Phantom 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).

The Phantom of Aurora: Chapter 17

When the word spread that all the candidates had succeeded and would be promoted, the Gunroom was inundated with a horde of visitors. All of Harry's Sea Puppies descended en masse. They had heard about wetting down Harry's new rank and demanded to be allowed to participate in the ceremony. The boatswains, signalmen and gunners came calling, each expecting to be given a can of coke or ginger ale. Musicians and buglers, instruments and drums in hand, crowded in. Sandro, Joey, and Randy appeared, looking for Ray.

The Canteen Damager smiled and wrung his hands in glee as 19 cadets handed over $5.00 each for a case of soda that had cost him $1.50, marked down, wholesale.

Tyler, aware that tomorrow morning would bring Captain's Rounds, tried to limit the damage a flood tide of pop would cause. He had the table and benches removed to the far end of the Gunroom and a large piece of clear plastic spread on the deck. On top of the plastic he spread sawdust he had scavenged from Chippy Chaps. He also decreed that tradition would be observed. The liquid could be poured over the newly promoted rating's new rank badge, or on the rating, for that matter. Spraying was not allowed.

There then ensued a heated debate over who would be wet down first. It was agreed that all those who had been promoted to Chief Petty Officer would be wet down first. Then Dylan pointed out that each Branch had seniority. Harry, for instance, was a musician, while the Twins were gunners, which everybody knew had seniority.

"Balls!" roared Harry. "I'm the biggest. I own the Pride of the Fleet. I go first."

"Bullshit," returned Cory. "Just because you have a big dick does not mean that you go first. Everybody knows that the Gunnery Branch is much more important than a bunch of horn blowers from the School of Wind!"

Harry puffed up with righteous indignation. "Horn blowers! School of Wind! Why, I'll have you know that if it wasn't for the Band not one of you left footed gits could keep in step!"

"And if it wasn't for the gunners your so-called Pride of the Fleet would have been blown off a long time ago!" retorted Val. "Not to mention the fact that the artillery is the Queen of Battles and . . ."

The Sea Puppies listened to the Chiefs arguing. They were not quite sure what the Pride of the Fleet was, but if anyone owned it, it had to be their Chief Harry.

"Queen of Battles, my ass!" countered Harry. "The last battle you were in, little man, was when you had a cock fight with your baby brother. And he won!"

Harry's battle with Val ended abruptly when a roar echoed throughout the Gunroom. "What the hell is going on?" Chef was standing in the doorway, holding a huge bag of ice. "I could hear you jokers yelling all the way to the galley." He threw the bag of ice on the table.

"Well, Chef, Harry seems to think he should go first, for his wet down I mean, and I think that Cory or Todd should," said Val.

"Actually, it's none of you." Chef turned and beckoned. Randy and Joey entered carrying a large box. "Sandwiches," explained Chef. "Where's Ray?"

Ray peeked out from behind Tyler. "Right here, Chef."

"What are you doing behind that big lug?" asked Chef.

"Got out of the line of fire, just in case," returned Ray with a smile.

"Good lad. Smart, too." Chef glared at Val and Harry. "Actually, Tyler goes first," he said firmly, his glare brooking no argument.

"What?" Harry and Val looked at each other.

"Tyler?" Val shook his head. "But he didn't get promoted."

Chef agreed, but with a caveat. "Tyler was promoted last year and that makes him senior to all of you."

"But Chef . . ." Harry's face was a picture of deflated ego.

"Don't argue, Harry. Tyler gets wet down because he didn't get wet down when he got promoted."

"Aw, come on Chef, that was a year ago . . ." began Tyler.

"You didn't have a wet down. You're still a virgin."

Tyler began to sputter and Val laughed. "And at the rate he's going he's gonna be a virgin 'til he's 30!"

Tyler gave Val a dirty look. "At least I have something to work with!"

"Silence!" roared Chef. "And don't laugh, paisan, you're next."

"What?" Val's widened. "What do you mean by 'your next'?"

"Did you have a wet down, when you were promoted, then?"

"Fuck, Chef, until yesterday I didn't know what a wet down was! How could I have one?" returned Val.

"Watch you language, Val, there are children present," admonished Chef.

The assembled Sea Puppies gave Chef a dirty look. Randy and Joey, out of just barely teenage solidarity, sniffed disdainfully. Children, indeed!

"Oh, we know what fuck means, Chef," piped up a tall, slim, strikingly handsome Leading Gunner. He had wheat blonde hair and there was a familiar look to him. "What we want to know is what is the Pride of the Fleet?"

"Ask Harry. He's in charge of corrupting your morals, not me," replied Chef. He, as had anyone else with ears, had heard Harry's brags and boasts. Chef was not about to add lustre to Harry's parts. He quickly looked around the Gunroom. "Where in hell is Phantom," he demanded loudly.

"Right here, Chef." The Phantom staggered in laden down with a huge box. "Cold cuts and fixings," he explained to the curious cadets.

"I am not corrupting anybody's morals, Chef!" declared Harry.

Chef turned to the assembled Sea Puppies. "In that case, wait until he's had three beers. Then he will show you the Pride of the Fleet."

"I will not!"

Chef grunted and looked around. "And where, might I ask, is young Mike?"

"Who?" asked Tyler.

"Who? Who?" yelped Chef. "Mike is the ranking Chief on board, that's who Mike is, you sorry excuse for a Chief. In fact, he's senior to Val."

Tyler thought a minute. "Oh, Mike, the Chief PTI."

Chef sighed and looked heavenward. "Yes, ye great galumph! Mike, the Chief PTI," he mimicked sarcastically.

Tyler motioned for the tall, handsome cadet who had spoken earlier to come alongside. "Yes, Chief?" the boy asked in a surprisingly strong, bass voice.

"Knock on that door," said Tyler, pointing to the door that separated the Gunroom from the Petty Officers Mess. "When they let you in, see if the Chief PTI is in there. If he is, tell him to get his ass in here at the rush."

The cadet nodded, knocked on the door leading to the Petty Officers' Mess and then entered.

Chef was still ranting. "Now then, where the hell is Phantom?"

Phantom raised his hand. "Right here, Chef."

Chef gave The Phantom a wicked smiled. "You also get wet down."

"Me?"

Chef growled. He held his head and rocked from side to side. "Is there no one in this place that understands the Queen's English? Yes, you." He pointed at The Phantom. "Were you or were you not enrolled in RCSCC AURORA?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"But me no buts," roared Chef. "Were you, or were you not enrolled as a Chief Steward, and don't say 'yes, but'." The Phantom nodded. "Well then, as a Chief Petty Officer (Steward), you are just as required to have a wet down as the rest of them."

"But I don't have a uniform, Chef. I have a jacket, but it's at home and . . ."

"Bah!" Chef waved his arm dismissively. "Val, you're about the same size. You can lend him one of yours."

"Sure, Chef, but . . ." began Val.

Before Val could continue with his objections to Phantom wearing one of his uniforms, the door leading from the PO's Mess opened and Mike stepped into the Gunroom, suddenly apprehensive in the unexpected presence of so many cadets.

Chef almost choked at the sight of the Chief Physical Training Instructor, who was naked except for a red, white and blue striped posing strap. In addition, his body seemed to glow. Chef pointed a shaking finger at the terrified Chief PTI. "What," Chef demanded, his voice quavering from the shock of seeing Mike's costume, "is that ridiculous postage stamp you have covering your balls?"

Mike's whole body seemed to turn red from embarrassment. He had never expected to be interrupted in the middle of his posing exercises, or to be all but naked in front of so many of the other cadets. He looked down and barely managed to speak. "It's a posing strap, Chef. I was practising for my next competition and I put some body sheen on, to see what I'd look like and . . ."

Chef's choler rose so high that Ray thought he was going to have a stroke. "You . . . will . . . remove . . . it," began Chef slowly. "You . . . will . . . NOT NOW, YOU CRETIN . . ."

Mike, stunned, had begun to pull down his posing strap, proving to the Gunroom, and assorted gunners, Sea Puppies, musicians and buglers that he did, indeed, shave his body.

Chef was barely able to recover himself. He had been in the Navy for more years than he would admit to, and thought that he'd seen just about everything. A sailor in a striped posing strap had not been on the list. "Go and shower," he ordered Mike. "Remove that ridiculous makeup you have on. Return here at the rush, wearing your Class I uniform . . . no, you bring your uniform in here. Put on socks and underpants." He rounded on the Twins. "You two make sure he cleans up and get him dressed."

"But, I don't understand," wailed Mike. "All I was doing was practising my posing and then some kid . . ."

"You're going to have your wet down, so shut up and let's make this as painless as possible," whispered Todd. "Yeah, don't provoke the old bastard. I think he's been drinking," muttered Cory under his breath.

"I heard that, Cory!" roared Chef.

"Yes, Chef, sorry Chef," apologized Cory as they hustled Mike into the showers.

Chef was off and running. He told Val and Tyler to change and to get Phantom changed. He ordered the Sea Puppies to unload the van, which held more food, tubs for the ice, and ice.

Halfway through his tirade The Gunner, Kyle, Andy, and Dave Eddy entered the Gunroom. They looked on in amazement as cadets ran past them to the van parked outside. Those cadets who were to be wet down and who did not live in the Gunroom rocketed past, hurrying to their own barracks to change. Those cadets who did live in the Gunroom were ripping off their laundry, slamming locker doors, and generally behaving like mad things. The Twins hurried past, pushing a naked Chief PTI forward, much to the merriment of the Sea Puppies. "Hi, sirs, hi Gunner," waved Cory.

"Bye, sirs, bye Gunner," said Todd as they pushed Mike into the PO's Mess and slammed the door.

Chef continued to give orders. Randy and Joey, ineptly assisted by some of the Sea Puppies and General Training cadets, were busily laying out a mountain of food. Other cadets were pouring ice into the large galvanized iron washtubs that Chef had brought. Other cadets were ripping apart cases of pop and sticking the cans into the ice to cool. >From within the Chiefs Mess The Phantom whined loudly. "Come on, Tyler, it's only a wet down. I don't see why I can't wear my own shorts. They're perfectly clean and besides, everything's going to get wet and . . ."

"Shut up, Phantom," growled Val. "You wear a white uniform, you wear white undies. Now shuck those drawers and put these on!"

The Gunner and the officers began to laugh, which brought them to the immediate attention of Chef. "And where the bloody hell have you four clowns been, may I ask?" yelled Chef. "Off exercising your conjugal rights with the Commanding Officer's beagle, no doubt, while there's work to be done, is my guess!"

Kyle was about to answer when Fred, with a total lack of modesty, pushed down the navy blue boxers he had been wearing under his work dress uniform, and flashed his five-inch penis. Kyle's jaw dropped.

"Jesus," breathed Andy. "That kid has more than all of us put together."

Kyle nodded. "Sure would hate to see it angry."

"Stop gawking, you demented perverts!" shouted Chef. "There is beer to be cooled."

"Beer, what beer?" asked The Gunner.

"The beer that I put in Linen Stores this morning. Get it out."

While The Gunner and the officers began to take the beer out of the linen closet the cadets who had left what seemed like only minutes before flew past. Val, with a half-dressed and still protesting Phantom in tow, hurried into the Gunroom. "Randy, Joey, and you," he pointed at the two Makee-Learns and the young cadet, "get him dressed. I have to change." He slammed past Andy and Kyle, almost knocking them over, and ran into his Mess. Giggling, the two Makee-Learns began to show Phantom how to wear a silk and lanyard.

Cory and Todd brought Mike back into the Gunroom. The sight of their morning tormentor wearing nothing but his Jockeys and socks set the Sea Puppies to giggling all over again. Todd grabbed the nearest cadet. "You, help Mike get dressed," he ordered. He looked at the cadet. "You look awfully familiar. Do I know you?"

"Todd," yelled Cory, "we have to change!"

The young cadet shook his head slowly. "Please, Chief, you know my brother."

"Who's your brother?"

The young man coloured. "Petty Officer Greene."

Todd paled. "Little Big Man is your brother?"

"My name is Matt, Chief, and please, don't judge me by my brother."

"You, uh, you help Mike, will you?" asked Todd shakily. He didn't know that Little Big Man had a brother! "I have to change."

When the shouting and tumult died down, and all the cadets, finally, were in place, Chef appointed himself Master of Ceremonies. With a bottle of beer in hand he called the proceedings to order. "Now, then, gentlemen!" he bellowed. Then he glared at The Gunner and the officers, shook his head as if in despair, and continued, "And I use that in the loosest of terms, there is a set protocol for wetting down a messmate." He took a huge drink of beer, all but emptying the bottle. He seemed to notice The Phantom for the first time and extended his hand. "Good evening, Phantom, glad that you could make it." He pumped The Phantom's hand and bowed low. "Wonderful night for a wet down," proclaimed Chef. "Clear and cool."

The Phantom raised his eyes. It was a warm night, very humid, and if the rumblings and grumblings in the west meant anything, a storm was coming.

Chef released The Phantom, and straightened. "Now, where was I?"

"Protocol for a wet down," prompted The Phantom.

"Oh, yes, so I was. Now then, the protocol is as follows: Tyler, because of his appointment as Master at Arms, goes first. Then Mike, because he was promoted before Val. Then Val, then Phantom."

The assembled cadets applauded politely.

Chef bowed, and seemed to notice The Phantom for the first time again. "Good evening, Phantom. Perfect night for a wet down. Clear and cool," bellowed Chef.

The Phantom nodded. "Jesus," he thought, "he's as pissed as a Billy goat."

"The order for Branch seniority, according to King's Regulations, 1949" began Chef with authority, "is the Gunners, then Boatswains, then the Signalmen, followed by the Regulating Staff. I need a beer, Stevie."

"Like a kick in the balls," thought The Gunner as he handed over the beer.

"After the Crushers come the Engineers, then the Supply types, including cooks. Musicians are last." He stared pointedly at Harry.

Harry stared back. Why, he wanted to know, did he have to go last, when everybody knew that he was senior to Sylvain, who was only the Drum Major of the Bugle Band?

This immediately produced a chorus of boos from the Buglers, and much pounding of drums from the drummers.

Sylvain, his honour as a Bugler, and a Drum Major, insulted, not to mention his Gallic pride assaulted most callously, called Harry a very dirty name, in French.

Harry replied in kind, calling Sylvain a very dirty name, in English.

The situation was deteriorating rapidly when Chef slapped them both on the back of the head, and demanded another beer. "Harry goes last," Chef commanded. "That's just the way it is."

"Is not!" shouted Harry.

"Is so!" proclaimed Sylvain.

The Phantom, now realising that a very real rivalry existed, not only between the Branches, but also between the sub-trades in the Branches, remembered one of his sessions with The Gunner, and held up his hand. "Actually, Chef and Sylvain are right," he said quietly.

"Traitor!" shouted Harry. "And I thought you were my friend."

"I am. And because I'm your friend I'm telling you, Sylvain goes first."

Harry snorted. "And how would you, a mere Steward, know that?"

"I know, Harry, because unlike you I had a very stern taskmaster teach me some Naval History."

This oblique reference to The Gunner was not lost on Harry. The Gunner smiled. At least something had sunk in.

"And . . .?" asked Harry. He glanced at The Gunner, who nodded ever so slightly.

"And the Sea Cadets were modelled on the old Boys Brigade in England," said The Phantom quietly, ignoring the looks between Harry and The Gunner. "They all had bugle bands, not brass/reed and . . ."

Chef broke into a chorus of The Men Of The Boys Brigade, interrupting The Phantom's lecture. He linked arms with Harry and Sylvain and marched around the Gunroom, singing off key, and very loudly. Partly to drown out Chef, three buglers, a drummer and one flute player took up the tune. Everybody clapped in time with the music and when the trio returned to their original position they were cheered lustily.

Harry grudgingly accepted that he would be the last Chief to be wet down.

"Sorry, Harry, but that's the way of it," apologized The Phantom. "Too bad your not Chief Drum Major."

"That is an Appointment and not a rank," pronounced Chef. "And where the hell is my beer?"

"In your hand," said The Phantom patiently.

"Now, then, everything's settled. We will follow protocol," Chef declared regally.

Under Chef's direction Tyler placed himself in the middle of the sawdust square. Chef belched loudly, setting the overhead light fixtures to swaying. The Sea Puppies giggled and Dave Eddy buried his face in his hands. "In the absence of the Executive Officer, or the Lieutenant-at-Arms . . .", began Chef, sounding as if he were giving The Speech from the Throne.

"We don't have a Lieutenant-at-Arms," interrupted Todd.

"Keep silence in the Mess!" roared Chef. "In the absence of higher authority, Sub-Lieutenant St. Vincent, as SCOPA, shall . . ."

"What's that, a social disease?" asked Andy.

"It is not!" Chef muttered something about ignorant colonials. He gave Andy a malevolent glare. "It is Senior Canadian Officer Present Afloat!"

"But we're not afloat," argued Andy.

"Chef is," muttered The Gunner.

Chef clutched his chest and assumed a hurt air. "Et Tu, Brute?" he asked The Gunner. This was the only Latin Chef knew, except for the responses at Mass, which weren't being used anymore, anyway.

Kyle stepped forward, a bottle of beer in his hand. Chef motioned him to proceed. SCOPA smiled an apology to Tyler and poured a liberal portion of beer over the Canadian Coat of Arms sewn on the right sleeve of Tyler's jacket. Then he held out his hand. Tyler shook it and Kyle stepped away.

"Now then, the no longer virgin Chief's messmates will wet down his rank," declared Chef. "Stevie, I need a beer."

Val, Mike, then The Phantom stepped forward and each in turn poured beer over Tyler's rank badge.

Once the Chiefs had wet Tyler down, Chef ordered everybody to line up, officers and The Gunner first, followed by the Regulating Staff, then the others. Senior cadets were allowed beer, junior cadets and Sea Puppies cans of pop.

For the next few minutes Tyler endured a tidal wave of liquid. Beer and pop were poured down the back of his jumper. Beer and pop were poured down the front of his jumper. The back of his jumper was lifted up, and beer and pop poured down the back of his bell-bottoms. The front of his jumper was lifted up and beer and pop poured down the front of his bell-bottoms. When everyone had wet him down Tyler was a mess. He was sopping wet, and his uniform clung to his body.

Chef roared with laughter at the sight of the drowned Master at Arms. Then he beckoned for Val to come forward. "Valentine, my Italian cherub, stand and prepare to meet your fate." He leaned over and whispered to Tyler. "Your turn to get even."

Tyler grinned evilly and picked up a bottle of beer.

When Val had been wet down, muttering and sputtering indignantly after Tyler poured a full bottle of liquid gold down the front of his bell-bottoms, Mike stepped into the square.

Throughout his wet down Mike kept a broad smile on his face. This was most attention anyone had ever paid to him, and his wet down, coupled with the memory of three massive ejaculations the night before, made him think that he was King of the World.

The Phantom stepped into the square and was immediately wet down by Andy, who as the Supply Officer, was The Phantom's nominal Divisional Officer. Chef claimed pride of place and poured a beer over The Phantom's head. "You're a good lad, Phantom," he croaked, "a good lad." Then he pulled open the front of Phantom's trousers and poured a cold beer down the front. Phantom grimaced as the cold liquid soaked his borrowed trousers and shorts. He also had visions of the Shrinkage Factor taking effect. Chef roared, "Stevie, I need another beer."

Kyle and Dave followed Chef, pouring minute quantities of beer over Phantom's rank badge. Then The Gunner stepped up. "Don't worry, Phantom, I'll only do the badge," murmured The Gunner as he poured a small dollop of beer over the rank badge. "You look very handsome, Phantom. The uniform suits you."

"Please, Gunner, don't," muttered The Phantom, avoiding the man's eyes. The Gunner lost his smile. "Phantom . . ." The Phantom shook his head and The Gunner moved away.

The Twins were wet down together and they stood stoically as first their badges were wet down, then their heads. When The Gunner came up he poured a portion of beer over their rank badges.

Todd looked down as the amber liquid bubbled over his badge. "Thought you would," he grinned.

The Gunner grinned back. "Man can't wet down his sons in pop. That would be like drinking the Loyal Toast in water." The he poured the remaining beer over Todd's head. Cory laughed so hard his stomach cramped, then yelped as The Gunner poured a bottle of beer over him. "Jesus Christ!" howled Cory, "that's fucking cold."

What none of the cadets knew was that canned pop chilled more quickly than bottled beer and that the longer the liquids stayed in the ice-filled tubs the colder they became, making the cold offerings of the senior cadets pale in comparison to the colder offerings of the junior cadets and the Sea Puppies. Accordingly, Cory was not prepared for the double assault on dignity when Kevin and Dylan assaulted his genitals and rump with Coca-Cola and ginger ale. Much to the amusement of the other cadets he pranced and danced, complained loudly that his dick was shrivelling from the cold, and vowed his revenge on all and sundry. Todd, while not as vocal as his brother, was not amused and threatened both Kevin and Dylan with an abject lesson in pain and suffering if they dared to assault him as they had Cory. His tirade was interrupted when the two junior gunners, laughing crudely, added insult to injury by dropping a handful of ice cubes down the back of Todd's bell-bottoms.

The Twins' screams, howls, threats and imprecations fell on deaf ears as the other Chiefs, old and new, followed Kevin and Dylan's example. Harry, however, did not follow the lead of his peers. Laughing loudly, and with a gleam in his eye, he made the Twins' wet down more memorable by embracing them and the giving each of them what he called a "Harry Special". He kissed each twin on his cheeks then full on the mouth. Mollified, and not to be outdone, both Todd and Cory slipped him the tongue. Harry moved away, smiling.

Chef, in addition to directing traffic, was flitting about the Gunroom, urging the cadets to eat. He had ransacked his Cold Stores and Larders for every delectable goody he could find. The mess table was piled high with salads, cold cuts, rolls, sticky buns and cakes. The cadets, particularly the Sea Puppies, did not need to be told twice.

When the Twins stepped out of the sawdust square Matt handed each of them a towel. "You guys better change," he said with a slight smile. "You'll catch your death."

Cory looked at Todd, who shrugged. They walked toward their lockers, towelling their hair dry. Matt followed them, not paying any attention to the howls as Stuart danced around after someone (Chef was suspected) put ice cubes down the back of his pants. "Why bother changing? Whatever we put on will just get soaked." Cory threw his towel into his locker. "And who are you?" he asked."

"Just Matt," replied the young man diffidently.

"Matt is Little Big Man's brother, Cory," said Todd. He looked at Matt, who shrugged and smiled, then walked away to get a can of pop from one of the tubs.

The Twins were momentarily distracted when Nicholas, the Yeoman of Signals, started to holler. Two of his signalmen, who had seen what Chef had done to Stuart, had given him a double whammy, simultaneously putting ice cubes down the front and the back of his bell-bottoms. Nicholas had unfortunately chosen to wear briefs. Wet, and with his privates shrivelled to almost nothing, he cursed loudly as he rushed past the Twins and into the heads where he emptied his underwear of ice cubes and vowed to switch over to boxers.

"Now tell me who he really is," demanded Cory when the shouting subsided. He took off his jumper and soaked gunshirt.

Todd pulled a clean, and dry, gunshirt over his head and stared at his brother. "Little Big Man's brother."

Cory looked at the handsome young man again. "Poor little bastard."

Matt sat down beside Ryan and Rob, who were paying more attention to Chris, who's turn it was in the sawdust square, than to who was sitting down beside them. Matt dug Ryan in the ribs. "So don't speak," he muttered in Ryan's ear.

Ryan turned and did a double take. "Hey, Matty, what are you doing here?" he asked. He nudged Rob. "Rob, look who's here."

Rob turned and smiled. "Matty, where the hell did you come from?"

"Ottawa?"

"Still a smart ass!" Be nice, I'm a Chief now."

"So I heard." Matt smiled and punched Rob's shoulder. "I got in late last night." "I thought you were going to Kingston." Ryan got up and reached into one of the tubs for a can of pop. He handed it to Matt.

"I was, but the course got cancelled, so the ACO said I could come out here on Staff. Can I have a beer?"

Rob shook his head. "No. Does Paul know you're here?"

Matt grimaced and shook his head. "I hope not. When he left home I was still Queer Bait."

"Jesus, Matty . . ." Ryan shook his head.

Matt shrugged expressively. "Well, it's a change from faggot and cocksucker."

"He'll never change," muttered Rob. "Looks like it's my turn." He smiled at Ryan and Matt and stepped into the arena. Chef grinned, bowed low, and motioned to Andy who, as Supply Officer, would start Rob's wet down.

"I don't notice Paul. Is he in shit again?" asked Matt, looking around the Gunroom.

Without preamble Ryan told Matt exactly what had happened to his brother. Matt listened intently and then chuckled. "Good."

"He's still your brother, Matty," said Ryan.

"Some brother," grunted Matt. "Do you know what he did on my birthday?" Ryan shook his head. "He called me a blond haired little butt-fucker and gave me one of those fucking T-shirts with the Aryan Nation symbol on it. Then he told my father that he'd seen me with Marty Switzer at the mall."

"Did your Dad . . .?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah, he did."

"Fuck, Matty, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, it's not your fault." There was a note of resignation in his voice. "The bruises have almost healed. It's going to get worse, Ryan."

"Why?"

"Dad got posted to CFB Lahr."

"Holy shit! Germany? Your Dad got posted to Germany?"

Matt nodded. "Paul will be happy."

Ryan regarded Matt. "Poor little bastard," he thought, "barely 15 years old and he has to put up with that shit." He nodded toward the sawdust square. "Hey, Matty, the Chiefs are finished. It's our turn now to wet down Rob."

After Rob was wet down, Greg's turn came. He bore his ordeal stoically, suffering in silence the tidal wave of beer and pop that filled his pants. He lost his stolid look when Harry, who'd been nipping at some cognac he'd discovered in Fred's locker, grabbed him and gave him a bear hug so tight Greg almost passed out from lack of air. Then Harry kissed him and laughed uproariously. Greg turned beet red. He quickly left the sawdust square and snatched up a towel to dry his hair. "Damn you, Harry," he thought, "I haven't felt this ways since me and Stephen Tyler . . ."

Chef was bouncing around, ordering the cadets to eat and the Sea Puppies to stop giggling. The Gunner was trying hard not to look at The Phantom, who was doing his damnedest to stay well away from The Gunner. Both Ray and The Phantom were eyeing the diminishing beer supplies. While most of it was ending up on the cadets being wet down, a huge quantity was finding its way down Chef's throat.

The Phantom leaned over and whispered in Ray's ear, "I better stay over tonight. There ain't no way Chef will be able to get up in time to start breakfast."

Ray nodded. "At the rate he's chugging those beers we'll be lucky if we see him for lunch. Where will you sleep?"

"The lounge. I'll just make up a bed with the cushions from one of the couches. Oh, oh, Two Strokes is up."

A great cheer rose when Two Strokes stepped up for his wet down. While he had mellowed somewhat, and surprised everybody by actually cutting some slack here and there, he was still too much of a Regulating Petty Officer to totally ignore Queen's Regulations and Instructions (Cadets). Thus there was more that one cadet in the mess who welcomed the opportunity to have a small revenge on him.

Kyle had first honours, followed by Tyler. Both were gentle and only wet down Two Strokes' new rank badge. Val, Mike and The Phantom poured a small drop on his shoulder. Harry, who remembered Two Strokes doing everybody's laundry smiled, lifted him up and then lowered him. "You're a shit, Roger, but a good shit," he said with a grin. Then he poured his beer down the front of Two Strokes' jumper.

Matt watched as some of the younger cadets dug around the bottom of the tubs, looking for the coldest cans of pop that they could find. Two Strokes wiggled and squirmed as the young cadets first congratulated him and then quite deliberately doused him in cold pop. There wasn't a hell of a lot he could do about it. A wet down was a wet down and few rules applied.

Jon was next to have a kick at the cat. He smiled shyly when he was doused, and wished that he had the nerve to kiss Chris when he came up. But then he saw the look in Chris' eyes and knew that later on tonight Chris would more than make up for not kissing him now.

Sylvain stepped up and was awarded by a furious fanfare from the buglers, which Harry complained sounded like all the horses in the Royal Canadian Dragoons had gone on heat at the same time. He was roundly booed. To make amends Harry insisted on bussing Sylvain's cheeks. Before Sylvain could pull back he grabbed the boy's face and gave him a Harry Special. Sylvain's eyes bulged and he later told Andre (in French) that the effect was such that he could hear his foreskin snap back as he popped a semi.

Sylvain withdrew shaking. It was Harry's turn to be wet down. A great cheer went up and the horn blowing and drum beating was all but drowned by the cheering Sea Puppies.

"Gentlemen of the Royal Canadian Sea Cadets," roared Chef, waving his bottle of beer and swaying slightly, "I present to you last, but by no means least . . ." He belched, then hiccupped loudly, which set the Sea Puppies to tittering. Then he saw The Phantom again. "Phantom, my dear boy, how good to see you again." Chef stuck out his hand and The

Phantom shook it slowly, a strained smile on his face. "A wonderful night for a wet down," proclaimed Chef. "Clear and cool."

The Phantom nodded his agreement and pulled away. He glanced over and saw The Gunner looking at him. He quickly glanced away and went to stand beside Ray.

Chef looked at Harry, who was looking at Chef. "What are you doing, young feller?" asked Chef.

"My wet down? Remember?" replied Harry placidly.

Chef thought a moment. Then a light seemed to come on. "Of course, your wet down. Why didn't you say so?" Randy and Joey, unable to contain themselves any longer, hugged each other, laughing so hard that Chef glared at them. "Impudent pups! Should be spanked!"

"My wet down, Chef?" prompted Harry.

"Don't be after getting your balls in an uproar, Chief, I'm getting to it," replied Chef with a hurt air. "Stevie, I need another beer."

"Are Harry's balls the Pride of the Fleet?" ask Matt.

"No, but they're part of a matched set," replied Rob with a grin.

"Now then, pray silence, my Lords and Gentlemen!" Chef sipped his beer. "I present to you our latest Chief Petty Officer, Harold Franz-Josef von Hohenberg, affectionately known as Harry."

Harry actually blushed. He had thought that no one at AURORA, other than Greg, who kept the records, knew his full name. He reckoned without Chef, who had his own sources. "Franz Josef?" mouthed Kyle to The Gunner.

The Gunner grinned. "Some mothers do have 'em."

The Twins sidled over and stood beside The Gunner. "Jesus, Gunner, Chef is as pissed as a newt!" said Todd unnecessarily.

"But he managed to shut Harry up. Look, the big lug is blushing." Cory grinned at Harry's discomfiture.

"You'd blush too if your name was Franz-Josef," replied Todd.

"In the absence of anyone of any consequence, I shall perform the honours," intoned Chef with studied dignity. He poured a very small drop of beer on Harry's rank badge. "I am as pissed as a clam," murmured Chef, "but, Harry, know this, the troops think the world of you. Never let them down, and never change." With that he squeezed Harry's shoulder and moved away.

After Andy, Kyle, and Dave had done the honours, The Gunner stepped up. He poured a bigger dollop of beer over Harry's badge. "Harry, for what it's worth, I would sail with you. And take great pride in doing so."

"For fuck's sake, Gunner, stop that, or I'll start crying!" replied Harry.

"Well, we can't have that," grinned The Gunner. Then he hugged Harry and gave him a huge lip lock.

Harry was so stunned that Young Canada would ever do such a thing, stared open-eyed while the kiss lasted. "Jesus, Gunner . . ." Harry gasped as The Gunner pulled away.

"What's the matter, not as good as a Harry Special?" joked The Gunner.

Harry cocked his head and pretended to think for a moment. "Well, I've kissed better," he lied. Actually he thought it was damn good, and he would not have minded another one. Then he saw the look in The Phantom's eyes. Jesus Christ, I've heard of somebody being green-eyed with jealousy, but this is a man overboard situation.

The Phantom, his eyes snapping, retreated to the heads, where he stood in front of the urinal, pretending to pee, and cursing himself. He was jealous of that kiss. The Gunner could never kiss him, but he kissed Harry. The Phantom could hear the hooting and hollering as Harry underwent his ordeal, and he raged inwardly.

When he returned, finally, to the Gunroom, The Phantom saw Harry dancing in place from the ice cubes that had been poured down the front and back of his trousers by Tyler and Val.

"Jesus Christ!" howled Harry, "That's cold." He reached down the front of his trousers and felt around. "Hell, you almost froze the Pride of the Fleet, you turkeys!" Cory snorted. "The way you carry on an iceberg couldn't freeze that thing."

Harry looked at him with gimlet eye. "Sleep light, Tiger, for the Pride of the Fleet sails tonight!"

Cory gave Harry a Bronx cheer. "If it does you'll have to rename it."

"Rename it?"

"Yeah, you can call it the Titanic, and not because of it's size."

The Phantom laughed at the bawdiness and stepped up. He poured a beer over Harry, who grabbed him in a hug. "Don't be mad, Phantom," whispered Harry. "He ain't Stefan, and it was just a guy thing."

The Phantom pulled away and nodded. "I know. I'm just being stupid."

"You got that right, Phantom," replied Harry enigmatically.

When The Phantom stood aside all the Sea Puppies, totally ignoring protocol, leaped on their Chief. The pop sprayed and flew in every direction, proving Cory correct. Everybody got wet and for a few moments pandemonium raged. The musicians and buglers tooted and honked, playing a discordant fanfare.

Chef, who was now so drunk he had trouble keeping upright, bellowed loudly and, helped by The Gunner and the officers, managed to restore order. The Twins, every bit as wet as they had been after their wet down, looked down the length of the Gunroom and saw ruination. For all of Tyler's careful preparation, a small river of evil-looking liquid - a combination of pop and beer - oozed out of the sawdust square. The Gunroom table was awash with half-eaten food, and bits and pieces of unidentifiable goodies littered the deck. "Captain's Rounds, tomorrow," sighed Todd.

Cory nodded, a glum expression on his face. "I suppose the Chief thing would be to start cleaning up." Then he snorted. "My name is Cory Arundel, not King Canute."

One of the Sea Puppies threw a huge draft of cold pop at Harry, who ducked. The small wave hit the deck and splattered, soaking Cory's white bell-bottoms. Cory looked at the cola stains, looked at the ruins of the wet down feast and shrugged. "Fuck it," he laughed, "I'll get the damned mop!

Brian and Dylan's wet downs were placid, and while they were both drowned in pop and beer, nobody kissed them. Steve, smiling broadly, stepped manfully into the sawdust square. He did not expect Stuart, the dourest Presbyterian Scot he had ever met, to step up, wet down his badge, and then kiss him soundly.

"Jesus, Stuart, you do that again and I may have to rethink my position on girls," exclaimed Steve with a lewd grin.

"Do they always kiss each other like that?" asked Matt, thoroughly confused. Maybe all the whining letters his brother had been writing home were true.

"Only on special occasions," replied Rob calmly. "Normally they just pinch each other's bums."

"Except on Sundays. Then they grab each other by the balls and have a good feel," said Ryan.

Matt stared at them, then laughed. "You guys!"

"Matty, just one thing." Ryan leaned forward. "Watch out for Harry."

"Harry?"

"Yeah, he bites bums. Last week he bit Cory's bum and ever since then he can't get enough. Won't go to bed until he's bitten at least one bum."

Matt's mouth dropped. "But . . . but . . . that's . . ."

Rob winked at Ryan. "You won't have to worry unless he tells you that you have a nice bum. If he does, reach for the salt and pepper, because you are the main course." "And while you're fetching the salt and pepper, bring along a bucket of steam and 50 feet of shoreline," sniggered Ryan.

Matt gasped and punched Ryan on the arm. "You bugger!" Matt had finally realized that he had been a victim of a leg-pull.

The air was rent as Chef suddenly blew his nose explosively. It was Ray's turn to be wet down, and Chef, overcome with emotion and, truth be told, filled to the scuppers with beer, was about to make a speech. "Shipmates, and you are all my shipmates," Chef boomed ponderously, "The next matelot to be promoted is a man who is close to my heart. I count myself lucky that I have met him." He wiped his eyes with his stained handkerchief. "He's a fine young man, a young man I am proud to call my friend, and a young man, who, if he stays the course, I will be proud to hand over my spatula to."

Chef poured just enough beer over Ray's badge to make it legal. Then he sniffed loudly and hugged his protégé. He stood by while Ray was wet down, smiling happily as the young man laughed and yelled when the cold liquids were poured over him. And he beamed with pride when The Phantom came up and wet down his friend.

"For the first time, Ray, I really wish I was a Sea Cadet," said Phantom. "Then I could really sail with you."

"You already have," replied Ray, thinking, "In more ways than one."

"Yeah, but it's nice to say that I'd sail with you."

Sandro was almost as emotional as Chef, who was drunk. Sandro was Russian, and Ray had been his first real friend. He kissed Ray in the Russian manner, full on the lips. Ray's eyes bugged out. Sandro was one hell of a kisser!

Randy and Joey, giggling like chimps, used pop to baptize Ray's new rank badge. Then they both gave Ray a big hug. "You're the best, Ray," muttered Joey.

Chef broke up the group hug and called for the next victim.

Fred, smiling his usual goofy grin, was next in line. He bore his bath of beer and pop with equanimity. Nothing at all bothered him. His wet down was, to him, just another milestone in life.

Thumper was up next. Since he wasn't as bad as Two Strokes in his enforcement of the rules, and everybody liked him, he got off relatively lightly. Still, he ended up as sodden as a dishrag, his uniform whites clinging to his body and revealing, as was pointed out by half a dozen giggling Sea Puppies, that he wasn't wearing any underwear. Harry, still into the cognac, called him a disgrace. Then in atonement for his unkind words, he begged forgiveness and slobbered all over Thumper's hand as he tried to kiss it. Thumper squealed and pulled away. "Jesus, Harry I have to use that hand." He wiped his spit-covered hand on his jumper and walked away muttering, not at all pleased when a great roar went up.

"And we know what for!"

Chef, who was drinking a beer at the time, almost choked. The Gunner, Andy, and Kyle retired to the stoop until they got their laughter under control. They heard a commotion and returned to the Gunroom where they saw Harry chasing Thumper around the room. Harry was very sorry and wanted to make amends. Thumper, who knew that Harry making amends meant Harry kissing, eluded his pursuer and scampered into the heads where he locked himself into a cubicle. He refused to come out until Harry agreed to behave, which he did. Thumper, not quite believing Harry, darted into the Gunroom and stood behind The Twins, who promised to protect him. "Just don't kiss me!" pleaded Thumper.

The Twins promised Thumper solemnly that they would not kiss him. They liked him, but not that much.

When the tumult died down Ryan stepped into the arena. The Gunner, worried that Ryan's infection was not yet under control, stepped forward, prepared to prevent any unintentional injury to the boy. A look from Ryan stopped him. If having cold beer and pop poured over his body and down the front and back of his trousers was a part of his rite of passage from mere Leading Cadet to Petty Officer, he was prepared to suffer whatever was necessary.

Rob, as aware as The Gunner of Ryan's plight, was also prepared to intervene if things got too far out of hand. Ryan ignored them both.

In the event Ryan withstood his ordeal with great dignity and, if the truth was told, having ice and cold liquids poured over his privates was not all that bad. In fact, it was not the effect of the icy liquids, and the painkillers he had taken, on his dick - which wasn't hurting at all, really - that worried him. His balls were a different matter and he fretted slightly as he felt them frantically seek the heat they needed by shrivelling in his sac and withdrawing deep within his groin.

When Ryan returned to his seat beside Rob he was beaming. The Gunner patted him on his shoulder and gave him a shot of cognac (which he had confiscated from a protesting Harry, who promptly found the bottle of scotch that Nicholas had been saving for the final night aboard). "Drink this. It will help put some warmth back into you," said The Gunner with a grin.

The din created by the buglers and drummers from the Bugle Band would have drowned out any reply that Ryan might have made as Andre, their "Sticks", entered the sawdust square.

Ryan mouthed a "Thank you" to The Gunner, who retired to the sidelines.

With Andre, the wet downs ended. Chef immediately began circling the Gunroom, urging everybody to eat up. The Gunner motioned Ray and The Phantom over to where he was standing. He put his arms around the boys' shoulders. To his surprise, The Phantom did not shrug him off. "I'm very proud of you two, and you know that Chef thinks the world of you both."

"Leading up to?" asked The Phantom cynically.

If The Phantom expected The Gunner to rise to the bait of his cynicism, he was about to be disappointed. "Look, guys, Chef is blitzed," The Gunner said calmly, "and there's no way he can come in at 0400 and function. Can you two handle breakfast? You know, cover for him?"

The Phantom gave The Gunner a withering look. "We'd do that anyway, sir."

Ray, who knew that something was going on between The Gunner and Phantom, just not what, did not want to see a bad situation get worse, and quickly spoke up. "It's only basics for breakfast, bacon, eggs, toast. Isn't that right, Phantom?"

The Phantom, realizing that The Gunner had meant nothing mean by his request, and also realizing that he was still jealous of that kiss between The Gunner and Harry, pulled away. "Yeah, no problem, sir. Ray and me, we can handle it."

The Gunner, secretly pleased that Phantom was acting they way he was - he had quite deliberately kissed Harry to see what Phantom's reaction would be - thanked both the both boys and began, with Andy and Kyle, to steer Chef out of the Gunroom and into The Gunner's car. Chef would spend the night on the sofa in The Gunner's living room.

With the officers and The Gunner gone, Tyler began shooing the guests and hangers-on out of the Gunroom. The Phantom, after setting Joey and Randy to starting the clean up, retrieved his underwear, shorts, and T-shirt from the Chiefs Mess and took a quick shower.

When The Phantom returned to the Gunroom he saw that Ray, Joey, Randy, and the new kid, Matt, were busily clearing away the few remains of the feast he and Chef had spent most of the afternoon preparing. Cory and Todd, stripped down to their boxers, were scrubbing the deck, mopping up. All but the resident Chiefs and Petty Officers had gone to their barracks.

As they worked Joey, Randy and Matt tried to ignore the sight of the newly wet down Chiefs and Petty officers as they stripped down and stuffed their soiled uniforms and underwear in green garbage bags, and then headed off to the showers to wash their bodies clean of the sticky amalgam of beer and pop that covered them from head to toe.

Matt gasped quietly when Harry stripped off his uniform and pushed down his underpants, The Pride of the Fleet and its attendant Escorts on full display. Joey and Randy gaped quite openly until Ray smacked their behinds and told them to get back to work.

"Wow," gasped Matt as Harry sauntered down the Gunroom, heading for the showers.

The Phantom chuckled as he threw some leftover potato salad into the bag that Matt was holding. "Now you can tell your grandchildren that you've seen the Pride of the Fleet."

Matt shook his head at the wonder. "You're Phantom, right?"

"Yeah, what of it?" The Phantom thought the boy looked vaguely familiar. He tied the gash bag closed.

"I'm Paul Greene's brother," said Matt, almost defensively.

The Phantom started. "You're Little Big Man's brother?"

Matt nodded slowly. "For what it's worth, he calls me Queer Bait, and worse. He thinks I'm queer."

"Are you? And don't use that word around here." The Phantom glanced at the Twins, who were bickering over something. "We don't use that word, ever. Nor do we use the words faggots, bone-blowers, or gearbox. As far as we're concerned nothing God has made is queer." He gestured toward a pile of empty trays. "Take those out to the van, will you. And take a word of advice. If you think the way your brother thinks, put the trays in the van and keep on going." With that he walked over to break up what promised to be a battle royal between the Twins.

When Matt returned he saw that Phantom had calmed the Twins down and was wiping clean the Mess table. Matt grabbed a cloth and began helping him. "If I said something wrong, I'm sorry," he began. "I'm not like my brother."

The Phantom shrugged. "Are you gay?"

"No. At least I don't think I am." Matt was lying through his teeth, but The Phantom didn't know that.

The Phantom looked around. The Gunroom denizens had returned and were helping with the clean up. If he and the other cooks had to get up at 0400, it was time to leave. He motioned for Ray and the Makee-Learns to come alongside. "What say we blow this Popsicle stand? It's going to rain and I've already been almost drowned once. Besides, it's time Joey and Randy were in bed." Both boys protested loudly that they were not at all sleepy. "Too bad. You're going to bed, anyway," said The Phantom sternly.

Just before leaving the Gunroom The Phantom turned to Matt. "Nobody cares if you're gay or not gay. We're all friends. Good friends. Your brother could have been a friend but decided otherwise. His loss, not mine, and sure as fuck not anybody else's. Just remember that."

Matt nodded.

"You coming with us?" asked The Phantom.

"No, I think I'll stay and help the Twins finish up," replied Matt. "They look beat."

"Well, don't be too long. Tomorrow's a working day, you know. And, Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"Your brother, as usual, is wrong about you."

The Phantom, Ray, Joey and Randy left The Gunroom together and walked across the parade square, heading for Barracks One. Overhead the sky had darkened and bolts of lightning flashed. The wind picked up and both Makee-Learns clung to The Phantom. As they passed the Headquarters Building a huge clap of thunder rent the air. Randy groaned and jumped. He grabbed The Phantom's arm and would not let go.

"Randy, it's only thunder. It won't hurt you," said The Phantom kindly. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the howling wind.

"I hate thunder!" screamed Randy emphatically. "I hate it!"

Randy clung to The Phantom all the way to the barracks, jumping in fright at each monstrous clap of thunder. When they reached the barracks The Phantom shooed both boys inside and told Randy not to worry. It was only thunder and a little wind. "A lot you know!" yelled Randy as he entered the barracks.

The Phantom turned to Ray. "Look after them, Ray, will you. And make sure they shower. They both smell like beer."

"I'll take care of them. Just remember, though, you were 13 and a bit once."

"Yeah," The Phantom grinned. "But I never smelled like a brewery."

Ray waved goodnight and entered the Barracks. The Phantom hurried to the Mess Hall, glad now that he had decided to sleep in the Staff Lounge as the full force of the mini-gale now blowing hit the Spit.

The Staff Lounge was a small, square chamber off the locker room. The windows were bare and the room was sparsely furnished with two tubular sofas and a matching chair. Each sofa had a one piece, foam rubber seat, with matching, separate back. Except that the seats and backs were covered in a very scratchy synthetic material, they made excellent mattresses.

The Phantom stripped off and showered, then put on clean boxers and a T-shirt. He padded into Chef's office and opened the closet. Inside were sheets, blankets, and two pillows. Chef kept fresh linen in his office because from time to time he slept over, and liked to sleep comfortably. The Phantom took two sheets, a blanket and the pillows and returned to the lounge where he pulled one of the sofa seats onto the floor and made up his pallet. He lay down and pulled the top sheet and blanket over himself. With his arms behind his head he watched the lightning flash and crackle outside the windows, and heard the peals of thunder echoing through the empty building.

He was actually quite comfortable. With the heavy wool blanket he was warm enough, and the foam rubber seat he was lying on was soft and seemed to fit his body perfectly. The Phantom was thinking that maybe, just maybe, for the first time in days, he might get some sleep, when he heard a door open and close, then the soft shuffle of sneakers across the deck.

The lounge door creaked open and revealed two small silhouettes. A bolt of lightning flashed and filled the room with light. It was Joey, and a very pale, nervous Randy. Each boy clutched a pillow and a blanket. Joey turned as pale as Randy when he saw The Phantom lying on the deck. "Uh, Phantom, what are you doing here?" he asked nervously.

"Trying to sleep. And what are you two doing here? Why aren't you in your bunks?"

Another clap of thunder set the building to shaking. Randy yelped and ran to The Phantom's bed. He threw himself down, clutching The Phantom in very real fear. "Make it go away, Phantom," Randy pleaded. "Make it go away."

"Hey, Randy, it's only thunder. It can't possibly hurt you." The Phantom put his arms around the quaking boy and looked at Joey.

Joey sat down on the sofa opposite and shook his head. "When he was little, there was a bad storm. Thunder, lightning, then hail." He stood up and knelt beside his friend. "It turned into a tornado. Randy's house was blown away and his mother . . ." Joey could not finish. He reached and gently stroked Randy's back.

"You poor kid," murmured The Phantom. He hugged Randy closely.

"Ever since then, he can't stand being alone when there's a bad storm," continued Joey.

"He gets scared. He wanted to sleep with me but we were afraid the other guys would laugh at us and call us babies, so we came over here. We didn't know you were going to be here."

"You guys can stay. I don't mind if you don't mind."

"We don't mind," replied Joey with a soft smile.

The Phantom sat up with some difficulty. Randy refused to let go and clung to him like a leech. "This seat is too small for two, Randy." He managed to pry Randy off. "Joey, pull the other seat over here and lay it beside the one I'm on. Then go into Chef's office and get some sheets out of the closet. These seats are comfortable but they sure do scratch."

While Joey went off to get the sheets The Phantom pulled Randy to his feet. Randy clung to The Phantom even tighter. "No!" he wailed,

"Randy, it's only for a minute until we make up a bed for you. Only for a minute." The Phantom made Randy sit in the chair where the boy clutched himself and whimpered in fright at every thunderclap. When Joey returned they made up a bed for Randy, and, when Joey pulled a back off one of the sofas, they made up one for him as well in the only remaining space, beside The Phantom's pallet.

The Phantom went to Randy and made him stand up. "Come on, Randy, your bed is ready. It's right beside mine." Randy's teeth were chattering and he seemed incapable of movement. "Joey, help me get him undressed. Then we'll get him to bed."

They pulled Randy's sweat and rain-soaked T-shirt off, and then Joey pulled down his shorts. He was wearing, as The Phantom expected, white briefs under his shorts. Next came his socks and sneakers. When Randy was undressed they laid him on the pallet they had made for him, and covered him with a sheet and blanket. The Phantom returned to his makeshift bed. His body had barely touched the sheet covering the foam rubber seat when Randy clutched him. The Phantom put his arm around Randy's shoulder and held him close. "Shh, Randy. It's okay. I'm here," he assured the whimpering boy.

Joey took off his clothes. Like Randy he was wearing white briefs. He lay down on the other side of The Phantom.

They lay in silence, listening to the storm rage outside. Eventually Randy's shaking subsided, and while he loosened his grip somewhat, he still clung to The Phantom. "You doing okay, Randy?" asked The Phantom.

"I'm okay, I guess. I'm not so scared now."

"How about you, Joey?"

"I'm okay, Phantom. Thunder doesn't scare me."

The Phantom reached out and ruffled Joey's hair. "Good, now let's try to get some sleep."

Joey shuffled a bit, then turned over and faced The Phantom. "Phantom?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we . . . would you mind if we . . . cuddled?" Joey asked quietly. The Phantom stretched out his arm and Joey scooted over. He rested his head on The Phantom's shoulder and stretched his arm across The Phantom's chest. "Thanks, Phantom."

"No problem."

"I like this. Sometimes I get, you know, so lonely."

"We all do, Joey. That's why God invented cuddling."

Joey giggled. "I like cuddling. I used to cuddle with my brother, but I don't anymore." He sighed sadly.

"Does your brother think you're too big now to cuddle?"

"No. Last year, we had a big storm, and all the lights went out. The furnace, too. My Mom told me to sleep with my brother, so I did."

"So you cuddled with him."

"Yeah, for a little while. Then he tried to play with my willy."

"Your what?"

"His willy, his thing, his pee-nis," explained a decidedly sleepy Randy.

"Your brother tried to . . ." The Phantom felt Joey's head nodding.

"When I wouldn't let him he asked me to play with his."

"Yuck!" grunted Randy. "If his willy is as ugly as my brother's I wouldn't go near it. My brother's is all covered with skin and it's got this wrinkled bit at the end. And he doesn't wash it and . . ."

"Randy, I thought you were scared?" The Phantom gave Randy a gentle squeeze. "And Randy, there are some things you shouldn't talk about, like your brother's, um, willy."

Randy giggled and returned The Phantom's hug. "Well, it's ugly," insisted Randy. "And I'm not so scared, now." He snuggled closer. "I'm with you."

The Phantom smiled and turned his attention to Joey, who was still talking. "My brother is just like you and me, Randy." Joey rubbed his head against The Phantom's chest. "I wouldn't play with him so he made me get out of bed. I went back to my room and like to froze my ass off."

"Dear God," thought The Phantom. "Barely a teenager and he's already learned something he shouldn't have learned." He gave Joey a hug. "Joey, you don't have to worry. I'm not going to play with your willy, and I am not going to ask you to play with mine."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Sure. You're a Chief," replied Joey, as if that explained it all.

When Ray came in to open up the galley he found them, the two Makee-Learns snuggled close against their protector, who had his arms around their shoulders. All three were deep in sleep. Ray shook all three boys awake and they lay for a few minutes, scratching and yawning. Then Randy and Joey threw aside their covers and jumped up, scampering towards the heads for their morning pee. Ray chuckled at the sight of the two little tents in their briefs.

The Phantom crawled out of bed, his boxers untented, though he did have to piss like a racehorse. He immediately began to clear away the bedding and replaced the seats on the sofas.

"I wondered where they had gotten to when they weren't in their beds. I hope they were no trouble," said Ray.

The Phantom shook his head. "Nah. Randy was scared of all the thunder." He glanced out the window. "Still raining, I see."

Ray nodded. "That was nice of you, Phantom, to let them stay with you. Most guys would have told them to grow up and be a man."

"I'm not most guys, Ray. Joey told me I'm a Chief. I guess Chiefs have to look out for their guys."

Ray laughed. "Joey's right." He put his hand on The Phantom's shoulder. "You're a special guy, Phantom, in more ways than one."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" asked The Phantom.

"Just what I said. Make sure those two shower, will you. Chef will expect us to keep up the standards. I'm going to start the coffee."

The Phantom, a trifle embarrassed, shared the showers with Joey and Randy, who giggled and made no bones about the fact that they were checking him out. "Don't you two know that curiosity killed the cat?" The Phantom asked testily.

Joey ignored him. "See, he's just like us, Randy."

"Bigger," giggled Randy, "And he has hair!"

"So do we," returned Joey. He glanced at Randy's all but bare crotch. "Well, a couple, anyway."

"Joey! Randy!" squawked The Phantom.

"Relax, Phantom, we're just looking," said Randy nonchalantly. "How else are we going to find out anything if we can't look?"

"Yeah, well . . . never mind, get cracking," returned The Phantom, miffed at the two boys for checking him out. "You do have clean clothes, don't you?"

"We have clean whites in our lockers. We don't have any clean underwear," said Joey turning off the shower.

"We won't wear any," declared Randy.

"Oh, yes you will! Put on the ones you wore over here. And no argument."

"Chef says cooks should always put on clean underwear, every day," argued Joey.

"Did you have to wait until Chef told you?" demanded The Phantom. "You just finished your New Entry Course. Didn't they teach you about personal hygiene and . . .?"

"All they taught us was how to march and tie ropes," returned Joey.

Randy nodded vigorously. "The instructors yelled a lot but they sure never said anything about our undies," he said with a snicker.

The Phantom was about to ask if their mothers had told them always to wear clean underpants when he remembered what Joey had told him about Randy's mother. Instead he said kindly, "You guys aren't Sea Puppies anymore. You have to think ahead and prepare for situations like this. Do what I do and always keep a spare set or two here in your locker." He turned off his shower and headed for the locker room. The Makee-Learns followed him and when they were all dressed they headed for the galley.

Ray had the coffee on and was opening boxes of bacon. With the Standard CF Menu they all knew exactly what was on the breakfast menu for Friday: bacon, eggs, sausages, French toast, beans and red lead, which was really only canned stewed tomatoes with onions and some spices added. While Randy helped Ray load huge trays with bacon and link sausages, Phantom and Joey opened the cans of beans and stewed tomatoes and emptied them into industrial size pots.

With the beans and tomatoes on the fire, and the bacon and sausages in the ovens sizzling away, Joey began to crack open the dozens of eggs they would need to make French toast. Randy carried boxes of bread into the dining hall and set out the sliced loaves for toasting. Around 0530 they took a short break, ate their breakfast, and then carried on with the preparations for the cadets' morning meal.

The Phantom went into the dining hall where he spread tablecloths on the tables the officers, Chiefs, and Petty Officers would be using, and then began to lay the silverware. He heard the door opening and looked up to see Matt Greene come into the Mess Hall. "We don't start serving breakfast until 0630," he called out.

"That's all right. I'm really not all that hungry," Matt replied. "Is it all right if I stay? My body is still on Ottawa time and thinks its 0830."

The Phantom smiled. "It takes a while to make the adjustment.

"I found that out. I was wide awake and rather than lie in bed listening to the other guys snore and fart, I got up. I saw the lights and thought I'd come in. So, can I stay?"

"Sure, no reason why not," replied The Phantom. "Make yourself some toast. Coffee's on, if you drink it."

"I can wait. Like I said, I'm not all that hungry, especially after that spread Chef put out last night. I kind of pigged out."

"You and a hundred other guys," laughed The Phantom. He pointed to the row of toasters lined up along the serving counter. "Still, there's toast if you want it."

Matt shook his head and watched as The Phantom methodically laid forks and spoons on the cloth-covered table. He asked The Phantom what he was doing. "Setting the table for breakfast," replied The Phantom. "It's a different setting for lunch, and another one for supper."

"I never knew that." Matt looked at the place settings. "Being a Steward, I guess you know all that stuff."

"Some. The Gun . . . an instructor lent me a how-to book, and showed me a few things."

Matt did not miss the word stumble. "Can I help?"

The Phantom looked at Matt's trade badge. "You're a gunner."

"So? No rule says I can't learn something new."

"Okay, this is how we do it." The Phantom showed Matt how to properly lay the table and let him practice on the Officers' table. Matt asked The Phantom if his brother ate at the Petty Officers table. The Phantom shook his head. "He's only a PO2. Only PO1s eat at their table. Not that they'd let him, even if he were a PO1."

"They hate him that much?"

The Phantom nodded toward the coffee urn. "Let's have a cup of coffee." He poured a cup for Matt and indicated for the boy to sit down. "Matt, your brother has been silenced. What that means is nobody will sail with him and nobody will talk to him. He sleeps in his own little cubby-hole that the Petty Officers made for him in theirs Mess." The Phantom sat down and poured a large helping of sugar into his coffee. "I don't know how he stands it. Personally, I would have green-sheeted long ago."

Matt laughed. "Paul won't request to go home. Knowing him, he thinks he's suffering for the Cause. A martyr for the white Canadian race."

The Phantom stared at Matt. "He actually believes that shit?"

Matt nodded emphatically. "He does. He expects to be picked on. He expects that all the Jews, and coloured people will hate him. He expects the . . . gay people to hate him. As a member of the White Aryan Nation it goes with the territory."

"And you?"

"Me? I'm his brother, but that doesn't matter because I don't swallow that crap." Matt took a sip of his coffee. "This ain't bad. You make it?"

The Phantom shook his head. "Ray. He makes good coffee. I'm more a dessert man."

Matt smiled. "Anyway, my father, and Paul, and Phil Tumbrel, who is the Grand Clucker, or Head Chickenshit, or whatever, all think I'm a queer. Sorry." The Phantom waved the epithet away, knowing that Matt was only using someone else's word. "I won't go to the meetings, and I sure as shit don't hate anybody. My best friend is Jewish. At least he was my best friend until my father found out about it. Now I don't have a best friend."

"How did your Dad find out about it?" asked The Phantom

"Paul told him."

"Jesus!"

"Who wasn't Jewish, by the way," said Matt a matter-of-factly. "The Jews forged that after the Christians started to take over. Jesus was a Gentile that the Jews wanted as one of their own."

The Phantom stared at Matt, aghast. "You're kidding!"

"Nope. That's what they think, that's what they preach, that's what they believe." Matt shrugged. "I don't believe in that shit at all. Which is why Paul calls me Queer Bait, and assorted other names."

Joey came into the Mess Hall. "Hey, Phantom, Ray says should we put some fruit out."

"Yeah, tell him to use the canned pears. The troops are usually so full of shit they need the roughage."

Matt burst out laughing. "Save a large bowl for my brother!"

Breakfast was, like all the meals, self-service. After putting large jugs of orange juice and milk on the tables reserved for the officers, Chiefs, and Petty Officers, The Phantom stood behind the steam tables monitoring the food consumption and frying eggs. Since today was Friday, and Captain's Rounds, he was not all that busy. Most of the cadets chose the pre-cooked scrambled eggs rather than wait, or just had a bowl of cold cereal.

There was no special order for eating, although usually the several trades sat with each other. Today was no exception. Chris and Jon came through and, judging by the glow Jon had on, The Phantom figured that he and Chris had wet down more than their new rank badges.

Brian and Dylan came in, smiling coyly at each other. What The Phantom did not know was that Dylan, like Jon, was no longer, after last night, a virgin.

The Phantom shook his head. "Must have been busy last night," he thought.

The Twins came in, followed by a decidedly downcast Harry. "What's his problem?" asked The Phantom as Harry passed on the scrambled eggs and just put two pieces of bread in the toaster. Harry was a trencherman of the first degree and never missed a meal. Until now.

Todd laughed as Harry shuffled to the Chiefs table and sat down. "The Pride of the Fleet did not sail last night," he said with exaggeration.

"Never left the jetty," chuckled Cory as he accepted a huge portion of eggs.

"And 'A' mount malfunctioned," grinned Todd.

"Pardon?" asked The Phantom.

Cory leaned over. "Didn't have a morning woody. He also grunted and groaned half the night, and still no go." The Twins walked away laughing. They joined Harry and promptly proceeded to poke him with a stick.

When the morning rush was over Ray came out and relieved The Phantom, who drew a cup of coffee from the huge urn and went and sat at the Chiefs table. Harry was still moaning and the Twins' attitude was not helping at all.

The Phantom listened and then told Harry that not waking up with a woody was not all that big a problem. "Hell and sheeit, Harry, I got to sleep with Randy and Joey last night and they were snuggled so close they were all but in my shorts and I didn't have a morning woody."

"I should hope not!" Harry could not say too much, given that his relationship with Stefan was known to all those sitting at the table.

"It wasn't like that at all," snapped The Phantom, bristling. "They were just two scared kids and . . ."

"Ah, fuck, Phantom, you know I don't mean it," said Harry placatingly.

"He's just jealous," chuckled Cory. "The only one he can get to sleep with him is Mrs. Fist, and even she couldn't get him to rise to the occasion."

"One of these days, Cory," threatened Harry.

"That's what you said last night," replied Cory, totally unimpressed with Harry's bluster.

"Maybe he should see Doc," suggested Greg.

"Can't," replied Todd. "Captain's Rounds today, remember? It will have to be Matron."

Harry paled. "No way, man. The only woman who is ever going to touch my dick is the one I marry."

"And Mrs. Fist." Cory moved sideways as Harry growled and lunged. Cory took off running.

All the cadets guffawed and Harry called them all heartless pricks.

"But, Harry, it's no big deal," said Nicholas. "I didn't wake up that way this morning." Harry was not to be placated. He had woken every morning for the past five years and a bit with "A" mount fully functional, and he was like a dog with an old and favoured bone, gnawing away, grumbling and worrying. He was still muttering when he left the Mess Hall.

The Phantom returned to the steam tables and Ray went back into the galley. Little Big Man showed up and was his usual surly self. He did not, as The Phantom did, see his younger brother slip out the side door.

With breakfast over Ray, The Phantom, and the Makee-Learns began cleaning furiously. The Mess Hall in general and the galley in particular, were always inspected. Shortly after Divisions The Gunner dropped by and told the cadets that Chef would be in later in the day. To make amends he also sent over two of the Duty Hands to help with the pre-inspection cleanup.

Harry mumbled and grumbled through Divisions. He complained as he helped his messmates clean the Gunroom. He nittered and nattered all the way to the Drill Shed where he, and the other senior cadets, were to attend a special lecture and view a film on the Ceremony of the Flags, which the cadets would perform in Victoria on the coming Monday.

Cory listened to Harry's constant plaint and finally decided there was only one thing to do. He waited until the lights were turned out and the curtains drawn. As most of the cadets could go through the drill movements of the Ceremony in their sleep, they promptly proved it and closed their eyes. The Gunner left Tyler in charge and slipped away. He had to go back into town and pick up Chef, whom he had left asleep on his living room couch, snoring like a walrus.

Cory looked around the darkened room. Those cadets not asleep were watching the film. Harry sat beside Cory, a look of desperation of his face, his arms crossed and his legs spread.

As the sound track boomed forth, martial music filling the huge Drill Shed, Cory's hand slipped over Harry's thigh and immediately found the impressive mound that was "A" mount. Harry gasped as Cory's hand slowly began to rub up and down his soft penis.

Cory smiled as Harry's breathing became shallower and the bulge he was rubbing thickened and lengthened. Harry's normal four inches grew and thickened until seven inches of thick, excited cock extended along his inner thigh.

With "A" mount now manned and ready, Cory decided to help Harry fire a broadside. He rubbed softly, listening as Harry moaned quietly and sucked in his breath, which deepened every time Cory's hand frictioned the cloth of his boxers across the underside of his sensitive helmet. Cory did not increase his pace, and before very long Harry began squirming. He hugged himself tightly, he closed his eyes, his face contorted and his body shuddered. Cory continued to rub until he was certain that "A" mount had expended all its ammunition. He withdrew his hand and looked at the gasping Harry. "Now will you shut the fuck up?" he asked sweetly. Harry nodded slowly. Cory settled back in his chair and yawned. "Wake me when this is over, please."

As he did every Friday after Rounds, The Phantom served The Commanding Officer, Number One, and Doc their morning coffee. They sat at the officers' table and discussed upcoming events, particularly the Ceremony in Victoria.

As he usually did when things confidential were being discussed, The Phantom hovered about, listening intently. Thus he was the first to hear that Harry (who was in the Drill Shed having "A" mount undergo unscheduled maintenance) would be appointed Chief Drum Major, Todd would be named Battery Commander, with Cory as his Deputy (meaning that all three could add a crown to their three Chiefs buttons), Dylan would move up to Captain of Number 2 Field Gun, and Matt would replace Brian as Weapons Yeoman, (making him an Acting PO2, his brother's equal in rank, if not seniority). He learned that only 50 cadets could be accommodated in the Barracks at HMCS NADEN, and that all the others who were going would be accommodated in a motel. He also listened as the Commanding Officer complained that there were no sweet rolls to go with their morning coffee.

When all the high-priced help left The Phantom returned to the galley where he and Ray went over Chef's how-to books and prepared the two entrees they would serve for lunch: breaded veal cutlets and fish (the box said halibut but the filets were so covered in frozen batter it could have been flannel for all they knew).

Following the directions in the how-to books they got the main courses in the ovens, and concentrated on the salads and side dishes. Their only, and biggest, problem was what to serve for duff. Chef made all the cakes and pies, and while they could, and did, make up huge pots of rice pudding and bowls of Jell-O, they knew that the cadets would complain long and loudly if there were no cakes on the dessert table.

Shortly before 1100 Chef rolled in, accompanied by The Gunner. Chef was suffering a hangover of monumental proportions. After apologizing for his lateness and congratulating the boys on their fine job, he made a hurried telephone call to the Combined Mess at CFB Comox and begged enough sweets to satisfy twice the number of cadets aboard.

At lunch Harry appeared wearing whites, which The Phantom thought strange, as he had eaten breakfast wearing blues. When he asked the soon to be Chief Drum Major why he had changed Harry mumbled something about having gotten a stain on his blues.

Cory snickered and winked, but said nothing.

Todd immediately knew that Cory had done something, but merely shrugged and kept his silence. If Cory wanted him to know what had gone on, he would tell him. If not . . . As the lunch crowd thinned out The Phantom began cleaning up. Not that there was all that much to do. The cadets were well trained and cleaned up after themselves. Still, there were stains and spills on the tables to be cleaned up and, almost always, sugar bowls and saltshakers to be filled, and napkin dispensers to be replenished.

As usual Little Big Man came in bare minutes before Chef closed down the food line. He immediately saw his brother, sitting alone, just finishing his lunch. Not bothering with lunch Little Big Man made a beeline to where Matt was sitting and began to berate the boy in low tones.

The Phantom coolly went about his business, drifting ever so casually toward the table where the two brothers were sitting, arguing fiercely.

As he watched the two boys arguing The Phantom could not help but notice the striking differences between Paul and Matt. Paul was short and thin, in a word, scrawny. Matt was a head taller, and slim, not at all muscular, just, normal. Where Paul's blond hair was straight, and lacked any lustre, Matt's was slightly curled and glowed with health. Paul's thin, pinched features contrasted strongly Matt's fine, oval face and straight nose. Paul always looked as if he was sucking on a sour pickle, whereas Matt was always smiling. It was more than apparent that Matt had been the winner in the Greene family gene pool.

As he drifted closer The Phantom could hear snatches of what Little Big Man was saying. He was not pleased that his brother was here. He also seemed to have taken exception to Matt being appointed Weapons Yeoman, which would bring him into direct, daily, contact with the Twins.

" . . . And stay away from them and don't talk to them," Little Big Man ordered.

"Paul, I can't. They work in the Drill Shed with me."

"Look, Queer Bait, you do what you're told. You stay away from those faggots. You hear?"

"Paul, I just told you . . ."

"Don't argue with me!" snarled Little Big Man. "Remember what happened when Dad found out about you and that kike Switzer."

The Phantom dropped the napkin dispenser he was holding. The sound of it echoed throughout the dining hall. He had never considered himself to be the stuff that heroes or crusaders were made of. He was aware of the blind prejudice and bigotry that existed in the world, just as he was aware there were those in this world who, no matter what the reasoning, or the logic, would never change and who would live their lives spouting lies and distortions, hurling hated epithets against the innocent and the guilty equally. The bigots existed because people like himself allowed them to exist.

Then he thought of Sandro. Sweet, kind, dark-eyed Sandro, who refused to knuckle under to the KGB, or to kow-tow to the prejudices of the ignorant Commissars or the endemic bigotry of the Russian people, a boy who, with his parents, fought hatred, bigotry and bureaucracy to leave the land of their birth, which had persecuted them and their people for a thousand years. To find the haven they sought, or the same prejudice and bigotry they fled? To have the same vile name hurled at them by some towheaded guttersnipe in a tacky Mess Hall in a place where such prejudices and bigotry were not supposed to exist or be tolerated? Sandro deserved better. This place, this sand-blown, half-forgotten spit of sand and scrub, deserved better. The Phantom's gorge rose, hearing again the hated epithet. "Not on my watch," he thought With shaking hands he replaced the napkin dispenser on the mess table and walked to where Little Big Man was sitting, emphasizing his point by poking his young brother in the chest.

In one swift movement The Phantom spun Little Big Man's chair around, reaching out and pinning the shocked and now frightened teenager to the chair with a strength that neither of them had known he possessed. "Hear me, and hear me well, Paul Greene," spat The Phantom. "If you ever again, in my Mess Hall, even think the word you just said, or words such as nigger, neech, queer, faggot or . . ." he looked at Matt, " . . . Queer Bait, I will lay a beating on you so bad that you won't be able to carry tales to your father, or whoever it is you report to." The Phantom had not raised his voice, and spoke in a normal, almost calm manner. He released Little Big Man and pointed to the door. "Lunch is over. Get out!"

Little Big Man stared, and then recovered himself. "Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?

You're just some civilian Gofer hired for the summer."

The Phantom's hands flashed and once again Little Big Man was pinned to the chair. "Who am I? Well, my obnoxious little man, I am the Chief Steward of the Sea Cadets. I have the papers to prove it, all signed and sealed by an officer. Don't believe me? Ask the Master at Arms. Or better yet, ask your brother, he was at my wet down."

Little Big Man looked at Matt who nodded. "He had his wet down last night in the Gunroom. He's a Chief, Paul," murmured Matt.

The Phantom smiled grimly. "You remember the Gunroom, don't you, Petty Officer? It's that place where they wouldn't let you in even if you came to clean the toilets." Little Big Man stared mutely at The Phantom with hate-filled eyes. "You think I hate you, don't you, Paul," continued The Phantom, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "Well, it may interest you vaguely to know that I don't. How can I hate a pathetic little boy like you? Hatred is an emotion, and I wouldn't waste any of my emotions on you. You're not worth it. So to save my time, here's how the routine is going to be. You come in, you eat, and you leave. There will be no name calling." He glanced at Matt, "And no threats."

"You can't stop me from talking to my brother," snarled Little Big Man through gritted teeth.

"No, I can't. But then, I'm not like you. If I were like you, I would stop you. But I won't, because that would lower me to your level." The Phantom straightened and looked at Matt. In a more genial but formal tone, he continued, "The Mess Hall is closed, Petty Officer."

Matt took the not too veiled hint. "Uh, yeah, Brian, I mean, Petty Officer Venables, has some work for me in the Armoury. See you, Phan . . . See you, Chief."

The Phantom cocked an eyebrow and looked at Little Big Man. "And I am sure that the Drum Major can find work for you."

Little Big Man stood up and nodded curtly. Then he left the Mess Hall.

As The Phantom watched Little Big Man's hind end disappear through the Mess Hall doors he was under no illusions that, sooner or later, Little Big Man would exact his revenge, if not against himself, then certainly against Matt, who was much more vulnerable. Just what Little Big Man's reaction would be when he found out that he (The Phantom) had used his essentially honourary rank in a non-existent Sea Cadet Corps to impress and intimidate him was anybody's guess.

There was one thing he was relatively sure of: Little Big Man was not about to broadcast his latest humiliation. He expected that Matt would say something to Todd or Cory. After all, they worked closely together. On the other hand, Matt might say nothing. Brothers were brothers and blood was blood.

What The Phantom did not reckon on was two scrawny thirteen-and-a-bit Makee-Learns who happened to be in the Dishwashing Room, and a short, dark-haired, brown-eyed recently promoted Petty Officer Cook, all of whom had been attracted by a loud noise (such as made by a heavy metal object falling onto a hard-tiled floor), in a place that was supposed to be all but empty.

Joey and Randy had just finished loading the mammoth dishwashing machine with the dirty lunch dishes when they heard the crash in the dining hall. Being normal, thirteen-and-a-bit-year-old boys, and naturally as curious as monkeys, two heads popped out of the serving hatch in time to see The Phantom slowly place the napkin dispenser on the table and walk to where Little Big Man and Matt were sitting. They overheard every word The Phantom said. Ray, who was about to go into the dining hall when he heard the crash of the napkin dispenser falling to the deck, had pushed open the swinging doors leading from the galley. Like Joey and Randy, he heard every word, and saw all the action.

As he closed the door Ray heard the low growl and the sound of rushing water as the elderly dishwashing machine began its cycle of cleaning. He smiled and walked over to where Chef was busily kneading pie dough. "Hey, Chef, we got any black cherries pie filling?" he asked.

"Who the hell eats black cherries in pies?"

"Oh, just a Chief."

"A who?" demanded Chef.

"A Chief who happens to like pie made with black cherries," answered Ray as he disappeared into Dry Stores.

At Stand Easy Tyler, Val and Harry entered the galley and asked if they could speak to The Phantom. Chef, who was still nursing his hangover and grumpier than usual, bluntly asked what the fuck they wanted with Phantom. Tyler, as bluntly, but very respectfully, told him that it was a Service Matter between Chiefs. In other words, Chef was to tend to his knitting and they would tend to theirs.

Chef, who had been around the Horn a time or thirty, and not stupid, was suspicious. The way Tyler had put it he could not interfere. Whatever they wanted to talk to Phantom about was between them and Phantom. "Is he in trouble?" asked Chef delicately. Tradition and protocol would not allow him to probe too deeply.

"Quite the opposite," replied Tyler. He had assumed that Chef knew about the incident in the dining hall earlier. He looked over and saw Ray, a stricken look on his face, shaking his head vigorously. "So," thought Tyler, "Chef does not know, and obviously Ray does not want him to know." He straightened his shoulders. "Honest, Chef, we just want to talk to him. He's not in any trouble."

"On a Service Matter?"

"Yes."

Chef had no choice. "Phantom is out on the loading dock, smoking, which he thinks I don't know he does." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ray sidling toward the door leading to the dining hall. "And a certain Cadet Petty Officer Cook better get his skinny butt into my office." He turned and crooked his finger at Ray. "You and me, me son, are going to have a little chat."

The Phantom turned when he heard the hard, marching, steps as the three Chiefs crossed the concrete-floored loading dock. From the look on their faces The Phantom thought that after almost two years someone, finally, had talked. He stood up slowly and wondered briefly, who? Not Ray. Ray loved what was done to him almost nightly. Mike? No, Mike had cum three times, and wanted more. Joey? Randy? No. Nothing had happened. Anson? Sylvain? Andre? The Phantom squared his shoulders, ready. "Let's get it done," he thought.

The three Chiefs halted in front of The Phantom, their faces stern. Tyler's fair skin was almost as red as his hair. Val's olive skin seemed darker. Harry, for once, was not smiling, his square jaw set, his eyes sparkling with . . . anger? "Afternoon, guys," said The Phantom calmly.

Tyler cleared his throat. "Phantom, we, um, well, to tell the truth, Phantom, we've come to say thanks, and to apologize."

The Phantom almost collapsed with relief. Thanks? Apologize? "I, uh, Tyler, I don't understand."

"Can we sit down?" asked Tyler, indicating a small row of cartons of canned goods.

The Phantom, somewhat shakily, dragged his pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered the others a smoke. Tyler and Val refused. Harry took one. "I thought you didn't smoke," said The Phantom as he lit Harry's cigarette.

"Only when I have to eat crow. Sometimes after sex."

"Harry!" Tyler was not amused.

"Okay, not after sex," replied Harry, waving away Tyler's indignation.

"Harry?"

"Yes, Tyler?"

"Shut the fuck up!"

Tyler looked at The Phantom and smiled. "Do you remember when the Twins decided to start World War III and almost killed Matron and Dirty Dave the Deacon?"

The Phantom nodded. "It seems like a hundred years ago, but yes, I remember."

"And you remember the baseball game, the one where Nicholas pulled down Cory's shorts and he flashed the whole Ship's Company?"

The Phantom laughed. "I remember. Some of the Sea Puppies who were there will probably remember it to their dying day."

Tyler smiled. "As do I." His face lost its amused look. "Phantom, after the ballgame we had a party and, well, things happened and . . ."

"We got drunk," admitted Harry truthfully.

Val sighed heavily. "Yes, Harry, some of us got our noses stuck in the grappa bottle and got pissed. Happy?"

Harry smiled and nodded. "The truth shall set you free."

"My fist will set you on your ass!" threatened Val, though without malice.

Tyler swore under his breath. "Will you two, please, act your age?" He turned to The Phantom. "Phantom, we, that is, us, all the Senior Hands, decided to start something call Operation Warm Fuzzy."

"I know. You were all supposed to be there for the young ones, give them a shoulder to cry on when they needed it, be a big brother if they needed one."

Tyler nodded. "Well, Phantom, I'm ashamed to say, that somewhere along the line, we let things slide."

"Speak for yourself," muttered Harry.

"All right, damn it, I let things slide. What with the sailing, and then the promotions and general, run-of-the-mill bullshit scut work, I let things slide."

"So did I, Tyler. I should have kept it going," Val replied sympathetically.

"That's it, leave me out of this," complained Harry. "I'm just as guilty."

"No, Harry, you are not. You kept looking after your Sea Puppies." Tyler gave Harry's shoulder a soft squeeze.

"And forgot the General Training Cadets, and the 1st Year Course Cadets," said Harry forcefully.

"Yes, and them." Tyler took a deep breath. "We, and by that I mean me and Val and Harry, we all let the matter of Little Big Man slide. We didn't want to get involved so long as he kept out of our way and didn't burn a cross in the middle of the parade square."

"You helped us remember what Chiefs are supposed to be about, Phantom." Harry stood up and hugged The Phantom. "You made us remember that we're supposed to be here for the kids, not for us."

The Phantom pushed Harry away. "Get out of here, Harry. I didn't do anything."

"Joey? Randy?" asked Tyler quietly.

"They told you?"

Tyler nodded. "They didn't want to. It sort of came out in our conversation this afternoon."

The Phantom smiled shyly and blushed. "Well, hell and sheeit, all I did was hold them. Randy's dead scared of thunder. His mother was killed in a tornado and I guess every time he's in a thunder storm he remembers."

"We didn't know that. We should have," murmured Val.

"And Joey, he's just a little homesick and lonely. He just needed to cuddle with somebody who wasn't going to try to play with his willy."

"His what?" gasped Harry.

"His pee-nis, as Randy would say," replied The Phantom with a grin. "They just wanted to sleep close and warm. They needed a cuddle. No big deal."

"And Little Big Man?" asked Val.

"I'm not ashamed of that! Val!" The Phantom looked at each Chief in turn. "Paul Greene sat in that Mess Hall and called his own brother Queer Bait. Then he said a word that was, well, I won't say the word, I won't soil my tongue, but when I heard it, it was almost like he just walked into the galley and punched Sandro in the face."

Harry nodded. "I can understand that. If I ever said what I think you mean in front of my Dad he'd tan my ass with a razor strap."

"And I admit, okay, maybe I did go a little overboard with the 'I'm a Chief' routine, and I know I'm not really a Chief, or the Chief Steward of the Sea Cadets, but I figured that the one thing Little Big Man does understand is rank, and the power that goes with it. I used it, and if he reported me, fine. I'll understand if you have to tell Chef, and after he kills Little Big Man he can fire me. I'd miss this place, I admit, but I am not going to say I'm sorry for doing it so you can . . ."

"Phantom!" interrupted Tyler sharply, "Shut the fuck up!" The Phantom's jawed closed with a sharp crack. "You have nothing to apologize for. All you did was what three Chiefs should have done a long time ago. Harry, because he is Little Big Man's Divisional Chief; Val, because he is the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor, is also Todd and Cory's Divisional Chief. And me. I am the worst of the lot because I am the Master at Arms, the Man, and the Head Bull in this barnyard. I'm the guy who's supposed to enforce good order and discipline, and I didn't. God help me, I didn't." Tyler buried his head in his hands. "A fine fucking officer I'll make!"

"Stop it, Tyler, what's done is done. There's no use beating yourself over the head about it," said Val.

Tyler shook his head. "We should have stopped Little Big Man before he got started. The first time he called one of the Twins a queer or a faggot, we should have stopped it. Instead of silencing him I should have sent him home."

"So he could spread his hate all over Ottawa?" asked The Phantom dryly. "Little Big Man is a hater. He hates me because he thinks I'm gay. He hates The Twins because they are gay. He hates Val because he's Italian and a Catholic. He hates Sandro because he's a Jew. I suppose he hates Harry, but why, I can't say."

Harry squirmed and turned red. "Last year, we were in the showers together. He saw me and the Pride of the Fleet, and he, ah, he boned up."

"Hell, Harry, I boned up the first time I saw you naked," admitted Val.

"Yeah, but I don't get the feeling that you'd like do get into my boxers," replied Harry.

"Trust me, Harry, the ship's cat has pride of place before you."

"Stop it." Tyler stood up and took The Phantom's hand as if to shake it. "The point is you did our job. You fought our battles, not once, but twice. You were there for Randy and Joey, and we weren't. You stopped Little Big Man in his tracks and we didn't." He slowly gave the Phantom's hand a firm and dignified shake. "This afternoon you were a Chief, and we weren't."

The Phantom blushed at Tyler's continued recitation of his deeds. "Tyler, I . . ."

"And there's one more thing you'd better understand. Unless and until I get a formal letter of resignation, you are a Chief. You might have thought it was a big joke, but the joke is on you, and us. We thought we were getting around the paperwork and the administrative bullshit. Unfortunately, Chief, Greg created a file, a numbered file that is now part of the official record of HMCS AURORA. A numbered file that now sits in the orderly room of Canadian Forces Base Comox. A file that will one day go to the Archives in Ottawa."

"Oh, shit!" The Phantom could not believe what he'd just been told.

Tyler chuckled dryly. "Indeed. So, my friend, you are, whether you want to be or not, a Chief. The official records say so, and we say so."

The Phantom started to laugh. "Serves you all damn good and right." He laughed harder. "Some Chief I am. I am such a good Chief I had to have my wet down in a borrowed uniform and Val's underpants!"

Harry started chortling. Then he let out a belly laugh. "You know what that means, don't you, it means . . ."

"Harry, don't you dare!" growled Val.

"It means you can truthfully say you got into Val's pants!" roared Harry.

Val was not pleased when Tyler and The Phantom joined in the laughter.

"And tomorrow he can get into his own," said Tyler when he stopped laughing.

"Pardon?" Now The Phantom was really confused.

"Sometime today Rob will drive 'round and give you two complete sets of uniforms, blues, whites, gunshirts, the lot, plus Chief's badges. Wear 'em when you can, and that is not open to discussion."

"And Little Big Man?"

Tyler sighed. "Officially, it didn't happen. He hasn't said a word, and I doubt he will. I know about it because Matt told Todd, who told me. Randy, Joey, and Ray also spoke with me, which is how I know about you looking after the two young'uns. As for Little Big Man all I can do is haul him in and remind him that he is a Sea Cadet, and to keep his personal hatreds to himself."

"Including his brother?" asked The Phantom.

Tyler nodded. "And tell him that if he so much as opens his mouth I'll dip him down to Able Cadet and give him the worst Fitness Report he's ever seen."

At 1600 Tyler called all the Chiefs and Senior Petty Officers into his cabin and made it plain that in future he did not want to see any slacking off when it came to the welfare of the junior cadets. Each Divisional Chief was to visit his Division's barracks at least once a day, preferably just before Last Post. He told them that he would not tolerate bigotry or racism and while he did not mention Little Big Man by name, they all knew whom he meant.

After the meeting the Twins returned to the Gunroom and began preparing for the trip to Victoria in the morning. They pressed uniforms and gunshirts, and packed their overnight bags with extra T-shirts, underwear and shorts. At supper they sat at the gunners' table, and just listened to the young gunners chatter. They invited Matt and Kevin, as the newest gunners to come on board, to join them at the Chiefs table for lunch on Tuesday, when they returned from Victoria.

After supper they returned to the Gunroom, there to check out their finances. Contrary to popular opinion neither Cory nor Todd could be called spoiled rich kids. While at home they lived and dressed well. They were still expected to keep their room clean. They attended the most prestigious public school in British Columbia but, unlike so many of their fellow students, there was no chauffeured limousine waiting at the door each morning. They rode the buses, from their house in British Properties, which was on the other side of North Vancouver, all the way down to the school, which was located across the street from the main campus of UBC.

On their 16th birthday each twin had been given an American Express card, to be used for personal items, such as socks and underwear, or the occasional lunch. They might hold the cards, but the bills went to their father, and woe betide either of them if they bought something their father considered frivolous. Twice they both had their allowance of $20.00 each - paid weekly - stopped to pay for something their father thought too frivolous. He had no objection to them buying what he called flub dubs. He objected to his having to pay for them.

While the Twins were not without resources - they had four uncles who were always good for $50.00 or $100.00 at Christmas and on their birthday. This money was banked. Todd, and Cory to a certain extent, felt that they needed a car. Their father agreed, up to a point. Any money they earned, or were given, could be used to that purpose. He even allowed that they could, when they had the money, buy any make or model car they wanted, so long as it was domestic, conservative in colour, and would last. It had been made very plain to both boys that nothing in life was free. The basics would be provided for them. The extras they would have to work and save for.

"Well, we're skint," said Todd closing the ditty box they kept their pooled cash resources in. "We have exactly seven dollars to our names."

"Not much to go into Victoria with," replied Cory.

"We have $50 in the Ship's bank," Todd reminded his brother. "I can hunt up Andy and get that. "

"Then what do we do? We have tomorrow afternoon, Sunday, and Monday afternoon to play in Victoria. Fifty bucks won't go far."

Todd sat on his bunk and sighed. "Well, I suppose if you whine and snivel to Mummy she'll sub us an advance on our allowance."

"Me? Why me?"

"You do it better than me?" replied Todd with a grin.

"I do not!"

Rather than get into an argument, Todd quickly backed water. "Okay, we'll both whine and snivel."

"That's better. Now change. We have to go over to Barracks 8 sometime tonight to check on the troops."

They cleaned into gunshirts, blue bell-bottoms, and well-shined boots. While Todd went off to find Andy, Cory sat outside, enjoying the solitude. Harry, who had been visiting his Sea Puppies and bandsmen, came up the path. "Hey, Cory, how's it hangin'?" he asked as he sat down beside Cory.

"Hanging, okay, Harry. How you doing?"

"Me? I'm okay. Now." Harry looked directly at Cory. "Thanks for this morning."

Cory coughed in embarrassment. "Harry, I, uh, . . ." he stammered.

Harry smiled and punched Cory on the shoulder. "Cory, please. You helped me out, a lot."

"I did?"

Harry nodded. "I miss him, Cory. I know I fool around, and laugh, and all, but sometimes, I . . . just . . . get lonely. I lie in bed, after everybody's asleep, and I think about him, how he felt when we . . ."

"Harry, it's only natural that you miss him. Hell, last year, when Todd was on QUEST, when I broke my arm and couldn't go, shit, I moped for days."

"Yeah, well, so did I, remember?"

Cory nodded.

Harry's voice was soft as he said, "I miss Stefan. At first, I used to think about him, and I'd, you know, start to feel myself, and get hard and I'd be really horny, and then, boom, I couldn't do it. It was, well, don't laugh, but it seemed, dirty, you know?" Cory didn't, but he nodded anyway. "After Stefan left, and I sort of got over it, I used to lie there in bed and think of him, and I'd feel so, well, just so good. I'd think about what we did together, what he means to me, and, I didn't even beat off. That's how good I felt."

"Wow," said Cory, impressed.

"But a guy gets horny, ya know," continued Harry. "He can't help it, no way, no how. But last night, when I tried, it wouldn't work. And when I woke up, and I didn't have my morning chummy, well, jeez, Cory, a guy gets worried."

"So you stewed and the more you tried the worse it got?"

"Yeah. I mean, I'm a normal guy. I beat off two, three, sometimes four times a week, and I always wake up with a boner."

Cory thought a moment. "Harry, how much did you have to drink last night?"

"Shit, Cory, I didn't keep count. I had some beer, and some cognac, but The Gunner took that away, then I had some scotch. Then I had some more beer while we were cleaning up." Cory laughed and shook his head. "For Christ's sakes, Harry, no wonder you couldn't do anything. You were half in the bag. A lot of guys can't do anything when they've been into the suds."

"You think that's what happened?" asked Harry.

"Yup. You went and got the Pride of the Fleet pissed. Then you got yourself all worked up over nothing."

"And then you came along." Harry grinned broadly. He bent his head and waggled his eyebrows. "To tell the truth, Cory, it felt pretty good."

"Good. It also shut you up."

"It did that," agreed Harry. They sat quietly for a few moments. Then Harry spoke up. "I really liked it Cory, and I appreciate that you did it, because that's what good buds do for each other . . ."

"But?"

Harry gave Cory a huge hug. "But it wasn't Stefan, and that's who I really wanted it to be. No offence, Cory. I like you, a lot, but when it comes right down to the wire, it was just a hand job between buds."

Harry became very quiet and Cory assumed that he was thinking about Stefan. "So, Harry, how are the Sea Puppies," he asked quietly.

"Okay. Lippy, like always."

"They ready for Victoria?"

"Yeah."

"Todd and I are going over to see the gunners as soon as he gets back."

"That's good, Cory." Harry sighed explosively.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you get up off your fat ass and call Stefan? Call him, for Christ's sake." Harry made a face and shrugged. "Can't. No money, Cory. What with paying for dry cleaning, some new shoe polishing rags, and the odd Coke, plus what I spent for my wet down, I'm broke. I spent it all. Not that I had much to begun with."

This Cory knew to be true. The cadets were actively encouraged not to bring large sums of money with them. Harry, being a good cadet, had probably only brought the recommended amount of $15.00 with him. He thought a moment before standing up and telling Harry not to move. He went inside the Gunroom and when he returned he was carrying Todd's ditty box. "Turn your cap upside down, Harry," he said.

"What?"

"Just do it."

When Harry upended his cap Cory opened the ditty box and poured a small silver stream of nickels, dimes and quarters into the cap. "What's this?" asked Harry, looking at the small pile of coins lining the bottom of his cap.

"Seven dollars. It should be enough for a couple of minutes long distance to Edmonton."

"Cory, I . . ." Harry hated to accept what he suspected was Cory's last bit of money. "Harry, just do it, okay?"

Harry grinned broadly. "Cory, I owe you, big time."

Cory watched Harry hurry down the path towards the Breezeway, and the Canteen, where the pay telephones were. Cory sighed. He would not have minded a round or two with Harry. But Harry was a one man kind of guy. "Lucky Stefan," thought Cory, as he stood up and brushed off the seat of his trousers. He saw Todd coming down the path. It was time to visit with the Gunners.

Barracks 8, the Gunnery Mess, was probably the most packed barracks in the ship. Double bunks lined both sides of the long room, with lockers jammed into any available space.

Originally designed to hold 40 cadets, the additional bunks had doubled the capacity to 80. At the peak of the training schedule every bunk was occupied, and space so limited that it was said that if you reached over to scratch your ass you'd end up giving the guy in the bunk beside you a hand job. The cadets, being young, and male, were not the tidiest creatures on two feet. Limited to a 6-foot x 2-foot locker, which was jammed with civilian clothes (mostly jeans and T-shirts) and uniforms, every bunk seemed festooned with towels, swimming trunks, soiled underwear, clean underwear, gaiters, web belts and the assorted accoutrements the gunners needed to practice their trade.

When the Twins entered the barracks they saw that the place was alive with activity. Cadets, most of them in their underwear and T-shirts or gunshirts, were polishing boots or ironing uniforms. On or beside each bunk was a kit bag, into which had to be stowed the uniforms that they would wear on Monday: whites for the parade through the city of Victoria and for the Ceremony of the Flags, blues for the Sunset Ceremony in the evening, plus civvies, plus socks and underwear, plus whatever unguents, scents, soaps, and buttons and bows the individual male thought necessary to attract the female of the species.

Stretched halfway along the deck was a drag rope, which Brian and Dylan were working on, busily bending white parachute chord over the brown leather of the hand loops. On another bunk Phillip, called The Assistant, sat chatting with his brother, Anson.

The Twins visited with the junior gunners and then Cory wandered over to where Brian and Dylan were working. Fancy rope work was Cory's speciality and he wanted to add his expertise, if needed. Todd saw Matt lying on the top of his upper bunk, clad in the white briefs that every cadet under the age of 15 seemed to wear. He was lying on his stomach, studying a how-to book on the Ceremony of the Flags. Although he had only been in AURORA a Dog Watch Matt was to carry a Provincial colour in the Ceremony, which was labour intensive, an all hands to the pumps evolution that required a Guard, two Bands, two Gun Crews, Colour Parties, Flag Bearers, odds, sods, boffins, and the ship's cat. In point of fact, except for Joey and Randy, and a six-cadet Duty Watch, every cadet in AURORA would be boarding buses in the morning.

While Cory settled in to teach Dylan some tiddly rope work, Todd walked over to where Matt was quietly reading.

Matt with his clothes on was smashingly handsome. With his clothes off he was beyond that. His golden hair, cut short, shimmered in the overhead lighting and he displayed a finely proportioned body, hairless except for small, dark blond bushes just sprouting in his armpits. He had finely chiselled, delicately muscled arms and legs dusted with a fine patina of soft, gold hair. His fine, round, behind arced from his waist and fell away gently. Todd took in a sharp breath at the sight of Matt. Then he saw them, and his eyes narrowed and his face hardened.

Barely discernible, creeping from under the leg band of Matt's briefs were two faded, discoloured patches marring the fresh pinkness of his skin. Todd saw the physical remnants of bruises, faded to the palest of yellow and lilac, bruises that could not be dismissed as sports injuries. Todd played soccer, baseball and, when the mood was on him, hockey. He knew what kind of a bruise a sports injury caused. But these, these were much too evenly formed and spaced, and broad. He stopped beside the bunk where he saw two similar patches of discolouration just visible above the waistband of Matt's underpants. Matt had been beaten, and badly, probably with a wide leather belt or a razor strop. And not all that long ago.

Matt looked up and saw Todd. Then he saw where Todd was looking, and the look on Todd's face. He quickly rolled on his side, hiding his buttocks from Todd's gaze. "It's not what it looks like, Chief," Matt muttered. He slid from his bunk and went to his locker, found a pair of Adidas shorts and quickly slipped them on. He turned to face Todd. "Please don't make a big deal of it, Chief."

Todd nodded slowly. He had spoken to Tyler, so he knew the origins of the bruises on Matt's behind. He indicated the bunk under Matt's and sat down. Matt joined him, and stared straight ahead, his hands clasped. "Look, Matt, whatever happened outside the gates stays out there," Todd said kindly. Then he added, "It's what happens inside the gates that I have to worry about."

"Paul hasn't bothered me all day."

"I know that. You've been with me, or Cory, or both of us. Tyler has warned him to keep his distance. That doesn't mean that he won't and to that end perhaps it might be best if we kept our relationship as professional as possible."

Matt looked at him, stricken. "You don't want to be my friend?" he whispered.

Todd shook his head emphatically. "Matty, I didn't say that. But we have to be realistic. You know about Cory and me. Hell, it's no big secret. You also know what your brother thinks of us. You've been hurt, no, fuck it, you've been beaten, and badly, because you were friendly with a Jewish guy. Do you want a repeat performance, or worse, for hanging around with two gays?"

Matt regarded Todd with welling eyes. "If I let Paul, or my father, dictate to me, I'll end up just like them. I can't be like them, ever. I don't care if you and Cory are gay."

"Do you really want to risk being labelled? That's what will happen, Matt. Your brother will automatically assume, because you prefer our company to his that you are like us. Sort of birds of a feather."

"Fuck Paul and let him assume what he likes. It's just too bad that I'm not 16. Then I could leave home and there is fuck all my father could do about it."

"That's pretty drastic, isn't it?" asked Todd.

"What else can I do? I'm going to do it anyway." Matt grabbed Todd's hands. "Chief, think a minute, okay? If I have a friend who's Jewish, I get beaten. If I have a friend, or friends who Paul, or my father, think are gay, they think I'm sleeping with them, and I get beaten. The only people I'm allowed to associate with are the people my father says are all right, people who are like him, people who are all as nutty as Paul and my dad. Paul spends half his time spying on me, and the other half calling me Queer Bait." Matt hugged himself and shook his head. "So what else can I do?" he asked quietly. "The law says I have to stay at home until I'm 16. After that, I'm a free agent. I have some money put away in a place nobody but me knows about. The day I turn 16 is the day I tell the whole lousy bunch to kiss my Royal Canadian ass and take off."

"That's another year away. Why risk the wrath?"

"Because no matter what I do, I'm in the shit." Matt stood up and placed his hands on his hips. "I'm not afraid of my brother, and I don't care what he says, thinks or does! I don't want to sleep with you, or with Cory. At least not now, because I don't think I'm gay. I'd like to be friends with you both, and I understand that you're only trying, in your own way, to protect me. Okay, I can live with that. Can we be friends?"

Todd stood up. "Well, on one condition."

"Yeah?"

Todd pointed to the open door. "Outside that door, on the parade square, it's Chief. In here, or in the office, or if we're in the Canteen, it's Todd."

Matt broke into a huge grin. "That's fine by me . . . Todd." He turned and bent down and rummaged in the bottom of his locker. "You want a Coke? It's warm, but it's wet."

At that moment Cory wandered over, his work with Brian and Dylan completed. He saw Matt bent over, and whistled. Matt wiggled his ass, and then straightened. He handed a can of Coke each to Todd and Cory. "I got some sweet lookin' ass, don't I? Maybe I am queer bait."

Then he burst out laughing.

On the way back to the Gunroom Todd's mind was in overdrive. For some reason, which he could not understand, he felt himself being drawn to Matt. It was not because Matt was stunningly handsome, with blond hair and snapping, sky-blue eyes, and a body that gave promise of greatness. No, it was not sex. Matt was far too young, so far as Todd was concerned. And even if Matt were two or three years older, there was something that told Todd that sex was not in either of their futures. Yet there was something there. Maybe it was the boy's innate shyness and unassuming manners. Maybe it was the aura of vulnerability that seemed to hover around the boy. For some reason Matt touched a chord deep within Todd. He couldn't understand why he was feeling the way he was. He only knew that he wanted to reach out and place protecting arms around the boy. An idea began to form in his mind. He turned to his brother. "Cory?"

"What?"

"When are the folks getting to Victoria?"

Cory thought a moment. "Around noon, I think. Mummy was her usual vague self. Why do you ask?"

"I want to talk to Papa about something," replied Todd quietly.

"What about? Not money, I hope. You know he can be as tight as a frog's arsehole when he puts his mind to it."

"No, Cory, not money." Todd put his arm around Cory's shoulder. "Do you like Matt?"

"What has Matt got to do with you talking to Papa?" demanded Cory.

"Just answer me."

Cory wiggled free. "Okay, I like Matt. He seems to be a nice kid." He looked at his brother, a suspicious glint in his eye. "Todd! You're not thinking . . ."

"Good God, no!" snapped Todd. "I am not thinking that at all."

"Okay, don't get all bitter and twisted." Cory stroked Todd's arm. "Toddy, I saw the bruises on Matt's bum, too. I know you want to help him, but, should we really get involved?"

"I don't know if we can. That's why I want to talk to Papa. There is a law against child abuse."

Cory groaned inwardly. Sticking his nose in other peoples business was not in his nature, and usually ended up in disaster for all concerned. Still, if Todd wanted it, so be it. "We'll talk to Papa together. After we whine and snivel to Mummy." Todd laughed. "We don't have to, you know. We'll have the money from the Ship's bank."

"Good. Because that's all we'll have," replied Cory, moving slowly away from his brother.

"We have seven bucks in the ditty box."

"No, we don't."

"We don't?"

Cory shook his head and grinned. "We don't. I gave it to Harry so he could make a long distance call to Stefan."

Todd returned the grin. "Well, it was for a good cause, so I'm not mad at you."

"You will be."

"Why?"

"That's not all I gave him."

Todd's jaw dropped when he realized what Cory was inferring. "Cory!"