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 contact me at paradegi@rogers.com

Thanks to all who have written with their kind comments and expressing their pleasure that the story continues. I will try to post Chapters every other day or so. The book is essentially written but still needs a little work here and there. As someone once said, nothing is so good that it cannot be improved upon.

My thanks to Peter, who edits, comments, suggests and generally makes the story better.

The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 3

"Typical, just bloody typical," sniffed Chef has he examined one of the serving plates that The Phantom and Ray had brought over from the Wardroom Stores.

"It does look kind of cheap," ventured Ray. "But, Chef we . . ."

"It is," growled Chef, cutting off any further comment. "Look at it. It's restaurant crockery masquerading as china. Just typical!"

The Phantom looked at the plate. It was white, the edge rimmed in pale yellow pretending to be gold. In the centre of the plate was the Eagle, Crossed Swords and Anchor crest of the Canadian Armed Forces. He had to admit that it was all flash and no substance.

"And look where the crest is," Chef grumbled on. "Not that it's all that shit hot to begin with, but it's supposed to be on the rim of the plate, not in the middle of it! Bugger me with a barge pole! Whoever designed this piece of shit must have been an ex-steward with Cunard!" Chef pushed the plate away. "It's ugly," he declared with a horrible grimace. "I don't like it but it's all we have. How much of this . . . " He wanted to say shit but thought better of it, "is there?"

The Phantom's green eyes scanned the sheet of paper that Chef had given him earlier. "The inventory says service for 50."

Ray made a face. "That's a whole lot of ugly in one place."

Chef, who was only half-listening, waxed nostalgic. "Ah, in the old days, lads, you should have seen the Wardroom china! And the silver! Now, when I was in the old HURON . . ." The Phantom and Ray burst out laughing, rudely interrupting Chef's reminiscences.

"What is that is so funny, may I ask?" demanded Chef. He didn't know what had gotten into the two teenagers.

The Phantom and Ray had burst into the galley minutes earlier, each laden down like a miner's pack mule with plates, bowls and napkins. They saw that Chef was entertaining the Executive Officer and David Eddy to morning tea, and motioned for Chef to come into the dining hall where they displayed their finds on one of tables. While Chef methodically grumbled and examined the two boys looked at each other and grinned and, when Chef paused for breath The Phantom, unable to contain his excitement, leaned forward and whispered into Chef's ear, "Chef, we found something. Something important."

Chef looked at Ray, who nodded his agreement. "Please, lads, do not tell me that you found a body," Chef muttered. He had not been in Wardroom Stores in months and shuddered at what might have been squirreled away in there.

The Phantom snickered. "In a manner of speaking, we may have."

Chef started. "What?"

The Phantom kept his voice low. "Chef, I'm no expert, but if you want china, and silver and glasses, and linen, well, you better come and see what we found!"

"What the hell are talking about? What did you find?"

"Aladdin's Cave," whispered Ray.

While he was very curious about what the lads had found, Chef was not about to let them know it. Besides, he could not very well get up and leave Number One and Dave Eddy sitting at his desk, at least not with an open bottle of rare and precious Navy rum open and available to them. Chef rejoined the officers and spent a happy half hour or so, listening to the Executive Officer telling about his November dip in the River Dart, then regaling his guests with some stories of his own. Chef and Number One quite happily spun their dips, figuratively swinging the lamp and making a goodly dent in the rum.

After Stand Easy Number One and Dave left the galley, a trifle unsteady, one to a nap, the other to seek out the Master at Arms and the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor. Dave was determined to make his peace with them.

Chef announced that The Phantom's squirming had stimulated his bladder and, pointedly ignoring The Phantom's muttered aside that it might just have been the three or four cups of rum and coffee, retired to the heads. His business completed Chef returned to the galley and began checking all the dishes that were bubbling and simmering on the gas range and in the ovens. "Make sure you keep basting that lamb," he instructed Sandro. "Nothing worse than a piece of dried lamb!" He turned to Randy and Joey. "Joey, get them potatoes ready. And Randy, drag out those canned green beans." He stared directly at the two Makee-Learns. "I don't know what has gotten into you two whelps today, but no nonsense while I'm gone!"

Wondering just how much Chef knew about what the Two Makee-Learns were doing all over the Mess Hall, The Phantom looked uneasily at Ray, who smiled thinly. "Damn," thought The Phantom, "I have got to talk to those two brats!"

Chef continued bellowing instructions at Randy and Joey. "Mind Sandro, don't drop anything and don't let anything burn!" As Sandro and the two boys nodded their agreement Chef pointed toward the door leading to the outside. "Let's get cracking. We still have a lunch to serve."

Chef followed the boys into the Stores building, down the corridor and into Wardroom Stores. "There." The Phantom pointed at a large, coffin-like wooden box, which lay open on the deck. Under the tall ranks of metal shelving holding the Ship's allotment of crockery, glassware and linen, were more wooden boxes.

Chef looked into the box, which was filled with smaller, plain white, square cardboard boxes. "Okay, you found a wooden box full of cardboard boxes," he observed dryly.

"Oh, we found a lot more than that." The Phantom pulled out one of the square boxes and pointed to a neatly printed label affixed to the side of the box. "Dinner Plate, 10-inch, Special Pattern," read Chef. "A dinner plate?"

The Phantom nodded and opened the box. He pulled out the china plate it contained and handed it to Chef. "I don't think this is something you can order out of the Eaton's catalogue, Chef."

Chef looked at the white, deep blue and gold plate, holding it up to the light and then turning over and to examine the maker's mark. He ran his thumb along the thick, gold edge of the plate and scrutinized the old Navy Crest, which consisted of a fouled anchor in a blue oval surrounded by richly detailed gold maple leaves crowned with the Imperial State Crown replicated in vivid colours, that marked the cardinal points of the plate, dividing it into four deep blue parts. Chef let out a huge breath of air. "How many crates are there?" he asked quietly.

"At least six. What is that, Chef? It's a plate, I know, but . . ." The Phantom's eyes widened. "Wow!"

Chef looked at each boy in turn, and grinned. "Phantom, if you've found what I think you've found, well, lad, it doesn't exist."

"It doesn't?" asked The Phantom, totally perplexed.

"No, it doesn't." Chef carefully put the plate back in the crate and motioned for the two boys to help him replace the lid. "Phantom, you go and find Val and ask him to send over some of the duty hands. Ray, you stay here until Phantom gets back."

"Okay. You going to tell us why?" asked The Phantom, still not understanding the significance of what Ray and he had found.

Chef grinned. "Ray, Phantom, I want all the ordinary stuff cleared out and brought over to the galley. The crates, they stay here and you boys are not to tell anyone about them."

"It's just some old dishes," said Ray dismissively.

Chef roared with laughter. "To some, yes." He waved his arms expansively. "But to others, my boy, sure and it is the Treasure of the Tsars!"

Stand Easy was long over by the time Matt came into the Mess Hall. He had spent much of the morning helping Val bring the loan cards and ammunition records up to date, a boring and time consuming exercise which had to be done as there was a Range Day coming up and all the records, the ammunition inventories in particular, had to be ready.

When Val finally released him Matt was thirsty and while he would have much preferred a Coke from the pop machine that stood outside the Ship's Canteen, he lacked the 50 cents the soda cost, so instead went to the Mess Hall where there were jugs of Kool-Aid put out for every meal. Matt hoped that there was cherry today, as it was his favourite.

Matt was not surprised to find the dining hall empty except for The Phantom, who was standing in the middle of the huge room, leaning over a table and muttering over a huge loose-leaf binder, scowling every so often at one of the illustrations. Matt watched as The Phantom bent down and looked along the table, actually four ordinary mess tables that had been pushed together. Each table had been draped with a white tablecloth and at the end nearest the door a setting of imitation china plates and tableware had been laid. "What are you doing?" Matt asked as he bent down and looked directly into The Phantom's emerald eyes.

"Making sure the tables are aligned." The Phantom grinned and bumped his forehead against Matt's. "Now get out of my way, Matty. This is important."

"Okay." Matt straightened and looked at the place setting. "New plates?"

The Phantom stood upright and nodded toward the place setting. "We found the Wardroom china so Chef says I can use it for the officers and the Chiefs and PO's tables."

"Sounds like an whole lot of work, if you ask me." Matt went to the drink table to check out the Kool-Aid supply. He grimaced when he saw that all that were on offer were orange and lime flavours, neither of which he cared for. He turned to the coffee urn and poured a cup of coffee.

"It is, and I didn't ask you," replied The Phantom. He consulted the "How To" book and placed a second service plate on the table, looked at the illustration in the book, looked at the plate again, then moved it a fraction of an inch.

Matt watched as The Phantom began laying service plates at precise distances along the length of the tables. Finally his curiosity got the better of him. "Would you mind telling me just who is going to be using this table? You're going about it like the whole world depends on how you put a few plates on the table."

"Cory invited all his gunners to have lunch with him. I want to make it as nice as I can for him."

"Cory . . . Oh, yeah, I remember. How many are you setting up for?" asked Matt. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Is Todd going to be at the lunch?"

The Phantom looked at Matt out of the corner of his eyes and smiled inwardly, wondering why Matt would care if Todd were at the lunch or not. "Could it be that Matt is . . .?"

Matt saw The Phantom's look and coloured slightly. "I'm just wondering, Phantom. That's all, honest."

The Phantom pointed to a pile of plates on the table behind Matt. "Can you set the other side? Just line the plates up with the ones I've already laid down."

Matt picked up a dozen or so plates and began putting them on the table, darting glances at The Phantom as he did so. "Make sure that the edge of the plate is about an inch from the edge of the table," instructed The Phantom. "The book says it should be an inch, and 24 inches from the centre of one plate to the centre of the other."

Matt carefully followed The Phantom's instructions, wondering when he was going to say something about his asking about Todd.

The Phantom picked up a pile of knives and forks and began placing them beside the plates. "There's a very real way to put all the cutlery down. The book says one inch from the edge of the plate and an inch between each piece of cutlery, measured from the centre of one piece of cutlery to the centre of the next. It's very precise, you know, and yes, Matt, Todd will be at the lunch."

"Well, if you ask me it's a fuck of a lot of work to go to," groused Matt with a tight smile. "But then, you're the Chief Steward so . . ." He saw the look that The Phantom was giving him and almost dropped the plate he was holding. He blushed redly and smiled shyly. "It doesn't mean what you think it means, Phantom. It's not like I'm in love with Todd!"

The Phantom raised an eyebrow, chuckled, and began placing the side plates to the left of the service plates. "Matty, do you have a crush on him? Be honest, now."

Matt opened his mouth, about to deny any such feelings. Then he closed his mouth and nodded slowly. "I think about him, a lot. When we were in Victoria, and we were having the water fight, I liked it when we were wrestling." He leaned over the half-laid table. "Phantom, I popped a bone when we were wrestling."

The Phantom remembered whose shoulders Matt had been on during the sea battle in the pool back in Victoria and snickered. "That must have pleased Tyler no end." Matt giggled. "Tyler was too busy trying to fight off Randy and Joey to notice. Does that make me, you know, a queer?" The Phantom frowned at the word. Matt saw the frown and immediately held up his hand. "Sorry, it just slipped out. I know you don't like anybody using that word."

The Phantom smiled grimly and motioned for Matt to sit down. He drew a cup of coffee and sat across from Matt. "I don't think you're gay, Matty, and even if you were I wouldn't think any the less of you."

"Phantom, I just like being near Todd, being with him. Sometimes I see him and I just get warm all over. I don't understand it." Matt looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"Matt, you've got a schoolboy crush on Todd. It's no big deal. It happens all the time."

"But, Phantom, I dreamed about him last night, and I had a . . ."

"A wet dream?" The Phantom finished for him. Matt nodded reluctantly. "I've never felt this way about a guy before, Phantom, and I'm shit scared!" He curled his hands into tight fists. Matt was, in fact, terrified. Once before he had given his love to another boy only to have that love . . . "I'm scared," he repeated.

The Phantom could well understand Matt being frightened. He had seen the healing bruises on the boy's buttocks and back and could imagine Matt's father's reaction if he ever discovered that Matt had fallen in love with another boy. He reached out and rubbed Matt's shoulder, trying to put the boy at ease. "Matty, I really think that you are overreacting," The Phantom said kindly. "Just because you have a crush on Todd does not mean that you are gay. Just because you had a dream about him and got your rocks off, does not mean that you are gay either."

"Well what does it mean?" demanded Matt. "Please, Phantom, help me out."

The Phantom leaned forward and tapped Matt's hand with his finger. "All it means is that you have a crush on Todd. I think what it also means is that you are still going through puberty. You know, your mind tells you to do something, but your dick tells you something else."

Matt snickered. "Well, I do get a hardon a lot. I mean, I was just sitting in the office talking to Val and boom, up it rose!"

"It's just something a guy goes through when he's your age," replied The Phantom, trying hard not to laugh. He winked at Matt and confided, "Mine too, if you want the truth."

"You?"

"Yes, me!" The Phantom grinned. "Matty, what I think it all means is that guys go through this stage when they're our ages and, well, we think about guys, we think about girls. When we go into the showers, you know, after gym class, we always check each other out. I don't know why we do it but we do. Can you honestly say that you've never done that?"

Matt giggled and nodded. "Yeah, I have."

"We all have. Hell, you should have been with us on the sailing trip. First Todd and Cory stripped off, and jumped into the water naked! Then we pulled into a cove on Texada Island and went swimming. Bare balls!"

"Everybody?" Matt's mouth dropped and his eyes widened. He had heard some of the stories making the rounds about the sailing trip.

"Everybody!" confirmed The Phantom. "The Gunner, Kyle, Andy, all of us. It was great!"

"And you looked?"

"Sure did!" replied The Phantom with an exaggerated grin. "Everybody looked. Even Two Strokes, and you know he can be a real pain in the ass at times about gays. He's almost as bad as . . ."

Matt knew instinctively the name The Phantom was about to speak. "Paul," he said softly, finishing The Phantom's sentence.

"Yes, your brother, Paul. I bet he's even looked at other guys, checking them out. I bet he's also had a wet dream. And you can't tell me that he doesn't jerk off."

Matt squirmed uneasily in his chair. "I don't know about the looking, Phantom. He says that only faggots do that." He grinned thinly at The Phantom. "I know, another word I'm not supposed to use."

The Phantom waved his arm dismissively. "Use whatever word that makes you feel comfortable, Matt. I know you don't mean anything by it."

Matt nodded his thanks. "Anyway, Paul claims he's never looked at another guy naked. He says he always turns his head away."

The Phantom snorted his disbelief. "I think he's lying. He can't help but look. Guys are always showing off their parts to each other, bragging about how big their dicks are."

"Well, he sure can't do that!" Matty started to laugh. "When he jerks himself off he can only use two fingers and his thumb!"

"Matt!" The Phantom pretended to be shocked. Matt, like all little brothers, had obviously spied on Paul in a most private and delicate moment. But then, so had he once, when Brendan had locked himself in the bathroom. Of course, Brendan needed a lot more than two fingers and his thumb 'cause the guy was . . . Dismissing Brendan's masturbatory antics from his mind, The Phantom grinned at Matt. "Matty, you are making a mountain out of a molehill. You like Todd. Okay, so what? He makes you feel warm, and wanted, and your body is just sort of responding to the way you feel about him. At the end of the day you'll outgrow feeling that way."

Matt looked at The Phantom. "Yeah, I guess your right. It's not that I think about doing things with Todd." Matt stood up and gestured toward the table. "Can I give you a hand? I don't have anything to do, really."

"Sure. I can use all the help I can get."

As they moved toward the half-set lunch table Matt mentally wondered if he should have lied to Phantom. He knew that he liked girls, but the thing was, he liked Todd more.

At 1100 The Gunner came into the galley for his morning session with Chef, who was happily sitting at his desk watching a well-run galley at work. Their accidents before breakfast aside, Randy and Joey were working efficiently. Sandro was quietly doing his usual good job. Ray, calm, collected, and very cool, was supervising, helping out where and when he was needed, as a good Petty Officer should. He noted that The Phantom, assisted by Matt, had the tables ready for lunch. Now both boys were out in the dining hall putting the steam table in order.

The Gunner, a cup of black coffee in his hand, sat down at the desk and reached for the rum bottle. He poured a generous portion into his cup. "You look pleased with yourself," he said to Chef. "No more accidents, I take it?"

Chef smiled and nodded. "No more accidents. The food is cooked just the way it should be cooked. Phantom, the darlin' lad, has set up his tables for the mucky mucks; Matt has decided to help us out. Number One was in earlier with young Dave Eddy, who was suitably contrite over his conduct in Victoria and did not, I am happy to say, snivel and whine."

"Let there be dancing in the streets!" The Gunner lifted his cup to his lips and drained it. "One day you're going to tell me how you manage to find real Navy rum. It hasn't been issued since what, '71? And they don't make it anymore. So tell, me, where does it come from?"

"You have your secrets, I have mine," replied Chef enigmatically. The Gunner had his sources, Chef had his, including knowing the man who had the keys to the CFB Esquimalt Spirit Locker. "Your lad seems to have done well." Chef poured a shot of rum into his cup, and then poured a minute dollop into The Gunner's empty cup. "In more ways than one."

The Gunner gave Chef a dirty look and took the bottle. "Which means?" he asked as he poured a healthy slug of rum into his cup.

"Later on, when it's quiet, you and Phantom and Ray and me are going to pay a visit to Wardroom Stores." He held the rum bottle up to the light and measured the level of the rum. He sighed and shook his head.

The Gunner looked at Chef quizzically. "Now why would I want to visit that place? There's nothing in there that could possibly interest me."

"We'll see." Chef sipped his rum-laced coffee. "Hey-up, here it comes. Somebody's looking for a pat on his bum."

The Gunner turned and saw the Phantom approaching. "So then, Chief Steward of the Royal Canadian Sea Cadets, are you ready for your debut?" he asked, smiling widely.

The Phantom returned the smile. "Well, the table's set. I think it looks good."

"And are you doing a Russian service? Perhaps French?" asked Chef archly. He knew his way around a dining table.

"It will have to be Russian," replied The Phantom promptly. "I'm the only steward, so French is out."

The Gunner and Chef exchanged looks. "Well, well, somebody's been reading the 'How To' book," said Chef.

Matt came alongside The Phantom. "I'll help you. It's not like I'm overwhelmed with work."

"You sure?" asked The Phantom. "It's a lot of work. You have to be fast, and you have to be careful not to spill anything."

Chef, who was filled with goodwill and rum, put in his oar. "Never let it be said that the cooks would let down one of their own." He pushed his chair back and stood up. When he stopped swaying he gestured toward the door leading to the Mess Hall. "Let us first survey the field of battle."

Followed by The Gunner, The Phantom, and Matt, Chef led the small parade into the dining room. With practiced eye he surveyed The Phantom's work.

One long table, the one that Cory and his guests would use, plus two smaller tables, one for the officers, one for the Chiefs, had been readied, covered with a table cloth and set with china and cutlery. Chef led the inspection as he cast a critical gaze at each table in turn, muttering away, and occasionally glancing at The Gunner. From time to time he bent down to check the alignment of the plates and glasses laid on the tables. Each place setting, to Matt's inexperienced eye, seemed perfect.

"I see you plan on serving the salad with the main course," said Chef, pointing to the small plate placed on the left, above the forks, at each place.

"And he found the butter knives," noted The Gunner as he walked to the end of the table and squatted, his practiced eye checking the alignment of the service plates and knives. "Well, I can't fault you. The butter knives are above the side plate, pointing in the right direction, and, by God, they are all lined up tickety-boo." He straightened. "Did you use a ruler?"

The Phantom laughed and shook his head, no. "Nope. I have a Seaman's Eye, remember? Works just as well on land as on the sea."

"You also found the salt and peppers," said Chef, pointing to the two small porcelain containers placed directly above the spoon and fork the diners would use for the dessert course.

"The book says I should use a pepper shaker and a salt cellar, but we don't have any salt cellars."

"Not yet," muttered Chef.

The Gunner cast him an inquisitive glance and mouthed: "What?"

Chef ignored him and pointed at the place settings. "Two glasses?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"One for water, one for milk or juice. Unless you want to open the bar," replied The Phantom, half in jest.

"Not bloody likely! I like being Chief Cook," returned Chef.

Chef left The Gunner, The Phantom, and Matt to finish with the tables and returned to his galley where he found Ray patiently rolling filets of fish and placing them in a large roasting pan. "And just what, may I ask, are you doing?" asked Chef.

Ray looked at Chef as if the man had two heads. "Rolling filets of fish," he answered. His tone said, "What else would I be doing with pieces of raw fish?" He nodded toward the completed rolls of fish filets. "The box says its sole, but I don't know what it is."

Chef stared at the pale white pieces of fish, sniffed, and then nodded. "It's sole." He turned, spotted Sandro, who was working further down the range, stirring something in a copper-bottomed pot, and bellowed. "Sandro, the day has been hard and I am feeling most unwell."

Sandro rolled his eyes heavenward. "Medicine, Chef?"

Chef coughed piteously and patted his ample chest. "Yes, dear boy. Make it a double." While Sandro poured the rum Chef returned to watch Ray working. "If I might make so bold . . . thank you Sandro." Chef took the proffered cup, sipped, burped quietly, and regarded Ray's handiwork. "And what, dear boy, do you plan on doing with that poor, malnourished fish?"

"I plan on cooking it," replied Ray patiently. "It's going to be the first course for Cory's lunch."

Chef hiccupped and made a face. "Ray, promise me, you will never drink rum. It repeats on you."

"Chef, I will never drink rum," promised Ray. "Can I drink white wine instead?"

Chef almost choked on his rum. "No you may not! You are a cadet and cadets are not allowed to drink!"

"A fat lot you know," thought Ray. "And you swilling it down with the best of them at the Chiefs and Petty Officers' Wet Downs." Rather than antagonize Chef, Ray grinned. "I was just making a joke, Chef." He pointed to the open book of recipes lying on the worktable behind him. "Actually, I do need some white wine."

Chef looked at the book and saw that it was his Recipes and Feeding for Special Occasions manual. "Filet de Sole Veronique," read Chef aloud. He grunted noncommittally. "Quite a production you're making." He glanced down the range. "And what is MacBeth's fourth witch up to?" he asked, referring to Sandro, who had returned to his pot.

"A dill and butter sauce for the fish," answered Ray patiently. "We didn't have any fresh drill so we had to use the dried stuff."

"Ah, well, any port, Raymond me dear," replied Chef absently as he surveyed the galley. His eyes narrowed when he noticed that certain brats were missing in action. "And where, pray tell," he growled, "are Randy and Joey?"

Ray looked around. The Makee-Learns were nowhere to be seen. "Oh, God," he thought, "not now! If those two are off in a corner doing what I think they're doing . . ."

"Those two little brats better not be up to anything," threatened Chef. "They've been acting damned strange all morning."

Fortunately both Makee-Learns emerged from Dry Stores, each carrying a large carton of condiments. Ray glared at the Makee-Learns. Joey ignored Ray and grinned at Chef. He offered the box he was holding for inspection. "Mustard, Chef, for the hot dogs and hamburgers," he said, all the while thanking his lucky stars that Randy had a short fuse. He also thanked the stars that Randy lived up to his name and that while their "playtime" was short it sure was frequent.

To Chef's eye Randy seemed somewhat flushed and he asked the boy if he was feeling all right. For some reason Randy blushed. He held out the carton he was carrying. "I feel fine, Chef. What do I do with this stuff?"

Diverted for the moment, Chef looked at the carton. "Mint sauce for the lamb?" he asked. Randy nodded. "Put it into bowls and put them on the tables," Chef instructed. He fixed Randy an inquisitor's eye. "Are you sure you're not feeling ill?"

"I feel great, Chef, never better," replied Randy as he walked over to a worktable.

"I'd feel great too," thought Ray, "if I'd been doing what you two were doing. Damn it, Phantom has got to talk to them."

The Phantom came in looking for something to put the bread and rolls in. Chef gestured toward the General Stores room, telling The Phantom that there were some small wicker breadbaskets that he could use. "And bring in some grape juice. There's some in Dry Stores. Bring the white juice."

The Phantom waved his understanding and Chef walked back to where Ray was cooking. "White grape juice?" asked Ray.

"Do you notice a branch of BC Liquor Control in the corner?" Chef asked with heavy sarcasm. "You need white wine, which we don't have, so substitute grape juice." Chef looked sadly into his empty cup. "Randy, dear boy, me chest is playing me up this morning."

Randy stifled a giggle and took Chef's cup. "A double dose of medicine?"

Chef grinned. "Ah, and it's a good that lad you are, for all that you drive me to the drink." He returned to his desk and watched Joey and Randy as they carefully and methodically spooned the bottled mint sauce into small plastic bowls. The Phantom passed by, his arms full of small wicker baskets full of bread and rolls. Chef looked at The Phantom thoughtfully then called Joey over to his desk.

"Yes, Chef?"

"Joey, there's some small glass bowls we brought over from Wardroom Stores. Put the mint sauce for the lunch table and the other two smaller tables into those bowls, then take them out to Phantom. He'll know how to place them."

The bugle called the Afternoon Watchmen to their lunch. Chef watched as all his kitchen staff quickly finished what they were doing and hurried from the galley to take up their stations on the steam line. He could hear the muted hustle and bustle as the cadets detailed to stand the Afternoon Watch came into the Mess Hall and began moving down the line.

Chef opened his desk drawer and found the small books he was looking for. He opened the book with Ray's name on it and quickly scanned the small, close printing, nodding as he read. Satisfied, Chef refilled his cup and walked into the main dining room. He topped up his cup with coffee and stood behind the steam line, humming tunelessly as he watched the Duty Cadets filling their plates with food.

The Phantom was busily grilling hamburgers and hot dogs while Sandro filled bowls with soup. Randy was slicing the lamb, which, Chef noted, was not a popular dish. Joey was serving out the potatoes and veggies. As he passed the duff table, noting that there was a large selection of pies, cakes, puddings and tarts, Chef looked over and saw Matt putting the bread baskets and bowls of mint sauce on the table the gunners would use for lunch. After inspecting the steam line and tables Chef went and stood beside The Phantom. "Looks good, Phantom."

"Oh, it was easy," said The Phantom with a grin. "I just followed the 'How To' book."

"So then, what's the menu?"

"The sole, which Ray is cooking, the lamb, with salad and vegetables, and then the pudding."

Chef chuckled, knowing that in the Wardroom the sweet course served after the main dinner was called "pudding" and that "dessert" meant the fresh fruit that was offered at the end of the meal. "You have read your book. What are you planning on giving them for pudding?"

The Phantom snickered and flipped a burger. "Actually, it is a pudding. Chinese Wedding Cake."

Chef thought a moment. "Perhaps we can do a little better than that."

The Phantom looked puzzled. "What's wrong with that? It's good. I made it myself," he finished somewhat defensively.

"I'm sure that it's delicious, as always," replied Chef soothingly. "Are you planning on serving cheese with the fruit?"

"We don't have any," replied The Phantom absently as he flipped another burger. "All we have is that processed cheese shit we use for grilled cheese sandwiches. Anyway, my mother says cheese binds you."

"Far be it for me to question your mother." Chef looked down the serving line at Ray and had a sudden thought. "Phantom, is The Gunner handing out the new whites today?"

"Yes." The Phantom leaned over and placed two hamburgers onto the plate being held out by one of the Duty hands. "He said just after lunch."

Chef nodded absently. "When the rush is over tell Ray and Sandro to see me, will you? And wear your gunshirt and bells when you serve lunch."

"No steward's jacket?"

"Not for lunch," replied Chef as he disappeared into the galley.

The Phantom shrugged and returned to serving the hamburgers. "Jeez," he thought, "that's the second gunner that's gone by today. Must be their day for . . . SHEEIT . . ." He looked at the long table, perfectly set for 24 diners, and groaned silently. "Damn! Cory forgot the Duty Watch!" He scanned the Mess Hall, counted six gunners chewing away happily (on hot dogs or hamburgers, he noticed, not lamb) and realized that there would be six empty places at Cory's Grand Lunch.

Todd sat at one end of the long table, somewhat stunned. To his right sat Val. To his left Nicholas was waiting patiently for Todd to begin eating the Pears Cardinal - a sweet and alcoholic dish of halves of pears sauced with sieved raspberries, sugar, kirsch and sprinkled almond slices. Chef had not let down the side.

Nicholas might know everything there was to know about flags, flag hoists, and codes, including the Falcon Code, but he hadn't a clue how to eat his pudding, which was not lost on Todd who, as nonchalantly as he could, and hoping that he was looking as completely unaffected as possible, picked up the dessert utensils from where they were placed and began to eat, using the fork to hold the pear and the spoon to carve bite-sized pieces from the tender flesh.

Val suppressed a smile as he watched Nicholas follow Todd's every move. He glanced down the table and saw that most of his fellow guests, including Kyle, Andy and Dave Eddy were doing exactly the same thing, watching and imitating the movements of Todd, Cory, Tyler, Number One, or himself.

Of the 24 men and boys sitting at the table only Number One, the Twins, Tyler and himself had a clue as what fork, knife or spoon was used, and when. Val could understand the confusion. Most of the boys at the table thought that Emily Post made breakfast cereal, and none of them knew a butter knife from a bayonet. Val had been somewhat surprised and in a way flattered when, just after sitting down at the Chiefs' table (in itself a surprise), he had been approached by Phantom and asked if he would care to lunch with Cory and the gunners. He had then been conducted - conducted! - by Phantom to a seat on Todd's right. Phantom promptly disappeared and Matt Greene, resplendent in a gunshirt so crisply starched that it crackled and so white that it shimmered in the rays of sunlight that streamed through the high windows of the Mess Hall, and trailing a faint odour of aftershave, had appeared and poured Val's milk into one of the two tulip-shaped glasses that formed part of his place setting.

As Matt withdrew Val had looked down at the array of cutlery in front of him. He then looked around and saw that more than one face bore a look of dismay. Almost all of the other boys came from solid, working class families, where lunch was usually a sandwich taken from a brown paper bag and dinner - called supper - was eaten in the kitchen, with all the food - meat, potatoes and vegetables piled on one plate and he who had the longest reach got the most food.

Val had expected cadets like Brian and Dylan, whose fathers were nickel miners from North Bay, to be a little ill at ease, just as he had expected that Andy, who was, after all, an American and an ex-Marine who thought K-rats and a beer the height of haute cuisine, would have a little trouble figuring out which fork to use. What did surprise him was that Kyle and Dave, both officers, and by definition and courtesy of the Queen, gentlemen, were just as confused as everybody else. Obviously, table etiquette was not taught at Queen's or McMaster University.

While he waited for the lunch to be served Val watched Todd, and Cory, who was seated at the other end of the table with Number One on his right and Tyler on his left. Both of the Twins seemed perfectly at ease, acting as if they ate lunch this way every day of their lives, which he knew they patently did not. Usually they ate in the kitchen with the cook. According to Todd the only day they sat down in the dining room was Sunday and only when both their parents were home. They might have money, and they might have been taught their manners in the cradle, but they still ate in the kitchen.

When the first course, a sole in what tasted liked a butter sauce, had appeared from his left and was placed effortlessly on the service plate, Val silently thanked Providence for the long, and he thought at the time, gratuitous and demeaning lessons in table etiquette that he and Tyler had endured at school.

At the other end of the table Cory was trying to be the good host and to divide his attention between Number One, who sat on his right, and Tyler, who was on his left. He was also trying to keep an eye on the other diners. The last thing Cory wanted was for his guests to be embarrassed. He knew that most of the gunners were hardly to the manor born, and that most of them had never used more than one fork and one knife at the best of times. As for napkins, well, thank God nobody had tied his napkin around his neck! Fortunately there were enough seasoned diners at the table, so everybody chattered away, watching each other and nobody seemed overly embarrassed at all.

While trying to listen politely to Number One, who was nattering on about a telescope, of all things, Cory noticed that The Gunner was ensconced at the Officers' table with Doc and Dirty Dave the Deacon, watching The Phantom as he went about serving the lunch. Cory suppressed a slight smile. "Looks like Gunner's in his mother hen mode," he thought.

Further down the table Cory saw Nicholas, who seemed to be paying more attention to what was going on at the Bugle Band table than he was to the plate of food in front of him. As unobtrusively as he could Cory followed Nicholas's gaze and glanced at the Bugle Band table where Andre was sitting. He was looking back at Nicholas.

Cory quickly looked away. He had seen the look in Andre's eyes before. In fact he was seeing the identical look in Matt's eyes every time he went near Todd. Cory also noticed that Matt was paying much more attention to serving Todd than he was to anyone else and that when he was finished serving he lingered at Todd's end of the table, standing quietly behind Todd, saying nothing. Cory stifled a knowing giggle. Matt didn't have to say a word. The look in his eyes said it all. "Poor Matt," Cory thought. "Andre and Nicholas might be doing more than counting the signal flags, but you, my young friend don't have a cat's chance because Todd . . ."

Number One, who was still talking, interrupted Cory's musing. " . . .So, Cory, while I know it is rather short notice, barely a week and all that, you are the best we have, and decorating the telescope will certainly enhance the prize, don't you think?"

Wondering just what the hell he was getting himself in for, Cory thought it best to agree with whatever Number One was talking about and to at least pretend that he had been listening. "Um, well, yes, of course," stammered Cory.

"Well, good show, then," enthused Number One. "I shall bring it 'round this afternoon. I know you'll make a cracking job of it."

A burst of laughter from the middle of the table distracted Cory. He saw Harry making animated motions over his dessert plate. The cadets on either side of Harry, Kevin, a strong-jawed, blond-haired boy from Hamilton, Ontario, and Adam, a thin, black haired boy with a vulpine face, were in near hysterics, as were the two cadets sitting opposite. Cory wondered what Harry was up to this time. "Something dirty, if I know Harry," he thought.

Actually Harry had told a dirty story when the lamb had been served, a long, convoluted tale involving a sheep, a shepherd and high rubber boots. He was now regaling the boys with a tale about the time that he and his brothers had raided a neighbour's fruit orchard. The depredations had included the rape and pillage of a pear tree, and also involved - nobody was quite sure how or why - a partridge of gargantuan proportions. In typical Harry fashion he was exaggerating as much as possible and in the end nobody quite believed that the partridge's counterattack could possibly cause such injuries as Harry claimed, or inflict them in such personal areas. Harry responded by offering to show them the scar.

While Harry was lying outrageously, Dave was making small talk with Tyler, and waiting for an opportunity to smooth the waters with the Master at Arms, having missed meeting both him and Val earlier in the day. "I could get used to this," he said presently. "At home my mother usually yells 'Come Eat!' and it's the Devil take the hindmost."

Tyler chuckled. "At least there's no Master sitting at the end of the table waiting to smack your fingers if you pick up the wrong fork."

"School?" asked Dave.

Tyler nodded. "Val and I had to eat lunch and dinner at our House Master's table. That's how we learned how to use the right forks."

Dave chuckled. "One less class you'll have to go through in Royal Roads," he said. "I understand that they teach the Naval Cadets proper etiquette. They make you all sit in the dining room and teach you how to eat. Which is not a bad thing, because hands on training is the best."

Out of the corner of his eye Tyler saw The Phantom, Matt, and the Two Makee-Learns hovering, waiting to clear for the next course. He looked down and saw that Cory was toying with the last bit of pear on his plate, waiting for the slower eaters to finish. Tyler quickly finished his pudding. He placed his knife and fork on the empty plate and turned to Dave. "That's what I like about being a senior cadet. Almost everything is hands-on. No books."

Dave agreed. "Not everything comes out of books. Common sense certainly doesn't."

"No, it doesn't," murmured Tyler, thinking that if it did none of us would make quite the fools of ourselves as we do.

Dave seemed to read Tyler's thoughts. He waited while the empty plate in front of him was removed. "I must admit that I didn't display too much common sense in Victoria," he said quietly.

"At least they left you your underpants."

"Pardon?" Dave gave Tyler a quizzical look.

"They stripped me bare! Then they threw me in the barracks yard and locked the door to the barracks on me!" Tyler grinned widely. "I made the mistake of trying to exercise my authority in a manner the troops did not appreciate. I paid the price."

"Me too," replied Dave, returning the grin.

"At least you didn't have three smartass Americans come on the scene and make jokes about . . .well, making jokes."

"No, I only had a bunch of teenage girls laughing and giggling at me!" Tyler began laughing. "I never saw you move so fast."

Dave joined in the laughter. "Well, I learned my lesson, and I want to . . ."

Tyler shook his head. "Sir, that's all behind us now," he replied graciously. "Now look out, here comes Phantom and he's got more plates in his hand."

"More food?" asked Dave as The Phantom slid yet another place in front of him.

"What course now?"

"Dessert course."

"I thought we just had it."

"Nope. Dessert is fresh fruit, if you want it."

"Why not, I can use the roughage."

When the luncheon party broke up Cory made a point of going into the galley and thanking Chef and The Phantom. Chef, flattered, tried to pooh-pooh the whole thing, acting as if it were an everyday affair, and certainly well within the abilities of his galley staff. "It was great, Chef," effused Cory. "Saying thank you doesn't seem to be enough."

"If you feel that way you can help with the washing up," returned Chef with a grin. He turned on his heels. "Sandro, where's my medicine?"

The Phantom snickered at Cory's discomfiture. "Well, you asked for that. Do you want to wash, or dry?"

Cory laughed and began taking off his jumper. "Thanks, Phantom, for all the work you did. I was really surprised." They began to stack the dirty dishes into the mammoth dishwasher. "I also owe you my thanks for asking Tyler and the others to join us for lunch. I should have remembered the Duty Watch."

The Phantom waved away Cory's apology. "I was glad to do it. I owe you guys big time."

"Whatever for?"

The Phantom grinned shyly. "Let's just say that you and Todd taught me some very important lessons that night in the cabin. Not to mention that if you and Todd hadn't gotten on The Gunner's case he wouldn't have driven back to Comox to see me."

"That's us, friends of the friendless and purveyors of advice to the lovelorn. I take it there are no problems with your sex life then?" Cory chuckled. "The Gunner sure looks happy."

The Phantom actually blushed, much to Cory's amusement. "He is, and so am I. God Cory, it's wonderful being with him."

"I'm glad, Phantom. I know it's something you've wanted for a long time and I'm happy it's working out for you."

Joey and Randy came in with another load of dirty dishes and briefly interrupted them. "I have to talk to them later on," said The Phantom when the two boys had left.

"What about?" asked Cory, his curiosity aroused.

"Sex," whispered The Phantom. "Ray thinks that they're more than just good friends."

Cory snickered. "Good luck to you."

"Well you could volunteer to help me." The Phantom gave Cory a gentle jab with his elbow. "It's not that you haven't got some experience in these matters." Cory smiled. "Not this little brown Chief duck."

"Coward!"

"You wouldn't say that if you knew what I know." Cory glanced over to where Matt was helping Ray empty the salad trays. "All you have to do his convince two Makee-Learns to keep their peckers in their pants."

The Phantom looked at Matt, then at Cory. "Matt has got a crush on Todd," he said, his voice soft.

"Tell me about it. I saw the way he was looking at Todd when he was serving lunch. The trouble is, Todd isn't interested in Matt that way." Cory shook his head sadly.

"Poor Matt," agreed The Phantom. He knew exactly what Matt was going through.

"Stupid Todd, you mean!" growled Cory. He looked around. "Now where's that rat bag brother of mine. He should be in here helping." He saw The Phantom's look and continued. "Todd refuses to believe that Matt can be in love with him. I disagree."

"Are you going to talk to Todd about Matt?" asked The Phantom. "He's got to know."

Cory groaned quietly. "Sooner or later I'm going to have to. I'm also going to have to talk to Matt."

"I already have, a little," confessed The Phantom.

Cory looked at his friend and shook his head. "Trust you to know about Matt. I swear Phantom you know more about what's going on around here than anybody else."

"Me?" asked The Phantom, feigning innocence. "Can I help it if guys talk to me?"

Cory snorted. "If I know you if I asked when Matt choked his chicken last you'd be able to tell me."

"Cory!" The Phantom thought it best not to tell Cory that he could, if pressed, tell his friend the last time Matt had gotten his rocks off!

"It's true, Phantom. You've got CSIS, the RCMP, the FBI and the CIA beat all to hell. Mossad might, I say might, be one up on you, but I'm not betting money on it!"

"You're exaggerating," protested The Phantom. "I admit I do hear, and see, some things that others don't, but I'm not all that clued in on everything."

"Yeah, and the Pope isn't Catholic!"

"Don't you have to go and get your new uniforms?" asked The Phantom, abruptly changing the subject. Cory had hit very close to home and he did not want in any way to offend Cory by telling him to mind his own business.

"Plenty of time for that," replied Cory as he loaded the last of the dirty dishes. "You getting another uniform?"

"No. One is enough for me. Besides, unlike some people I can mention, but won't, I have work to do." He pushed the button to activate the dishwasher. It roared to life, effectively drowning any attempt at conversation.

"Too bad," said Cory as they left the cacophony of the dishwasher behind them.

"Todd and I are going swimming later. After that . . ." He grinned lasciviously and leered evilly at The Phantom. "Now then, if a certain Cadet Chief Steward could see his way clear to getting the afternoon off, perhaps two Cadet Chief Gunners might be able to really express their appreciation for the Chief's Steward's hard work."

The Phantom laughed and shook his head. "Thanks anyway, but I'd like to be able to walk tomorrow morning!"

"And you called me a coward!"

As it turned out, the Twins did not go to the abandoned shack. Everybody who could took the afternoon off with the tacit approval of the officers.

Nicholas, with Andre in tow, begged the use of Chef's car and went off to the Photographic Section of CFB COMOX, to work on what he promised would be the best photo record of their sailing trip that they had ever seen. Andre, completely infatuated with Nicholas, had been sworn to secrecy and threatened with a total ban on sinning in his lifetime if he let so much as a whisper of what Nicholas was doing become public. Harry told his Sea Puppies and the Band that they could have the afternoon off, and then went off to be fitted for his Class II uniform. With almost all of the Senior Hands busy being fitted for uniforms, or generally screwing the pooch, most of the junior cadets decided that Sliders sounded like a good idea. Some went off to their barracks to catch up on their sleep. Most of the others gravitated toward the beach for a swim. As the Drill Shed was being used as a Clothing Store others went to the parade square for an impromptu soccer game.

When the washing up was finished the Twins went off to the Drill Shed where they joined the rest of their peers. Neatly laid out on tables in front of The Gunner's office were the white Class II uniforms he had brought from Victoria.

Assisted by Rob, The Gunner issued one set of uniforms to each Chief and Petty officer. Val and Tyler were issued an additional set. The only problems encountered were when it came to fitting out Harry and Mike. Harry was six feet one inch of solid teen muscle. His chiselled chest and muscled biceps and thighs strained at the fabric of his uniform. Unlike Mike, whose weightlifter's chest tapered to an almost waspish waist, Harry's waist was perfectly proportioned to his height and weight. In the end it was necessary to choppy-change four uniforms to find an approximate fit for the two cadets, The Gunner taking jackets from two different sets of uniforms and trousers from two additional sets of uniforms.

With their new uniforms under their arms the Twins headed for the Gunroom where they quickly stowed the neat packages of white duck and changed into their seminarian suits. It was a glorious, sun-drenched day that only happened in British Columbia and the beach called to them. The Twins left the Gunroom and walked to the beach, passing the Mess Hall where they saw Tyler, Chef, Phantom and The Gunner deep in conversation as they sat and smoked on the loading dock. The Twins were not all that surprised to find the beach littered with cadets, sunning, swimming, laughing and generally having a good time. Harry was roughhousing in the water with some of his Sea Puppies and Bandsmen. Two Strokes and Fred were laying side by each, catching some rays. With Chris off teaching classes at the high school Jon lay alone at the edge of grass, sleeping soundly. Higher up the gently sloping rise of sea grass and sand Brian and Dylan lay together, close, but not too close. Nearby sat Stuart and Steve, lazily watching the world go by.

After a short swim the Twins spread their towels and lay down, letting the sun dry their water-beaded bodies. "So much for a discreet walk in the woods," grumbled Todd. "I was looking forward to a quiet afternoon with you."

"More like a session of afternoon delight," returned Cory, a wide grin breaking his smooth, handsome face. "Still, not all is lost."

Todd returned the grin. He ducked his head and cocked an eyebrow at his brother. "It isn't?"

Cory looked to his left and then to his right. "Everybody is here, swimming, right?"

Todd nodded his agreement. "Just about. The only one who isn't is Greg."

"He's hiding out in the Ship's Office, probably still enjoying the afterglow of this morning."

Todd almost choked at Cory's remark. "Well, we are good at what we do, you know," continued Cory.

"Greg certainly enjoyed it. Part of the reason Phantom put on such a bang-up show was because of that night we spent with him."

Todd snorted. "As if you'd know! Talk about conceited," he said with derision.

"Of course I know," replied Cory, ignoring his brother's scorn. "Phantom told me, so there."

Todd considered Cory's remark, then agreed. "It was a pretty good session." He grinned widely. "And Phantom learned a lot. Have you noticed how pleased The Gunner looks these days?"

"Todd, don't be crass. They're in love," responded Cory with a hard look. "Have you no romance in you?"

"Not that I've noticed," replied Todd, "unless you count how tingly the end of my . . ."

"Todd!"

"Sorry." Todd grinned. "That's usually something you'd say."

Cory could not disagree. "We'll talk about your tingles later. The point I am trying to make is that we showed Phantom what making love should be like."

"As opposed to lustful coupling in the cabin of an American Sea Cadet cutter?" "Dammit, Todd, there's no need to . . ."

Todd held up his hand. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Cory." He started laughing.

"What?"

"Nathan sure learned quick how not to make love. At least to you!"

Cory gave Todd an icy stare. "And I suppose that you enjoy being treated like a slut?"

"Not es-pesh-ully," drawled Todd.

Cory rose slowly and brushed imaginary sand from the seat of his swimming shorts. "That from somebody who cares more about his own pleasure than the person he's with!"

"Now wait one minute, Cory!" Todd scrambled, too late, to his feet. Cory, in a high dudgeon, was striding purposefully and relentlessly along the path, heading back to the Gunroom. Todd hurried after his obviously very angry brother. "Come on, Cory," pleaded Todd when he finally caught up with Cory. "I'm sorry. Honest."

"Bullshit!" retorted Cory. "I never say a word about the guys you take up with, but let me finally find someone I like almost as much as you and you're right off the mark with the cracks!"

"That's not true!" yelled Todd.

"Oh, yes it is, asshole!"

A small group of cadets who were gathered in front of the Headquarters Building parted quickly as the Twins roared by. Several shook their heads. All wisely kept their mouths shut. The Twins were on the warpath and wise cadets beat a hasty retreat.

Todd managed to catch up with Cory. He grabbed his brother's arm and pulled him up. "I do not take up with just any guy, and you know it. And what the hell do you mean finding someone you like almost as much as me?"

Cory rounded on Todd. "You spent 14 days on QUEST and you expect me to believe that you didn't take up with some sleazoid?"

"Sylvain is not some sleazoid . . ." Todd's jawed snapped shut. "Oh, shit!"

Cory gave Todd a gloating look of triumph. "I thought so! I knew you'd been up to something but . . ." He all but gagged at the thought. "Sylvain!" he spat. The he shook his head in disgust and walked on.

"Come on, Cory, you weren't there and well, a guy likes to keep warm at night."

"Wear a fucking sweater!"

Cory continued his rampage past the Headquarters Building, past the Canteen, across the parade square and into the Gunroom. Thumper, who had been lying on his bunk trying to have a nap, heard the door slam and saw Cory's red, anger diffused face. He hastily decamped into the heads where he locked himself in a cubicle for a quick wank, figuring what the hell, I won't be able to sleep anyway.

Todd found Cory sitting on his bunk, fuming, almost speechless with rage. He sat beside Cory and began to slowly rub his brother's naked back.

Cory quickly pulled away. "Oh no you don't, Todd. You can't just hurt a guy's feelings and think a quick feel is going to change things."

"I hurt your feelings? What about mine?"

"You don't have any! The only person you think about is yourself! You get the hots for someone like Sylvain, of all people, and you ignore someone who thinks you walk on water!"

Todd growled and snarled, beat the bed unmercifully, and then slapped his hand against the bulkhead.

"Feel better?" asked Cory coldly.

"No! I hurt my fucking hand!" Todd held up his right hand but did not, in the circumstances, think it wise to say anything more.

"Good! It will teach you not to bang your jerking hand on the bulkhead."

Todd silently pleaded for strength from above. "Cory, I'm sorry. Really. I didn't mean to get you all upset."

"You managed it, though." Cory curled up against the bulkhead, turning his back to his brother.

"Aw, come on, Cory, you know how much I love you." Todd slowly ran his hand up the leg of Cory's shorts and felt the fine, golden hair on his leg, then moved slowly to caress Cory's sweet, firm bum.

"Not this time," snarled Cory as he pushed Todd's hand away.

Todd had not realized the depth of Cory's hurt. He did realize that he should not have made a smartass crack about Nathan, just as he realized he had better make amends, and fast. He sat up straight and slowly leaned forward. His hands seemed to grip an imaginary table, which he then pulled backward toward himself. Todd then squirmed a bit, as if settling himself comfortably into a chair.

Cory watched suspiciously as Todd continued to pretend to be about to eat an imaginary meal. He placed an imaginary set of cutlery, and a plate, on the equally imaginary table. An invisible napkin was unfolded and draped across his lap. Finally Todd sat up straight, his fists clenched, as if holding his eating utensils.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" asked Cory, curious, but still cautious.

"I am preparing to eat a very large, probably very unhealthy, and definitely unpalatable dish of crow," replied Todd with a serious mien.

"You are?" asked Cory sceptically. He straightened up and sat looking at the imaginary table. "There's nothing there. If this is another one of your jokes Todd," he warned dangerously.

Todd sighed heavily, then turned and took Cory's hands in his. "Cory, you are my brother. I love you deeply, not only as my brother, but as my lover."

"I've heard that line before," returned Cory with a sour look.

"This is not a line, Cory," replied Todd sincerely. "I love you, and I apologize most humbly for accusing you of stealing my underwear."

"You do?" Cory was still very suspicious. Todd was up to something for sure. Todd nodded. Cory grunted and tried to pull his hands away. Todd held them fast.

"I told you that I didn't take the damned things!" said Cory with some heat. "I told you but you wouldn't believe me!"

"I believe you now. I should have believed you this morning, and for that I am truly sorry. "Please say you'll accept my apology."

Cory pretended indifference. "Sure. It doesn't matter, anyway."

"Thank you, Cory." Todd grit his teeth. "I am sorry, and I'll try not to be so foolish in the future."

"You will," retorted Cory. Todd muttered something about stubborn, little-dicked bastards, which Cory pretended not to hear. "Anyway, I know who took your dreadful undies."

"You do?" asked Todd, surprised. He had convinced himself that he had left the missing shorts back in Victoria.

"Chris took them. He ran out and didn't think . . ."

"He WHAT?" yelped Todd, releasing Cory's hands.

"He took your only pair of clean boxers while you were in the shower," said Cory calmly, pretending to study his nails. "As he was in a hurry to catch the duty bus he asked Nicholas to tell you but you went off like a rocket and Nicholas told me he thought the two of us going at it over a pair of underpants was so funny he wanted to see what would happen. Then Greg came in and you know what happened then, and in all the excitement Nicholas just forgot about Chris and your drawers."

"And when did he tell you all this?"

"Just before lunch. He made a very sincere apology." Cory looked pointedly at Todd. "A very sincere apology." Todd muttered maledictions under his breath, consigning Chris, and Nicholas, to a particularly nasty fate. "Did you say something, dear brother?" asked Cory sweetly."

"I said nothing at all," replied Todd tightly, fuming inwardly.

"Are you finished, then?"

Todd glared at Cory. "No, damn it, I am not!"

"Well, do continue."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" asked Todd, a malevolent look on his face.

Cory, finally getting his own back, could barely keep a straight face. He was enjoying Todd's discomfiture immensely. "Yes," he replied simply, a small smile playing with corner of his lips.

Cory's reply produced another muttered tirade. Seeing that his brother was unimpressed, Todd calmed down. "I'm sorry about Sylvain as well," he began carefully. "I know that we agreed that we'd more or less only go with guys we both liked but please Cory, try to understand. There I was in the middle of fucking nowhere, and you weren't around, and well, I was lonely and Sylvain was . . ."

"Horny!" snapped Cory. "Sylvain is always horny!"

"Okay, he was horny. So was I so we . . ."

"I know what you did." Cory squared his shoulders and moved closer to the bulkhead.

"We did not do what you think we did," Todd began to protest hotly. The look on his brother's face told him not to pursue what would have been a lie any further. He blushed and ducked his head sheepishly. "Okay, yes we did do what you think we did, but Cory . . ." He voice took on a wheedling tone. "It was just a spur of the moment thing. Sylvain was then and is now a flash in the pan." He snickered knowingly. "In more ways than one."

"Clichés aside, I have absolutely no interest in Sylvain's performance, either in the Bugle Band or in your bed, thank you," returned Cory, his tone icy. Sylvain, of all people! Cory's nostrils flared. "Nor am I interested in the details of your tryst in the wilderness."

Todd grimaced. Cory as the Grand Duke of Vancouver was such a pain in the ass! He decided to try some humour. "It was in a tent, actually. He's no great shakes in the sack, either. He huffs and puffs and makes more noise than Harry when he's going at it. He also squeaks like a bunny rabbit just when he's ready to . . ."

This was too much for Cory. He began to giggle, lost it, and gave vent to loud, belly breaking laughter. Between guffaws Cory pointed at Todd. "A bunny rabbit!"

Todd nodded, then burst into laughter. "Yeah, he goes . . ." he began making a high-pitched squeak. "'Eeh . . eeh . . . eeh' and then look out sailor 'cause thar he blows!"

It took both boys no little time to regain their composure. When they did, finally, Todd again took Cory's hands in his. "I am really truly sorry about what I said about Nathan. It was unkind."

For five long minutes they sat in silence, just looking into each other's eyes.

"I think I love him, Todd," said Cory quietly.

Todd rested his hand on Cory's shoulder. "But you're not sure?"

Cory sighed and shook his head. "I am not sure," he repeated. "I think I love him and the reason I want to go to Seattle is to make sure. We didn't get off to a very good start, but I feel, Jeez, Toddy, I feel real good about him. He looked so sad the day he left, standing in the rain. I wanted to jump into the harbour and swim after him."

"I take it that you don't feel as if you'd been hit by the lightning bolt, then?"

"A little one, maybe," replied Cory with a laugh. "What's not to like about him? He's as handsome a devil as I've seen in a long time. He's intelligent, doesn't drool and . . ."

"Cory!" Todd saw the mocking look on his brother's face and laughed along with him. Then he sobered. "Cory, anything it takes, anything, to make Nathan love you totally, I'll do."

"I know you will," replied Cory. He squeezed Todd's hand and then looked deeply into his brother's deep blue eyes, a mirror of his own. His brother was championing Nathan because he believed that the American boy was truly in love with him. Cory, less starry-eyed than Todd realized, had his doubts. Nathan was adorable, and no doubt had good intentions. But, as Cory thought about it all, there was something indefinable about Nathan that Cory could not put his finger on. Something . . . unsettling . . . that gave him pause. Cory sighed inwardly. Todd had spoken from his heart and now, Cory decided, so must he. "Matt is falling in love with you," he said with conviction.

Todd pulled away, aghast. "You're out of your mind! I have never done anything to . . ."

Cory leaned forward and pulled Todd back. "Toddy, you don't have to. I've seen the way he looks at you. I saw him today, when he was serving your lunch to you. I've heard the emotion in his voice when he talks about you, or even speaks your name."

"Damn it to hell," swore Todd angrily. "That can't happen, Cory. I won't let it!"

"What do you mean, you won't let it happen? Who do you think you are? God?" Cory shrugged indifferently. "It's happening whether you like it or not."

Todd was very serious now. "Cory, I like Matt. I like him a lot. But I don't want to have sex with him. I admit I want to hold him, and cuddle him. I want to make him feel warm and safe, like he's my baby brother. That's all! I am not attracted to him sexually."

"I don't think he's interested in sex. Not yet, anyway." Cory stood up, stretched, then reached down and took up his pillow. "You want to grab a couple of blankets?"

They talked as they entered the woods, following the barely worn path that would take them to their special place. As they walked along Cory put his arm around his brother's slim waist and said quietly, "Toddy, I think Matt is still trying to figure out his orientation. Is he straight? Is he gay? Can I love a guy? Will I love a girl?"

Todd nodded. "I know what you're saying, Cory, and I understand. Matt is only fifteen and he's just hitting his stride and the hormones are raging."

"Too true," said Cory. "Matt is going through a very hard time. He's trying to figure out what he his, and who he is. He's having weird thoughts and strange urges." He shrugged expressively. "Matt is trying to come to terms with the fact that he might be gay."

Todd considered this a moment. "I think he is also trying to decide what to do if he is, as you say, gay. Does he repress it? Does he try to hide his feelings, fight them with all his might?"

"If he does he needs only to look as far as his brother," asserted Cory. "He's doing a very good job at hiding what he really is."

"Now, Cory, you have no reason to think that," said Todd. He stopped in the middle of the path and looked at Cory, a thoughtful look on his face. "Little Big Man has never done anything to even hint that he's gay. If anything, quite the opposite."

"Paul Greene is gay," Cory insisted forcefully. "He has too much hate in him not to be. He hates us because we're gay. He hates himself more. Paul did not get that hate from a book, and it wasn't beaten into him. He hates us because of what he is, deep inside."

They had reached the clearing and Cory spread the blankets and pillows across the warm green grass. Almost immediately Todd began smoothing the blankets.

"What are you doing?" demanded Cory.

"I'm just making sure that you're . . . I mean we are comfortable," replied Todd, blushing slightly at his slip of the tongue. "

"Ah, Todd, always and ever the romantic." Cory knew exactly what Todd was hoping for and was about to retort that if he knew Todd no matter how much smoothing went on he'd still end up with crease marks on his back and bum. Then he saw the puppy dog look on his brother's face, giggled, shucked his shorts and lay down, nestling his head in his pillow. He smiled at Todd and reached out his arms.

Todd returned Cory's smile, pushed his shorts down, then lay beside his brother. They embraced and kissed, not ready for heavy sex, just enjoying each other's body.

"So tell me, Doctor Arundel, what about Matt?" Todd kissed Cory's forehead and reached down to rub his thumb along the head of Cory's smooth, soft penis. "Just to set the record straight, you do not have a small dick."

Cory snickered and began to caress and massage Todd's stomach. "Matt comes from the same background, the same house. He's had the same shit pushed down his throat day after day."

"Jeez, that feels good, Cory. Todd felt his brother stirring, moving down his body. "Matt doesn't hate us."

Cory began to nuzzle Todd's navel. "No, he doesn't," he muttered between licks of Todd's inny. "That's not the point. Matt might be wondering what he is. His brother knows."

Cory moved lower and buried his nose in Todd's short, curly, dark blond pubic bush. Todd groaned loudly as Cory's sweet lips met his warm mushroom. "Matt is only here for two weeks. When he goes home I will be nothing but a memory to him."

Cory looked up and saw Todd looking back at him. It was time to think of other things. He slowly drew Todd's hard six inches into his mouth, sucking long and hard while his tongue caressed the underside of Todd's throbbing, deep pink erection.

Todd could feel Cory's lips, tightly sealed around his pulsing erection, being slowly drawn upward. "Jesus, Jesus, that feels good," he moaned loudly.

Cory wanted to smile but did not. He did not want to break the seal of his lips on Todd's organ. He knew that Todd loved getting blown, and he also knew exactly how to make Todd lose his mind while getting blown. His tongue found and slowly traced its way around the crisp, clean lines of Todd's helmet. Todd groaned and thrust ever so gently upward.

With deliberate slowness Cory's lips and tongue began their downward journey along Todd's hard, throbbing penis. With his left hand Cory gently stroked the softness of Todd's inner right thigh while with his right hand he kneaded and massaged his brother's slowly constricting ball sac.

With each up and down movement of Cory's head Todd's body arched and stiffened. He groaned loudly, his whole being engulfed with the pleasure radiating from his groin. "JeeeSUS," he moaned. "Cory, fuck man, I'm getting close!"

Cory neither increased nor decreased the movement of his head. He could feel Todd's penis lengthening and beginning to spasm.

"Oh FUCK," yelled Todd. "Cory, I'm . . ." Todd's body arched and he began making short, spasmodic thrusts.

As his mouth filled with the warm sweetness of his brother's semen Cory pulled back, savouring just the top half of Todd's jerking dick.

Grunting and thrusting Todd ejaculated jet after jet of his teenage ambrosia into Cory's swallowing mouth. He continued his short, sharp jerks even after his balls had emptied their precious contents, pulling away sharply when Cory's tongue began laving the ultra-sensitive crown of his cock.

Grinning, Cory lowered himself onto Todd's body. They nuzzled and necked and Cory slowly rubbed his straining penis against Todd's semi-hard organ and pubic bush.

Todd heard Cory's breathing become heavier, and felt the warm hot air on his neck. He knew what Cory was doing, and why he was doing it. "Go ahead, Cory, it's all right," he whispered.

Cory raised his head and looked at Todd. "I can just rub myself off. It's okay, really."

Todd shook his head. "No. Make love to me, Cory, please."

"You don't like it," murmured Cory truthfully. "I don't want you to do something you don't like to do."

Todd drew Cory's lips to his, and tasted the sweetness of Cory mixed with the saltiness of his own creamy ejaculate. When their lips parted Todd smiled tenderly. He spread his legs wider and lifted his hips. The he reached down, squeezing Cory's turgid erection, guiding him. "For you, always! Always and forever," he whispered.

With the lunch dishes finally washed and the galley and the Mess Hall squared away, The Phantom shooed Matt out, telling him to take a break. Matt had insisted on staying and helping with the washing up and, so happy was he at the comments he had received, he told The Phantom that he would be back to help with the dinner rush.

The Phantom was very pleased with Matt, who was a hard worker, and a quick learner. He had a fluid grace when he served at table, was very polite, had a ready smile and paid attention to detail, his infatuation with Todd notwithstanding. Chef always said that presentation was everything and The Phantom had to admit that Matt presented the meal very well and he wondered if he could talk Matt into helping out on a more or less permanent basis.

Matt was modest enough to be impressed and embarrassed by the compliments and kudos that that had come his way. He had been complimented on his appearance (he did look sharp, even if he said so himself), on his demeanour (he hadn't drooled all over Todd), and on his performance (he hadn't dropped anything or spilled anything on anybody). Dave Eddy had thanked him; he'd had his hand shaken by Number One; The Gunner had called him "Boychick" and Chef had actually given his bum a pat and told him that he could work in the galley anytime. More importantly, and what pleased Matt most of all, was that Todd had come up and gently rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand and told him that he had "done good." Matt had gone off in a bit of a daze, after promising to return to help with serving dinner.

For The Phantom everything had paled, however, when he had seen the gleam of quiet pride that was in The Gunner's eyes when he had congratulated him on a job well done. The look on The Gunner's face, the smile on his lips, had made it all worthwhile.

When the Twins left The Phantom went to where Ray and Sandro were scouring the worktables. Before they could prevent him, The Phantom embraced each in turn. "You guys were great! I couldn't have done it without you," he declared.

"Was nothing," shrugged Sandro. "You did all the work."

"Yeah, all we did was cook up some fish and a sauce," replied Ray, not quite hiding his pleasure at being hugged by The Phantom.

"Bullshit. You guys really made it all happen. So did Randy and Joey. Without them plating the food I would have been up shit creek without a paddle. Without them . . ." Without them! The Phantom looked around. "Where are they?" he asked, fearing the answer.

"In the heads," supplied Sandro. "They are like girls, those two. Always they go to the bathroom together." He smiled slyly. "But not to pee, I think."

The Phantom sighed heavily. "Damn their little souls!" he exploded. He looked over and saw Chef, Number One, Andy and The Gunner enjoying an after lunch aperitif, actually the kirsch that had not made it into the dessert sauce. They seemed to be plotting something and none of them had noticed that the two Makee-Learns were missing.

"Now are you going to talk to them?" asked Ray with heavy emphasis.

"Yes," replied The Phantom reluctantly.

"Good. Take a crowbar with you," suggested Sandro. "Also maybe bucket of cold water."

The Phantom did not find Sandro's remark as funny as Ray did. He scowled at them and walked out of the galley and into the short corridor that separated the lounge from the locker room. He listened at the door. From the muffled squeals and moans he had a fairly good idea of just what the two boys were up to. As quietly as he could The Phantom opened the door to the lounge and entered.

Joey and Randy were lying on the sofa, facing each other. Their white cooks trousers were bunched around their ankles. Their shirts were pushed up, exposing their thin chests. They were kissing passionately, hugging each other as tightly as possible. Surprisingly, they had kept their underwear on. Their little brief covered butts were thrusting and grinding each other's crotch.

The Phantom closed the door with a small "thump". Both boys heard the noise and looked up. Both went as white as their briefs as they frantically rolled off each other and struggled to pull their clothes together.

"Please don't be mad, Phantom, please," begged Joey as he struggled upward.

Randy's face went as red as his hair as he tried to get as far away from Joey as possible. "We weren't doing anything, Phantom," he bawled. "Please don't tell Chef."

The Phantom shushed them both, then sat down beside Joey. He beckoned Randy to come alongside. When Randy was sitting beside him The Phantom put his arm around each boy's shoulder.

Both boys sat blubbering, quietly sobbing that they weren't doing anything, honest Phantom, and please don't be mad at us. The Phantom waited for their sobbing to subside, gathering his thoughts. He wasn't all that sure what he was going to say to the boys. He wasn't all that sure that he really wanted to say anything to them for he had a feeling that no matter what he actually said would have little bearing on what they did.

The Phantom tried to think back when he and his father had had The Talk. The trouble was that his father had talked about boy-girl sex. It would never have occurred to his father to talk about boy-boy sex because nice people did not admit that such a thing occurred. He wondered if his father had been as uncomfortable and embarrassed then as he was now. Of two things only was The Phantom sure. He would not yell at the boys and he would not rain fire and brimstone down on them. He had personally heard far too many sermons condemning homosexuality to visit such a fate on these two relatively innocent boys.

He also had to be very careful how he presented his objections to their conduct. Randy was still traumatized by the death of his mother. Joey was afraid of older boys, his brother in particular. Another very important factor was that both boys had just entered puberty, which was not only a time of sexual awakening, but also a time of experimentation. Both boys were experiencing feelings and emotions that they had no control over. He could not condemn them for something they could not control. They were young, they were naive, and they were at the stage in their lives where if it felt good, they would do it, and while The Phantom could not in all good conscience fault them for experimenting with each other, they had to learn that they could not jump each other's bones when and where they felt like it.

"Okay, first of all, I am not mad at you," began The Phantom slowly. "At least not for what you are doing. I am upset with you, though."

"We didn't do anything," insisted Joey sullenly.

"Yeah," agreed Randy, bobbing his head. "We didn't even take off our underpants."

The Phantom choked back a giggle.

Joey leaned around The Phantom and glared at Randy. "That's because you said it felt better if we left them on!"

"It does and it's better than you squirting all over the place!" retorted Randy.

"At least I can!"

The Phantom resisted the urge to smack both their heads together. "Enough," he growled. "Now shut up the pair of you and listen." Grudgingly the two boys sat back. "I'm your Honourary Big Brother, right?" asked The Phantom. Both boys nodded. "I promised never to hurt you, right?"

The boys nodded again, though Joey could not resist pointing out that Phantom had only really promised not to play with their willies.

The Phantom ignored him and carried on. "Because I am your Honourary Big Brother I've got to talk to you about what your doing." He held up his hand before either of them could speak. "Just listen, okay? When I'm finished you can both say what you like." They nodded their reluctant agreement. "What you to are doing is nothing new. Boys have been doing it with other boys for a long time," said The Phantom as he gave Joey a slight squeeze. "You like Randy a lot, don't you?" he asked Joey.

Joey looked at Randy and smiled a small smile. "Yeah, I do."

"Randy, do you like Joey?"

Randy returned Joey's smile and coloured slightly. "I've always liked him," he whispered, his ears turning a pale red.

"Because you like him you don't want to do anything that would hurt him, or make other people hurt him, right?"

"I wouldn't do anything to hurt him," declared Randy with passion. "I love him!" Joey looked at Randy's stricken face. "You do?" he asked, surprised at Randy's declaration.

Randy blushed and nodded slowly. "Ever since that day when my . . . when my mother got killed and your folks came and took me into your house and you let me cuddle with you."

"You waited a long time to tell me," complained Joey.

"Maybe he didn't tell you for the same reason I'm talking to you," said The Phantom gently.

"He was afraid people would be mean to us?" Joey squirmed in his seat. "And call us names?"

The Phantom gave the boys a small hug. "Joey, Randy, what you guys do together, how you feel about each other, those things are private, and nobody needs to know about them." His face saddened and his eyes clouded over. "Boys, there are people out there who are mean and cruel. I don't want to scare you but you have to know that these people hate it when two boys do things together."

"People like Two Strokes and Little Big Man?" asked Joey.

"Sometimes," replied The Phantom.

"But why?" demanded Randy. "They're both real mean, especially Little Big Man. He's said some real bad things about Cory and Todd. They're not bad, Phantom."

"They're real nice to us." Joey had a sudden itch, scratched it, and continued. "And they don't call us names."

"Little Big Man does! He hates everybody, he hates his brother!" put in Randy.

"Has Petty Officer Greene said anything to you guys? Or Chief Home?"

"Chief Home called us fucking little faggots when he found out about what we did in Victoria," said Randy.

"Yeah, he did, but he laughed when he said it and he didn't look mean," qualified Joey.

"It doesn't matter if he laughed or not. Did it hurt your feelings when he said it?" Both boys nodded. "Guys, there is real hatred out there. There are people who would beat you up, maybe even kill you, if they saw what you were doing." There was a strangeness in The Phantom's voice, a far away loneliness. "People hate for no reason. People hate because they're afraid, of themselves mostly. They hate because their fathers and their brothers say they should hate, or their minister or priest says they must hate. Hell, most of the time they don't even understand why they hate. They just do."

Joey and Randy were a little surprised. They had never seen Phantom like this. It was as if he were feeling the hurt they had felt when Two Strokes had called them names and laughed at them, or when Little Big Man called them little cocksuckers and threatened to beat them up. It was as if he had heard the schoolyard bullies when they called them queers and sissies, and faggots.

The Phantom held the boys close. "You will be what you will be. You can't help it, and I can't stop it. Nobody can. But you have got to stop grabbing each other every chance you get. I don't care how good it feels! Don't let anybody see you kissing or hugging. You must never tell anybody that you love each other. You must never talk about it with anyone but each other."

"Phantom, are we bad? If we die, will we go to Hell and burn forever?" asked Randy.

The Phantom could see the Church rear its bigoted head. "No," he replied firmly. "You are not bad. You will not go to Hell. You are just two normal boys who love each other. Don't listen to what other people tell you, or anything else! You love each other all you want. Just don't do it in public!"

Neither boy could help not giggling. "But Phantom, where can we go to be, you know, alone?" Joey asked.

The Phantom looked around. "What's wrong with this place? Just don't do it when there's anybody around."

Randy sighed. "Don't tell, don't talk about it, and always make sure the door is locked." he said heavily.

The Phantom stood up and grinned. "Please boys, just be discreet, okay?"

"We will," promised Joey. Randy nodded his agreement.

The Phantom looked at his watch. "You guys have had a busy day, and you worked hard. I don't think anybody will miss you for say, ten minutes. Just make sure . . ."

"We know. Lock the door!" laughed Joey.

Randy locked the door and went to Joey, who opened his arms and embraced his friend. Only this morning had they discovered French kissing. Both boys loved it and their tongues duelled. "You sure are a good kisser, Randy," breathed Joey when they pulled apart.

"So are you." Randy returned the compliment. "Better than any girl!"

"You kissed a girl?" asked Joey, disgusted. "Yech!"

"There was nobody else around to kiss," returned Randy. "We were only playing 'Spin the Bottle' anyway." He reached down and slowly lowered the zipper on Joey's trousers.

Joey giggled as Randy gave his testicles a soft squeeze. His hand found Randy's small bulge. He returned Randy's squeeze and then unzipped his pants. He slipped his hand into Randy's pants and began rubbing up and down on the outside of the thin cotton briefs that covered his friend's, warm, excited flesh. "Do you think Phantom's a good kisser?" he asked. "Randy, the front of your undies are wet!"

"They are?" Randy looked down but could see nothing but Joey's slowly massaging hand. "So are yours."

"I haven't squirted yet!" Joey was new at this sort of thing. "Jeez, I'm going to have to change again!"

"Maybe this is just what happens before you squirt," said Randy, trying to be helpful.

"I don't know."

"Maybe we should ask Phantom."

"Yeah, he'll tell us. Randy, can I put my hand down your undies? Phantom will tell us 'cause he's like us." Joey placed his hand on the wide elastic band of Randy's briefs, and then slipped his hand inside Randy's underpants.

"We can't ever tell on him." Randy groaned quietly. "Jeez, that feels good."

Joey gently enclosed Randy's three-inch boner in his hand and began to slowly masturbate him. "Never! We'll never tell anybody! Jeez you feel real nice, Randy. But sticky."

Randy giggled. "Maybe I'm gonna squirt! That would be great. Can I put my hand down yours?"

"Sure. Wow, your hand is cold!" Joey had never before had any hand on his naked penis other than his own. It felt wonderful. His three inches began throbbing and he jerked when Randy ran his thumb over the acorn-like head of his hardon. "Jesus, what did you do?"

"Just this." Randy repeated his thumb action.

Joey jumped again then reciprocated. Randy yelped and pulled back slightly. He began breathing heavily as he felt the pressure building in his groin. Without warning Randy buried his face in Joey's neck and began thrusting, synchronizing his thrusts with Joey's pumping hand. "Oh shit," he groaned as three thin jets of his immature seed squirted from his pee slit.

Randy's squirting pushed Joey over the edge and his moans echoed Randy's. Almost immediately Joey thrust upward and ejaculated. Not much, because he had already cum three times today. He continued to thrust Randy's gripping hand until he had no more semen to give, and then squealed loudly as Randy again ran his thumb over his deep pink glans.

Joey pulled away from Randy and then withdrew his hand. He looked at the warm, almost clear liquid that coated his thumb and the back of his hand, then showed it to Randy. "Randy, you squirted!" he breathed.

"Yeah, I did!" Randy grinned broadly. As far as he was concerned the ejaculate on Joey's hand was proof that he was now a real teenager. On an impulse he raised his hand to his lips and licked Joey's sperm from his thumb.

Joey was a little shocked. He'd never tasted sperm before, and was not all that sure that he wanted to do so now. "What's it taste like?" he asked.

Randy thought a moment. "It tastes good. It's a little salty, but good."

Joey raised his hand to his lips and his tongue flicked out. His taste buds told him that he liked what his tongue had delivered into his mouth. He grinned and took another, larger taste.

"Well?"

Joey nodded his head. "Yeah, it does taste good. Sort of like . . . cherries!"

"Does not!" protested Randy. "I don't eat cherries."

"Does so!" Joey offered his hand. "Here, taste."

Randy leaned forward and tasted for the first time his own cum. "It ain't bad. But I don't think it's cherries."

They both began giggling and each cleaned the other's hand with his tongue. When they were finished licking they lay back, holding hands. "Joey, when did you know about Phantom?"

Joey thought a moment. "From almost the first time I saw him look at The Gunner."

"Yeah, me too. Maybe you can't talk about it, but you sure can't hide the way you look at a guy."

"Yeah," agreed Joey. "Ray too?" Randy nodded. "He looks at Phantom the way Phantom looks at The Gunner."

"We can't say anything."

"No."

Joey beckoned for Randy to follow and they went into the wash place where they scrubbed their groins and hands. Before they left Joey draped his arms around Randy's neck. "I love you," he said with sincerity.

"I love you," returned Randy.

Joey smiled and gently kissed his lover. When they parted he sighed. "We have to go back, Randy. Phantom told us ten minutes."

Randy nodded and together the boys left the washplace.

When The Phantom returned to the galley Ray and Sandro looked at him and raised questioning eyebrows. He looked over and saw that The Gunner had joined Chef,

Andy and Tyler and Number One. "Uniforms all issued?" he asked Ray.

"Never mind the uniforms, what about those two brats?" Ray had a shit-eating grin on his face. "Did you need the crowbar?"

"Maybe the bucket of cold water?" put in Sandro.

"You two are like two old aunts worrying after their cats! They promised to behave and that's all you need to know!"

Before Ray could respond Chef bellowed for them. They trooped over to Chef's desk and waited patiently while Chef grinned and shuffled papers. Tyler was pokerfaced. Andy and The Gunner were grinning and Number One was rubbing the side of his nose with the stem of his pipe. After harrumphing loudly and clearing his throat noisily Number One tapped the two course books that lay in front of Chef. He looked first at Ray, and then at Sandro. "It has been brought to my attention that you two have managed to complete your course books." Both boys nodded and The Phantom wondered what was going on. "It has also been brought to my attention that by 'preparing, cooking and plating at a formal function' you are both now overqualified for your present rates!"

"Sir?" Ray looked at Sandro, who shrugged. Being a Russian he suspected the worst.

Number One shook his head sadly. He looked at The Phantom. "And you, young man, have started a trend!"

"I have? I didn't mean to," replied The Phantom, mystified, but curious as to what the Executive Officer was up to now.

A flicker of a smile appeared on Number One's face. "That's as may be, laddie. The fact is, young Tyler has just been complaining bitterly that as Senior Hand and all that, he should at least have a kick at the cat." The three boys, not quite understanding, looked around for the ship's cat. "Not that cat, you ninnies."

"Tyler wants a lunch, so he does," said Chef. "Or perhaps a dinner." He opened his desk and pulled out a bottle of Amaretto. "We ran out of kirsch," he explained as he poured the almond-flavoured liqueur. "Tyler drank it."

Ray stifled a snicker. Obviously BC Liquors had set up a branch store in Chef's capacious desk drawer.

"Tyler?" asked The Gunner, surprised. So far as he knew Tyler drank very little. He looked at Tyler who grinned and held up two fingers. Then Tyler glanced at Chef and raised three more fingers, confirming The Gunner's suspicions.

Number One cleared his throat loudly. "Phantom, you performed well. To the extent that you are hereby appointed Chief Instructor of Stewards."

"We don't have any stewards!" protested The Phantom. "I'm it!"

"For the nonce, yes," agreed Number One. "However, tomorrow morning jungle drums will be beaten, arms will be twisted, threats made, bribes offered and volunteers called for. By twelve of the clock you will have a class of stewards to instruct."

"You'll still have to help out here in the galley," warned Chef.

"Well sure, Chef. I wouldn't want to make more work for Ray and Sandro."

"Good. Not that you will." Chef looked at Number One, who nodded slightly. "It's time that Joey and Randy started earning their keep," said Chef unkindly. "They are supposed to be cooks, not galley slaves. Starting tomorrow they'll do breakfast and help prep lunch and dinner."

Ray was a little miffed at Chef. Randy and Joey actually did most of the scut work in the galley. They might be pests most of the time, and brats the rest of the time, but they did work, and work hard, to maintain the cleanliness of the galley. Ray opened his mouth to speak but before he could say anything Number One held up his hand. "Before you start you should know that there are plans afoot."

"There are?" Ray looked at Chef, who remained impassive.

Number One took a sip of the Amaretto Chef had poured for him. "Today is Tuesday. Tomorrow the New Entries and General Training Cadets will finish their courses and write their final examinations. Thursday morning those cadets will be canvassed and counselled as to their next step, which is trade training. Since they are all staying on until Thursday week, we have to keep them busy for at least part of the day."

"Thursday is Range Day," interjected The Gunner. "We can't get around it."

"All in hand, dear boy, all in hand." Number One offered his glass to Chef, who refilled it. "Friday is Captain's Rounds. Friday noon we will begin Sunday Routine." He looked at The Phantom, who knew what that was, and at Ray and Sandro, who did not. "Cadets will do essential work in the morning," explained Number One. "From noon on they will be not quite left to their own devices. Dave Eddy and Kyle are going to arrange some activities. Day trips, ball games and so on."

"Keep 'em busy and out of trouble," grinned Chef.

"That too." Number One looked at the three boys. "Now what, you may well ask, has all this got to do with you?"

"I have a feeling he's going to tell us," muttered Ray.

Number One's hearing was very good. "Indeed I am, young man." He pointed his pipe at Ray, then at Sandro. "With most of the lads away day tripping, or whatever, the work load around here will be lessened because all you'll have to worry about, apart from breakfast, is the Duty Watch and a few gash hands for lunch, and possibly dinner on the days when not everybody is ashore. This will allow you ample time to teach the new boys the basics."

"You two have to learn about ration control and menu planning," put in Chef as he pointed at Ray and Sandro. "You also have to know how to set up a Duty Roster, but not to worry there, Tyler will help you."

Tyler started. As if he didn't have enough to do with the regular Duty Rosters! Number One continued. "Chef is going to be very busy and will rely on you two to keep this place running." Ray and Sandro looked doubtfully at Chef. Number One saw the look. "Chef will be planning menus and helping Ensign Berg with local purchases. There's to be a formal Mess Dinner for all officers and guests in CFB Comox Officer's Mess the Saturday night before the Passing Out Parade. Chef will be working on that. He will also be working on the garden party we plan to host after the graduation. Which leads me to our Chief Steward." He grinned at The Phantom. "You, young man, will train up your stewards with the goal of having them work the garden party. You won't have to worry about the Mess Dinner. Food Services in Comox will take care of that. None of the cadets could work it in any case."

The Phantom nodded his understanding. "Is wine being served?"

"Yes. So, no cadets on site." Number One lit his pipe and carried on. "There will be wine at the garden party, but the Comox stewards will take care of that part of it. Your lads will serve the finger food and Randy and Joey will help with the buffet." He looked around. "Where are they by the way?"

In answer there was a huge crash from the dishwashing room. Chef looked at Andy. "Better order some new china," he advised.

Randy looked around the corner of the dishwashing room and grinned sheepishly. "It was just the Melmac."

Chef grunted. "Get some more china anyway," he said to Andy, "just in case."

Number One picked up the course books and handed one to Ray, the other to Sandro. "You might think that we expect you to do all this extra work for a no reward and to no purpose." Ray and Sandro did not quite nod their agreement. Number One smiled. "Not so. Everyone at this table, er . . . desk, has the utmost confidence in you three. Therefore, since added responsibility brings added reward, Ray, you are now an Acting Chief Cook." He looked at Sandro. "Congratulations. You are now an Acting Petty Officer Cook."

Both boys grinned with pleasure and looked at The Gunner. Their new status meant that they were now entitled to wear Class II uniforms.

"See me after Secure," said The Gunner.

"As for you, Phantom," Number One went on, "all I can do is to allow you the pick of the litter as far as choosing whom you want to be stewards. Choose your people well, Phantom. Train them well." Number One stood up and looked at the assembled cadets and instructors. "Gentlemen, we have a unique opportunity to show the world on Wednesday week just what we can accomplish, to show the Lieutenant-Governor, the Commanding Officer of CFB Comox and whoever else shows up that our training is the best available. More importantly, we will be able to show the parents of our young cadets that by sending their sons to us they did not err. In sum, gentlemen, I want you to help me prove that an AURORA-trained cadet is far and away the best trained cadet in the organization." He finished his drink, nodded, and left.

Chef examined the level of Amaretto in his glass, then chugged it. He carefully placed the empty glass on his desk. "In other words, if all goes well he takes all the credit. If we fuck up, I end up in Uktiuktuk frying whale blubber and The Gunner will be teaching the Dawson City detachment of the Canadian Rangers how to counter-march!"

It was well past 1700 when The Twins returned to the Gunroom. They had spent the afternoon making slow, passionate love. When finally their bodies had parted, Cory was filled with warmth and satisfaction. Todd, for his part, had, for the first time, enjoyed the physical act of love, to the extent that he had ejaculated while Cory's thrusting body deposited his seed deep within him. Todd had enjoyed it so much he was now wondering why he had never felt that way before, and wondering if he had made the right decision in encouraging Cory in his relationship with Nathan.

As they entered the barracks yard they saw Greg sitting on the Gunroom steps. When he saw The Twins approaching he stood up and motioned for them to follow him. Together they rounded the corner of the barracks and halted. The Twins saw that Greg was white-faced, and obviously shaken about something. "What's the matter?" asked Todd. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"Worse. I've seen the Devil!" Greg handed Todd two long, white envelopes. "You'd better read what's in them."

Todd knew that Greg, in addition to his other duties, functioned as Ship's Postman. Every other day, just before 1600, he would walk over to the Canteen and empty the Cadet Mailbox, which hung on the outside bulkhead. He would then return to the Ship's Office and sort through the outgoing mail, separate the envelopes by destination and then put them in a bag for forwarding to the Comox Post Office.

Most days Greg found nothing. The bulk of the cadets were only at AURORA for two or three weeks, attending their courses, and much too busy to write home. The Staff cadets were there for the whole two months, always busy, and being boys rarely found the time or the inclination to write to Mom. Today, however, there had been two envelopes. "Look at the address," said Greg, his finger shaking as he pointed at the envelopes.

Todd did as Greg directed. His arched eyebrow and quick glance at Greg showed his surprise that the envelopes had been slit open. He saw the addressee and wordlessly handed the envelopes to Cory who scanned the address written in an almost illegible scrawl on each of the envelopes.

Cory commented sarcastically as he returned the envelopes to Todd, "I'm sure that Little Big Man wrote nothing but high praise about us." He looked at Greg.

"You've read the letters?"

Greg nodded. "Little Big Man's last two reports to headquarters," he snarled.

"As soon as I saw who they were addressed to I grabbed them. I told you in Victoria that I would make sure that nothing got out from the little fuck."

Todd nodded absently as he removed the closely written pages from the envelopes and quickly scanned the two letters. They were, in essence, a collection of half-truths, supposition, wishful thinking and accusations of assumed misconduct. In the wrong hands, presented the wrong way, the information could be devastating. He handed the letters to Cory who muttered about Paul Greene's illiterate scrawl and then gasped, darting a glance at Greg.

"None of it's true," Greg declared hotly. His voice was tight with pain and anger as his eyes met Cory's glance. "We didn't do what he says we did."

"We know that, Greg." Todd patted Greg's shoulder reassuringly. "We know that."

" . . . So, Daddy, as you can see, this place sure is bad," quoted Cory aloud from the second letter. "Them twins are getting into Matt for sure." Cory looked at Todd. "That should come as quite a shock to Matt."

"Read on," instructed Todd.

" . . . He's always with them and won't even come near me. I'm real worried about that, Daddy, 'cause it makes you look bad to have a faggot son." "So much for brotherly love," muttered Greg.

Cory nodded his agreement and continued to read aloud. "I can't say much to Matt cause he's also dicking that real queer guy everybody calls Phantom. They is always talken together. Also the queer won't let me in the mess hall if Matt is there. He is real protective when Matt is around, Daddy."

"Phantom will be delighted to know that chivalry is not yet dead," Todd said sarcastically.

The letter went on and on, accusing almost every senior cadet of molesting not only Matt, but the younger cadets as well.

"Jesus, Todd, he's reported about Harry and Stefan!" Cory looked at Greg. "And you and Stephen Tyler."

"It gets worse. Read the last page," replied Greg with a soft moan.

" . . . It don't seem right, Daddy, that sailing trip. Like I said it sure is strange that them adults went off with the cadets like that, them officers are real strange too and Phantom, he is real close to L/S Winslow."

The more he read the angrier Cory became and the feelings of warmth and love he had felt all afternoon drained from his body, love replaced by the fire of righteous anger. "It would give me great satisfaction to be able to call this functioning semiliterate a little cocksucker."

"Go ahead, if it will make you feel better," advised Todd.

"LITTLE COCKSUCKER!" yelled Cory.

"Feel better?" asked Greg.

"Yes." Cory returned the letters to the envelopes and handed them back to Greg.

"Who else has seen these letters?" asked Todd.

"Nobody. I took them out of the post box and as soon as I saw the address I scooped them." Todd began to walk away and the others followed. "Where are you going?" asked Greg.

Todd pointed with his chin in the direction of the waters of the Strait of Georgia, which glimmered and sparkled in the late afternoon sun. "I need to think. We need to think."

They walked silently to the beach and sat down. Todd lay back and propped himself on his elbows. Cory automatically repeated Todd's action. "Those letters can hang a lot of people," said Todd presently. "I also have to wonder just how many letters he's sent home, and how detailed they were."

"Does it matter? If he's sent letters home we're fucked, Todd," Greg whined.

"I'm fucked! He knows about me and Stephen Tyler, and he knows about Harry and Stefan."

"You are not fucked, Greg," replied Cory firmly. "And neither is Harry. In the first place Stefan will never, ever betray Harry. He won't admit to anything and neither will Harry. At least not to anyone but us."

"In the second place," continued Todd, "you and Stephen Tyler did not do anything remotely sexual."

"We kissed, and he, well he felt my privates." Greg blushed and ducked his head.

"I felt him, too."

"Did you suck his dick? Did he suck yours?" asked Cory.

"Dear God, no! He rubbed me off through my pants and humped me. We kept our clothes on! I never touched him!"

"Then if anyone asks you were just comforting a young, frightened lonely cadet you befriended. You both got a little over-emotional, that's all." Todd scratched his nose and smiled thinly. "Consider yourself lucky Little Big Man doesn't know about you and Harry."

Greg went white and then fell back on the warm sand. "If that comes out . . ."

"It won't. Nobody but Cory and me know that you and Harry got it on."

"But what about this morning? The things I said?"

"How will he find out about that?" asked Cory. "And if he does, so what? It was just a fight in the Mess. It's over and done with and nobody is going to tell that little fuck anything."

"But . . ."

"There are no buts!" snapped Todd. "Read the letters again! Read them carefully. Little Big Man suspects, he can't prove anything. He thinks that Matt and Phantom are getting it on. He saw you and Stephen Tyler together. He knows that Harry and Stefan were alone in the School of Wind."

"Assumptions, innuendo and supposition." Cory sighed heavily. "Sadly, they've all worked before."

"All too true," agreed Todd. "There is, however, the fact that none of us can be touched. Remember what Corporal Britnell told The Gunner? Sea Cadets are not subject to DND discipline. Special Branch will just deep six anything from Little Big Man's father, anyway. He's suspect, and so is his son, who has already been dismissed as a disgruntled, shit-disturbing little boy."

Greg was not quite convinced and the sceptical look on his face showed it.

"Look, Greg," began Cory, "You're as safe as houses. You have a clean record, and more pats on the bum and kisses on the cheeks for your good work than anybody I know of. Nobody, and that includes those brain dead wannabe Dick Tracys in SIU, is going to believe a guy who has accused 100 people of sexual misconduct, somebody whose record looks more like a Charge Sheet than anything else, somebody who has publicly stated his hatred and dislike for Jews, homosexuals and people of colour."

"Cory's right." Todd sat up and pointed at Greg. "You can't even be accused of stealing those letters from the mail."

"I can't?"

"No. You can't because they weren't in the mail. You didn't take them out of the mail bag."

"I never even put them in the fucking bag!" declared Greg loudly.

"Precisely." Todd smiled a conspirator's smile. "You took them out of an open box that is available at all times to all people. The box does not say Royal Mail, or Fleet Mail. It says Cadet Mail. Everybody has access to it."

Greg thought a moment. "Yeah. The lock's been broken all summer."

"There you go," said Cory. "His accusations against the senior cadets can be disproved. All anybody has to do is ask the kids. They have no reason to lie. All they have to do is tell the truth."

"Which is that nobody fooled around with them. An SIU half-wit might continue to have doubts if one kid denies being molested, but even an SIU half-wit has got to think something's fishy when 50 kids deny it." Todd punched Cory's arm. "Even my brother with the little dick and I are safe."

"My brother, who is my twin, and who has an equally little dick, is right." Cory returned Todd's punch. "The fact that we're gay is not some deep, dark secret. All Little Big Man has written is that we are, and I quote, 'faggots'. He thinks we're doing things to his brother. We aren't, by the way."

"I didn't think you were," interrupted Greg.

"Well, just so you know," replied Cory firmly. Matt had enough problems and did not need rumours flying about an alleged relationship with anybody.

Todd leaned forward. "If you think about it, Little Big Man has gone and shot himself in the foot by accusing everybody. It's the big lie theory gone amok. The problem with that theory is that if you disprove one lie, you cast doubt on all the others."

"You two think like lawyers," said Greg.

Todd smiled grimly. "Our father is a lawyer. You don't live with a lawyer all your life without a little of him rubbing off on you."

"So, we don't have anything to worry about?" Greg was still unsure.

"Most of us don't," replied Todd, his voice low and full of sadness.

"And just what does that mean?"

"What Todd means, Greg, is that the ones we have to worry about are Tyler, The Gunner, Phantom, and maybe Kyle and Andy," explained Cory.

"The sailing trip!" Greg started. "The pictures!"

"Will never see the light of day as far as Little Big Man is concerned," interjected Todd. "Paul does not know that they exist. The only ones that have been handed around are the ones where we all have our clothes on and we're doing cadet things."

"There are still the ones we took . . ."

"You let Nicholas worry about them. He knows what to do." Todd stood up, shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts and glowered eastward. "Tyler has to worry because he's joining the Permanent Force in September. He's got to get a security clearance, which means SIU will be sniffing around, questioning everybody about him."

"That's right," confirmed Greg. "He has to be cleared Top Secret because he's going to be an officer."

Todd nodded. "Tyler's name will go to Security Headquarters in Ottawa. The first thing they'll look at is his service file. They'll see that he was here in AURORA. Sooner or later someone is going to ask the people who served here at the same time about him."

"And since the Headquarters is in Ottawa, what better way to save time and money than to find out if any cadets from the Ottawa area served here at the same time as Tyler." Cory held out his hands in a questioning gesture. "And guess who those cadets are."

"Rob, David, Ryan, Matt and Little fucking Big Man!" exploded Greg.

"Give that man seegar!" Todd began pacing. "So some flatfoot trucks on out to Uplands and talks to Rob and Ryan and David and Matt, and they all say goods things. Then he talks to our Paul and all hell will break loose. He will spit his venom right in the dumb dick's face."

"Jesus!" swore Greg.

"Indeed," drawled Todd. "Little Big Man will tell his tale, naming names. He hates Phantom almost as much as he hates Cory and me. He suspects that there is something going on between The Gunner and Phantom and you know what that means! SIU Victoria will be wondering just what the relationship between a certain Leading Gunner and an underage civilian really was!"

"He hasn't done anything!" declared Greg. "He's never touched anybody. He's never tried anything with anybody."

"That doesn't matter," returned Cory. "The mere hint of misconduct is enough. SIU will sniff around and they won't find anything. It does not matter! The damage will have been done and for the rest of his career there will always be that tiny little black cloud of doubt travelling after The Gunner."

"And Phantom is going to apply for the Untidys," advised Cory. "Do I have to go over our line of reasoning again?"

"No. He has to get a security clearance. So SIU investigates and picks up on The Gunner, which leads them back to the investigation on Tyler, which leads them back to Little Big Man's accusations. The whole fucking sordid process starts all over again." Greg shook his head sadly.

Todd nodded. "They won't find anything, of course."

"We hope," thought Cory. "Which means that little cloud is now following Phantom around," he said aloud.

"Shit!" Greg spat into the sand. "I'd like to beat the living shit out of that fuck."

"Which will do nothing but lend credence to his accusations." Todd motioned Greg to his feet." If you beat up Little Big Man sure as there's shit in a goose somebody will think you did it to shut him up."

"Okay, so what do we do?" asked Greg as they walked back toward the Gunroom. "First we let Tyler and Phantom know what's going on," replied Todd.

"And the letters?"

"After Tyler and Phantom read them, we burn the fuckers," answered Cory.

"Too bad we can't burn Little Big Man," muttered Cory angrily. "If we could I'd be the first one to light the pyre."

Todd put one arm around Cory and the other around Greg. "The first match would be mine!" he muttered grimly.

"Well, I've heard the rumours, but until now I never really believed it." The Gunner held up the blue and gold china dinner plate. He turned it over and looked at the maker's mark. "This stuff ain't cheap!" He held out the plate for Chef to see. "Royal Crown Derby, and old, I think."

Chef expressed no surprise. Unlike The Gunner, who had only been in a Dog Watch, Chef had been in since '52 and had seen the plate, and many more like it, before. "It's pre-war and came from Asprey's," he said flatly.

"Holy fuck!" The Gunner and Chef turned and saw the tail end of The Phantom, half in and half out of one of the wooden crates. He was struggling with a large rosewood box. "Hell and sheeit, this is heavy," he complained. He straightened, put the box on the metal shelving, and then opened it. He peered in and whistled. The box was full of silver spoons, knives, and forks, at least a dozen of each. The Phantom picked up a fork, hefted it and handed it to The Gunner.

"Hallmarked. Garrard. Double stamped. King's Royal Pattern," intoned Chef without looking at the silver. "There should be at least another box around somewhere. Harrod's, also pre-war"

"Is this what I think it is?" asked The Gunner carefully.

Chef was noncommittal. "Probably."

Ray, who was rummaging in another crate, swore, saying a word that would have horrified his mother had she heard him say it. "Fuck, this is heavy," he exclaimed as he hauled a huge parcel from the box. The Phantom helped him rip away the brown wrapping paper. As the last of the paper fluttered to the floor both boys let out a large gasp.

The Gunner looked at the silver object they had found and also gasped. Before him was a large piece of silver. It was just over one-and-a- half feet long and stood at least that much in height. It depicted a group of sailors - there were ten of them depicted in stunning detail - gathered around an officer. In one hand the officer held a sword. In the other he raised aloft a tattered White Ensign. The miniature ratings each held bayoneted rifles and, using drums, broken crates, and what looked like small bags of meal, were defending the Ensign. Each figure on the piece was lovingly and cunningly detailed.

"Steady The Drums, An Allegory of The Naval Brigade, Antwerp, 1914," recited Chef from memory. "Sterling silver table centrepiece. Garrard. A masterpiece of the Silversmith's art." The Gunner and the two boys stared at Chef. He stared back. Then he started to laugh. He gestured to The Phantom and Ray to sit down. "Lads, you have found Admiral Sturdee's dining room!"

"We've found what?" asked The Phantom.

"The Admiral's Dining Room," repeated Chef. "It officially went up in smoke on the 10th of July, 1969, when the Admiral's House in HMCS PRINCE CONSORT burned down."

Ray scratched his head, perplexed. "HMCS PRINCE CONSORT?"

"Yeah, it was the Dockyard that used to be up on Thetis Cove." The Gunner reached into one of the crates and brought out a small box. "Butter knives. Nice."

"Gunner. . ." moaned The Phantom, exasperated.

The Gunner returned the knives to the crate. "PRINCE CONSORT was the home base for the Coastal Defence Force. The minesweepers were berthed there, some Fairmiles, and a frigate, HMCS DURHAM, which was the flagship. The dockyard was closed in 1971 and most of the buildings torn down."

Chef nodded. "The jetties and hoists were there until 1974. The Esquimalt Sea Cadet Camp Sailing Centre was there in 1973 and 1974."

"Well, I'm not the smartest kid on the block but for something that went up in smoke it looks pretty substantial to me!" Ray gestured toward the crates. "Also, if it doesn't exist, what's it doing here? And how do you know what's here. You sound like you're reading an inventory list."

"You mean like this: 'Set of four candelabra, footed in the manner of seashells, the central motif being Three Tritons supporting an embossed column, richly carved, complete with eight branch attachment and central lipped holder. Tiffany & Co. New York, 1923.'" He grinned. "How about: set of 24 silver salts, each being in the shape of a sea shell supported by a Nymph, footed, cobalt lined, together with 24 pepper containers of a like design, embossed with the Naval Crest in high relief. Birks & Sons, By Appointment, etc., 1936."

Chef began dancing around, rummaging first in this crate, then in that. The Phantom and Ray thought the booze had finally gotten to him and that he was suffering some form of alcoholic dementia. The Gunner just thought that the old cook was as crazy as a coot. "Aha," hooted Chef. He held up a silver bugle. "Wouldn't young Brown just cream his Jockeys if he saw this!" ("Young Brown" was a prematurely balding, sour faced cadet who was officially the Ship's Bugler, a duty he detested. His reputation as a serial masturbator was second only to Thumper's). "There's a stand for this somewhere, but not to worry, we'll find it," proclaimed Chef. He staggered a bit as he pulled a huge silver punchbowl from another crate. He held it aloft. "On New Year's Day, 1965, the Wardroom Stewards pissed into this and then added the punch! Talk about a drink with a kick to it!"

Ray made a face and The Phantom felt a definite queasiness in the pit of his stomach. The Gunner made a praying motion with his hands and raised his eyes. Ignoring the others Chef continued his depredations muttering and chuckling all the while. As the three others watched Chef hauled out china plates, pieces of silver plate, Irish linen tablecloths with the Navy Crest woven into the cream coloured fabric and another box of table silver. He found crystal glasses of various shapes, each glass richly engraved with the Naval Crest and small perfect thistles, shamrocks and roses entwined around delicately incised maple leaves.

From another crate came another set of plates, which made The Phantom's eyes pop, for each plate, the main colour of which was turquoise, was decorated with panels of richly coloured flowers and rich gilding. "A Minton dessert service, circa 1876. Supplier unknown!" Chef intoned.

Finally, Chef rested. He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a mickey of rum. He took a long pull and handed the bottle to The Gunner, who took a drink and passed it to The Phantom.

The Phantom hesitated. He was not a drinker by any stretch of the imagination. He was also not all that fond of rum. "I'll pass, thanks," he said as he handed the bottle to Ray, who was even less a drinker than The Phantom. He looked at Chef who nodded.

"Both of you take a snort," ordered Chef. "The whole of you are going to need it."

"But Chef, I don't really feel like a drink. We also have dinner to serve," protested Ray.

"You let Sandro take care of that. He needs the experience," replied Chef, motioning for Ray to take a sip.

Ray shrugged and took a drink. When he had stopped coughing he grinned weakly. Chef returned the grin and settled back, sitting on one of the crates. "Boys, you found this stuff, right?" he asked.

"Yes." The Phantom glanced at The Gunner who just nodded slowly and pointed at Chef with his chin.

Chef looked at The Gunner. "What is the law of the sea concerning salvage?" "Salvage?" Ray was totally confused. "This stuff isn't salvage. It's dishes and stuff."

"It's that and a lot more," said The Gunner. "To answer you, Chef, goods and or vessels found abandoned at sea, absent an owner, are declared salvage . . ." He pointed around the room at the boxes, " . . . and become the property of the salvor or salvors." He pointed first at The Phantom and then at Ray. "These dishes and stuff are salvage. You two are salvors."

The Phantom's jaw dropped. Ray looked about the room. "You're nuts!" he gasped.

"Probably, agreed The Gunner. Most gunners are. You are still, however, salvors."

The Phantom recovered quickly. "Now just a minute, Gunner! This stuff must be worth a small fortune. The silver alone . . ."

Chef held up his hand. "Phantom, you and Ray have found what everybody thinks was lost in a disastrous fire seven years ago. The Government wrote if off. Not one of these items is on any DA Account, or on anybody's slop chit."

The Gunner chuckled. "If it ain't written down, it didn't happen."

"It must really belong to somebody." The Phantom's eyes brightened with a thought. "If it was supposed to have been burned in a fire, the insurance company must have paid off on it. It belongs to the insurance company."

"The Government does not carry insurance," advised The Gunner seriously. "No insurance, no payout."

"But Gunner, everybody has insurance!"

"Not everybody, Phantom. And certainly not the Government."

"That's pretty stupid."

"That's as may," grumped Chef. "The point is that it's here, nobody has a claim on it, so . . ."

"You guys own it," said The Gunner with finality. "Finder's keepers."

Both Phantom and Ray continued to protest their ownership of the artefacts even as Chef ushered them back to the galley. The Gunner was no help at all, insisting that the whole matter was between them and Chef. He refused to interfere or mediate and in fact made his excuses and returned to his office where he said his desk was piled high with papers that simply had to be taken care of before the end of the day.

Neither boy could understand why they could not just telephone the powers that be and tell them what they had found. "Because it would open up a can of worms," said Chef as he settled behind his desk. His gaze scanned the galley to take in Sandro and the two Makee-Learns as they prepared to serve the First Dog Watchmen. "A very large, and very noxious can of worms."

The Phantom grinned and gave Ray a Story coming up look. Chef did not disappoint them. "Admiral Sturdee, now there was an officer, he started the collection. He was a real Christian gentleman of the old school. The ratings loved him because he always looked after his men." Chef sighed nostalgically. "Not like today, where the officers are all busy covering their asses and licking Ottawa's!"

Both boys rolled their eyes. When Chef was rolling along, reminiscing, he had a tendency to ramble.

"Admiral Sturdee was Flag Officer, Coastal Defence Force, from 1953 to 1956." Chef sighed a happy, nostalgic sigh. "Sure and he was a wonderful old duck who used to declare that he could truthfully say his career had started with a bang, which in a way it had, seeing as he was a Naval Cadet at the Royal Canadian Naval College when most of the North End of Halifax blew up."

"Halifax blew up?" Canadian history was not one of Ray's better subjects.

Chef nodded. "Yep, on the 6th of December, 1917. An ammunition ship collided with a Belgian relief ship. The ammunition ship blew up with a hell of a bang and took out most of the North End, including the Dockyard and the Naval College. The explosion blew the then Naval Cadet Sturdee elbow over ass into a snow bank. The College was so badly damaged it was never rebuilt. Except for a slight case of frostbite young Sturdee was unhurt." He struggled to his feet and walked over to the gas ranges where he sampled the soup and sniffed at the Salisbury steaks that, together with the lamb left over from lunch, would be one of the two entrees on offer. "The soup needs a touch more salt, Sandro. Joey, be careful."

"Yes, Chef," yelled Joey as he poured the water from a huge pot of potatoes.

Chef inspected Randy's pie-cutting expertise, nodded his approval and left the galley to inspect the dining hall. The Phantom and Ray followed him. "I see three tables set up?"

"One for officers, one for Chiefs, one for Petty Officers," replied The Phantom.

They walked down the steam and food lines. Except for the hot dishes, everything was ready for the hungry cadets. Chef stood back and watched as Sandro, Joey and Randy bustled about, setting out the hot dishes. The Phantom and Ray, Chef's ramblings momentarily forgotten, helped the others and then took up their stations.

Promptly at 1515 the bugle called the First Dog Watchmen to dinner. Chef watched all nine cadets detailed for the First Dog straggle in. It was obvious that the food line and steam tables were overstaffed so Chef drew three cups of coffee and motioned for The Phantom and Ray to return to the galley.

Once again settled at his desk Chef brought out the bottle of rum which, like the Extraordinary Sailor's bottle of whiskey, never seemed to be empty. Chef topped up the coffees and returned to his story. "Admiral Sturdee was a lovely man. He died in 1957. We gave him the last Admiral's Funeral." His eyes lit up at the memory. "You should have seen it. The coffin, draped with The White Ensign, on a gun carriage, drawn by sailors in their Number Ones. The officers in cocked hats, double-breasted tail coats and gold bullion epaulettes, carrying their swords. The Guard, all white gaiters and caps, marching at the slow march with their arms reversed. NADEN's band with their silver drums and playing the Dead March from Saul." Chef leaned forward and winked. "Not to mention the wake we had in the Mess afterwards. I woke up in Cobble Hill three days later."

The two boys chuckled politely. "You still haven't explained the Admiral's Dining Room!" said Ray somewhat impatiently.

"Ray, you're much too jumpy lately. You should try to relax. Like me."

"I am relaxed, Chef," replied Ray, not daring to add that if he had as much rum in him as Chef had he'd be relaxed until sometime next month.

Chef decided not to pursue Ray's state of relaxation. "All right, then, the Admiral's Dining Room. Admiral Sturdee was a collector. He was also a very nice man who loved to entertain. In the old days NADEN was considered a posh station. It was all upper "U" and very British. The Guard and Band were always being turned out to greet a visiting warship, and we had them all, American, Brits, Kiwis, Aussies, the lot. There were dinners, and balls, and receptions."

"Sounds like a hell of a lot of work for the cooks and stewards," complained Ray.

"Of course it was," agreed Chef. "But how else was I, or any other cook on the Station to learn how to cook for a grand dinner? Or the stewards to learn that you don't actually put lemons in the finger bowls and that you always serve from the left and take away from the right?" He looked at Phantom. "Half the pages in your "How To" book were written by stewards and cooks who worked Admiralty House and the NADEN Wardroom. The good ones worked the Admiral's House in PRINCE CONSORT."

"It must have been a sight," said The Phantom, remembering some of the pictures in his "How To" book. "Flowers, and silver and crystal."

"It was!" Chef sipped his drink. "And every piece on the table, except for the Navy service was owned by the Admiral!"

"He must have been rich."

"Not really, Phantom. He was, as I said, a collector. Some pieces he bought, some he had given to him. Truth be told it was all considered terribly old fashioned so I suspect he got quite a bit of it on the cheap."

"You going to tell us just how you got to know all about the stuff?" asked Ray.

"And how you can quote all those descriptions?"

"You seem out of sorts, Ray," returned Chef. "I wonder if I should ask Doc to give you a physic of caster oil. That will fix you right up."

Ray pretended to gag. He heeded the Chef's veiled warning. "I'll shut up now."

"Good. There is nothing worse than a chatterbox constantly interrupting when one is trying to spin a dip." Chef thought a moment, and then continued. "I was sous-Chef in Admiralty house for the last two years of the Admiral's commission. Whenever he was having a dinner or a reception about ten of the stewards would drive up to PRINCE CONSORT. The Admiral averaged a formal dinner a week. It was good training and he'd always slip the extra help a ten spot after the dinner, plus he'd lay on a couple of bottles of Pussers. The downside was that once the dinner was over, and the washing up done, every piece of silver, every fork, every knife, every plate and saltcellar had to be accounted for. The stewards would count and I would check the items off of the main inventory list. I did it so many times I swear I can recite the whole damn thing from memory."

This surprised The Phantom and Ray. Usually Chef could barely remember where he'd parked his car.

"I went from Admiralty House to the fleet, but I kept in touch with the stewards and the Chief Cook. I also helped out when I was in port because they could always use another hand and I do make the best duff in the west!"

The Phantom and Ray had to agree with that statement. Chef's expertise as a dessert chef more than made up for the institutional meals they were forced to eat.

"At first I didn't notice anything wrong. Then, I think it was a Battle of the Atlantic Dinner, something seemed wrong. Then I realized that a whole shit locker full of Admiral Sturdee's silver wasn't out, and that the Naval plates weren't being used."

"What happened?" asked Ray.

"Wives!" stated Chef grimly. "And Admiral de Lamer, the little Gorf git!"

"Wives?" asked The Phantom.

"Who's Admiral de Lamer?" queried Ray.

"Yes! Admiral's wives, that's what!" grunted Chef with obvious disdain. "Not one of whom had an ounce of taste and wouldn't admit that the woman who'd been in the house before her had any taste at all. Their china was better. Their silver more stylish and up to date. They wouldn't be caught dead with such old rubbish on their tables!"

"No sense of history," sniffed The Phantom. "Few women have it!"

"Phantom, that is a very sexist remark." Chef raised his glass in salute. "Wish I had thought of it."

"Use it as you will, Chef," replied The Phantom graciously.

Chef laughed loudly and continued. "What had happened, of course, was that this Admiral's wife didn't like this piece of silver or that set of china, so up to the attic it went. Then along would come a new Admiral's wife, who liked some pieces but didn't like the others."

"Sounds like my mother."

"Please, Ray, do not compare those harridans with your mother. She deserves much better, believe me!" Chef grimaced, and seemed to go off to a far away place for a moment. The Phantom wondered if he was thinking of Halifax, and his son. "The trouble was, lads, that every time something was brought out of storage one or two pieces didn't get back into storage."

"Somebody was stealing the silver?"

"Well, Ray, the things didn't grow little feet and scamper out of the house, now did they?"

"No."

Chef stared morosely at his drink. "In a way I can't blame people for nicking the silver, for wanting to have something to remember the old Navy by. Especially in the year or two leading up to 1969.

"Unification," said The Phantom shaking his head sadly.

"Unification. Everybody knew it was coming, and nobody wanted it, except the politicians and the commissioned ass lickers. Everybody who could was getting out, and not just officers. Chiefs, Petty Officers, Three Badge Killicks. Admirals, Captains, all ranks. The word was that if you didn't like it you lumped it or took the highway. Something like eleven admirals took the highway." "You stayed in, though," said Ray with pride in his voice. Chef smiled warmly at him. "Yeah, I did. I liked the life." His eyes clouded over. "I also needed the money."

"To look for his son?" wondered The Phantom silently.

"I miss the old days. I miss the bugle calls. I miss the band in the morning playing the Anthems. I miss the way we all felt about each other. I miss the old uniforms and the way the civilians looked at us when we walked down the street. I remember once I was on Gottingen Street, in Halifax and a woman pushing a stroller walked past me. The kid said something to her, probably "policeman" or some such - what do 3-year olds know? You know what that woman said?"

The boys didn't, of course.

"She said, 'No honey, a sailor.'"

The boys remained silent. They intuitively knew that the discovery of what were essentially artefacts and relics of a bygone era had brought back a flood of memories for Chef.

Chef looked at the boys. "I know what you're thinking, and I don't blame you for thinking it."

"We're not thinking anything. We're just listening," replied The Phantom gently. "Thanks for that, Phantom. I know all you lads think I'm just a harmless old lush, and in a way, I am."

"Chef!" Both boys shouted their objection. Randy and Joey jumped at the sound of their shout and Sandro, who was peppering the Salisbury steaks, dropped the shaker in the pan.

"That is not true, God Dammit!" Ray walked around the desk and put his arm across Chef's broad back. "Don't you ever say that again, Chef."

The Phantom watched as Chef put his arms around Ray and hugged him. He now understood the depth of feeling that Chef had for Ray. Chef echoed The Phantom's thoughts. "Why couldn't you be . . ." he muttered softly

Ray did not hear him. The Phantom did but said nothing. There was really nothing to say. In Chef's heart and mind Ray had replaced the son that Chef had never really known.

Chef gently pushed Ray away and reached for the bottle, then hesitated. Ray said nothing. He reached over and his hand found the bottle of rum. He poured Chef a drink. Then he poured a very short drink for himself.

"What am I, chopped liver?" asked The Phantom, deliberately breaking the spell.

"And you still haven't told us about the Admiral's Dining Room!"

Chef dragged a huge handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose explosively. "The 1st of February, 1969, that was a black day for the Navy. At one minute past midnight the old Navy ceased to be. Everything was gone from that moment on, everything, our traditions, our uniforms, and our ranks. The day before I was a Leading Cook. On that day, curse it, I became a Master Corporal!" Chef was quivering with indignation. "They took away our Ensign! We fought three wars under that flag and the politicians just took it away!"

The Phantom remembered the way The Gunner always spoke about the White Ensign, and also remembered the pride in his voice, and how his back straightened whenever he talked about sailing under the White Ensign.

Chef began chuckling. "MARPAC had this huge parade planned to retire the Ensign. The only problem was no one wanted it and being sailors, dug in their heels. Boys, there is nothing more stubborn than a sailor when he puts his mind to it! Half the School of Gunnery either retired or put in for leave. There was a sudden epidemic of the flu amongst the senior Musicians in the School of Wind! Everybody who could think of a good excuse not to be on parade used it."

"Did anybody show up?" asked Ray.

"The Guard, which was all raw recruits fresh out of CORNWALLIS! The Band didn't have a single senior musician on parade. The rest, well, except for the students from the trade shops, and a few ass lickers, there weren't too many on parade. MARPAC was furious. He had a lot to be mad about that day, I'll tell you. He was totally pissed off with the officers from Fleet School."

"What did they do?" Ray was a gentle soul and the thought of an officer getting himself into any serious trouble was alien to him.

"The night before, on the 31st of January, there was a huge Mess Dinner in the Wardroom. I know, I was there, helping with the cooking. All the officers got dressed up in the old Mess Kit - which after the 1st of February was no longer authorized for wear, and had a hell of good time. They didn't invite the Admiral, or the Base Commander, as was their right. Just before midnight they took the Mess White Ensign out of its case, borrowed the instruments from the band that was playing at the dinner and had a parade of their own. They marched around the Base playing Heart of Oak. When they marched past the Barracks on Esquimalt Road all the hands hung out the windows and clapped and hooted. About ten musicians grabbed their instruments and joined the parade, as did about a hundred ratings, one of whom was a very junior Able Gunner, who shall remain anonymous and I didn't tell you!"

"Our lips our sealed," promised The Phantom, thinking that he'd get the whole story out of The Gunner later on.

Chef chuckled happily. "Ah, lads, you should have seen it that night. It was grand, so it was! The parade marched around Admiralty House, everybody singing Heart of Oak at the top of their lungs. They scared the shit out of Admiral de Lamer and MARPAC. He was about to call out the Base Defence Force when they all marched back to the Wardroom."

"Just exactly who was this de Lamer critter?" asked Ray. "He sounds like a real jerk!"

"He was Flag Officer, Coastal Defence Force, until the 1st of February 1969. After that he was Vice-Commander, Maritime Command, Pacific. He was also Rear-Admiral Henry John Delamer until the 1st of February 1969. After that he was Major General Henri Jacques de Lamer."

"You are kidding!"

"Ray, I never kid about admirals," replied Chef. "De Lamer was a Francophony from the North Shore of Quebec. During the war, which he spent in Newfoundland, and until Trudeau and his gang of trash gained power, he was English. After that he was French and a staunch Liberal supporter."

"Sounds like a real prick, if you want my opinion," spat The Phantom.

"An opinion shared by many. When he took command he wouldn't read anything that wasn't translated into French! His staff had to speak French to him. Everything had to be French and Canadian Armed Forces. Everything English, and old Navy, was history, not worth his interest or attention."

"So, the Admiral's Dining Room, being English, and old Navy, was out?" The Phantom asked.

"Most of it, yes."

"Packed up and stored away."

"Yes. Stored away and forgotten in some old warehouse? Probably. With all the old uniforms which, while they could not be worn by the Regulars or Reserves, and cost too much to just throw out, they could still be worn by cadets and will be until the last pair of bell-bottom trousers and the last jumper are issued. A political move, really. The Navy League wants the old uniforms, the Government wants the Navy League's support. The cadets get to wear the old uniform until the supply runs out."

Ray grimaced. "They'll stick us in green, sure as shit!"

"Probably," agreed Chef, morosely.

The Phantom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I can understand nobody looking for plates and dishes and such. It was out of sight and out of mind. What I don't understand is how it got here, or why if we tell anyone about what we found it would open a can of worms."

"I can only tell you what I think happened. de Lamer comes in and cleans house. The stewards, who know about the dining room, are told to pack away everything that he doesn't like. My guess is that it was all just stuck up in the attic of the Admiral's House. Then, since the stewards didn't speak French, out they went as well, off to the fleet, or another base.

"De Lamer showed up in May of 1968. He was Hellyer's hatchet man." He glared and snapped, "God speed the day when I can piss on their graves!" He took a restorative sip of rum and continued, calmer now. "Anybody who objected or opposed unification was out. Anything to do with the old Navy was out. If there was something he didn't like or was in any way, shape or form old Navy, out it went. That included his office, which he didn't like, and the Admiral's House, which was almost 100 years old and Victorian and you can't get more English than that. It also needed refitting badly.

"De Lamer says to his Base Accommodation Officer: 'Make it so!' The office is cleaned out. The Admiral's House, since it needs a new roof and needs to be rewired, is cleared out. Who clears it out? A work party from the Manpower Pool that is who! A work party made up of sailors who are waiting for their course to start or waiting to get out, or whatever, and short-termers all.

"Everything is carted over to the Base Supply Section and put in one of the warehouses. The supply type looks at the crates and asks what's in them. 'Dishes' says somebody, so everything is put over in the section where they store the crockery. There the crates sat while the Admiral's House was being refitted. The Admiral, or whoever is in charge of the work, is not interested in what was put into stores because it's old hat and The Admiral had gone shopping."

"Shopping?" asked Ray.

"Aye, laddie, shopping. $200,000.00 worth of shopping for his office alone."

"Then the house burned down," reminded The Phantom.

Chef nodded. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his ample stomach. "It did, indeed. The place was full of all this new furniture, some unpacked, some not. De Lamer's wife was parked in the Empress waiting for him to get back from Ottawa where he'd been called to explain to the bean counters why he just blew over a million bucks on flub dubs and furniture."

"He got caught!" crowed Ray.

"Actually somebody squealed to the Vancouver Sun," replied Chef with a grin.

"Serves him right," retorted Ray with a righteous sneer.

Chef nodded. "Now comes the good part. The place goes up in flames thanks to a bit of faulty wiring. Up goes all the new, and, it was believed, the old, furniture and fittings. The Fire Marshall investigates. The Government claims damages from the general contractor, who goes belly up, and everything is written off. The books are closed."

"But?" asked The Phantom.

"First of all, when the wreckage was cleared away nobody ever mentioned finding any melted lumps of silver. The whole place was just brick and ashes, no silver. Which leads me to ask, whatever happened to Admiral Sturdee's collections? De Lamer said that everything that should have been put back had been, only not all of it unpacked. Except for his personal stuff, which was in storage."

"Which just might have, by accident, of course, some of the silver tucked away." Now the Phantom understood.

"De Lamer got canned for malfeasance, or something," continued Chef. "Officially he retired. "He's very high up in the Quebec government now, and hell, you read the papers, Ottawa is not going to say a word about a Quebec politician, not with the Separatists looming in the background. The government needs allies in Quebec. De Lamer is an ally."

Now The Phantom understood even more. "So, if we blow the whistle, and people find out that silver that de Lamer said was lost when the Admiral's House burned down is really sitting on his sideboard . . ." he began.

"De Lamer cannot be embarrassed!" Chef interrupted. "He keeps Quebec Liberal, and loyal. Politics!"

"Which means his friends in Ottawa will close ranks and bury what we found in a hole so deep that the collections will never be found!" returned The Phantom.

"Aye, lad, 'tis true," agreed Chief sadly. "'Tis the way of things in Ottawa. What Trudeau and his trained seals wish revealed, will be revealed. That which must be hidden, will be hidden."

Ray was disgusted, and said so. "You still haven't explained how the other stuff got here," he added.

Chef thought a moment. "My best guess is that everything ended up in the Stores warehouse at PRINCE CONSORT, which wasn't torn down until 1974, when the base was closed. Then it was trucked down to Esquimalt, most likely to the Sea Cadet Stores. After all, it had come from the Sailing Centre, which was a Sea Cadet establishment."

"Everybody just assumed that since the crates with the collections - which no one opened, obviously - had come from a Sea Cadet base, then they were on the Sea Cadets' slop chit," said The Phantom. "Half the time CFB Comox doesn't even know we're out here, so why should I be surprised that CFB Esquimalt thinks the same way?"

"You shouldn't," agreed Chef. "Sea Cadets are a necessary evil. They got gifted to DND because the Navy League wanted them to have a bigger role in the Navy scheme of things. Also, I think, they couldn't pay the freight. DND could."

"They ain't paying all that much freight, if you ask me," replied The Phantom cynically.

"No, they aren't." Chef shook his head. "DND won't issue new green uniforms to cadets, thank God, because there is a warehouse full of old pattern naval uniforms down in the Dockyard in Esquimalt. Why waste good uniforms when the Sea Cadets can still wear the old ones? The YAGs all need refitting but that isn't about to happen soon."

"We could use a new galley. One of these days one of those damned stoves is going to blow up," said Ray with some passion. He was convinced that some evil spirit inhabited the cooking stoves, an evil spirit that caused him to burn himself at least once a week.

"You won't get it, at least not this year. We make do with what we have. We are on the tail end of the DND money trail." Chef shrugged apologetically.

"Sucking the hind tit, you mean!" retorted Ray.

"Of course, which is the reason why you two are now officially declared salvors."

"And just how to do figure that, Chef?" asked The Phantom.

"Well, you have to understand the average Storekeeper. He is usually a very neat and tidy man who has lists of items, every one of which he thinks he owns, and for which he is responsible."

"Sounds like Rob," grunted Ray.

Chef grinned. "Aye, so it does. Anyway, the Storekeeper has this list, so many sets of uniforms, hats, desks, and so on. He counts all the items every day, just to make sure nothing has disappeared overnight. Since he also has a one-track mind, he goes ape shit if he's over his allotment. If he's supposed to have two dozen forks, he wants two dozen forks. Not two dozen and one. If he's one over his allotment he has to explain where it came from. How did he get it, and so on."

Chef poured a small measure of rum into his glass. "So, here we have a Chief Storekeeper down in Esquimalt. He has this warehouse full of gear, plus these damned, pestilential crates sitting in the corner. 'What's in them?' he asks his Petty Officer. The PO doesn't know so he asks the Killick, who has been around for years. 'Dishes, from the Sailing Centre,' replies the Killick. 'Good' says the Chief. Sea Cadet stores are not on his slop chit. Sea Cadet stores belong to the Cadet Liaison Officer down in the Headquarters building."

"So the Chief doesn't worry. Not his, not his worry," supplied The Phantom.

"Just so!" Chef drank his rum and poured another. This time he did not offer any more to The Phantom or Ray, who had not finished their first drink. "Then, last year, when this place was handed over to the Sea Cadets an order comes down to the Stores people. Mattress, blankets, beds, pots, pans and . . .

"Dishes!" both boys finished in unison.

Chef applauded them. "Dishes. Down come the trucks from the motor pool, down comes a work party from the Manning Pool to load the trucks. 'Load up the trucks' yells the Chief." Chef began making heaving motions. "The Petty Officer yells 'Load up the truck.' On go the beds. On go the mattresses. Into the trucks go blankets, cases of cutlery and dishes for the Ratings mess. The Chief is happy. He's checking his list, checking it twice, everything is as it should be. His Petty Officer hands him another requisition."

Chef mimed reading through a sheaf of papers. "The Chief will frown mightily! 'What is this that will deplete the magnificence of me Stores?' asks the Chief. 'Wardroom Supplies,' says the Petty Officer. So the Chief yells, 'Load up the truck" and on go napkins, and knives and forks and table clothes, all for the AURORA Wardroom. All is going according to plan until the Chief remembers those damned crates. He thinks a minute. Here he has all these crates cluttering up his nice, neat stores. He thinks a little more, and then he says, 'Aha!'" Chef slapped the desk and waved his arm in the air. "All these crates that have been sitting around for years, gathering dust, with no DA for them, no inventory. Who owns these crates? Why the Sea Cadets, who need dishes. 'Load up the truck,' he shouts, pointing at the crates. 'Let them be loaded and taken away from this place!"'

The Phantom and Ray giggled at Chef's antics.

"Laugh not, infants!" ordered Chef in magisterial tones. "Somewhere in this world a Chief Storekeeper sleeps the sleep of the just and innocent. His accounts are in balance and he sleeps sure in the knowledge that the universe is as it should be."

When he stopped laughing The Phantom looked soberly at Chef. "I understand now how the things got to us. The question now is, Chef, just what are you going to do about the dishes, the silver, the crystal?"

"Me?" Chef's face was a picture of cherubic innocence. "I'm not. You found it. You heard The Gunner. You own it now, and Ray." Both boys began protesting loudly. Chef held up his hand." I came here last year, and this year, because of the Sea Cadets. They keep the traditions alive! My traditions! They alone still wear the uniform. My uniform! Without this place all the old traditions would die because as sure as shit nobody outside is going to bother. They'll ignore traditions, cancel them, annul them, or sell them off to the highest bidder!"

"Chef, we never knew you felt that way," said The Phantom quietly.

"I don't wear my heart on my sleeve! The Gunner is an old softy when it comes to the old Navy. So am I. I just don't get all weepy about it!"

"What an old liar you are!" thought The Phantom.

"The Gunner told me that he asked the Twins, and you, Phantom, to keep the White Ensign flying. I'm asking you two to do the same. Take those relics of my past, of your past, and in the years ahead, when you're gathered around the dinner table, and you've got your kids sitting there, you tell them about the way it was. You show them their heritage. You tell them that once Canada had a real Navy, with real people."

"But, Chef . . ." began Ray.

"There can be no buts!" Chef slammed his desk with his ham-like hand. "If we leave the stuff here, it will disappear. Sooner or later this place is going to be rebuilt. A new Mess Hall, new barracks, a galley put into the Wardroom. There will be strangers, contractors, all over the place. Everything moveable will be moved, stored away. Before you know it a plate will go missing here, some knives and forks there. An unmarked crate gets shoved into a corner in CFB Comox and forgotten. The politicians do not want the collection back. Too many questions would be asked and too many important people would be embarrassed. Strangers will not have any qualms about taking a souvenir or two. Who's to notice, when there's so much?"

Chef looked pleadingly at the boys. "Lads, The Gunner and I travel light. I can't take it, and neither can he. Phantom, you live here, and if I pay for a storage shed in town you can keep an eye on the collection. Later on, when the time is right, when we have our Navy again, you can give it back."

"That might never happen, Chef. The old Navy is gone." The Phantom put his hand over his heart. "Now it only exists in here, in our hearts, yours, The Gunner's, Ray's, and yes, in mine."

"All the more reason for you to keep it. Use it, love it, but don't let those thieves in Ottawa get their hands on it!"

The Phantom looked at Ray, who nodded. "I don't know how I am ever going to explain to my mother why a whole bunch of coffins, full of dishes, are sitting in her basement," said The Phantom with a grin.

Since they were all improperly dressed for the Mess Hall, Cory, Todd and Greg walked over to the Canteen and pigged out on junk food and Cokes. At 1800, with dinner officially over, they walked over to the Mess Hall. They were all in a sober, sombre mood. The contents of the two letters weighed heavily on their minds.

They found The Phantom busily cleaning the mess tables and keeping a weather eye on Little Big Man, who was sitting just inside the door, finishing his supper. He had, as was his habit, slithered in just before closing time. All three cadets ignored him. The Phantom stopped wiping down the table he was cleaning when the others walked the length of the dining hall and stopped at the table. "I know you're busy," said Todd, "but we have to talk."

Noticing the grim look on Todd's face The Phantom nodded. "Important?" he asked. Todd's eyes slid over to where Little Big Man was sitting. The Phantom saw the look and made a face. "What's he done now?"

"Not here," replied Todd.

The Phantom pointed to the neat square of condiments and napkin holders on the table. "It will take me about half an hour to clear the tables. Good enough?" Cory reached over and picked up the napkin dispenser. "How long will it take if we help?"

"Five minutes."

The other three boys immediately began clearing the tables. They worked quickly and in very short order every table in the cavernous room was clear and clean, except for the small table where Little Big Man sat dawdling, causing his usual inconvenience.

"Does he always do that?" asked Greg as he helped store the ketchup bottles.

"Sit there and take his time?" asked The Phantom. "Usually. He thinks it pisses me off."

"It doesn't?" Todd had overheard The Phantom and Greg talking. "It would me."

"Assholes don't bother me." The Phantom grinned. "The little man forgets that I have to stay until 2000. If he hangs around too long I just drag out the floor mop and start mopping the deck. The last time he stayed too long I started mopping and dragged the mop over his boots."

"That must have gotten rid of him," said Cory, returning The Phantom's grin.

"At a great rate of knots," confirmed The Phantom. "He squealed like a pig and called me a very dirty name under his breath."

"Did you do anything?" asked Greg.

"Nope. I was just glad to see the ass end of him going out the door." The Phantom looked around and, sure that he was well out of earshot of Little Big Man, he looked at Todd. "All right, he can't hear us. Tell."

Todd leaned closer. "We need to talk to you and Tyler. Not here, though." Once again he glanced at Little Big Man. "We have trouble. Big time trouble."

The Phantom followed Todd's look. "Okay. Just let me clear my yardarm with Chef."

"We'll meet you by the loading dock. The less Chef knows, the better."

"That bad?"

"That bad, Phantom," replied Todd with heavy emphasis, " that bad."

They met as agreed and as they walked slowly toward the Gunroom Todd told The Phantom what was in the letters Greg had confiscated. The Phantom listened carefully, trying to absorb the implications of the letters, so much so that when Todd had finished his recitation of the sordid details he stopped, allowing Greg and Cory to walk on. Todd remained with him. "I'm not important," said The Phantom firmly. His face turned stony. "My Gunner, and Tyler, are."

"Don't think that way, Phantom." Todd put his hand around The Phantom's arm.

"You're a good friend and it pisses me off that some pissant could fuck up your chances to get into the Andrew."

The Phantom began walking again, slowly. Todd remained by his side. Cory and Greg were a good hundred or so yards ahead of them. "You don't understand, Todd. I can get by without the Navy. Tyler has worked too hard to get into Royal Roads to have something like this queer his pitch now. As for The Gunner, he might keep grumbling about swallowing the anchor but he'd die without the Navy. He's trying to convince himself that he'd get by, but I know differently."

They continued on, past the parade square where Harry and his Sea Puppies were playing a game of soccer. Harry, as always, was chivvying and teasing his young charges who were yelling and laughing, responding in kind.

Nicholas and Andre were acting as referees while on the sidelines Doc, Dirty Dave the Deacon, Dave Eddy, Andy and Kyle were lounging about on the grass, sipping Pimms and yelling encouragement at the cadets. Outside the Engineering Workshops Val, Two Strokes and Fred were sitting in plastic lawn chairs, sipping forbidden beers they kept in a plastic cooler hidden behind the chairs.

"Look at Harry, Todd," said The Phantom. "He loves those kids and they love him. Can you imagine how devastating it would be to him, and those kids, if what happened between him and Stefan came out?"

Todd nodded his agreement. "There are others," he said, thinking of Chris and Jon. "Guys nobody knows about. Yet."

"Yet," repeated The Phantom. "Somehow we have got to find a way to make sure that nobody finds out about them."

"You're not surprised that there are others?" asked Todd, a little astonished. Phantom obviously knew a lot more than he was willing to tell.

"Why should I be? I met you and Cory. I fell in love with The Gunner. Nathan fell in love with Cory, so no, I am not surprised at all."

"Maybe it's the water," joked Todd, his blue eyes bright with amusement. "Maybe its the hormones," returned The Phantom.

As Greg and Cory entered the barracks ahead of them The Phantom pulled Todd aside. "There's something else. Something much more important."

Todd looked at The Phantom's serious face, his emerald eyes were flashing with a kind of inner light. As Todd watched The Phantom's eyes took in the barracks block, then the forest, then the long stretch of the parade square. The look in The Phantom's eyes told Todd what it was that transcended their problems, something that had come to mean more to them than anything else. "AURORA," said Todd quietly.

"Yes, AURORA, this ramshackle, sand-ridden, wind-blown piece of dirt. It changes guys. They come here little boys, and they go home young men. It's not like school. You don't get close to the guys you go to school with, not like here. Here you end up not just making friends, but, well, brothers. There's a closeness here, a feeling of camaraderie that you won't, can't, find anywhere else."

"If there's a scandal . . ." began Todd softly.

They mounted the steps and entered the barracks.

"They'll close this place, or change it," said The Phantom, his voice almost a whisper. "No chances to prove yourself to yourself. No more being able to find your own path. There will be no one to show you, the other cadets, or me, that we can be whatever we want to be."

As Todd and The Phantom approached Cory tapped lightly on the door to Tyler's cabin. They heard a muffled voice calling for them to enter and Cory opened the door.

Tyler was sitting at his desk, which was covered in papers, and working on the Duty Rosters. His right hand held a pen. In his left was a glass half-full of amber liquid. As the boys entered he pointed to Val's locker. "There's booze in Val's locker, Coke or ginger ale, if you want it, in mine. Please do not take the grappa. There's only a little bit left and Val will get shirty if you drink it on him."

Cory immediately went to the designated locker and pulled out a bottle. "Whiskey okay with you guys?"

"Scotch or rye?" asked Todd. Cory made a face. "Scotch, of course." He looked at the label on the bottle.

"Thousand Pipers."

"It's good stuff," said The Phantom. "I requisitioned it from my Dad's stash for the wet downs."

When each boy had a drink they settled on the beds, Greg and The Phantom on Val's, the Twins on Tyler's.

Tyler held up his glass. "Well, cheers, and luck, guys." The others returned Tyler's toast. When they had all taken a sip Tyler put his glass down. "So, what brings you here?" he grinned. "Not that I'm not glad to see you."

Greg stood up, walked to Tyler's desk and placed the two envelopes on a pile of Duty Rosters. "You better read them," he said, pointing to the letters.

As Greg returned to his seat Tyler opened the first letter, scanned it, then read the second. As he read his faced lost its colour. "Jesus!" Tyler exploded. He tossed the letter aside. It slid off the desk and onto the floor. Todd picked it up and held it, waiting for Tyler's wrath to subside. "I knew he was a back-stabbing little bastard, but God Damn it!" snarled Tyler

"It's not true, most of it," snapped Greg. "Most of it's lies!"

Tyler looked at him and shook his head slowly. "It doesn't matter. I know most of what Paul wrote is shit, you know it, but the authorities don't. He's made a couple of accusations that will make some people sit up and demand an investigation."

Cory nodded. "All you have to do is make the accusation. A whisper, a hint, of sexual misconduct, especially when there are young boys involved, and look out."

"Not to mention the fact that Paul's father will use what Paul tells him against us," said The Phantom with a slight shake of his head. "If Paul tells him we're all homosexual pedophiles, or that we all have sex together, his father will believe him. We know that Daddy Greene has written Special Branch once already. Even if we destroy these letters, Paul will still shoot his mouth off when he gets home."

"If he hasn't already done so." Tyler took a long drink from his glass. "There's no guarantee that he hasn't been on the telephone to his father. There's no guarantee that he hasn't already told his father everything."

Greg moaned and fell back on the bed. "We are, all of us, well and truly fucked!"

"Not necessarily," drawled Todd. "Greg, give me that other letter, will you?"

As Greg reached over and handed the letter to him Todd looked at The Phantom, who made a face and shrugged. "What?" asked Tyler.

Todd held up his hand for silence while he quickly scanned the letter. He looked up, nodded, and then handed the letter to The Phantom. "Phantom, read those letters yourself, slowly. Tell me what you think."

Cory looked at Todd and then cocked his head. "What have you found?"

"Maybe nothing." Todd did not want to say anything until his suspicions had been confirmed.

The Phantom read the letters and then looked at Todd. "The time line. There are accusations in here that happened two, three weeks ago." Tyler looked at Cory who looked at Greg. Then all three looked at The Phantom. "If you're thinking what I'm thinking . . ." said The Phantom as he returned the letters to Todd.

"Would you two junior G-men mind telling us what you are talking about?" demanded Cory.

Todd grinned slyly. "We've been so busy running around looking at the forest we forgot all about the trees."

Cory rolled his eyes. "More fucking clichés!"

Todd ignored Cory's outburst. "In the first letter Little Big Man complains for about six pages about how we're treating him, how nobody is talking to him, and so on. Then he starts in on how Harry is awfully close to Stefan, and that he's seen them going into the School of Wind together, and staying in there, alone, for a long time."

"He then goes on about how Harry's sick and acting funny. He thinks that Harry's on the sauce because his bum buddy - Paul's words - has gone home," continued The Phantom. "He finishes with Greg and Stephen Tyler and how close they seem to be and then he closes by saying all the main faggots are going sailing for the weekend and he'll find out what he can and write later."

"The second letter . . ." Todd held up the letter. "The second letter starts out with a report on how we all got back and that our underwear was being used as signal flags, and how shocked he is that we might not be wearing any undies."

"Give me a fucking break. What is he now, the underwear inspector?" asked Greg in a disgusted tone. "What fucking business is it of his if I'm wearing underpants or not?"

"Aberrant behaviour? A little perversion to spice up your life?" offered Cory.

Greg gave Cory a dirty look. "What is so perverted about not wearing underwear? You don't most of the time and . . ."

"Stop it you two!" ordered Tyler. He had picked up on Todd and The Phantom's trains of thought. "Let me see that letter."

When he was finished reading Tyler leaned back and let out a long breath of air. "Well, I will be damned!"

"Okay, but before that happens will you please tell us exactly what you're on about?" asked Greg.

"Paul's letters! He hasn't reported anything to anybody!" Todd grinned and waved the other letter. "For whatever reason, Little Big Man did not mail the first letter until he'd finished writing the second, which is dated Sunday night. Maybe he wrote the first one, threw it in his locker, and then forgot about it. Maybe he didn't have a stamp. It doesn't matter why, what is important is that if he was writing, he wasn't talking on the telephone."

The Phantom agreed with Todd's assessment. "Nowhere does Little Big Man mention calling home." He scratched his chin reflectively. "I would think that if Paul was expanding on something that he'd already report in a telephone call that he would write something about it. Something along the lines of: 'Like I said when I called you.' Personally, I think that these letters are the only communications that Paul has had with his daddy."

Cory smiled in admiration of The Phantom's logic. "Damn, you're right! If you've already told daddy, why write about it? You can wait until you get home and fill him in on all the details."

"Real or imaginary," said Tyler sourly.

"So much for Little Big Man's spying abilities. We should send a letter to CSIS. He'd fit right in with them!" laughed The Phantom.

Greg joined in the general laughter. "You should also give thanks for having an incompetent Ship's Postman."

"What?" Tyler stared at Greg. "How does your incompetence factor into this?"

"Easy. I only clean out the box about two or three times a week. Last Tuesday there were no letters, so I said, fuck it, and didn't bother for the next few days. There's almost never any letters going out from the cadets. Who writes? Those who can, call home long distance. Most of the guys can't be bothered."

"That first letter could have been in the box for a week," The Phantom pointed out. "Little Big Man could not have known that it hadn't been collected."

Greg nodded. "I didn't look in the box on Friday. I was too busy getting ready for Victoria. Today was the first time I've been near the box in a week."

Tyler frowned. "Don't break out the champagne just yet," he said sourly. "Greg's confiscating these letters just delays the inevitable."

Greg sighed heavily. "He's on the flight out the day after the Passing Out Parade. The plane leaves at nine in the morning a week Thursday. My guess is that by five in the afternoon a week from Thursday Little Big Man will have made a full report to Daddy."

"And there is not thing one we can do about it." Tyler slapped the pile of papers on his desk, sending them flying. He drained his glass and held it out to Cory, who refilled it.

"Why not? If we don't do something he'll fuck us all!" Greg's anger returned. "He's going to tell his father that I fucked Stephen Tyler. Little Big Man is going to say that you and Val were going into the Sea Puppies' barracks and molesting them. God only knows what stories he's going to make up about Phantom and The Gunner. And what about Harry? We just can't forget about the letters. We just can't let Little Big Man get on that plane without doing something!"

"Greg, I understand completely what you are saying," replied Tyler calmly. "What you must understand is that we cannot confront Paul in any way. We cannot confront him because we cannot in any way let him know that Special Branch is investigating his father and that bunch of wannabe Nazis he's hooked up with."

"What the fuck has Special Branch got to do with it?"

"Greg, Greg, think about it!" Todd handed the letter to him. "If we confront Little Big Man, who is not stupid, he's going to wonder just how we found out about his activities. He knows that his father wrote to SIU. He does not know that SIU turned the letter over to Special Branch as part of their investigation. My father would call it inevitable discovery."

Cory picked up on Todd's line of thought. "One letter leads to another, and to another, and so on. One clue leads to another and inevitably someone in the Aryan Brotherhood is going to wonder about where we got our information from." "We all heard what Corporal Britnell told The Gunner," supplied The Phantom. "Corporal Britnell is Special Branch."

"Somebody is controlling the whole organization," opined Cory thoughtfully.

"Whoever he is has got to be smart. If Special Branch is concerned that means he's in the Service - Army, Navy, Air Force, it doesn't matter which." Cory looked pointedly at Greg. "Now do you understand?"

Greg nodded.

"And if he's in the Service, he's going to inevitably discover that his organization is being investigated by Special Branch," finished Todd.

"Which means we will inevitably be fucked," moaned Greg.

"If we stay in the Service, or the Cadets," murmured Cory.

The Phantom looked at Cory and immediately understood. "I am a civilian. SIU cannot touch me. Sea Cadets cannot be investigated because they're not in the Permanent Force so SIU cannot investigate them."

"But what about the civilian police? What if somebody tells them?"

"Who are they going to tell, Greg?" asked Tyler. "The Ottawa police? They're not going to be bothered with something that might have happened in Comox. The Comox police? AURORA is out of their jurisdiction. The RCMP? Hardly. AURORA is a military reservation. That means MP's and that also means SIU!"

"So we do nothing and get investigated because we can't compromise a Special Branch operation." Greg's voice was full of utter disgust. "Or we go home and quit the Sea Cadets and nobody will do anything because we're civilians."

"Sadly, that is an option we might all have to consider," returned Todd, his face sad. "We cannot do anything that even hints that we know what Little Big Man is up to. If we do we put our friends in harm's way." Todd stood up and walked to stand beside Tyler. He put his hand on Tyler's shoulder. "I for one will not have it on my conscience that anything I did jeopardized my friends or their careers. We leave Little Big Man alone."

Tyler looked up and saw the affection in Todd's face. "You're a jerk, you know that?"

Todd waggled his eyebrows and grinned. "Born a jerk, die a jerk." He turned to The Phantom. "The Gunner deserves to stay in, or leave, his choice. Tyler, you are going to Royal Roads. The Gunner stays in until he decides it is time to swallow the anchor. The Special Branch operation goes on." Todd looked at Greg. "If anyone asks, you put the letters in the mail. You have no idea why they never got to Ottawa. The Gunner's friends will monitor any letters from Paul's father. We leave the little prick alone."

"So the little bastard gets away with lying about us, with spying on us?" asked Greg. "We let him go home and shoot his mouth off?"

"We have to! We have to because we cannot stop Paul Greene from writing letters or making telephone calls!" Todd looked directly at Greg, his face and tone brooking no argument. "We leave him alone. We have no other options."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," thought The Phantom, remembering something Cory had said not too long ago. He also remembered his talk with the two Makee-Learns, and his promise to Chef.

"Shit! I was in line to be Chief of my Corps, too." Greg reached for the bottle. He poured a large portion of the scotch into his glass, and then held the bottle up to the light. "Your Dad got any more of this stuff hidden away in the basement?" he asked.

"Lots. I'll bring some by tomorrow."

The Phantom left The Gunroom and returned to the galley. His mind was whirling, as he thought over and over again of the letters. He returned to the dining hall where he did a final walk about, making sure that everything was ready for breakfast the next morning. He walked through the heads and past the lounge. He heard muffled giggling and shook his head, hoping that Randy and Joey had at least locked the door.

He puttered about the galley, wiping down the already gleaming stainless steel surfaces of the stoves and soup pots, killing time until The Gunner came to pick him up.

It was just gone 2000 when The Gunner entered through the back door of the galley. He looked around and gave The Phantom a hug and a quick kiss. "Bad day?" he asked noticing the look on The Phantom's face.

"Just thinking about things," replied The Phantom. He was not about to say anything about Little Big Man's accusations, at least not yet.

The Phantom walked around, turning out the lights. As he turned out the last bank of lights there was a loud thump from the direction of the lounge.

"What the hell was that?" asked The Gunner, looking around.

Thankful that the darkness hid his smile, The Phantom wrapped his arm around The Gunner's waist. "Mice," he said with a lewd chuckle. "Just mice."