cum, Little Big Man swung his legs over the side of his bunk and stood up. He pushed his trousers and underpants down and stepped out of them, then stripped off his soiled shirt and threw it into the corner. He felt gritty and soiled and needed a wash. Opening his locker Little Big Man grabbed a pair of clean briefs and, naked, hurried into the washplace.

Little Big Man stood before one of the sinks in the washplace and turned on the hot water tap. He was rewarded with a thin trickle of lukewarm water and snarled an unhappy oath. God, did he want a proper shower. A long, scalding shower! Which was, of course, a no go until 2130, when the water would be turned on and the cadets would be allowed to wash their bodies for all of three minutes, every minute under the gimlet eye of Phillip, or worse, Mal. He hated showering with the other cadets, and had ever since that morning last year when he had boned up at the sight of Harry and the Pride. The other cadets never let him forget that morning, and never let slip an opportunity to insult him and point out, as Willy put it, all his shortcomings.

Looking at his reflection in the mirror fixed to the bulkhead over the sink Little Big Man frowned. He thought that he had a zit coming in. Not that it mattered a damn. Nobody gave a shit if his whole body turned into a zit.

He splashed the tepid water over his crotch, wiping away the residue of his morning's foray into pleasure, then scrubbed his pits. He'd forgotten to bring a towel so he used some of the rough paper towels from the dispenser to finish his ablutions, slipped on his clean underwear and walked to the door, wondering idly as he pushed the door open what he would do with himself for the rest of the day. It was then that Little Big Man heard it, a soft thump, a sound of something closing. He started and quickly backed into the washplace. Somebody was in the Mess. Somebody had come into the Mess, somebody who was not supposed to be there because all the cadets were on the parade square.

Little Big Man pushed the door open a crack and peered into the Mess where he saw a slim back of a tall youth, a youth dressed in the dark blue uniform pants and shirt worn by the men who picked up the gash and policed the grounds, one of the day workers, slowly sifting through the contents of Phillip's sea chest. Paul's heart skipped a beat. A thief! There was a thief in the Mess!

Logan closed the lid of the chest he had been rummaging through and swore softly. Shit! Don't none of the little bastards have anything but uniforms and ratty underwear? He was about to head toward the next set of lockers when he heard the sound of a door being opened. He turned and saw a short, blond, skinny boy dressed in his underpants, staring at him.

"Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in here?" Little Big Man snarled dangerously.

Logan began to stammer a reply. "I'm . . . I'm . . ." He swallowed hard. "I'm just collecting the garbage," he managed.

Laughing cruelly, Little Big Man glared at the slim-bodied youth. "You're a fucking liar!" He took a deliberate step forward. "You are a thief! You're a liar and a not very good thief because you got caught!"

"Please, no trouble!" Logan held out his hands, palms outward in a begging gesture. "Please, I'll just go."

Little Big Man's lips curled into a sneer. "Go? Go so you can go rifling through some other barracks?" He stared coldly at the slim, black-haired, white-faced youth. He felt no fear, felt no anger. His eyes slipped lower and he examined the well-packed bulge in the front of the youth's uniform pants. He grinned and the slumbering Beast awoke.

Logan wanted nothing more than to get out of this place. He was not afraid of the skinny kid confronting him. He was afraid of what would happen to him if the kid reported him to the authorities. He was deathly afraid of what would happen to him when the MP's dragged his sorry ass into the Comox Lockup, what would happen to him if he wound up in the custody of Constable Harry Jensen.

"Look, please, I made a mistake," Logan whined. "I didn't take anything, please, you . . ."

Little Big smiled evilly. He felt a tingling in his balls and the more he stared at the youth's crotch the more his dick hardened. He saw the look of fear on the youth's face and realized that this teenage interloper was his! The dark haired teenager was afraid of him, Paul Greene, afraid of what he could do to him. An adrenaline rush of power surged through Little Big Man's thin body and his dick strained against the fabric of his briefs and the Beast within roared. "You made a big mistake sneaking in here," said Little Big Man with an icy chuckle. He licked his lips. "A big mistake," he repeated, his voice raspy.

His eyes wide with fear Logan regarded the skinny boy only a foot or so away from him. Christ! The kid's white briefs were tented; his hardon was clearly outlined under the thin fabric! Shit, he's getting off on this! He's got a fucking HARDON! Logan returned the kid's stare, wondering what was going to happen to him. He tried to stare the kid down but the steel-grey eyes continued to bore into him. Logan swallowed hard. The kid was not afraid of him and he was not going to back down. As Logan watched, slack jawed, a small patch of dampness appeared on the front of the kid's Jockeys, a damp spot just about where the head of the kid's hard dick would be. "Please, just let me go, okay?" Logan wanted OUT of here. "I'll do anything . . ."

Almost immediately Logan regretted his choice of words.

Little Big Man did not reply. He continued to smile his evil smile, his eyes taking in the youth's curly black hair, his firm, broad face, his muscular young body, and the thick bulge in his gabardine pants.

The Beast was awake, roaring and clawing.

"You're a thief," hissed Little Big Man. "One word from me and you go to jail." He laughed coldly and his hand flashed out and found the bulge in the youth's trousers. He squeezed gently, feeling the firm flesh hidden by the synthetic fabric. "A pretty boy like you won't do very well in the glasshouse, now will he?"

Logan, who knew all too well exactly what would happen to him in the "glasshouse", gulped, his face a mask of tortured surprise. The kid could not possibly want him to . . . The kid's hand, gently squeezing his dick and balls told him exactly what he wanted. "I . . . please . . . stop," he begged, panic in his voice. "I'm not . . ."

"Shut up!" snapped Little Big Man. "You're a thief and unless you do exactly what I tell you, you'll go to jail." He looked at the youth, who was sweating and gulping nervously. Another rush of power flooded through Little Big Man him and his dick pulsed. He had this youth. He leaned forward and pushed his face into Logan's. "You will do exactly what I want you to do," he said with slow deliberation, "because if you don't, I'll scream rape." He continued to squeeze and fondle the youth's crotch, feeling the youth's penis harden. "I'll tell them that you broke in here, that you were trying to rob the place and that when you saw me with nothing on but my underwear you attacked me, you molested me!"

"You . . . you wouldn't . . ." gasped Logan.

Little Big Man squeezed the youth's dick harder. He had learned the lesson of fear from two very good instructors. He felt the hard column of flesh and smiled grimly. "Oh, but I will," he whispered.

"Why are you doing this?" Logan was almost weeping from fear and shame. He could feel his penis responding to the slow manipulation of the kid's hand. "I'm not . . . I don't . . ."

"You're not a queer? A Nancy boy?" Little Big man chuckled a low, dangerous sound that sent shivers of fear up Logan's spine.

"No," replied Logan, his voice quavering. The hand on his crotch began to knead his balls and Logan moaned quietly. He bit his lip, trying to will his erection to subside. He hesitated just a few seconds too long before answering the kid. "I'm not . . . I'm not a fag!"

Once again the quiet of the Mess was broken by Little Big Man's harsh, caustic laughter. His hand squeezed Logan's parts and he looked directly into Logan's eyes. "You can lie, boy," he whispered cruelly, "but your cock can't lie. It's stiff and its probably dripping juice. Yeah, your cock can't lie. You've had another guy's hand on your dick before."

Not waiting for an answer Little Big Man quickly undid the belt of Logan's trousers, unzipped them and pushed them and his boxer underwear down, exposing his hard dick and large, low-hanging balls. Little Big Man looked down and examined the heavy piece of flesh that he was fondling. The youth's uncircumcised penis was darker than the rest of his tanned body, heavily veined, and rose out of a thick, dense forest of curly, black pubic hair. The head of his penis, which was large and flared like an arrowhead, was covered by a smooth sheath of skin that ended in a small ridge of wrinkled flesh. As the youth writhed Little Big Man slowly pushed the youth's foreskin down to reveal the dark pink, wet looking head.

Logan gasped and moaned slightly. Nobody had ever touched him like this before.

"I thought so," sneered Little Big Man. The Beast was raging in him. His dick was harder than it had ever been before and the front of his briefs was soaked with precum. He began stroking the hard tube of flesh. "You've been this way before."

Little Big Man chuckled evilly as the youth's dick, eight inches of strong, hard, thick, heated flesh, pulsed. He continued to massage the youth's cock, seeing the veins that criss-crossed the dark flesh thicken, and the foreskin retract, the smooth, hard head peeking out of a reddened ridge of flesh.

Logan, who had never expected to be sexually molested in this citadel of masculinity called AURORA, tried to pull away from the crazy kid. He felt a sharp stab of pain scream from his balls. The kid was squeezing his balls, squeezing hard. He looked into the kid's cold and merciless eyes. "Please, you're hurting me!"

"I wouldn't have to, if you'd do what you're told." Little Big Man returned to his fondling. He was totally in control now. The youth would do anything he wanted him to do. He glanced down at the huge weapon jutting out from the youth's body. Once again he pulled down the foreskin. "This better be clean," he warned.

Logan could not believe what he was hearing, what was happening to him. He could feel his dick, his balls, his body, responding to the manipulating hand. His cock, hard as steel, and oozing small rivers of precum, screamed for him to let the fondling continue. His brain demanded that he do something else, to protest, to stop this craziness. "You're nuts!" he managed to say through clenched teeth as another wave of exquisite pleasure flashed through him. "There are . . . the other cadets . . ."

Little Big Man cocked his head and grinned. "You hear the drums beating?" Logan nodded. "That's the Inspection music," Little Big Man explained. "The Ceremony has only just started. Everybody will be out there for at least another hour, maybe more if they fuck things up the first time. No one is coming in here."

Logan's eyes darted quickly around the Mess. He wanted to be away from here, but knew that until the kid got what he wanted there was no way that he would be allowed to leave. He knew now what the kid wanted. He stared into those eyes boring into him with icy calmness. The kid wanted sex. Those eyes told Logan nothing and the kid's calmness frightened him. The kid wanted to get laid and Logan knew that nothing he said or did would prevent that from happening. "What do you want me to do?" he asked in a frightened whisper.

"What I tell you to do," replied Little Big Man enigmatically. He pulled on Logan's huge erection. "I asked you a question. Is this thing clean?"

Logan nodded. "I . . . I took a shower before I came to work. I always clean . . . down there."

"We'll see," replied Little Big Man with a snort. Still holding the youth's hardon he pulled him into his cubicle. "Push down your pants and then sit down," he ordered brusquely.

Logan obeyed. He pushed his boxers and trousers down until they were bunched around his ankles. He sat on the bunk, staring at the skinny kid's crotch, staring at the darkly outlined, hard penis hidden under the thin fabric of the now soaked cotton briefs he was wearing.

Nodding curtly, Little Big Man walked to the end of his bunk and opened his sea chest. He searched a bit and then straightened. In his hand he held a small jar of Vaseline. "My mother, kind soul that she is, always packs this for me." He snickered and handed the jar to the youth. "She thinks I use it when I get chaffed or wind burned."

Logan watched, mesmerized, as the kid pushed down his underpants and stepped out of them. His reddened penis throbbed and dripped. His scrotum, as red as his penis, had drawn up into a small, wrinkled pouch. As Logan watched the kid's dick bounced slightly as his breathing became heavy. "I won't suck your dick!" Logan exclaimed abruptly, trying to gain some measure of control, trying to regain a small part of his dignity.

"I don't recall asking you to suck my dick," replied Little Big Man with alarming calmness. This boy had to be shown who was in charge. His hand flashed out and he slapped the youth's face.

Logan, more startled than hurt, fell back against the wall of lockers and rubbed his cheek. "What the fuck did you do that for?" he demanded.

"You were not told to suck my dick. You were told to SHUT UP!" Little Big Man's steely eyes bore into the youth. "Now shut up and do what I tell you to do. If you don't . . ." His voice was diamond hard and the look in the youth's eyes told him that he did not have to continue with his threat. He pointed to the jar of Vaseline that the youth had dropped on the bunk, turned around, and bent over. "Grease me up," Little Big Man ordered over his shoulder. "Use lot's because you've got one big dick there." His face grew hard. "Be very careful when you grease me, understand?"

Logan's hand was shaking as he dipped his fingers into the thick lubricant. This kid was crazy! "You want me to . . . fuck you?" he asked, his voice quavering.

Little Big Man nodded. "Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Now do what I told you to do! Grease me up!" He shivered as the youth's Vaseline smeared fingers slowly circled his brown pucker. "Stick your finger in and twirl it around," he ordered as waves of pleasure slammed from his rim. He glanced down at the youth's throbbing member, which seemed to have gotten bigger and saw that the huge, purple head was fully exposed. He shuddered in anticipation.

Logan slowly, very slowly, inserted his finger into the kid's bum hole. His one, his only experience with anal sex, so many years ago, had never included sticking his finger up . . . Christ, he couldn't remember the guy's name! He could remember that he'd never stuck his finger up the guy's bum. Not that such a thing was unknown to him. He knew that some guys loved sticking their fingers up their ass as they jerked off. He'd seen one of the faggots doing just that when he was patrolling Harkness Bay. Some guys got off on that sort of thing. Logan had never tried it and frankly did not want to.

"Deeper! Fuck me deeper! FUCK ME WITH YOUR FINGER!" growled Little Big Man.

Logan moved his finger in and out of the kid's butt hole, each time feeling the tip of his finger touching something soft and smooth, something just behind the kid's balls. Whenever his finger bumped whatever was up there the kid jerked and squealed.

Each time that the youth's finger brushed his prostate Little Big Man felt a jolt of exquisite electricity arc through his body, causing his painfully hard dick to jerk and squirt out small geysers of precum. God, he wanted to be fucked, to be filled with that huge piece of meat that the youth had sticking straight up in the air. He wanted to be fucked so badly! He could feel his asshole expanding, relaxing, and he prepared to accept that wonderful shaft.

"Two fingers," gasped Little Big Man. He felt the single finger being withdrawn and quickly replaced by two well-lubricated, stiff fingers. He groaned louder. As the two fingers brushed his prostate the feelings within Little Big Man deepened and intensified. In his lust filled mind he realized that if he continued he would shoot his wad. He did NOT want that to happen. Not Yet. "Stop," he ordered through clenched teeth.

Logan quickly withdrew his fingers. The kid turned around, a look of wild abandon on his face, which was pale and broken by an almost insane grin of desire. Logan stared at the kid's dripping, pulsing dick. He was no stranger to circumcised cocks. Hell, every boy in town, except for him and the Indian boys from the reserve, had been circumcised. He saw them every time he'd gone to gym class or changed to go swimming in the town pool. But never had he seen a dick like this one! The top of the kid's shaft, above the pale brown ring, was so red that the knob looked as if it was on fire. The kid's balls had retracted until they were barely apparent, and the sac was almost as red as his dick.

Wordlessly, Little Big Man snatched the jar of Vaseline from the youth's hand. He dug out a huge blob of the lubricant and began to masturbate Logan, spreading the lubricant slowly down the length of the youth's penis. His hand pulled down the youth's foreskin and he rubbed a large dollop of Vaseline around the curving glans. Logan sucked in his breath and bucked. He groaned loudly. Jesus did that feel goood! He watched as the kid tossed the jar to one side, and then climbed onto the bunk. He began to breath harshly when he realized what was coming. The kid straddled his hips, reached around and fisted his roaring hardon.

"You're going to fuck me, and fuck me hard," snarled Little Big Man.

Logan nodded dumbly, not quite believing what the kid was forcing him to do. "It's awful big," he groaned in warning as the kid lowered himself. He felt the flared head of his penis bump against the hot flesh of the kid's hole.

Little Big Man, his eyes glazed with lust, ignored the youth's muttered warning. He lowered his body, feeling the huge head probing his hole. He pushed down and felt a sharp stab of pain roar through the sensitive membranes of his anus. He ignored the pain knowing that soon, God soon, pleasure would replace the pain and the emptiness would be replaced with a wonderful fullness.

They both gasped as Logan's arrowhead broke the barrier ring of Little Big Man's chute. Their groans grew louder as Little Big Man, with excruciating, exquisite slowness, lowered himself until his ass cheeks and balls were buried in the forest of public hair that surrounded the huge dick that was fully inside of him. He moaned and clenched his fists, breathing harshly as his ass muscles clenched the hot shaft.

Logan had never, in all his young life, felt anything so tight, so warm, and so gloriously wonderful. Instinctively he began to thrust his hips slowly, working his dick in and out of the grasping, twitching hole.

Little Big Man, slack-jawed, his body convulsing with lust, growled and moaned with each thrust of the thick dick that filled him, sated him, overwhelmed him with sheet lightning flashes of raw pleasure. "Fuck me," he growled. "FUCK ME! FUCK ME HARDER!"

At first Logan was determined to get this whole unpleasant fuck over with. He knew that he could, had he wanted to, hold off cumming for a long time. He had wanted, at first, not to hold off, to get his rocks off as quickly as he could, to get out of this place, but not now, sweet Jesus, not now! Logan was being transported into a place so glorious that he could barely think straight. He wanted the feelings that were coursing through his dick as he rammed it as hard as he could into the kid's ass never to go away. Every time he thrust into him the kid's ass muscles contracted and sent darts of exquisite pleasure into his body. Radiating pulses of exquisite JOY spread from Logan's groin. He wanted to cum, he wanted to fill this kid and . . . Sweet Jesus, not now! Sweet glorious JESUS!

"Fuck me, fuck me deeper. DEEPER! MAKE ME FEEL IT!" Little Big Man was jerking up and down, plunging downward to meet the up thrusting cock that was savaging him. "Stick it up me! Fuck my ASS!"

Logan, his balls approaching detonation, his dick spasming and pulsing, thrust viciously, ravaging the kid's clutching hole. His heart was pounding as it had never pounded before. His breathing was hard and laboured. With each deep thrust he grunted loudly, wanting to hold back, wanting to prolong the pleasure, WANTING to fuck this kid into oblivion.

With each savage thrust of the youth's dick Little Big Man's entire body quivered and shook, so ravaged by the exquisitely painful pleasure that he wanted it to never end. His insides felt so wonderfully on fire that he lost all reason, his whole body becoming one huge, pulsing, steaming orgasm. He felt the indescribable feeling, a pressure dome of body searing ECSTASY overwhelming his consciousness. Suddenly the dome blew apart and he began cumming, squealing as long, ropey strands of his semen squirted from his quivering dick, his cum spattering across the youth's work shirt, forming a line of ragged pearls from his chin to his waist.

Logan, so engrossed in the overpowering sense of wonder that had replaced his very soul, did not hear the kid squealing nor did he see the kid's dick erupting and spewing his hot fluid. All he knew was that he was experiencing the most viciously intense orgasm he had ever had! Jesus GOD! Needlessly, he began his mantra of pleasure. "Cumming . . . I'm fucking CUMMING!" he moaned as his cockhead thickened and began ejaculating powerful, almost endless jets of his semen deep within the kid's body. As wave after wave of fiery glory smashed through him he leaned forward, grasping the kid around the waist, thrusting mightily and grunting his mantra.

Little Big Man, the Beast rampaging through him, continued to pump his hips up and down as he nuzzled the youth's neck. The raging Beast within him wanted more. Clutching the youth tightly he bounded madly, rubbing the secret spot under the head of his dick against the fabric of the youth's shirt. He ground his raging, hard penis into the cloth and all too soon he squealed loudly as another, stronger orgasm devoured him.

Logan, beyond all caring, continued to thrust his hips, nuzzling the kid's chest, biting the kid's sex-hardened nipples, thrusting and thrusting, unable to control himself. He heard the kid squeal and felt the hot wetness spreading across his shirt. Within seconds of the kid nutting, Logan experienced a second, more explosive orgasm, so explosive that he lost all sense of reason.

Overcome, both boys growled and moaned until finally, they released each other. Logan fell back, banging his head on the lockers that formed the wall of the cubicle. His heart was beating so fast that it threatened to tear through his chest.

Little Big Man raised himself from the youth's softening organ. He smiled happily and fingered his soft dick, jerking at the wonderful sensitivity of his crown. For several long minutes he enjoyed the afterglow of sex until, too soon, he felt the pleasure ebbing. Slowly he regained his reason and he moved from the bunk. He stood and gazed icily at the sex-flushed youth sprawled on his bunk. "You can go now," he said, his tone hard, without a hint of remorse or gratitude.

Logan returned the kid's look. He knew that the kid had used him. The kid had given him the most glorious fuck of his life and he still felt used. Those eyes told him that he was nothing but a fuck, a means of getting off and he felt like the lowest hooker to ever stroll the waterfront. He caught his breath and nodded slowly. He looked down, first at his shirt, and then at his soft, slimy cock. "Can I at least clean up?" he asked quietly.

Little Big Man shrugged indifferently. "The heads are around the corner of the lockers." He snatched up his soiled underpants and began to clean himself. "Be quick about it."

Logan pulled up his underwear and pants and hurried into the heads. He scrubbed his cock and balls as clean as he could with cold water and then, using a paper towel, wiped the evidence of the kid's lust from his shirt. He could not look at himself in the mirror that hung on the wall over the sink. Feeling disgusted and worthless he left the washplace and began walking toward the door, wanting to put all of what he had done behind him. The kid's voice pulled him up short.

Little Big Man had wrapped a towel around his waist. On the bunk he had laid out a pair of fresh white briefs and a clean gunshirt. He gazed at the youth, a mean look on his face. "You're a good fuck." He held out his hand.

Logan saw the $20.00 banknote the kid was holding out to him. He shook his head, no.

"Go ahead, take it," snapped Little Big Man. "It's what you came into the Mess for, isn't it?" He smirked knowingly. "You needed money. I needed to get fucked. A fair exchange, don't you think?"

Sadly, the kid was right. Logan did need the money. He hesitated. Every instinct told him to just get the hell out of barracks. But he needed the money. He reached out and took the banknote, thinking that at the end of the day what was the difference between taking this kid's money or trolling Harkness Bay and letting some queer pay him for the privilege of sucking him off? Either way you looked at it, he was a whore. Logan rolled the note into a tight, small ball and shoved it into his pants' pocket.

Little Big Man nodded smugly. "Too bad I'm leaving on Thursday. You could have made some more of that." His face hardened as he said coldly, "Remember, this morning never happened."

Logan nodded and returned the kid's stare. He never wanted to be reminded of this morning again. His lips were dry and his heart was pounding. He knew deep within his being that this kid, whoever he was, was dangerous. "This morning never happened. I was never here," Logan replied slowly. "Can I go now?"

When the practice was finally over and the equipment carefully secured, Todd dismissed the gun crews and Cory walked off the parade square, heading for the Gunroom to change.

As Cory passed the breezeway flats he saw Two Strokes sitting on one of the benches nursing a Coke. Cory walked over, sat down beside Two Strokes and nudged him with his elbow. "Buy me a beer, sailor?" he murmured seductively.

Two Strokes gave Cory a sour smile. "You're not old enough to drink. And don't start anything."

"Hey, treat me right. You might get lucky," returned Cory. He leaned closer. "Tiger."

Pulling away, Two Strokes glared at Cory. "Go away, Cory. I'm not in the mood."

"Suit yourself." Cory shrugged and stood up. If Two Strokes wanted to sulk he could damn well sulk alone. He started to walk away.

"Wait!" Two Strokes waved his can of Coke, beckoning Cory to return. "I'm just being an asshole."

Cory wanted to say that he agreed with that particular statement. However, he said nothing and returned to sit beside Two Strokes. He waited patiently, humming tunelessly and beating a soft beat with his fingers on his knees.

"Tyler thinks that I'm a jerk and an asshole," said Two Strokes presently. "He doesn't like me."

Cory shook his head slowly. "I don't think he doesn't like you . . ." he began tentatively.

"Then why won't he tell me what is going on?" Two Strokes slammed the empty Coke can into the gash bucket that stood beside the canteen door. "Why won't he tell me, no, why does he refuse to tell what tomorrow's parade is all about?"

"Perhaps he doesn't want to?" Like Tyler, Cory did not entirely trust Two Strokes and he was not about to tell the thin boy anything.

"Why?" demanded Two Strokes indignantly. "I'm part of his Regulating Staff! I might need to know!"

"Obviously Tyler feels that you don't." Cory shrugged with pretended indifference. "Have you tried asking Tyler what is going on?"

"I did!" Two Strokes held up his hand and waved two fingers at Cory. "Twice! I asked him twice what the parade was all about and both times he blew me off!"

"Then take the hint, Roger. Tyler isn't going to take you into his confidence. Forget about it and just go with the damned flow!"

Two Strokes gave Cory a dirty look. A light of understanding came into his eyes. "You stayed behind, after our meeting. You know what's going on!"

"Yes." Cory returned Two Strokes' hard look. Today had been a day of shared confidences, of friends trusting friends. He would not tell Two Strokes why tomorrow's parade was so important, or why it was being performed because he would never have understood this morning's events. Two Strokes would never have accepted the love and trust that existed between the cadets this morning. And that was exactly why he could not be trusted.

"We're supposed to be friends, yet nobody trusts me," said Two Strokes angrily. "What the fuck have I ever done . . .?"

"Why do you only tolerate me, Roger?" asked Cory softly.

"What? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means what it means." Cory looked into Two Strokes' eyes. "You want to know why Tyler doesn't confide in you. Think about the question I just asked you. Then you might understand."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" blustered Two Strokes. "What the fuck! Tolerate? How can you say that I only tolerate you? I resent that!"

"I said it because it's the truth," returned Cory bluntly. "You're my friend, I think, but at the end of the day you only tolerate me. And Todd."

"That's not true!" Two Strokes was becoming very angry. "How can you say that, think that, after all we've been through?"

"What exactly have we been through, Roger?" Cory looked upward, gathering his thoughts. "We share the Gunroom. We slept together, naked, when we were on the sailing trip. I took a splinter out of your dick." He smiled, remembering the happy times. "All true. All things that friends do together and all totally innocent. But Roger, please, be honest with me for once. I know, and you know, that deep down inside you only tolerate me, and people like me. I can understand that. You're here, I'm here. We have to live together so we do. You take the easy way out and while you tolerate me, you do not accept me."

"Damn it, Cory . . ."

Cory held up his hand. "Tell the truth, Roger. If you were back home would you even associate with me, or Todd? Would you go out of your way to welcome me to your school? Would you invite me into your home, ask me to have dinner with your family, spend the night? Would you?"

As much as Two Strokes hated to admit the truth, Cory was right. As much as he had deep feelings for Cory, and Todd, as much as he wanted to deny Cory's words, he could not. "I live in Orangeville, Ontario," Two Strokes began slowly. "You've heard of the Orange Order, the Lodge? We're not Orangemen, but . . . Shit, Cory, I live in redneck country!"

"That is a very convenient excuse, Roger. It is not a reason. There is a reason, though, so do not insult me by expecting me to believe that you cannot accept me because you live in 'redneck country'."

Two Strokes saw the hurt in Cory's eyes. "Cory, I want to be your friend. I really do! But, I can't! I just can't."

The anger left Cory. Two Strokes was struggling between feelings of real friendship and something deeper, something that prevented him from being a true friend. Cory wondered if it was fear, or conditioning, or his upbringing and education? Not that it mattered. In the world that Two Strokes lived in friendship with a gay boy was not an option. "You cannot accept me, Roger, and that is why Tyler does not trust you," Cory said, not unkindly. "Tyler accepts me, and Todd, and the others, for who we are, not what we are. He accepts us for all our differences. Tyler accepts. You merely tolerate."

Two Strokes closed his eyes and shook with embarrassment. He wanted to be Cory's friend, yet he could not, and he struggled to find the words to express his true feelings. He wanted to deny Cory's assertion, but he could not, because . . . "What you do, what you and Todd do together . . . it disgusts me!" he blurted out.

Cory nodded slowly. At last, the truth was emerging. But, what was the truth? He cocked an eyebrow. "As much as what you did on Texada and Harwood?" he asked in slow, measured, tones.

"I . . . what . . ." Two Strokes tried to sputter a denial. Cory could not know what had happened on Texada and Harwood Islands!

Cory looked directly into Two Strokes' eyes and his protest died. Cory's voice was cool as he said, "Please, Roger, don't bother. I do know the difference between a cold Swiss Army knife and a hot, stiff cock." He smiled coldly. "Especially if the cock is up the crack of my ass!"

Two Strokes wanted to die right there. He hung his head, shamefaced, then turned to look at Cory. "You never said anything. Not about Texada, or Harwood, or when I blew after you took the splinter out of my dick. You never a word . . ."

"Come on, Roger," said Cory with a loud snort. "Do you really think that you are the first guy to get all horned up when he's in bed with another guy?" He chuckled. "At least you had the courtesy to roll away when you squirted." He saw the confused look on Two Strokes' face. "You're a heavy breather and you grunt and jerk like a mad thing when you squirt," he explained.

Two Strokes gave Cory an angry look. "What did you do, take notes?"

Cory laughed quietly. "Hardly. You're like everybody else. You've convinced yourself that you've mastered the silent jerk off. Frankly, I wish you could master it. You, and all the others. It would make sleeping in the Gunroom a hell of a lot easier. And quieter."

Two Strokes felt humiliated. "I'm sorry about that, Cory. Really, I don't know what happened."

"Roger, please, you have no reason to apologise. I told you, you're not the first guy it's happened to. You won't be the last." He thought a moment and his face softened. "Besides, it's me who owes you the apology."

"You do?"

Cory nodded slowly. "When you shot your load after I took out the splinter? I made you do it. I knew just how to do it so I did it. I did it quite deliberately."

"You made me cum?"

"Yes, I deliberately manipulated your dick and yes, I made you cum." He laughed ruefully. "At the time I wanted to prove a point."

"A point! You jerked me off, you manipulated me into blowing a wad, to prove a point?"

"Yes, I did," admitted Cory with a curt nod. "I did not, on Texada, or on Harwood, or in the Gunroom, particularly want your dick. I did not want it then, I do not want it now." His voice grew stony. "I pulled your pud to prove to myself, and to you, that straight boys, given the right circumstances, the right place, will bone up, play, and never give it a thought in the morning!"

"I thought about it! I thought about what happened between us," protested Two Strokes. "Don't you ever think that I didn't! Shit, for a while I thought that you were trying to turn me queer!"

Cory stiffened. "DO NOT ever use that word around me again, Roger, or I'll forget our friendship." He was quivering with rage. "You're just like all the rest! You think that just because I like you as a person all I'm really interested in is getting into your pants!" He stood up and pointed a shaking finger at Two Strokes. "You think that I'm incapable of having a friendship with a 'straight' guy, a relationship based only on true friendship. Sex, it always comes down to sex! Because I like you, and want to be your friend you won't let me, because I'm gay and everybody knows that all gays want is to suck a straight guy's dick or get a straight guy to fuck them!"

Cory was much too angry to stop. He'd had enough of this nonsense. "Well, I have a news flash for you, Two Strokes," he continued, wanting to hurt the confused boy. "I am not like that. I do not open my mouth or spread my ass cheeks every time a guy whines that he needs a buddy to help him with his 'problem'. I won't deny that I've had my share of one-night stands. Hell, it comes with the territory!" He all but shook his fist at the amazed Two Strokes. "But, let me tell you this, Roger, there's a guy down in the Dockyard who wanted to be my 'buddy' because he wanted to get laid! There's another guy passed out in the Chiefs Mess who could have been my lover, but isn't, because he liked dick too much. Any dick! Anywhere!"

"Cory, please, I didn't think that at all!"

"Yes, yes you bloody well did!" raged Cory. "You told me yourself. You thought that I was trying to turn you queer! You give me no credit for having feelings that do not involve sex! You as much as said that all you think about me is that when I'm with a guy all we do is fuck! Well it doesn't work that way as far as I'm concerned." He turned to walk away, then turned back. "I want you to know something, Roger. I accept you, I accept you with all your faults, all your phobias, all your prejudices and all your mythical beliefs about gays! I accept you just as Tyler accepts me, accepts Todd, and Jon, and Chris, Nicholas, all our messmates. I accept all of them for who they are, Roger. Tyler accepts them for who they are. But you, Roger, you just tolerate them and that, my friend, is why Tyler will never take you into his confidence!" He turned on his heel and left the flats.

Two Strokes, stunned at Cory's outburst, watched his friend's retreating back. He had never known how Cory really felt about him, or how he felt about other boys, and Two Strokes now realized that he had allowed his bigoted beliefs, his stupid accusations, and his cutting words to blind him, to not see the real Cory. He had insulted and hurt Cory. He had insulted a true friend, a friend that was walking out of his life, which he did not want to happen. He jumped up abruptly and chased after Cory. "Stop, Cory," he yelled. "Please, stop!"

Cory stopped, turned around and regarded Two Strokes, who was hurrying after him. "Why should I stop?" he asked coldly. "I disgust you, remember? I want to turn you queer, remember?"

"STOP!" yelled Two Strokes, his face a mask of pain. "Stop saying that!" He shook his head violently and was close to tears. "Please, Cory, don't freeze me! Please, I want you to be my friend!"

Cory was calmer now. "Why?" he asked. "I'm gay. I was born gay. I will die gay." Shaking his head Cory went on sadly. "Friendship is a two-way street, Roger. I cannot, and will not, be friends with someone who thinks that one night I'm going to crawl into his bed and rape him!"

"I don't think that," murmured Two Strokes. "I never thought that!"

Cory waved his hand. "That's as may be, Roger. The fact remains, though, that you want a friend who will go down a nice, straight arrow street with you. If that's the case, then I suggest that you go see Little Big Man."

Two Strokes' faced clouded. "Don't ever even think that! I am not like him. I never was!"

"No, you're not," sighed Cory. "I apologise for saying it. It was unfair, and unkind." He smiled thinly. "I also apologise for manipulating you into an orgasm without your knowledge or permission. I should not have done that, and I am truly sorry."

Two Strokes giggled. "Well, you did prove your point. You also got me to thinking about myself, about . . ."

"You are not gay, Roger."

"I know. Still, I thought about it."

"Good. Did it perhaps get you to thinking that what I do with Todd and yes, what I've done with other guys, is no more disgusting than what you did with that girl last summer?"

Two Strokes thought a moment. "Well, I suppose if you put it that way, yes." He smiled sheepishly. "I also think that you enjoy what you do a hell of a lot more that I did that night!"

Cory returned Two Strokes' grin. As they slowly walked toward the Gunroom he put his hand on Two Strokes' shoulder. "I understand, Roger, how you feel, and, in a way, why you feel the way you do about gays," he began slowly, choosing his words. "But, I would also ask you to understand and to accept Todd and me for who we are, not what we are, and to try to understand that we do not form a friendship with the idea of getting into the guy's pants." He laughed scornfully. "If anything, the opposite is true."

"You mean guys just want to be your friend so that you can . . ."

"Suck him off? Let him fuck me?" Cory finished Two Strokes' thought. "Yes, I mean exactly that. Guys find out that I'm gay and they think that I'll roll over and let them have what they want." He looked around and nodded toward the parade square. "It hasn't happened here, which is surprising because every previous time I've gone to camp somebody has tried to be my good buddy and the next thing I know he's standing in front of me with his pants down and his pecker up!"

"Then you know that what happened on Texada and Harwood . . ."

Cory grinned. "Was totally innocent. You snuggled up to me, against a warm body. You responded, your body responded to the stimulus of my body. You did not crawl into that sleeping bag with a hardon, or with the intention of doing anything other than sleeping."

"My dick was soft," muttered Two Strokes.

"I know that," returned Cory. He gave Two Strokes' shoulder a squeeze. "And, except for two totally understandable lapses, it stayed soft." He smiled sadly. "Which is more than can be said for some of my so-called friends."

"It must be pretty bad, being gay and having guys want to . . ."

"It happens all the time, Roger," interrupted Cory. He smiled a small, wicked smile. "Now, I'm not denying that a few times I went along. Let's face it, sometimes when it's offered, a guy just can't say no."

Two Strokes nodded and returned Cory's little smile. "Sorta like me, last year. She offered, I accepted."

"Exactly. That's another thing that pisses me off with you straight guys. You all think that it's fair ball to boff any girl who is willing to put out. Nobody thinks anything about it. Yet when it comes to gays, well, that's horrible and disgusting. We do have urges, you know, and yes, we do respond to opportunity. But, and as much as I hate to question or dispel the myths of your childhood, I must tell you that more often than not I did not, and do not, take up what is offered."

"That is not what I thought," insisted Two Strokes, "I mean, I've known you and Todd for what, four years? You never tried anything that I know of."

Cory chuckled. "Then you are one of the few who think that way. Which is what I am trying to get you to understand, to realize that while you now know that I am not what you thought I was, you did believe the myth that all I was interested in was getting into your drawers. A lot of guys that I've roomed with believed the same thing and all they ever ended up doing was meeting with Mrs. Fist and her daughters."

Two Strokes laughed. "Like that guy you mentioned, the one in the Dockyard?"

Cory nodded. "We were in Kingston, and shared a room in the Stone Frigate. He was so straight acting and never even hinted that he wanted something from me. Then, one morning, he wouldn't get out of bed. We were late for parade and the little dickhead wouldn't get out of bed. Stupidly I told him that if he didn't get out I'd be getting in. He looked at me and pulled back his covers. He had a tent in his Fruit of the Looms and a gleam in his eye. I got the message."

"And sent it back?"

"Yes, Roger, I sent it back." He shook his head. "See, you're doing it again. You're thinking that I would have jumped the guy's bones. I didn't. He was only 14, he was horny, and he really didn't care about anything other than getting his rocks off. Also, I was going through one of my periodic fits of morality. He wasn't a bad guy, and I didn't want him to start something he might regret later. I didn't want to be responsible for him discovering that he was gay. Call me silly, call me nuts, but I just could not do what he wanted me to do. I laughed it off, treated it like it was a joke, and left. He never mentioned it again. Never really bothered with me after that. He still all but crosses the parade square to avoid me."

They entered the Gunroom and went to their lockers where they began to undress. Two Strokes was relaxed and happy that he and Cory had talked. He understood now what a terrible burden Cory and Todd lived with. He had never imagined what it was like to be gay, to have people know that you were gay and try to take advantage of your being gay. He also understood that what he had thought about gays was wrong. He stripped off his gunshirt, shaking his head at his stupidity. Cory had been right. He had only tolerated the Twins. He had believed what his father had told him, what his older brother, the other kids in school, and the minister in his church, had told him about gays. Their words had clouded his judgement and warped his reasoning. They had been wrong. But what was not wrong was that he wanted Cory to be his friend. He had to make his peace with Cory.

"Cory?"

"Roger?"

Two Strokes stepped out his bell-bottoms and carefully hung them in his locker. He looked at Cory over his shoulder. "If I told you that I love you, as a friend, would you believe me?"

Cory, who was in the process of stripping off, thought a moment. "Yes, I would. I know you feel a kind of love for me." He pushed down his boxers and stuffed them into his dhobi bag. "Though you might want to rephrase the words."

Two Strokes turned and looked at Cory who, not unexpectedly, was naked. In his hand he held a pair of issue shorts. Cory always went regimental under his shorts so Two Strokes was not surprised that he was naked. "Why?" asked Two Strokes, colouring slightly as he spoke. "I can say I love you, you know,"

Cory grinned. Two Strokes was standing beside his locker wearing nothing but his white briefs and grey socks. "Well, dressed like that, you might want to reconsider saying that you love me," he chuckled.

Two Strokes laughed and pulled back the sides of his underpants, showing the outline of his penis and testicles. "I meant what I said! I love you as a friend and my dick is still soft!"

Cory raised his hand and placed it against his brow. "Another hope crushed!"

Two Strokes laughed quietly. Then, much to Cory's surprise, Two Strokes walked over and embraced him. He looked into Cory's clear, blue eyes, then leaned forward and pressed his lips against Cory's. As they embraced the classic tip of Cory's naked penis brushed against the equally classic tip of Two Strokes' penis hidden under his underpants.

As their helmets touched a small tremor of electricity rippled through Roger Andrew Home's body and a small seed was planted, a seed that would, in time, germinate and, as the years passed, flower and bear fruit.

With effort, Two Strokes ignored the feelings coursing through him. He smiled slowly when their lips parted. "That was only a kiss of friendship, from an accepting, confirmed, straight boy to a gay friend. He hugged Cory again and whispered in his ear, "Tiger."

Cory knew that something special had happened. He was not, however, going to let Two Strokes know that he knew it. Two Strokes would have to find and walk his own path to the future. Still . . . He reached down and squeezed Two Strokes' soft dick. "And that," he said, laughing quietly, "is a quick feel of friendship from a confirmed gay boy to a straight friend." He waggled his eyebrows and growled, "Tiger."